Death Row Apocalypse (18 page)

The whole situation stank to high heaven. I felt well and truly stitched up. You see, although I was guilty as sin itself, I had some really good reasons for my actions and could present a very compelling case if questioned about my past. I guess therein lies the problem, as no one wanted to listen to me. I had been picked up, gagged, then placed in solitary confinement for two weeks. Now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. It is obvious to me that a certain three-letter agency beginning with the letter
C
and ending in
IA
—and no, you don’t get any free guesses—had decided to end our rather unique relationship. One which had started soon after my divorce from the whoring bitch-tart skank from hell. It is one truly fucked-up organization, though I literally reveled in the role they had me play!

It wasn’t long ago that I discovered that the CIA had in fact engineered my treatments during my asylum years, and as if that wasn’t enough they even selected the female agent I eventually wedded! The CIA’s aim was to create an agent that was capable of the most gruesome and revolting murders that only the truly insane could imagine or, I guess, carry out. By masking the extermination of the USA’s most wanted criminals with the actions of a serial killer, the hits would in every way that counted be anonymous and the Company would have the deniability it sought. What better way was there than to shape an already-twisted killer’s mind? Molding me this way provided the CIA with a monster they so very badly needed, please note though, I am in no way twisted.

Having no choice other than to watch the countryside go past at eighty miles an hour, I relaxed. It soon became obvious where we were headed, and I realized then that I was more or less screwed.

Tallahassee, Florida was well known for only one thing, and that was the infamous death row facility. Over the years it had helped many offenders meet their maker prematurely, though a good percentage of the now deceased were in fact innocent of the crimes they had been made to pay for. I’d never visited the prison before, but over the years I had uncovered some nasty little secrets, proving that its history was indeed a long and corrupt one. From those titbits, I concluded that although the facility portrayed a strong stance on capital punishment, there was in reality a mask that hid the real reason for its existence. It was in fact a highly effective money spinner that turned a massive yearly profit. Those in charge were making an actual fortune. In fact, each of the deaths that the facility executed publicly earned well in excess of two million dollars. In addition to that, as a salary the warden and governor earned way more than two hundred thousand dollars a year, tax free.

I’d also unearthed a priceless little nugget of information quite recently and that was that there were two distinct types of execution the prison carried out. “I know!” you might say, but in reality you do not! The truth of the matter is that the two types are not injection and electrocution—those are just two methods. The first type is “public,” where the sentenced man or woman is prepared, fed, and either sat in the chair or laid out on a gurney. The execution is then carried out either by injection or electrocution. The second type is “private,” where the prison staff are tasked with carrying out the deed, each member making about fifty grand, with the only provisions being adherence to secrecy and creativity when taking any life. When I say being inventive, they are required to plan the murder with imagination and have to ensure that the prisoner goes down in as much pain as is humanly possible to endure before actually dying.

I would be lying if I said that was all there was to it, though. A much more sinister act was embedded into the final moments of the prisoner’s life. And herein lies the sinister truth. The prison warden ran a very select club, and for the past eight years, members needed only to qualify by proving their wealth and display a modicum of generosity toward the prison. The members of this club were the rich and insanely wealthy, and each of them hungered for the excitement and thrills that the club offered, ending their weekend with a dark twist.

This club of extremely rich individuals paid for the luxury of committing murder and getting away with it. Each week they would get together and bid against each other, until there was only one winner. The lucky winner would then take a ticket from a hat, and that ticket would have written on it the method of the murder that had to be committed. On the chosen night the prison guards would ensure that the prisoner was prepared as described in the preparation notes, and that the scene of the crime was ready. Above all else they had to ensure that there wouldn’t be any witnesses, especially not any of the inmates. The winner would then not only be allowed to, but in actuality had to, make the killing blow as laid out on the ticket, and in each case the winner was smeared across the face with the corpse’s bodily fluids after the final act had been successfully carried out. Sometimes blood, sometimes bile, and sometimes piss and shit.

The riskier the method, the more the participants liked it, and the more they liked it, the more they would be willing to pay, even to the point of actually being watched during a public execution, during which the winner was required to purposely screw up the injection or electrocutions, resulting in the most exquisitely painful executions. The results of these murders—or should I say public executions—had been dramatic to say the very least. Incidentally, many of the executions carried out recently have been highly publicized and have detailed the barbaric results of botched-up killings. A basic Google search will provide you with all the occurrences to date, including many with photos. With the method of electrocution, the victim’s head would literally be set on fire while he was alive, his skin would fry, and his fat would eventually ignite, all because a couple of preparation steps had been “forgotten.” By the method of injection, the executioner would administer drugs in an order that ensured the prisoner remained conscious and fully aware of the searing pain that would rack his body as he died. The warden had discovered the perfect crime, the perfect murder, and was getting rich, while a new breed of killers flexed their desire to administer death.

The CIA knew about the macabre goings-on but had decided long ago that because no harm was actually being done, there was no need to involve the FBI. In fact, they actually believed that the warden was doing the state a favor by executing the lowest filth in our society. And so to this very day they continue with their rich man’s game, and it is a strange twist of fate that I find myself now en route to that amusement park for the rich and superwealthy.

When the inmates refer to Tallahassee, Florida, as Hotel Hell, they do not exaggerate even for a moment, and if—or perhaps, when—you make it beyond those gates yourself, you too will realize that death lies in wait for you. There is no return or escape from that place. For you it will be the end of your road.

I watched the scenery pass by.

Chapter - 13

- My Execution -

After we arrived at the prison, I was forcibly removed from the car and deposited in a death row watch cell and informed that my execution would be at 6:00 p.m. that very day. Apparently, I had been expected, and the facility was prepared for my participation. Like I said before, I smelt a rat; I’d been set up!

The cuffs and gag had been removed, and at no point had the sheriff or prison staff taken any risks whatsoever. With no mistakes made and no opportunities given to me, I relaxed. A death row watch guard sat outside my cell monitoring me intently, as if at any moment I would break out and make a run for it. I looked back at him and locked eyes. The confidence in his stare soon wavered and was
With
d with fear as the realization of who and what I represented hit home. He quickly broke the contact.

I grinned. “Just fucking with you, sonny. Just fucking with you.”

I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. There was nothing to do and nothing I could do. If and when that changed, I would act. Until then I would do nothing. It was now 4:00 p.m. and there were only two hours to go . . .

Four guards arrived outside my cell dressed in riot gear. Needless to say, I had been lost in my own thoughts as I considered my future. I had completely missed the approach of the guards, who at this point stood outside my cell.

The nearest, a short guard whose mustache reminded me of Freddie Mercury’s, struck the bars and barked at me, “It’s time, Wilken. Time to die, you sick fuck!”

There was absolutely no point fighting against the inevitable at this point in time. Whether I went peacefully or unwillingly, I would be dragged into the execution chamber. It was as inescapable as a star trapped in the gravity well of a black hole, and I saw no immediate way out of the situation. As I considered my future, I couldn’t shake the feeling that not all the cards had been dealt yet. Somewhere deep inside my psyche I believed the universe had a couple of aces stuffed up its proverbial sleeve that would be dealt in the fullness of time.

“Stand up . . . Turn with your back to the door and place your hands behind your back,” the Freddie Mercury wannabe commanded.

I grinned back at Freddie and I followed his instructions without fuss. It would have been pointless to try to avoid the inevitable at this point.

“Now slowly back up toward the cell door,” he said next.

This I did, and I saw instantly where Freddie was going with his line of requests. Freddie then told me to stop, at which point I felt him place the handcuffs on my wrists, ensuring that I would be unable to use my hands if for some reason I attacked them. The Department of Corrections ensures that each guard is fully versant with the death row prisoner procedures, ensuring that each step of the exit procedure is performed without error. For a guard to make a procedural mistake on the Row would not only result in him risking his own life but also that of his colleagues.

It’s obvious, if one thinks about it for a moment. Any inmate on death row would be desperate enough to go down fighting. “Better to die as a man fighting to live than to die as a sheep” was their credo. I was given no opportunity to free myself, and so it wasn’t long before I was escorted down the corridor towards the execution chamber. When I say I was escorted, I mean to say that my toes barely touched the floor as the two guards manhandled me from my cell down the length of the corridor. Our destination was Execution Chamber D2, with its large reinforced door left ajar, waiting for my arrival. Further down the corridor and on the right was another door, and further still was a steel-barred doorway limiting access to the continuing corridor. Any escape I attempted would naturally have to be made in that direction. One step at a time, I guess. First, my execution.

Having very little say in the matter, I was escorted into the chamber, where two more guards and what looked like a doctor waited patiently. They watched closely as the riot guards manhandled me on to the gurney and held me down while another two guards began to prepare the thick leather restraints. The gallery light was at that moment switched on, and I saw an old but familiar face. It was the prison warden, and he was smiling from ear to ear.
That smug shit
, I thought.
If there is any justice in this world, he will suffer the pain of a thousand deaths.

“Nice to see you again,” I said as I watched him approach the viewing window.

I heard him faintly as he responded through the thick glass.

“Come, come now, Blaine. You know the game. We can’t have you walking around the good old US of A killing the way you do. It’s bad for tourism. Hell, we can’t have you knowing what you know about us and this place. Makes this our best option!” he said as he motioned with his hands to encompass all the people present in the chamber.

“Warden, I’m curious. Who’s won the bid to carry out my execution? Call it my last request, if you will.”

Though I fully intended to
pay no attention to the man behind the curtain
. I did, however, want to screw with the warden. It was a well-known fact that he would for even minor insults have a hissy fit.

He leaned on the window and responded. “Blaine, my old friend, why on earth would you want to know that? What good would it do you?”

“Listen, you retarded cum sucker, I want to know ’cos when I get free from this gurney I’m gonna put my fist so far down your throat I’ll be able to give you a fucking wedgie. And whoever is behind that door”—I nodded towards the executioner’s room—“I’m going to give him a real bad day.” . . . “Will make my previous jobs look like a fucking Sunday school outing.” . . . “Do you hear me, you queer son of a bitch?”

Firstly, I’d attacked his manhood, which he was extremely sensitive about. Apparently anyone who questioned his sexual preferences was usually dealt with quickly and with a level of violence that often resulted in the victim spending a long weekend in intensive care. Secondly, the folk who played the rich man’s bidding game of death were so used to the power and thrill of killing the prisoners, I gambled that they too could be baited into reacting to my jibes. I was 100 percent right in both cases, but perhaps for the wrong reasons. The warden almost burst a blood vessel as he instantly reacted to my tease. He slammed his fist into the glass window several times while screaming at me unintelligibly, his voice cracked as he freaked out. Had I wanted to, I still would not have been able to understand a word he was saying. As these events played out, the guards had paused in their work to listen to the warden’s conniption fit. I guess they didn’t want to miss out on the amusing antics of their boss. It’s quite likely that they wanted to remember every detail so that they could repeat the rantings of the warden to their buddies over a beer or two. Let’s face it, the man was not liked.