An aging wrinkle lies in bed, awaiting the end.
Suddenly a shadow falls upon the room. There stands a figure, cloaked in black tatters, concealing its ghastly visage.
"Who... who are you?"
A soft, gloaming voice rises from everywhere in the room at once. "I am he who visits all. I am the one sent to collect you, to guide you to sweet oblivion."
"Has the hour come so soon? Is my time already at an end?"
"Gentle, good wrinkle. Be not afraid. You will soon be at peace."
He raises one skeletal hand, and a glint of metal shines from the implement in his bony claw.
"Be at rest, dear crease. I shall gather you with my Rowenta Stainless Steel Soleplate."
"That's ... not ... how you spell ... "soul.""
But it is too late. With a swipe of the iron and a pump of steam, the wrinkle is gone.
And with that, somewhere in the world, a new wrinkle is born on someone's vest or tablecloth or something.