Coffee or Death Mug

At some point every morning, Death comes for you.

Not metaphorically. Not eventually. Right now, before you've had anything, standing there with the scythe and the robes and the general energy of someone who has absolutely nowhere else to be.

He asks his question.

Coffee or death.

And every single morning, without hesitation, without negotiation, without even checking what kind of coffee it is, you make the same call.

You've been making it for years.

You'll make it again tomorrow.

Death is patient. He can wait.

The coffee, however, needs to be made immediately, consumed at the correct temperature, and followed by at least one more before any further decisions are taken.

He understands.

He's been around long enough to know how this goes.