[ WP ] It is common knowledge that killing someone adds their remaining lifespan to your own .

I have read that doctors used to prescribe fresh, alpine air to those suffering an'affliction of the lungs', but altitude certainly does n't help COPD. I know this because - as I bring their tea up to the balcony - several of the old bastards are panting with exertion, desperate to draw enough oxygen through their masks. Without exception, all of the old boys are sunk back entirely into their armchairs as if it's too much effort to hold themselves up. I suppose, at their age, it is. 
 
 Their bickering ends at my approach, with all their venom suddenly deflected onto me. `` It better have two sugars, boy!'' yells the fattest of them before he puts his mask on again, his outburst clearly having demanded effort. He in particular hates me for having stopped bringing his cigars, but with oxygen fires having been the end of both my immediate predecessors, I'm taking no chances. The Old Ones are unreasonable at the best of times, and do n't seem to appreciate that their own effective immortality does n't extend to others. I continue around the circle, placing cups of tea before them. Some of them grudgingly mumble thanks, the rest do n't bother. The two sagely-looking Asians tell me to bugger off for having interrupted their game of chess. Keen to get away from both the hostile atmosphere and that old-person stink of piss and body odour, I rush away as soon as I've finished with the tea. 
 
 On descending the steps, I light a cigarette and gaze out over the Great Ocean. I'd always been interested in history, but I couldnt really pinpoint when exactly it formed. I suppose it crept up so slowly that everyone took it for granted, until the remnants of humanity were forced to only the highest peaks. I inhale deeply, enjoying the cigarette figuring lung cancer wo n't be a problem soon anyway. After I've finished it, I check my watch. Five minutes have passed, and I figure I might as well head back up to the balcony and enjoy the show. 
 
 The atmosphere has changed quickly from the last visit to an air of panic. 
 
 Mr Hitler is lying face down on his vomit covered lap, his constitution having always been weak. Mr Mao follows shortly. The rest of them are looking around in panic as more and more of them start to vomit and collapse. Mr Pot, then Mr Stalin, then Mr Gaddafi. They ignore me. Even as I cause their death, I am a matter of indifference to them. Simply the serving boy. Finally, as only one or two survive and the stentch of vomit is becoming unbearable, I prepare to leave. 
 
 `` You! You did this!'' I turn round to see Mr Churchill, the fat one, pointing to me in his death throes. I give him one last smirk, and turn around before continuing down the stairs. Hundreds of millions of deaths were propping them up, an incalculable number of years. What I do in the coming years I have no idea, but I'll sure as hell be making my own tea.
