Sometime in the near future, a disgruntled and easily manipulated British public voted in a referendum for the return of capital punishment. For a highly paid executioner this would prove to be a counterproductive exercise.
Radcliffe Hirtlebottom sipped his wine arrogantly with a smug expression on his face. He had sent his wife off to bed after she had cooked his evening supper. As she proceeded up the staircase of their large town house. He bellowed from the dinner table.
“I will wake you for sex later, then you can resume your rest. Then in the morning you will go to the polling station and vote conservative for the next general election.” Little did he know his wife always voted Liberal Democrat in protest to her forceful husbands request.
“Yes dear” his wife Agatha smirked.
Chomp “mmm” Radcliffe devoured the last bit of his roasted duck and caviar. That bastard deserved the rope he thought as he reflected on the days events. Radcliffe was a high lord executioner and a vehement conservative. As he grabbed the television remote and surfed the channels. All he could see was the images in his head. Convicted killer Basil Tush hanging from his broken neck, swaying back and fourth, courtesy of Mr Hirtlebottom.
Somewhere deep inside he almost felt a tiny amount of remorse, however, with an arrogant huff the remorse was diminished. With days events still circling around in his head he began to dose off.
Knock Knock. After an hour Radcliffe awoke startled by a knock on the front door. He sprung to his feet. “Who is it?” he called, as he hurtled towards the front door in his red silk pyjamas. His slippers stomped the hard wood floor and he huffed as he the opened the door. To his surprise there wasn’t a soul in sight. The whole street was as dead as a poisoned rat. His moustache twitched.
“Bloody knock a door run drunks” he muttered as he closed the front door violently. Time for a night cap. Then to his amazement his psyche was infiltrated by a blood curdling scream from upstairs.
“Agatha, Agatha what is wrong, another nightmare?” He condescended as he marched up the stairs.
He burst into their bed chamber. When he realised why his wife had screamed his jaw almost dropped from his face. Tied by her wrists and ankles to each bed post, Agatha was dead, her eyes left wide and fearful after her departure from the mortal realm. On top of her was a scruffy dressed maniac, carving through her stomach with a saw. Suddenly the man stopped sawing and his head twisted around from front to back.
Radcliffe’s world suddenly exploded when he stared into the maniacs cold, angry, dead eyes. It was Basil Tush, the man he executed earlier that morning. His skin was icy blue and he had risen from the dead. “Innocent, I am innocent” Basil groaned as he pointed across the room at the new age hangman. Radcliffe felt woozy and drifted into unconsciousness and fell to the ground. Three days later The Hirtlebottom’s son found his mother carved up into pieces in her bed and his father hanging from the bedroom balcony with the words “I am innocent” carved into his chest.