Braggadocio

Chess playing Death      -    no, the reverse     Death sitting decked out and self-satisfied     in black no mandatory top hat but a shroud     shouldering a cowl.     There stereotypes end    -     appearances have to be kept up     tho' hardly any cinematic gnarled fingers     of Baron Samedi fame     rather pudgy digitals reflecting     gentile prosperity     (after all, Winners do take all     his fellow satanists bank on it).     Of course, such things are fictitious.     Death plays no favourites (and waits     for no man when rivalling Time).     Still, parlour games are one indulgence.     Hardly comforting to know human beings     function at one purpose     when this Hallow of Hallows puts on the smirk.     Dalliance with the victim is the upshot    -     the chess motif again.     Sift thru the chicken bones a mite    -     let the chump stir the rubble of his dreams.     Something of gallow's humour or gangster largesse.     Offer a stiff drink (brandy will do), one last cigarette.     Then, too, for beaten gladiators toiling bravely the     apparent rewards accelerate. Truckloads of flowers     at the funeral, for instance. Preferential treatment for     the guise or mercy must be kept up.     All lies in appearances. Prepare the feast. Sit the     guest of honour on a splendid cushion, then serve up     dish after sumptious dish.     Dining splendidly on one's own children     unbeknownst is a favourite    -    maddens the victim no end.     Brief success turning to bitter sawdust is the supreme     moment of ecstasy. Serves precisely as metaphoric     extension of all earthly reward as illusionary. (A     delicious ruse borrowed shamelessly from fellow     representatives on Earth    - the Sicilian Mafia.)     Further spin-offs centre about the Absurd But spare     us juvenile intrigue with petty omens like a bird loose     in the house. Rather, a swift check-mate served up in     the best Grandmaster tradition is more a propos.     Therein lies the jest.     Workaholics and their polar opposites, the dead lazy.     effortlessly come around. When realization hits home     all distinctions blur. No difference. Sharp laughter     unceremoniously greets even the self-composed.     Especially intriguing are the ambitious. Endless quirks really.     Concerted mockery recreates further patterns of futility.     Basic strategy remains unchanged, though. Disguise is paramount.     Dress her in robes of tarter gray,     implant a slight smile, then beckon     from around each corner.     Create a maze, but attractive-like with flower pots.     Faint knockings behind every door. A cooling breeze overhead.     Genuine affability like an open air Swiss cottage in a summer meadow.     The greater the false hope, the greater the final squirming.     Funny stuff, for even Death at one remote corner of his     being partakes in occasional mirth (why not, with his     monopoly intact on everything else).