So you buy and you sell the means of keeping you from hell. But the ghost on your trail can’t seem to neglect a step. There’s a noose in his hand with a shape to fit your neck. Keep on running from hell. This is hell.
As you fall, you faintly hear a familiar song, hum along, “hallelujah.” Now he’s gone, as is the time you now have lost. We die alone, hallelujah.