Don’t Strike the Platform

by

Blaine Arcade

Cupcakes awaited in the break room; the scent was clear as he’d passed by. His coworkers figured he couldn’t smell through the hood, but it was much thinner than people thought. Black as night, yet clear as a bell. All his senses were needed to get his swing right.

And by the reaper he had gotten it right, every time, every year, up to today. His final swing: the 733^rd. One strike. If it took two his record was ruined. Retirement would sour. Cupcakes would taste like ash.

The swinger made his way up the five steps to his black platform, sealed slats ready for runoff. Closed audience. Two television cameras. Everyone around the country knew him, but none knew his face, just the expert swing. The block was locked in with the basket. Clean, but not slippery. Good job Phil. Phil was on rags and mops. Good guy, No perfect record though.

Up came the squirmer with his handlers. They marched him up, bent him, and locked him on the block. Squirming couldn’t do any good now, but most kept going like live bait.

“I can hear you breathing,” the squirmer said, his own breath puffing on his own hood. The handlers were gone already.

“Sorry, nervous,” the swinger told him. “Today’s my last.”

“Good on ye. Mine too.”

“Ha, gallows humor. You’d think I’d be tired of it by now.”

“How about yer arm? That tired?”

“Not on your life,” the swinger joked right back. “What did they get you for?”

“Subversion, sabotage, pissing in authority’s eye. Things that shouldn’t have fallen to me, but yer lot weren’t doing it.”

“Better to keep your head down out there so you don’t have to keep it down in here.” Silence. The cameras were having trouble; maybe the weather interfered with their broadcast. These were open air, with a dirt floor beneath the platform to avoid odors. Dark clouds rumbled above. Rain? Not yet. Just a little nervous sweat. This was his last concert, and he wanted everyone to remember the conductor, not the discordant screaming of the staggered musicians.

“I’d laugh, but I’m not in the mood,” the squirmer said. “How about a final lesson? I always learned more than I laughed. Teach me the business of execution.”

“More of a craft really. Rule one: don’t strike the platform.”

“Why is that?”

“Too much force means you gouge a hole. Everybody can see that. The remains are out of here in under a minute. The gouge stays. It reminds people, and they start feeling down on themselves over what happened.

Keep the platform pristine and everything runs smoothly. That’s why we sealed it, so the blood runs right off. A few shovels of dirt on it, and it’s gone like it was never there. I’ve never been written up even one time, because I leave the platform just like I found it.”

“I don’t much care for the platform,” the squirmer spat, but the hood caught it. “Ye kept it clean, but it’s still on everyone’s minds… and I guess I should say ‘until everyone’s minds are on it’.” The swinger chuckled. “No gouges… but have ye any regrets?” The swinger pondered intensely, the thunder overhead an excellent score for the process.

“I’ve been told I’m the best executioner in the country. I know my technique is great, but only from this end. I wish I could ask you squirmers, after we’re done, what it felt like. I don’t want it to hurt, so if I could change something up a little and make the process more painless I would.

If you wanted to help, you could try and make your eyes real wide after. That’ll tell me it didn’t hurt.”

“Sorry, but those moments are for me. Can’t let ye bastards have a single thing out of my head.”

“Bastard? Hey now, this is just the process. Let it work and it’ll hurt less.”

“Ye’re just doing yer job, is that it?”

“Oh no, I’m doing the best I can at my job. The retirement stipend is better if they see rosy records. Plus, I don’t like to get in the way. That was your problem.”

“Yer my problem.”

“If you’re trying to convince me I shouldn’t hold back, you’re doing an excellent job too. Besides, you really don’t want this to take more than one swing. We’re in the same boat here.”

“Good luck then.”

“Thank you.” The swinger wondered if the cupcakes had fondant guillotines on them. The boys did that for his thirtieth. And they had to be red velvet… or Black Forest? Chocolate dark like the platform, with a molten cherry center, would work too. He could always count on the guys.

The swinger raised his sword once the cameramen gave him their thumbs up. He concentrated, took a deep breath, as did the sky. Before it could come down the clouds coughed up a white bolt. A good conductor after all. It snagged his swing, running down the blade, through his shirtless body, across the squirmer and the block, before dissipating in the dirt.

The reaper would hold the door long enough for him to finish the swing; it was only courtesy. In the flash the sword fell… and the head too! Thousands cheered on the other end of the cameras, but they were off a second later. Nobody wanted to see the swinger fall. Medics rushed to his hulking smoking form as it struck the platform and rolled off.

But he came to his feet, shook free.

“I’m alright,” he assured everyone; he was at least alright enough to go to the basket and lift the hood. Eyes wide. That face definitely learned something. No, no ambulance. They insisted he rest in the break room, where they fed him fondant guillotines. His wife was called, and she fetched him promptly.

“I saw the strike,” she said, steadying her nerves. “I was already on my way when they called.”

“Good on ye.”