Adobo-rubbed chicken wings, beer-battered onion rings, a piece of cornbread, and a mint-chip milkshake. Nothing fancy, but damn, this is delicious. I can't believe the gall these people have to rush my meal; twenty minutes to savor each bite? Usually I'd take a good 35, perhaps 40 before finishing the milkshake, but I decide to swallow my pride and rush through the enjoyment, not wanting to leave a single bite behind. Besides, I won't need to worry about a stomachache after today.

"C'mon Joseph, it's time. Get up and take your medicine."

"Medicine? I thought I was going out by firing squad?"

Greg, the death row guard for the past eight years, is not amused. He walks toward my cell with baton in hand and I jump up from my bench. I haven't worked out in a while, and I didn't want to walk into my big day with a black eye from an easily avoidable fight. The jokeless Greg opens the cell door and hitches my ankle and wrist cuffs to his belt, pulling me down the hall as the other inmates whoop and howl; some snide jokes, others neurotic ramblings.

"You're gonna get it now, Joey!"

"It'll be a rush like no other, brother! Come back and tell us all about it!"

See what I mean? I don't mind though; I've been prepping for this day for the last decade, and I've prepared my last words: I have no regrets, and my soul shall fly away in peace. Not too long, just the right amount of weird, it's perfect. Greg pulls me through a few twisting hallways, through C-Block, around H-Block, and right to the backyard door, the place I meet my end. But instead of stopping and opening the door, he pulls me further down the hall and stops at a blue storage room. He opens the door and it's been reorganized into some sort of interrogation room, with a metal table and a chair on the far wall. Strangely, no chair near the door.

"What is this? If you think this is like one of those cop shows where the detective comes back to pump me for information on any cases I never admitted to, forget it. Not only did Paluso die two years ago, but I've never been shy about my kills, so if you guys found a body with my M.O., leave me out of the Hannibal Lecter remake."

"Shut up and sit down! He'll be here in a minute."

Greg pushes me into the chair (A bit rougher than usual, but it's a special occasion, so I'll let it slide), locks my ankle cuffs and wrist cuffs to the table leg and metal ring on the tabletop, respectively, and slams the door behind him without explaining whom this 'He' might be. Correct me if I'm wrong, but firing squad usually denotes three or more shooters. I look around the room as if a clue will appear, but all I find is a camera shining on me from the top left corner near the door. Warden must want to make sure I stay dead once this is over. Probably a few thousand folks on some sort of livestream too, but I don't want to sound conceited; my 'stardom' dried up a bit years ago. I turn back to the door when I hear it creak open, and underneath Greg's massive arm holding the door is a man no younger than eighty-five rolling toward the table, almost reminding me of a rabid racoon tumbling in a trash can the way his beard bristled when he stared at me. His arms quivered a bit, but he seemed focused. Greg reached toward his pistol, unstrapped the weapon, and handed it to Professor X from Wish.

"I'll leave you two to talk. Do you need anything before I leave, sir? Water, a blanket?"

"No, I'm still full fro"

"QUIET! Mr. Faraday, would you like a water?"

"No, officer, I won't be here long. I want this over with."

Greg nods and leaves, giving me one final death glare. Emphasis on the death, albeit much more confusing than I first expected, especially given the surprise guest. I didn't recognize him until Greg said his name: Mr. Faraday, the father of my last victim. He watches my face for a minute, smirking when he spots the reaction he wants.

"You remember who I am now? That day in the courtroom when you were sentenced?"

"Of course. You were the only person in the gallery who wasn't visibly gleeful I got the death penalty, which makes you being here even weirder, not to mention somewhat illegal."

"Well, at first I thought the death penalty wouldn't bring my daughter back, that the damage had been done and you could just rot for all I care. Then, I saw on the news that the state had passed a bill that allowed bereaved family or friends to apply to be the one who administers the final blow the day of the execution. I found myself signing up before I fully understood what I was agreeing too. I'd say it was dumb luck I got chosen but given my daughter's status and the fact she was your last victim, I guess I got bumped up the list, and here we are."

Ah, the Retribution Bill. I remember the groans from my cell block the day it passed. I never considered it much given most of my victim's families were either children or, most likely, on the way to prison themselves, and I certainly never thought the old man who can barely breathe on his own would come up to bat. I blame my lawyer for pushing for saying there'd be a chance for a sympathetic jury in Oklahoma. For fucks' sake, it Oklahoma! The old people are fueled by church and vitriol and the most forgiving thing out here is the skunks. In hindsight, it's possible my lawyer secretly wanted me to get the death penalty, but too late to think about that, isn't it?

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"Hey! You listening to me?"

Mr. Faraday slams his fist on the table to bring me back to current events. You know, the actual execution of it all. I turn back to him and nod.

"What did you want to tell me, Sir? I hate to be rude, but most stories I hear about include baby photos, maybe a home video, and you don't seem to have any of that. Not that it'd really change much; I know you don't want to hear this, but there's nothing you can tell me that'd change how I feel. I killed her once, and I'd kill her again, and I think my reasons speak for themselves."

Mr. Faraday laughs for a minute, which turns into a cough reminiscent of a sandstorm, then clears his throat and taps his fingers on the cold metal.

"You used to call yourself the Friend of the People, right? You'd go after folks you think are making life worse for the 'little guys' and wait for the praise, acting like some comic-book vigilante."

"Well, for one, I always loved Deadpool, and two, are you really telling me I was in the wrong? I got my start like anyone else in my profession; small fish, more messy kills, but instead of targeting innocent girls with pigtails I went after the guys who go after the girls. And the guys who target minorities, or drag bars, or schools, or anything else that deserves some damn respect, and for a while I was a friend of the people. Cops didn't even investigate the cases back then."

"Yes, back then. After your twelfth, you got greedy. You got bored taking out neighborhood racists and small-town militia leaders and started going big. And then you lost sight of things."

It was strange. Instead of getting shamed or berated, it sounds like Mr. Faraday... liked my work? It felt like I was arguing more over methodology than the actual deaths, and it caught me off guard. I wanted to stop, but something compelled me to continue the debate.

"How did I lose sight, exactly? Was it when I got a little exorbitant and let the wizard float down the Mississippi? Or was it when I took the preacher who was taking little boys into the pulpit and introduced him to some grizzlies? I mean, he was bald, it was too good to pass up! Or, perhaps, are you referring to when I hit the homestretch?"

"I still don't know how you got past secret security agents to get to senators and congresspeople, but it was unneccessary. You could've continued hunting the ones spreading that venom on the ground, getting into childrens' minds, attacking people in the street, but you messed it all up."

"I SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN THE ONLY ONE FIGHTING TO STOP IT! They were getting paid to enact laws to stop them, but instead they donated to the groups I was fighting. Had dinner with those same preachers and militants. How are they any different than any other victim? Just because of a title?"

"Because eliminating them changes nothing! It just proves their side's point that you were nothing more than a terrorist. A gloryhound who was in it for the praise, not the cause. Killing folks like that... like my daughter... it didn't do anything but let the creeps waiting in line take their seats."

I sit back in shock. Not only did he not try to defend his daughter, but he openly admitted she was scum. I mean, given the piles of evidence showing her doing the two-step next to a certain flag marked with a starry X, there wasn't much defense to give, but how is he not on the same side?

"Look, why are you telling me all this? Why are you so easily throwing your kid under the bus? What am I missing?"

Mr. Faraday closes his eyes and rubs his face, tapping on the pistol.

"I raised Sam by myself on a steelworker's salary. As the story goes, that money dried up in her pre-teen years, and that mixed my following health issues had us in a pretty long rough patch. I tried telling her how it happened, show her the facts, but the teachers, the churchfolk, everyone else was pulling her in the opposite direction. I thought she'd give up all that crap when she got into the Ivies. You know, being around people of different backgrounds, right? It only made her dig in worse. I lost my daughter twice and never got a chance to say goodbye, either time. Once when you burned her, and the first... when she started speaking that hate."

"I... I'm sorry. Did she at least support you? Have any fond memories before... what I did."

Mr. Faraday shakes his head weakly.

"She just sent checks in the mail. Was always too busy with one rally or another to stop and listen to me try to knock some sense into her. Never had the heart to speak against her publicly. Maybe if I did... maybe you wouldn't have picked her."

I'm silent. If you haven't noticed, that's quite difficult for me. The old man in front of me seemed to be more resigned than me; it was as if the only thing keeping him alive was holding all these thoughts in for so long. At this point, I think he came here to vent more than he did to shoot. I'll give him credit; in a strange way, he actually made me feel some guilt.

"Y-you did the best you could. Even if she didn't say it, she did love you. She... she called for you. Before she died, she told me to make sure you were okay after she was gone. I honestly would've heeded that wish, but they caught me before I could. By the way, those tasers hurt a lot worse than they say."

I'm able to get a small chuckle out of him, and he spreads a thin smile.

"Thank you for telling me that. I'm not sure how true it is, but it makes an old man happy to hear she still gave a damn. Maybe you aren't such an idiot after all."

His movements seem in opposition to that as he slides his hand toward the gun and lifts it, right in line with my head.

"I like you, I really do, even have a bit of respect for you... but I still have to be a father, one last time..."

"I understand..."

I close my eyes, happy to grant the man's final wish. Instead of the click of the gun, however, I hear strained gasps. I open my eyes and see Mr. Faraday choking, his eyes beginning to dilate. Heart attack. I peer outside the door and see guards rushing to the door, struggling to open it. Apparently, Greg got so mad he locked us in. As they try various keys, I look into the old man's eyes. I know how death looks, and I know that even if they get to him in time, the man in the cloak already has him. I know what my fate will be whether Faraday pulls the trigger or not; the gun is only a few inches in front of me. If I just stretch a bit more... my hands touch the trigger. It's been so long since I held a weapon, it almost feels foreign to me. No time for nostalgia though, as I hear the subtle click of the door. I won't let the guards get the satisfaction of ending me, not when Faraday still has a few breaths left. I make sure his hand is still tightly on the gun and pull his finger to meet mine on the trigger. I always hoped I'd go out with a bang, but I didn't think it'd end up feeling like a good deed. Much more than most of my kills, if I'm being honest. As the guards push the door open, I push Faraday's fingers onto the trigger... I hope, even after sharing a laugh with a sociopath, he felt like he fulfilled his mission, acted like a father one last time, even for a few minutes...