The Executioner

Intro

         I decided to go with the machete this time. Lightweight, quick, and leaves a bloody mess. It's fine blade was fantastic for hacking away at my helpless victim. Except, he was no victim. He confessed to murder and rape, which is a big no-no in my book. I decided, there was no time to waste. I raised the machete up high and brought it down fast, right before his neck. I stopped. Ever since I read Sir Gawain and The Green Knight I always test my victims with a false slash. I bet waiting for someone to end your life is terrible. I smiled, and repeated the same gesture. This time I didn't stop. He screamed once, hardly, but I kept slashing. Warm blood splashed on my face and forearms.
         I clean up well. Blood drained, body in pieces, tools put away. This was standard routine. Once the body was in pieces, it was to be burned. With the population over nine billion, getting a grave was near impossible.
         I dress casually when I kill, blood stains are hard to get out. Everyone knows who I am, the execution. They know exactly what I do, but they know nothing about how I do it. A normal execution would administer drugs or poison, or use the electric chair. Not me, I like to get close to my victim. Maybe have a chat and ask him how his day went and if he had any kids, then end the conversation abruptly and brutally chop him to pieces. Yes I know. I am very sadistic, but it is all legal now. Nine billion people, that is a big number. Assuming everyone could count one number every second, it would take two-hundred-seventy-nine years to count to Nine billion. With every person born, there is a chance this sir or lady is a complete asshole who deserves to die. Our jails in America are already full on assholes, so we kill the ones that aren't good enough to live. Like my last victim. One at a time they go to court, get sentenced to death, then come to me or one of the other executioners. Personally, I like the idea. A good way to keep the population from going out of control and keeping more innocent people from dying. I like my job. Actually, I just like killing people. But my job isn't easy to come by. There is no application or interview. You don't just show up and say: Hey, can I be an executioner? It doesn't work like that. You have to be recruited.
         It was the summer of 2018. I was in Russia watching the World Cup with my best friend, Victor Verdi. We were watching the finals; Italy and Germany were playing. Italy won. As victor and I left the stadium through all the cheering and mourning fans we were intercepted by two dark men, dressed casually to blend in with the rest of the exiting crowd. They grabbed us and pulled us to a nearby alley on the Russian streets, straight into the darkness. We had a quick brawl. At first there were just two of them, then four, then six. We were overwhelmed.
         By the time we woke up, we knew exactly what was happening. Torture. Drowning simulations, cutting and vigorous beatings. They recorded every last bit of it, sending it back to America every week like we were characters on a suspenseful television show. Six months went by without any sign of hope. Six months of excruciating pain.
         I refuse to go into further detail. When we got back to America, the first place we went was the hospital. This is when I was offered my job. Same with Victor, but he declined. I, on the other hand, took the job, which is where I am now. Getting my life back on track and getting bad people out of this beautiful world of ours, my name is Thaddeus Sire. I am an Executioner.

Chapter One
3:00 P.M. October 31, 2020

         Thaddeus Sire finished putting on his Halloween costume. At twenty-six years old, people his age didn't go trick 'r treating, but to Halloween parties instead, which is exactly what Thaddeus was doing. His costume was simple. An extra large green shirt with baggy green pants and old worn out shoes painted green. He had a plastic two-handed battle-axe taped to his back. The Green Knight. He double checked himself to make sure he had everything he needed. When he was sure, he exited his apartment and entered the cool Boston air. The temperature was fantastic. Warm enough to stay outside for an extended period of time, cool enough to counterbalance the sun's beating rays.
         Thaddeus walked to his car. A black Honda Civic, 1994. Nothing special. He proceeded to follow the normal driving ritual: Check mirrors, seatbelt, turn on car, drive away.
         He arrived thirty-five minutes later, not late and not early, right on time. He wasn't the only one around. Close to a dozen people were walking towards the house, some he recognized, others he didn't. The house was nice. It had a driveway that slanted upwards at a thirty degree angle which curved to the right, into the garage. The garage was opened and everyone was walking straight to it. Thaddeus followed the crowd into the house.
         It didn't take long for Thaddeus to find who he was looking for. Victor. After all, it was his house.
         "Thadd, glad you could make it!" Victor said speaking loudly over the chatter of the other guests.
         Thaddeus smiled. "Have I ever missed a Halloween party?"
         "Not one of mine," Victor stated, returning Thaddeus' smile with one of his own. "So, who are you supposed to be?"
         "Really? I'm the Green Knight."
         Victor just gave him a blank stare, clearing showing knowledge of British literature.
         "You know," Thaddeus said. "From Sir Gawain and the Green Knight? He has one year to find-"
         "Ok," Victor interrupted, laughing. "I believe you. By the way, your girl is here." He pointed to his right. Thaddeus recognized her instantly. Her name was April Brinkman. She had rare, stunning looks that seemed humanly impossible. She had long dark hair and striking hazel eyes. She had an olive complexion, natural not tanned. She was probably unaware of how beautiful she looked. What she was wearing only made her seem more attractive: A tight black dress, short enough to show off her smooth legs. Long enough to respect. She would probably look good in anything. April Brinkman was out of this world gorgeous. Thaddeus knew so much about her, yet she knew nothing about him.
         Thaddeus wasn't the most unattractive person. He was a young, twenty-six. He had thick black hair that barley covered his ears and dark brown eyes. Average height, dark complexion, and a tone, muscular figure.
         April turned in their direction. She wasn't looking at them, she was looking at her boyfriend. He was the epitome of handsomeness, the ideal boyfriend. They hugged, kissed and did things all couples do.
         Thaddeus said, "She isn't my girl. And besides, she has a boyfriend."
         Victor responded, "You can never have enough friends and April is no exception."
         Thaddeus said nothing.
         "Walk with me, Thadd." And they did, into the living room. The living room was not as crowded as the kitchen, and the kitchen was not nearly as crowded as the backyard. Thaddeus and Victor talked about their past. High school, summer time, April Brinkman, and intentionally avoided the 2018 World Cup. They had been friends almost their entire life, dating back to when they were in second grade. April grew up with them as well. Thaddeus watched her grow up alongside himself, like the sprouting of a beautiful flower.

3:30 P.M
         He drove without flaw, and he obeyed all the common traffic rules. When he heard the siren close behind him, it was obvious that the police vehicle wanted him to stop. He did. He waited several seconds, almost a minute, before a man in a police uniform appeared at the driver's side window. The driver rolled it down.
         "Is there a problem, officer?" the driver spoke.
         The police officer responded, "Yes, there is a problem. When is the last time you looked at your rear license plate?"
         "Lately? No," the driver lied. "Is there anything wrong with it?" The police officer grinned. The officer explained what was wrong with his license plate; it was spray painted black, or so it seemed.
         "I'm going to need to see your license and registration, please," the police officer asked nicely. The driver nodded and checked his pockets, glove compartment, and various other spots. Both his license and his registration were missing. Or so it seemed.
         "Damn, I can't seem to find it," he lied.
         "Are you sure you don't have it on you?" the officer responded.
         "Yes, it was," the driver said pondering, "at my house. Actually, I know exactly where it is."