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‘We have steps to keep us from killing ourselves, and traditions to keep us from killing each other.’
“I’m Mark, and I haven’t killed anyone in two and a half years,” I say.
Because I am Azrael, the Angel of Death.
“She’s definitely calling the cops,” Booker says, as he turns his wooden rosary beads over in his hands. “Black man sitting in the hallway.” “Only one of us is Black,” I say. “Maybe it cancels out?”
Booker nods and says, “As long as we’re here, I’ve got a friend in town I can check in with. He’s got some good international contacts. Can’t hurt, right?”
Its gonna be Jean isnt it!?!
“Any friend of Booker…” he says, his voice booming, “is probably a piece of shit, but if your money is good, that’s all that matters.”
“Are you kidding me?” Booker asks. “You speak like two dozen languages. You don’t know Portuguese?”
“Got him,” Booker yells from somewhere to my left. Which is quickly followed by the sound of a crash. “No, I don’t,” Booker says.
“I will not die here,” I tell him. “And I will not let you decide my fate for me.”
We don’t make scientific decisions based on a twenty-year-old cartoon.”
I need to recognize it for what it is: the thing that made me who I am. Someone who is trying, today, to be a little better than I was yesterday.
