The Arizona heat belted Sharkey across the face. It was a far cry from the comfort of the air-conditioned bus. He tried to shade his eyes but his all-encumbering shackles didn't let him. Two prison guards each grasped a bicep and under armed escort, they led Sharkey to a marquee in the middle of the featureless desert. The tent was filled with the witnesses. They fanned themselves and sipped ice water as they followed Sharkey's approach. No one said a word.

Christ, these people loved a performance. Why didn't they just tell him how they were going to execute him and have done with it? Although, the desert and triple digit heat gave him a hint at what was to come.

"Here come the clowns," Sharkey murmured.

The prison warden and his lackeys drizzled from their refuge to greet him.

"What's it to be, Bradford? Am I to be staked out for the vultures to feast on?"

"We've got one picked out," the warden said to the guards, ignoring Sharkey.

Arizona had the death penalty, but the means of execution were infinite. The electric chair and lethal injection was there if anyone so chose. But families of victims of 'special circumstances' crimes got the right to choose the method of execution. The misery for the condemned man was that he didn't know the manner in which he'd be killed. Just the way the victim hadn't. Justice might have been blind, but she was a sadistic bitch.

The guards dragged Sharkey to a seven-foot high, spine-covered cactus with two arms pointing up in mock surrender. They shoved him at the cactus causing him to stumble. He caught his fall and his face came within inches of the eye-removing thorns. He had an undesirable view of each sun-hardened needle, the overnight moisture long since absorbed or evaporated.

From behind, a guard chambered his pump-action and placed the barrel at the base of Sharkey's skull. Two other guards took positions in front of him, behind the cactus, and aimed forty-fives at his face. His arm-holding chaperones removed his handcuffs.

If he was going to do it, then this was the time. His fate was sealed and he knew it. He was going to die to today. There was no way out. But he did have a choice. Attack. He could turn on his guards, throw a punch and be dead before his fist could connect. It would be fast, efficient and painless. Their way would be brutal, drawn out and uncomfortable. He could really piss on their parade, if he wanted to.

But he wouldn't. He was curious. He wanted see how much he had affected those families. What kind of imagination could be spawned from all that suffering? Were they worthy executioners? God help them if they weren't.

The guards with the cuffs spun him around and pressed him against the cactus. Spines pierced his head, neck, back and butt. He cursed. The pump-action was jammed in his face. He drew in the stink of burnt firecrackers with every breath.

Each guard snatched an arm and slammed it against a cactus branch. The cactus drew more blood and more curses. They snapped zip-ties to his wrists causing unforgiving barbs to bury themselves deep into flesh. His ankle shackles were removed and looped around the cactus, dragging him off balance, before they were relocked. Like the cactus, he resembled surrender.

"Read it out," Bradford instructed.

A lackey stepped forward. "In accordance with Arizona state law, you, Richard Sharkey, have been found guilty on six counts of murder with special circumstances. Thereby invoking the 'eye for an eye' ruling. The manner of your execution will be fitting of the anguish felt by your victims and their families. May God have mercy on your soul."

"Okay," Bradford said. He and his men retreated into the shade.

"Is that it? You people make me sick. You think you're better than me? You think this is civilized? Well, I've got news for you. You're no better than me. The only difference is that I know what I am. I'm a killer. I kill out of animal need. But you kill out of spite and revenge." Sharkey spat on the dirt. The desert soaked up the sputum with gratitude.

Sharkey could have been talking German for all the difference it made. Bradford and his men made no remark nor did the assembled crowd shaded under the marquee's protection.

Gutless. The whole lot of them. Not a one of them had the balls to stare him in the eye. They hid their cowardice under sunglasses. He wasn't a angel but he did know he was better than them. He hadn't known his victims. They were obstacles that got in the way of a spree of bank robberies. But if they were anything like their families here today, he was glad he had killed them. He had done the world a favor and he'd do it again given the chance.

He snorted. At least his death wouldn't take long. He glanced up at the sky, ignoring the cactus spines tearing at his scalp. Not an inch of cloud cover. It had to be close to midday and temperatures were skyrocketing. He would fry.

# # #

The ghouls were getting their money's worth. After an hour in the sun, Sharkey was suffering. His face was hot and tight with sunburn. Sweat trickled into the creases on his face and burned like acid. As the top of his head baked, it brought with it a migraine. He had to close his eyes to block out the pain. His legs had given way and he had collapsed against the cactus, causing the spines to rake his flesh. His salt laden sweat bathed his wounds, adding to the agony. He did his best to remain upright, but he managed this feat for only a few minutes. It wasn't long before his trembling legs buckled, re-impaling him to his desert cross.

And as if to add insult to injury, he needed a piss. How could he want a piss when he was dehydrating by the bucket load? He laughed at that one.

He didn't know why he was holding himself. Pride had long since departed. What did it matter if he pissed himself? He relaxed his bladder. Actually, it was a pleasure. He had control over something in his life. He wasn't at Bradford's or any other bastard's whim.

He stared at the puddle forming around his left shoe, staining the pink Arizona dirt beetroot. "I am pissing myself, ladies and gentlemen. And it feels gooood."

His un-adoring fans showed no emotion. No surprise there.

# # #

His piss puddle had evaporated without leaving him the odor for company and his pants had dried. This is getting boring, he thought. And it had to be even more boring for them. At least he was occupied with his slow lingering death. But they had to watch it. Witnessing a man fry in the desert sounded pretty cool on paper. But Christ, when it came to the act, it had to be up there with watching grass grow and paint dry. It was time to put this charade to an end.

"Hey, people!"

No one flinched under their sunglasses. The gallery remained aloof.

"This is getting tedious, don't you think?"

Unsurprisingly, he received no response.

"C'mon people, you can't be enjoying this. It's boring. Even I want this thing over. You've gotten what you wanted. I've suffered. My face is tighter than Liz Taylor's. I'm dying the death of a thousand cuts tied to this desert weed. Hell, I even managed to piss myself for you. Time to call it a day. What do ya say?"

A gecko dot-dot-dashed it over to him--by taking two steps, stopping to stare, then repeating the process. The lizard came within a foot of Sharkey and studied him, intent on what he had to say. At least someone was listening.

"I'll tell ya what--you can kill me. Shoot me. Cut my throat if you like. You can say I was escaping. I bet it's not the first time you sons of bitches have made something like this up."

His proposal resounded off deaf ears.

The cactus shifted. The gecko backed up a step.

He snorted. "Jesus. You bastards really do want your pound of flesh."

The cactus shifted, again. The gecko bolted.

Someone cracked. A stick-thin, elderly man broke the silence. "We won't have to wait too long, Sharkey!"

Bradford jumped up, reminding everyone they were there as witnesses and no one was to talk or interfere. But Sharkey wasn't listening. He wasn't interested. The cactus wasn't built to have a man tied to it. It was coming loose. He didn't have to bait them into killing him. He could force their hand. He might look like the dumbest prick on the planet trying to escape execution with a cactus strapped to his back. But, what the hell? As long as it got him killed, it didn't matter.

He rocked back and forth. For once, the stabbing cactus needles didn't bother him. Pain was temporary. When an Arizona State correctional facility bullet finished him, he would have an eternity to heal.

"Sharkey!" Bradford bellowed. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sharkey leered. He liked hearing the panic in the warden's voice. He continued rocking.

His smiled slipped. He realized the cactus wasn't coming loose. The movement wasn't from the cactus but from something on the cactus. No, he was wrong. The movement, the hollow tapping--no--not tapping, rustling was coming from inside. It wasn't making sense.

"What the hell is going on? What are you people trying to do to me?" Sharkey demanded of a fast charging Bradford. The warden wasn't taking any chances. He jerked out his .357 and cocked it. His guards raced to his side, ready to shoot on command.

The rustling became a scuttling. But for seconds only. The cactus cracked, wrenched opened from within.

"It's happening!" Bradford shouted at the gallery.

The gallery dropped their façade. Their cold-heartened detachment evaporated as quickly as Sharkey's piss stain. Whatever was happening, they wanted their ringside seat.

Sharkey relaxed, closing his eyes. False alarm. Cool refreshment poured down his back, cascading over his shoulders. He savored every droplet to grace his body down to his prison issue boots. They could do anything to him now. He'd go along with it.

"This is what you deserve, Sharkey, you son of a bitch!" the stick man spat, which sparked a chain of recriminations.

Cool refreshment turned to frigid chills. Liquids didn't flow upwards.

Sharkey's eyes snapped open. He was covered in a black rain. The fluid coursed up and down his body. But it wasn't until the fluid ran up his face and crawled across his eyes that he identified it. Each bead was a spider, a baby spider. He didn't need to be told they were lethal. The newborns were hungry and he was lunch.

The gallery closed in to get a better look. Some removed their sunglasses, eager to get an unfiltered view, regardless of the glare. Bradford eased his men into retreat. This moment was for the witnesses and victims' families. None feared the spiders jumping to new prey. It was as if the arachnids knew who was their intended victim.

Sharkey wanted to die, but not this way. He opened his mouth to scream and the spiders poured in.