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 Withd 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.
The door to the executioner’s room opened, and from inside stepped my executioner. It was my mother! I could not believe it. Had I just stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone? My life was becoming progressively stranger and stranger by the moment, and now—the crowning jewel, the pièce de résistance, the icing on the cake—here was the woman who had created me and by all accounts would be the one to remove me from this world. Well, if that don’t take the biscuit!
“Hello, Mother,” I said. The puzzled look on my face probably spelt out everything going on in my mind at that very moment.
She stood in the doorway with not a single emotion displayed on her poker face. She was cold as ice, and you would be forgiven for assuming that my mother and I were strangers. With her hands relaxed in her jacket pockets, she first scanned the room, probably to check that she had not only my attention but also that of the other occupants. Finally turning her scrutiny back to me, she managed to break a smile in her stony countenance.
“Hello, my boy. You’re looking well. How have you been?” she said.
“Fine, though I feel something coming on. Maybe terminal, I think,” I said. “And yourself?”
“Good, actually very good now that I see you here. Things are looking really positive.”
“Mother, can we please dispense with the pleasantries? We both know where we stand with one another, and this witless banter serves no purpose at all.”
Ignoring my words completely, my mother moved on to say what was on her mind.
“I see you’ve been busy lately. Up to your old tricks again, huh?” she said. “This time I guess you’ve pissed off a lot of important people.”
The warden had run out of steam as soon as he saw my mother stalk into the chamber. He was now leaning on the gallery window and apparently watching our interaction and listening to our dialog intently.
“Yeah, I guess so. Do you mind if I ask you one thing?” I paused. “Are you here for the show, or are you here to partake? I’m pretty sure you’re not here to aid my escape, are you? Or are you really so hard up that you need the money?” I added finally.
My mother then walked toward me slowly and with purpose. She approached the nearest guard and gently pushed him aside with the tip of one finger against his shoulder. He immediately stopped securing my right wrist and backed away without any fight. For a split second before moving, he looked more confused than I had felt only moments ago. The situation obviously embarrassed him, as he turned a healthy shade of red. Picking up from where he had stopped, my mother continued his work, pulling tight on the strap that now held my wrist in place.
“Oh, who’s a clever boy? Just like your poor late father, you’ve always been smart. Though I think sometimes you’re a little too clever for your own good.” She looked at me. Her smile was Withd by a frown as she continued: “How long has it been now—five, ten, fifteen years?”
“About twenty, I think. Why do you ask?” I said. Before she could reply, I continued: “It’s not as if you really needed the contact, is it?”
She latched the strap at my wrist, locking it in place, then moved toward my feet. She’d always been a cool customer, and now she was especially so. The fact was that very little could truly ruffle her feathers. And even now I’d bet her heart rate was barely above fifty, if indeed she had a heart.
My mother very rarely responded to anyone directly in conversation. In fact, she normally only responded to specific questions, and only if it was beneficial to her.
“That’s hardly the point,” she continued. “It’s a mother’s prerogative to have her children dote over her.”
She moved to the feet restraints next, again pushing a guard gently aside with one finger, and to add injury to insult, with a flick of her wrist she shooed him away, like some unwanted five-year-old kid. She then continued strapping down my right foot.
“I’ll take that as a yes to the partake question then, Mother. I really can’t see how strapping me down is going to help me get out of here,” I said to her while I strained to keep my head up so I could watch her work.
She pulled on the final foot restraint and, latching it in place, she continued: “You know, I was so proud of you. You have always been so . . . so special.” Finished with my feet restraints, her hands came to rest on my bare feet. “Like you, I have no compunction in taking human life. However, unlike you I will walk out of here alive and well. Your life value is now estimated at a hundred fifty dollars, and I will give that money to the first beggar I see.”
She was referring now to the official prison payment that is the executioner’s fee. Her message was meant to be a brutal one, but she had forgotten just how thick my skin was and how little her words meant to me. Along with that smug smile of hers, she kept eye contact with me as she took the last couple of steps to reach my remaining free wrist. With the final step, the guard backed away before she had the chance to push him away. Her eyes narrowed menacingly as she stared at him. She had obviously enjoyed being center stage, and pushing the guards away with a finger was part of a performance that had now been unwittingly interrupted.
“I’ve been waiting for such a long time to do this. You know, at one point I actually thought you’d never get caught. I’ve been watching and waiting for so very long, I even collected all your newspaper clippings and made a very nice scrapbook. It’s a shame you’ll never get to see it. You really have been so industrious, Blaine.”
I sensed that she was actually displaying a level of pride, something that I’d never noticed before and certainly nothing that I would have ever expected. It was then that she looked up to the warden, whereupon he leered back at her and adjusted himself. Seemingly disgusted, she returned her attention back to me.
“And you’d never guess just how much I’ve had to bribe the kind warden up there.” She pointed to the warden, who now wore a filthy smile that stretched from ear to ear. “He’s been so . . . accommodating, shall we say.”
“No doubt he has, and I suspect not one dollar bill was exchanged,” I said, and then continued as my mother pulled even harder on the remaining strap. “I hope he got his money’s worth?”
“Never you mind. The cost was worth it. I’d have given far more for this opportunity.”
“Mother,” I said. “About that, I’d love to ask you why you want to kill me, but first, would you mind loosening that strap just a touch? I can’t feel my hand.”
She responded by not responding. Instead, she carefully loosened off the strap by a single notch.
“Do you mind if we
cut the chitchat?” I said. “I have a date tonight, and to be frank I’ve grown tired of your delightfully dull comments. I really would prefer to leave now.”
She got my meaning. Her face flickered briefly with an anger I recognized from my childhood.
Most kids grow up with a healthy fear of the unknown, like having a fear of the monster beneath the bed. My monster and my mother were one and the same. When her anger peaked, her expression would falter for only the briefest of moments. It was then that the monster suddenly appeared, then disappeared.
Her smile left her face immediately, and she pulled so hard on the remaining strap that again I could feel my hand throb in time with my pulse.
Looking down at me, she said, “If you really want to know how and why you are here, you should look to your CIA friends. From what I understand, they could not justify your imaginative techniques any more and decided to terminate the arrangement. Such a pity.” This time she smiled like a Cheshire cat. “C’est la vie,” she said.
My mother bent toward me then kissed my forehead. “Good-bye, Blaine.”
This had to have been an act, but for whom I had no idea. She then turned and headed back toward to executioner’s room.
At the door she turned one final time and locked eyes with me. “They contacted me!” she said. “And I contacted the warden—oh, and I’m also responsible for letting my new friend the sheriff know where to pick you up. Say hi to your father from me.”
She then raised one hand and waved good-bye. I responded in kind, except for the hand gesture, though I did manage to raise a single finger. I finally relaxed, letting my head now drop back on to the gurney pillow. I expected the door to the executioner’s room to close, but it stayed open. I guess my mother wanted a front-row seat for the upcoming attraction. She really was wacko, truly certifiable! And I should know!
I had no clue as to why she wanted me dead, absolutely no idea at all. My father had passed away some years ago, and if I had to take a wild guess why she was nuts, I’d say that she in some way blames me for his passing. One fact I did know was that I’d never know the truth. Well, at least not now.
Death Row Apocalypse Page 14
