16.
For Joey Farnsworth this was a week in heaven. After traveling all the way to Goose River to watch his former Hamilton High teacher ... whom he detested for awarding him a grade of D- but for who’s lovely ass he had nothing but lustful admiration ... be publicly humiliated and flogged, he felt an immense sense of self satisfaction.
But even more fortuitously, he had learned shortly after the conclusion of Ms. Whitaker’s whipping, as he was preparing to drive home, that she ... along with a number of former classmates ... would be executed in but a few days. He had also learned, from consulting an official FNPA annual cull listing, that the long-time imagined love of his life, Barbara Moore, was scheduled to be spitted and live roasted a few days later.
These were opportunities to good to be missed, so rather than returning home, Joey checked in to the Goose River Motel 6 for an extended stay, and bought a ticket to attend the mass hangings in person.
And imagine his delight at the sight, as he sat in a premium bleacher seat, of a stark-naked and shackled Ms. Whitaker brought to the scaffolding and noosed near the middle of the front row ... almost directly in front of him.
And then as an added bonus, also noosed in the front row, were two of his former Hamilton High classmates, Cindy Hauptmann and Paige Deming. Watching tall blond Cindy swing was going to be a pleasure, he thought to himself, as he recalled how she had thrice snubbed him, refusing his invitations for a date with derisive laughter. He would now have the pleasure of watching her swing naked in addition to having the last laugh on her!
He also was going to enjoy the show that big-titted Paige was certain to put on. Although he had never attempted to date Paige ... Joey, like probably every other red l-blooded guy in his class, had wet dreams about getting his face into her mammaries.
Although there was no conceivable erotic satisfaction to watching Paul Montague hang, Joey figured it would be a sweet revenge for the way that condescending, sniveling wimpy little pinko creep was often disparaging the likes of Joey and his pals.
Joey also figured there was no way he wanted to be distracted once the show began, so he took out his phone to place his bets on the NailusMartyrs website, spending most of his disposable cash on Rose Whitaker, along with smaller amounts on Cindy and Paige. He also noticed and felt good about the disclaimer that indicated that a portion of the millions being betted that day would go to the families of the brave FNPA and police officers who had lost their lives or were severely injured in the course of suppressing the riot of July 20th.
And he finished placing his bets just in time too, for the drum roll coming from the loudspeakers had begun to quicken.
Rather ominously too, a dark bank of clouds rolled in, blotting out the sun.
‘How fitting’, thought, Joey as he leaned forward in his seat, eager not to miss the start of the impending event.
And then it happened. There was a sharp bang as trapdoors fell, and a collective snap of ropes suddenly pulled taut ... and before Joey’s eyes, thirty bodies ... 27 females and 3 males by Joey’s earlier count ... plunged downward only to have their fall arrested by the nooses around their necks.
Strategically placed microphones picked up the myriad sounds of those dramatic moments, amplifying them for the crowd through the overhead loudspeakers ... a cacophony of half-screams, gasps, grunts, and groans along with the twang and creak of tightening rope and the rattle and jangle of shackle chains.
Joey stared entranced by the desperate struggles playing out before his eyes. He noted how many responded at first by frantically moving their legs as though they were running a marathon, or scrabbling for a foothold that didn’t exist ... and the looks of surprise and terror on their faces.
Focusing on Rose, Cindy and Paige in particular he watched as initial shock gave way to wild gyrations that he found erotically stimulating to watch. There were Paige’s big bouncing boobs, Cindy’s lewdly desperate antics, and Ms. Whitaker’s writhing and twisting as she slowly spun around, offering so many interesting angles from which to admire her charms.
Joey checked the digital ‘count-down’ display mounted high over the stage. Seven minutes forty seconds had gone by. Some of the girls appeared to be weakening, struggling and thrashing about less. Some were simply rotating slowly around, hanging limply, faces red, tongues protruding. He thought that several in the back row, three in the middle row, and two in the front appeared to have already bought it. But all three of his betting choices seemed to still be going strong.
He also noted that overall, the guys seemed to be doing somewhat better than the girls and was amused to see that all three guys had hards on.
But he was angered to see creepy Paul Montague, with his slim little pencil rod dick, swing himself around towards Ms. Whitaker and manage to wrap his legs around her thighs ... so as to leverage himself up and release the strangling pressure on his neck while appearing to be obscenely humping on her at the same time.
“Hey! Stop him!” Joey yelled, rising to his feet and pointing. “Get that little fucker away from her!”
That worked. Joey was soon joined in sounding the alarm by dozens around him and, before long, two officers had run out on stage to break Paul and Rose Whitaker apart.
For Rose, Joey’s intervention brought welcome, if only temporary, relief. Even as she had struggled and spun, the relentless tightening of the noose around her throat had begun to gag and choke her to the point of feeling woozy and nearly blacking out.
She had been vaguely aware a bit earlier of Paul’s erection, which surprised her, but was too focused on her own struggle to avoid the reach of his legs as they locked onto her and dragged her down. But nothing mattered now but the crushing pressure on her throat. Her time was fast running out, the blackness descending.
Fourteen minutes and counting, noted Joey. His chances of collecting a hefty sum hung in the balance. Most of the thirty had succumbed, and hung lifeless. The smell of defecation wafted over the stands, borne by a stiffening breeze that had suddenly picked up. The sky overhead had darkened to the point where the arc lights above the stage and stands switched on.
Paige was gone; Cindy not far from it. Joey’s only jackpot hope rested on Ms. Whitaker who’s body was still twitching, although her reddened face and bulging eyes suggested she had very little time left. There were only two others still showing any real signs of life, a thin girl in the second row, whose identity he didn’t know, and ... wouldn’t you know it ... good old Paul.
“Come on Rosie! Hang in there!” he said quietly to himself, crossing his fingers. “You can do it!”
But at that very instant Joey was blinded by an intense flash of light and knocked over by a thunderous blast of wind and sound. Picking himself up and shaking off the ringing sound in his deafened ears, he peered out through a wind driven deluge of rain at a stage that looked like it had taken a direct hit by a smart bomb ... nothing remained ... but a heap of smoldering planking, timbers and grotesquely twisted steel truss beams.
TO BE CONTINUED
However, in fairness, I was trying to do a pastiche of William Topaz McGonagall’s poetic style (personally I think I nailed it), so really the demerits should go to him
. Unless you’re awarding demerits for suggesting you might be made into a pie. In which case, fair enough; that one’s on me. 
