The Texecutioner's Song

"I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is: in about an hour you'll be dead."

(Some vomiting)

"Now, that may not sound like good news. But compared to the bad news it's a fucking birthday cake."

You could say things had taken a turn for the worse. But they had been bad for some time. The worse was dead ahead; there was no need for a turn. If things had taken a turn it could only have been an improvement.

Unless there was a sharp turn, a sharp spin, gathering momentum, like being impaled after several rotations of a carousel.

In any case, things were not good. But luckily, they were also fictional.

***

Algy closed his notebook, and looked out at a sea of unimpressed faces. They were generic, like the background of a cheap cartoon. Pam (the conference organiser) tried to instigate a round of applause. A man in the front row snorted - possibly to expel a troublesome lump of compassion from his left nostril.

Algy left the stage with his head held high. By a magnet.

"It's standard procedure," Pam had said, even though none of the other speakers had metal plates in their heads, as far as Algy knew.

They had arranged a chauffeur-driven car. In a desperate attempt to avoid conversation, Algy silently passed the driver a note which implied that Algy was a werewolf.

"We have screens to block out the full moon," said the driver.

Algy, defeated, slumped back in the chair and tried to get to sleep. He regretted carrying so many silver bullets in his back pocket.

The journey passed quickly, if not slowly.

A man from the hotel offered to help Algy with his bags. Algy handed them the wolf-costume and went into the toilets to be sick.

When he was finally tucked up in his room, comfortable, shirtless, and alone, Algy sighed.

His notebook was lying on the floor, and had fallen open at an inopportune page.

"I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is: in about an hour you'll be dead."

The bad things were fictional, but so was Algy. Self-awareness, he thought, is little consolation.

Also, there was a bomb in the minibar.

***

It's quarter-past-two. The preceding story makes perfect sense to me now. If, in the morning, it seems pretentious and annoying, it can't be helped. It's a 2:15 piece of writing. It should be read at 2:15 am.

The room smells of Simnel cake. I've eaten one and a half apostles. I don't know which ones - they weren't labelled.

I hope one of them was Simon the Zealot. He was really annoying. A bit too keen.

Also, he was apparently sawn in half. That's why he has a saw with him.

Like Jesus and the cross, this seems like an odd way to remember someone. I think they'd prefer their good deeds and teachings to be remembered, rather than the manner of their execution.

Unless you were an executioner. In which case it might be a fitting tribute to your profession. I wonder if any executioners have been executed...

There must have been some. In the olden days, everyone was executed.

You could probably try and weasel your way out of it. You'd know all the rules. Like Samuel L Jackson's character in The Negotiator.

You might be an expert in knots, and so could escape the noose. Or an expert in guillotining, and so know that it would be best to avoid the blade.

What do you think executioners did after capital punishment was banned? It would be difficult to move on to another position.

"Well, Mr Blood. I see on your CV that you were an executioner for twenty years. Whilst I'm sure the job did require some skill, I'm not sure if your experience qualifies you for a job at Superdrug. Maybe if you took off your hood..."

Also, what about executioners in the modern day. Capital punishment is still going strong in some barbaric countries.

If you're a Texan execution (a Texecutioner, I believe they're called), is that your full-time job? They can't be that frequent.

If it's not full-time, how do you get assigned that extra task?

"Well, Mr Deathblow, you've been doing some excellent work here in the Texas Prison catering service. People seem to have no complaints about your food dispensing! What's that? Why have we asked you here? Well, Mr Deathblow, it says on your employee record that you wouldn't mind working the odd weekend..."

There's probably more to be said on this important issue, but I'm tired. Maybe I can continue this in the morning.

Or delete this post altogether.