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*        PISS PHILEZ NUMBER 5        *
*                                    *
*       And his last words were-     *
*                                    *
*          by Sameer Ketkar          *
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He was sitting there, fidgeting, just like in the movies.  Somewhat 
sickly, his only thought was how that damn prison barber-lady had 
managed to cut his head when she'd shaven the three inch-circle bald 
spot on his head.  The saline solution that the guards had so benignly 
splashed on top of his head only added to the pain, and guaranteed more 
to come.

The uncomfortable wooden chair, hard to the touch, and with a tall back, 
was ugly to look at.  His arms were already tugging at the straps that 
were attached to his calves and his forearms.  Marcos Valenzuela imagined 
what he looked like from the perspective of his guards, the pricks.  Never 
a large man, he had made himself known by brain power.  Yeah, I'll become 
a genius from all these volts. 

A man, sitting quite serenely was what he 
wanted the guards to see.  His arms rested on the armrests as if he were 
a king on a throne.  Back straight in a regal posture, the only blatantly 
obvious give-away was the small, beany shaped metal cap crown which rested 
on his doomed head.  The saline solution had sealed his fate, allowing 
those extra few volts to course through his small frame and...

"Would you like regular or extra crispy?" the seventy year old guard 
asked him while raging into a fit of laughter.  His lawyer and family 
outside, unfortunately, could not hear the guards and come rushing in to 
save him, or in the very least beat them to death with their own night-sticks.  

A smile crossed his face.

"What're you laughing about, Crispy.  You know, I never really had a taste 
for human, but in your case I just might make an exception!"

"Shut up you fat-ass blanco.  You've always had the advantages, you's 
never growed up on the streets with my homeboys.  You don't feel their 
pain when the bullets crash through their skulls.  They die honorably, 
but you'll always be a redneck blanco punk."  Oh, but he'd get his revenge 
on this guard, he just knew God would help him out, because he'd asked, 
when the time came.  El dios no es antipatico, va a ayudarme con mi 
problemita.

The old guard had seen a lot of men like Marcos before, and they always 
had the same fate.  He memorized the way each and every one of them had 
cursed him out and the ways they'd convulsed as the life was slowly 
drained from them.  Marcos would be fun to watch.

"You know if you had half a mind you'd think to shut up.  You better 
shut your eyes", he taunted the man, "because you know when the first 
shock goes through you, your eyes'll pop out and dangle in front of 
you like the balls on a Christmas tree."

Marcos looked up.  He had never really been a religious man, but 
right now he needed all the help he could get.  But instead of seeing 
God, he saw a single, dim lightbulb hanging from its chain to the ceiling, 
dangling slowly back and forth.  Looks like someone being hung, he thought, 
I wonder which'd be better?

The first bolts hit him as he was looking at the lightbulb.  
Unceremoniously and quite forbodingly, the bulb dimmed as the power was 
used for other means.  The electricity coursed through his body, from the 
shaved spot on his head to the rubber soles at his feet, where it lingered 
a while, melting the rubber and singing his feet.

The volts coursed through his veins, igniting plasma into a furious mixture 
of steam and death.  Looking straight up, he realized his head was shaking.  
He brought his head down and saw that the muscles in his legs twitched 
relentlessly, trying to break free of the horrible restraints holding him 
in the torture chair.  His arms periodically clenched and unclenched, 
releasing new gouts of pain up and down his arms and to his spine.  His 
right arm popped loose of the restraint, but it didn't matter.

Soon he realized the merit of the tall, straight backed chair.  His body 
was convulsing in a horrid fashion, and the back of the chair prevented 
him from snapping his own back, basically so I don't get hurt; how ironic, 
he thought.

But by looking down he had released another force onto himself: gravity.  
Gravity and the first few seconds of the shock (has it been only seconds?) 
tore his eyes right out of their sockets.  Hanging straight down only by 
a thin connective membrane (optic nerve?) the eyes dangled just like the 
lightbulb which Marcos had seen.  Parts of the eye were translucent or 
even transparent.  With an unobstructed view, he peered down at his own 
convulsing body, and imagined himself a spirit looking at a dying man, 
detached, but feeling the pain nonetheless.  His view dangled left and 
right and was dizzying.  Just like those video tapes my family sent me, 
when they allowed Pablito to work the camcorder; what a debacle!  

He noticed for the first time, his mouth.  His red, full lips were 
quivering in a convulsive manner.  He looked strangely upon his own lips.  

Then, in a flash, he realized he'd been trying to say something over 
and over again.  He could just barely make out the words coming from 
his own thoughts, but they were words nonetheless!

And his last words were...

In a sudden fit of apparent insanity, the seventy year old guard fell 
to the ground, convulsing like he was the one being electrocuted.  His 
old, withered body fell on his nightstick and curled up into a fetal 
ball.  His knees worked towards his body and away from it, again and 
again in a rapid succession of convulsions which appeared to be killing 
him.  The white foam flew from his mouth, which was munching rapidly and 
trying desperately to say something, something that seemed to the other 
guard like the name Pablo, no Marcos Pablito Valenzuela.  First, middle 
and last names, the old guard had blurted out again and again, names 
which meant nothing to him but had a greater and wider significance to 
the other dead man in the room.

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PISS - People into Serious Shit

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Sameer Ketkar

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