I thought that Al Sharpton was already a sitcom.

Fry Tookie

An appropriate sentence for Stanley “Tookie” Williams, convicted four time murderer.

Many others and I believe that the punishment should fit the crime, that is, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Therefore, using this criterion, Tookie should be sentenced to death by SHOTGUNNING, as he sentenced his victims to die by.

I can see it all now, a macabre flight of fancy, with myself cast as the Chief executioner of San Quentin correctional facility.

One hour before the execution, final preparations would be made in the green room, the warden presenting me with hearing protection muffs and a sawed off, Mossberg 935 12 gauge magnum autoloading shotgun. The magazine would contain brass cased, hotloaded 00 buckshot.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” the warden would ask, a review panel having found that lethal injection was much too merciful for those such as Tookie Williams.

“Sure, I’ve dropped many a deer with one of these babies,” I would answer, hanging the muffs around my neck.

“No, that’s not what I mean, do you think you can slaughter inmate Tookie in such a brutal manner?"

“Why not, he killed his victims in the same way.”

“Very good,” the warden would reply, “Your weapon has been provided with four shells, one for each of his victims. The entire procedure is to take five minutes, in order for Tookie Williams to feel the maximum amount of pain for his crimes.”

“Yes sir.”

“Remember that each shot must be felt by the condemned, the last shot being a point-blank blast to the left side of his face, in memory of his victim Ye Chen Lin. Oh yes, and please be certain the final shot is so directed that it blows his brains out.”

“No problem,” I would answer confidently, sitting down in the death chamber with the Mossberg autoloader in my lap, awaiting instructions to carry out the duly ordered execution.

“Executioner, remember also that you must not speak to the condemned, as it is against prison procedure.”

“Yes, sir,” I would answer from my seat.

Later, Tookie would be drug in, kicking and screaming, to the death chamber. He would look at me with sullen eyes as he was strapped in the chair. The warden would pronounce the sentence, and the chamber would be closed.

“You may proceed, executioner,” the warden would remark over an intercom speaker.

I would nod, place the muffs over my ears, rise from my chair, and cock the Mossberg, chambering the first round.

“You’re a sick muthafucker,” Tookie would yell while I would pause to determine where to place the first shot, for maximum prolongation of his agony.

Remaining silent and focusing on the lower part of his legs, I would pull the trigger, shredding the prison uniform and blowing off his left kneecap, flesh, bone and blood flying everywhere. The spent shell would eject to the floor with a metallic clatter; smoke and the smell of burned powder would fill the room. An overhead exhaust fan would come on, ventilating the noxious fumes from the death chamber. Tookie would shriek in pain, his formerly powerful arm muscles struggling against the nylon restraining straps.

The warden would call out, “Hold for one minute.”

I would nod, preventing myself from uttering a word.

A minute would pass.

“You may proceed.”

Having time to decide where to place the second shot, I would direct the muzzle at Tookie’s right arm and pull the trigger. The blast would sever the arm below the elbow as the condemned would thrash about, writhing in exquisite torment as the spent shell bounced off a thick glass window in the death chamber. Blood would shoot in torrents from the remains of his thrashing arm; the severed lower part still strapped to the arm of the chair.

“Hold for thirty seconds,” would come over the speaker while the exhaust fan would hum in the background.

I would turn to the warden with a quizzical expression.

“He’s running out of blood, at this rate he’ll be dead before you blow his head off.”

I would nod.

“Proceed.”

The muzzle would be aimed as to produce a painful lower gutshot, the 00-buck blasting in a wide pattern, nearly severing his penis and lower spine; the third shell casing bouncing off a wall before landing on the floor of the death chamber.

“Hold for thirty.”

Blood would be dripping to the floor from Tookie’s wounds and spattered about the death chamber; I would pause to wipe blood from my shooting glasses as the smoke cleared.

My glasses replaced, the bored warden would remark in monotone, “You may again proceed executioner.”

“Finish me off you cruel muthafucker!” Tookie would yell with his remaining strength.

“With pleasure,” I would retort with a vicious smile, momentarily losing control and violating prison procedure for the first time in my career as Chief executioner of San Quentin correctional facility.

Calmly aiming point blank at the left side of his face, I would move the checkered buttstock of the sawed-off Mossberg high to my right, so the kill shot would enter his skull at an oblique angle. The trigger would be pulled, the final brass shell casing ejecting automatically. The blast would erase the left side of Tookie’s face; his brains erupting through the skull from the rear of his head, splattering like red, white and gray Jell-O over the green walls of the death chamber.

Slumped in the chair, a dying Tookie would gurgle blood from his mouth for a minute or two; I feeling remorse for having spoke to him in his final moments.

As the smoke cleared the chamber would be opened for a physician to pronounce Tookie dead. The doctor, not really caring, would look over the mangled remains and say, “Well, if Tookie Williams isn’t dead, I’ll bet dollars to donuts that he wishes he was.”

The warden would walk in, stare at me and say, “Christ, what a gory mess, look at you, you’re practically covered in blood from the condemned!”

Yeah, it’s a good thing Tookie didn’t have AIDS or hepatitis,” I would answer nonchalantly, quickly adding, “Sorry warden, I violated procedure by speaking to the condemned.”

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t blame you, he was a mouthy piece of shit; were I you, I’d have punched him for his smart remarks.”

With those words, the execution party would leave, with other death row prisoners assigned to remove the body and disinfect the death chamber.

Later, the warden looking on in sheer disgust, the remains of Tookie Williams would be carried off from San Quentin in an unmarked coroner’s van, to be dumped into San Francisco Bay from the Golden Gate Bridge.