Trade you a lifetime for your moment. I choose the moment, you pick the life. I got plenty.
Like the time I was the left hand man of a right handed Roman Emperor, and half the world was mine to play thumbs up, or down, depending.
Or when I found the answer to eternal youth and endless happiness, or was it endless youth and eternal happiness? But they were all prostrated at my feet, worshipping in concentric circles, as far as an eagle’s eye can see.
Maybe you’d like a taste of stardom, of glory and envy and lots and lots grand entrances, dressed to kill? And having killed, nay, slaughtered, and having slaughtered, nay, massacred, sat back to quaff a toast offered by the vanquished – your sip turning into a swallow, swallow into a gulp, gulp into a six-pack, then a six-pack into a bottle, bottle into cask, a cask into a raging river of whatever poison your poison happens to be.
How about it? Bejewelled stones and mystical scents from all my incarnations. How about it, really? Every plot and every twist, every great climactic song and dance and every fantastic finale, spread out glittering on the carpets of a nighttime bazaar made in heaven, for your personal choosing.
How about it, really, truly? Your body how you like it, your soul how you shape it, your anything anyhow anytime you say. “Oy.”
Tell you what. Last price. Take it all. You just have to give a little moment back to me.