Enjoying the Show

[Chase]

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
 
Warning: This story contains adult language and depictions of violence that may be disturbing or triggering to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
 

Enjoying the Show

A short story by Chase TheQueerXXX
 
In the downpouring rain, Joe pushed a train of shopping carts with no umbrella, raincoat, or poncho. He wheeled them into the entrance of the supermarket and parked them under an ugly, monstrous fan. His soaking wet uniform dripped onto the concrete floor, leaving a puddle.
            Childish giggling filled the entrance. Joe turned around and saw a full-grown man and woman standing in the entrance, pointing at him and laughing. They each grabbed a bundle of carts that were folded together and wheeled them to the exit. The glass doors automatically opened, and the couple pushed the carts into the outdoors. The man’s bundle of carts flew down the parking lot and continued rolling, seemingly sliding on forever with endless energy. The woman’s bundle rolled into the handicap parking area and crashed into a car.
            Joe flinched as the carts crashed into the car. “What’d you do that for?” he asked.
“We’re enjoying the show,” said the man. He snorted like a pig and laughed.
            Joe grumbled and went back outside into the rain. As he walked, another bundle of carts slid past him. He reached the car that had been hit, and another bundle wheeled straight into his ankles. “OWE! FUCK!”
            “No swearing!” said an old woman. She got out of the hit car with an umbrella and scowled at him. She stabbed him with her index finger and said, “I’m telling your manager.”
            “Telling my manager what?” asked Joe. “I wasn’t the one who hit your car.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulders. “It’s that idiot couple over there.”
            “I’m telling your manager you’re swearing,” said the old woman.
            Joe rolled his eyes and went back to collecting the carts. The couple continued pushing carts out into the parking lot, in every direction. The rainstorm turned into a monsoon. He became so soaking wet he might as well have dived into the Arctic Ocean. Even his underwear became soaked. The cold winds burned his ears. His entire body became itchy as every vain and artery in his body squirted warm blood through his frosted flesh.
He heaved a long train of carts that stretched longer than a bus into the entrance, and the couple fell onto the dirty, fungal, concrete floor, laughing in hysterical pig squeals. They ran into the supermarket, skipping merrily into the produce aisles.
            He walked through the supermarket, being careful not to leave a trail of puddles that’d make someone trip. He entered his boss’s office. His boss, Mr. Scott, was leaning back on a luxuriously ergonomic chair, playing a game on his phone. He glanced up from his phone to Joe, rolled his eyes, and said “Joe, glad you’re here. I need to have a word with you. Sit down.”
            Joe walked towards the chair in front of Mr. Scott’s desk. Before he could sit down, Mr. Scott raised his palms in the air and said, “Uhh, scratch that. You’re too wet, don’t sit.”
            “What would you like to tell me, Mr. Scott?”
            “Is there anything you’d like to tell me first?” asked Mr. Scott.
            “Yeah,” said Joe. “I’m supposed to restock the freezers in a few minutes, but I got really wet collecting the carts. I don’t think it’s safe to go inside a freezer like this, so I was wondering if I could do something else.”
            “Oh, about the carts,” said Mr. Scott, “a lady said you were swearing and dented her car while you were out getting them.”
            “No,” said Joe. “That wasn’t me. There was this ridiculous couple who was –”
            “I don’t want to hear it,” said Mr. Scott. “Joe, you’re fired.”
            “WHAT? It wasn’t me! It was the –”
            “Are you trying to tell me an old lady lied?” asked Mr. Scott. “Convince someone else.”
            “I don’t have to convince you! Check the cameras.”
            “I’m not checking anything,” said Mr. Scott. “You’re fired, and hereby banned – from everything – stores, supercenters, all of our locations, even online.”
            “I can’t live off of an unemployment paycheck right now,” said Joe, “I can barely live on my paycheck now.”
            “An unemployment paycheck?” Mr. Scott put his hand to his lips and blew a loud, farting, raspberry. “I said fired, not laid off.”
            “But that doesn’t make any sense! All the proof you need that it wasn’t me is on the cameras! If you have to get rid of me, can you please at least lay me off instead?”
            Mr. Scott twirled around in his cozy chair. “Nope,” he said as he twirled. “Our unemployment insurance is sky-high as it is. I can’t have corporate ripping me a new one.”
            “That’s it!” Joe stomped his foot on the ground. It made a wet squeak, creating the opposite effect he had wanted it to. “I’m going to fight you on this!”
            “You and what lawyer?” asked Mr. Scott. “Just for that, you’re officially fired as of the beginning of this week, so you can put that paycheck you won’t be getting towards your legal fees, enjoy.”
            Joe ripped off his uniform, wiped his shoe across it, and squeaked out of Mr. Scott’s office. Outside, the monsoon had petered down into a mere mist. He went to his car in the back of the parking lot. An old, rusty, sedan that was almost as old as him. He got in and turned the car on. A deafening gunshot boomed out of the rusty muffler, and the timing belt made a loud, obnoxious screeching.
            His car cranked and rolled across the parking lot. He drove in front of the store and gave a goodbye middle finger, then drove towards the parking lot exit. Near the stop sign of the exit, the old lady from before limped towards his car, pointing the same finger at him that she had poked him with earlier.
            Joe groaned. “Ughhhh! What now?” He unrolled his window and pulled up besides the old woman. “What do you want?” he asked.
            She glared at him with a look in her eyes that said she thought he was pure evil. “You’re stealing my car,” she said. “Give it back!”
            “What?” said Joe. “You’re crazy.” He pointed towards the car in the handicap section that he had seen her coming out of earlier. “Your car is over there. This is my car. It looks nothing like yours.”
            The old lady shook her head. She glared at him and poked him through the window. “Give me my car back!”
            “You’re crazy,” said Joe, “I’m out of here.” He tried to drive off, but the old lady leaned into his window, forcing him to break his car and put it in park.
            The old lady screamed. “HELP! HELP! This man is stealing my car! HELP!”
            A group of four men ran towards them. They all looked tough, like they were construction workers or part of a biker gang. Before he knew it, a strong pair of biceps pulled him out of his car through the window. He was thrown onto the asphalt and stomped.
            He was stomped, kicked, and punched. His front teeth were knocked out and went down his throat. He vomited them back up onto one of the men’s shoes. His vomit enraged the man even further. With a vomit covered steel-toe boot, Joe’s head was kicked like a soccer ball, knocking him out.
            When he woke up, he was alone. He was bruised, bloodied, and had a killer migraine. His tongue slid between the gap where his teeth were knocked out. He put his hands over his face and felt several large bumps on his head and a broken nose. He reached in his pockets for his cellphone and realized he had left it in his car. He didn’t have his wallet with him either, but his wallet had no cash and nothing but maxed out credit cards.
            He stood and looked around the parking lot. He couldn’t see his car. He wanted to go inside the supermarket to call the police, but then remembered he was banned from it. He’ll have to walk home.
            He limped through the streets. His ankles were killing him, they must have been stomped on by the gang of men. The storm picked back up. He was absolutely drenched and freezing cold. He tried to flag down cars that drove by him, hoping to hitch a ride or at least ask to use their phone, but cars drove by him, ignoring him.
            He walked down a one-way alley. A car came driving towards him in the opposite direction it was supposed to drive. It didn’t have its lights on, even though it was dark from the storm. It looked a lot like his car. He read the license plate, and realized it was his car. The old lady who had stolen it – mistakenly or not – was driving towards him, and she wasn’t slowing down.
            HONK HONK!
            His own car plowed through him. He saw a bright light and lost consciousness again.
            He woke up in a hospital. He felt horrified of the casts on his body and the tubes stuck into his body. At the same time, the cushioning on the hospital bed and the metronome beeps of the vital monitoring equipment gave him a blanket sense of security. It was at least safer from being stomped on by a renegade biker gang.
            A nurse noticed he was awake. He was asked a series of questions and he told her his identity. “I think we can get you help,” said the nurse, “I’ll be right back.”
            She came back moments later. “Do you have another insurance plan?” she asked. “Our system says the one you gave us dropped you.”
            “Oh,” said Joe, “yeah, I just lost my job. Shit. Um, I guess I don’t have any health insurance then. Do I need to pay anything?”
            “We’ll . . . send you the bill,” said the nurse.
            Joe used the hospital phone to check his messages on his cellphone’s voicemail. He heard an angry message from his landlord telling him he was evicted for not paying rent. He called his landlord.
            “Hi, Mr. Smith? It’s Joe. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t pay you rent. I’ll get it to you as soon as possible.”
            “Too late,” said Mr. Smith. “What, were you on vacation or something? I filed an eviction notice and got you officially off my ass weeks ago.”
            “But Mr. Smith,” said Joe, “I was in a coma for –”
            “Fuck off,” said Mr. Smith, and he hung up.
            Joe called the police and tried to report his vehicle as stolen.
            “Are you serious?” said the police officer over the phone. “An old lady stole your car? Is this some sort of joke?”
            Joe tried to explain, but the police officer remained skeptical. “Fine,” said the police officer, “I’ll file it, but only because I have to. You make me sick, you know that? I swear, if I ever get you in the back of my cruiser.” He growled and hung up.
            Joe called his parents, and they agreed to take him back. His mother picked him up and drove him home. When he got home, Joe’s father was seated at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. When Joe limped in, his father set the newspaper down and looked scornfully at his own son. “What’s this I hear about you getting fired?” asked his father.
            “But dad,” said Joe, “it’s not my fault, it was –”
            “I don’t want to hear it,” said his father. “Take responsibility for your own actions. You’re too old to be living off of us. You’re going to pay us rent.”
            “But dad,” said Joe, “how can I pay rent when –”
            “Ugh, relax. I’ll only charge you three hundred a month.” He slid a newspaper across the table. “So you better find a new job.”
            Joe took the help wanted ad and applied for as many jobs as he could over their family’s desktop computer. A week later, he got called in to work at a restaurant.
            He showed up for the interview at the restaurant. The manager cringed when he saw him and gagged. “What is it?” asked Joe.
            “Your face,” said the manager. “Your nose is all fucked up and your teeth are missing. What’d you do? Get into a bar fight?”
            “No,” said Joe. “I got beat up.”
            “Well I can’t have you serving customers looking like that,” said the manager. “Can you work as a cook?”
            “I used to be a fry cook,” said Joe.
            “Good enough,” said the manager.
            Joe got hired. When he got home, his mother handed him his hospital bill that came in the mail. He opened it and gasped. It was a hundred thousand dollars. He called up the hospital.
            “This is insane!” he said. “I just got a new job at minimum wage, I can’t afford this!”
            “You make me sick,” said the lady over the phone. “If you can’t afford it, then you shouldn’t have bought it.”
            “What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t even agree to buy it. I was run over by a crazy old lady in my own car, and when I woke up, I was at the hospital. I mean, fuck, I never would have agreed to getting saved if I could choose, especially for a hundred thousand dollars!”
            “Well,” she said over the phone in an irritated tone, “you’re just going to have to tighten your belt.” She hung up.
            Joe asked his parents about it. His father told him the same thing the woman over the phone told him, and his mother told him she would pay it, but they don’t have much in their savings and still have a mortgage.
            Joe went to work the next day and talked to his new boss about his current situation. His boss, despite being squeamish over his beaten face, showed some level of sympathy and offered him overtime. Joe took it, and for the next four weeks, he worked eighty hours a week.
            Eighty hours a week. With a $7.25 hourly wage, times one and a half for every hour overtime, he was earning $725 a week! It was time to pay his father the $300 rent. It also might be time to buy a new phone. He needs a car too, but maybe he can lease one. He went to the bank.
            He approached the bank teller, gave him his bank account number, and said “I’d like to withdraw a thousand dollars in cash, please.”
            The bank teller typed in the information. “I’m sorry,” said the teller, “you don’t have any money.”
            “What?” said Joe. “That’s impossible, I’ve been working eighty hours a week the past month. Has my work been sending in my checks?”
            “Hmmm . . .” the bank teller typed behind the counter and said “Yep. It looks like you’ve been getting checks from your employer, but it says your account has been garnished by a debt collection agency.”
            “Garnished?” asked Joe. “Are you serious?”
            “That’s what it says,” said the teller.
            He couldn’t believe it. The hospital bill would not go away. It wasn’t his fault, and yet, he was somehow responsible for it. On the marbled floor of the bank, he imagined the old lady from the parking lot, materializing before him, scowling and glaring at him, poking him with her bony fingers, still haunting him, still affecting him.
            He has to fix this. There has got to be a way to fix this. If only he had a lawyer, but he doesn’t have the money for a lawyer. He needs to fix this. Somehow, someway, he needs to find a way to fix this. He somberly walked out of the bank. He didn’t have the money for his parent’s rent. Fuck, would his father understand? His dad was charging him rent despite being in debt with a medical bill that wasn’t his fault, so he probably wouldn’t understand, or care. Wait, bankruptcy, that’s it! He can . . . nope. Going bankrupt requires a lawyer, and he doesn’t have the money for one. He was fucked.
            He walked down the street, not knowing what to do. Maybe he can live homeless as he’s working. But then he’ll get all stinky and hairy, would his work keep him? A cop car pulled up to him.
            The lights flashed. Bweep bweep!
            Joe stared at the police car. Time passed by as he stared, squinting his eyes at the blinking lights. He waved his hand and said “Hello? Is there a problem?”
            The doors of the cop car swung open. Two police officers ran out. They drew their guns at him and screamed “Get your hands up!”
            Joe put his hands up. He was shoved to the ground. His head slammed onto the concrete sidewalk. He felt his expensive, indebted sutures getting ripped open again as the police beat him with batons. A police officer fired up a taser and fired a dart that hooked into his right nipple. Jolts of electricity ran through his body, making his body shake and spasm. His pants became soaked with his own urine. He was handcuffed and thrown into the police car.
            He regained consciousness at the police station. “What did I do?” he asked.
            “You know what you did,” said the police. “You’re a fucking murderer, you fucking scumbag!”
            In the jail cell, he didn’t know what to do. He was entitled to one free phone call, but who was he going to call? His parents? They wouldn’t believe him. Days went by, and he felt himself rotting away in the jail cell. He was all alone in a cell. The occasional drunk driver and drug addict was always thrown in an adjacent jail cell.
            Weeks passed by. Eventually, a man in a suit came to visit him. They went into a small, private room, and sat on uncomfortable metal stools. The man in the suit shook his hand. “Hi,” said the man, “I’m Paul, your public defender.”
            “Oh thank God,” said Joe. “Thank God. I’m innocent, I tell ya. You need to get me out of this.”
            “Innocent?” asked Paul. “Look, buddy, I hate to tell you this, but they got you running over those kids on camera.”
            “WHAT?” asked Joe. “I never ran over any kids. My car was stolen from me!”
            “When was your car stolen?” asked Paul.
            “Like, more than a month ago,” said Joe. It was the craziest thing. Some crazy old lady thought I was stealing her car and started screaming. Some asshole meth heads believed her without question and pulled me out of my own car. They beat the living shit out of me, and the old lady drove off in my car. Then, I shit you not, that crazy old coot ran me over. I was in a coma for like, a month.”
            “Well,” said Paul, “if that’s true – if – that would explain why it took you so long to report your car as stolen. Still, the hit and run apparently happened before you reported it. Otherwise, the car wouldn’t have been registered in your name.”
            “It shouldn’t matter,” said Joe, “I was in a coma – a coma. I couldn’t have –”
            “Look Joe,” said Paul, “I’m running out of time. I want to believe you, really, I do, but you really don’t have much hope. I can get you a plea deal for reckless driving and involuntary manslaughter. You’ll probably get ten to twenty years in prison. If you don’t take it, they’re going to get you on two counts of murder – one for each of those kids you ran over. That’ll probably get you death row. You’re young, don’t throw your life away.”
            “But I didn’t do it!” said Joe. “I’m pleading innocent!”
            “Joe,” said Paul, “I hate to tell you this, but you can’t win. Even if what you told me is true, I just don’t have time to get all those ducks in a row. I’ve got hundreds, if not thousands of cases to work on.”
            “Fuck,” said Joe. “Some lawyer you are. I’m innocent, and that’s final.”
            “Ugh.” Paul shook his head. “It’s your funeral.” He got up and went to the door.
            “Where are you going?” asked Joe.
            “My next case,” said Paul. “Sorry, but like I said, your just one of thousands to me.”
            Paul left, and Joe was returned to his cell. Months passed by. He began to lose his mind and wish he took the plea deal. At times he thought about telling the guard he wanted to take it when his pig swill food was delivered to him by the guards, but then he’d remember it’d entail him lying, and admitting to something he didn’t do.
            One day, his mother gave him a surprise visit. Behind the glass screen, she looked dreary, depressed, and sleep deprived. He could only have been rotting in jail for a few months, but her wrinkles had aged decades. He cried, “Mom! I’m so sorry! I didn’t do it! You have to know I didn’t do it!”
            “I believe you Joey,” said his mother.
            “What about dad?”
            His mother shook her head. She walked away, crying.
            More months went by. Maybe years, he wasn’t sure. Eventually police officers came and escorted him to a windowless, armored van. They spat on him and said “It’s time for your trial, you fucking scum bag.”
            His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and he was escorted into the van. The ride was surprisingly smooth. It reached the courthouse, and the van doors swung open. Outside was pure pandemonium.
            In front of a large, white, Grecian pillared courthouse was an angry mob. They carried signs saying Death to Child Killers, Drive Safe or Hang, and Run Over Joe. Police officers with Roman legionnaire shields held back the crowd as Joe was escorted up the steps.
            Rocks, rotten food, and dog shit was thrown at him. A group of college-aged rioters jumped through the shield carrying police officers and swarmed him and his escorting guards. A young woman jumped on him, grabbed his hair, which had grown long and shaggy from being locked up for so long, and screamed at the loudest possible decibel a human could possibly scream. A loud, bloodcurdling, screech, right in his ears, causing them to ring. She didn’t scream any words, she only screeched, a loud, nonsensical, screech.
            A police officer pulled her off of him and dragged her away. Just when he thought he was safe, one of the young men held up a megaphone. The young man screamed, no words, but pure nonsense, through the megaphone, into Joe’s ears. The young man was tasered and dragged off.
            Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . . All Joe could hear was a ringing in his ear that was left by the nonsensical screech of the young man’s megaphone.
            Inside the courtroom, everyone was wearing a suit. All the men were clean shaven. Joe put his hand to his face, and felt his grimy, uncouth beard that had grown from being locked up in solitude in a jail cell. He was in a bright orange jumpsuit with a number on it.
            This was insane. Of course he’s going to look guilty - They have him dirty, scruffy, and in a prison suit. He saw his public defender at a booth, but he knew he didn’t stand a chance.
            The case began. The prosecutors showed a video of Joe’s car at night plowing into a group of children. No driver was seen, yet that fact wasn’t brought up. It was a graphic, grotesque video. The jury and audience screamed in horror. Joe jumped out of his seat and screamed “That’s not me! That’s the old lady! That’s the old lady!”
            The judge banged his gavel. “ORDER! ORDER! One more outburst and I will hold you in contempt!”
            The case was quick. Joe was never able to defend himself. His public defender did nothing. The jury delivered its verdict: “We, the jury, find the defendant, guilty.”
            The audience in the courthouse applauded. The family of the children who were run over cried tears of relief. Joe screamed: “NO! NO! IT WASN’T ME! IT WAS THE OLD LADY! IT WASN’T ME!”
            The judge banged his gavel. Two strong bailiffs grabbed Joe by his arms. Over Joe’s screaming, the judge hollered: “By the power invested in me, I hereby sentence you to death!”
            There was a thunderous applause from the courthouse audience. Joe was dragged down the aisle. He screamed “NO! I WAS IN A COMA! I WAS IN A COMA! IT WASN’T ME! I WAS IN A COMA!”
            One of the fathers of the slain children shouted “I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL! I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL!”
            Joe was transported to the state’s death row prison. At the prison, Joe was seated at a table in front of the warden. The warden scratched his short blond mustache and said “Welcome to Death Row, Joseph.”
            “Sir,” cried Joe, “please. I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. I had my car stolen. I was in a coma. I couldn’t have run over those children.”
            The warden smiled. “Oh, I believe you, Joseph. Don’t worry, while I can’t promise you a retrial, I can at least make your time here decent before you meet the man upstairs. You look like you haven’t shaved in months.”
            “I know,” said Joe. “They wouldn’t let me! It’s like . . . it’s like . . .”
            “It’s like they wanted you to look scraggly at your trial?” asked the warden.
            “Exactly!” said Joe. “Phew! Someone who understands!”
            The warden smiled. “Well don’t you worry Joey. Why don’t you freshen up in the bathroom. Give yourself a shave. Make yourself . . . nice and smooth.”
            Joe went to a bathroom area. He shaved his face and head and had a long shower. He dressed in his new prison jumpsuit, and the prison guards escorted him through the halls. “Thanks guys for the long shower,” said Joe. “Back at the other place, I was only allowed to take a shower for like – fuck, I’m not even sure I was allowed to take a shower. Like, a minute a shower, I think.”
            The guards laughed. “Well,” said one of the guards, “what can we say? The seals like ‘em smooth and clean.”
             “The seals?” asked Joe.
            The guards laughed, “Yep. The seals and the walrus. That’s who’ll be your new roomies until, well, you know. Well, Klance is getting poisoned before you do, but you’ll at least have the walrus until it’s your time.”
            “Um . . . why are my cellmates called the seals and the walrus?”
            One of the guards chuckled. “Because that’s what the show looks like. Wallie looks like a big fat walrus, especially when he’s going at you.”
            The steel bars of a cell swung open. Joe was pushed inside. A large lecherous looking man who could only be Wallie the Walrus was sitting at the back of the cell, and he had two companions who were probably the seals. The steel bar door swung shut. Joe turned and face the guards.
            One of the prison guards spat on his face. “Enjoy getting turned into a bitch, you fucking child killer.”
            The two average sized prisoners grabbed Joe by his arms and dragged him back. He was pinned onto the floor. The huge man stood up and wobbled towards him. Joe’s pants were pulled off. Joe screamed and turned his head towards the prison guards. “HELP! DON’T LET THEM DO THIS! WHY AREN’T YOU HELPING?’
            The guards smiled. “Because,” said one of the guards, “we’re here to enjoy the show.”
            It lasted forever. He was defiled and abused in every shape and form. The crying only made it worse. It hurt. The physical pain was excruciating, but the emotional pain didn’t fully set until after it was over, and he was trying to sleep at night.
            Trying to sleep in a cell with his rapists. It was impossible. Was he raped? He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. He could swear it wasn’t him who ran over those children, and yet here he was, on death row. It didn’t make sense, yet now, nothing made sense.
            Years went by, and he was raped, day by day, night by night. Sometimes the guards watched, sometimes they didn’t. The guards clearly didn’t get off to it. They didn’t have the looks in the face one has when watching rape porn. No, they watched – because it was funny. That was all the sense Joe could make of it. That everything that had happened to him, had happened, because it was funny. Not funny to him, obviously, but funny to somebody, the devil perhaps, or God. At least the guards found it funny.
            Just as the guards said, his cell mate Klance was executed before him. The beatings and rapes were a little less severe without Klance, but in no time at all, the guards found a new prisoner to join in on the fun. A serial-killer who had committed over thirty rapes. Joe was his thirty-first.
            On one ordinary day, as Joe was having his head dunked in the cell toilet, the guards came for Joe – it was his special day. “Wooooo eeeeee,” said one of the guards, “you cleaned him up for us, how purdy.”
            As Joe was walked to his execution, he asked “So, do I get a last meal?”
            “Not in this state,” said the guard. “There was a fella who asked for a grand feast before his final day. He ate none of it. There was a lot of outrage, and a senator got rid of last meals. The senator was a Democrat, if you can believe that. Probably the only good thing that ever came from that commie party. Good thing too, because if it was up to me, you’d all be fed shit before we kill you.”
            “What about last rites?” asked Joe. “Can I please have a priest, a pastor, anybody, to say prayers for me before I go?”
            “Nope,” said the guard. “A few years back there was a fella who wanted some sort of Buddhist, Taoist, something stupid, monk to say some prayers for him. The state didn’t give it to him and there was a lot of hubbub over it. Eventually, the governor decided there’d be no more last rites, so everyone can be equal. I’m Christian myself, but I don’t see a child killer like you going to Heaven, last rites or not. You’re gonna burn in Hell, Joe, you’re gonna burn in Hell. I hope you got used to the walrus and seals, because in Hell, you’ll be getting a million walrus dicks shoved down your throat – forever.
            They entered a room with an electric chair. The front wall of the room was made of glass, and there was an audience on the other side, there to watch him die. Joe pointed to the electric chair and said: “Is that an electric chair? I thought they use poison now?”
            “Nope,” said the guard. He shrugged his shoulders. “We used to have this cocktail of poison we’d inject into your arms that’d put you to sleep and kill you. It was made by this Italian company. Well, they decided to be libtards and not sell us poison for executions anymore. Your old lover Klance was the last to get it. We had to go back to the electric chair.”
            “You’re kidding me?” asked Joe.
            “Nope. Say, uhh, Joey, you ever watched the movie The Green Mile?”
            “Yeah,” said Joe.
            The guard laughed. He whispered into Joe’s ear: “I didn’t wet the sponge.”
            Joe screamed and tried to run away. It was useless, there was nowhere to run. He was beaten to the floor by the guard’s baton, and then dragged to the chair. He was strapped in, and a helmet was lowered onto his head.
            “NO!” screamed Joe. “NO! I DIDN’T DO IT! I DIDN’T RUN ANYBODY OVER! NO!”
            The executioner flicked the switch. Electricity buzzed into his body. His body shook in the chair. It was painful. More painful than the biker gang beating him after the old lady mistakenly stole his car. More painful than the old lady running him over with his own car. More painful than the police beating him up for a crime he did not commit. More painful than all of the long nights of gang rape by The Walrus and Seals.
            Through his shaking eyeballs, he saw the audience through the glass screen. They were cheering his torturous death. The parents of the children he did not kill were crying tears of joy, their hands over their hearts, chanting prayers of thanks to God for answering their prayers. The onlookers clapped and cheered like spectators at a football game.
            In the crowd, he recognized a gang of familiar faces. The couple from the supermarket who had made him fetch all the carts in the parking lot during a monsoon. The couple that had pushed chains of folded together carts, starting the chain reaction that ended with him where he is now, there watching him die. The woman was shaking her fist in the air, and the man was whistling. They were enjoying the show.
            Then he saw her – the old woman. The one who had mistakenly stolen his car. The one who had run him over and put him into such a deep debt, he would still be working for no money at all if he were free to this day. The woman who was the true killer of the children who he’s being executed for. There in the audience. He wasn’t sure if she was enjoying the show though. No, instead, she had the same glare she had when she first saw him. She went up to the glass and poked her finger against the glass.
            Poke. Poke. Poke. She scowled, glared, and poked. Poke, poke, poke.
            Joe’s flesh burned. His flesh caught on fire. The surrounding wires caught on fire. Fires floated up and lit the ceiling ablaze. The audience screamed and made their way for the exit. The crowd was jammed and bottlenecked at the exit door, and the exit only opened onto more halls of the execution building. Halls that shared the same ceiling as the execution chamber, and now shared the fires as well.
            Separated by a large, theatrical, glass screen, Joe saw the audience join him in the flames. They screamed in agony, in horror, and despair. The old woman stood at the glass pane, clearly insane, as she continued poking the window. Poke, poke, poke.
Soon, Joe’s eyes were burnt, and he could no longer see. Yet in his mind, he could still see it. As he died along with the couple from the supermarket, along with the crazy old woman, along with the guards, along with the audience, he could see it in his mind.
He was enjoying the show.

[CellarDweller]

This could've been written by Stephen King, I was not expecting this!

[Bookworm]

Well, that was quite a dark read, but very well written though 

I might have missed some context though, not sure. I feel i'm left with more questions than answers