[ WP ] On one night of the year , the dead can return and converse with the living . As a hitman , this is not a day you look forward to .

`` Can we just all get in a line please? In chronological order of death? Just, please, look- I was killed by Ronnie in the fall of'92.'' The speaker was a slim man in a natty tweed suit and round spectacles. He had a neat moustache and was missing the left top quadrant of his head. 
 
 `` What month?'' Called a fat man in a stained tank top. `` Cause he did me in September. On my fuckin' birthday.'' He glared at Ronnie, who was ignoring him, ignoring all of the figures crowded into his cramped office. He had a pair of noise-canceling headphones on and was sipping from a pint glass of whiskey and soda. 
 
 `` Well, that would put you before me,'' Said the natty man, gesturing to the space ahead of himself as if to say,'See, my idea of a line is so great, I'm letting this lout go ahead of me.' 
 
 `` Fuck your line.'' A sour-faced Italian pushed his way through the phosphorescent crowd and bent down, putting his face right up next to Ronnie's. `` HEY RONNIE, YOU TWO-BIT CUNT! FUCK YOU!'' He straightened up and brushed imaginary dust off of his phantom jacket looking as pleased as a kid who had just won the spelling bee. `` I'm off to see my Mom.'' 
 
 After this the room erupted in chaos, the near order that had been about to materialize out of nothing collapsing like a poorly built townhouse. Phantom shapes jostled each other, jockeying for space near the only living person in the office. Obscenities reverberated off the fake-wood paneled walls, ghostly middle fingers were extended towards the indifferent face of Ronnie. 
 
 The natty man drifted back from the fracas, shaking his head at the mass of visitations. 
 
 `` Twenty-four hours.'' He said, a frown wrinkling his neatly trimmed moustache. `` That's all we get- and these people want to waste it screaming at a man who ca n't hear them.'' 
 
 Ronnie took a sip from his giant whiskey and soda, then leaned back and put his feet on the corner of his desk. He closed his eyes. His hands drifted up to his prodigious stomach, lacing themselves together like a fleshy zipper. It appeared he was going to take a nap.
