Fred Fed himself the meal the Fed had fed him. He savoured every bite. Loved and cherished it with all his might, broke the chicken leg and drank the marrow of it hollow. A good last day to be alive.

He looked at his grubby fingers, massaged his cheeks, belched a gut load and demanded another. They declined.

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They then bound him to his chair, reclined it back, readied the needle and stuck his wrist.

He thought for a moment, long and hard. Is this to be my death? Overbearingly, yes. He jested the guards for a smile on face, his tears never fell and his journey had ended.

Once the clock struck ten, they injected the fluid. His eyes rolled back, his jaw fell slack, his tongue rolled out, gone in Ten.

Two years later his mug was placed on every pack of cigarettes, every vape pen box, every magazine, every shoelace bag, on every bus stop, on every taxi, on every real estate card and on every website.

The banner under his mugshot read: Pay your fines or pay the price.