Goodwin Prescott
Another Circuit

Prologue ...

The great state of Kansas continues its example-setting public execution of high school jock seniors for a second week.
xxxxFive more towns each put one of the young hunks to death in a manner of their choosing. At one site a local christian group has agreed to do the honors and has a dramatic, fitting end in mind for their prisoner.
xxxxThere are, however, nine teen offenders to die and on the sixth day, the last four are turned over to a tough frat at the University of Kansas to provide the entertainment at a fund-raising "snuff" party.
xxxxThe narrator, a prison guard, thought he'd seen it all but the killings at this incredible KU death bash are really something else.. Party on, dudes!

A Second Circuit ...

I watched Chad Corruthers writhe in agony on the grassy surface of the courtyard, one hand gipping the shaft of the arrow jutting from his crotch, his face a grimacing mask. Two arrows had already pierced his thighs, bringing him to the ground. Then had come this third shaft, aimed with deadly intent to subject him to the worst suffering imaginable.

I shuddered at what it must have felt like to have the steel point knife right through the base of your cock and on up into your groin. Chad wasn't that bad of a kid, just eighteen, and I kinda hoped they'd go ahead and finish him pretty quick now.

That, of course, was up to his executioners to decide and the half-drunk frat boys in charge of killing him were having a grand old time and seemed in no hurry. But I'm getting a bit ahead of my report I guess.

The states achieved virtual autonomy in America's reorganization after a terrorist nuke took out Washington on inauguration day in 2001. Now, among other things, each sets its own policy on capital punishment with no federal second-guessing. Kansas applies it to a broad variety of offenses and, with court reforms, has cut the time from offense to execution to just under ninety days.

Recognizing the deterrent effect of dramatic public punishment, prisoners are taken from the prison at Leavenworth to towns and cities around the state in a rotating circuit to be put to death as seen fit by local "Committees for Public Protection." Delivering their butts is my job as the escort officer for the Kansas Department of Corrections and I really love it.

As you might expect, the variety of killing modes is amazing. The human mind is certainly innovative and clever when it comes to inflicting agony and death on another person.

Anyway, the system works just fine and the crime rate has gone down in a hell of a hurry. Further, the prison population has shrunk as more men are being executed than doing time and the money saved is going into the education system. Pretty good trade-off really.

And, as you've likely read in the papers, the state is certainly all abuzz about our current "project." Within the prison we refer to it informally as "Operation Jock-Cull."

There had been a series of highly publicized incidents involving violent conduct by groups of high school jocks and the legislature, prompted by public outrage, acted quickly. Kansas Public Law 234.6 was passed and signed by Governor Stockman.

KANSAS PUBLIC LAW 234.6: Any male between the ages of fourteen years and twenty years while ac­tive­ly en­roll­ed in a sports pro­gram at any se­cond­ary edu­ca­tion­al ins­ti­tu­tion who joins in con­cert with any two or more other such males to com­mit any of­fense against pub­lic order in the course of which any in­jury oc­curs to any third per­son shall be guil­ty of riot­ous be­hav­i­our and pun­ish­ed as deemed ap­pro­pri­ate by the court. The death pen­al­ty shall be im­pos­ed upon of­fen­ders of age eigh­teen years or over if the court de­ter­mines it to be ap­pro­pri­ate under all of the cir­cum­stanc­es of the case.

The state had passed the word to the appointed district judges that for at least a while they should apply the death penalty without exception on the "of age" defendants. It was desired that some graphic examples be made.

Thus last week I escorted seven buff high school jocks to six sites (we had a double-header at Lawrence) where they were duly put to death. This coming week we would be dealing similarly with the "Wichita Nine," as they had been dubbed.

Just before the big football game against their rivals across town, these lettermen studs from various sports at Port Royal High had visited the other school in the dead of night and done thousands of dollars in damage. A night watchman who tried to stop them was beaten and severely injured.

They were duly tried, sentenced to die and their appeals quickly rammed through the appellate courts and denied. Their death warrants had been signed by the governor and delivered to us on Saturday, waiting when I returned from the double-header execution in Lawrence.

This week it was the turn of the western part of the state under the circuit schedule. When servicing the areas out west I knew there was a greater chance of timing screw-ups and delays because of the distances involved, even though we used a helicoptor for transport rather than ground vehicles. Accordingly, I decided to go in Sunday afternoon just to be sure arrangements were all in order, particularly with the really unusual event slated for Saturday as the "grand finale" so to speak.

In Lawrence, the student leaders at the University of Kansas functioned effectively as the local "Committee" with the full blessing of the city government. The campus executions had become celebrated as the best-run and most innovative in the state and one tough new fraternity at KU had been a driving force behind that excellence.

Dominated by ROTC and "responsible" jocks, Sigma Alpha Omicron (SAO) included most of the student body leaders among their members and every guy in the house had donated freely of his time in carrying out the innovative Jawhawk executions. Instead of staging several double-killings to execute all nine jocks during the six-day circuit, the prison higher-ups had decided to reward SAO for its past service. On the sixth day, four of the condemned eighteener studs would be turned over to the frat to use as entertainment at a fund-raising "snuff" party.

There would be one other unusual activity this week.

Since religious organizations generally still criticized capital punishment, the local committees were encouraged to get such groups involved whenever they were willing. It was hoped that giving church groups a personal investment in "hands-on" activity "punishing sinners" might help mute the criticism.

There had not been much success with that but one of the rare instances would occur when we took Matt Higgins out to Liberal just north of the Oklahoma border for killing on Wednesday. A fundamentalist church group, Brothers of The Cross, had agreed to execute him at their facility. To meet the letter of the law, the church board had been designated by Liberal's city council as the "Committee for Public Protection," just for the one day.

I was most intrigued to see how they would dispose of the hunky track-jock who held several state records in various events.

I was a little surprised to see that Assistant Warden Andrews was in his office and stuck my head in the door to ask what was up. He never spent a second at Leavenworth longer than was absolutely necessary to justify his excessive pay (a personal opinion...sorry).

I was wondering what shit detail he had in mind for me. He was real good at shunting off dirty work on others,

I laughed,

State Senator Alan Swarthmore was the powerful chairman of the Judiciary Committee. He wanted to be the next governor and had taken a very dim view of his nephew Danny being caught red-handed selling drugs at Kansas State University where he was a highly rated basketball hero.

It really was amazing how stupid some kids could be! Anyway, uncle senator was deeply embarrassed by the arrest, trial and conviction. It was almost a given that you got the big penalty for drug dealing these days, but the last thing he wanted was the bad press at having his own fucking nephew offed in a gala public spectacle in Corncob, Kansas or, worse, just down the street from the capitol in Topeka.

Danny was to be disposed of quietly, promptly within the walls of the prison.

We had dismantled the state death chamber. No more cyanide gas, electric chair or even a handy gallows at hand. Lethal injection had been expressly forbidden under the new laws in a direct slap at the "do-gooder" anti-capital punishment crowd. It was just too easy a death for the taste of the lawmakers. No biggie. We'd dealt with this type of situation before and I knew exactly what needed to be done. I really regretted it a bit. Danny was a fine-looking young man of twenty-one in absolute perfect condition and seemed a really nice polite youngster. Oh well. I just do what I'm told.

I went to his cell with a guard as back-up but it wasn't necessary. He knew, I think. He stripped as instructed, nude except for the mandatory metal dog tag around his neck with his prisoner number, 153769, and I buckled an ultra-shock stun-belt around his naked belly. 

    "That's not necessary, sir," he said. "I won't try to escape." 

    "Just regulations when we move a prisoner," I lied.

I looped the control wire with the electrodes around his genitals. The young buck was sensitive down there and immediately got an erection from having his big package fooled with. His cock wagged in the air before him as I led him down into the basement. 

I opened the door and motioned him into the room where he was to be executed. 

We still had the crematorium where the bodies of executed prisoners were formerly brought to be burned. The gas-powered high temperature incinerator was perfectly functional and its roll-in feeder tray was freshly oiled to glide smoothly into the maw of the device. 

The heavy steel door stood open and waiting. I was behind him and when he realized where he was, every muscle in his hard body contracted.With a gasp he turned, his eyes wide in horrified disbelief. 

    "My God! Aren't you going to kill me first? Shoot me or something!!!" 

    "I wish I could, son, but they don't allow guns to be brought into the secured areas. Too big a risk of a guard being overpowered and disarmed. But don't sweat it too much...it won't take long."

The voltage discharge ham­mer­ed him be­tween the legs, sparks flying and wisps of smoke rising from his crotch. His mouth flew wide in a si­lent scream. He collapsed, un­able to con­trol his quiv­er­ing muscles. 

I knew the belt blast would render any guy completely helpless for at least five minutes, usually longer. That was plenty for my purposes. 

His body was spastically twitching as I removed the belt and picked the young stud up in my arms. He was heavy but I was able to heft him onto the feed tray leading into the incinerator. 

He writhed about, arms and legs akimbo but unable to coordinate movement as he lay there helpless and moaning as I activated the tray and it began to retract into the stainless steel cavern of the furnace. 

I doubt Danny even realized what I was doing with him. Electro-disablement left the subject mentally disoriented as well as physically. I secured the door and turned the control switch to high, then hit the "on" button. 

KAWHUMP!!!

There was a light thudding concussion as the gas nozzles ignited and began to fill the chamber with sputtering blasts of fire. I watched through the fireglass porthole in the door as the flexing, screaming boy was enveloped in shimmering swirls of red, yellow and blue flame. In less than thirty seconds his form went still and there was nothing but the steady roar of the flames, the bright rosy glow and intense heat radiating through the little viewing window.

Quick and clean and the boy hadn't really suffered long.

This was secretly my favorite form of execution. The looks on their faces when they realized they were going to be burned alive like trash was a power trip in and of itself.

When it was all over and the furnace cooled down, I scooped up the small pile of ash and tiny chips of charred bone, about enough to fill a gallon ice-cream carton, and unceremoniously flushed what was left of Danny Swarthmore down the toilet.

His aluminum dog tag and chain had been vaporized but mixed in with the debris were two tiny scorched medical screws from some bone fracture. I recalled spotting a small scar on one of Danny's ankles, probably a sports injury, and on impulse I kept the little relics as souvenirs.

Although the circuit system was only eighteen months old, I'd delivered more than three hundred young bucks to their executions and had noted that every one of the fifty-three sites participating performed the deed differently.

Some general modes were popular...burning and hanging and decapitation were practiced at a lot of locations, for example...but even these were subtly different as practiced in each locale. The taste for blood and pain varied too.

Some places killed quickly and violently. Others staged more dragged out execution, relishing the agony imposed over a prolonged period, forcing the life gradually from the suffering subject. Some liked messy, bloody affairs while others spilled nary a drop of the crimson fluid.

These contrasts were graphically demonstrated on Monday and Tuesday.

I delivered Monty Carlsson, a tall rangy, sandy-haired basketball jock, to Great Bend on Monday after first prepping him at the prison before boarding the helicoptor.

Condemned prisoners were kept on a liquid diet for a couple of days, then hit with repeated enemas, leaving them nothing to defecate. Their heads were buzzed down to a stubble and their cocks stuffed with a rubber dowel.

That hurt like hell, of course, but kept a boy from urinating spontaneously when he was killed. We started doing that after an early hanging in Topeka where the mayor's wife was too close and got squirted by the kid as he writhed around.

The cock stuffing also had the interesting, entertaining effect of forcing almost all of them to a raging, involuntary erection that lasted virtually until death. That proved real popular with the crowds.

Monty, as a lot of them do, asked me on the way how they "did it" in Great Bend. I usually refrain from telling them for security purposes, but I glanced at the b-ball hunk with an amused smile.

Great Bend always had good crowds on hand and the scaffold had been set up in the high school football stadium. After I removed the electro-shock security jacket and manacles from young Monty, he became the responsibilty of the local sheriff who escorted him to a small square painted on the flooring of the scaffold.

The boy was made to stand in it and face towards a gunlike contraption. Although he was unrestrained, he numbly cooperated. It was general knowledge that if a prisoner proved too unruly, an execution might be aborted.

The town would receive a more tractable prisoner a few days later and back at Leavenworth the offender would bound spread-eagle and left alone with inmate "Mad-dog" Louis Carrizzo. This lunatic was serving a life term from the prior legal system and we used the threat of him as a sort of "boogie man" to scare prisoners. Old Louis had been a leather-crafts instructor and was fond of very slowly, expertly skinning guys alive.

The death warrant was read over a loudspeaker and without further ado a deputy leveled the muzzle of the device at Monty's flat gut.

There was a loud whumping whoosh as he fired. The thing was a big spear gun and Monty was zapped like a fish by a scuba diver. The serrated point knifed through his belly like it wasn't there and exploded out the small of his back, just above his butt, with a thick burst of blood and tissue. The impact picked the kid up and flung him backwards like a rag doll, legs and arms akimbo.

There was a loud thudding sound as Monty was pinned to a small wall to his rear like a butterfly in a collection.

He writhed and flexed violently, bleeding furiously, but the shock of the extremely violent spearing took him pretty quickly and I think his spinal column was severed anyway. After maybe two minutes of suffering he went limp and the crowd broke into applause.

Another fine execution by the good farm folks of Great Bend, Kansas.

By comparison, Bobby Winslow's death in Garden City was about as slow as they come. The folks there like to get personal and hands-on when they kill for the state. Bobby was essentially garrotted, but in a most interesting fashion. I always loved coming to Garden City to watch this sport.

Bobby was positioned on the scaffold with his arms drawn up and manacled by dangling chains to an overhead beam. Then heavy cast-iron adjustable belts were slipped around both knees, his belly and his neck. There was a turn-screw in the back of each belt and as it was rotated, it slowly tightened the embrace of the metal on the living flesh of the victim.

A stream of local people, many of them snickering farm hunks getting their jollies, big boners bulging in the baskets of their levis, paraded over the scaffold to give one of Bobby's screws a quarter twist each.

A supervisor watched and directed more of the citizen executioners towards the knee screws than the more mortal neck or gut. The latter were tightened just enough to put the young hunk wrestler in a lot of distress. The classic garrotte around his neck made him fight for every breath sucked into his burning lungs.

The searing agony in the small of his back as the contracting iron belt there compressed his spine had him trembling and writhing.

But those damned knee affairs gradually got his full attention. His knee caps were being crushed and I can imagine how bad as that must have hurt! You could hear the right knee as it eventually imploded.

His screams were as loud as he could managed through his constricted throat, sort of a loud wheezing, snorting grunt like a big hog hurting bad.

After his left knee was destroyed, he fainted. He was brought to quickly by the medics and the parade of locals continued across the scaffold to turn the deadly screws of the gut and neck devices.

I'm not sure whether he died from strangulation or from having his back snapped. I guess it's pretty immaterial. All that mattered was that...just as intended...Bobby Winslow died on the scaffold in Garden City that day.

Next came that intriguing visit to Liberal with my track jock, Matt Higgins in tow. I took him, as instructed, to an open field next to the church facility of The Brothers of the Cross and surrendered the naked youth to a robed elder of the group. The bearded fanatic had was almost salivating.

He put his hands on Matt's hard young shoulders,

Matt glared at the man. The boy was not at all pleased at his imminent execution. I thought the priest, or whatever he was, was going to burst a blood vessal in his florid face he reddened in such fury.

I tried to keep a straight face. They were gonna kill his ass anyway...heaven or hell.

I guess I should have seen it coming from such a bunch of far-out christian fundamentalists. They crucified Matt.

He blanched when he was confronted by the wooden cross lying waiting for him on the ground, a mallet and thick iron spikes on hand. He would have struggled but there were so many of them it was clearly hopeless.

His legs were drawn so far out to each side that I thought they might dislocate his hips, then a spike was driven through each thick ankle and into the wood. That produced some pretty loud shrieks from the teen jock and the chief priest smiled broadly in pleasure at that.

I has expected his hands to be spiked down as well, but to my surprise his wrists were bound securely to each knee. What a strange posture on the cross! I still didn't understand just what was bring done until they hoisted the pole up and dropped it into the waiting hole in the earth.

They were suspending him upside down on his cross!

Holy fuck! I thought I'd seen everything done to the prisoners I delivered but this was new. There had, in fact, been several crucifixions, but always sorta "standard" things. This was really interesting to observe.

They attached a wooden scroll-like sign on the top of the cross warning other sinners to "repent or rot in hell." I idly considered the admonition, then rejected it. Sinning was just too much fun.

They just left the kid hanging like that and all the members of the church group knelt all around and prayed. For what, I don't know. Maybe that Matt would last a long time to suffer before dying. If so, their prayers were reasonably answered. The husky youth took over two hours before being suspended upside down eventually asphyxiated him.

Larry Carter, up in Colby, got to decide the exact moment of his death when I delivered him to his doom on Thursday. Another stocky wrestler, he got to show the folks how much stamina there was in those sturdy arms and shoulders.

He mounted a small platform to one side of a huge vat of boiling water. They made him grasp a rope in each hand. His death warrant was read, then he was unceremoniously shoved from the edge of the platform. The ropes swung him out to dangle over the steaming, bubbling pool. He had to keep lifting up his legs to get them as far from the scalding water as he could, putting additional stress on his body.
He was really beautiful hanging like that, every muscle etched beneath his tawny skin.
 

The hot steam swirling around him gradually began to burn his skin and his suffering became graphic.

I guess he realized what had to occur eventually and decided to just get it done. He got up his nerve and then let go of the ropes. There was a loud splash as he plunged into the boiling caldron.

He surfaced and emitted one loud piercing scream, went under again, surfaced again with a weakened gurgling sound that may have been an attempted scream, then went under again and that was it. His limp form, broiled bright red like a lobster just bobbed around face-down in the roiling water.

Dodge City was Friday's destination and guys going there were always in for an awful form of death. The tough old cattle railhead was still a mean place. Golden blond Luke Billings, a trim, sleek swimmer, was taken to the old meat packing slaughterhouse down by the tracks where this town did its public executions.

A boistrous crowd awaited him and his eyes were wide with numbed fear as he was lead up to the supervisor's platform where bosses watched the cattle as they were slaughtered, gutted and skinned in the old days before the plant was shut down.

The conveyer belt that carried the skinned carcasses from the floor to the butchering rooms passed over the platform allowing the foremen to inspect each as it went by. Now the executioner grinned at Luke as he stood there with one of the great meathooks in his hand, the sturdy chain attached above to the conveyer system.

The water-jock's hands had been tightly bound behind his back and he could only stand there helplessly as that hook was slipped up between his muscular, smooth thighs from his front until the point was just kissing up into his anus, dilating his tight sphincter.

Watching from the floor below I snorted, fighting back a chuckle. I wondered if he was conciously referring to Luke's tight young asshole when he said that!

With a loud racket of clanking and grinding the system started up and the chain holding the hook retracted several feet up towards the ceiling, drawing Luke off his feet. The steel knifed up into his guts, shredding his innards. In front his balls and cock were being painfully crushed between the hook and his own pelvis. Blood began to dribble and spurt from his badly torn asshole.

Every muscle contracted in the young body and he flexed and kicked around desperately seeking to abate the excruciating pain gripping his guts. His screams began to ring out in the air of the slaughterhouse, bouncing in echos off the metal walls and ceiling.

He was carted across the barn­like build­ing, spraying blood on the spec­tat­ors gawk­ing up from below and taunt­ing him. None cared. They knew to wear old clothes and most of the younger guys were stripped to the waist anyway and making a game effort to be "blooded."

At the far end, the line cranked to a halt where Luke would have entered the butchering rooms and was reversed.

He travelled back to the platform, his weight slowly drawing that awful hook deeper and deeper up into his guts, tearing his asshole more and more savagely open.

Then the round-trip began again.

There was money riding on how many trips the boy would survive before laps­ing into un­con­cious­ness and dying. You put up a ten dollar wager; half went into a pot, the rest to benefit the local food bank. There would, of course, be multiple cor­rect guesses and these would all go into a drawing.

The winner today would carry off $12,870.

Needless to say there were moans of disappointment from some with each new trip across the building that Luke withstood and whoops of hopeful excitement from others.

The hook began to rip out through his belly just below his navel on the fourth trip and that was just too much. With a final gurgling noise, streaming blood in a near flood now, the blond boy went limp. The record was seven of the excruciating slow rides to and fro on the embedded hook, so Luke was at best an average guest of the executioners at Dodge City.

And then it was the big day. Saturday. The party at SAO. The members assured me the letters stood for "Scholars, Athletes and Officers" when welcoming me to their house on edge of the KU campus down on fraternity row.

It wasn't too far to Lawrence from Manhatten and I had driven the frat's four "special guests" down in a state van. The hunky ROTC cadets and jocks awaiting them were obviously eager for the festivities to begin.

They took one look at brawny Anthony Giordano and assigned him to what they were calling "door duty." Tony was perfect for what they had in mind with his obvious power and stamina. The football lineman stood six-four and weighed two hundred ten pounds of solid muscle.

Dim-witted but handsome, the dark-haired stud was hung to proportion with the rest of that incredible body. I'd figured all along that Tony would die hard; it would take some effort to force the life from that body! That was why I'd selected him for the party.

Usually the assignments for the circuit were made by my bosses but this week they had invited me to select out the four "best" of the condemned jocks to feed to the frat before they assigned the others. That had been great fun, an intense power trip.

Tony was displayed on a raised wooden stand just inside the main entrance of the house, made to kneel with his legs widely parted, and chained in that posture with heavy iron manacles on his wrists and ankles secured to eye bolts screwed into the wood below him. The stand was out in the center of the entryway, so he was fully accessibly from all angles.

On a ledge below his feet lay several long, braided-leather riding crops.

It was a stag party limited to the three hundred capacity of the facility ("Gentlemen", the SAO leaders had decreed, would not expose the gentler sex to the harsh savagry that men so relished unleashing on other men).

They had taken applications to attend and extended invitations to those they chose, primarily younger jock and ROTC students they suspected might have an interest in pledging their fraternity. Thus it was also a clever "rush" recruitment affair and one tough audience! Each guest paid a fifty dollar fee, half of which went to the house scholarship fund, half to the local Special Olympics.

As the guests began to arrive, each was greeted at the door by the frat president and given a jigger of whiskey just to "warm him up" a bit. He could then procede to the main rooms with the open bars and huge tables of food where an excellent band was performing, but along the way would immediately encounter the "Tony display." Each arrival was invited to take two strokes with a riding crop anywhere he chose on the super-buff giant's naked, pinioned body.

You know, as innovative as you may get in inflicting pain and punishment on a human body, there just isn't anything quite as satisfying as a plain old down-to-earth whipping. There's something neat about wielding harsh leather on the skin of another man.

The feel of the whipping device in your hand, the whoosh as it cuts the air, the smack as it delivers its payload on the naked hide, the flexing of the guy's muscles, his moans and cries...all a really erotic trip. And when, as with Tony, you could attack without restraint...no limitations to avoid doing "permanent" or "fatal" damage...it was that much more exciting.

Tony was to be whipped to death, flayed alive with those harsh crops. It was going to take a while, but they'd get him there. The math alone said it had to be fatal. As strong and eager as those student executioners were, each stroke was going to be a trauma for the Italian bull and there were six hundred of them to come! Even if he managed miraculously to survive that, I was sure there'd be many volunteers for "seconds" at him.

His back, ass, legs and front were soon covered with livid, bruised welts as they added up. Where they crossed, the smooth skin often lacerated and streaks and dribbles of blood were oozing from him in dozens of places.

Since the vital small of his back and lower belly in front were not being spared, I knew he was probably already receiving fatal injuries to his kidneys and other inner organs. Some knowledgeable young tormentors laid strokes over the soles of his feet and that nearly broke the convulsing captive.

A man's feet really are so incredibly sensitive to torture.

The first strokes laid directly over his genitals did break Tony's stoic strength under suffering and he screamed for the first time. His crotch proved a popular target and fairly early on he was effectively whip-castrated, his big man package brutalized into a bloody mess.

Occasionally the hunk fainted and was quickly revived so the new arrivals patiently waiting for their turns could have a shot at him. It was good they had several of the crops as one finally broke from the stress of repeated use.

What a great way to get this bash going!

The plan was to execute one of the other three every hour on the hour and first up was sunny-blond Chad Corruthers. As I related at the start of the report, he became a target for an archery exercise. They stood him up against a courtyard wall and his executioner stepped forward.

The ROTC cadet selected was a collector of medieval weapons and now displayed the impressive crossbow he had constructed with loving care over prolonged time period. He was clearly very excited at the opportunity to wield it against a living, breathing target and proved an excellent shot.

I'd never seen anything like his weapon. It was a clever double crossbow mounted one over the other, a sort of double-barreled shotgun for Lancelot and the boys. He said it was patterned after a rare such affair made by a French armorer in the thirteenth century.

The two bolts banged free one after the other with a surprisingly loud report. He was shooting at Chad's thighs and drilled both perfectly just below the crotch. With a scream, blondie collapsed while the archer recharged his bow with two more bolts, cranking the strings back and locking them.

His third shot was that dreadful thing that nailed the kid's big cock to his lower gut. There was then a long, pregnant pause while the archer carefully waited, studying his writhing target, until Chad happened to again expose his crotch for a clear shot.

KABAMB!
SWOOOOSH!
KAWHUMP!!!!

This bolt was a piece of artistry. Chad's balls seemed to just explode in a rooster tail of blood and gore as the steel and wood ripped through them and pierced all the way up through the gut and into the belly itself. Just the feathered butt of the shaft protruded from between his legs.

It was definitely a killing shot.

Chad made choking, wheezing noises as he tried to scream but somehow his diaphragm seemed frozen. He flexed violently in deep convulsions a few times, then went utterly stiff for a few seconds before collapsing into a limp heap and lying still.

An hour later, it was Jason "Jake" Holcomb's turn to die and this scene really appealed to my sense of "justice." After all, the law is partly about retribution and vengeance.

As it happened they had a recent graduate of Sam Lewis High in Wichita in the fraternity, the school that had been vandalized by our condemned heros. With interesting fate, the KU student had painted their mascot's image in the entryway of his school back as a sophormore and this had been ruined by having red paint splattered all over it. The angry artist's name was "Buddy" Jones and he had been assigned to off big, brawny footballer Jake as a form of revenge.

How very fitting!

It seems that Buddy had been the water boy for his football squad in high school and really had a low opinion anyway for the "dumb" jock types like bronze-haired. bullish Jake. Buddy was himself a fine, healthy young hunk but into more "intelligent" sports and an ROTC cadet.

Because he was going to play "water boy" for Jake, he stripped his own body as naked as the prisoner's so as not to splash his nice clothing. That was a crowd pleaser and he got a lot of good natured ribbing from his frat brothers and the assembled guests.

Jake was made to kneel with his hands tightly bound behind his back. A thin rope was looped around his neck for a control rein which Buddy used to force the handsome head to tilt sharply back. He then inserted a long-necked metal funnel into his mouth and partly down his gagging throat.

It was pretty simple. He just used a garden hose to feed a stream of water down him. He would occasionally give a break and let the choking, gagging stud recover a bit before giving him the treatment again.

They say that death by drowning is really unpleasant and the way it was done to Jake seemed particularly nasty. I enjoyed every second of it. The sport was dragged out for nearly a half hour before the jock was finally dead. The last hour saw Fred Mahan's execution carried out. I was not surprised that he was burned alive, man having such a fascination with fire.

It is important to him but it terrifies him as well. Every man secretly dreads being burned and therefore seeing it done, or better, doing it, to another guy has powerful erotic appeal as it echoes our own secret fears. Any group of men sitting around discussing execution methods eventually, almost inevitably, at least considers burning.

Fred, yet another blond, had about the most stoic attitude possible as he approached death. Some guys can do that, either from remarkable self-control and acceptance of the "inevitable," or maybe deep religious faith. For whatever reason, Fred watched almost impassively as he was made to lie on his back on the ground of the courtyard, a rope around his neck tied to a sturdy stake by his head.

His wrists were hobbled behind his back by a length of rope and a stout pole was tied between his widely splayed knees to keep his legs fully parted. A thin cord was wound all around his cock like a little hemp coat for the shaft, just the flared crown head jutting out like mouse peeping from its hole. His balls were also bound to make them bulge out in the dark, ruddy sac. His crotch and thighs were then doused liberally with gasoline and the chosen executioner ignited a small torch made from rags tied around the tip of a cut-off chunk of mop handle.

The gasoline soaked loins erupted violently with a loud concussive thump when the torch was passed close over Fred's crotch. He was enveloped all around his hips and splayed thighs by writhing tongues of searing flame and a thin pall of greasy smoke.

He burned fiercely and bucked so hard that his mind-shattering screams eventually were choked off by the rope around his throat. He nearly strangled himself pulling against it in his agonized contortions.

The fuel-soaked rope binding his genitals burned with a steady intensity that swiftly reduced his man parts to charred, blackened garbage and his belly and thighs weren't much better off. At some point as his midriff was cooking and incinerating he finally went still in a deep faint from shock , trauma and excessive body temperature. His heart stopped soon after that.

As I drove back to Leavenworth that night I reflected on all the other jobs I could have, and decided I wouldn't trade mine for any other. I fucking love doing what I do!