“One apocalypse, please,” the very polite customer, a lady in a fine dust blue trench coat, requested.
The proprietor went looking through his baubles and artifacts from a hundred million worlds and brought forth the prettiest bauble at last.
“Ah. The knob for the door of creation.”
“Well,” she said with a smile. “You know what they say.”
“All good things come to an end,” he agreed.
She paid him a lovely hundred thousand souls, collected by her favorite sirens, after some amount of haggling, then went out to go back to her own world. Time to shut the door.