Every Friday, Death mocks me. As I walk towards the door of my apartment, I dread the presence of that yellow calling card. And yet there it is, sometimes on the welcome mat, sometimes hung on the doorknob.

My nemesis seems to be from a well-oiled organization, one that cryptically calls itself ‘Maintenance’. Their calling card contains all manner of grisly depictions of murder: on the top right, you see a hangman fixing the noose on the rafters. Next follows a professional gravedigger who not only digs holes but also provides bodies to fill the holes. On the left bottom corner, you see a mode of murder common in apartment complexes such as mine: ‘fixing the gas pipes’. To finish off a perfect full course of assassination, the last graphic depicts finishing off the job, viz. walling my mortal remains in concrete and fresh paint.

But worst of all is my… designated killer. Much in the mold of ‘The Professional’ – he is a consummate expert at what he does. And he does all that with a heart of gold. He calls himself the ‘Exterminator’ — ridding the world of pestilential creatures one at a time. Like a true hunter, he experiences remorse at what he does. Everytime I see the yellow card, two shivers run through my spine — one for my impending finis, and one in recognition of The Exterminator’s sardonic wit. Which killee would not be shaken by such words as that of The Exterminator – “Sorry I miss you!”!?

Every Friday I see the same words. I open the door of my apartment with anticipation. The door does not explode outward in a ball of flame. I am alive, and life is good… until next weekend, that is.