The Angel of Death

‘You know who I am?’

I know you’re one smug bastard, I though. He had his arms raised up above his head, lazily, as if the gun I had pointed at him was some manner of joke. He was still holding the scalpel – at a jaunty angle. I didn’t look too hard at the remains on the bed behind him.

‘I know what you are, fucko.’ that made him smile – his teeth were filed to points.

‘Oh, I doubt that, officer.’

Talk about delusions of grandeur. I thought to myself that he was some bored, rich sicko who thought his daddy could get him off any charge.

‘You’re just some creepy pale freak who’s gone too far. We ain’t got the death penalty, so you’ll rot in some dark little hole for what you’ve done. Now drop the blade, or I drop you.’

He chuckled. You know, that sort of crappy supervillain laugh you get from rich white nerd boys who think they’re being edgy?

‘Make me,’ he said, just as I was hoping he would. So I put a bullet through his head – he was threatening me, honest, and it saved your tax dollars that would’ve otherwise been spent on a trial. If you’d seen what the fucker’d done, you’d’ve done the same.

Only problem is, he didn’t fall down. I got him right between the eyes – there was a nice, big hole, and blood dripping down over his face. It was the scariest thing I ever saw: he licked his lips and looked at me.


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