World Chess Championship, Moscow, Russia
T he Chessmaster listened to his informer telling him the latest news.
“The Queen is dying, too,” the man told him.
The Chessmaster nodded, thinking. “And Alice? The Pillar?”
“They’ve found three pieces so far. In a few minutes I will be able to locate their final destination.”
“I want to know as soon as they arrive,” the Chessmaster said. “I hope the place is not far from here.”
“It can’t be,” the man said. “The sequence of how they found the pieces makes perfect sense. The last piece was in Tibet, pretty close to us.”
“Are you suggesting they’re close?”
“They must be.”
“Be sure, and soon,” the Chessmaster said. “I’m counting on the accuracy of your information.”
“But of course,” the man said. “I wouldn’t risk you killing me.” He smiled feebly.
The Chessmaster didn’t quite like being perceived as that scary Death figure. He hadn’t always been that scary. He had a story of his own, a story that justified his actions—at least from his point of view.
But none of this meant it wasn’t fun infusing much more chaos into the world. After all, with the powers he possessed he wasn’t only capable of killing people. He could also make entire cities fall asleep.
He stood up, walked toward two other presidents, and with a couple of moves killed them, then simply announced more cities going to sleep. A slow, boring death, he liked to call it. We all went to sleep—died every night—and woke up, never being appreciative of the gift of life. Funny how this came from Death himself.
The Chessmaster announced the new sleeping cities on the news, warning of London being the next one on the list. Then he sat back, daydreaming about all the hell he would soon bestow on Alice. Oh, how long he’d waited for this to happen.