DBC Pierre - Vernon God Little

I'm working on my art project when I hear Jonesy making his way down the Row towards me. Banter from the other cells lets you know where he is. He's bringing the phone. I stiffen, and stash away my art stuff. As it happens though, the big news reaches me before Jonesy arrives with the phone. I hear it from a TV up the Row.

'… The body of the American will be flown home today. Forty refugees also died in the skirmish,' says the news. 'After the break – the end of the road for serial killer Vernon Gregory Little; we'll have the latest on that failed appeal, and also – the duck and the hamster that just won't take no for an answer!'

Jones doesn't look at me, he just passes me the phone. ' Vernon, I'm sorry,' my attorney crackles through the receiver. 'I don't have the words to tell you how I feel.'

I just stay quiet.

'There's nothing more we can do.'

'What about the Supreme Court?' I ask.

'In your case, I'm afraid the fast-track process puts that option out of our reach. I'm sorry…'

I put the phone down on my bunk, hearing every crease of the blanket like gravel in my ears.

Tonight they install cameras in my cell, and remove all the TVs and radios from the Row. We ain't allowed to see how the voting's going, that's why. I just sit quiet in the darkest corner and think about things, I don't even play with the clacking balls. Eight squillion valentines turned up for me, from sickos all over the world. Somebody in the mail room was kind enough to just send up the one from Ella Bouchard. I left her on my mail list, don't ask me why. I don't open it, though. The Row is extra-quiet tonight, out of respect, I guess. They're called the worst in the land, but my Row mates know something about respect.

I need another date with Lasalle. As the first public vote gets underway, I find myself thinking hard on some of that stuff he said. Not that it made a whole lot of sense, back when I had a chance to live. But it laid an egg in my mind that started growing. Face my God. In between trading junk-mail, the other cons get talking about this week's public vote, laying bets who'll be first to go. That's what they do in between griping for their TVs and radios. They don't bet on anyone from this Row, but you know the feeling of being the last one in the dentist's waiting-room? That's me right now. The problem with the voting is that you don't get to hear if it's you until the last day. You have to stay prepared. Sometimes I get grand schemes to be wacky for my execution, wear socks on my ears or something, or say something bizarre for my last statement. Then I just bawl a little. These days I'm bawling way too much really, for a man, I know it.

By the last day of voting, I can't bear it anymore. In an hour the world will know who's going to die. I bitch to Jonesy about some more time with Lasalle, but he ain't interested. He argues with another guard over who gets to mind the governor's phone-line in the execution chamber, for the first executions. Occasionally he snaps down the Row at me.

' Mr Laid-his-ma ordered no more visits,' he says. 'Anyway, in a while you mayn't have to worry about nothin no more.'

In the end I take up clacking the metal balls again, until the other cons join in griping. All it does is ruffle Jonesy's feathers. 'Which one a you fucks got a million bucks to pay for special favors?'

'Git outta here,' yell the cons.

I just sigh. The swirl of musty air rustles a paper on my bench. An idea rustles with it. 'Jonesy,' I say, gabbing the sweepstakes letter. 'Here's your million.'

'Yeah, right ,' he says.

'I ain't fooling – look,' I hold up the envelope.

'You think I was born yesterday?' snorts Jonesy. 'I just about have to shovel that mail-order fuckin bullshit off my driveway every mornin.'

I try a hooshy laugh on him. 'We-ell,' I hoosh. 'O-kay – but this is a legally binding promise for a million bucks – you know they can't say it unless it's true, and they say it right here in red and white.'

'Hey, Little!' calls a con. 'You sayin you got the latest sweepstakes letter?'

'That's right.'

'Does it have black writin on it, or red writin?'

'It's the red one, all right.'

'God, Jesus in Heaven – I'll give you two hundred for that letter,' he says.

'Lemme see that,' Jonesy snatches the letter through my grille. He studies it a second, then says, 'It's got your name on it, that ain't no good to me.'

'Officer Jones,' I say, like a schoolteacher or something, 'my execution-kit has a last will and testament in it – I can leave it to you, see?'

'Little, wait!' yells another con. 'I'll give you three hundred for that letter.'

'Fuck that,' hollers another, 'I'll make it five !'

'Pipe the fuck down,' shouts Jonesy. 'Didn't y'all hear he gave it to me ?' He checks his watch, then points through the grille at my slippers. 'Get ready.'

When the clinking of his keychain is out of earshot, a giggle flutters along the Row. 'Hrr-hrr-hr, fuckin Jonesy,' go the cons.

'Little,' says the con next door. 'You finally learnin how to git along.'

Officer Jones personally marches me along the Row, and down the stairs to find Lasalle. We have to sidestep a porter pushing a trolley loaded with TVs and radios on their way back to the cells. That means the vote is over. Behind the appliances struts the dark-suited man with the execution papers. It's his job to deliver the papers to the head warden of a Row, so that he can deliver them to the condemned man. As the suited man passes, I see Jonesy flash him an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. The man just as imperceptibly shakes his head, and walks right on by.

'None of my boys dyin today,' says Jones. My gut relaxes. I live again, for now. When we reach the floor below, a different floor this time, Jones sticks his head into a regular-looking room, but nobody's there. He calls to a guard up the Row.

'Lasalle around?'

'In the cans,' says the guard, 'takin a dump.'

Jonesy takes me to the shower block on the floor below, and marches me right inside.

'Ain't we gonna wait for him to come out?' I ask.

'No time – it's execution day, I have to get downstairs. You got five minutes.' He casts a shifty eye around, then he leaves me with this echoey drip of brown-sounding water, and goes to stand outside the door.

I crouch on the wet concrete floor, and scan under the cubicles for evidence of life. Two cubicle doors are shut, not that you can lock them or anything. Under one door hangs a pair of jail slippers, and regular jail pants. Under the other is a pair of polished black shoes, and blue suit pants. I knock on that cubicle.

'Lasalle – it's Vern.'

'Aw Jesus. What you think I can do for you from a prison fuckin toilet?'

'Uh – help me face my God.' I hoosh it ironically. I guess it's ironic, hooshing when you're in the prison shithouse on some poor bastard's execution day.

' Shit ,' he gripes.

Everybody's tense today, see. Tension even buzzes through this can door, like we just met in the freezer section of Death-Mart or something. Waves rise to engulf me.

'Really wanna meet you God?' says Lasalle. 'Then git on you damn fuckin knees.'

'Uh – it's kinda wet out here, actually, Lasalle…'

'Then make a fuckin wish to Santa. Ask for what you most want in this damn world.'

I think for a second, mostly wondering if I should just leave. Then, after a moment, I hear Lasalle's clothes rustle inside the cubicle. The toilet flushes. He opens the door. His ole turkey neck appears, poking out of a collar and tie. His bottom lip juts dumb.

'Well?' he says, looking around. 'You a free man?' I look around, like a dumbo, while he straightens his tie, and raises a polite hand to the door. 'Officer Jones,' he calls, 'any news on the boy's pardon?' Jonesy just laughs, a real dirty laugh. Lasalle glares at me. 'So much for fuckin Santa.'