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, unworthy; to forestall the inevitable, my decline, instead insisting to play a game of skill against the Imp, he of such squat querulous stature, malformed and shiftless, grey hue to match the pungent and sanguine smoke which wafted, slithering from the opium and cigars we smoked, mingling hither and thither with the burning candles, my companion both laconic and incensed, his grotesque hand dangling above my bishop, debating a pithy strike.