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THREE STRIKES Powered By Docstoc
					                   THREE STRIKES
                    YOU’RE UP!!!

                                Jock Webb

       The guy sitting opposite me was twenty-five years old, of average
height, weighing around 170 pounds. He had the loutish good looks that
many body-builders have. He was wearing the bright orange jump-suit that
prisoners wear for their interviews and visits. The suit was baggy and I
couldn‟t tell much about his physique. He had reddish-brown hair, cut
close in a prison hair-cut. The guy affected a tough demeanor but it was
obvious he was very, very scared.
       Danny Maiar had good reasons to be scared. I looked at the rap-sheet
before me. There was a conviction for auto theft at the age of seventeen.
He was sentenced to five years and served eighteen months. at the age of
twenty-one he‟d been convicted of grand larceny, sentenced to five years
and served one. Now he was charged with murder, second-degree.
       “This will be your third conviction, Danny,” I said.
       He nodded. “You don‟t have to tell me that! Can you do anything
for me?”
       “I‟ll level with you, Danny. You haven‟t got a good case. You were
in on the robbery, and though you weren‟t in the store when the owner got
shot, the law says everyone connected with the crime is equally guilty.”
       “Shit, I didn‟t know Tom had a gun. It was just going to be a smash
and grab. Why‟d the old guy put up such a fight?”
       “Guess he didn‟t want to lose his money.”
       “Thanks,” sneered Danny. “I thought you was supposed to be my

       “I am, and I‟m going to try to get you off. But self-pity isn‟t going to
help you with a jury. Now, your biggest problem right now is the fact that
your buddies are scheduled to testify against you.”
       “The fuckin‟ bastards,” buttered Danny. “It ain‟t their third time.”
       I knew what he meant.
       Ten years ago most States and the Federal Government had adopted
the policy that people call “three-strikes-and-you‟re out.” It meant a
mandatory life-sentence for three-time offenders. But like a lot of good
ideas, this one seemed to only increase the number of lifers with no hope of
parole -- and stuck in prisons.
       People complained about the taxes they had to pay for new prisons.
There were attempts at „reform‟: tough discipline in the prison and hard
physical labor. But these only made the penitentiaries into seething hot-
beds of anger and unrest. Two years ago the „Great Prison Riots‟ broke
out, almost simultaneously in New York, Michigan, Florida, and Texas.
There were a couple of days when it seemed the prisoners might take over
the whole system. The National Guard was called out, and then the Army.
The uprisings were put down, but it wasn‟t pretty.
       At Jackson Prison, in Michigan, the troops fired into the mass of
prisoners in the courtyard; over two hundred died.
       Similar events occurred elsewhere. The worst slaughter was in Texas
where guards and troops pursued the fleeing rioters, shooting them down in
their cells, the mess-halls, and the gymnasium. The death toll there was
estimated at 1,300. It was a bloody setting of accounts and the prison
system was never the same again.
       Governments decided upon a new policy. The slogan now was
“three-strikes-and-you‟re-UP”. A third conviction for a serious crime
meant immediate and public execution. A few „liberal‟ states stuck with
„humane‟ forms of execution, such as lethal injection. Utah and Wyoming
used firing squads. About thirty States chose hanging. But out here in
California -- along with fourteen other States -- crucifixion was chosen.
       It was obvious that Danny didn‟t want to die naked, nailed to a cross.
But unless I could get him off, that is what was going to happen to him.
       I was admitted to the California Bar last year. Already I had had three
of these type of cases. I got two guys off ... pleaded one down to a
misdemeanor and got the jury to accept the defense I constructed for the

other one. I lost the third case. Considering juries nowadays, that was a
damn good record.
       Danny didn‟t have much to pay, but it was enough. Besides there is a
standard fee for these cases. The State of California has „privatized‟ a lot
of public services. Executions are one of those „services‟. There are about
five „punitory agencies‟ who pay the State to run the execution. A good-
looking and/or famous prisoners fetches a high price because there will be
a lot of spectators, paying to see the event. The lawyer for the defendant
has the right to „assign‟ his client to a particular agency. The fee they pay
can be very worthwhile.
       I don‟t think my professional ethics were compromised by this
situation. I was determined to give Danny the best defense I could. But I
wasn‟t unmindful of the fact that Danny might bring me a nice fee from
one of the agencies.
       “OK, Danny,” I said, “I‟ll be here Saturday morning and we‟ll go over
the facts in the case. The trial is Monday so we don‟t have a lot of time.”
       “You think there‟s a chance, Mr. Thorne?” asked Danny. He leaned
forward and I could see the fear in his eyes.
       “I think there‟s a good possibility,” I answered. I was lying, but I
thought he needed some encouragement.
       Before I left the jail I went down to the Records Office.
       “I‟d like the blue-sheet on Danny Maiar,” I said. “I‟m his lawyer.”
       The clerk smiled, “I think you‟ll be impressed by what he‟s got.”
       He went back to the stacks and returned in a few minutes with the
folder. I took it to one of the tables. Besides the arrest-sheet and the
transcript of the interrogations, the folder contained the photographs taken
in prison. The arrested man was stripped naked for these.
       As soon as I started looking at them my cock started to get hard. I
looked up and the clerk was smiling at me,
       “One hot stud,” he said. “If you want I can run off some copies of
       I nodded, then grinned. “Just for professional use, of course.”
       That baggy, orange jump-suit had well-disguised Danny‟s „assets‟.
He possessed a physique that girls would swoon over and guys would
admire and envy. Even the „thuggish‟ face looked real sexy atop the
ruggedly handsome body. The chest was deep, with well-defined pecs. The
waist was a washboard of hard, rippled muscles; the legs and arms were

long and muscular. But the eyes of the beholder were drawn to the genitals
-- a pair of heavy, loose-hanging balls and a thick, heavily veined cock that
probably measured eleven inches.
       If I couldn‟t get Danny off, I sure as hell was going to make a nice
piece of cash on him.
       I took the folder back to the desk. He pushed an envelope towards
       “These are copies of the photos you just saw,” he said. “Also in there
are business cards from the „agencies‟. They‟re forbidden by law to contact
you before the trial is over, but me giving you their cards ain‟t illegal.
Sure, I get a commission, too.”
       The trial was held on Monday, “in and for the county of Los
Angeles”. The presiding judge was Henry Castillo. My strategy was to
impugn the testimony of Danny‟s buddies. I thought I‟d done pretty well.
There were inconsistencies in their testimonies and it was obvious the State
had offered them deals. But the Judge, in his instructions, told the jury to
concentrate on the fact that these witnesses were to be believed unless the
defense had been able to „prove‟ they were unreliable. Whether they had
taken part in a murder-robbery was „irrelevant‟ to the present case.
       I knew I had lost when I heard that. Danny sat next to me, looking
uncomfortable in a light blue suit, white shirt and a god-awful neck-tie.
(My secretary said when she saw it that he ought to get the death penalty
just for wearing „that‟.) I had recommended the suit and tie so Danny
would look less like a hood. But that wasn‟t going to impress this jury.
They only saw the three-time offender sitting in front of them.
       The jury was out for less than an hour and they came back with the
verdict of „guilty‟. Judge Castillo thanked them, and then ordered Danny to
       “You have been found guilty of murder during the commission of an
armed robbery. That in itself could merit a sentence of death. But this is
also your third conviction. The mandatory sentence for that is death. You
are therefore condemned to be executed, the execution to take place this
coming Saturday. It will be by public crucifixion. The court is adjourned.”
       Danny‟s shoulders slumped. The guards approached but I asked for a
minute to speak to him and they stepped back.
       “I‟m sorry, Danny,” I said.
       “You did what you could,” he answered. “I got a favor to ask you.”

       “I‟ll do what I can,” I promised.
       “The guys in jail say that you lawyers make the decision on what
„agency‟ handles the executions, right? I‟ve talked to a couple of guys land
they say the Braddock agency does it best -- quicker and less pain than the
others. Will you make it Braddock‟s?”
       “Sure will, Danny,” I promised. “But I‟ll check to make sure they‟re
as good as your friends say. I‟ll get you the best one I can. I‟ll check with
you on Wednesday. Chin up, Danny!”
       I nodded to the guards and they stepped forward and escorted Danny
out f the courtroom. I went over to shake hands with the Assistant
Prosecutor. He congratulated me.
       “It was a difficult case,” he said, “and with Judge Castillo and his
instructions it was impossible.”
       “I wish I‟d had someone else presiding -- that‟s for sure.”
       “By the way, Chad,” he added. “I have something here for you.”
       He handed me a folder. I flipped it open. It was an illustrated
prospectus form the „Garden State‟ agency, with plenty of pictures of their
„work‟, their „clients‟, and testimonials about their „effectiveness‟. I must
have looked surprised because he said:
       “Just a help for you in deciding. I know some guys in the agency and
they like to get their message in first.
       “Thanks,” I said. I tucked the folder into my briefcase. I had the
feeling I‟d be getting a lot more.
       I was right about that. By evening I had calls and brochures from all
the agencies, including Braddock‟s. I checked through that one first. It was
a small operation, with headquarters in San Diego. They didn‟t advertise
that they were „the choice of the criminal‟, but I hadn‟t expected that.
       I looked over the „Golden State‟ brochure; they seemed to have the
most experience. Another agency, „Zirco‟s‟ promised „modern‟ variations
on the old techniques of crucifixion. (I crossed them off my list.)
„California Stars‟ was another new agency; they presented a good case for
their services. By midnight I had a short-list of three names: Braddock‟s,
California stars and Golden State. I had a drink and went to bed.
       Tuesday I called the three agencies. They‟d all been waiting for a call
and each sent a representative over to my office. I talked with them,
watching their videos, and got their offers. They were all interested. But
Golden State, since it had the most business wasn‟t anxious to pay much

above the average fee. Besides they had a couple of „star‟ attractions
coming up at the end of the month, among them Lance Dillon, the
„Hollywood Stud‟. Both California Stars and Braddock‟s offered roughly
the same commission-fee. Since Danny had asked for Braddock‟s, I chose
      After we signed I told Bill Hunter, the Braddock agent what Danny
had said. He laughed.
      “We‟re new and we need some way to get our name known. We‟ve
paid a bunch of jail-birds to spread that story. As you know, there isn‟t any
way to make a death by crucifixion „easy‟. By the time you‟ve got the guy
out there naked and ready to be nailed, then it‟s way too late for him to
make too many objections.”
      “I don‟t think I‟ll tell Danny that,” I said.
      “No, I wouldn‟t do that. But we‟re not as sadistic as say Zirco‟s.
And we do give our „clients‟ an extra edge before they go out for their
„crossing‟. And Danny will be up for just a day; we‟ll finish him off by
evening. A couple of the agencies try to keep their guys alive for three,
even four days. That‟s excessive, I think.”
      On Wednesday, I drove out to Bakersfield where the State has a
„holding prison‟ for those to be executed. The prison is an ugly, two-story
cinder-block building, in a barren-looking area. (The rumor is that it was
built over an old toxic-waste dump site). I went through the fences fes-
tooned with razor-wire, past the guard-posts. Finally I was shown into an
„interview room‟. They brought Danny in.
      Because he was a convicted felon now, Danny was naked except for a
Japanese-style loin cloth, cinched tight around his waist. Everything --
except for his genitals --- was open for inspection ... and the genitals,
bunched firmly in the bulging pouch were impressive. I could see that
Danny was a body-builder. I imagined that he had, like many others, built
up his physique while serving time in prison. The results were obvious:
broad shoulders, deep chest, slab-like pectorals, and arms and legs packed
with muscle. With a build like that, it was obvious that Danny liked to
show it off. The way he came into the room, the way he sat -- everything
was designed to impress me. It did.
      “I heard you got me Braddock‟s,” he said. “Thanks.”

       “That‟s what you wanted, so I did it,” I assured him. “But I just want
you to know that they‟re not offering any assurance that your „crossing‟
will be painless. But it won‟t be prolonged, like some are.”
       “How long will it be?”
       “About eight hours,” I replied. The agent had indicated it would be
nearer ten or twelve, but Danny wouldn‟t be in any position on Saturday to
quibble about a couple of hours.
       “OK,” he said. “I saw the videos about an execution in January, and
the poor bastard was up there for four days. They kept him alive just to
watch him suffer more. I don‟t want that.”
       “The networks and the San Francisco stations will be out here today,”
I said. “You‟ll be on the evening news.”
       Danny grinned at the prospect of being a TV star, if only for a brief
and very painful moment.
       “The crew from Braddock‟s will be here today also,” I added.
“They‟ll want pictures to use in their advertising.”
       “I‟ll be ready for „em,” said Danny. “I won‟t be wearing this Jap
diaper, that‟s for damn sure.”
       “I‟ve seen the file-pictures on you, Danny. You haven‟t any reason to
be ashamed of what you‟ve got.”
       “Thanks. I never have been ashamed of „ole Pete‟. I got the
advantage there on Kim.”
       “Who‟s Kim?”
       “My cross-buddy. He‟s a Korean from L.A.; they‟re gonna put us
both up together on Saturday.”
       “From L.A., you say?”
       “Yeah, he was a member of one of them Asian gangs. He‟s a three-
timer too. We got cells next to each other. He‟s a year younger than me.
Great body -- built like that guy, Bruce Lee. But I got two inches on him.
Know that for sure „cause we measured our cocks against each other last
       “So he must be a Braddock‟s client, eh?”
       “I guess so. Kim don‟t say much about that stuff. He says his lawyer
just got up after the verdict was read and without a word to Kim he left.
Kim was here the next morning.”
       “I guess the lawyer won‟t be here today then.”

      “Kim doesn‟t expect anyone. His family consider him dead already
because he disgraced them.”
      “What about your family? Any of them coming?”
      Danny laughed:
      “My Dad and one of my uncles will be coming, but I think it‟s mainly
to make sure they kill me. One of my brothers will be here ... kind of in an
„official‟ capacity. He‟s at the Penal Labor Camp at Corvello and they‟re
sending a work-detail to dig the holes for the crosses and help put „em up.
Sean will be on that crew.”
      “Kind of a nasty twist to that, I‟d say.”
      Danny shrugged: “The screws think it will be real funny.”
      “Would you like me to be there on Saturday?”
      The tough-guy mask slipped away for a moment.
      “I sure would appreciate that,” he said quietly.
      I drove back to San Francisco after the interview. One thing bothered
me. Danny had decided I was his friend. Going out to see him was just
something I thought a lawyer should do. But like Kim‟s lawyer, most had
nothing more to do with their clients after the trial. Now Danny had
interpreted my visit as a sign of friendship. And he wanted me there on
Saturday as some kind of moral support. I‟d let him think that.
      Well, this wasn‟t going to be any long-term problem. Danny would
be dead in a couple of days. Why tell him I was going to the executions to
have a front-row seat for an exciting crucifixion. What was the use of
telling him my only reason for coming was to see him and his Korean
muscle-hunk buddy be tortured to death. And after all, maybe that wasn‟t
my „only‟ reason. I wasn‟t Danny‟s friend, but why not let him think I was.
I was intrigued by him. Let him think he had at least one friend in the
audience. I‟d want that if I were up on the cross.
      As the long miles rolled past, the fantasy of being crucified took hold.
I turned off the car radio:

     They were coming for me. The warden said the Korean had
hanged himself last night and they needed someone to take his place. It
was me! They ripped off my clothes and dragged me to the cell. Danny
was in the adjoining cell, naked like me, his arms bound tightly behind
     “Glad you’re gonna go with me,” he said.

      I struggled, but it was no use. They tied my arms and then Danny
and me went down the corridor, side by side. The other prisoners were
yelling at us:
      “Y’ll look real anxious, boys.”
      “You’re lucky, Danny, to have a good-lookin’ hunk for a lawyer
and a cross-mate.”
      We reached the door. Outside, in the sunlight I could see two
crosses lying on the ground. The execution crew was waiting for me and

      I was close to the City now; I needed to pay more attention to the
rush-hour traffic. But once I was in my apartment, I shucked off my
clothes and stood naked before the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I
flexed my muscles and fluffed my cock till it began to rise.
      “You know, boy,” I said to myself, “you wouldn‟t look bad out there
on a cross.”
      On Friday afternoon I drove back to Bakersfield and got a room in a
motel. The execution was scheduled for 10:00 AM the next day. I called
the prison to ask if I could see Danny. An Assistant Warden handled my
call. He was nice when he found out I was Danny‟s lawyer but he said he‟d
have to refuse the permission ...
      “We don‟t even allow family to visit on the last day,” he explained.
      “What goes on?” I asked.
      I heard him laugh:
      “The both of them will be pretty busy. The TV crews are here right
now to get footage for tonight‟s news. But mainly tonight will be reserved
for the guards.”
      “Sort of a „farewell-party‟ for the guys, I assume.”
      Again I heard him laugh:
      “Yeah, that‟s one way to describe it.”
      “Is it kinda rough?” I asked
      “Well, just call it „fun and games‟. Pretty rough at times.”
      “Well tell Danny I called, will you?”
      “Sure thing, sir.”
      The line went dead.
      That evening, on TV, there were pictures of both Danny and Kim.
They were still wearing the loin-cloths and looked pretty anxious. Later,

Braddock‟s had some ads for the next day‟s events. These had several nude
short -- front and back -- but there was the usual „caution‟ attached that
children should not be allowed to watch. At the end of the evening news
there was an announcement that the execution was a sell-out. I wondered if
Danny would appreciate that news.
       To say there isn‟t much to see in Bakersfield is an inexcusable
exaggeration. There is absolutely nothing to be seen in Bakersfield.
       I stayed at the motel, used their pool and then went to eat at their
restaurant. The motel was filled that evening and so was the restaurant.
Almost everyone there was in town for the executions. At my table I could
hear snatches of conversation at the other tables; most of it was about
tomorrow‟s event.
       Directly to my right was a table with five young men, all in their
twenties. They seemed knowledgeable about the execution process. I
wasn‟t paying much attention when I hear one of them say something about
“the fucking lawyers”. I listened then.
       “Yeah, those lawyers practically sell their clients and then take the
best tickets to watch them die.”
       “So, since we need a ticket for Leo here, why don‟t we ask one of the
lawyers. We‟ve tried every other place.”
       “Real smart. You think those guys come down here. They get the
tickets and sell them too. I‟d bet they get a commission on every scream
the poor bastards make.”
       I thought of going over to their table and introducing myself, then
decided not to even acknowledge them.
       “Fuck „em,” I thought to myself.
       My attention was drawn to another table. There were three guys
sitting there. One on them kept looking over at me, then saying something
to his companions. After a few minutes of this, he got up and came over to
my table.
       “Excuse me, sir,” he began. He was about twenty-five, curly brown
hair and a round, open face. „Hayseed‟, I thought, and probably from the
       “Sir, I‟ve been telling my friends that I thought I recognized you.”
       “Was it the Armani suit or the broad shoulders that tipped you off,” I
said facetiously.

       He paused and looked embarrassed: “No, sir, I saw you on TV, I
       “Oh, it was my series then,” I answered
       He still looked puzzled, trying to figure out if I was playing a game
with him or being serious.
       “No, sir. I saw you on the televised trial network. You are Danny
Maiar‟s lawyer, right?”
       I felt a bit embarrassed then myself.
       “Yes, I am ... and excuse me for being rude just now.”
       “Not at all, sir,” he answered. “My friends and I are out here in
California and we got interested in the Maiar case after seeing him on TV
and we came down to see the execution. I thought I‟d just come over and
say „hello‟.”
       “Thanks,” I said. “Why don‟t you sit down and have a cup of coffee
with me?”
       He flashed a triumphant grin at his friends, and pulled out a chair.
       His name was Brent Nicholas, and he was from the Midwest ... from
Wisconsin. He was an artist. With a rueful smile he said: “I draw the male
physique. For most people that means I draw „dirty pictures‟.”
       “Do you plan to do sketches of the execution tomorrow?” I asked.
       “Yes, sir. Back in Wisconsin we have hangings but I‟ve seen a
couple of crucifixions down in Illinois. There was a young guy convicted
of a gang-type slaying at a fast-food store. He was crucified; it was
exciting. But I‟ve heard that California does it best.”
       “We think we do,” I said.
       We talked easily. I described several of my cases and Brent spoke
about his work.
       “I‟ve got an idea,” I said. “You want to sketch the execution
tomorrow. I think I‟ll be able to see Danny tomorrow morning. Would
you like to come with me ... do a sketch of him then?”
       Brent was very happy with the idea. In return, he suggested that he do
a sketch of me.
       “It‟s the broad shoulders and the Armani suit,” he said with a laugh.
       “OK, then -- let‟s go up to my room,” I said.
       The result is a head-and shoulder sketch, extremely well done. I have
it framed and hanging in my office.

       As he sketched, Brent talked of his work and of his great interest in
depictions of torture and death. He had a few samples and I found them
very exciting. Finally I got the nerve to ask him the question:
       “Could you do a picture of me as the victim of a crucifixion. I‟d pay
for it.”
       “Sure thing, no problems. Just give me some ideas about what you
want. I‟ll start on it when I get home.”
       “Well, I‟d be like a naked prisoner ... maybe already spiked up on the
       “Let‟s do some sketches right not,” Brent replied.
       I stripped down and assumed the pose of a crucified man, standing
with my back to the wall and arms extended outwards ... Brent worked
quickly, asking me from time to time to alter a position, or to look „more
       “You‟ve got a nice body,” he commented. “Wouldn‟t expect those
muscles on a lawyer.”
       The posing and the fantasy got me excited; my cock was inching up
along my belly. Brent noted it.
       “That‟s some tool you got there.” He leaned forward and brushed it
to my side.
       “Watch it,” I moaned. “You touch that and I‟ll explode.”
       Brent seemed to buy into my fantasy; he asked:
       “What are you up there for, boy?”
       I remembered a night in the Army when I was caught sleeping on
       “Sleeping on guard, sir,” I replied.
       “It don‟t look like you‟re gonna sleep anymore. Brent sneered as the
guard would.
       “Please, please. Oh, God it hurts.”
       “It‟s meant to hurt. We make sure that fuck-ups like you die slow.”
       I felt the sweat trickling down from my pits and run along my flanks.
       “This will be a great picture,” said Brent. Then he grabbed my cock.
I shot --- a big, thick load that splattered on the opposite wall.
       About a month ago I got the completed picture from Brent. It‟s a
wild and brutal scene. No, I haven‟t hung it in my office, but it does have
the pride of place in my bedroom.

       The next morning, Brent and I drove out to the prison. I introduced
Brent as my „assistant‟ and there was no trouble in passing him in. I
thought we‟d meet Danny in the Interview Room again but the guards led
us down to the cell-block.
       On one corridor, there were ten cells on each side f the bare aisle. All
of them were occupied -- each with one occupant in his prison-issued loin
cloth. Some were exercising, a few were reading and the rest just stood by
their barred door. They watched us pass but there wasn‟t any yelling at us
or cursing. They were well-disciplined by now.
       In the last cell, Danny and Kim, both naked, were waiting. On the cot
in front of them were two food-trays with the remnants of what looked like
a big breakfast ... bacon, eggs, pancakes, etc. ... the American idea of a
„real‟ breakfast.
       “I thought the last meal was the night before,” I said.
       One of the guards laughed: “There wasn‟t no time last night. They
was both real busy. Weren‟t you, boys?”
       Neither Danny or Kim answered. But the guard wouldn‟t let go now.
       “they was too busy suckin‟ cock,” he said.
       Danny looked up at me:
       “He‟s right, sir. and you know, this little sausage here sure reminds
me a whole lot of his little dick.”
       The guard made as if to swing at Danny, then checked himself.
Another guard said:
       “There‟s a practical reason for them eating now. Soon after we put
„em up, they‟ll lose control. They‟ll piss and crap and make a nice mess on
themselves and the cross.”
       As he spoke I noted that neither Danny or Kim had any body-hair;
their pubes, arm-pits, arms and legs had been shaved.
       Bill Hunter, the Braddock‟s agent arrived. Though the prison guards
would continue they would now be on the agency‟s pay-role and take
orders from Bill. Behind Bill, milling in the corridor was a group of about
ten, jock-clad young men. They were the Penal Labor Camp inmates who
would be used for heavy work on today‟s „crossing‟. One of them was, I
knew, Danny‟s younger brother. The head of the crew was a muscular,
mean-looking Japanese. He‟d been chosen because the Japanese have a real
contempt for Koreans. The handsome-looking Kim wasn‟t going to have a
pleasant time.

       I introduced Brent to Bill and explained that he was an artist. Brent
was doing a sketch of Danny just then and Bill looked at it.
       “It‟s good -- real good,” he remarked. “Would you be interested in
doing something like this for our promotional material?”
       “Sure thing,” answered Brent.
       “But right now we‟ve got to get this show on the road. Come on in,
Ito,” he yelled.
       The finely muscled Japanese shouldered his way in. He gave me a
mirthless smile and bowed.
       “OK, Ito,” said Bill, “take over.” He turned to me and Brent: “We‟d
best get out of the way.” He led us into the corridor.
       Ito and a couple of guards were left in the cell.
       “On your feet, cock-suckers,” yelled Ito. He was acting in the best
„yellow-bastard‟ style of World War II movies.
       Danny got up, but Kim stayed seated. Ito barked something at him --
maybe in Korean or Japanese. Kim flushed and jumped to his feet, his fists
       Bill smiled: “I don‟t know the lingo that good but I know it‟s a real
filthy insult about Korean „whangs‟.”
       The guards grabbed both Kim and Danny.
       “Tie their arms behind them,” ordered Ito. “Let‟s get them out so the
people can see „em.”
       When they were bound, Ito stepped forward and grabbed their cocks,
twisting them savagely.
       “This one,” he said, indicating Kin, “is lazy like all Koreans ... too
lazy to get his little „pistol‟ up.”
       It was obvious that Ito was going to take a particular and personal
pleasure in Kim‟s torture death. But he wasn‟t about to ignore Danny.
Out in the corridor, Ito pulled one of the jock-clad prisoners out of the
       “You remember your brother, don‟t you?” he asked. “He only needs
two more convictions before we nail him up. I thought he‟d like to have
big brother show him how it‟s done.”
       Tim Maiar was nineteen, tall and rangy in build. He tried to embrace
his brother, but the guards pushed him away.
       The labor-camp inmates were now led out; they would form the
vanguard of the parade to the execution arena. Then came Danny and Kim.

The other inmates of Death Row came „alive‟ then. They beat on their cell-
bars, and tried to reach out to touch Kim and Danny. The guards mocked
       “Don‟t worry, animals,” said one. “They‟ll save you a room in Hell.”
       Bill tugged at my sleeve: “See those guys in the last two cells on the
right? They go up tomorrow ... big „Golden State‟ spectacle.”
       “Who are they?” asked Brent.
       “You really are from the boonies,” Bill commented. “The first one is
Don Timbers, the Hollywood actor-stud. Raped a script-girl in his studio
trailer. The other is Frankie Trent, he‟s the famous tennis player. He‟s
going up for rape also. Those two will draw a really big crowd; in face, it‟s
been a sell-out for over a week now.”
       Bill led us along an underground passage, then up a flight of stairs
and into the stands surrounding the execution arena.
       The arena was a large, hard-packed dirt field, formerly one of the
baseball fields for the prison. Now it was ringed, in a horseshoe-shape
with five or six rows of permanent seating, with bleachers rising behind
them. Television monitors were situated throughout the stands and two
mobile television units were located on the field. In the open end of the
horseshoe there was a giant monitor; it transmitted close-ups and panorama
shots of all the action on the field.
       Our seats were in the center-section, first row. We would have an
excellent view of everything that happened on the field. We had just
reached our seats when there was a long blast on the prison whistle. The
audience stopped chattering. At the far end of the field, Danny and Kim
were brought in. Their arms were still bound and they were flanked on
each side by one of the prisoners in jock-straps. The whole group reached
the center of the field and stopped.
       Over the loudspeaker a voice boomed out:
       “Good morning, everyone. This is the Warden speaking. This
morning two prisoners, Danny Maiar and Kim Il Ro, will undergo the death
penalty. Both are three-time losers. And both, as you can see, are fine-
looking muscular hunks.”
       He paused for a moment; the audience murmured their approval of
the sight. The voice resumed:
       “Both young men will be crucified naked. Before the spiking begins,
we will show them around the arena -- up close and hands on if you like.

Their escorts are from the Penal Labor Camps. These escorts are serving
their first convictions. We hope that what they witness today will help
them learn a lesson.”
       Both Danny and Kim -- and their escorts -- came to the center-
section; from thence Kim would go to the left and Danny to the right. Kim
went by first. I reached out and touched his chest. He looked at me but
gave no sign of recognition.
       “You like „slope‟ meat?” one of the escorts asked. He grabbed
Kim‟s cock. I ignored him, but a man next to me leaned over to grab
Kim‟s genitals. When he had finished, he slipped a twenty dollar bill into
the escort‟s jock-strap. I noticed that this was happening all along the line.
The jocks were soon stuffed. The money would be divided among the
Labor Camp prisoners; it was one of the „perks‟.
       Then Danny came in front of us. I noted that one of Danny‟s escorts
was his brother, Tim. When they came up to us I stuffed a hundred dollar
bill into Tim‟s jock. He noticed the denomination and he gave me a big
       “Thanks a lot, sir,” he said. “You wanna get a good, long feel of my
brother‟s big cock?”
       I ignored him”
       “Danny,” I said. “It‟s me.”
       He looked up and there was a glitter in his eyes. It was obvious he
was on some kind of drug. Was this the „extra edge‟ that Bill had spoken
of. I reached out to touch Danny and his eyes began to focus.
       “Oh, it‟s you, Mr. Thorne,” he said. He turned to his brother: “This
is Mr. Thorne, my lawyer. He‟s a real good guy. Give him back his
       “No, no,” I said. “Let him keep the money. I‟m sorry I couldn‟t do
more for you.”
       “Don‟t worry, sir,” Danny replied. “I‟m ready.”
       He moved on, but his brother looked back at me, patted his jock-strap
and smiled. I was sure then that in a couple of years I‟d be seeing Tim out
there, being paraded around before he was nailed up on a cross.
       After the „showing‟ Danny and Kim were led to the center of the
arena. The crosses were already laid out on the ground; they stood next to

       Cameras and microphones picked up everything being done and said
on the field. We heard the guard captain address the two prisoners:
       “OK, Danny and Kim! You had three chances and you blew them.
We‟re gonna make examples of you for every cheap hood in the State.
Guards, throw „em on the ground on top of those crosses!”
       Danny and Kim did not struggle; they laid down atop the cross and
extended their arms. I don‟t know if it was macho posturing or the effects
of the drug they‟d been given. whatever it was it was a nice touch and the
audience clapped vigorously. These guys were going to be interesting.
       The big-screen gave us close-ups of both prisoners.
       “Stretch their arms out further.”
       I could see the beads of sweat on Danny‟s face. The physical pain
hadn‟t begun yet, but he was scared. The „shot‟ he had might hold for a
little bit yet, but pretty soon he would begin experiencing the whole rush of
       “That‟s it - hold those arms down tight. You, there -- hold his legs so
he don‟t thrash around.”
       Two members of the crew now produced heavy-looking mallets and a
fistful of spikes. The crowd shifted; they were eagerly awaiting the next
       “OK, punks -- get ready for your crucifixion!”
       Ito nodded to the men with the mallets and nails:
       “Hold the left wrist tight against the wood. Put the spike right there
beneath the heel of the hand.”
       The spike was positioned, then checked to make sure it would slip
into the „tunnel‟ beneath the network of bones and nerves. The mallet was
       We first heard the dull thud of it hitting the spike-head, then the first
cry of pain, really a surprised grunt rather than a scream. The mallet blows
continued, pounding in the spike. By the time their left wrists were
securely fastened to the timber, Kim and Danny were reacting more loudly
and violently. The drug was obviously wearing off.
       Without a pause the executioners switched over to the right side and
proceeded to nail that wrist.
       There was a pause now. The cameras zoomed in for tight close-ups.
We could see the bodies already stretched taut, the faces drawn with pain.
The crew began to spike the ankles to the sides of the crosses. That nailing

seemed to take longer and cause even more pain than the wrists. But in a
few minutes, Ito signaled the prisoners were securely nailed.
       The audience gave the men with the hammers a round of applause.
Then the work-camp inmates were summoned forward. They had to man-
handle the crosses to an up-right position, then drag them to the prepared
holes. The bumping and the dragging caused Danny and Kim a lot of pain,
and they exploded in a volley of insults, punctuated by screams of pain.
But finally the crosses were raised, pushed into the holes, there was a final
moment when the crosses lurched back and forth. Danny let out a full-
throated scream; Kim thrashed violently back and forth. This was a part of
the „crossing‟ that most spectators found very exciting.
       “A lot of people wet their pants at this part,” said Bill.
       My „tool‟ was throbbing as I watched Danny. His thick, blue-veined
penis had hardened and was jutting out in front of him. The cameras were
concentrating on this reaction.
       “This is the moment of beauty,” I heard a man behind us exclaim.
“There‟s nothing to surpass this -- when the virile young man realizes he is
caught in a torture that will only end in death.”
       The rest of the crowd seemed to sense something of this, though few
of them were as big on the aesthetics of death. They just enjoyed the
       Time went fast -- for us. I would guess that Kim and Danny felt it
was never going to end. After about twenty minutes both of them gave up
their constant twisting and turning. They were exhausted. They hung limp
for a time. Maybe they had passed out. The guards let them hang now, but
they would soon prod them back to consciousness.
       While I was taking notes of the audience‟s reactions, Brent and Bill
were discussing ideas for a new program. The one provided today by
Braddock‟s was a simple affair: a nude photo of Danny and one of Kim;
some vital statistics, and a schedule of future Braddock-sponsored execu-
tions. Brent was proposing a drawing on the cover and a „sexier‟ layout
inside. Bill was very interested.
       They were so absorbed in their discussion that they almost missed the
first „milking‟.
       “Hey, you two,” I shouted, „they‟re starting to jack these two off.
You want to see that, don‟t you?”

       The rough feel of fists encircling their cocks had brought Danny and
Kim back to consciousness. Danny moaned and muttered something. Kim
howled. It was a deep-throated, animal sound, shocking and terrifying.
This wasn‟t some impassive, inscrutable Oriental but a man dying slowly in
great torment.
       But the howl hadn‟t stopped the masturbators. They proceeded with
their work, pulling and manipulating the prisoners‟ cocks. It didn‟t take
long before the jism spurted. It was caught in basins. The stuff would later
be decanted into small glass vials and sold as souvenirs -- expensive
souvenirs to be sure.
       “How much did you get?” someone shouted.
       The guard laughed and lifted up the basin:
       “They was both loaded.”
       “How you like your job,” one spectator asked.
       The guard laughed again.
       “Hey, jerking these jism-hunks is hard ... but somebody has to do it.”
       Danny and Kim now hung with their cocks limp, streaked with the
last drops of their own cum.
       I got up.
       “I‟m going to lunch, then take a look at the souvenir shops. You two
want to come along?”
       “Later, if you don‟t mind,” said Brent. “I‟d like to get my ideas out
and something settled.”
       Bill put his hand on my sleeve:
       “Don‟t order any of the videos of today‟s event,” he said. “They‟re
way over-priced here, and besides, the agency is going to send you one with
our compliments. So save your money. Maybe you can get some of
Danny‟s first „milking‟.”
       I found a Val‟s Burger stand; it had a bar also and there was a giant
TV screen so you could watch the action in the arena while you ate. But
there wasn‟t much action right now. Both Danny and Kim were hanging
without much movement. I imagine that the public humiliation of being
masturbated had destroyed a lot of their self-confidence. That was
something that most men would consider to be the worst they could

        I sat at the bar and ordered a „Burger Supremo‟ and a beer. The beer
was ice-cold; it slid down my throat in a refreshing stream. The bar-tender
came over.
        “Like a refill on that brew?” he asked.
        “Sure, why not.” I pushed the glass across to him.
        “Bet those two guys out there would like a nice cold beer right now.
They say the thirst is the worst part of being „crossed‟.”
        “I‟ve heard that too,” I answered. “But I think the worst part must be
feeling those big, mother-fuckin‟ spikes go through your flesh and rip apart
your nerves.”
        “Well, there ain‟t nothing that‟s pleasant in that kind of death. Still
those punks keep on raping and robbing and killing till they get their „three
        “Hard to figure it out,” I said.
        “I think the law is too damn easy on them punks. Nail „em up the
first time, I say. Why give „em a couple of chances they don‟t deserve?”
        “Maybe you‟re right,” I observed, wondering to myself how much
lawyers would make on this new policy.
        “You‟re damn sure right about that,” the bar-tender continued. He
leaned over. “I got a brother-in-law who‟s a real bastard. Beat my sister up
every time he got drunk. We finally got him arrested and he‟s serving time
at one of them Penal Labor camps. But he‟ll be out in a year and then it‟ll
be the same thing. I say, spike him up now and save us all the trouble. And
I want to be around the day they drag him out and put him up. It‟ll be free
drinks for everyone that day!”
        “Let me know, buddy, when it happens,” I said and raised my glass.
        The burger-place was filling up as I left. I went over to the row of
souvenir stands.
        The souvenirs were mainly trash -- about the same mix of sleaze and
tastelessness you find at all these events. One of the bigger stores was
already hawking the „virility juice‟ extracted just recently from Danny and
Kim. It was in tiny glass vials, with a „guarantee‟ of authenticity; the price
was $200.00. You could get some of their semen at a lower price; this was
the stuff extracted from them while they were on Death Row. It wasn‟t
thought to have the same high potency that the „death juice‟ had. I had my
doubts about the authenticity of all of it. There were probably a bunch of

pimply-faced kids jacking off under the stands right now and filling these
       The shops had lots of photos of both Kim and Danny. They were
naked photos, of course. I purchased an album of Danny, one of Kim and
one with them posed together. The bill for these came to $150.090
       There were the ubiquitous T-shirts, some with pictures of Danny
and/or Kim; some had „smart‟ remarks which tended to be tasteless and
trite. (One proclaimed: “Don‟t „cross‟ me ... I‟m pissed off already!”)
There were few places I would want to wear one of them. But I did pur-
chase a black, „muscle-shirt‟ with Danny‟s name on the front and a stark,
stylized cross on the back. I could wear it in the privacy of my apartment.
       There were also the usual junk: key-chains, pens and pencils, sun-
glasses, and mugs. This stuff was „standard‟ and sold at every execution.
There were also little packets of hair -- the pubic hair and body hair that had
been shorn off both guys. I didn‟t know what „purpose‟ these served, but I
did buy a packet of Danny‟s hair.
       “It was dry-shaved right off the guy‟s balls,” the shop-keeper assured
       I went back to the arena. Brent had left to rejoin his friends for lunch.
Bill told me that he and Brent had agreed on a new format for the programs
and that Brent would do the art-work.
       “Would you like to come down to the crosses with me?” he asked.
He handed me a metal disc; it was a pass that the Braddock agency people
       “Anything special scheduled?” I asked.
       “There‟ll be another „milking in about two hours. And they‟ll be
oiling their bodies soon. That makes „em look sexier, I guess. Besides,
they‟ve been pretty burned by the sun already.”
       There wasn‟t much gentleness shown by the „oilers‟, who slopped the
oil onto the prisoners and kneaded it into their tortured bodies. The oil
smelled like motor-oil ... and Bill said that was what it essentially was. The
smell of the oil mixed with the stench caused by Danny and Kim both
losing control of their bowels. Their legs and the timber of the cross were
caked with shit.
       It was hot down there. Danny looked drawn, his chest and belly
spotted with red splotches, his legs and arms pulled tight with muscles and
tendons seeming to bursting out from the skin. Danny had lost a great deal

of body moisture. He wasn‟t sweating much anymore but he was still
pleading for water.
       I don‟t think he knew who I was. He did ask Bill if it was five
o‟clock yet. Bill told me that both Danny and Kim had been promised they
would be put out of their misery at five o‟clock.
       “Will you do it?” I inquired.
       “Probably. We‟ll have to see how big a crowd is left.”
       “Hey, Danny,” I yelled up at him. “You‟ve done great. The people in
the audience said you were one tough guy.”
       He didn‟t reply, but he nodded his head.
       I stayed around till four o‟clock. Both Danny and Kim had been
milked again. They didn‟t get much out of Kim, but Danny produced an
impressive geyser that won him a big round of applause from the audience.
       I got my car and started for the City. On the car-radio I heard that
Danny and Kim had had their throats slashed at 5:15 PM.
       I was glad to hear that.
       A few days later I got a package from Bill. He sent a mock-up of the
new program. Most interesting for me was the cover; it was an adaptation
of the drawing Brent had done of me as a crucified prisoner.
       “It‟s real sexy and, I think, very effective,” he wrote. But I‟d like to
get your permission to use it since Brent feels you might be recognized. In
fact, I showed a copy to your „friend‟, Judge Castillo. He said: „I think I‟ve
seen that guy. Was he in my court?‟ I told him „yes -- many times‟, but he
didn‟t get the joke.”
       There was a video cassette of the execution, filmed in the „virtual
reality‟ mode. I played it that evening at home and it was really „hot‟. I
wrote to Bill and told him it was all right with me to use the drawing.
       “Maybe the next time I‟m in Castillo‟s court-room, he‟ll want to have
me stripped.”
       I heard also from Brent. He was busy with the program, and with a
number of new commissions. He thanked me for the hospitality and
enclosed a „thank-you‟ gift. It was a silver cock-ring, engraved with the


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