ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
All stories originate within my own mind. Do not do stories about other stories, movies, or books. Any moron can do that. No stereo-typical characters or political correctness tolerated here, only true insight. [July 2006]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (9) Its Alright (Short Stories) A short little brain fart. [837 words] Out Of Sync (Short Stories) Maybe it was just a dream. [722 words] Sally Part One (Short Stories) Opening chapter in the adventures of Sally. [2,245 words] The 9-11 Opportunity (Short Stories) This idea was given to me by my boss. He is the star of the story. Fixed a couple of things. [3,872 words] The Best Life (Short Stories) If only such choices were so clear. [4,287 words] The First Alex (Short Stories) Does anybody review any stories? [3,985 words] The Slow Man (Short Stories) Story of unstable retarded man. [1,267 words] Tom (Short Stories) Story about Tom the prick. [528 words] Warm Goo (Short Stories) Oddly enough, this story has generated interest with a publisher (subject to some rewrite) [3,277 words]
The Convict Gregory Allen
THE CONVICT
BY GREGORY ALLEN
It would not be long now. In a matter of minutes, he would hear the booted feet of the enforcers of his oppressors and it would soon be over. They would take him from his cell and end his existence, that being the punishment they had determined to be proper. He could not disagree. In their position, he would do the same thing. He was a danger to them and their way of life.
They think that this will be the end of it, just another sociopath, whose case would be analyzed, categorized, and debated in psychological circles, perhaps even written about in some trashy, mass-market paperback for the gawking public. But, this time they would be wrong.
Society had reached critical mass for timidity and stupidity, and others like him would throw off the bonds of unnatural society and live as God intended. More and more of them there would be, until there were too many to kill, then they would destroy the present hierarchy created by conniving, limp-dicked men.
Every day, he found hope and validation in the bagfuls of letters he received. True, most of the correspondence was hateful, ignorant, barely literate trash, but he forgave those people. He knew that their attitudes were born from a lifetime of managed information. They were not even aware of the complete brain-washing perpetrated upon them by their teachers, parents, and the media.
Some, however, recognized him for what he was and gave him his proper regard. Of these, the men expressed their admiration and the women, their love. These, he wrote back, warning them that they would not be understood and would be scorned and labeled as deviants. They must be resolute and pass along the message: what it is to truly have free will.
These freedom seekers were not among those in crowds outside the guarded walls, protesting the imposition of the sentence. These be-speckled, goateed, homo-sexual-loving liberals, he despised the most of all. At least those that had judged him had the wisdom to recognize that he was a revolutionary and a danger to their way of life and that his influence must be curtailed. These protesters were merely disillusioned fools beneath his contempt. They were worthy of only being the ditch-diggers of society.
He heard the sound of many feet approaching from the hallway and knew that the time had come. Several men entered and secured his limbs with a series of chains and handcuffs. No words were spoken. He had already refused all offers of comforting companionship for the final, long walk.
He was escorted out and down the hallway, past others that waited to make the same walk. To a man, they despised him. He felt the other death row inhabitants deserved their adjudicated condemnations, if for nothing else, for their lack of intelligence and understanding of his vision.
As he dragged his restraints down the hallway to his doom, so much like another misunderstood messiah some two thousand years ago, he remembered his trial. He could recall the faces of the jurors, filled with fear and loathing as they listened to the lying prosecution detail his so called “crimes”. He remembered the judge, and his smug, self-righteous satisfaction, imposing the sentence, so sure that he was doing the will of the people. He remembered the voices of the “victims” families, heavy with emotion, describing what it meant that they would no longer be seeing their wives and daughters, not ever realizing their own responsibility in their deaths. They were contributors to the society that had forced him to take the actions he did.
Lastly, he remembered the “victims”, their futile struggles against his attentions validating the fact of their cradle-to-grave brainwashing by those who were supposed to care about them. He regretted the fear in their eyes when he was forced to choke the life out of them. It was unfortunate that they had to lose their false lives so that he could continue to live his real one.
They reached their destination at the end of the hallway. The guards quickly and forcefully moved him into position and chained him to the table. A dispassionate doctor put a needle in his arm. Soon, the liquids began to flow. The sedative came first and then the poison. He passed quickly and painlessly, but would not soon be forgotten.
READER'S REVIEWS (3) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"Any story with limp-dicked men in it kicks butt!" -- Jay Rehnke.
"When are you going to quit playing with short stories and write a book?" -- Birdman.
""limp-dicked men" , I think more appropiately should be "dickless". Good job, an erie story." -- Gary Rehnke.
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