He lurched the knife into the torso of the pathetic man, who was sobbing so loud it made him dizzy. The blood coated his hand, his sleeve, and his dignity.

The crowd cheered for him. All of America was cheering for him to kill this stupid fucking fool who couldn't keep his pants on.

The only thing he could settle cheering for, is the idea of plunging the blade into his own body instead.

With what degree could he justify the abhorrent order to kill a man on national television because he simply cheated on his wife? Is this not evidence of the blood thirsty nature the American citizens have adapted? Should it not be they that he kills? The ones calling for murder just for the thrill of watching it occur?

To be the executioner is so natural to him, and yet, the heaviest weight on his body. Physically, mentally -now that he considers it, his emotions weren't very light either.

There is nothing to this life that brings him any increment of joy. In fact, he dwelled on the idea of refusing to exist much longer. 

The ultimate executioner, he thought, is one bold enough to execute himself.

He thought about that as he pulled the blade out of the gushing wound of the man's stomach, and swung it into him again, and again, and again. His movements are robotic, and his arm is nothing more than a sling, back and forth, a rubber sling, bouncing his arm here and there.

He lost himself into his work. The media would call it justice in art. He called it cold-blooded murder.

When he finished, he was breathless, the crowd cheered him on even louder, and he refuted his surroundings internally. He was not here. He was not on stage. He was not on national television, standing in front of a now-dead man.

He was at home, where he knew his fourth wife laid in their bed, with her neck sliced open like a smile.