December 24th, 1842. You looked down at the bottle of poison in your shaky hands. This was it. You were finally going to end it. As the snow fell and clung to your coat, you thought back on your life. Just as you popped the cork off the bottle and brought it to your lips, a voice spoke in front of you.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

You look up to see a tall man with a bow tie and an old-looking top hat over his moppy hair. He trots over and sits down next to you. His smile is warm and comforting.

“That stuff will kill you, you know. And not very fast, either. It could take hours.”