Moral stories on death penalty: a nightmare

Stories and News No. 728

It seems that lacking of pentobarbital anesthetic could stop upcoming executions in Texas and other US states.
A nightmare for the supporters of the death penalty...

Once upon a time there was a senator.
A senator from Texas, so we remain close to the truth, or maybe just the news.
Far from being synonymous.
We will call the senator as Mr. White.
So, just to remind us the number of Blacks crowding the death row.
That night the senator awoke screaming loudly drenched in sweat.
Sitting on the bed, he looked at his hands on the pillow and started to cry.
He cried with relief.
It was just a nightmare.
It happens also to the senators.
The disturbing storytelling of the psyche had began quietly, with a trivial prologue.
The man had found himself in a very well-known scene.
Microphone near the lips and an attentive and silent audience.
Never let it be otherwise, when the senator went on stage.
Usual words of usual speeches for pre vote sowing.
The man must pay for his misdeeds, lethal injection works, the statistics prove that, good citizens have the right to security... and so on declaiming.
Until Mr. Grey, the faithful pilot fish inseparable from the predator, had caught his attention from behind.
"What do you want, idiot?" Mr. White had squawked enjoying his own bastardy even in a dream, "don’t you see I'm talking to the crowd?"
"Yes, I see it, but we cannot proceed with the execution of Mr. Brown."
"Why?"
"Because anesthetics are finished."
"Well, I have to explain everything? Hit the man with a blow to the head before the injection."
"Well, the fact is that lethal drugs are also finished..."
"So what? Use arsenic or cyanide, what you find."
"Maybe, but the problem is that syringes are over too. A subversive organization of schoolboys enemies of the needle stole all of them; their name is the Defenders of the tender butt or the Avengers of the sacred ass, I cannot remember."
"Damned kids... what about the electric chairs?"
"Useless, boss, it seems that now they no longer work. Scientists call it the syndrome of the torpedo and it is especially prevalent in poor and abandoned by the state neighborhoods."
"What do you mean by that, idiot? Are you suggesting that where is poverty and degradation it is easier to end up in jail? You're right, this time, but it is a good thing, so we do a little cleaning freeing us of useless existences, that is natural selection..."
At that moment the senator had noticed a detail changing the dream into a nightmare: the microphone had been turned on all the time.
So, backs to the wall under the looks of the crowd, Mister White had taken the only possible direction, the one to the end.
"Mr. Brown should die," the senator had passionately exclaimed, "he must answer for what he did, the law says that, he should have thought before making his crimes to the state, toward us. Eye for an eye, the book says, the man hit me and I'll hit him..."
"Amen, Senator," Mr. Grey had said pushing a bed with wheels to the stage, "here is Mr. Brown."
"W-What should I do?" the senator had asked with pale face.
"Make justice," Mr. Grey had replied.
And a deafening chant had risen from the crowd: "Death, death, death to the man."
As if in a trance, a kind of killing voodoo puppet, Mr. White had brought his hands around the neck of a helpless Mr. Brown, who was staring at him with expressionless eyes.
He had started to shake.
He had choked him more, and more.
Until he woke up and saw the pillow in place of the victim's head.
"What is it, dear?" Mrs. White asked.
"Nothing," he replied, trying to push back the tears in his eyes, "it was just a nightmare."
Only a bloody, terrible and inhumane nightmare, killing someone in cold blood.
Fortunately, I am just the one who speaks, the senator thought before going back to sleep.
Otherwise, just telling another one, do you imagine all those who have praised the military intervention in the wars of this world running under the bombs?

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