I didn‘t ask for much. I’m not a highly demanding person. I just wanted my last indulgence in the world of fine dinning to go well. So I kept my requests simple. Mostly because I knew they wouldn’t get all of it right.
I wanted to start off with a garden salad with a raspberry vinaigrette. That’s really not an unusual request, but the best they could offer was lettuce and carrot slivers you’d likely find in a plastic bag from the super market with some kind of horrendously cheap Italian oil that they tried to pass off and actual dressing.
Then after that disappointing entrée, the plat principal was meant to be a five pound Maine red lobster, which turned out to be not quite that. And I thought duck l`orange would have been a challenge. I would be lucky if that… thing was two pounds at the most, if you count the begrimed rubber bands they left on it’s claws. Looked as though they had fished that creature out of the sewer. Didn’t taste half as bad as it looked. However much of an insult to the culinary arts that was, the canned vegetables they used as a side dish were even worse.
And just when all hope was lost… they disappointed me yet again when they couldn’t even come up with a bottle of wine from Bordeaux. That pig swill that they must have bought from K-Mart for $15 was the final straw.
Just as they put on Beethoven’s “greatest hits” CD, likely from the ninety-nine cent bin at the same K-Mart… after I had asked for Bach, I poured the wine out in front of the cell door. I waited a few moments, then I called out for the guard. As he approached my cell, I grabbed him through the bars by the neck and broke the bottle. I then proceeded to carve off a piece of his face, but before I could do any real damage the other guards came to his rescue.
As one of the guards began to choke me with his nightstick, I coughed up the words, “Skin graft!” and chuckled a little as the medics rushed in and pealed his face of the floor and placed it neatly into a small Styrofoam cooler packed with ice.
After the they decided it wasn’t fun to stomp me into the ground anymore, I took a few minutes to regain myself. I gave some thought about the time I have spent in prison. Eighteen months, twelve after the trial. And since then I’ve killed one guard, injured six, no… seven now. And I killed… hmm… three of my fellow inmates. Small world, one of them happened to be my old assistant from the company. He killed his family or something. I remember his first day in here. Of course I remember, as soon as I saw him I bashed his throat in his a lunch tray.
Where was I? Oh yes, one guard, seven injured, three prisoners, eleven wounded. All in one years time. Other then pure boredom, I was hoping that it would delay my execution. New murder, new trial. Didn’t work out that way. Altogether… that makes fourteen dead at my hands. Hardly a world record. A little disappointing, actually. I think I could have done better. But that doesn’t count all of the deaths that have happened in my name. I have lost count. Everyone responsible for putting me here is dead… or soon will be.
The guards come to my cell again and tell me it’s time.
“Finally,” I reply, “Midnight already? Time flies.”
They put the shackles on me and shove a rifle in my back as I walk down death row. All the while some priest murmurs on and on with his hollow incantations. I can’t help but feel some relief in the way it’s going to end. I’ve been so restless, I’ve simply grown weary of life. Not that I didn’t try to enjoy it while it lasted, but this life wasn’t meant for me. I spent more time living up to the expectations of others… climbing the corporate ladder, spending hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars on my appearance… all meaningless.
As we arrive at the final destination, the priest stops his prayer. He looks me in the eye… now I remember him.
“May God have mercy on your soul.”
A smirk slips onto my face as I look away and walk into the chamber, “May God have mercy indeed.”
I know that I can’t expect much in the few moments I have left here… but I do expect one seat around the gas chamber to be empty. The thought puts a smile on my face as they strap me to the chair.