Chess with the Imp of the Perverse

Perhaps Death itself awaited outside my door, for I had not the wit nor the inclination to sate my curiosity, hoping instead it be determined I was too young and forestall the inevitable, my decline, but instead insisted to play a game of skill against the Imp, he of such squat querulous stature, malformed and shiftless of grey hue to match the pungent and sanguine smoke which wafted and slithered from the opium and cigars we smoked, mingling hither with the candles, my companion both laconic and incensed as his grotesque hand dangled above the Bishop, debating a pithy strike.