First Hand

Some people deserve to die. I know first hand after watching my sister and her kids get beat up by that deadbeat husband of hers.

I remember arresting him a few days after the fire. They didn’t want me involved, but there was no way they were going to keep me out of it. I told the sergeant we go way back, but my sister and I go back even further.

I was so determined that he even let me do the interrogating. Ten hours straight, it took, but I got that confession and the judge gave him death. I couldn’t help but scream out as they read the verdict, “Let him fry!”

After that I took a long vacation. Took the wife and kids to Paunsaugunt to hunt deer. Came back with enough meat for two years. I felt like a new man.

First Monday back, my partner gave me a funny look. After small talk he asked, “What brand cigarettes did the deadbeat smoke?”

“Marlboro,” I said. “Menthol.”

“Nasty habit.”

“Ain’t it the truth,” I said. “Wouldn’t touch them to save me.”

A few months past and deadbeat’s first appeal got denied. A few years and the tally reached thirteen. Finally, the day came. I drove my mother up to Huntsville to watch the man die.

By then they did away with the chair. They had this contraption, looked more like a soda machine than a killing device. Funny looking or not it stopped his heart–but not before I could mouth off a few words that made him squeal like a stuck pig. It took everything in me not to laugh.

The next morning the sergeant called me in. It was about time I got promoted. I walked in; my chest out and head held high.

On his desk was a piece of paper. Next to it was a stack of other papers stapled together. I smiled and said, “Where do I sign, boss?”

The one paper had a bunch of lines like a Scantron sheet. He held it up. “You know what this is?”

“Some kind of test?” I said.


“I pass?”

“Sure did.”

I sat down.

“You know what these are?” he asked, pointing at the stack of papers.

“My contract?”

“You sure are clever, aren’t you?”

“I try.”

“Your badge and your gun, please.”

“I get a new gun, too?” I handed them to him.

“Jeffrey Deacons, you are under arrest.”

“What?” I said.

“For the murder of your sister, niece and nephew, and for providing false evidence leading to the wrongful execution of John Davis.”

He read me my rights, told me the Scantron-looking thing was a DNA test that proved I lit those cigarettes that started the fire, and that the stack of papers was an insurance claim I had coaxed my sister into altering just days before.

It took everything in me not to laugh. Some people deserve to die. I know first hand.


Currently a Marketing Associate/Graphic Designer, Kelly Kusumoto is studying at Full Sail University where he is pursuing a Bachelor’s in Creative Writing for Entertainment. Kelly started writing poetry and lyrics at the age of 12. He won awards and was an honor-roll student in his English and Creative Writing classes in high school. Since then he has written articles for a handful of Los Angeles-based magazines and has recently published flash fiction stories on various websites around the world. He continues to hone his craft, creating stories that accurately display the human experience.

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