A Prescription for Doomsday

The modest three-story building in the office park was left almost miraculously unharmed in the conflagration. Doctor Rouster served the desperate and dying as best he could.

On June 17, a shadowy figure strode calmly into his office and presented a small scrap of green paper.

"It is done, doctor, as you requested," the thing rasped. "But I still feel terrible."

Rouster stared at the prescription slip. "Jason? This is a prescription for Droperidol and the date of your follow-up appointment."

"Oh. A medicine? I thought... well, your terrible handwriting has to take some of the blame here, I say."