E. The crime was premeditated.
F. The Sirian was a well-known judo-killer named Mike Sledge, of the
opposing underworld. (This last from the D.A.'s office).
The verdict was: GUILTY.
The penalty: DEATH.
As a last wish, the convicted man was granted the privilege of
immediate execution rather than enduring the usual delay.
This last threw the death-house into quite an uproar, but the Sirian
had no intention of languishing for weeks in confinement.
Exactly at midnight, he was led to the death chamber, sleeves and
pant-legs slit, head shaved and belly full of fried chicken to which he
had taken a fancy.
There was the priest, the press and the other witnesses. The chair
looked ugly and uncomfortable, but the crackling jolts of electricity
were worth it. They sent trickles of pure ecstasy through the Sirian's
power-thirsty being. But they were only trickles, and comparatively
short. They tried him at 30,000 volts, 40,000, 50,000. But then he
deliberately lowered his body resistance in order to drink up more
amperage and blew all the fuses.
They held him twenty-four hours out of pure curiosity while the
doctors had a field day. But the press championed his cause, and he was
set free.
* * * * *
The blonde was waiting in a black Cadillac. The blonde had just
collected Tony's insurance and was now obsessed with the thought that
any guy who could soak up electricity like that must have shocking
possibilities.
The Sirian settled back in the leopard-skin upholstery and sighed. As
the vehicle moved off into the darkness, a soft, perfumed arm slipped
around his neck. "My poor, poor Mike," the voice came like the purr
of a mink. "I'll bet he doesn't feel well. Please don't be angry with
little me for testifying against you."
"Don't mention it," _Mike_ replied. "And I feel very well, thank you."
This was the truth. With nearly a million watts of pure 60-cycle A.C.
under his belt, the Sirian had been able to expand his puny physique
slightly. At least his red blood count was up to normal now.
"Only one thing," he remarked, "I am tired of being pestered with
reporters. Where could we go to escape them?"
"Oh dear, that is a problem." She looked out the rear window. "They are
following, of course. And they'll have my penthouse staked out like
sharks around a desert island."
"That reminds me," Mike said. "This Bikini I was wearing at the time of
the crime--"