Pendington, Jude
JOURNAL ENTRY 09
Antisocial Personality
Disorder

It's a Sunday morning in November when they lead Paul Wesley, the man accused of high treason, to his death. I take my place on the stage next to the president, who nods solemnly at me. The two of us stand alone on the stage, watching our breath curl in the air like fog. A long table is prepared in the center of the stage, draped with an immense American flag.

The crowds began gathering at the first sight of sunlight. They point and stare at the empty noose wafting in the winter breeze. They wait. By the time the executioner finally arrives, they are on the precipice of detonation. The Ziz assigned to carry out Wesley's sentence enters the stage from behind, inciting cheers from the audience that could have just as well been pandemonium. The Ziz advances toward the table toting a tremendous scythe, his long head covered by a velvet cloth with only the two glowing yellow eyes peering out from underneath. A second executioner joins the first, this one carrying a sophisticated flamethrower. Again the crowd voices its approval.

Being the showman he is, Belial of course waits for the applause to fade, making the crowd wonder if he will ever appear. Then, when the moment is right, Belial rises to the stage garbed in a ceremonial robe, a tall pope's mitre perched mockingly on his head. At the first sight of his familiar visage, the crowd explodes. Belial soaks this in, hands raised in the cold, grey air, long talons extended to the sky. He stretches his hands before him, palms to the ground, and lowers them gently, gesturing for quiet among the masses. And like the good sheep they are, they obey. The air is thick with silence.

As the glass doors of the T.O.G. Center swing open, two Ziz whose heads are also obscured with black hoods appear pulling long chains that eventually lead to the condemned man, fastened naked to a wooden hurdle as he is dragged to the stage.

"Behold!" Belial broadcasts to the people, dozens of television cameras drifting through the air on cranes. "The man!"

The Ziz reach the stage and let down their chains. The other executioners join them in hauling the heavy frame to the stage, where it is dropped with a great thud. Lying there like a child, Paul Wesley is terrified, tears streaming down his face, trembling in the frigid morning.

"Paul Wesley!" Belial declares into a lectern littered with microphones boasting network logos. "You have been found guilty of high treason against the United States of America and sentenced to death! You will not be granted last words, as we have heard all we care to hear from traitors!"

Wesley's chest rises and falls frantically as he is pulled from the hurdle and led to the noose. The executioner lowers the rope and loops it over Wesley's neck. Wesley, being the idiot he is, has no idea what is happening. He mumbles things to himself. Something about forgiveness, asking the sky to open, childish nonsense. Once the noose is tightened, the larger Ziz steps to the rope dangling from the pulley and pulls slowly, lifting Paul Wesley into the air by his neck.

He chokes and writhes in his bonds, coughing, spitting. The crowds demand more, higher, stronger. The executioner releases the rope, and Wesley plummets feet-first to the stage, bones in his legs cracking as he meets the solid surface. He gasps for air, wheezing and shuddering, sobbing like an infant. When the crowd sees this, their cheering transforms to scoffing laughter. Again the executioner draws the rope, and Wesley soars into the air, cables in his neck gorged and bulging. Again he plummets, broken legs snapping further, dangling lifelessly.

"Bring him to the table where the rest of his sentence shall be carried out!" Belial demands. Excitement sweeps over the onlookers as Wesley is dragged on broken legs to the table and laid on the great flag. Belial slowly leans over the condemned, cocking his head, and whispers so that even I can barely hear him.

He says: "Love endures all things? Where is love now?" Then he nods to the scythe-wielding Ziz on his left.

On the table Paul Wesley is tensing up, sweating, shivering. He squints his eyes closed and tightens his face. Over and over again he whispers, "Forgive, forgive, forgive".

The executioner begins his efficient work to the chorus of the roaring audience. Lowering the scythe below Wesley's waist, he seizes his genitals in hand and severs them from his body with two swipes of the blade. In the next movement, he's gliding the scythe through the soft meat of Wesley's belly and quickly digging two hands into his split gut, wrestling about violently, then lifting the bloated purple cord of Wesley's bowels.

Paul Wesley convulses on the table, vomits blood, bellows in agony, and continues to mutter his useless word, "Forgive, forgive, forgive." The Ziz sets to work drawing the length of his intestines from the incision. The fleshy, glistening snake gathers in a pile at the foot of the table next to Wesley's severed genitals. The executioner reaches the inevitable end of the rope and has to exert considerable effort to tear the last bit from Wesley's insides.

The first executioner steps toward the other side of the table as the second approaches, blue tongue darting from the mouth of his flame thrower. A lovely wave of warmth wanders across the stage as the fire billows out, dousing the organs in bright orange as they sizzle and pop in the flames. The first executioner lifts Paul's head so that he can watch his parts as the fire devours them. Wesley refuses to look; instead his eyes drift upward and he mutters his final words lifelessly.

"It's true," He says sheepishly. "It's open. I see him too." With the final shock-induced babble finished, the life vanishes from his eyes.

Belial gestures to conclude the ceremony, and the Ziz lifts the scythe over his head before hammering it down on Wesley's limbs, lopping his arms and legs from his torso. As the crowd demands the final blow, the scythe falls a final time and Paul Wesley's head tumbles across the stage.

"Today!" Belial shouts into the cameras. "We send a message to the world! A warning of what awaits the enemies of America!"

The president steps forward and shakes Belial's hand, waving at the seething crowd.

"God is us!" Belial reminds the people. "God bless America!"

I'm waiting by the side of the stage when the president descends the stairs with Belial.

"You can't afford to let this become a public conflict," the president says through his teeth.

"Oh, shut up," Belial grumbles. "I took care of the retard. We'll get this one, too."

Approaching me, Belial pulls the tall hat from his head.

"Good help is hard to find, Mr. Pendington." He sighs.

"Sir?" I ask, completely unaware of the predicament.

"Landis," he answers. "He fled the center last night. Find him. Right now."