This is the story of Pierre. Thrust into a situation he has no control over, and which is foreign to him. A suitcase, a meeting, and the certain knowledge that death comes for him at midnight.
Pierre knew the minute both hands would meet over the big fat twelve, his life would be forfeit. Midnight was the deadline, the dead line. The gypsy lady who had taken a look at his palm months ago hadn't foretold that. "A long life line, she had muttered. You will live a long, happy life."
Pierre had smiled. He didn't really believe in those things, but it was still reassuring somewhat. After all, the gypsy woman did. So it had to count for something. Apparently, not.
Now, he had scientific knowledge that she had been wrong. He ought to seek her out, get a refund. He could donate those 10 dollars to some worthy cause. Like a homeless shelter, or an orphanage. Try and cleanse his coal-black soul before shuffling off this mortal coil, as they say.
Pierre's last day on earth began quite inconspicuously with a brief shower, and a vigorous brushing of his teeth. So vigorous, in fact, that the foam he spat was tinted with red. It was quickly washed down the sink, as he carried his nakedness over to the pantry, from whence he pulled a suit and a pair of clean underwear. Within minutes, he was all dressed up. He snatched the suitcase and was already out of the hotel door, through the lobby and out on the street.
The summer sun was blinding. Pierre took a minute as his eyes adjusted, and was startled by the valet asking if he needed a cab. The hell he did. He wasn't going to walk the 20-something miles to his early meeting, was he? The valet motioned, and a cab pulled over. Pierre kept the suitcase securely under his shoulder as he settled down on the seat of the car. He felt more than he heard a distinct thud coming from inside the expensive suitcase as he did so, and it made his heart jump. He had almost forgotten about it. He was in deep. They would never let him out of it.