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My Name is Michael. I am twenty-seven years of age and I work as a contractor for a small company outside of Naples, Italy. Unlike regular contractors, however, I receive payment in a person’s soul, or rather the promise of their soul. Instead of taking their soul as payment when my job is finished, I get their soul upon their death. That could mean waiting for years to receive it, but that’s why I make so many and I am very good at my job. I do, sometimes, deal with spirits as my cilents, but I have never made a contract with any of them. That is because it is taboo to make a contract with something that isn’t alive; if you do it’ll have grave consequences for all involved. I am Michael, and I am called The Merchant of Death. I will make your dreams come true, but when you die you’re mine.
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It was just another typical day downtown during the summertime; lots of tourists walking the streets, lots of cars waiting and passing by stoplights, and lots of shops selling their services to their honest costumers. The only thing Michael could really complain about was how hot it was, but then again he was wearing black slacks, a black t-shirt and a leather trench coat that reached all the way down to his shins when standing.
“Ahhh~” Michael sighed, putting his newspaper on his head, despite the umbrella already blocking the sun. “I hate summer; it’s too hot for it to be natural.”
“Maybe because it isn’t natural,” said his waitress as she set his drink on the table.
“What do you mean?” he replied, taking his feet off the table and sitting up. “Are you saying it’s not supposed to be this hot?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” the waitress said looking out over the street corner, losing herself in the scenery of the city. “I’ve lived here all my life and have worked here for two years and it’s never been this hot.”
Michael took the glass in his hand and raised it up to his lips. “Maybe it’s a spirit of some kind,” he mumbled and took a drink. After a couple large gulps he placed it back down and gave a sigh of relief. Lemonade was always his favorite seasonal drink and it really helped when it was hot outside like it was that day.

“What did you say?” asked the waitress shooting Michael an odd look.
Michael looked back at her and without missing a beat told her; “I said this lemonade’s good. Do you think I could get another one when I finish this one up?” he raised the class and swayed it in his hand, allowing the ice to shift and knock together.
“Um, sure,” she replied, not entirely convinced that’s what he had meant. Instead of pursuing the issue any further she decided to retreat into the air conditioned sanctuary of the café, leaving the strange man alone with his drink.