The child was Roy-Boy's.
He grabbed pen and paper and wrote furiously.
For the love of Morton drown it drown it now it is the son of a psychopath and will grow up to torture people but especially people who love it believe me it is not mine I am sterile but his the one who cut you and
Blackburn stopped, breathing hard, his chest thundering. When he could, he read what he had written. Then he tore the paper to shreds.
"You okay, Blackburn?"
Blackburn looked up. A guard was looking in through the bars of the cell door.
"Yeah," Blackburn said. "I'm fine."
"Whatcha doing with that pen?"
Blackburn looked at the pen in his hand. "Writing," he said.
"Let's have it," the guard said.
"Why? I've had pens all along."
"Let's have it."
Blackburn surrendered the pen. A few minutes later he was taken from the cell, and two guards went through it while he watched. They brought out two more pens and three pencils.
"We don't want you hurting yourself," one of them told Blackburn as they put him back into the cell.
Blackburn was confused for a moment, and then he realized what they were talking about. He was to be executed in three days, and they didn't want him beating them to it.
"Don't worry," he said. "For verily, Morton saith: I'd do it myself, but that would queer the deal."
The prison chaplain tried to visit Blackburn that evening. Blackburn mooned him, and he went away.
At 5:00 P.M. on Wednesday, May 13, four guards removed Blackburn from his cell and took him to another building. There they put him into a holding cell. Two of the guards remained outside that cell, watching him. He lay down on the bunk and traced the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes. An hour later, one of the guards who had left returned with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy. It smelled delicious. Blackburn sat up. The meal was on a metal tray on the shelf in the cell door. Steam rose between the bars.
"Is this my last meal already?" Blackburn asked.
"That's not until tomorrow evening," the guard who had brought the food said, "but they need to know what you'll want. I'll write it down now, if you're ready."
Blackburn grinned. He knew about sphincter relaxation in freshly killed bodies, and had decided that he wasn't going to die without making sure he was remembered. He asked for a pot of chili, bran cereal with milk, celery stalks, asparagus spears, bran muffins, a half gallon of prune juice, a quart of beer, and a carrot cake with "Happy Birthday" written in pink script on white icing. The guards looked puzzled.
"Fiber," Blackburn said. "It's good for you."
He ate the fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and then slept. He awoke late in the morning with no memories of dreams. Breakfast was bacon, eggs, hash browns, and coffee. Afterward, he asked for the current issues of Superman, The Flash, Batman, Hawkman, Spider-Man, X-Men, and Green Lantern. One of the guards made a call from a wall phone, and two hours later, Blackburn had his comic books. He read them slowly. He was in the middle of Hawkman when lunch arrived. Lunch was a cheeseburger, french fries, and a pint of chocolate ice cream. The ice cream was good, so he asked for more. But the pint had been brought in from outside, a guard said, and there wasn't any more.
Blackburn saved Green Lantern until his last meal was served at 7:00 P.M. He read it while he ate, and was disappointed. It had lost something over the years. When he had eaten all of his meal that he could, he lay down on the bunk and reread X-Men. He was stuffed and sleepy, and wondered if he had time for a nap.
He dozed, but the guards awoke him at eight-fifteen and took him to a shower stall next to the holding cell. They had him strip and throw his clothes into a laundry bag. When he finished showering, they handed him a towel, and then clean clothes and a pair of slippers. He dressed, commenting on the fact that the shirt was short-sleeved. The guards did not respond to that, but returned him to the holding cell and told him he could relax for a few hours.
Blackburn couldn't relax. He wasn't frightened, or even nervous; he was simply wide awake. Showers did that to him. One of the guards asked if he would like a television brought in, but Blackburn asked for a Houston Chronicle instead. When that was provided, he skipped the news sections in favor of the advice columns and funnies. He didn't see much point in knowing what was going on out in the world; it was probably just more Iran-Contra bullshit anyway.
The warden and chaplain came at eleven-thirty, along with three men in suits whom Blackburn didn't recognize and a guard wheeling a gurney. Blackburn was glad to see that the gurney had a mattress. He was taken from the holding cell and escorted to a closed door, where he was told to unbutton his shirt and to lie down on the gurney. He did so, lying down with his feet toward the door, and the guards secured him to the gurney with six leather straps. His right arm was strapped to a board that angled out from the side of the gurney. Then the warden opened the door to what Blackburn knew was called "the Death House," and the gurney was wheeled inside.
The room had brick walls. The wall on Blackburn's left had a door that led to the executioner's room. Beside that door were two small, square holes, one above the other. Beside the upper hole was a rectangular mirror. Blackburn knew that the executioner and a doctor on the other side of the mirror would be able to see him, but he wouldn't be able to see them.
The gurney stopped under the mirror. Blackburn looked up at it and winked.
The door beside the square holes opened, and a man in a blue smock stepped into the Death House. This man was not a doctor, but a "medically trained individual." He came around the gurney to Blackburn's right side, reached across Blackburn, and took a long needle attached to a clear plastic tube from the lower of the two square holes. He pulled the tube out so that it lay across Blackburn's bare chest, then smoothed the skin on Blackburn's inner elbow and pushed in the needle.
Blackburn watched the needle go in, but had no pain. "You're good," he told the man in the smock. "I didn't feel a thing."
"Thanks," the man in the smock said. "You have good veins." Then he looked startled, and glanced at the other men in the room. They pretended not to have heard anything.
The man in the smock taped the needle to Blackburn's arm, then pulled a second tube from the lower hole. This tube was gray, ending in a metal disk that the man in the smock taped to Blackburn's chest. It was a stethoscope for the doctor.
The man in the smock returned to the executioner's room and closed the door.
"Hey," Blackburn said. "What's the top hole for?"
The warden's face appeared over Blackburn. The warden had a weak chin and a receding hairline. He wore glasses.
"We don't use the top hole," he said.
"Then why'd you put it in the wall?" Blackburn asked.
The warden didn't answer. Instead, he said, "Jimmy, you can make a statement now, if you like."
Blackburn had known this moment was coming for almost a year, and had rehearsed various statements. But he hadn't been able to pick one and one alone, and he still couldn't decide.
I have never killed a woman; Leslie doesn't count, because she lit the fuse herself.
Auto mechanics are, without exception, crooks.
No man knows love who has never had a dog.
I regret making Leo drink motor oil; I should have just come back later and shot him.
Artimus Arthur will be remembered as the greatest man of letters of the twentieth century.
Go fly a kite.
The unit of currency in Laos is the kip; in Mongolia, the tugrik.