The clock struck 12. As the ring of midnight lurched the abstract into reality, a singular voice rang out “UNMASK! UNMASK!” The Brute’s piercing voice announced the quarterly public execution in the middle of town.

I briskly walked toward Center Square eagerly anticipating what the foggy night might reveal.

There was a crowd of about fifteen older men already there. Some regulars, some fresh new faces.

Depravity and desperation hung thick in the air. We all had the same pathetic, sick guilty pleasure.

I used my pointy elbows to jab my way closer to the front. Most of the men didn’t care where they spectated from. The majority of them had no desire to see how quickly a gash appeared across a man’s apple. These men lied and said “Oh I was there! I saw it all!” to anyone who would listen. I, however, wanted more.

It energized me to look the Wanted in the eyes before a curtain of red draped over their chests. I wanted to witness the many ways Death’s brushstrokes painted brown, blue, hazel, green and black eyes.

*

The shrill voice lowered to a low hum–a chant–holding onto the vowels as if the tongue was stuck:

“Uuuuuuuunnnnnnn.”

To my left stood a short, bald fella. I decided to ask him, “Oi! What’s he guilty of?”

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaasssk,” crooned the Brute.

“Ohyoudontknow?” quickly replied the man, as if his breath wouldn’t allow for any wasted time.

“‘E’s a ‘arsh one, ‘e is,” added Gris, a regular. A somber man whose appearance matched his namesake, he repeated this very insight at every Ceremony.

“Uuuuunnnn,” continued the Brute.

I made my first glance towards the Wanted. He was on bent knees, with wrists tied tightly laid firmly on his back. Dressed completely in black canvas, the stiff, starchy figure almost blended in completely with the dark. His knees kept shifting weight. Left, right. Right, left.

“Maaaaaaasssk.”

The Brute began to sway in wide circles with his ten toes planted three feet or so behind the anonymous man.

The cool in the air amplified as if to match the excitement in our hearts. I raised my left arm, where my old watch coiled its bands around my wrist, towards the sky in hopes of stealing the dusty streetlamp’s glow. It read 12:05.

In five short minutes, the Ceremony will begin.

Still trying to ascertain the crimes of the convicted, I scanned the motley crew. I met the eyes of a very tall, lanky gentleman. I tipped my chin his way and yelled, “Hey! What’s he in for? You know?”

His pursed lips loudly hissed, “It’sssssss sssseverly sssssserious. Yessssss.”

Just then, the Brute’s chant switched to a rapid rhythm: “Unmask. Unmask. Unmask.”

As I grappled with whether to ask the serpent to elaborate or leave it be, I decided that perhaps these men were doing me a favor. Perhaps this Wanted’s crimes were so heinous it would be better not to know.

I heard the Brute shuffle his feet closer to the man on bent knees. He stopped his chant, grabbed the lid of the black hood, and bellowed

“BEHOLD!”

In a swift motion, his left hand yanked off the tarp veil. His right hand held his sharp knife. The captive hung his head low; a bushy pile of brown was all the restless crowd saw.

The Brute tossed the hood onto the ground and forcefully raked his hand through the brown fibers. He pulled up the face and demanded, “Feast your eyes!”

In a second’s time, a quick moving wide man made his way in front of me and obstructed my clear view.

There were short gasps and curious hmmms scattered across the crowd.

I had to get a better look at this poor soul.

I politely told the rotund man, “Excuse me. I can’t see anything.”

He didn’t hear me.

I repeated my statement, this time jabbing his malleable side.

Still, nothing.

Suddenly I heard a slippery sentence from the serpent: “It’ssssss the ssssssir.”

Sir? Which sir?

The snaked repeated, “The sssssir. Who assssked.”

Gris’ voice pipped in, “O it’s ‘im alright. ‘E’s ‘ere.”

Him? Who’s here?

The abrupt words flew by my ears: “Ohwouldyoulookatthat? Whowouldathought?”

Fearing I couldn’t possibly shift the human solar eclipse, I slowly shimmied my way to the right. A ripple of extended index fingers followed my every step. My heart rate quickened. My breath kept a consistent presence in the air.

As I approached the backs of two men they parted in opposite directions, as if they knew it was my salvation.

To my absolute horror, I recognized the man on bent knees.

It was me.

I instantly shut my eyes. I rolled them left, right, right, left, hoping the motion would scrub the image away like an Etch-a-Sketch.

After about five seconds I slowly reopened them.

To my surprise it was my yellow bedroom ceiling staring back at me.