Silver Hair shook his head. “Why revenge? Why not forgiveness?”
“Seriously?” The governor laughed. “Forgiveness will get you killed these days.”
“Should we also cut off the hand of the thief or stone the adulterer, Governor? Aren’t we supposed to be more civilized than that?”
“The longer we try to figure out how to deal with the psychopath in a civilized manner, the longer the psychopath feeds on us. When the punishment for killing a person with an ice pick is getting stabbed with an ice pick, only then will justice be just.”
“You’re saying ‘justice.’ But sir, you’re talking about vengeance. Sharia law has no place in this country.”
“Call it what you want. I’m talking about punishment for people who don’t understand anything else. Let’s rewind here. Seventeen-seventy-six. The birth of our great nation. How did we punish criminals back then? Floggings. Whippings. Firing squads. Public hangings. Let’s get back to giving the guilty something to think about.”
The host stared at the governor, tilted his head, looked at the man like he had just spoken in Chinese. “Sir, that was two and a half centuries ago.”
“How long has the wheel been round?”
“What?”
“The wheel was invented round, right? A lot longer than two hundred and fifty years ago. And it’s still round today. If it works, don’t change it.”
Mister Fancy Man shook his head. “I’m not even sure how to respond to this argument. Brutality against mankind compared to the shape of a wheel?” He shrugged dramatically. “Let’s move on. Say this human zoo of yours was put into place. Who pays for the expensive surgeries to repair all the broken bones and puncture wounds?”
“No expensive surgeries. The bones are set, the wounds are cleaned and sewn up, and antibiotics are given. Heal the criminal and get him back on display.”
“Does the guy at least get pain medication?”
“I don’t know. Did he give his victim any?” The governor stared at his host.
“And how long would the Criminal Zoo sentence run? Until they die?”
“The Criminal Zoo would pull those who want to hurt us off the streets and never put them back. Live, die, a year, a decade, I don’t care. I only want to protect the people who elected me. It is my job to keep them safe.”
“Harsh, Governor. Very harsh.”
“No, harsh is having to tell your children their mom is never coming home. Never going to tuck them into bed. Never going to kiss them goodnight, ever again.”
“Sir,” the host replied. “If we allowed something like this to happen, could we still call ourselves civilized?”
“The answer lies within each of us. For those whose hearts have been ripped out by animals with no regard for life, it’s an easy answer.”
“And you honestly think you could get anyone to take you seriously about this?”
“Just watch me.” He paused, then added, “And you want to know the best part?”
“Dare I ask,” the host replied.
“The guy is going to ask to be sent to the Zoo.”
“Governor McIntyre, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve lost your mind. No one would choose such an atrocity.”
The governor smiled. “Depends what’s in it for them.”
A Frightening New Chapter
The nation had gotten soft on crime, starting with the president and working down. Too many years of left-wing appointees made the Supreme Court “criminal friendly.” Suddenly the bad guys were getting pardoned left and right. Then the justices went too far. They reevaluated the argument against capital punishment, declaring it unconstitutional.
But nobody realized what would happen next. A massive right-wing backlash hit like a tidal wave. People got pissed. Stories like the one about the man cutting off his girlfriend’s head and hanging it from his ceiling fan, only to get “life” in prison, infuriated people. Or the woman who read her husband’s texts. They must’ve been bad because she took a machete to him as he slept. Yep, she got life. They all got life.
With the death penalty gone, there was no harsher punishment. TV’s constant coverage of one horrible murder after another was overwhelming. The final straw was when a young mom killed her baby girl, cut up the body, and scattered the pieces in the woods for the animals to eat. Life in prison wasn’t good enough.
And then a governor’s wife disappeared.
At first, the high and mighties in Washington said the whole thing was ridiculous. No one would even discuss the idea of introducing legislation geared toward a Criminal Zoo. But enough people, stirred up by Governor McIntyre and his nationwide campaign, must have told their representatives that if they wanted to be reelected, they would find a way to make it happen. The first to fall was a Florida congressman. A New Jersey representative was next, closely followed by a fellow from New York. And then Capitol Hill crumbled under the onslaught.
The Chronicle reported that not only did the governor muster up a shit ton of support, he also mustered up a shit ton of money. He put together a hardcore legal “dream team” and hired some badass lobbyists to write up the bill. So said the news. It was all everyone was talking about for a while.
Congress finally ran out of ways to sidestep the matter and had no choice but to debate the governor’s proposed bill, the Violent Criminal Human Zoo Act.
Everyone in Washington moaned and groaned a lot, but eventually passed the proposal. The “Confinement Center” option tipped the scales. Imagine being buried alive, but you could stand up in your coffin, and it would take years to die. That was the Confinement Center in a nutshell. But more about that later.
The president wanted a second term. He went with what the people wanted. He signed the bill. So each night we got a little Government 101 from the news. The proposed amendment went out to the states for ratification. It passed by a wide margin.
Right after that, the president went on TV and gave a big speech about it. He had a serious look on his face while speaking of being “deeply concerned” and said a “frightening new chapter” had begun for the American way of life. He prayed that the Criminal Zoo Amendment would be used with the greatest of care and that “compassion for our fellow man would not become a thing of the past.”
Human rights activists went nuts. But it didn’t matter. The people had spoken. They wanted the animals to pay the ultimate price.
A multibillion-dollar private company stepped in and offered to build the Zoo. They contracted out with the Department of Corrections and took the reins. Due to the huge cost of building such an elaborate facility from the ground up, the company, along with the DOC, decided the Zoo would be created at an already existing site—Florence, Colorado, home of the “Alcatraz of the Rockies.”
Right in the governor’s backyard. I’ll bet no pockets were lined for that.
The 562-bed prison known as “Supermax,” would house the Criminal Zoo. It was already home to some of the worst criminals in the world. But since they were not sentenced to the Criminal Zoo, they were shipped to other locations.
Supermax boasted state-of-the-art security and had never allowed an escape. And it was centrally located, which was a heavy consideration for visitor appeal. Less than a year later, Governor Jon McIntyre’s demented baby was born and physical torture became a part of mainstream America.
Because of a man bent on revenge, and the general public’s crusade to label me a serial killer, I now reside in Florence, Colorado. I am an exhibit in the Criminal Zoo.
New Friends
As a kid growing up in Clemensville, when the dream of becoming an astronaut still existed, the world was simple. Why an astronaut? What boy didn’t want to do that? Think about it. Space: so peaceful. So beautiful. And so far away from my dad.
Back then, things like Criminal Zoos didn’t exist. The Bible existed. And everyth
ing else existed around that.
There was nowhere to go, nothing for a kid to do, and not a pretty girl in sight. At least not one who paid attention to me. And even if one did, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.
My dad had told me long ago that knowing a girl’s body before marriage was absolutely forbidden. He informed me that the “eternal tortures of Hell” awaited anyone ignorant enough to fool around with a girl. And if his word wasn’t enough, our preacher, standing in front of the congregation and slamming fisted hands against the top of the pulpit, shouted the exact same thing.
I had an older sister, Sheila. I saw her in her bra and panties once. I walked by her bedroom and the door was slightly open. I mean, I hardly even touched it. And I swear I just looked for a second. The way she screamed you would’ve thought I was posting naked pictures of her on the Internet. I was only like eight or nine. I was curious. That’s all. She told my dad. After he was done with me, I couldn’t sit down for a week.
So they’re different. No penis. Got it. But no one would tell me what the big deal was. The threat of fire and brimstone seemed a little extreme. That just made me more curious. I really wanted to know what sort of wickedness girls hid between their legs. But I’d have to find out on my own. Sex Ed in the Bible Belt? You had a better chance of learning how to drive the space shuttle. Something I would never learn to do, by the way, since my dad crushed the astronaut dream long ago. After he told me, “Boy, you’re too stupid to be an astronaut,” I never brought it up again.
It wasn’t just the way girls looked that intrigued me; I wanted to know how it all worked. Knowing they didn’t have the water hose that came standard with boys, I wondered silly things like, how did they pee? My questions went unanswered for a long time.
After turning twenty-one, I occasionally went to a place called Texas Jack’s—a bar on the northern edge of town—to try to meet girls. I wasn’t really a drinker, but it made me feel grown up to hang out there. My normal routine was to grab a beer when I first walked in and sip it for the next hour or so. It didn’t matter what kind of beer; they all tasted bad. I grabbed whatever was on special that night. When I was done, I’d drink a glass of water and then order another beer. I wanted to fit in.
They played good enough music at TJ’s—that’s what the regulars called it. I danced whenever someone would be my partner. I wasn’t a very good dancer. But I kept trying because I hoped to eventually find “Mrs. Right” in there. Not that I had a damn clue what that even meant. Someone to cook me dinner every night, served with an ice-cold glass of sweet sun tea?
I’m sure if my dad had found out he would’ve told me how I would burn in Hell for hanging out there, but I was willing to risk it. Everyone needed some companionship. But apparently I didn’t have that certain look the girls went for. It took a few years before I had a real shot at picking one up.
Her name was Starla. Her long red hair caught my attention. The lights were just bright enough to make her hair shimmer, like it was on fire, as she spun around. She wore a short denim skirt, a little pink tank top, and white cowgirl boots that barely touched the floor as she danced.
At the end of a song, she hugged her dance partner, the fourth since I took notice, and walked toward the edge of the dance floor where I stood. She caught me looking. Instead of turning away like every other girl, she smiled. I looked at my feet—cheap tennis shoes, not cowboy boots—afraid to hold her gaze.
“Hi.”
I looked up and she stood before me, still smiling.
“Uh…hi,” I stammered.
“What’s your name, cutie pie?”
Cutie pie? I got lightheaded, even a little disoriented. “Uh…I’m…uh…I’m Samuel.”
“Nice to meet you, Samuel.” Her smile weakened my knees. “I’m Starla. Care to buy a drink for a thirsty girl?”
“Uh yeah, sure.” This was a rare occasion where I actually had money in my pocket. I’d had a pretty good week with my landscaping business. Mowing extra lawns, clearing shrubs, and trimming trees had given me an extra hundred bucks.
We walked to the bar and grabbed two stools.
“Hey, Greg, a couple of drinks over here!” Starla shouted to the big guy behind the bar.
The bartender, wearing a black cowboy hat on top of equally black curly hair and a matching leather vest over a red T-shirt, approached us. He had a Coors Silver Bullet in hand. “Way ahead of you, baby.” He smiled as he set the can in front of her and then turned his gaze to me. The smile remained. “What about you, boss?”
“Uh…yeah, sure, I’ll take the same.” I made a big production of pulling out a wad of money. A fifty, two twenties, two tens, a five, and three ones.
I slapped the fifty down with authority. Greg nodded and retrieved another beer from the cooler. He set the can on the bar. “Coors is the special of the night. Only seven bucks for the both.”
I pushed the fifty forward. “Here, keep a dollar for you.”
“A dollar? Thanks,” Greg replied, grabbing the bill. He shot Starla a look I didn’t understand. He returned his gaze to me. “Be back with some change.” He walked away.
Starla sat on the barstool next to me, put her hand on my thigh, and started talking. I could feel her touch right through my jeans. It made me nervous but I don’t think it showed. Hopefully she didn’t notice me sweating. Her skirt was short enough that if she moved just right I could see her white panties.
She caught me looking. I braced for the slap. She only smiled. “Let’s do a shot!”
“Okay.” The word escaped my lips without my consent.
“Greg, two Cuervos over here!”
Greg returned with my change. “Forty-three bucks back at ya, buddy. Except one for me!” He pulled a dollar out of the money, gave me the rest, and then spun around and shoved the buck into his tip jar on the back bar. He turned to Starla. “Two Cuervos coming up!” He grabbed a square, yellow-labeled bottle from the shelf behind him, grabbed three shot glasses, and filled them with golden liquid. He set them before me and said, “You need salad? Or you a man?”
“Salad?” I hesitated. “No, I’m a man. No salad.” What the hell was salad?
“Those are on me. Now let’s get this party started!” He grabbed one of the shots and slammed it. He shook his head, growled. “Medicine for the soul!”
Starla’s hand slid up my thigh. I almost fell off the barstool.
“To new friends,” she said, picking up her shot.
I picked up my shot. “Yeah, to new friends.”
I was with a pretty girl. The bartender was buying us shots. I was having fun. Maybe this was when the world finally decided to give me a break.
In My Wildest Dreams
That shit burned all the way down to my guts. I almost threw it right back up.
“You okay?” Starla asked. “You look a little pale.”
I nodded, momentarily unable to speak. After a moment the wave of sickness passed. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Wanna get outta here? Let’s go to my place. We can drink a beer and you can tell me about yourself.”
“Really?” Is this really happening?
She nodded, smiling the whole time. “Sure. How else can I get to know you?”
The day I had been dreaming of was finally here.
Starla grabbed my hand, and we climbed from our stools.
Greg looked over. “You guys outta here?”
“Yep,” Starla answered.
“Have a great night.” The bartender smiled. “See you again soon, huh?”
Starla turned toward the door. “Let’s go, Romeo.”
In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined an encounter like this.
“I’ll just jump in with you,” I said, as we walked into the warm Texas night, facing the parking lot. I drove a beat-up old Subaru wagon that I had parked aroun
d the corner out of embarrassment.
“Honey, don’t you know it’s against the law to drink and drive?” She pulled me away from the parking lot and down the sidewalk.
I wiped sweat from my brow and took in a deep breath. I looked at our interlocked hands and then up to her.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
We arrived at her house—a single-wide trailer—in only minutes, yet my heart beat as if I had just run a marathon.
“I have cold beer in the fridge. You up for one?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Once inside, Starla motioned me to a faded red couch facing a small flatscreen TV on a cheap-looking stand. Worn carpet covered the floor.
A single framed picture hung on the far wood-paneled wall: a large painting of what was possibly a horse walking out of a barn. Or maybe it was a cow. Hell, for that matter it could’ve been a dog. “Who’s the artist?”
“Me,” she said, smiling. “Watercolor. It’s an original. You like it?”
“Yeah, it’s really good.”
A small air conditioner rattled within the confines of a windowpane to my left. Despite the cooled air drifting across me, I was in a sweat. I’m actually in a girl’s house! I was a grown man. It was time to stop fearing my dad’s stories of Hell.
Starla went into the kitchenette, reached into the fridge, and returned with a couple of cans of Coors. She dropped onto the couch beside me and cracked one open. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed the beer.
“I don’t see a ring,” she said, looking at my left hand. “You gotta girlfriend?”
“Nah, not right now. I’m in between. Just kind of waiting for the right girl to come along.” I took a big chug of beer.
A car pulled up outside. Or at least it sounded like it through her trailer door.
“You have a roommate?”
“Neighbor.” Starla took a long pull of her beer and then asked, “What about me? Could I be the right girl?”
Criminal Zoo Page 2