"Hey, can you pick up the tempo a bit?  I haven't got all day."  I give
you a rude poke in the back with my nightstick.  You flash me a look
with knives in it, but you keep your mouth shut.  That's a good think; I
won't hesitate to knock out another of your teeth.  Alas, you don't
walk any faster - you shuffle like a person on his way to the death
chamber, which of course, you are.

The chains on your wrists and ankles have rubbed the skin raw.  Your
filthy rags are more off your skeletal body than on.  I doubt there'll
be anything left to throw in the river when we're done - a dust buster
will probably do the trick.

The other prisoners are quiet, like they are each death day.  They
occupy themselves by picking at their nails or just staring blankly
at the walls.  Above all else, they avoid eye contact with you.  They
don't want to be associated with a corpse, as if executions were contagous
or something.

Even the other guards look anywhere but at us.  I make a game of it.  As I
pass somebody, I'll make some motion or some noise.  A cough, a loud
sniff, or even a hiccup.  If the person glances at me, I'm ready with a
toothy smile and a wink.  Cracks me up.

Finally, we reach the death chamber.  You're unshackled for the first
time in ten years.  You flex your hands and rotate your wrists, but
your newfound freedom is short lived.  Gentle but firm hands guide you to
the chair.  Leather straps hold you fast, although I doubt you would
have the strength to struggle out of a bit of scotch tape.  Finally the
electrodes are fastened.

I put my leering face less than an inch away from yours.  "Any last words?"