Angel of Death

I am on a mission. I have a fishing knife. I am in a factory. – Who are you, a tall man says. He has come up to me so close he could kiss me. I push the knife in his ribs. His eyes go wide. I pull the knife out, ducking around him as he falls forward. There’s a boy. He can’t be more than 14. No matter: 14 year olds have to die too. I twist the knife, hearing the bones crack. The boy moans. I run up a metal staircase. There is an office at the top of the stairs. Aha, I think. The file. The secret dish. Two old woman are speaking French sitting in front of a desk. One wears a canary yellow dress and has a matching purse. The other is in mourning. – Who are you? The yellow woman asks, alarmed. – My name is George, I say. I am the angel of death. – You have a alot of nerve, says the the woman in mourning. Confess! Two little doors open behind the desk. And two tall men crouch out. One is bald, the other has got greasy black hair. I lunge toward the bald man, punching the knife into his chest. Blood squirts from his torso. I whip around and slash the blade across the neck of the other. Blood globs out like a tongue. They're on the ground, their eyes wide open. – Now I will confess, I say, turning the two men over so that they cannot see me. But the women are dead too, their eyes wide open, staring as though out a window. I am looking for the secret file, getting worried.