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On the Fast Track
Thursday.
The State Capitol. The
chief of staff knocked on the oak door and opened it a few inches. He stuck his head in and said to the
Governor, “You got a minute, Jerry?” “Sure,
Mike, what’s up?” “I
just got a call from the Supreme Court. They upheld the Fast Track bill.” Jerry
Mitchell smiled at the good news. He
had made the fast track death penalty bill a keystone of his election
campaign, and the state house and senate had passed it during his first month
in office. Death
penalty opponents had quickly taken it to court, and a lower court judge had
ruled against the governor. It had
taken three years to get it through the system, and this final decision would
finally put the law into effect. “Great. Get the Attorney General on the phone. I want him to put this law into practice
the first chance we get. The people in
this state elected me to put an end to violent crime and lengthy appeals, and
we finally have the tool to do it. Set
up a press conference as soon as possible.
I want the whole nation to see we do it right in this state.” “I’m
already on it, Jerry. You’re set to go
in 45 minutes.” “Thanks,
Mike,” the Governor said as his chief of staff exited, closing the door
behind him. Friday. Bill
Norris was livid. He’d suspected Jim
was sleeping around on him, and his worst fears had just been confirmed. Bill
had just ended a meeting with a private investigator he had hired to tail
Jim. Bill had been given photos of his
lover entering a familiar home, that of one of his friends, Joe
Morrison. The investigator had other
pictures of the two of them together in a park, at restaurants in neighboring
towns and even in a movie theater. It
was obvious they were more than just casual acquaintances and the recording
the dick had somehow gotten of them in Joe’s bedroom sealed the matter. Jim
was at work that afternoon, so the house the men shared was quiet when Bill
stopped by. Lighting a cigarette as he
moved up the stairs, he entered the den and unlocked the safe bolted to the
closet floor. He took out his .38
caliber revolver and quickly loaded the six chambers. Placing
the gun and the remainder of the box of ammo in his jacket pocket, he
scrawled a brief note: “Jim-- I know about you and Joe. Bill.”
Leaving the note on the kitchen table, he locked the house and headed
over to Joe’s. Joe
was a bartender at Bill and Jim’s favorite leather bar, and Bill knew he
would be home. He parked a couple of
blocks away, grabbed the envelope of pictures and walked down the tree-lined
street. Joe’s Blazer was in the
driveway of the small brick house, and a sprinkler was running in the front
yard. Flicking
his cigarette into the wet lawn, he approached the front door. Not pausing to knock, Bill walked in. Joe was snoozing in front of the TV when he
heard the door open. He woke up with a
start and recognized the intruder. “Hey,
Buddy! How’s it going?” “Don’t
you buddy-buddy me, you asshole. I
want you to stay away from Jim.” “I
don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Bill
pulled the pictures the investigator had taken from the envelope and shoved
them in Joe's face. “That’s bullshit,”
he said as he threw the pictures onto the coffee table, “and here’s the
proof.” “You
don’t understand, man.” “Like
hell. You’ve been seeing Jim for
months behind my back!” With that Bill
pulled the revolver from his pocket and shot the bartender in the chest. Joe’s flailing arms couldn’t stop him from
falling across the recliner and he was dead before he hit the floor. Bill
emptied the gun into the dead man’s chest and face. He then walked out and back to his car. When
Jim got home, he saw the note and called Joe at the bar. They told him he
hadn’t shown up yet, and when he got no answer at either his house or on the
car phone, he telephoned 911. Bill
was driving aimlessly around town when police stopped him, and he was
promptly arrested. Saturday morning, in the county jail. Bill
took a seat in the visitor’s room, and his friend Dave March, an attorney,
sat on the opposite side of the bulletproof glass. “It
doesn’t look good, Bill,” the lawyer began.
“They have your note, the fingerprints on the pictures, and they
expect the bullets will match the gun they found in your pocket when you were
arrested.” “They
will match.” “Then
you admit killing Joe?” “Yeah,”
Bill said quietly, “I did it.” “Hoo, boy.” “Dave,
what is the penalty for murder?” “Well,
it’s your first offense. You’ll
probably get 40 years.” “Forty! Hell, I’m only 26.” “Well,
with good behavior you might cut that in half. There’s another possibility. If you plead guilty at Monday’s
arraignment, you will likely get 15 to 20.
You could be out in seven to 10 with good behavior.” “Well,
let’s cut the losses. I’ll plead
guilty.” “Good.” “Well,
thanks for coming over, Dave.” “Sure
thing. Anything else I can do for you,
Bill.” “Say,
Dave, can you do me a favor?” “Sure,
Bill, what do you need?” “I’m
out of smokes. Can you pick up a
carton for me?” “Sure
thing. I’ve got a couple of packs in
my briefcase, and I’ll have someone bring them to you. I’ll get you some more by this evening.” “Thanks,
man. I really owe you one.” “Well,”
said the lawyer as he put a legal pad into his briefcase, “I’ll see you
Monday at the arraignment.” “OK. See you then.” The Governor’s office that same morning. Governor
Mitchell sat at his desk, opposite Mike O’Brien, the chief-of-staff and Robin
“Mick” Mickelson, the Attorney General.
He began the meeting. “What
have you got, Mick?” “We’ve
got a murder for you. Open and shut
case.” “Fill
me in.” “Guy
named Norris. Gay. Lover’s spat. Shot his boyfriend’s lover, point
blank. The police have prints, the
murder weapon and some other corroborating evidence.” “Any
priors?” “Just
a couple of speeding tickets, I’m afraid.” “How
do you think he’ll plead?” “No
idea yet. He’s seeing his lawyer this
morning. He’s being tight-lipped about
the whole thing. By the way, the
police have him under 24 hour suicide watch.” “Who’s
the judge?” “Miles
McFadden.” “Hey,
there’s some good news. Mike, get him
on the phone. Let’s see if we can
twist his ear and get us a sentence.” Sunday night in the county jail. Bill
sat in the dark cell, sucking on another cigarette. The ashtray was full of dead butts. His mind was racing, and he was so
preoccupied he had stopped taking notice of the hourly change of guards
sitting outside his cell, as they had done continuously for the past two days. All
he could think about was how he could spend the next 40 years behind
bars. He thought back to how much had
happened in his life in barely half that span and he shook with dread. “Let’s just hope that they’ll cut the term
when I plead guilty.” With that he lit
another cigarette from the last, and stubbed out the old one in the
overflowing ashtray. Monday morning. In court. “All
rise. Superior Court is now in
session, the Honorable Miles McFadden presiding.” The
elderly judge walked into the courtroom and took a seat behind his
podium. “Be seated.” The
bailiff called out, “The State vs. William C. Norris” Judge
McFadden glanced at the two tables in front of him and said, “Are all parties
prepared for the arraignment?” Both
counsels both stood up and answered in the affirmative. “Will
the defendant please rise?” Bill
stood up beside his lawyer. “Is
the defendant prepared to enter a plea?” “We
are, Your Honor,” Dave answered. “And
how do you plead to the charge of murder in the first degree?” Bill
spoke up. “Guilty, Your Honor.” “The
defendant enters a plea of guilty. You
may be seated.” The
judge then gave each counsel an opportunity to state any circumstances before
he pronounced sentence. The lawyer for
the state requested a severe penalty, given the extreme nature of the case,
and the obvious premeditation carried out by Bill Norris. Dave March then responded by emphasizing
his client’s clean record. “I
will render a decision in 30 minutes.
Court is now in recess.” Bill
and Dave sat at the defense table waiting for the judge to return. There was little to talk about, and Bill
found himself watching the second hand on the wall clock slowly move toward
the time when this judge would decide his fate for the next 20 to 40 years. Bill
was like a kid waiting for his father to come home to whip him. He knew the moment would come, and exactly
30 minutes after the judge left the room he reentered. “I
have reached a decision. Would the
defendant please rise.” Bill
and his lawyer stood together. “William
C. Norris. You have pleaded guilty to
the charge of murder in the first degree.
This is one of the most senseless and vicious crimes I have seen in my
22 years on the bench. Our society is
based on the premise that citizens are free to pursue a happy and peaceful
life unmolested by others who wish to exercise judgement
upon them. You sir have committed a
crime so heinous that one shudders to think of what would possess someone to
commit it. That you have not committed
any crime more serious than speeding to this time is more a miracle than a
mitigating circumstance.” Bill’s heart jumped into his
throat at that statement. “He’s gonna give me the full 40 years,” he thought. “It
is with this in mind that I pass the following sentence upon you: You are to be taken this day to the Central
State Penitentiary. I hereby sentence
you to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. Under the Fast Track Capital Law said
sentence shall be carried out three days hence, on Thursday, May 11, at the
hour of 10 p. m. May God have mercy on
your soul.” With
a bang of his gavel, the judge closed the hearing and left the courtroom. Bill
sat down with a thud. He was in
shock. He turned to Dave and said in a
whisper, “I thought you said it would be 15 or 20 years!” “I
don’t understand. I’ll get to the
bottom of this.” Two
guards approached Bill, helped him to his feet, cuffed his wrists behind his
back and led him from the courtroom. Central State Penitentiary. Tuesday morning. Bill
woke up with a start. He took a moment
to realize he was in the single cell just down the hall from the state’s
execution chamber. For the first time since he killed
Joe Morrison, he had gotten a full night’s sleep. Not that his mind was at rest; nothing
could be further from the truth. He
was still stunned by the sentence, but exhaustion finally caught up to him,
and he passed out around eight o’clock.
He checked his watch, but he hadn’t worn it since he was arrested on
Friday evening. He glanced out through
the painted iron bars at a man at a desk. “Hey, man, what time
is it?” The guard pointed a
thumb at a clock on the wall behind him and said, “It’s nine o’clock.” “In the evening?” “No. Tuesday morning.” Bill
felt a little disoriented, and then the dream came back to him. He was somewhere in the Old West, and he
was being hanged. He remembered being
on a horse, and then seeing it gallop away as he swung free, back and forth,
back and forth. It
was then that he realized he had a raging hard-on. The images from the dream
seemed to have some sort of erotic hold on him, but he couldn't exactly say
why. He lit his first cigarette of the day, and sucked hard on it. Smoking had always turned him on when he
was just starting as a teenager 12 years earlier, and the combination of the
thick smoke and the thoughts of what awaited him in just 2 days aroused him
even more. He trembled, his fears of
spending the rest of his life in prison replaced with a new one. It was an image he just couldn't shake: he
would be hanged until he was dead instead! Two hours later. “Visitor for you.” A
guard opened the cell door for Dave to come in. Bill gave him a big hug. “Hey, buddy, good to see you.” Bill sat down on the metal bunk while his
lawyer sat on the cell's single chair. “You’re
chipper this morning!” “Yeah. I slept like a log last night. What’s happening on the outside?” “Well,
I finally got the straight shit. Turns out the Supreme Court approved a new
law to speed murderers through the appeal process.” “And
that means…” “It
means that you have one quick appeal, and it’s already gone. The Supreme Court rubber-stamped your
execution. I’m sorry.” Bill
shuddered and put his head in his hands.
"You OK?” the lawyer asked. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He glanced at the table. “I
could use some more cigarettes though. The carton you gave me the other day
won’t last me until, um, Thursday.” “Oh. Glad you reminded me. I brought another
carton.” Dave pulled the cigarettes from his briefcase and set them on the
table. “I also have this.” Dave handed the prisoner a business envelope. “Some guy I’ve never seen before came by
the office last night. He gave this to me and told me you should open it when
you’re alone.” “I’ve
got plenty of that on my hands.” “Guess
you do. Well, anything else you need?” “No
thanks. I just want to spend my last
couple of days alone here.” He lowered
his voice and said, “I wish they didn’t have to watch me all the time. I hadn’t fucked Jim in weeks, and I haven’t
jerked off in since I don’t know when.”
He cracked a little smile. “How
can you think of that at a time like this?” “I
honestly can't say.” “Whatever.”
Dave paused. “D’you
want me to be here when they…” His
voice trailed off. “No.
No thanks. It’s better you don’t remember me that way. You know what I mean.” “Yeah. I guess I do. You want me to stay for a while? Or maybe come back tomorrow?” “That’s
OK. I need some time to prepare, I
guess. I’ll be alright. Thanks for everything, man.” The
two men stood up, and Bill gave his lawyer a hug. He thought he spotted a
tear in Dave’s eye, but Dave just said, “Bye, Bill. Good Luck!” and turned and asked the guard
to let him out. Bill
waited about an hour before opening the letter. The guard outside his cell
was a starer, and he never seemed to take his eyes
off his charge. When the shift
changed, the new man was more circumspect, taking only occasional glances at
the prisoner. Lighting
another cigarette, Bill picked up the white envelope. The only markings on it were the words
“Bill Norris”. He slipped his finger
under a corner of the flap and tore open the envelope. Inside was a sheet of lined paper, and its
message was brief: “Don’t let them
know you recognize me when you see me.”
It was signed Steve Douglas. Bill
knew Steve alright. Bill met him at a biker bar on a visit to the capital a
year or so back. Bill had been to a
couple of wild sex parties at this house. “I wonder if he’s a guard here,”
Bill thought. “I don’t remember what
he does for a living, if he even said anything about it. We were too busy
sucking and moaning!” He smiled
thinking back to the great time he’d had. Later that afternoon. Bill spent time either reading and smoking, or taking
occasional dream-filled naps. During
one of his dreams Bill was riding that last horse, but he was stark
naked. He saw himself bucking as he
swung, and he caught a glimpse of his erect cock pointing out at his
executioners. After that dream he woke
with a start, and was surprised to see one of the guards with a man Bill
recognized. Bill lit a cigarette as he
checked out his visitor. The
guard opened the cell door, and Steve stepped inside. He was carrying a heavy black case, which
he set down on the floor. Bill stood
up, and found that his new visitor was just as much an imposing figure as he
remembered. He was about 6 foot 6,
built like a lineman, and he had a plug of tobacco in his left cheek. His hair was cut short on top, and the
sides were shaved like a Marine’s. He
obviously worked out, and Bill could see the bulges of his biceps through his
dress shirt. The sight of him brought
life to Bill’s cock. The
visitor rearranged the wad of chaw in his cheek and said with a drawl, “Hi,
Bill. I’m Steve Douglas.” “Hi,
Steve. What can I do for you?” “I
need to check things out before Thursday.
Could you step over here please?” Bill
set his cigarette in the ashtray and moved closer. Steve said, “This will only take a
moment.” He placed his hands on Bill’s
neck, and felt the muscles along the sides. “OK.” He opened up his case and took out a flat
scale and set it on the floor. “Step
on here, please, Bill.” Bill
stepped onto the scale, and Steve jotted something on his palm with a
ballpoint pen. “Thanks.” “Pardon
me for asking, but who are you?” “Um,
since you asked, I’m the state executioner.” Bill’s
heart raced. Suddenly it all fit. He recalled that Steve sometimes included
mock hangings during his erotic parties at his house. This was really happening, and he was
amazed at how exhilarating it felt knowing that this burly man would be doing
it to him. “You
mind if I ask a couple of questions?” “Yeah,
I guess,” Steve replied as he packed up the scale. “Make it quick. I’m not supposed to talk to the prisoner
any more than I have to.” “Um,
how long does it take to die?” “Well,
it’s normally very quick. With the
long drop, you'll be out in a couple of seconds.” “The
long drop?” “Yes. It has to do with the length of rope. A short one is slow, as the prisoner
strangles. A long one breaks his neck.
The state prefers I use a long one.” “Prefers?” Steve
lowered his voice. “Well, I'm sure
you’ve heard of the erotic stimulation a dying man can have as he strangles
at the end of a rope. If you
explicitly ask me for a short rope, then I can do it.” “Then
shorten it.” “Are
you sure you know what you’re asking for? There’s a lot of pain.” “Yes.
Make it slow.” “OK.
It’s your show.” Steve took a sheet of paper from his briefcase. "This just confirms what you just
asked for. Just fill in your name at
the top and sign and date it at the bottom." Bill
quickly read the form and signed it.
Handing it back, he said, “Thanks." Steve
folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket, then turned to the condemned
man. "Bill," he asked,
"do you want me to send The Priest in to see you?" "I
swore off religion after the Religious Right started pursuing us. I don't
think prayer is what I need right now." "You
don't understand. I have a friend who can help you get the most out of your
execution on Thursday. He dresses like a priest so he can get in here. I
think he will really help you enjoy what's coming." "Thanks,
Steve. I appreciate it. I think I would like to have The Priest come see
me!" Bill stuck out his hand and
said, "Well, see you Thursday?" "Um,
yeah, Bill. See you then." Bill
watched as the hangman exited the cell.
He listened as the heavy footsteps receded into the distance, and then
sat down and lit another cigarette from the dying ember
of the last one. Wednesday morning, 9 am. Bill had been up for a couple of hours when a non-descript man
in black flowing robes appeared at the cell door asking to be let in. His robe reached the floor and had long
billowy sleeves, giving little indication of the shape of the body
underneath. He had prematurely graying
hair and wire-rim glasses, and he clutched a Bible in his hand. The Priest had arrived. After
he was let into the cell, he reached out his hand and said, "Hi,
Bill. I'm Father Francis." "Hello,
Father, thank you for coming to see me." They
took a seat on the bed. The remainder
of their conversation was kept at low tones, so that the guards would be
unable to hear them. "I
know you have a lot of questions about what will happen to you tomorrow
night. I've brought something for you
to read, Bill" He handed over the
Bible. Bill flipped it open to find
that it was unlike any holy book he had ever seen. It was filled with stories and pictures of
hanging, both real and fictional. The
Priest said, "Read this book today, and I will return tomorrow to take
it back. Just promise me that you
won't jack off while reading these stories and looking at the pictures. That will help accentuate the pleasure you
will feel tomorrow on the gallows."
He paused. "I can answer
any questions you have now." "Well,"
Bill started, "I have a few. First, how painful is this going to
be?" "I
won't lie to you Bill. I will be painful. But I think I can honestly say that
the release you will feel will make it all worth while." "I
don't have any family that really cares about me. I've heard that poor
prisoners are buried here. Can you set
that up for me?" "No
problem. I'll make all the arrangements. Anything else?" "That's
all for now I guess. We'll see after I've done a little reading." The
Priest then left, promising to return in the morning. Thursday morning at 9 am. Bill
had spent the previous day reading and rereading the stories in the book The
Priest had given him. He found that he
had a never-ending erection through the entire day, and it took all the will
he could muster to keep from getting relief. The stories covered all sorts of
hangings, from real tales of the Old West to fantasies to biker stories. The
most fascinating were the last three, all of which were true depictions of
the last three men The Priest had helped. When
The Priest arrived, Bill was rereading one of these, trying to imagine what
the adjoining death chamber would look like when he saw it that evening. "Hi,
Bill," The Priest said as he entered the cell, "I hope you have
gained solace from reading the book."
The two men sat on the bed. "Yes,
Father. Thank you for bringing it to
me. It has raised a few more
questions. I hope you don't mind
answering them." "Not
at all." "When
I hang, I really don't want to, um, well, shit myself. Will they do something
about that?" "Naturally. It'll be taken care of." "Good.
Now I have a special request to make, and I hope you can talk to the right
people about it. When I'm buried, I
want to wear all the shackles and straps I'm going to die in. Is that
possible?" "Well,
those are property of the state, but your request is not unusual. You can
make arrangements to buy them. Ahead of time, of course." "OK.
My lawyer is handling all my personal matters. I'll write him a note asking him to pay for
everything." "Just
have him write a check to Steve. He'll handle everything." Bill
took out a sheet of paper from the pad he had been permitted, and wrote a
brief note to his lawyer. He handed
the paper and the book to The Priest. "Will
you be here this evening?" Bill asked. "Yes,
I will. Just keep your eyes open, and
you'll see me. Oh, I almost
forgot. I thought you might enjoy this
after your last meal. The Priest reached
into his cloak and took out a fat stogie and handed it to the condemned man. "Thank
you, Father, for everything you have done for me." The
Priest picked up the book and was let out, and Bill sat down to wait for the
evening to come. Thursday evening around 9:00. It
had been a long day. Bill felt all
slept out. He was trembling with
excitement over what would happen that evening, and he had done little but
smoke and daydream. He had even
skipped his last meal, asking for just a soda instead. Knowing time was short, he unwrapped and
lit the cigar, enjoying its calming effects. A
guard appeared at the front of his cell, and Bill checked him out. He was not one of the ones who had watched
him for the past couple of days, but he looked vaguely familiar
nonetheless. The man spoke to the
guard behind the desk, who stood up and moved toward the cell door. He unlocked the door, let in the new guard,
and locked the door behind him. He
then stepped around the corner, although Bill could still see him in a mirror
located up near the ceiling above the desk. Bill
noticed that the new guard carried a satchel with him. “Sorry
Bill, but it's time to get you ready.”
As the guard stepped closer, Bill looked him over. He was muscular and had brown hair and a
thick mustache. It was only when the
guard spoke that Bill realized that The Priest had returned, this time as the
guard who would prep him for his execution.
Any tension Bill had left in him left, as he knew that yet another
friend would be helping him through his last hour. “What
do want me to do?” Bill asked. “Strip
please.” Bill
took a drag on his cigar before putting it down, and then began to take off
the only prison uniform he had worn during his brief stay in the holding
cell. Meanwhile the guard started to remove clothing from the satchel. “Your
underwear too, please.” Bill
slipped off his briefs. He didn’t try
to hide his erection. “OK.
Now I need to put in this butt plug.” Bill took a long look at the short
plug. It should fit easily enough, he
thought, I’ve taken more than that before. “You have anything in a larger
size?” “It inflates. One size fits all.” The
guard pulled on a pair of gloves and opened up a fresh jar of Vaseline. “Turn around, please, and grasp your
ankles.” Bill
did as he was told while the guard dipped a wad of the jelly on one index
finger. He placed the finger along
Bill’s crack and slowly slid it in and out of his ass, thoroughly coating the
condemned man’s anus. He picked up the
butt plug and fitted an air bladder to it.
He dipped the business end of the plug into the jar and pulled it out. “OK,
now this might hurt a little. Take a
deep breath.” Bill
ignored him, as he knew full well that it would fit easily, and it slid home
with little effort. The guard then
pumped the bladder several times, causing the tip to expand in Bill’s
anus. Bill moaned as his rear port was
filled more than ever before. The
guard stopped when he felt it would hold securely, and placed a clip on the
air tube and snipped it off above the clip.
He threw the bladder and gloves into a bag he had brought along. “OK,
Bill, you can stand up again. That should hold. It feel OK?” “Yeah. Feels good.” He picked up the cigar and took a mouth
full of smoke and blew it into the air. The
guard handed Bill a pair of white trousers.
Bill took these and put them on, taking care not to disturb the butt
plug. The pants had an elastic belt,
so they slipped quickly into place.
Next he took a long white shirt from the guard and put it on. It had no collar, and there were two straps
attached to the front and one in the back, pointing downwards. “Tuck
it into the pants, please, but leave the straps outside.” Bill followed the man’s instructions. “What
are the straps for?” “They
are one final measure of security, to keep the butt plug from falling out at
the bottom of the drop.” The long rear
strap was shaped like the letter ‘Y’. The guard turned Bill to face him and
reached between the prisoner's legs and pulled the strap through to the
front. He buckled the straps, which passed through Bill ass crack, placing a
little pressure on the inflated plug and then split to either side of his
cock. “OK. That’s it.
We’re ready here.” Bill glanced
at the clock. It was about 20 minutes
to 10. He said, "Could I ask a
little favor? I know I'll have to wear cuffs when I leave this cell. Could
you go ahead and put them on now?" "Uh,
sure. I don’t see any problem with that." The
guard asked his co-worker outside to hand him the shackles, while Bill picked
up the stogie and sucked it back to a healthy glow. Bill
watched the guard return from the front of the cell carrying the cuffs and
chains. "Turn around, please," he said. Bill
did as he was asked, and clasped his hands together behind his back. The
guard turned them around and locked the cuffs into place, with Bill’s wrists
held back to back. The guard then knelt behind the prisoner and snapped the
ankle cuffs into place. He helped Bill
back to the bed, where the pinioned man sat down, with his back leaning up
against the gray cinder block wall. The guard was then let out of the cell. Bill
closed his eyes and sucked on the cigar. His bare feet felt cold on the
concrete floor, but not as cold as they would become. He tested the chains
and found he could only move his feet about 12 inches apart. He could pull
his knees apart, but that, too, would only be temporary. His hands were
forced back to back, allowing him never to touch his palms together again.
Nor would they ever again touch his throbbing cock, straining against the
white cotton cloth of the baggy pants. His heart beat rapidly, as if to get
in as many beats as possible in his final minutes. His lungs worked hard,
drawing in air and smoke. Soon they would draw no more. His anus was permanently plugged, never
again to allow a crap to move out or a thick cock to come in. With his eyes
closed, he could see a little light from the dimly lit cell, but any light
would soon be unseen, and no light would ever penetrate that grave that had
been dug for him outside the prison. His mouth was filled with a cock-like
cigar, but it would never again hold the real thing, and his mouth would soon
only be filled with his engorged tongue. Finally, he realized his body was
bent at the waist and knees, but it soon would be straight and stiff. His
body was dying slowly even before he walked to the scaffold, and a shiver of
anticipation surged through his body as he sucked again on that thick, black
cigar, letting the smoke stream through his parted lips. His
reverie was ended when the warden showed up at the bars to his cell. "It's
time, Bill." Bill opened his eyes
and stood up as the cell door was unlocked for the final time. The warden and two guards walked in. He was happy to see The Priest would be
walking with him to the gallows. He
took Bill's right elbow as the other took his left. They guided him out of the cell. The
small party of men walked down the hallway and toward a gray door. Once the door was opened, Bill spotted the
steps leading up to the gallows. His
heart started racing even faster. He
started to increase his pace, but two guards holding his elbows slowed him
down. “C’mon, guys, hurry it up,” he
thought, “I want to see the gallows!” When
he entered the death chamber, he didn’t notice the small crowd of men
standing to his right. His eyes were
turned upwards past the stairs to the hangman standing at the top. Much to Bill’s delight, his friend Steve
now wore a black suit and a black leather hood, with holes cut for his eyes
and mouth. No doubt this was for the
witnesses' benefit, since Bill had already met Steve. Bill
paused and took a drag on the cigar and inhaling the smoke deeply. With The Priest at his side and the other
guard following, Bill started to climb the steps, the chains of his shackles
tinkling and rubbing on each step.
Even with his hands pinioned behind him, he had little trouble
mounting the stairs, and his eyes never left those of his executioner. Finally
reaching the top, Bill smiled and nodded to Steve, who seemed even taller in
black, and looked to the center of the platform. There, hanging from a 6x6
crossbeam about 8 feet above the platform was the noose. It was fashioned
from a rope which Bill figured must be over half an inch thick. He was happy to see that the loop of rope
dangling over the crossbeam didn’t seem to be very long. Steve was giving him
the short drop he had requested. The
two guards guided Bill into position in the center of the platform, just
below the dangling noose. Bill looked
down at his bare feet, which were now centered on a split in the trap
door. He sucked hard on the cigar
still clenched in his teeth. Steve
walked forward and kneeled. He took a
leather strap from his waistband and looped it around Bill’s ankles, cinching
it tight, but leaving the metal cuffs in place. He repeated the process with a second belt,
which was secured just above Bill's knees. The
warden had now joined the four men at the top of the scaffold. He took a paper from his pocket and read to
the condemned man. “William C.
Norris. You entered a plea of guilty
to the charge of first degree murder, and have been sentenced to hang by the
neck until you are dead. Do you have
any last words before your sentence is carried out?” The
condemned man slid the cigar to the side of his mouth and exclaimed, “I’m
ready, man, letter rip!” “Very
well.” The warden nodded to the
executioner, who returned to a position in front of Bill. He took the remaining stub of cigar from
the condemned man's lips, took one quick suck on it, and dropped it to the
concrete floor below. He slipped a
large black hood over Bill’s head.
Bill’s last sight before the hood moved into position was of his own
well defined crotch (outlined by the straps holding his butt plug in place)
and Steve’s, which showed an equally erect cock, nearly touching. The
next sensation was of the thick noose being slipped over his head. He could feel the hemp tighten against his
throat, and the heavy knot pressed against his spine. Despite the pounding of his heart, he could
hear Steve whisper “I put the knot in the back, so it'll take a little
longer. I’ll open the trap after you
take a deep breath. That will prolong
it a little, too.” Bill answered with
a slight nod of his head. Deep
breathing was hardly an effort at this point, and Bill could sense the cloth
hood moving to and fro as he gasped for air to feed his straining heart. Suddenly,
as the cloth touched his lips on the inhale, he felt the floor beneath him
drop away. The trap door opened a hole
which measured a good 4 by 6 feet.
Bill felt himself dropping, and in that split second he gasped even
more. At the end of the brief drop,
his head snapped downward as the noose tightened behind his neck, and an
intense pain emanated from his neck and upper spine. The rope had crushed his windpipe, so he
was unable to expel the last breath of air he would ever take. He started to struggle, working his hands
back and forth in the metal cuffs to no avail. The sound of his heart beating
roared in his ears. His body snaked back and forth as he tried to gain a
footing on the platform. He had visions of the horse galloping away into the
distance, and his cock started to throb with over a month's worth of unspent
semen. Then the executioner reached into his pocket and pressed a button on a
small electronic device. That activated a vibrator in the butt plug, which
sent sensations through Bill's prostate. As his other senses began to diminish,
his focus centered on his now-throbbing cock.
He could feel his cum spray against the cloth of the thin white pants
and drip down his right leg. With a
rising crescendo of uneven heartbeats crashing in his head, Bill passed out,
as a stream of hot urine coursed through his still-hard cock, staining the
cotton pants yellow. It
took 12 minutes for the doctor monitoring the execution to detect that Bill's
heart had stopped beating. His
lifeless body was left hanging for two more hours “just to be sure.”
Bill was buried in the noose, clothes and bindings he wore to his
execution, face down in a grave just outside the state's death chamber. They didn't remove the hood, so they never
saw the smile on his blue-tinted face. Central State Penitentiary. Six weeks later. I turn the page to find that Bill's story is the last in The
Priest's book. I sit up, adjusting my
stiff cock in my prison jumpsuit. Unlike that man in the last story, I have waited eight years on
Death Row for this week to come, the week when my life would come to an
abrupt end at the hands of the state for a crime I committed when I was just
18. For all of those eight long years
I had dreaded the experience that would remove me from society permanently. It wasn't until just yesterday, when I met
The Priest, that I started to realize that my long years of worry had been
for no reason whatsoever. It is
getting late, and in a few hours I will return this book to The Priest, and
in less than 24 hours I will be walking up those wooden stairs. As I light a cigarette I imagine that it is
that large thick stogie I will be sucking on as I ascend to my execution. I can't wait. |
