Quick and Painless: A Satirical Reimagining of the Invention of the Guillotine

April 21, 1792

April 21, 1792

My dearest, Lonnie,

In a matter of days, I will publically murder a man named Nicolas Jacques Pelletier.

Nicolas will be the second person I've killed in a span of twenty days.

In the span of a month, I have killed two people and decapitated thirty dead bodies. In the span of two months, I have killed what feels like thousands of animals.

I'm a murderer, Lonnie. Yet, there is nothing I can do about it.

I made a deal with Antoine that by killing, I would make a life for Romeo. That's enough justification for me.

Still, guilt clouds me.

I'm not sure why. People kill other people all the time. I've grown up thinking it was all people were good for. I still think it sometimes.

Plus, It's not as if people like Luc and Nicolas were going to live anyway. Someone had to finish off the people who are sentenced to death. I just never thought it would be me.

Yesterday I asked Antoine if he would allow me to meet with Nicolas before the execution.

He looked at me funny and said, "You are a strange man, Andreas."

Still, he arranged a meeting anyhow.

Today, early in the morning, I set off to the prison. The streets were chaotic, for Paris can't decide if it supports the Rebellion or not. I woman dressed in rags will pass a man sporting fine attire, and one of them will be dead by the end of the hour. Even Notre Dame is under attack by fanatics, people who dislike the church's way of worship.

Protests are a daily occurrence, and none of them are peaceful.

There is some irony to the places of absurd peace. The execution grounds outside Hôtel de Ville stands as a place where everyone can enjoy chaos as if it were a play. Nobody fights there, they smile and watch, cheering as a man who stole bread is beaten to death with a wheel. It's one of the only places in France where community still exists.

Today I learned that the prison acts the same. One building is full of men and women who have completely given up on living. They are caged like animals, sitting in their own waste, waiting for death. 

The prisoners don't fight like I was told they should. Instead, they sit and wallow away at life. It's quite depressing.

A guard took me to a dimly lit hall lined with cells and then left. There I stood, wondering what to do, while fifty criminals stared at me in silence. 

I avoided eye contact as I called, "Excuse me," my voice echoed off the walls, "Does anyone know where I can find Nicolas Jacques Pelletier?"

A fat woman in a torn dress looked at me with big eyes, she spoke through chapped lips with a voice that makes it sound like she was actively being strangled, "The second cell at the end of the corridor."

I nodded in her direction and walked slowly down the hall. I kept my gaze on my feet, yet I could feel the eyes following my every move.

Finally, when I arrived near the alleged cell, I called out again, "Nicolas Jacques Pelletier?"

A man with big eyes and an oval face pushed forward, grabbing hold of the cell bars.

"Non, non, non, monsieur," he exclaimed, "my execution is on Wednesday. Now is too early."

My breath hitched, and my mouth went dry. Nicolas looked so hopeless. His face was begging to die, while his mouth cried otherwise.

I replied, "I know. My name is Andreas Moreau, and I'm going to be the executioner."

"On Wednesday..." he whined.

"Yes, Wednesday."

He flared his nostrils and pierced his lips, "Today is not Wednesday. I still have a few days to live. Please, do not rush me."

"I'm not trying to."

"Then why are you here, if not to take me to my death?"

I was standing directly in front of Nicolas, now, looking the man in the eyes.

"I want to talk," I stated.

He laughed, the sound mangled.

"Talk before you take my life?" He asked, sounding relieved.

"Oui."

"Well then, have a seat, Monsieur Executioner."

I looked for a chair with no luck. Not wanting to sit on the ground, I flipped a wood bucket over and sat on that.

Nicolas and I stared at each other, neither one of us knowing what to do.

Finally, Nicolas laughed and said, "If you are the one using the Guillotine, are you making history by chopping my head off, or am I making history by getting my head chopped off?"

He asked the question so casually as if it were I joke. I played along best I could.

"If you hadn't committed a crime, I wouldn't have any heads to chop off. I suppose history belongs to you, mon ami.

He smiled, "I suppose so."

Another moment with no talking passed, and Nicolas played with his hands. I watched, only wondering what he could possibly be thinking about.

Once again, he was the first to speak, more depressed this time, "No one will like your killing machine."

I wrinkled my nose, supprised to be defending the contraption, "Why do you say that."

"They'll love the killing part. But, the people want a show. I fear, a swift slice to the neck isn't going to cut it for them."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure enough," He looked up at me, smiling, "You know, I used to watch executions. My favorite was when they would put a naked man on the breaking wheel and hit him with a whip while it spun. I always thought that was more entertaining than beating a person over the head with the wheel or stretching him out, as they sometimes do."I listened. I can't say why. I hated to hear the things Nicolas had to say.

"If I weren't the one being executed, and if I wasn't so goddamn hungry: I would throw rotten fruit at you on Wednesday. I think it would be my way of asking the king to bring back the breaking wheel."

"I don't work for the king," I reminded him.

"I know," he replied, "you work for Dr. Gillotin."

"Non," I corrected, "I work for Antoine Louis. The thing you're calling the Guillotine is actually called the Louisette."

This time, Nicolas laughed a genuine laugh, exclaiming, "That will never last."

I liked Nicolas; he was funny and cold to the world. He reminded me of myself if I had robbed a woman and somehow killed a man in the prosses.

It's too bad; I'll have to kill him.

With love,

Andreas Moreau