Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

The combination of his physical attributes makes you think he should have been a redhead but swam the wrong direction in the gene pool. I’ve always suspected he’s a bit disappointed about this.

They are the Sturmabteilung, Hitler’s private military, the men he brought with him to power, the men who answer to him alone.

“What do you think is wrong with the French?” I ask. “A great deal,” Hubert says. “But you must be more specific.”

It’s like bourbon, only better, somehow, as though bourbon got dressed up and went out for drinks.

“Come, Madame Andrée, do not be unreasonable.” It is the weak-minded man’s retort. A thing he says when thwarted by a woman. An excuse. A bit of intellectual poverty. He doesn’t like me, therefore I am unreasonable.

Gentlemen of the human race, I say to hell with the lot of you. —VICTOR HUGO,

unwilling to drink my tea. I’m not sure what exactly the café brewed but it tastes of old leaves and disappointment.

It is less frightening to actually fire a gun than to think about firing one.