Ken Nazareth

“Ken Nazareth is a motherfucker.”

That’s a quote. You ask anyone about Ken Nazareth and they’ll reply in a similar manner. Maybe not the same words but the meaning will be the same.

Ken Nazareth is bad news,

Most of it is based on hearsay, rumours, stories and tales. Passed from criminal to criminal but with one underlying fact.

Ken Nazareth is real and he’s a badass.

It’s hard to find anyone that has actually worked for or with him. Good reason. People die around Ken Nazareth. Sometimes by accident, sometimes by design but people die. Ken Nazareth has been pulling jobs for the last decade in that time only four people live to tell the tale.

Ken Nazareth doesn’t have a speciality or even a preferred type of job. He’s proficient at most things. He’s robbed banks, kidnapped daughters of powerful men, assassinated good and bad people, he’s a crack-shot marksman, has great hand to hand combat skills, is able to hack computers and can whip up a mean penne al pollo.

Last month Ken Nazareth was arrested, convicted and sentenced to death by electrocution. Fast trial. They want this guy taken care of.

Tonight is the night. Party starts at midnight.

The chair is being prepared; the tests have already been undertaken. The viewing gallery is filling up with cops, lawyers, judges, journalists and people that Ken Nazareth’s destruction has touched.

In his holding cell, Ken Nazareth eats his final meal. His hair has grown long and curly and he hasn’t shaved for a month so his chin looks similar.

His last meal. He chose a roast dinner with potatoes, both boiled and roasted, carrots, peas, sweet corn and three slices of beef next to a Yorkshire pudding. Gravy used generously. He has a glass of pineapple juice and a pot of tea that he’ll drink after his meal.

Ken Nazareth accepts his fate. He’s not pleaded or begged in fact he’s barely talked at all. He knows his crimes. He knows that he deserves what he has coming. He has taken lives it is only right that they take his.

He finishes his meal with a mouth full of beef and wishes his mother had cooked it. It was of a carvery standard but for a last meal, disappointing. He thinks of his mother briefly.

Ken Nazareth sits back in his chair, belly full. The pineapple juice has gone and the tea is poured. He sips and tries to ignore the American tea taste. He misses English tea. The Yanks can call it English all they like but it’s not.

Ken Nazareth finishes his tea with a sigh and as the cup touches the table the cell door opens and the guards have brought a priest. Ken Nazareth looks up and sighs deeper.

“Its okay, Father, I’m fine. Don’t let the surname fool you.” Ken Nazareth speaks with a Welsh accent.

The priest nods. “I will pray for you regardless, my son.”

“If you really want to. Put in a good word, like.”

The priest crosses himself and is escorted away by one of the guards. The other guard looks at Ken Nazareth with a squint. “You gonna give me any trouble, boy?”

“Haven’t so far, have I? Pal.”

The guard smirks and nods, enters the cell and collects the trays of food on the table. Ken Nazareth watches with his hands behind his head. The guard places the trays on a trolley outside the cell and locks up.

“About five minutes.” The guard wheels the trolley away,

“Take your time. No rush.”

Five minutes later Ken Nazareth is being escorted down a long corridor with a guard either side to steady his limping walk. They pass cells of people destined for a similar fate as his own. They offer unexpected words of comfort, words of strength. Words that they hope they’ll hear when their time comes.

Soon enough Ken Nazareth is led into a small circular room with one hundred and eighty degrees of plastic flexi-glass in front of him and one hundred and eighty degrees of electric death behind him. Behind the glass is a gallery. Chock full of people bearing witness to the demise of Ken Nazareth.

He is sat in the chair of impending death in the dead centre of the room, this viewing auditorium. His wrists and ankles are fastened with belts and buckles. Gel is pasted to his temples and the fluffy cotton wool like conductors placed.

Ken Nazareth is quite calm. Eyes forward. He looks into the gallery and doesn’t recognise anyone. He can pick out the cops and the journalists. He can see the curled mouths and venomous snarls of the family members. He lingers on one face that seems out of place. They lock stares. The man smiles slightly and nods. Ken Nazareth, for some reason nods back.

A rubber mouth guard in placed in his mouth to stop him biting his tongue. Not for his benefit. Less clean up for the guards later that way.

Tomorrow the people will say they saw the death of Ken Nazareth. Cops will talk about his crimes. Criminals will share tales of past jobs. Journalists will write of his exploits and the public will read but everybody will be totally unaware of one really quite important fact.

A hand hovers by the switch.

The man in the chair is not Ken Nazareth.