Beast continued to sniffle and mutter while his hands were cuffed together in front of him. But by the time they fastened those cuffs to a chain around his mid-section, he had stopped crying and babbling, and his chin had fallen to his chest. Although it was all done with swift, efficiency, to P.J. it seemed like hours before they fastened the series of chains around Beast’s large body. The end of the midsection piece of the chain was handed to a guard to be used like a dog leash.
P.J. had thought the next part to be urban legend. But, as they began the macabre parade, Warden Cartwright started the death march by yelling out a hardy Dead Man Walking. As Beast shuffled to the kill room, each step was measured and every movement carefully observed. It was obvious that this was a well-rehearsed, thoroughly laid out plan. P.J. knew that execution protocol demanded that the practice sessions be conducted in the exact same way as the real thing, minus of course the ultimate step. P.J. followed behind the procession and wondered which of these guys had had the balls to play Beast’s part in the death exercise.
When they turned the corner, Beast cried out and his knees collapsed under him. Before the officers picked him back up, P.J. got a glimpse of what had caused Beast’s courage to fail him.
The Chair.
It stood like a demonic throne in the center of the close walled room. Made of wood, it was medieval looking with a high, straight back and sturdy armrests. Tentacle-like leather straps sprouted out from its back, arms, and legs waiting to bind and carry its next passenger to hell.
The chair was fully wired and ready to kill.
“You there? You still with me?” Beast craned his head backward and called out weakly to P.J.
“I ain’t going anywhere.” P.J. flexed, drew himself up to his full height and sent a challenging glare to the warden. The deal the club had made should have seen P.J. gone at the kill room doorway, but there was no way he was leaving Beast now.
Cartwright hesitated, sighed, then called out the order.
“Ready Prisoner 462 for execution by electric chair.”
At the warden’s grim command, the team began to release Beast quickly and methodically from his chains. Then they transported him to the hard wooden seat. With Beast now slumped in the chair, it took the officers several long minutes to complete the gruesome task of fastening all of the straps and belts that were necessary to bind the prisoner to his fate. Then they attached all the electrodes. When the next part came, P.J. paid real close attention. He had seen “The Green Mile” too many times.
Fearing another Eduard Delacroix- type fiasco, P.J. stood at full attention as the large sponges were soaked with salt water before being placed between the metal contact plates and Beast’s skin. P.J. was grateful that his godfather had been talked into taking the sedative. But still, although Beast seemed dazed and confused, his eyes were lit with intermittent terror. That look made P.J wonder just how aware Beast was, how much he felt, and what his last thoughts would be.
When all the water, buckets, and wet cloths had been removed Warden Cartwright walked over to P.J. and said in a tone filled with a sad and strange sort of apology, “The room has to be cleared now, son. You’ve brought a comfort to him. But it’s between Billy Bob and his god now.” With those words the warden turned his back on P.J., and the guard ushered him into the adjoining room.
P.J. had been in viewing rooms before. They were all almost identical. Small, dark, windowless caves with theater seating. Windowless that is, with the exception of the large plate glass that sat inches away from the front row. Its black curtains were shut tight, waiting to be pulled back in order to provide the audience with its very own close encounter with death. The red phone …a literal lifeline…hung on the wall with a guard standing next to it. The big faced, analogue wall clock hung high with its minute hand clicking out the sound of a death beetle. P.J. moved to the back of the room and took the last seat in the third row, closest to the exit.
The room was half filled with newspaper reporters who had arrived earlier. They were impatiently looking at their watches, talking to each other and scratching their prison issued number 2 pencils on yellow legal pads. At Beast’s request none of his family members were present. P.J. knew that Beast’s two ex-wives had come down earlier in the week to say their goodbyes. He knew because the club had paid for their flights and had put them up together in a real nice hotel.
Beast’s wives had both been old ladies or motorcycle mamas as Beast used to get a kick out of calling them. This meant that they had each been as ingrained in the MC as he had been. It had been well known in the club that Beast hopped between their beds like a dog looking for a bone. He divorced the one, then married the other. He did that a couple of times. Everyone wondered why they put up with him. But those two hellcats gave as good as they got. Beast got bashed over the head with more than a few frying pans and beer bottles. Matrimonial bliss would turn quickly into wild fights that resulted in restraining orders, quickie divorces in Vegas and drunken reconciliations. It happened so often that after
