Travesty Jones held the muzzle of the nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol hard against her right temple and sang the theme song from “Chico and the Man” over and over. She knew that Freddie Prinze had met his end at his own hand, although she was not sure exactly how. But when those strange white birds got to turning brown – you know the birds...the ones that would wait outside of Travesty's window and then follow her as she walked to the gallows each morning – that's when she knew.
Each morning she would walk the one hundred and sixty paces to the gallows with the white birds following her. She would feel the hangman's noose - coarse around her soft, pale, tender neck, and the smooth black velvet hood being slipped over her head. When the trap door opened she would drop to the end of the rope and a hot silver streak would course through her upper spine as the fall and sudden stop snapped her neck. The executioner would let her body down and she would go her way to the shops and the beauty parlor and that one little place near the community center where they served such good Italian pastries with coffee.
And so Travesty enjoyed each day – aside from the three very difficult minutes spent dealing with the executioner and his gallows. As she walked the one hundred and sixty paces each morning, she did, as mentioned, begin to note the gradual change in the birds. For what had once been snow white birds had become dull brown birds – some almost as dark as coffee grounds. They still followed her, but the brown birds did not give joy the way the white ones did.
And so it was that she sat in her breakfast nook that one morning, with the muzzle of the nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol hard against her right temple, singing the theme song from “Chico and the Man” over and over. The birds were already flocking around her door, waiting for her to leave and walk the one hundred and sixty paces to the gallows, but Travesty was not about to be made a mockery of again.
She closed her eyes and slipped into a waking dream, wherein a large gray piece of moist, hairy flesh covered over with a great many blackheads was hanging in a deserted barn. Around the barn there was a crowd of people, all naked as jaybirds, headless and with feet where their hands should be and hands where their feet should be. The grotesque, naked crowd wanted access to the barn, so that they might force themselves upon the piece of moist, hairy flesh and do unspeakable things to it. Travesty knew this was a bad idea, for the piece of moist, hairy flesh had done nothing wrong.
The 115 grain bullet exited Travesty's left temple moving at approximately 1,100 feet per second. “And I know, things will be better. Oh yes they will for Chico and the Man.”