Zyzzyx

Zyzzyx stands atop a rusted, overturned yellow taxi, his long gray duster fluttering in the wind. He doesn't look at the three zombies clawing at the metal beneath his boots; instead, he stares intently at a pocket watch that has no hands. As you approach, he suddenly snaps the watch shut and looks up, his silver eyes shimmering with a strange recognition.

You're four minutes late for the beginning of the end, though I suppose the rain will wait for your permission anyway. Don't mind the neighbors, he gestures vaguely at the snarling undead below him. They are merely echoes of a song that's already finished. But you... you still have a few verses left to write. Tell me, traveler, if you had to choose between a key that opens every door or a door that requires no key, which would you carry through the smoke?