The clock in the visitation room blinked 10:32. The fresh pine scent replaced by the choking smell of burnt tobacco. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke hung from the ceiling to the top of the cell door. Gerald sucked hard on another Marlboro, and held the smoke in his lungs. "58 minutes till they take me." He said to no one in particular. "I guess Gerry Junior ain’t coming.” He flicked ashes on the floor, and dragged the life out of the cigarette.
“I tried to talk to him yesterday.” Reverend Rob apologized. “But he wouldn’t take my call.”
“Can’t say as I blame him, after all that’s happened. I ain’t seen him since they stuffed me in the squad car. He must be ’bout 36 by now. I guess it’s best he don’t see me like this.”
"I talked to Jennifer yesterday.” Reverend Rob walked over to Gerald and rested his hand on Gerald's shoulder. “She won’t be coming either."
“Good! I wouldn’t piss on her guts if she was on fire. That cunt.”
“That’s no way to talk about your wife.”
“Wife? What kinda wife wears a wire for the cops an’ tricks her husban’ into confessin’ to somethin’ he didn’t do?” Gerald scratched a match under the table and lit another cigarette. “Lisa was my wife. If she hadn’t kilt herself, I wouldn’t be here. Jennifer was my whore.”
Reverend Rob winced at the tone of Gerald’s voice.
"So," Gerald took another long drag, "why you doin' this?"
"Doing what?"
"Sittin' with me. What do you care what happens to me?"
"That's easy, Gerry. You are a child of God. He loves you. You need His grace more than most right now." Reverend Rob rubbed his bloodshot eyes.
"That's a Sundee school answer if I ever heard one." Gerald chuckled and propped his feet on the table. He tossed his smokes to the preacher. "Really, why you doin' this?"
Reverned Rob dropped into the seat across the table from Gerald and sighed in resignation. “Gerry, nobody wanted to bother with you. It’s your attitude. You’re mean, nasty, and ungrateful. Worst of all, you want to die, and you want to die in sin.” He tapped a cigarette from the pack. “Whether you like it or not, everybody deserves a chance at redemption. Even somebody as ornery as you. God told me I was the one who had to reach you because of what I had done.” Reverend Rob smiled.
“The paperwork to get this assignment nearly buried me.”
“What makes you think I wanna be redeemed?”
“Because I know what it’s like. I’ve been where you are.”
“You don’t know shit! You ain’t never felt what I felt. You ain’t never been on death row.”
“Death row, no. But what do you think it’s like for a respected man of the cloth to disgrace not only himself, not just his parish, but his entire world-wide church?”
The flame danced on the match head as he lit up. “When those accusations about me came out, I was just like you. Deny, deny, deny. And my lawyers didn't help. They told me to keep quiet. Don't admit anything. For three years, all the way through my trial, I kept my mouth shut. I buried my sin deep inside.”
Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. “I lost everything, Gerry. Lawyers took all my money. My wife, Jen, took our kid and left me. I lost my parish. My parishioners wanted nothing to do with me." He paused to clear a sob from his throat. "They packed me away in D-Block with all these other men who had nothing left. I lost my faith.
“I was like Jonah inside the belly of the whale, I thought I could hide from God and live the rest of my life alone and miserable. But He found me." Reverend Rob’s red eyes brightened, and a grin broke across his large face. “Actually, he bugged the crap out of me”
Gerald chuckled. He slid his feet off the table and leaned in attentively.
"I found forgiveness in the parable of the Prodigal Son. That son was me. I had squandered the gifts God had given me on pleasures of the flesh. Me, a preacher of His word. It took a lot of soul-searching but when I finally asked God to forgive me, he did. And I could forgive myself. God opened my heart to this ministry. God's grace saw me through my rough spot. Now, I'm trying to do the same for my fellow prisoners."
"That's a nice story Rev., but you ain't nothing like me." Gerald leaned in across the table. His nostrils flared as he spoke. "What you did – touching little boy’s dicks – was sick. Sick, perverted lust. They didn’t want you. She wanted me!"
“Wanted you? Wanted you! Then why did you rip her shorts?”
“We was excited!”
“And why did she scratch your face? Why did you have to hold her down while you pushed her underpants out of the way?”
Gerald smirked. The picture of his hand tearing at her bikini briefs with lacy frills around the waist band and “Daddy’s Girl” written in fancy black script across her tight, little cunt was sweet. He could feel her legs flailing over his back as he pushed his way inside her.
“You raped her, Gerry!” Reverend Rob leaned in nose to nose with him, his voice hoarse with rage. “She kicked and screamed and cried.”
“It was her fault!”
“It was you, Gerald! You forced yourself on her! You wrapped your hands around her neck! You squeezed her neck till she stopped breathing! You killed her, Gerald! You!” Reverend Rob stared, seething, into Gerald’s eyes.
“She wanted me.”
“She was 13 for Christ sake!” Reverend Rob pounded the table with both hands and stared deeper into Gerald’s blank glare. He paused to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, Gerald. The pressure is getting to me. You need to ask for forgiveness. I don’t want you to spend eternity in Hell.”
Gerald turned and headed for his cell.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
BLAME AND FOGIVENESS 3
Gerald bolted upright in his bed.
Reverend Rob was reading again. "When he came to his senses, he said, 'How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death!”
“What time is it?”
“You’re awake. Just in time for the best part.” Reverend Rob had not moved from his spot outside the cell door.
“It’s dark. What time is it?” Beads of sweat ran from Gerald’s forehead into his eyes making it look like he’d been crying.
“Quarter after eight.”
Gerald squinted to see the clock across the visitation room. “Clock over there says 8:13. Don’t cheat a condemn’ man outta two minutes.”
“You look like hell.”
“What the fuck you expec’? They gonna hook me up to the needle and juice me.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
“Nothin’.”
“It was her again.”
“She was scared. I told her I wasn’t gonna hurt her. But she was scared.”
“If you ask me, you’re the one who’s looking scared. You don’t have to be.” Reverend Rob rolled out his reconciliation sermon. “God’s mercy is a wonderful thing. If he can forgive me for molesting boys and help me find peace, he can do the same for you. That’s what the parable I was reading you is all about.”
“Save your breath.”
Reverend Rob went on undeterred. “This son had squandered his inheritance on loose women and was living in squalor. When he came to his senses and asked for forgiveness, his father killed the fatted calf and threw a huge party. It can be the same for you.”
“Only calf they gonna kill is me.” Gerald smirked.
“God wants to forgive you, all you have to do is ask.” Nineteen years of subtlety hadn’t worked; Reverend Rob tried a more direct approach. He turned to the Gospel of Luke and read a passage highlighted in yellow, “See, it says here, ‘I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.’ I can’t do it for you, Gerry.”
Gerald clasped his lips tight around another Marlboro. His lips trembled as he fought the urge to speak. He could see the tall grass dancing on the banks of the Amite River. He was on top of her staring down into those bright blue eyes, her ponytail fanned out in the grass beneath her head. The muscles in her throat quivered. She was so damn sexy. He leaned in and kissed her. She clenched her lips tight. She wanted to fight.
He pinned her wrists to the ground above her head with one hand and wrestled her shorts down with the other. Her eyes were wild, her breaths shallow and hot on his neck. She wiggled and kicked to get away.
He clawed and ripped at her shorts with his free hand. The button gave way. He pushed her shorts to her ankles and off one foot; he released her hands and went for his zipper to release his fury.
She screamed.
“My guilt has overwhelmed me like a burden too heavy to bear.” Father Rob read from Job. “I confess my iniquity; I am troubled by my sin.” He stopped to look at Gerald. “Your eyes look troubled, Gerald.”
“No. No trouble,” his voice faded. “I didn’t do anythin’ she didn’t want.”
Father Rob shook his head. He was obviously angry, but he never raised his voice. “Is that what you’re going to tell the Almighty when you meet him in four hours? You can’t rationalize sin away, Gerry. I tried it on D-Block, but it chased me down, just like yours is haunting you tonight.”
“Nothin’ hauntin’ me but you an’ your Bible verses.” Gerald threw himself to his feet and stormed out the open cell door. “Let’s do it! Let’s do it! NOW!” His eyes darted around the visitation room. “Guard! Guard! Damn it, let’s get this over with!” He tore off his shirt and ran for the solid steel door hiding the injection table. “Guard! Guard!” Gerald ricocheted off the door.
Reverend Rob dropped his Bible and ran after him. He wrapped his arms around Gerald in a bear hug. Gerald’s chest and back were slick with sweat. Reverend Rob wrestled him to the ground and wrapped his own legs around Gerald’s flailing limbs.
“There’s a deep trench between blame and forgiveness, Gerald,” Reverend Rob panted. “It’s time for you to step across to the other side.”
Reverend Rob was reading again. "When he came to his senses, he said, 'How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death!”
“What time is it?”
“You’re awake. Just in time for the best part.” Reverend Rob had not moved from his spot outside the cell door.
“It’s dark. What time is it?” Beads of sweat ran from Gerald’s forehead into his eyes making it look like he’d been crying.
“Quarter after eight.”
Gerald squinted to see the clock across the visitation room. “Clock over there says 8:13. Don’t cheat a condemn’ man outta two minutes.”
“You look like hell.”
“What the fuck you expec’? They gonna hook me up to the needle and juice me.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
“Nothin’.”
“It was her again.”
“She was scared. I told her I wasn’t gonna hurt her. But she was scared.”
“If you ask me, you’re the one who’s looking scared. You don’t have to be.” Reverend Rob rolled out his reconciliation sermon. “God’s mercy is a wonderful thing. If he can forgive me for molesting boys and help me find peace, he can do the same for you. That’s what the parable I was reading you is all about.”
“Save your breath.”
Reverend Rob went on undeterred. “This son had squandered his inheritance on loose women and was living in squalor. When he came to his senses and asked for forgiveness, his father killed the fatted calf and threw a huge party. It can be the same for you.”
“Only calf they gonna kill is me.” Gerald smirked.
“God wants to forgive you, all you have to do is ask.” Nineteen years of subtlety hadn’t worked; Reverend Rob tried a more direct approach. He turned to the Gospel of Luke and read a passage highlighted in yellow, “See, it says here, ‘I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.’ I can’t do it for you, Gerry.”
Gerald clasped his lips tight around another Marlboro. His lips trembled as he fought the urge to speak. He could see the tall grass dancing on the banks of the Amite River. He was on top of her staring down into those bright blue eyes, her ponytail fanned out in the grass beneath her head. The muscles in her throat quivered. She was so damn sexy. He leaned in and kissed her. She clenched her lips tight. She wanted to fight.
He pinned her wrists to the ground above her head with one hand and wrestled her shorts down with the other. Her eyes were wild, her breaths shallow and hot on his neck. She wiggled and kicked to get away.
He clawed and ripped at her shorts with his free hand. The button gave way. He pushed her shorts to her ankles and off one foot; he released her hands and went for his zipper to release his fury.
She screamed.
“My guilt has overwhelmed me like a burden too heavy to bear.” Father Rob read from Job. “I confess my iniquity; I am troubled by my sin.” He stopped to look at Gerald. “Your eyes look troubled, Gerald.”
“No. No trouble,” his voice faded. “I didn’t do anythin’ she didn’t want.”
Father Rob shook his head. He was obviously angry, but he never raised his voice. “Is that what you’re going to tell the Almighty when you meet him in four hours? You can’t rationalize sin away, Gerry. I tried it on D-Block, but it chased me down, just like yours is haunting you tonight.”
“Nothin’ hauntin’ me but you an’ your Bible verses.” Gerald threw himself to his feet and stormed out the open cell door. “Let’s do it! Let’s do it! NOW!” His eyes darted around the visitation room. “Guard! Guard! Damn it, let’s get this over with!” He tore off his shirt and ran for the solid steel door hiding the injection table. “Guard! Guard!” Gerald ricocheted off the door.
Reverend Rob dropped his Bible and ran after him. He wrapped his arms around Gerald in a bear hug. Gerald’s chest and back were slick with sweat. Reverend Rob wrestled him to the ground and wrapped his own legs around Gerald’s flailing limbs.
“There’s a deep trench between blame and forgiveness, Gerald,” Reverend Rob panted. “It’s time for you to step across to the other side.”
Thursday, December 3, 2009
BLAME AND FORGIVENESS 2
Part one
The electric motors droned again. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone?
The dark outline of a man in black turned sideways and slid through the doors as soon as they cracked open. He carried a large Bible in one hand and a small, polished brass case of communion wafers and a glass vial of holy water in the other – everything he needed to assist a dying man.
Reverend James Robichaux, formerly of The Resurrection Episcopal Church, hurried across the waxed linoleum. Reverend Rob, as the lifers called him, was part of the state’s catch and release program. He earned his calling in prison ministries the hard way, touching altar boys under their cassocks.
Three years into a 10-year sentence at Angola, the reverend found renewed faith through the good book. When he finished his sentence, he left the confines of D-Block for death row. He’d been visiting the condemned and saving souls for the last 20 years.
He peered through the bars at Gerald’s hand resting on the bulge between his legs. “Don’t be ashamed.”
“Who said anythin’ ’bout shame? I’m rememberin’ good times, Rev.”
“Well, it’s just that I would think that a man at your stage in life would turn his attention away from the physical and toward the spiritual.”
Gerald reluctantly moved his hand.
“Have you thought about our last conversation?”
“Confession? Confession’s what got me in here. That cunt, Jennifer, was wearin’ a wire. Ain’t got nothin’ to confess to you.”
“I’ve met lots of innocent men in this prison, Gerry, but none as mule-headed as you.” Reverned Rob sighed and scratched his balding head. “I’m not asking you to confess to me. I don’t need it. You’ve got to make peace with yourself and with God.” He took a folding chair time-worn Bible to Ezekiel and read. “I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that they turn from their ways and live.”
“Save it, Rev.” Gerald fished in his pocket for another cigarette. His mind was 19 years away. He could see the sweat glistening on Chastity’s neck, and he followed the beads inside her shirt between her small, perky tits. He stared at her swollen nipples. She turned to climb the steps of the trailer and flashed him a sly smile over her shoulder. She knew exactly what he wanted. Gerald followed her.
The scent of wildflowers in her deodorant mingled with the stale air in the unair-conditioned living room. Her bicep tensed in his grasp. She gasped, surprised he had followed her. Gerald knew the game. He lingered just a moment to savor the fear in her eyes.
The electric motors droned again. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone?
The dark outline of a man in black turned sideways and slid through the doors as soon as they cracked open. He carried a large Bible in one hand and a small, polished brass case of communion wafers and a glass vial of holy water in the other – everything he needed to assist a dying man.
Reverend James Robichaux, formerly of The Resurrection Episcopal Church, hurried across the waxed linoleum. Reverend Rob, as the lifers called him, was part of the state’s catch and release program. He earned his calling in prison ministries the hard way, touching altar boys under their cassocks.
Three years into a 10-year sentence at Angola, the reverend found renewed faith through the good book. When he finished his sentence, he left the confines of D-Block for death row. He’d been visiting the condemned and saving souls for the last 20 years.
He peered through the bars at Gerald’s hand resting on the bulge between his legs. “Don’t be ashamed.”
“Who said anythin’ ’bout shame? I’m rememberin’ good times, Rev.”
“Well, it’s just that I would think that a man at your stage in life would turn his attention away from the physical and toward the spiritual.”
Gerald reluctantly moved his hand.
“Have you thought about our last conversation?”
“Confession? Confession’s what got me in here. That cunt, Jennifer, was wearin’ a wire. Ain’t got nothin’ to confess to you.”
“I’ve met lots of innocent men in this prison, Gerry, but none as mule-headed as you.” Reverned Rob sighed and scratched his balding head. “I’m not asking you to confess to me. I don’t need it. You’ve got to make peace with yourself and with God.” He took a folding chair time-worn Bible to Ezekiel and read. “I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that they turn from their ways and live.”
“Save it, Rev.” Gerald fished in his pocket for another cigarette. His mind was 19 years away. He could see the sweat glistening on Chastity’s neck, and he followed the beads inside her shirt between her small, perky tits. He stared at her swollen nipples. She turned to climb the steps of the trailer and flashed him a sly smile over her shoulder. She knew exactly what he wanted. Gerald followed her.
The scent of wildflowers in her deodorant mingled with the stale air in the unair-conditioned living room. Her bicep tensed in his grasp. She gasped, surprised he had followed her. Gerald knew the game. He lingered just a moment to savor the fear in her eyes.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
BLAME AND FORGIVENESS
This was her fault – that bitch. Rage burned in his gut. She did this to him. And he let her.
Gerald Blount sat on a cold steel bench kicking himself. He gritted his teeth behind the butt of the cigarette in his lips. Tendrils of cigarette smoke, like the wilted ivy guarding the walls outside, tangled around his graying head.
This was all her fault – those fried-egg tits, that innocent smile – that fucking tease. Gerald grinned an evil smirk at the thought of her name. What parent names their kid Chastity? She had no choice but to grow up swinging half-naked around a chrome pole.
Gerald filled his lungs with smoke and paced through his new home. Four steps from one end to the other, but it was still bigger than his last room. The sting of pine disinfectant in the cool air made his eyes water. A stainless steel bowl and basin sparkled in the far corner. He turned and unrolled a fresh mattress across the shining slab of steel that was his bed. Inmates had scrubbed the concrete bricks inside and splashed a fresh coat of paint on the bars.
Angola’s death house was nothing at all like death row.
He stooped to look at his fuzzy reflection in the polished steel above the basin. Big purple bags puffed under his dark eyes. An atlas of wrinkles drooped across his sallow cheeks and forehead. Gerald set his Marlboro on the edge of the toilet bowl and cupped his hands under the faucet. There was a time when his hands were strong enough to choke the life out of a man. Eighteen years on death row, where the most strenuous activity was turning a page in his prison-issue Bible, had withered his hands and the rest of his once-rugged physique. His prison-issue blue jeans and denim shirt hung loosely on his scarecrow frame. She did this to him.
Gerald sneered at the tired face in the cold steel. He loathed the man he had become. And it wasn’t his fault.
Gerald’s reflection scowled back at him. Chastity wasn’t the only one to blame. Jennifer and Lisa were just as guilty. The thought of Lisa’s name tugged the corners of his mouth toward a half-hearted grin. Even though she had a part in this, he couldn’t hate her. Not like he hated the others. She was already dead; hating her served no purpose.
Brass keys clanged at the entrance to the death house rattling Gerald from his day dream. Electric motors rumbled their familiar, quiet call as they slid the heavy steel doors open. Through his cell bars and across the visitation room, Gerald watched Warden Johnson limp in and thank the guard. The guard twisted his big brass keys again; the electric motors hummed the doors closed.
“You got a sick sense of humor, Warden.” Gerald rasped as he hung one skeletal arm through the bars.
“What do you mean?” Warden Walton Johnson answered in his trademark drawl, equal parts good ole boy and televangelist.
“The way you leave the cell door open, like a convic’ got freedom to come and go as he please. Where I’m gonna go? Ain’t got but three rooms, my cell, the death chamber, and the visitation room. Ain’t nobody comin’ see me. Then, if I do sit in there, the Cajun Injector starin’ me in the face.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way Gerald,” the squat warden stepped through the open cell door. “We try to make an inmate’s last hours as comfortable as we can.” The warden checked his watch. 12:09. “We’ve got a little housekeeping to take care of, Gerald.” Gerald nodded and the warden continued with his standard death day litany. “The guards will come for you at 11:30. You know the drill: wrist and leg restraints.”
Gerald nodded again, “Last time I’ll be wearin’ those.”
“There will be three guards in case we have to carry you. It’ll be easier if you walk yourself.” He waited for Gerald to nod, but Gerald just stood there, his blank eyes fixed on the warden. “When you enter the death chamber, you’ll lie on the table, and the guards will remove your chains. They’ll put the straps around your arms, legs, and chest. Again, it’ll be easier if you don’t fight it.”
“Ain’t gonna fight. Only a guilty man scared of dyin’. I ain't done nothin’ she didn’t want me to.”
The warden just shook his head. “One of the guards will start an i.v. in your arm and another in your foot. You’ll have a chance to make a last statement. I suggest you apologize and ask forgiveness. Then, at midnight, we’ll start the procedure.”
Warden Johnson didn’t mince words. He described the process of killing a man like he was reading a procedure manual. “The first drug will put you to sleep. The next one will paralyze your entire muscular system. The last will stop your heart.” He waited for a reaction but got none. “Your spiritual advisor will be here later. He’ll sit with you till the end.”
“Don’t need no advisor, ’less he got a stay in his back pocket.” Gerald forced a grin.
“There’s comfort in the Lord, Gerald. Maybe the chaplain can help you find the strength to admit your sins and seek forgiveness.”
Gerald shook his head. “This ain’t my fault. That bitch did it. Ain’t nothin’ in that Bible you give me ’bout admittin’ somethin’ you ain’t done. I oughta know. I read it enough times.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Gerald. I’ll be praying for you.”
Gerald watched the Warden waddle out of sight, then lay back on his mattress. He thought of the last time he saw Chastity, and smiled a half-smile. She was a fine young thing: hair pulled in a big, blonde ponytail, short-shorts showing off the bottom of her tight, tanned ass, and a pink crop-top with “Tease” written across it in bubble letters – like anyone who saw her would have doubted it. She was standing in the dirt yard outside her trailer, her sandaled foot propped on the tire of a dead Cutlass 88. He could see her like it was yesterday.
Gerald traced the curve of her calf in his mind. Her skin was soft and smooth. He reached to hide the swelling in his crotch, just like he did on that day. She had a way of doing that to him. . .That bitch.
Gerald Blount sat on a cold steel bench kicking himself. He gritted his teeth behind the butt of the cigarette in his lips. Tendrils of cigarette smoke, like the wilted ivy guarding the walls outside, tangled around his graying head.
This was all her fault – those fried-egg tits, that innocent smile – that fucking tease. Gerald grinned an evil smirk at the thought of her name. What parent names their kid Chastity? She had no choice but to grow up swinging half-naked around a chrome pole.
Gerald filled his lungs with smoke and paced through his new home. Four steps from one end to the other, but it was still bigger than his last room. The sting of pine disinfectant in the cool air made his eyes water. A stainless steel bowl and basin sparkled in the far corner. He turned and unrolled a fresh mattress across the shining slab of steel that was his bed. Inmates had scrubbed the concrete bricks inside and splashed a fresh coat of paint on the bars.
Angola’s death house was nothing at all like death row.
He stooped to look at his fuzzy reflection in the polished steel above the basin. Big purple bags puffed under his dark eyes. An atlas of wrinkles drooped across his sallow cheeks and forehead. Gerald set his Marlboro on the edge of the toilet bowl and cupped his hands under the faucet. There was a time when his hands were strong enough to choke the life out of a man. Eighteen years on death row, where the most strenuous activity was turning a page in his prison-issue Bible, had withered his hands and the rest of his once-rugged physique. His prison-issue blue jeans and denim shirt hung loosely on his scarecrow frame. She did this to him.
Gerald sneered at the tired face in the cold steel. He loathed the man he had become. And it wasn’t his fault.
Gerald’s reflection scowled back at him. Chastity wasn’t the only one to blame. Jennifer and Lisa were just as guilty. The thought of Lisa’s name tugged the corners of his mouth toward a half-hearted grin. Even though she had a part in this, he couldn’t hate her. Not like he hated the others. She was already dead; hating her served no purpose.
Brass keys clanged at the entrance to the death house rattling Gerald from his day dream. Electric motors rumbled their familiar, quiet call as they slid the heavy steel doors open. Through his cell bars and across the visitation room, Gerald watched Warden Johnson limp in and thank the guard. The guard twisted his big brass keys again; the electric motors hummed the doors closed.
“You got a sick sense of humor, Warden.” Gerald rasped as he hung one skeletal arm through the bars.
“What do you mean?” Warden Walton Johnson answered in his trademark drawl, equal parts good ole boy and televangelist.
“The way you leave the cell door open, like a convic’ got freedom to come and go as he please. Where I’m gonna go? Ain’t got but three rooms, my cell, the death chamber, and the visitation room. Ain’t nobody comin’ see me. Then, if I do sit in there, the Cajun Injector starin’ me in the face.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way Gerald,” the squat warden stepped through the open cell door. “We try to make an inmate’s last hours as comfortable as we can.” The warden checked his watch. 12:09. “We’ve got a little housekeeping to take care of, Gerald.” Gerald nodded and the warden continued with his standard death day litany. “The guards will come for you at 11:30. You know the drill: wrist and leg restraints.”
Gerald nodded again, “Last time I’ll be wearin’ those.”
“There will be three guards in case we have to carry you. It’ll be easier if you walk yourself.” He waited for Gerald to nod, but Gerald just stood there, his blank eyes fixed on the warden. “When you enter the death chamber, you’ll lie on the table, and the guards will remove your chains. They’ll put the straps around your arms, legs, and chest. Again, it’ll be easier if you don’t fight it.”
“Ain’t gonna fight. Only a guilty man scared of dyin’. I ain't done nothin’ she didn’t want me to.”
The warden just shook his head. “One of the guards will start an i.v. in your arm and another in your foot. You’ll have a chance to make a last statement. I suggest you apologize and ask forgiveness. Then, at midnight, we’ll start the procedure.”
Warden Johnson didn’t mince words. He described the process of killing a man like he was reading a procedure manual. “The first drug will put you to sleep. The next one will paralyze your entire muscular system. The last will stop your heart.” He waited for a reaction but got none. “Your spiritual advisor will be here later. He’ll sit with you till the end.”
“Don’t need no advisor, ’less he got a stay in his back pocket.” Gerald forced a grin.
“There’s comfort in the Lord, Gerald. Maybe the chaplain can help you find the strength to admit your sins and seek forgiveness.”
Gerald shook his head. “This ain’t my fault. That bitch did it. Ain’t nothin’ in that Bible you give me ’bout admittin’ somethin’ you ain’t done. I oughta know. I read it enough times.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Gerald. I’ll be praying for you.”
Gerald watched the Warden waddle out of sight, then lay back on his mattress. He thought of the last time he saw Chastity, and smiled a half-smile. She was a fine young thing: hair pulled in a big, blonde ponytail, short-shorts showing off the bottom of her tight, tanned ass, and a pink crop-top with “Tease” written across it in bubble letters – like anyone who saw her would have doubted it. She was standing in the dirt yard outside her trailer, her sandaled foot propped on the tire of a dead Cutlass 88. He could see her like it was yesterday.
Gerald traced the curve of her calf in his mind. Her skin was soft and smooth. He reached to hide the swelling in his crotch, just like he did on that day. She had a way of doing that to him. . .That bitch.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
CH-CH-CH-CHANGES
Surprise! Not the shitty screen you're used to around here, I know.
I've been tinkering and made a few changes. First off, the look. It's still growing on me. . . kinda like a fungus. But I needed something to signal a break from the past. Ya see, apparently work is like Vegas. They tell me what happens there is supposed to stay there -- but have no fear. I ain't gonna disappear.
That's the second big change you'll notice. No more daily diatribes from street-level grunts eking out a living with electronic lumps on their shoulders, now it's all fiction all the time.
Call it Turd-Fiction. I've been writing the stuff for about three years now. Apparently it ain't worth the cost of the ink a big-time publisher might spend printing it, so I'll just foist it on you guys here, where the most you've got to lose is a couple minutes and a few brain cells.
Look for the first one soon.
I've been tinkering and made a few changes. First off, the look. It's still growing on me. . . kinda like a fungus. But I needed something to signal a break from the past. Ya see, apparently work is like Vegas. They tell me what happens there is supposed to stay there -- but have no fear. I ain't gonna disappear.
That's the second big change you'll notice. No more daily diatribes from street-level grunts eking out a living with electronic lumps on their shoulders, now it's all fiction all the time.
Call it Turd-Fiction. I've been writing the stuff for about three years now. Apparently it ain't worth the cost of the ink a big-time publisher might spend printing it, so I'll just foist it on you guys here, where the most you've got to lose is a couple minutes and a few brain cells.
Look for the first one soon.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
NEVER TOO OLD TO ROCK AND ROLL . . .
. . . or too young for that matter.
Back in May when I took Krusty to the Bludgeon Your Head With Someone Else's Fist Fest, I told the Littlest Loaf Pincher I'd take him to see any group he wanted to see. I knew full well that the kid's an old schooler and he'd never pick anybody who was still young enough to strut it on stage.
He didn't disappoint. He picked his favorite band. No way on earth those guys would climb out of their iron lungs long enough to rock a sold-out arena full of thinning mullets and rock-show virgins.
Boy was I wrong.
AC/DC can still bring it. And I aint talking some pansy-ass watered down, unplugged version of once-great stadium anthems. I'm talking two-plus hours of gut-wrenching, ball-busting, face-melting, throat-shredding rock and roll.
Sure, Brian Johnson sounds like Burgess Merideth filtered through a quart of rot-gut whiskey. But that's the beauty of the band from down under. You ain't gotta be able to sing to sing along. All you need is a throat and some wind. Lots of wind.
Their hair is thinner, and their bodies aren't quite as tight as they used to be, but the music never missed a beat. From the first lick of Angus' Gibson to the last cannon blasts of "For Those About to Rock," The sixty-something rockers danced, cavorted, and sweat -- lots of sweat -- their way through all their classics.
This may be showing my age a bit, but one of the best things -- aside from everything else -- was the fact that from the first notes of The Answer's opening set, to the trip out to the parking lot after AC/DC brought the house down, not one single four-letter syllable was uttered on stage. And that's refreshing in a world where posers think they have to be foul to be offensive. (What I muttered in the traffic jam leaving the show is another story.) Kids, take note. Lace you lyrics with thinly-veiled sexual innuendo and benign threats of violence if you wanna be a real rocker.
I'll be deaf for days, but it was worth it. Not only for the first-class rock show, but for the look on the LLP's face as he banged his head old-school. Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go gargle with old razor blades. It's the only way I can think of that Brian Johnson recuperates between shows.
Back in May when I took Krusty to the Bludgeon Your Head With Someone Else's Fist Fest, I told the Littlest Loaf Pincher I'd take him to see any group he wanted to see. I knew full well that the kid's an old schooler and he'd never pick anybody who was still young enough to strut it on stage.
He didn't disappoint. He picked his favorite band. No way on earth those guys would climb out of their iron lungs long enough to rock a sold-out arena full of thinning mullets and rock-show virgins.
Boy was I wrong.AC/DC can still bring it. And I aint talking some pansy-ass watered down, unplugged version of once-great stadium anthems. I'm talking two-plus hours of gut-wrenching, ball-busting, face-melting, throat-shredding rock and roll.
Sure, Brian Johnson sounds like Burgess Merideth filtered through a quart of rot-gut whiskey. But that's the beauty of the band from down under. You ain't gotta be able to sing to sing along. All you need is a throat and some wind. Lots of wind.
Their hair is thinner, and their bodies aren't quite as tight as they used to be, but the music never missed a beat. From the first lick of Angus' Gibson to the last cannon blasts of "For Those About to Rock," The sixty-something rockers danced, cavorted, and sweat -- lots of sweat -- their way through all their classics.
This may be showing my age a bit, but one of the best things -- aside from everything else -- was the fact that from the first notes of The Answer's opening set, to the trip out to the parking lot after AC/DC brought the house down, not one single four-letter syllable was uttered on stage. And that's refreshing in a world where posers think they have to be foul to be offensive. (What I muttered in the traffic jam leaving the show is another story.) Kids, take note. Lace you lyrics with thinly-veiled sexual innuendo and benign threats of violence if you wanna be a real rocker.
I'll be deaf for days, but it was worth it. Not only for the first-class rock show, but for the look on the LLP's face as he banged his head old-school. Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go gargle with old razor blades. It's the only way I can think of that Brian Johnson recuperates between shows.
Monday, October 19, 2009
WAR PIGLETS
Anyone who knows me, knows I gotta rock. The iPod is full of stuff from AC/DC to Zeppelin, B.B. King to van Zant, Marvin Gaye to . . . he's in a class by himself. If I'm awake, there's a tune floating around my big, empty nugget, and I'm on-stage in a sold-out arena somewhere rocking the mic and melting faces with my axe.
But with me, air guitar and off-key warbling is as far as it goes. Just ask any of my daily groupies.
The LLP has inherited my penchant for performance, but he's doing something about it. He's been whacking the skins since he was eight.
This weekend, he and 60 other like-minded future head-bangers rocked the stage at the St. George Church Fair. As venues go, it ain't Madison Square Garden, but the competing noise from the Tilt-O-Whirl aside, it's a great start.
All these aspiring musicians owe their start to Baton Rouge Music Studios. A local music school that's thinking out of the box. Lessons just weren't enough for director Doug Gay. He wanted to find a way to give kids a chance to shine and his Young Band Development Program does just that.
I'm gonna shut up now.
If you like that. Check out all the bands on my Youtube Channel.
But with me, air guitar and off-key warbling is as far as it goes. Just ask any of my daily groupies.
The LLP has inherited my penchant for performance, but he's doing something about it. He's been whacking the skins since he was eight.
This weekend, he and 60 other like-minded future head-bangers rocked the stage at the St. George Church Fair. As venues go, it ain't Madison Square Garden, but the competing noise from the Tilt-O-Whirl aside, it's a great start.
All these aspiring musicians owe their start to Baton Rouge Music Studios. A local music school that's thinking out of the box. Lessons just weren't enough for director Doug Gay. He wanted to find a way to give kids a chance to shine and his Young Band Development Program does just that.I'm gonna shut up now.
If you like that. Check out all the bands on my Youtube Channel.
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