A little before midnight, while the Madoffs’ slept in their opulent master bedroom in their New York City high-rise apartment overlooking Central Park (no doubt paid with their ill-gotten gains), Azrael, the angel of death, entered with a gentle gust of wind blown through a window left open.
With harvest scythe extended, Azrael prepared to swing it and collect the Madoffs’ souls.
When he paused a moment, noticing a handwritten jointly signed notarized note addressed to him, which was placed on the bed stand under an empty bottle of prescription medication.
The note read in its entirety:
Dear Angel of Death (A.K.A. Azrael):
If you are reading this note, you are too late. We have opted to take our own lives.
You may have noticed an empty bottle of pills. We’ve taken them all in anticipation of your arrival -- no doubt dispatched by one or more of our many former investors.
Mr. and Mrs. Madoff
With that Azrael looked over to the bed, where he found the Madoffs’ sitting up, high-fiving each other.
That sent Azrael into a rage.
“Now, now, Azrael,” said Mr. Madoff with his hands extended. “Don’t do anything I would do. Unlike me, you’re bound by covenant to follow the rules. Remember?”
Mr. Madoff then pointed to his custom-made Breguet Marie Antoinette watch.
“See?” said Mr. Madoff. “It’s a minute passed midnight. You can’t take our souls now. It’s too late. The witching hour is over.”
Nevertheless, the Angel of Death was so angry, he swung back his scythe and swung away at Mr. Madoff, cutting off a single hair from his head.
Reaching out with his skeleton hand, Azrael caught it in midair. Then carefully placing it in his tattered black pocket, he called it Absalom.
“I’ll be back,” shrieked the Grim Reaper, as he flew out the window from which he entered. Out over Central Park. Disappearing into the darkness of the night.
“Huh,” said Mr. Madoff to himself, as he got up to close the window he purposely left open.
Copyright © 2008-2011 by Robert W. Armijo. All rights reserved.
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