Last Request

Last Request

Everyone is on death row, actually or technically. He was in both ways.
Money can't buy love?except maybe through the U. S. government. That's
where he spent his, but not on love?on death. Lethal injections are for
sick dogs, and electric chairs leave too much work for the mortician.
Firing squads are for humans. A firing squad, a last request, and a
last cigarette. No one should have to buy a dignified death. He did
anyway.

His big bribe rented him twelve men with high-powered rifles. In their
military truck they were part of his prison escort, himself in a grey
van with bars on the back windows.

The vehicles stopped beside a roofless white adobe ruin, also rented
with his bribe. The warden and the driver climbed out of the grey van.
The twelve hired men in U. S. army uniforms joined them. The driver
unlocked the van's back door, and he stepped out, handcuffed and
calm.

Taking his elbow in hand, the warden walked him to a wall of the white
ruin. He whispered something in the warden's ear. The warden paused.
Slowly and with squinted eyes he scanned the semicircle of hired men.
The warden's head nodded, approving the prisoner's last request. The
key clicked and the cuffs fell from his wrists.

The prisoner strolled with long, slow strides to the first of the
uniformed men. He extended his hand.

"My name is Matthew Landis."

The man with the rifle glanced at the warden, who nodded.

"Ron Ward." Salute and handshake.

"Pleasure."

He took a sideways step, hand still extended. "Matthew Landis."

"Russell Campbell." Salute and handshake.

"Nice to meet you."

Another step. "Matthew Landis."

"Joe Bevalaqua." Salute and handshake.

"Glad to meet you, Joe." He continued down the line.

"Rik Mason."

"Kevin Herrick."

"Erik Thompson."

"Mike Hillis."

"Tim Heartquist."

"Nat Brown."

"Jon Card."

"Lars Anderson."

"Tom Frick." Salute and handshake.

"Good morning, Tom." He released Tom Frick's hand and strolled back to
the wall.

The warden offered him a pack of cigarettes, and he took one. The
warden patted at his pockets then frowned.

Rik Mason walked quickly to the wall. He drew a zippo from his pocket
and flicked it open, lighting it in the same motion. The prisoner
leaned in, looking his hired man in the eyes and sucking air through
the flame.

"Thanks, Rik."

Rik Mason walked back to the semicircle.

Leaning comfortably against the wall, he smoked his cigarette slowly,
enjoying every draw.

The paper was burning close to the filter, and he could feel the heat
of the cherry near his lips. He flicked the cigarette once then put it
out against the wall.

The warden raised his hand, and the rifles cocked like a drum
roll.

The hand dropped.

The rifles fired in a smattering of flashes and cracks.

One misguided bullet landed in a puff of white in the wall beside his
shoulder. The other eleven dissolved his chest. He slumped to his
knees, his back brushing a red stroke on the white wall. He pitched
forward and landed facedown in the dust.