The crowd had become restless. Conversations popped out in short bursts of moderation, glances stolen toward the stage during each pause. The speakers knew they were soon to be cut off with the start of the show This rustle came and went, a collective held breath. Jack was quiet and had managed to steal toward the front row. He was unadorned with Choppy merchandise, nor did he think to bring any disparaging signs.
He was conflicted. The whole spectacle was grotesque, but it was the merch that bothered him the most. Seeing children walk around with key chains, plushies, twirlers, and hats depicting the bloodied guillotine that hawkers had taken to calling Choppy didn’t sit well with Jack. Whether it was the rampant consumerism or the sugar-blasting of a grim task that made his stomach twist, he couldn’t say. Everyone else had gone and accepted it. The kids had to get acquainted with it, parents would say. They have to learn about the world, others would quip. But there was something about a little girl running around with a shoddily built guillotine toy with red LED eyes and a hand-clamp that brought the blade down on a fake head while a tinny speaker played a harrowing scream that he simply couldn’t find it in himself to indulge. He kept this discomfort to himself. It would do no good to cause a stir, far in the minority that he was.
Yet, here he was. Every month he came to watch without fail. He thought this to be a personal failing. It was a guilty pleasure, and he’d disparage the event if the topic came up. It was barbaric. If it has to exist then it should at least be done with respect, not this mess. TV cameras flanked the black fences keeping the crowd at bay. A drone buzzed above, ready to swoop down and get a close-up of the action. Families were readily phones and cameras. Children rode on parent’s shoulders to get a better view, paper Choppy hats askew on their small heads.
A momentary silence as the curtain swept back on oiled rollers. Then, a roar of fervorous applause. Lights winked from hundreds of cameras. The drone buzzed low and fast. A black-hooded man sat on his knees before the guillotine, its dark blade reflecting the studio lights around it. Next to him stood a blonde man in a severe suit, microphone clutched in a carefully manicured hand. Edmond Dole, the month-on-month host of the event. He cocked a perfect smile, a squeal of feedback from the mic as he brought it to his lips.
“Welcome, welcome. It is a pleasure to see so many familiar faces in the crowd. Is that Leo?” He dropped into a squat, looking at a young boy atop his father’s shoulders, “It is! My, keep your dad in check for me will you?”
He winked, getting back to his feet and wandered the stage. “My people, you all know why it is we’re gathered here today, but I must indulge the powers that be with the formalities. This fellow, quite frankly, is a vile, vile man. Wouldn’t you agree?” Edmond turned, offering the mic to the crowd with an outstretched arm.
The people all around jack hollered and screamed with agreeable derision. Something hurled through the air and hit the ground near the hooded man with a wet thud.
“My, my, it is so very good to see such an excited crowd this evening. Keep hold of that energy!” He strutted to stand next to the man, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Now, this fellow is here to face his end because he couldn’t cut it amongst us civilized folk. Three times he failed the rehabilitation program, and you know what he said when we offered him a fourth try?”
“NO!!”
“...That’s right, he said no! What do we call folks who say no?”
“COWARDS!!”
“Exactly right my friends, exactly right. And what do we say to this man for freeing us of his burden on society?”
“THANK YOU!!”
“Precisely! Thank you for doing the right thing. This, this is your tax dollars at work, people! Now what do you say we get this show on the road, yeah? What do you say about that?”
“CHOPPY!! CHOPPY!! CHOPPY!!” The crowd screamed, and Jack found himself joining the chorus, that funny feeling lost in the excitement.
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