"Stephanie!" a loud voice from the inner office called. "The show's about to start!"

Sitting at her desk, Stephanie Wilson sighed deeply. She glanced out her window at the Mall in Washington, D.C.; she did have, she thought idly, a wonderful view. "I'm coming, Mr. Jackson," she said, speaking into the intercom instead of yelling. After saving the file she was working with on her computer and flicking a switch that both locked the outer door and lit a "do not disturb" sign in the anteroom, she rose from her desk and walked into the room behind her.

Assistant U.S. Attorney General William Jackson, known to his friends--of which he had few--and his associates, of which he had many--as "Billy," was seated behind his huge desk at the rear of his large and distinctly ostentatious office. Knowing what was expected of her--from long experience--Stephanie walked over to the desk and seated herself on the edge. As she did she hiked up her already-short skirt, revealing most of her long smooth thighs. The two of them provided a striking contrast; Jackson was large and considerably overweight, with washed-out blue eyes, thin stringy hair, and a very florid complexion. Stephanie, on the other hand, was tall, slender, and extremely well-built. Intense dark eyes, which regarded Jackson from behind glasses with huge lenses, were set in an exceptionally pretty face which was framed by thick, shoulder-length, glossy auburn hair.

Jackson merely glanced at her. Then he turned his eyes back to the large-screen television that occupied most of the wall alongside the door where Stephanie had entered. On the screen, in jagged red letters, the show just beginning was being announced: "SLAUGHTERHOUSE!"

Again, because she knew she was expected to, Stephanie watched. She hoped Jackson would not again launch into a monologue about his favorite episodes of this show, all of which she'd heard about, in detail, many times before. At the moment he was silent, and she merely watched as the show began. On the screen was a stylized logo suggesting a gallows and noose; after an instant it was swept aside, and the show's host--Phil Phips, a well-known name in America now--walked onto the stage. With a wave of his hand and a totally professional smile, he greeted his audience, and those in the studio responded with thunderous applause.

Stephanie found the applause, and Phips' popularity, mystifying. He did not do anything--on any of his shows--except read a few lines from his cue cards, which he immediately began to do.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he said as the applause faded. "And welcome again to the matinee edition of 'Slaughterhouse.' We have a wonderful show for you today; three condemned criminals will receive justice this afternoon. Let me remind you that what you will be seeing is real. The scenarios are staged for your viewing pleasure, but the deaths you will be seeing are real. We use no fake knives, no blank bullets, no harnesses along with our nooses. As always, in exchange for their appearance on our show, the families or friends of the condemned have received a consideration. The amount of that consideration depends on the quality of the performance." He grinned and walked to his desk on the set. "But you know all this," he continued after he was seated, "so let's get on with the show!" He gestured toward the curtain. "Let's meet the first of the condemned prisoners; let's meet Carol Lindner!"

The curtain opened to reveal a beautiful young woman, black-haired and dark-skinned, dressed in a very short blue dress cut low at the top. Her figure was classic. She looked out at the studio audience and at the camera; she tried to smile but failed. Although Phips had used the term "condemned prisoner" to describe her, she was not bound, and there were no guards of any sort in sight. With a slightly hesitant step, she walked to the chair beside Phips' desk and seated herself.

Rather blatantly, Phips looked her up and down. "Welcome, Carol," he said, a line Stephanie often found incredibly incongruous. "Let's get to know you a little. Can you tell our viewers what sort of work you were doing before your arrest?"

She nodded slightly. "Yes, Phil," she answered woodenly. "I've done considerable work as a model, and--"

"A model?" he interrupted.

"Yes. I've worked as a runway model, and I've done a number of spreads for the online magazines, and--"

"Yes you have!" Phips boomed, interrupting her again. He gestured, and the camera moved back to the area of the stage where the curtain was. Now, a large flatscreen had dropped down; colors swirled, and a sequence of pictures of Carol, first in a swimsuit, then topless, then nude, appeared. Her body was magnificent, her belly flat, her legs long and perfect. Her breasts, tipped by small and delicate brown nipples, were high and firm in spite of being Class-A large. In all the pictures she was smiling brightly and freely. The studio audience applauded loudly; there were a few catcalls and hoots, as well.

"You're a very lovely girl, Carol," Phips said unnecessarily as the camera's viewpoint moved back to his desk.

"Thank you," she acknowledged without affect.

"Now, modeling--that isn't all you've done, is it?"

She shook her head. "No, Phil. I was just beginning to break into acting."

"Oh? Have you appeared in anything our viewers might have seen?"

"Maybe. My roles have been small, and I haven't been in a major picture yet. My role in 'The Vineyards' was probably my best."

"And she did get some attention for that one," Phil agreed. Again he gestured; again the camera moved to the suspended screen. Again the colors swirled, and then a pastoral scene including a small cottage appeared. Soldiers were approaching it; the door opened, and Carol, dressed in a torn skirt and no top, appeared. She held her hands out to the soldiers and cried "Please, no!" but they opened fire on her. Blood squibs popped on her chest and on the skirt; she staggered backwards against the doorframe, sank down, twitched a few times, and "died."

"Very nice performance," Phips observed as the screen went dark and the camera moved back to him. "Somewhat ironic, considering where you are now."

"Yes," she agreed, swallowing hard. "It is."

Phips picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and looked at it. "You want to tell our viewers what you were convicted of, Carol?"

She swallowed hard again. "Possession of drugs," she said in a slightly choked voice.

"Which always," Phips said in a stern voice, "carries the death penalty. Carol is here today to face justice. Isn't that so, Carol?"

"Yes." She bit her lip and looked down at her feet.

Phips laid the paper down, looked directly at the camera, and smiled. "Well. If you are to face justice here today, then someone must mete out that justice." He waved at the curtain. "Here's Jason Teller!" The curtain swept aside, revealing a strongly-muscled and good-looking young man with short sandy hair, dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt. He grinned boyishly; the audience responded with the loudest applause yet, and it continued as he walked across the stage to Phips' desk.

Phips offered his hand, and Jason shook it. "Welcome back, Jason," the Emcee said. "It's always good to have you here."

"Thanks, Phil," Jason replied. He sat down beside Carol; they exchanged quick glances.

"Well, Jason," Phil went on, "how many times have you appeared now on our show?"

Jason kept grinning. "This will make eleven, Phil," he answered. He looked over at Carol. "Carol, here, will be the eleventh woman I've executed." He looked sad. "And one of the prettiest, too. It's too bad so many young women in our world end up like this."

"Why did you end up like this, Carol?" Phil asked. He peered at her keenly, a common mannerism of his. "You had to know what the result would be if you were found in possession of drugs. Were they that important to you? To risk your life to have them?"

Carol raised her head and gave him a hard look. "I have to say this," she said, "even if it costs my folks some of the stipend money. I've never in my life used drugs. I have no idea how they got into my apartment. I told the police and the judge that. No one listened."

Phips smiled and shook his head. He looked at a paper in his hand. "Well, my dear, you were convicted by a jury of your peers. Your appeals were denied." His smile broadened. "And I suppose you know that a lot of criminals claim to be innocent."

"Maybe a lot of them are."

Listening, Stephanie pursed her lips. Jackson did not see it, but she nodded silently in agreement. Maybe, she told Carol mentally, you were innocent. Not everyone accused of a crime in modern America is guilty. Ask me, I should know.

On the screen, Phips was giving Carol a stern look. "I don't think so, young lady. I for one believe the American system of justice works very well, and I doubt very seriously if very many--if, indeed, any--innocents are condemned by it. But in any case, we do not have the legal power here to commute sentences--all we can do is carry them out." He looked over at Jason. "What do you think about this, Jason?"

The young man shrugged. "Well, Phil, as you know, Carol here isn't the first prisoner you've had here on the show who's claimed to be innocent. I agree with you, though. I don't think our system of justice makes mistakes like that, not any more. Maybe it did in the past, but we have all those forensic tests now, DNA evidence and all that."

"Nothing like that was involved in my case," Carol put in.

He looked over at her. "How did you get arrested, Carol?" he asked.

She shrugged. "One night the police knocked on my door. They said they had a search warrant, but I never did see it. I let them in--I didn't feel I had anything to hide--and they went straight to my bedroom, opened one of my drawers, and took out a bag of white powder. Then they arrested me and took me to jail. Days later they told me the white powder was cocaine, and that they'd had an anonymous tip that I had it and where it was."

"It sounds like," Jason said, "that tipster knew exactly what he was talking about." He cocked an eyebrow. "You said there were no forensic tests. Didn't they take a urine sample from you?"

She pursed her lips. "Yes..."

"And what were the results?"

Her lips tightened. "They said it was positive for cocaine. Same as the sample they found in my bedroom, they said."

Jason looked back at the audience with a quizzical expression. "Then how," he said to Carol, "can you possibly say you're innocent?"

Her face took on a hard tight set. "Because," she answered firmly, "I never used drugs. I don't know how or why the test came back like that. Some mistake."

"Some mistake," Jason echoed, although there was little if any sarcasm in his tone. "Don't you think it's time, Carol, that you owned up to what you did?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "No. Because I didn't do it." Her eyes dropped closed for a moment and she sighed. "But I can't expect you to believe that, can I?"

"If you were in the audience," he said, "and some other person was up here saying this--would you believe it?"

She sighed again. "No. I wouldn't." She looked up at Jason; their eyes locked for a moment.

"So," Phips said. Again he picked up a paper off his desk. "Carol, as we all know you had to sign a contract to be a part of this program. I see that you did not sign the unlimited contract, nor did you sign the 'scenes' contract, which would have made you eligible for our nighttime feature." He glanced at her. "Why not, Carol?"

"Why didn't I sign the 'scenes' contract?"

"Yes. It would have paid your beneficiaries much more."

She looked away. "I suppose... but I've seen some of those... they can go on such a long time..."

"Yes, well, yes, they can," Phips agreed. "You did, however, sign a Level 4 contract. Do you know what that means, Carol?"

She frowned and did not speak for a moment. "Yes," she said finally. "Of course. That means I agreed to allow myself to be executed by means of any bladed instrument, by gunshot, by hanging, by electrocution, by lethal gas, or by strangulation, at the discretion of my executioner. My maximum period of consciousness is to be no more than ten minutes, though."

"That's right," Phips said jovially. "And one more thing?"

She sighed deeply and looked at Jason. "Yes. I'm to cooperate with my executioner."

"Yes," Jason acknowledged. "Carol, do you know how I'll choose to execute you?"

She hesitated, but then nodded. "Yes. I've seen you before on this show, before my arrest. I know that you always use a knife."

He nodded. "That's right." He paused and gazed at her curiously. "You say you've seen me on the show before?"

"Yes. I must admit I didn't watch the show regularly. But I have seen it. And I've seen you, oh, two or three times."

"And what did you think?"

She hesitated again. "You seem... very skillful." She tipped her head a little. "And you seem to take great pleasure in what you do."

He laughed. "I am," he said, "a duly qualified and authorized executioner, recognized as such by the laws of twenty-two states and the Federal government. My job is to administer justice, first and foremost. But, on this program, I am also an entertainer." He gave the audience, then Carol, a meaningful look. "And, for the rest of your life, Carol--so are you."

She nodded again. "I understand," she said in a soft voice.

Jason then stood up. "So," he said, offering her his hand. "Shall we begin?"

A look of panic crossed her face. "Now?" she almost sputtered. "So soon? I mean--"

"We are on a schedule, Carol," Phips put in.

She looked around wildly for just an instant, as if wondering if any last-second reprieve was going to appear to save her. Jason and Phips merely waited. Finally, she took the hand he continued to offer and rose from her chair without further comment. The audience applauded lightly. Electronic music swelled from some unseen source, like the background score to some mystery movie, as Carol allowed Jason to lead her across in front of Phips' desk toward the area where the curtain was.

That area had now been transformed completely. As was practically always the case, the stage had been removed to expose a smooth tile floor, a floor which had channels on all four sides and drains in the corners. A transparent acrylic sheet Stephanie assumed was a splash-guard now covered the curtain and formed the back wall, and the side opposite Phips' desk was blocked by a smooth metallic wall which had dropped down from above. Carol, seeing the tile floor, hesitated an instant before stepping over the drain and onto it--as the victims of these affairs practically always did. Once she and Jason were on the tile, another smooth metallic wall slid silently down on hydraulic pistons, coming to rest on the floor behind them. The only way remaining open was the side facing the audience and the camera--and, while Stephanie had no direct evidence of it and was unwilling to ask Jackson about it, she had always assumed that another transparent acrylic sheet, invisible to the camera, blocked that side. The lights, other than the spots that followed Carol and Jason, dimmed.

Jason stopped near the center of the tiled room but guided Carol on beyond his position a little. "Get undressed for me now, honey," he said in a gentle voice. "But keep your shoes."

"Yes... yes, of course, okay..." Carol mumbled. With a set facial expression--she appeared to be trying to be seductive but wasn't having much success--she slipped the strap off her left shoulder. It fell, along with the top of her dress, revealing her left breast.

"Face the audience, Carol," Jason instructed.

Mechanically, she turned. Moving on, she dropped the other strap; with shaking hands, she pushed the dress down over her hips and legs and stepped out of it. She was not wearing underwear; she stood nude except for her high heels. She bit her lip. In person, she looked thinner and much more vulnerable than the smiling nude model they'd seen on the screen earlier. Rather awkwardly, she held her dress in one hand.

From above, a small metal platform, supported by a single shining steel shaft at the back, came dropping down; it stopped three feet off the floor, a little behind the two standing on the stage. Jason stripped off his T-shirt, revealing a body-builder's chest, and laid it on the platform. Carol, without being asked, put her dress atop it. Once the clothing was in place, the platform glided upward and out of sight.

Then another platform came down, this one on Carol's side of the stage and behind her. The camera zoomed in on it; atop it was a purple cushion trimmed in gold, and atop that lay a five-inch slender-bladed double-edged dagger with an ornate hilt.

Jason nodded toward it. "Bring it to me, Carol," he commanded.

She hesitated. Her lower lip was visibly trembling and her fists were opening and closing rhythmically. Finally, she turned; she almost stumbled, but she walked the four feet to the platform and, with a shaky hand, picked up the knife. As she turned back to Jason, the platform rose into the air and vanished. Very unsteadily, she walked to Jason--who remained motionless--and offered him the knife, point first. Jason turned his head slightly and gave her a meaningful look; she withdrew the knife, turned it around, and offered it again, holding it by the blade this time.

Stephanie felt Jackson's hand on her leg. Far from surprised, she scooted closer to him and hiked her skirt a little more.

On the screen, Jason took the dagger from Carol, sliding it from her fingers gradually. She offered no resistance, she let him take it. She stood still, her eyes closed, her fists still opening and closing. Occasionally she bent one knee slightly as if she were about to break into a run. Her breathing was visibly erratic. The camera zoomed in to show a line of tears running down each of her cheeks.

"Open your eyes, Carol," Jason ordered.

She obeyed; her face was a study in frank terror. She was literally gasping for breath. Still, she did not move.

Jason smiled. He raised the knife, point up, causing her to gasp, but then he lowered it again. With the knife pointing at the floor unthreateningly, he took three steps toward her. Reaching out, he laid his left hand on her shoulder; she flinched when he touched her but still didn't move away. She looked at Jason's face pleadingly; her eyes kept falling closed and she kept forcing them back open again. A sound close to a sobbing could be heard under the music as she struggled to breathe.

He smiled at her and nodded. Then, suddenly and without any warning at all, he plunged the knife into her abdomen, just under her ribs on the left side. The screen instantly split into three parts, one showing the whole scene, one focused on her face, and the third focused on the knife, which was almost completely buried. Carol's eyes had gone impossibly wide and her mouth fell open, but she hardly had time to react before Jason snatched the blade back out. The camera monitoring the knife then started showing the scene again, in slow-motion, the knife gliding forward, piercing her side, then sinking in deeply.

In the full view, Carol staggered backward, her body bent sharply, her hands clutching at her side. Blood, brilliant red but dark, flooded out of her, forcing its way through her fingers and spilling onto the tiled floor. The other view showed her face, contorted by agony. She opened her eyes momentarily and her despair was easy to read in them.

Jason, holding the bloody knife up at an angle so the blood dripped from it theatrically, just watched her. She tottered back another step, lost her balance, and fell to one knee. Her left arm shot out and she caught herself, prevented herself from falling completely. "Oh.... god..." she murmured. "Oh godogodogod, oh, please, oh... oh..."

For several seconds, nothing happened; the divided screen replayed the stabbing in slow motion three times over, ending each time with Carol's blood gushing out onto the floor. Finally Jason stepped forward. Carol looked up at him, desperation in her eyes.

"No..." she whimpered. "No..."

Jason ignored her protest. He walked around behind her, dropped to one knee himself, and pulled her body back up straight. She waved her hands in the air helplessly; her head was up, her eyelids fluttering, as Jason held her with an iron grip on her shoulder. He pushed her around a little, giving the camera a better view.

Then, crossing over her body with his arm, he drove the knife deeply into her chest under her breast, a few inches above and behind the previous wound. It went in with a clearly audible tearing sound. She gave a strangled cry and pushed back against him hard; he ripped the knife out of her, and blood spurted from the new wound. While the divided screen showed this new attack in slow motion he continued to hold her up, letting fresh blood flow freely from her pierced chest. A new feature appeared on the screen: a timer, counting down the seconds, and showing that the poor girl still had, potentially, a little over five minutes of consciousness legally remaining.

Watching, Stephanie sighed. As Carol had observed before they began, Jason was skilled. He would, she was sure, extract every minute possible. Several seconds passed; the young man merely held her up, letting her bleed, letting the audience watch her tortured face. She tried to cover the wound in her chest with her hand, but the blood merely streamed from between her fingers; she was reaching out with her other hand and her legs were moving weakly, as if she were trying to pull away from Jason's grasp. She kicked off one of her shoes; she seemed to be struggling to breathe.

Then--when the clock showed about four minutes remaining--Jason held the knife up again. With a flourish he plunged it deep into Carol's back, staying on her left side, burying the blade deep.

Her body jerked forward violently. "Ah-hah!" she cried. "Ah! God, godogod!" This time, Jason did not pull the blade out quickly; he ground it deeper instead, opening the wound and provoking more bleeding. Her arm came up over her shoulder as if she was trying to reach it, but that was hopeless. After holding her that way for a few seconds--and allowing the other screen to show the stabbing in slow-motion, several times--he abruptly let go of her shoulder. She began to fall forward, pulling herself off the knife. With a quick grab, Jason caught her hair and prevented her from putting her face in the pool of blood that had formed on the tiled floor. She squirmed, her legs working as if she was trying to crawl away, her fingernails scraping the tiles. Jason pulled her head back, used one knee to roll her half onto her side, and plunged the knife deep into the center of her belly, just above her navel.

She stopped struggling abruptly. Leaving the knife standing in her belly, Jason rolled her onto her back. She lay there passively, her arms at her sides, breathing raggedly, her eyes darting around. Kneeling beside her, the young man pulled the knife upward a little, cutting the wound open slightly, then pulled it out. Carol's body arched back, her fingernails scraped the floor, her toes stretched out and pointed and her other shoe fell off.

Two minutes left, according to the timer.

Jason knelt beside her and reached down to touch her cheek. "Almost over," he told her. She turned her eyes to look at him; when she did he raised the knife and quickly plunged it down, driving it deep into her left breast just above the nipple. Her body arched again, but with much less vigor than before; she tried to raise her head but could not. Her whole body was covered with blood; her face was streaked with tears, and there was blood visible on her lips. While this new scene was being replayed in slow-motion, he held the knife still and watched her eyes.

One minute left.

Holding her body down with his left hand, Jason drew the knife slowly up and out of her breast; she squirmed, her face contorted, as it came. Her hands came up and she grabbed his arm, but she was far too weak to even influence his movements; once the tip of the blade had emerged, her arms fell limply back to the floor. Jason glanced up; probably, Stephanie thought, looking at a timer mounted near the camera. Still holding her down with his left hand, he aimed the knife at her chest again, just under her left breast, holding the point an inch or so away from her skin.

Then, with a quick hard thrust, he buried it.

Her eyes popped open wide and, abruptly, all signs of pain and fear disappeared from her features. Her body quivered; she slapped the floor with one hand, splashing the blood. Jason moved the knife's blade inside her, and her body gave a quick violent jerk.

Then she went limp, unmoving except for an occasional random twitch of a hand or foot. Her head rolled to the side; in the divide screen her open but rapidly glazing eyes could clearly be seen. Jason rose to his feet and made a gesture of triumph, a gesture that Stephanie felt was, considering the circumstances, ridiculous. Water began flooding out over the floor, cleaning away the blood, and the camera moved back to Phips, who was sitting at his desk, smiling, and leading the audience in applauding. After the ovation faded, he made a few closing remarks, and the screen faded to commercial.

"Now, Stephanie," Jackson said.

She looked around at him. He'd unzipped his pants, and he was lazily stroking his rather remarkably thin cock. She well knew, from long experience, what was expected of her. Without hesitation, she slipped off the desk and began stripping off her clothes.

"That Carol, the one they just executed," Jackson commented, "had a body a lot like yours, you notice? Except her tits were bigger."

"I noticed," Stephanie replied shortly. Also like Carol--and pursuant to standard instructions in her job--she was not wearing either bra or panties. Nude, she sidled close to Jackson and let him fondle her breasts. Although he was crude and rather rough, she did not object. Both of them kept one eye on the television; when the commercial ended and Phil Phips returned to introduce the next condemned prisoner--a tall willowy blond with long hair--Stephanie, following a procedure extremely familiar to her now, sank to her knees to the floor in front of Jackson. He watched the TV fixedly; she toyed with his cock for a while, listening to Phips, the blond, and a new executioner talk. Once it had been decided that this girl was to be hanged and she'd been led into the killing area, Stephanie took Jackson's cock into her mouth. Slowly and languidly, the way she knew he liked it, she sucked him while he watched the blond girl die. When it was over and the next commercial came on, she stopped--and when the next execution began, she started again.

Through long practice they had it timed quite well. Jackson did not climax until the show was almost over. Stephanie, as always, took all his semen in her mouth and dutifully swallowed it. Afterwards, Jackson practically ignored her as she got dressed and went back to her desk. On her way she stopped at the water cooler to pick up a cup of water; as she sat down she was already sipping it, trying to get the salty taste of Jackson's semen out of her mouth. Staring blankly at her desk, she wondered how much longer she could take this. This was her duty, a part of her job, almost every single day.

She sighed deeply. She did not, she told herself, have a choice in the matter. She flipped the switch again, unlocking the outer door and turning off the sign. then returned to her more mundane duties. Finding that she had nothing particularly to do at the moment, she turned to her computer, put a letter from Jackson she'd already finished editing on the screen, and then opened an IRC--internet relay chat--client atop it. As it loaded she kept her left pinky finger hovering over the tab key, which she'd set to switch windows. She'd become very skillful at this; at the slightest sound from Jackson's door she could flip the screens--and thus he had no clue about the amount of time she spent in the chatrooms.

Life in America these days required one to develop an array of unusual skills, she told herself idly as she typed the password and PGP key that would allow her to enter a hidden chatroom entitled "#injustice." A very odd array of skills.