[ WP ] Major prison sentences have become a choice between two pills . One just kills you . The other , well no one knows what that one does ...

Two guards escorted me into a small room, lighting askew and chairs dimly placed. A man with white suspenders and a white hat sat across from me. His hands were folded in an elegant manner, the type of way a wealthy person would greet a peasant in a handshake. A small oak box laid in the middle of the table no bigger than a paperback copy of Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. The man's stare had meaning; not superficial meaning such as that of an actor, but true meaning. The man stared at me with intent. Intent to know. An intent to investigate. From what I could discern, this man was a detective. 
 
 `` The handcuffs were to your specifications, Mr. Singer?'' The guards removed my bindings. The man in white spoke in rhythmic tones, a soothing and sharp crescendo of vowels and consonants. I certainly was n't his first customer who requested a specific adjustment to my shackles. It was n't my fault I was born with weak wrists. Or perhaps maybe it was. 
 
 `` A bit restrictive,'' I rolled my wrists in a slow motion, `` but so is my budget.'' I set my hands on the table, mirroring the man in white's divinity. 
 
 `` And you kept your budget close to your wallet, such as handcuffs, yes?'' The man in white pulled a thick manila file from his briefcase set on his left. The briefcase had a five digit combination lock with letters, as opposed to traditional numbers, to secure the case. It started with'A' but I could not read the other four. The man in white thumbed through the folder, licking his thumb between pages. 
 
 `` I've already been interrogated enough. Forgive my rude demeanor, but I'm not here to answer your questions, I'm here to receive punishment.'' I stretched my neck. I hoped my punishment would be a nice warm bed to sleep on. The slabs I rested on these past few years have certainly taken their toll. 
 
 `` Who said anything of punishment? Certainly you can agree this is merely another chapter to be written in the book of Gary Singer.'' The man in white closed the manila folder with a smile. My name was written in the tab. 
 
 `` Another chapter, ha. If my life were a book I would burn it for eternity for its drivel and lack of conflict. I've made my mistakes, but none certainly greater than the lack of risks that have passed me by.'' I sat forward, crossing my fingers. 
 
 `` I take it you're not a gambling man.'' The man in white lightly caressed the oak box, drawing attention away from his gaze. He failed to entice me. 
 
 `` I tend to stay away from games in which I am not favored.'' I stared into the man's shoulder, admiring the quality of his shirt. 
 
 `` Good! Then your choice has already been made for you,'' The man opened the box, revealing a thick velvet the color of pure ivory lacing the inside of the vestibule. Two pills laid bare on a raised platform in the middle, identical in size and color. I assumed this was the choice that has been made for me. 
 
 `` And what choice would that be?'' My brow furrowed. 
 
 `` I'm not here to answer questions, Mr. Singer, I'm here to deal punishment,'' the man in white smirked in jest. I sat back annoyed. 
 
 `` Let's not play games. Why is it that I am here? What do you have for me?'' 
 
 `` I have nothing for you, except a choice. I have been sent to deliver a message. And you know why you are here.'' 
 
 `` And what is this message? Your ambiguity is unappreciated.'' I crossed my arms and hoped to die was the truth of the matter. Living in solitude was not an issue. Being confined in a small room was not an issue. The issue was a lack of choice, of freedom and control. I no longer held the strings, and the marionette had been passed around so many times between the Federal Government and the very privatized prisons I once governed that I thought about grabbing both pills and shoving them down this man's throat so I could feel once again what is was like to be in a position of authority. The man in white stood up, and began pacing around the table. 
 
 `` My message, Mr. Singer, is meant to be vague. Throughout life we are presented opportunities. Opportunities to grow, to invest, to escape. Yet we are unable to see the outcome of these opportunities at the time they flourish, so we are merely asked to make a decision and project the outcome based on our choice,'' The man in white stood behind me, his hand met my shoulder. I stiffened my posture. `` You Mr. Singer, in your words, have failed to take risks in your life. I would argue that there are no risks, merely opportunities refused in favor of a more desirable outcome.'' 
 
 I glanced up at the man in white. `` So what? These pills are a representation of how I'm to end my life?'' 
 
 `` Or begin it,'' the man leaned against the table to face me, `` it's your choice.'' 
 
 `` Begin it in what sense? It sends me into a hallucinogenic coma while I suffer on life support for my remaining days?'' This man was easy to read. 
 
 `` Could be.'' 
 
 `` Or perhaps it creates some sort of disease, such as Alzheimer's, or Dementia, and I'm to be sent to the psych ward for further processing,'' I half pried to receive an answer. Not that it would change my decision. I had made up my mind. 
 
 `` This is what you've been so good at over the years, Gary, analyzing the outcome of decisions and going with the most definite,'' the man in white glanced at the box, `` so here's the definite. The pill on the left will kill you. You will die in peace, and live the rest of your days in a coffin six feet under. You will sacrifice your memories and in return be granted a stable state of rest. Your life will no longer live on, all that remains will be your legacy. That, is the definite.'' 
 
 My legacy had been destroyed by the prosecuting attorney when he presented the final piece of planted evidence that put me here. No one would remember cautious, intelligent, millionaire Gary Singer, no. The general populace merely knows only embezzling, fractured, prisoner Gary Singer. The thought disgusted me. I picked up the pill on the left, rolling it between my fingers. `` And the pill on the right?'' 
 
 `` You're a predictable man, Mr. Singer, you wo n't choose the pill on the right.'' 
 
 `` You said it yourself, I weigh decisions based on the lesser of two evils. I ca n't hold up to your predictable reputation if I do not know each evil.'' I licked the pill in my hand. It tasted like salt. 
 
 `` Some say, the pill on the right is life's re-do button. Others say it's a prolonged death sentence.'' The man in white spoke with a factual tone, as if each of these scenarios were possible and he held no favor toward which was more correct. I placed the pill in my hand back in the box. 
 
 `` And what do you say.'' 
 
 `` I say life is what you make of it,'' the man in white lifted his thigh onto the table, grabbed the pill on the right and placed the pill in my palm, `` it is n't every day you get a second chance.'' 
 
 I stared into my hand. I remembered the days of old when I ate lobster with a hefty side of liquid butter. Cliché, I know, but all my life I was cliché. Born into a rich family, living a lavish lifestyle through my teens and twenties, attending merger meetings in my early thirties, and acquiring enough assets in my forties to buy all the hungry children in the world a three course meal every day for the remainder of their years. I could n't imagine a more gifted life. Or a more boring one. 
 
 `` I'm not one to seek second chances,'' I popped the pill into my mouth, savoring the succulence of South African Lobster tail with a hefty side of liquid butter, `` but I'm sick of being predictable.'' I swallowed. 
 
 Rolling up his sleeves, the man in white rose from the table, `` it's rare that you surprise me, Gary Singer, but I do admit this is one of those times.'' the man in white jockeyed his suspenders from his shoulders as he grabbed the manila file with my name on the tab and slid it back into his briefcase. He closed the small oak box, and slid his chair into the table. He eyed me up and down, his posture ready to leave. I stayed seated. 
 
 `` Before you go, I have to ask,'' I sat back arms crossed, `` who are you?'' A tingling sensation coursed itself through my limbs, to my chest, and finally my neck and skull. 
 
 `` As I said before. I am a messenger.'' The man in white, now with a much more casual demeanor, tapped the locking mechanism on his briefcase. The letters had been scrambled into nonsense. My vision was starting to become blurry, a darkness circling my line of sight and closing in at a slow, breathing pace. 
 
 `` Well, yes,'' words were becoming harder to pronounce efficiently, `` but for whom?'' 
 
 `` You know for whom,'' the man in white walked toward the door. Before exiting, he turned one last time to face me. `` Goodbye Mr. Singer. I look forward to speaking with you again. Good luck on your journey.'' 
 
 `` I do n't believe in l-lu-lu-'' my face began feeling as if it were melting, `` luck.'' My memories were fading, and I could n't place where I was or why I was there. I felt an immense sense of dread, my hands shook, and my legs were paralyzed. 
 
 `` Nor do I, Gary. It's just one of those laws that seems to only matter when it's not on your side.'' The man in white exited. I could n't hear the door close.
