"Tiny's Revenge"

Bill Connally thought he’d seen it all. As warden of the largest maximum security prison in Illinois, he’d seen the worst offenders this country had imprisoned. But the worst of the worst were housed on the prison’s Death Row. These included stone-cold killers, psychotic murderers, and even a few politicians who were, naturally, shunned by the rest.

The Warden had arranged to meet with a select group of these reprobates in one of the cafeterias, a stark, windowless hall with stainless steel metal tables bolted to the floor and surrounded by a trio of two-level guard towers. Ten more guards flanked the Warden as he strode confidently into the room, followed by two of his psychiatric advisors and a couple of less important legal aides.

Opposite the Warden and refusing to stand upon his arrival were five prisoners, four of whom were nicknamed by the general population “The Four Wise Men.” They weren’t wise, not even close. They were simply ruthless thugs, willing to do whatever it took to get whatever they wanted:

There was Kay-din, a heavyset Chinese-Indonesian warlord brought low by an underling who turned him in to the Feds for a huge bounty;

Pedras, a drug boss with a lengthy ponytail who was ratted out by a rival Mexican cartel;

Micky Juice, once the racketeering king of Philly who woke up one morning to find his hideout raided and his wrists in handcuffs;

Antonin, the Italian mafioso with more contract killings under his belt than anyone on the Eastern seaboard.

And then there was Tiny, a massive chiseled black man, all six-foot-five of him, sitting off in a corner by himself, his eyes half-lidded as if deep in meditation.

No one was really sure why Tiny was in stir. Rumor had it that he showed up after confessing to a crime he didn’t commit. But as he was pure muscle and seemed unwilling to ever greet anyone, no one had found the cajones to ask him about it. In fact, no one in the general population had ever actually heard Tiny speak. They weren’t sure if Tiny was even an acceptable nickname for him, but that was what the other prisoners called him. Not to his face, of course, and never anywhere close enough for him to overhear.

There was that story about another big fellow, a lifer who called himself the Monk, an equally massive, bald-headed weightlifter who fancied himself a martial artist. The Monk once attempted to engage Tiny in a little hand-to-hand exhibition match, mano a mano. In reply, Tiny drove the Monk’s head about a foot into a cinderblock wall. That was the end of the Monk’s short career as a martial artist, and after that, no one ever gave Tiny the time of day.

But there Tiny sat with the Four Wise Men, in a room otherwise cleared of the less important inmates. The Four were cracking jokes and making idle threats against each other’s various body parts when the Warden strode in. The Four continued laughing and sniggering, though they dropped their volume enough that the Warden and his goons couldn’t tell if they were the butt of their jokes or not.

After waiting a solid minute for them to take note of his appearance, Warden Connally finally cleared his throat and spoke.

“Gentlemen,” which elicited a chorus of guffaws from the Four, “you have been asked here because I need a bit of your…” The Warden paused and looked back at one of his legal aides before continuing with the word, “expertise.”

“Our expertise?!” Pedras replied mockingly. “Homie, you don’t want to see our expertise! It would be what you would call…” He smiled sweetly across at the Warden. “Terminal.”

The other three Wise Men beside him congratulated Pedras on his choice of words and laughed a bit more. Warden Connally crossed his arms and waited patiently for their laughter to die down before continuing.

“In exchange for your help, I am prepared to offer you certain special benefits.”

The warlord Kay-din scoffed. “What benefits? You can’t do nothin’ to make our lives less miserable here! What, you gone get us offa the Row?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t make me laugh!”

The Warden stroked his immaculately shaved chin. “No, of course not. I don’t have the legal authority to remove you from Death Row.” The Four sneered and catcalled against his false hope, until the Warden raised his voice and added, “But there are certain benefits I can offer you to make your stay a little less onerous.”

“Like what?” asked Micky Juice. “You gonna get my old lady a weekend pass?”

The Warden mulled this over for a brief moment, scratched his nose, and replied simply, “Yes.”

“Really? You ain’t jivin’ me?” Micky asked.

“Gentlemen,” Warden Connally addressed them again, “my powers are, of course, limited. But I can offer you some increased benefits that I think you’d appreciate. More conjugal visits, better meals, additional time in the yard—” Time outside of their cramped cells and out in the fresh air and sunshine was a luxury every inmate desired, especially those on the Row. “Whatever you want that is within my power to provide. And all I need from you in return is your help in dealing with one of your own.”

The Four looked around at each other, wondering which of them would be the target of the Warden’s wrath.

He waved both hands in front of him to dispel that notion. “No, my problem isn’t with present company. It’s with…” Warden Connelly swallowed before mentioning the prisoner’s name. “Billy Bathtub.”

Among criminals, there were certain do’s and don’ts that even the most heinous killers respected. You didn’t rat out your comrades. You didn’t steal from your own crew. And you certainly didn’t harm children. Any of those transgressions earned a much harsher time behind bars. But the notorious Billy Bathtub had done far, far worse, and specifically to young African American kids. He was so despised by the black prisoners that he’d been placed in solitary confinement for almost the entire ten years that his appeals for leniency had run their interminable course. Not as punishment, but for his own safety: more than a hundred death threats had been yelled or screamed at him whenever he was caught sight of by the black inmates.

Each of those threats were accepted with great amusement by the pale, overweight, perpetually smiling mass murderer. He’d occasionally purse his lips and blow them a kiss as the knot of guards hustled him out to the yard for his daily hour of walking aimlessly on the small patch of ground set aside for the Death Row inmates. But now, Billy Bathtub, the Warden explained, had done something no one else in the criminal justice system had tried to do. He had chosen a most unique means for his own demise:

Death by Chocolate.

In the past year, the State had begun offering Death Row inmates a choice of their execution. Most had chosen the quickest—a firing squad—or the least painful—lethal injection. It allowed the State to get rid of some of its worst inmates and save money, while it offered the prisoners a modicum of self-respect and even a show of bravado on their way out the door.

But Billy Bathtub had chosen an option no one else had tried before.

Warden Connally attempted to explain the problem to the Wise Men. It seems the human body could actually die from eating too much chocolate, but it would take the equivalent of that human’s actual weight in chocolate to bring on lethal toxicity. In Billy’s case, it could take years for him to reach that point. Meanwhile, Billy could thumb his nose at the system that kept him inside and away from his true love: murdering helpless youths.

Immediately, the Four offered up numerous alternatives, including chocolate bullets, chocolate shivs, even a chocolate garrot. The Warden patiently explained that none of those would work, since each of them was already considered some other form of execution, and in Billy’s case, it had to come from him consuming the chocolate.

“And no,” the Warden said as Antonin’s face showed he had a great idea, “poisoning his chocolate is out, too.”

Tiny took the opportunity to stand, stretch, then walk quietly and calmly over to stand in front of the Warden. The guards interposed themselves between Tiny’s massive bulk and their boss. Tiny waited for them to settle down before he spoke.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“I thought you might,” the Warden said, nodding. “And, uh, how will you accomplish—”

“You don’t wanna know,” Tiny said flatly.

“Okay,” Warden Connally replied, “you’re probably right. Well then, how much chocolate will you need?”

Tiny cracked the smallest of smiles. “Just one slice of cake.” His smile widened a hair. “From a 24-layer chocolate cake.” He held up one meaty hand with his index finger raised. “And in return, I have a special request.”

The next day, at the normally appointed time for Billy Bathtub’s regularly scheduled hour in the yard, his cell door opened. But instead of the customary ring of guards, there was only one man, Tiny. The massive black prisoner held something behind his back.

“Hey, big guy. What you doin’ here? I ain’t got time fer you,” Billy said, noticeably annoyed. “I gotta date with Mister Sunshine.”

Tiny took a step into the cell, and pulled the door closed behind him. “Brought you a present, Billy.” He revealed a plate with the largest slice of chocolate cake Billy had ever laid eyes on.

Billy’s concern turned to almost comical relief. “Oh, really? Is that s’posed to be my means of execution? I think you’re about two hundred pounds o’ chocolate short there, pal.”

Tiny took another step forward, closing the distance between him and the pale-faced menace. “I don’t think you understand, William Taylor Halston, of Athens, Georgia, killer of seventeen young black children dating all the way back to 1987. You’re not eating this chocolate cake.”

As Tiny recited his full name and details of his crimes that even the D.A. didn’t know, Billy started to tremble. “No? Then what am I s’posed to do with that thing?”

Tiny took one last step forward until he held the slice of cake directly in front of Billy’s mouth.

“You’re gonna inhale it.”

The guards outside of Billy’s cell had been given strict orders by Warden Connally not to open the cell door no matter what they heard inside. So when Billy started screaming for help, then striking the large man with his bare fists, followed by several minutes of choking and gurgling, then silence, the guards did nothing but stare straight ahead at the opposite wall.

One hour after he’d entered Billy’s cell, Tiny opened the door and walked out. He wiped his hands, cast a casual glance backward, then said to the head guard, “Tell the Warden I expect him to keep our bargain.”

The next day, Tiny sat in his cell as a construction crew began installing a very narrow window in his cell. His was the only Death Row cell in the prison that would have its own window. Conveniently enough, it looked out onto the prison cemetery, where a new guest was being welcomed.

“Hey, Tiny,” one of the workers dared ask, “why the view of the cemetery?”

Through his customary half-lidded eyes, Tiny replied, “I wanna see him get planted.”

Out in the cemetery, Billy’s coffin was open to the sky, showing he was to be buried face down.

The worker noticed and nodded. “So, what kind of chocolate cake did you feed him?”

Tiny smiled a grim smile. “The only kind he deserved: dark chocolate.”