I can't stop my hands from shaking. Give or take; my entire body has been quaking for the last nine months. And the sour taste of bile in my mouth daily makes me want to vomit. The never-ending stress of this whole fucking thing will kill me before anything else does. I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror, and I seem to have aged a lifetime in a few short months. How is that possible?
I chose this option willingly. Foolishly. I chose to live a privileged version of a life I've never had instead of going to prison for twenty-to-life. At least twenty years of my already wasted life, potentially rotting in a six-by-eight concrete cell before my parole date even rolls around. No thanks. The putrid ammonia smell from urine permanently seared into my nasal passages from my last stint seven years ago. Never again, I swore to myself. I was going straight, leaving my old ways behind. That never happened, so here I am.
*
I am a weak, pathetic specimen of flesh with no trace of moral character. Not a man who is living his life. Merely a man waiting to die. Wanting to die. You know what they say, "If you can't do the time, don't do the crime." Every night I replay my sentencing hearing over and over again like a bad movie on repeat. The pompous Judge looks down at me, with his black robe and his tortoiseshell glasses outdated by a hundred years or more but well suited to his face. His thinning gray hair, greasy and matted, is plastered down to his scalp, while beads of sweat highlight his wrinkled brow. I know he reeks of body odor without even being close to him.
"You have been shackled in front of me before, haven't you, Mr. Lewiston, more than once? Two previous times according to your docket. Once for armed robbery and once for carjacking. For this third and final crime, you have been found guilty of involuntary manslaughter. Given your continued disregard for the laws of the United Countries of North America, you are now eligible for our enhanced reformation program. You will be given two options today, on this 3rd of March, 2171."
He took a deep, slow wheezy breath and glanced at the lookie-loo vultures in assemblage at today's proceedings. Then in a booming voice, he began again. Juries were a thing of the past now and had been for decades. The Judge was the sole person to decide your guilt since innocence was rare these days.
"Option Number One will include your incarceration for a minimum of twenty years, with a maximum sentence of life. After twenty years, you will come before me again for the only parole hearing you will ever receive. You will be given no guarantees, Mr. Lewiston, of being approved for parole given your repeated penchant for crimes against others, no matter how good your prison behavior may be. Here are the terms.”
His glasses slipped down his nose as he glared at me like I was a cockroach he was about to crush with his scuffed shoe.
“You will be issued a finite amount of monthly credits to spend in the prison commissary. You will only be allowed out of your cell for thirty minutes weekly. Finally, you will not be allowed visitors for the duration of your confinement.”
The crowd hissed.
“I'm sure you've heard of these conditions before, correct?"
I nodded. Yes, I was well aware of these conditions. You warned me of them the last time I stood here before you. "Yes, your Honor, I am aware."
The degenerates in attendance glared down at me from above, their eyes bursting with excitement.
"Option Number Two will include lifelong membership in the Gentlemen's Club. The rules are simple.
You will enjoy a life of luxury from this day forward as a free man, free of charge to you. A furnished apartment is ready for your occupancy in Skytop Towers. Your wardrobe will be provided. Unlimited credits will be issued to your All Access Body Chip. You will be free to travel and live as an elite member of society.
The only condition is that you meet with all club members once a year at their arena Headquarters on the 31st of December at midnight."
A devious grin crossed his cracked lips, and his teeth, crooked and yellowed from age, looked even more revolting than they had the last time I was standing in front of him. "I'm sure you know how the club works, right?"
Once again, I nodded. "Yes, I do, your Honor.” He chuckled, as did the drooling masses.
"You have thirty seconds to choose."
If only they gave the guilty at least a minute to think. Think clearly about the whole fucking thing. Thirty seconds isn't long enough to choose what toppings you want on your cheeseburger from Dirty Dave's, for fuck's sake. My ears rang from all the screaming voices echoing throughout the court, bouncing off the glass walls like supersonic dodgeballs I had no chance to escape. And the massive crowds outside, their faces pressed against the glass, were salivating like dogs waiting for a meal of raw meat. At the same time, I watched the colossal clock behind the Judge tick away my time down to zero. Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen. The chime made my bones rattle; it was so loud. My thirty seconds went by in what felt like the blink of an eye.
"Well, Mr. Lewiston, what Option will you choose?" The Judge's lips curled into a grin befitting Scrooge while his left eyebrow arched upward as a stream of sweat trickled down the same side of his face.
The thousands of spectators egging me on from each of the three balconies were rabid now since I was the eleventh convict to come before them. "Take it! Take it!" they shouted, erupting in euphoric cheers the second I uttered, "Your Honor, I choose Option Two."
*
The Gentlemen's Club was indeed a club by all standards. Membership was not open to the general public. And not the type of Club I would ever consider joining under any circumstances, yet here I am. And yes, I and everyone else in the world knew how it worked. It's existed for fifty-seven years. Its numbers swelled daily and shrank every night at midnight on the 31st of December.
Mr. Huntley was the oldest surviving member, and he welcomed me with open arms on my first day. "I admire those who chose Option Two," he said as he shook my hand firmly. "I am always thrilled to welcome a new member into our folds. I've been here for almost twelve years now. Seems extraordinary to me. New faces always remind us of how lucky we truly are. Well, how lucky we will be on the 31st of December if everything goes well."
I enjoyed the Club in the first few months. Who wouldn't? I was treated like a fucking God. Everything I ever wanted, desired or needed at the ready. Bernard, my servant, was at my beck and call day or night. I didn't have to work or lift a finger. I pranced around like a peacock in full bloom. But each night, the gnawing would begin until it finally reached a fevered pace and chewed at my insides day in and day out. The 31st of December was approaching, and nothing I did would stop it.
The nation would tune in to watch as the names were randomly selected. They would cheer louder with each name as if these men were winning some grand prize. They truly were the lucky ones. They no longer had to live with the stress for an entire year.
They got to leave. Permanently.
*
I grabbed onto the edge of the cold marble bathroom counter to steady myself; I stared into the mirror. Nine months and a handful of days had transformed me. My reflection was not a person I recognized anymore, for better and worse. I need to leave, or I'll be late. I'm dressed impeccably in my designer suit, shirt, and tie. Handmade leather shoes are polished to a high sheen. Dark hair styled so that every strand looks as if it were placed individually. I look devastatingly handsome, like the centuries-old iconic images of Cary Grant I've seen.
The Gentlemen's Club currently has one hundred and fifteen members. There's a formula to calculate how many will be leaving the ranks—a percentage of some sort. No one knows until tonight how many exactly. It changes with each passing year.
As I enter Headquarters, I can't catch my breath. My head throbs and spins, and my stomach lurches. It's my first visit and possibly my last at the same time. I secretly pray it will be my last.
This elite Gentlemen's Club executes some of its members every year on this very night, beginning promptly at midnight. With a click of a button, you are vaporized when the kill mode is activated on your All Access Body Chip. This life is the sentence I chose willingly. I could have hunkered down for the rest of my life and stayed alive. But what life would I have had? I mean, what the fuck kind of life would I have had behind bars? None. Just merely an existence. But Option Two allowed me to live. Live a life I could never have lived. A ragged breath shook my lungs as I took my seat. I chose this. I knew the risks. Every man here knew the risks, yet we still chose this. Willingly.
The meeting is called to order by the Judge. His black robe is dressier tonight, more elegant. His teeth are the same putrid yellow. And his smile is even more insidious since he's activating your death button. He utters a few worthless remarks to titillate the already frenzied crowd of one-hundred thousand plus, and it begins. Millions more are glued to their portal view boxes at home to watch tonight's events. I used to be one of those people. And popcorn sales this year for the kiddies topped last year's. The thought of that sickens me even more.
When your name is announced, you are the center of everyone's hyper-focused attention. The crowd drowns out any anguished cry should it escape your lips. One by one, they rise when their name is called, some rock steady, others stumbling. The rules stipulate you must ascend to the center of the arena unassisted. Alone, they slowly step onto the stage, surrounded by a large circle of chairs, four rows deep, in this vast arena headquarters. The massive spotlights shine down upon the single life of the chosen one as the cameras move in for an up-close shot of his face. Every emotion is captured live. Every bead of sweat. Every tear and clench of the jaw. Some are hunched over; some are standing tall. The crowd is wildly intoxicated with jubilant screams. And then the Judge's barbaric smile splays across his wrinkled face as he presses the button.
One by one, they are turned to dust. Particles of what's left of their bodies float through the air upon vaporization, glistening like stars on a clear winter's eve, eventually settling on the shoulders and laps of those men in the first circle of chairs. A surreal dusting of what was once a life. My seat is in the first circle of chairs since I am a new member. I slowly brush traces of a life no more off my pants, all the while keeping my head upright, my eyes focused on the Judge for the next name. The realization that bits of human dust stick to my clammy palm forces a gag reflex I disguise in the crowd noise. Names continue to be called until the air is thick with sparkling specs.
One last name has yet to be announced. I can't breathe. I'm drenched with sweat as my body quivers. My mind is almost willing the name to be mine. Then it will be over. No more gnawing gut pains. No more anxiety. No more anything.
The Judge calls out the last name. The crowd is beyond deafening. My upper lip flinches ever so slightly as I inhale through flared nostrils. I stand shakily, the reality setting in, alongside every remaining man, as a tribute to the last man to be executed. We watch his final walk. A prayer slips from my lips.
I think I'll celebrate with a cheeseburger from Dirty Dave's, for fuck's sake. And I'll take my sweet old time choosing my toppings tonight. The living men are patting each other on the back in celebration, stirring up those we lost tonight like dust motes. The crowd starts yelling, "Happy New Life!"
Mr. Huntley shakes my hand with a firm but slightly shaky grasp and says, "Lucky thirteen for me! Unbelievable." He walks away with his head held high.
My New Year's resolution will be to live this life to the fullest for the next twelve months without fear of what may come. I know all too well it may be the last twelve months I have. This unusual resolution seems fitting, given the option I chose, especially since I'll be back next year on the 31st of December at midnight for another gathering of The Gentlemen's Club.
I chose this option willingly. Foolishly. I chose to live a privileged version of a life I've never had instead of going to prison for twenty-to-life. At least twenty years of my already wasted life, potentially rotting in a six-by-eight concrete cell before my parole date even rolls around. No thanks. The putrid ammonia smell from urine permanently seared into my nasal passages from my last stint seven years ago. Never again, I swore to myself. I was going straight, leaving my old ways behind. That never happened, so here I am.
*
I am a weak, pathetic specimen of flesh with no trace of moral character. Not a man who is living his life. Merely a man waiting to die. Wanting to die. You know what they say, "If you can't do the time, don't do the crime." Every night I replay my sentencing hearing over and over again like a bad movie on repeat. The pompous Judge looks down at me, with his black robe and his tortoiseshell glasses outdated by a hundred years or more but well suited to his face. His thinning gray hair, greasy and matted, is plastered down to his scalp, while beads of sweat highlight his wrinkled brow. I know he reeks of body odor without even being close to him.
"You have been shackled in front of me before, haven't you, Mr. Lewiston, more than once? Two previous times according to your docket. Once for armed robbery and once for carjacking. For this third and final crime, you have been found guilty of involuntary manslaughter. Given your continued disregard for the laws of the United Countries of North America, you are now eligible for our enhanced reformation program. You will be given two options today, on this 3rd of March, 2171."
He took a deep, slow wheezy breath and glanced at the lookie-loo vultures in assemblage at today's proceedings. Then in a booming voice, he began again. Juries were a thing of the past now and had been for decades. The Judge was the sole person to decide your guilt since innocence was rare these days.
"Option Number One will include your incarceration for a minimum of twenty years, with a maximum sentence of life. After twenty years, you will come before me again for the only parole hearing you will ever receive. You will be given no guarantees, Mr. Lewiston, of being approved for parole given your repeated penchant for crimes against others, no matter how good your prison behavior may be. Here are the terms.”
His glasses slipped down his nose as he glared at me like I was a cockroach he was about to crush with his scuffed shoe.
“You will be issued a finite amount of monthly credits to spend in the prison commissary. You will only be allowed out of your cell for thirty minutes weekly. Finally, you will not be allowed visitors for the duration of your confinement.”
The crowd hissed.
“I'm sure you've heard of these conditions before, correct?"
I nodded. Yes, I was well aware of these conditions. You warned me of them the last time I stood here before you. "Yes, your Honor, I am aware."
The degenerates in attendance glared down at me from above, their eyes bursting with excitement.
"Option Number Two will include lifelong membership in the Gentlemen's Club. The rules are simple.
You will enjoy a life of luxury from this day forward as a free man, free of charge to you. A furnished apartment is ready for your occupancy in Skytop Towers. Your wardrobe will be provided. Unlimited credits will be issued to your All Access Body Chip. You will be free to travel and live as an elite member of society.
The only condition is that you meet with all club members once a year at their arena Headquarters on the 31st of December at midnight."
A devious grin crossed his cracked lips, and his teeth, crooked and yellowed from age, looked even more revolting than they had the last time I was standing in front of him. "I'm sure you know how the club works, right?"
Once again, I nodded. "Yes, I do, your Honor.” He chuckled, as did the drooling masses.
"You have thirty seconds to choose."
If only they gave the guilty at least a minute to think. Think clearly about the whole fucking thing. Thirty seconds isn't long enough to choose what toppings you want on your cheeseburger from Dirty Dave's, for fuck's sake. My ears rang from all the screaming voices echoing throughout the court, bouncing off the glass walls like supersonic dodgeballs I had no chance to escape. And the massive crowds outside, their faces pressed against the glass, were salivating like dogs waiting for a meal of raw meat. At the same time, I watched the colossal clock behind the Judge tick away my time down to zero. Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen. The chime made my bones rattle; it was so loud. My thirty seconds went by in what felt like the blink of an eye.
"Well, Mr. Lewiston, what Option will you choose?" The Judge's lips curled into a grin befitting Scrooge while his left eyebrow arched upward as a stream of sweat trickled down the same side of his face.
The thousands of spectators egging me on from each of the three balconies were rabid now since I was the eleventh convict to come before them. "Take it! Take it!" they shouted, erupting in euphoric cheers the second I uttered, "Your Honor, I choose Option Two."
*
The Gentlemen's Club was indeed a club by all standards. Membership was not open to the general public. And not the type of Club I would ever consider joining under any circumstances, yet here I am. And yes, I and everyone else in the world knew how it worked. It's existed for fifty-seven years. Its numbers swelled daily and shrank every night at midnight on the 31st of December.
Mr. Huntley was the oldest surviving member, and he welcomed me with open arms on my first day. "I admire those who chose Option Two," he said as he shook my hand firmly. "I am always thrilled to welcome a new member into our folds. I've been here for almost twelve years now. Seems extraordinary to me. New faces always remind us of how lucky we truly are. Well, how lucky we will be on the 31st of December if everything goes well."
I enjoyed the Club in the first few months. Who wouldn't? I was treated like a fucking God. Everything I ever wanted, desired or needed at the ready. Bernard, my servant, was at my beck and call day or night. I didn't have to work or lift a finger. I pranced around like a peacock in full bloom. But each night, the gnawing would begin until it finally reached a fevered pace and chewed at my insides day in and day out. The 31st of December was approaching, and nothing I did would stop it.
The nation would tune in to watch as the names were randomly selected. They would cheer louder with each name as if these men were winning some grand prize. They truly were the lucky ones. They no longer had to live with the stress for an entire year.
They got to leave. Permanently.
*
I grabbed onto the edge of the cold marble bathroom counter to steady myself; I stared into the mirror. Nine months and a handful of days had transformed me. My reflection was not a person I recognized anymore, for better and worse. I need to leave, or I'll be late. I'm dressed impeccably in my designer suit, shirt, and tie. Handmade leather shoes are polished to a high sheen. Dark hair styled so that every strand looks as if it were placed individually. I look devastatingly handsome, like the centuries-old iconic images of Cary Grant I've seen.
The Gentlemen's Club currently has one hundred and fifteen members. There's a formula to calculate how many will be leaving the ranks—a percentage of some sort. No one knows until tonight how many exactly. It changes with each passing year.
As I enter Headquarters, I can't catch my breath. My head throbs and spins, and my stomach lurches. It's my first visit and possibly my last at the same time. I secretly pray it will be my last.
This elite Gentlemen's Club executes some of its members every year on this very night, beginning promptly at midnight. With a click of a button, you are vaporized when the kill mode is activated on your All Access Body Chip. This life is the sentence I chose willingly. I could have hunkered down for the rest of my life and stayed alive. But what life would I have had? I mean, what the fuck kind of life would I have had behind bars? None. Just merely an existence. But Option Two allowed me to live. Live a life I could never have lived. A ragged breath shook my lungs as I took my seat. I chose this. I knew the risks. Every man here knew the risks, yet we still chose this. Willingly.
The meeting is called to order by the Judge. His black robe is dressier tonight, more elegant. His teeth are the same putrid yellow. And his smile is even more insidious since he's activating your death button. He utters a few worthless remarks to titillate the already frenzied crowd of one-hundred thousand plus, and it begins. Millions more are glued to their portal view boxes at home to watch tonight's events. I used to be one of those people. And popcorn sales this year for the kiddies topped last year's. The thought of that sickens me even more.
When your name is announced, you are the center of everyone's hyper-focused attention. The crowd drowns out any anguished cry should it escape your lips. One by one, they rise when their name is called, some rock steady, others stumbling. The rules stipulate you must ascend to the center of the arena unassisted. Alone, they slowly step onto the stage, surrounded by a large circle of chairs, four rows deep, in this vast arena headquarters. The massive spotlights shine down upon the single life of the chosen one as the cameras move in for an up-close shot of his face. Every emotion is captured live. Every bead of sweat. Every tear and clench of the jaw. Some are hunched over; some are standing tall. The crowd is wildly intoxicated with jubilant screams. And then the Judge's barbaric smile splays across his wrinkled face as he presses the button.
One by one, they are turned to dust. Particles of what's left of their bodies float through the air upon vaporization, glistening like stars on a clear winter's eve, eventually settling on the shoulders and laps of those men in the first circle of chairs. A surreal dusting of what was once a life. My seat is in the first circle of chairs since I am a new member. I slowly brush traces of a life no more off my pants, all the while keeping my head upright, my eyes focused on the Judge for the next name. The realization that bits of human dust stick to my clammy palm forces a gag reflex I disguise in the crowd noise. Names continue to be called until the air is thick with sparkling specs.
One last name has yet to be announced. I can't breathe. I'm drenched with sweat as my body quivers. My mind is almost willing the name to be mine. Then it will be over. No more gnawing gut pains. No more anxiety. No more anything.
The Judge calls out the last name. The crowd is beyond deafening. My upper lip flinches ever so slightly as I inhale through flared nostrils. I stand shakily, the reality setting in, alongside every remaining man, as a tribute to the last man to be executed. We watch his final walk. A prayer slips from my lips.
I think I'll celebrate with a cheeseburger from Dirty Dave's, for fuck's sake. And I'll take my sweet old time choosing my toppings tonight. The living men are patting each other on the back in celebration, stirring up those we lost tonight like dust motes. The crowd starts yelling, "Happy New Life!"
Mr. Huntley shakes my hand with a firm but slightly shaky grasp and says, "Lucky thirteen for me! Unbelievable." He walks away with his head held high.
My New Year's resolution will be to live this life to the fullest for the next twelve months without fear of what may come. I know all too well it may be the last twelve months I have. This unusual resolution seems fitting, given the option I chose, especially since I'll be back next year on the 31st of December at midnight for another gathering of The Gentlemen's Club.
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