Omar had an immortality strategy. Every time he passed a beggar, he’d give them the contents of the billfold in his wallet.
You never knew, Omar would say, when you’d run into a fairy prince or a sorceress, dressed as a beggar, a dram of immortality swishing around in their pocket. Surely they’d share a such a thing with a worthy soul who was generous to all, regardless of their station.
Omar died at the age of 76, his three score and ten lived, and then some. In his wake, he had left a trail of plastic wrapped sandwiches bought, and swigs of cheap liquor downed with a nod to his generosity. One prince and two sorceresses attended the funeral, well dressed, but otherwise incognito. They left roses on his coffin, and whispered prayers to old gods as he was lowered into the earth.