Hiatus

The warden arrived at Liraz Martinez's cell. He was a fat, barrel-chested man, nicknamed Warden Roo due to his jowls that reddened and shook like a rooster's when he was angry or upset. Liraz Martinez knew from experience that it didn't take much to get Roo upset. Now, however, the warden seemed kind, even benevolent, as he unrolled the warrant and cleared his throat so the other four men in the Death House could hear. “Here's your sentence, Liraz Martinez.”   Maybe that's because when the sentencing judge asked him what he had to say about kidnapping, torturing, and murdering six people, Liraz Martinez had said, “Well, sir, basically, I can't wait to get me another.” “I'm going to read your sentence. Are you listening?” “They're going to fry my ass,” he said casually. He knew that his life would end drastically. Once, there was a boy who was criticized, ignored, abused and stifled by those unloving individuals. Now, he becomes an adult who tells himself he’ll never be good enough or lovable enough, never smart or acceptable enough to deserve success and happiness. Because if he was really worthy of respect and affection, a voice inside of him whispers, your mother would’ve given them to you. Through his years of existence there’s a cavernous gap in his confidence, a sense of emptiness and sadness. That he will never truly be comfortable in his own skin and he can’t trust my ability to love. Life sucks. He doesn’t think he would heal without death. “Now, Liraz Martinez, we're all here to help you today. To get you through this with less fuss.”  “Go to hell.” I said through gritted teeth. Warden Roo shook his head and got to reading. “It is the mandate of this court, that you, Liraz Martinez, shall be executed for the following crimes.” He ran down the list. Six counts of murder in the first degree. Kidnapping. Rape. Molestation. An all-round sadistic bad ass deserving to die. Liraz Martinez nodded to each charge. Not a bad list for the kid his mama had simply called trash, as in “filthy dark trash,” as in, “no better than his father, that piece of no good, filthy trash.” “You understand the sentence, Liraz Martinez?” “It's a little late if I don't.” “Fine, then. Father's here to meet with you.” “I only want to speak with you, my son,” Father Hale said soothingly. “To be with you in this time of crisis. To allow you to unburden your soul and understand this journey you are about to take.” Liraz Martinez, always cordial, said, “I don't want to meet him. I'm looking forward to seeing hell, and ought to teach everyone a thing or two about how to make babies scream. Do you have a kid, Warden? A little girl…” The warden's pudgy face had suddenly turned beet red. He stabbed a thick finger in the air while his jowls started shaking. “Don't start. We're trying to help you—” “Help fry my ass. I'm no fool. You want me dead so you can sleep at night. But I think I'm going to like being dead. Then I can go anywhere I want. Maybe tonight I'll find your little girl—” “We aren’t going to bury your body,” the warden yelled. “We're going to put it through the chip machine! We're going to burn you into dust, then dump the dust into acid. There willn't be no trace of your sorry ass left on the face of this earth by the time we're done with you. No f*cking molecule!” “Can't help myself,” Liraz Martinez drawled. “I was born to be bad.” Born to be tampered with lies, pain and evilness. Warden Roo hiked up his gray pants, jerked his head at the priest to join him, and stomped out of the cell. Liraz lay back down on his cot and grinned. Time for a good nap. Nothing more to look forward to today. Nothing more to look forward to, period. trash. His grin faltered when, in the corridor, the four dead men took up the chant. “How do you like Liraz Martinez? Beheaded, baked or fried? How do you like Liraz Martinez? Beheaded, baked, or fried?” If they asked me? I want it all.  THREE-THIRTY P.M. Liraz Martinez got up, his last meal of fried chicken, fried okra, and fried sweet potatoes finally arrived. With it came an uninvited guest, reporter Glynn Fritzer — the warden's way of punishing him for his morning display. For a moment, the two men just stared at each other. Glynn Fritzer was thirty years old, his body trim, his face unlined, his dark hair thick. He carried the wind of the outside world with him like a special scent, and all the men stared at him with sullen, resentful eyes. He breezed into Liraz Martinez's cell and plopped down on the cot. “You’re going to eat all that? You'll burst your intestines before you ever get to the chair.” Liraz Martinez scowled. Glynn Fritzer had been latched on to him like a leech for seven years now, first following his crimes, then his arrest, his trial, and now his death. In the beginning, Liraz Martinez hadn't minded so much. These days, however, the reporter's questions made him nervous, maybe a little scared, and Liraz Martinez hated being scared. He fastened his gaze upon the meal cart and inhaled the oily scent of burnt food. “What do you want?” Liraz demanded, digging into the pile of fried chicken with his hands. Fritzer tipped back his fedora and adjusted his trench coat. “You seem calm enough. No hysterics, no pledges of innocence.” “Nope.” Liraz ripped off a bite of chicken, chewed noisily, swallowed. “I was told you'd sworn off the priest. No purging of sins for Liraz Martinez?” “Nope.” “Come on, Martinez.” Fritzer leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees. “You know what I want to hear. It's your last day now. You know there won't be a pardon. This is it. Final chance to set the record straight. From your lips to the front page.” Liraz finished the chicken, smacked his greasy lips, and moved on to the charcoaled okra. “You're going to die alone, Martinez. Maybe that seems okay to you now, but the minute they strap you into Old Sparky, it won't be the same. The witness told us that you are not the person we’re looking for. You are not Killer Rose. Now give me her name. I can have your wife flown in here for you. And your baby. Give you some support, give you a family for your last day here on earth.” Liraz Martinez finished the okra and plunged three fingers into the middle of the chocolate cake. He collapsed a whole side, excavated it like a tunnel digger, and started sucking the frosting from his palm. “I'll even pay for it, just tell me who’s the real Killer,” Fritzer said, a last-ditch effort from a man who was paid jack s**t, and they both knew it. “Come on. We know you're married. I've seen the tattoo and I've heard the rumors. Tell me who she is. Tell me about your kid or maybe your wife is the killer?” “Why does it matter to you?” “I'm just trying to help you—” “You're going to bring them here and call them freaks, that's what you're gonna do.” “So they exist, you admit it—” “Maybe they do. Maybe they don't.” Liraz Martinez flashed a mouthful of chocolate-coated teeth. “I ain't telling.” “You're a stubborn fool, Martinez. They are going to fry you, and your wife will never have benefits and your kid will get raised by some other junkyard dog who'll claim it as his own. Probably become a loser just like you.” “Oh, it's all taken care of, Fritzer. It is, it is. Matter of fact, I've got more of a future than you do. That's what they call irony, ain't it? Irony. Good word, goddammit. Good word.” Liraz Martinez turned back to his cake and shut up. Glynn Fritzer finally left in a rage. Martinez tossed his leftover food, including most of the cake, onto the concrete floor. He was supposed to share his dessert with his fellow death row inmates; that was protocol. Liraz ground the cake into the cement floor with the heel of his right foot. “Let them all share that. Let the motherfuckers share that.” Abruptly a loud crunch rang down the corridor, the noise growing, swelling, into a fierce, angry crescendo. It paused, dipped low, and then soared high, going from a whine to a snarl. The executioner was warming up the chair, testing his equipment from 1800 volts to 500 to 1300 to 300. Suddenly, the moment was very real. Liraz Martinez sat down quietly on the edge of the cot. He drew in his shoulders, thinking of the nastiest things he could think of. Small, soft throats, big blue eyes, shrill little-girl screams. I won't say a word, Rose. I'll keep it in my grave. Because once there was someone who at least pretended to love trash.