Fiction: Is it Wednesday Already?

By Dominick Giudici

 

I hear the bell ring through the loudspeakers. The sound is like a dinner bell, and depravity is on the menu. Oh shit, It’s Wednesday! 

 

Red, yellow, and orange leaves litter the courtyard like confetti, celebrating the recent transition to fall.

 

I quicken my pace, trying to navigate through the crowd. I look down and see concentric square stones that ripple outward, as if I’m stepping in puddles made of rock. The smell of booze hangs in the air, its strength matching the noise level in different spots. Should’ve taken a different route today. I vividly remember attending these during grade school. I hated them. The smug nuns pointing their withered fingers in my face and saying, “See what happens when you don’t follow the rules!”

 

The rain falls as more leaves drop with it, their shedding trees creating a dark lattice against the white, cloud-covered sky.

 

Someone takes a step back without looking and bumps into me. “Watch where you’re going, mother fucker!” he says angrily. These events turn people into animals. The crowds, those are the worst part. I put my hands up and say, “Just trying to get to work, man.” I walk away, not wanting a confrontation. His words get tougher the further away I get, until they’re drowned out by the ambient noise of the crowd. 

 

The second bell rings, and the hoots and chants get louder. It’s turning into a frenzy out here. One more bell, I need to hurry up. 

 

Vendors cooking sausages and Philly cheese steaks on their portable grills hound me as I walk by. Dinner and a show, eh? Other vendors are selling hats with tumbleweeds and T-shirts. One shirt reads “How long until Wednesday?”

 

As I zig zag through the crowd, I’m forced to head in the direction of the stage, and a line of sight opens. I see the man kneeling, his hands tied behind his back, the block of wood in front of him obscuring his bottom half. Don’t look. The screen behind him changes, grabbing my attention. It’s a close-up of his face. I’ve seen this look before, too many times. Dejected, terrified, and surrounded. “Chop his fucking head off!” a man angrily screams next to me. The crowd follows with more chants and taunts.

 

The third bell rings. It’s time 

 

Everybody pulls their phones out. Hundreds of miniature square screens condense the view in front of us, as if they were trying to virtually can and preserve this barbarity. The giant screen projects the scene for those not close enough to see the grisly action.

 

I’m speed walking now, trying to make it out of the courtyard. The damned, the crowd, and I all know what comes next. Music starts playing as the executioner steps onto the stage. He’s dressed in long black robes covered in advertisements—a large Home Depot logo on his chest and Johnson & Johnson logo on the arm holding the axe. He lifts the weapon up high, and the crowd erupts. It’s almost deafening now.  

 

An announcement blares through the loudspeakers. “This beheading is brought to you by McDonalds. If it takes more than 2 cuts, everyone in attendance will receive a voucher for a free McDouble. Check in on Facebook to claim your voucher.”

 

The crowd starts pushing closer to the stage, eager to get the best view possible. The jostling leads to a fight breaking out nearby. A circle forms and ripples outward as everyone turns their phones to capture the new spectacle. Like a bunch of piranhas, they taste blood in the water and they’re thirsty for more.

 

The tightening crowd makes it harder to get out, but I can see my exit. The constable steps forward with an iPad, and the crowd goes quiet. He reads “You have been sentenced to death for defrauding pensioners. Your crimes have caused undue hardship to thousands. Do you have any last words?” 

 

“I’m sorry,” the man pleads. “I’ll give the money back. I can make this right.” His mic is cut off.

 

Taunts start from different corners of the crowd, most of them behind me now. I’m sweating from walking so fast. A man close by mimics “I’ll give the money back, I swear,” in a mocking tone. Then, angrily, he adds “Fuck that, Kill him!” A flash catches my attention, drawing my eyes to a video billboard above him that reads “Heads Down, 7up!”

 

I hear it in the distance. 

Thud. 

“Ooooohhhhh!” screams the crowd. 

Thud. 

“Ohhhhhhh!”

Thud. 

“Yaaaaaaaaaaaa!!” The crowd erupts. 

 

A free McDouble, huh? Better check in.

Dominick Giudici lives in Reno, Nevada with his wife, Rachel, and Goldendoodle, Finn. He works in construction and property management. Dom enjoys going to hockey games, playing darts, and cooking. None of his stories have been published yet.