[ WP ] A conversation between a death row inmate and the guard bringing him his last meal .

Hank passed the food through the hatch, watching the prisoner kneel and take the serving tray, heavy and unweildy as it was. Mr. Greenwick, for all his stoicism, looked haggard today - his *last* day, Hank corrected himself. The looming prospect of death finally caught up to the curt, proper man, as it always did even with the toughest death row folk, leaving a husk in his place. 
 
 Honestly, he never enjoyed seeing them like that. The federal prison system attracted a lot of psychopaths that got off on human suffering, there was no denying the bitter truth about the employees, and Hank felt it was his duty to undo at least some damage those people were causing. The inmates were going to die anyway, and they were n't hired to dole out revenge. 
 
 To him, working with the death row inmates was something akin to the military service he so dearly missed. Something that held at least a tiny grain of ethical purpose. 
 
 Mr. Greenwick never caused him trouble, and he found himself approaching the day of the man's execution with actual dread. It was ironic in its own way, when Hank thought about it loud and clear as he did then - every day, thousands of people die, but it's never a concern. Perhaps because they die unpredictably and suddenly, snuffed in an instant of imperceptible chance. But when a man's death becomes *scheduled* and inevitable, like Mr. Greenwick's upcoming rendezvous with a deadly chemical cocktail, well, then death becomes terrifying and sad. 
 
 `` That's nice'', the guard remarked, watching the inmate solemnly remove the plastic covers from each small container on the tray. `` That's very nice, Mr. Greenwick''. 
 
 The death row inmate smiled and grabbed a napkin, wiping his hands clean before snatching a warm croissant out of one of the trays. 
 
 `` It's actually *fantastic*, Hank'', the prisoner's dried-out, gaunt face melted into an uncharacteristic expression of fondness and pleasure. He shook the croissant in the air. `` Real bread! I missed it so much. Nothing beats the smell of fresh-baked dough, do n't you agree? Listen - it crinkles if you squeeze it!'' 
 
 As he talked and basically rubbed the pastry to his cheek, the guard grabbed a chair that stood at the opposite wall, pulled it up to the cell's door. Sat, observing the prisoner and his ritualistic handling of each of the dishes. 
 
 `` Mind my company, Mr. Greenwick?'' 
 
 `` No, not at all. I'm flattered, in fact''. 
 
 `` So, what have you got?'' 
 
 `` Right! ``, the inmate sniffed and put a finger to his mouth, lapsing for a moment in deep thought. `` So, I requested some goulash, it's here, in this bowl - so, so fragrant, can you smell those sweet peppers? Then here, here we have a piece of smoked eel, a little bed of rice for it, of course...'' 
 
 He pointed to another plastic plate. 
 
 `` Oh and this! Famous Chinese dish, chicken feet in black bean sauce. Positively spicy and drippy. Some cous-cous... And a taco, you ca n't go wrong with that''. 
 
 `` Seems like you've got the whole world in your tray'', Hank remarked amicably. 
 
 Carl Greenwick's spork dipped into the goulash. He sampled, savored, smacking his lips with closed eyes, and only then looked back at the guard. 
 
 `` Oh yes. These are the dishes from my favorite cities. A token to take in the afterlife, in case it actually exists'', For a moment, Mr. Greenwick's glance became sharp once again, and Hank tensed, catching up to the meaning of the prisoner's quip. His shoulders slumped when he drew the connection. 
 
 Of course. Budapest. Lyon. Kioto. Zhengzhou. Abu Dhabi. Mexico. The guard shifted in place, once again facing the discomfort of connecting the polite, calculated gentleness of a person he curated for the last four years to the clinical and documented knowledge of this man *outside* the prison walls. The conversation hitched, like a record needle skipping on a faulty grove in the disc, and Greenwick studied Hank intently, only the noodles from the chicken feet slurping softly as the inmate consumed them. Hank shook his unease off. What was done, was done. The price was about to be paid. 
 
 `` So, that's what you had... before, when you were... you know?'' 
 
 `` A man of my age is allowed some nostalgia, I think'', Greenwick smiled thinly. 
 
 Hank nodded, as if he understood what the man was talking about. His prisoner broke a piece of eel off, shoving it into his mouth with a desperate, wholesome voracity. 
 
 `` Good food is essential. I used to have really nice dinners before the kill. A hearty, satisfying meal weighs you down just *so*. There's none of that hungry, dangerous hurry that might spoil things, no twitchiness in your finger as it lays down on the trigger. You even *breathe* contently, which, as you can guess, Hank, is really important'', Mr. Greenwick continued. His pale eyes lit up with the recollection. `` And your memories are n't of blood, and screams and people running, about slinking down the fire-escape thinking that everybody's eyes are on you... You just remember that, that you had a pretty good time. Well. Sorry. Look at me ramble before I pass away, eh?'' 
 
 Hank gulped. 
 
 `` It's okay, Mr. Greenwick, we talked about it in quite some detail before. But I still don't- you do n't seem like you're particularly sorry... are you not?'' 
 
 The inmate took his time to chew, savored the bits of croissant crust off his fingers. Well, he was n't. Of course not. One thing is to make bad choices, take drugs, cut off your elderly mother's head while riding the wave of a particularly shitty trip. One thing is to get talked into a poorly thought-out heist and shoot two cops in panic. One thing is giving into perverted primal urges and ravage a 10-year-old girl, then panickedly kill her to cover the tracks. 
 
 Quite another was to have a life-long system, an ideology, and a purpose. A dead-set course of action, premeditated and flawlessly executed for reasons more solid than hand-wrought steel. Regret, in Carl Greenwick's mind, stemmed from dissatisfaction, be it dissatisfaction with choice, outcome or consequence. In his case, though, he was satisfied. Totally. There was no flaw in neither his concepts or execution. 
 
 His message was delivered and heard. 
 
 `` No, Hank. I'm not. Those were not crimes of passion. Those were people I wanted dead, and eh... *making* them dead, after all these years, I believe was the right choice''. 
 
 `` Many think such of you now''. 
 
 Mr. Greenwick shrugged. Beneath the spacious orange jumpsuit he looked so unassuming and small - Hank still could n't believe him to be the person on FBI's `` Most Wanted'' list for eight whole years. It was chilling, and he caught himself truely feeling sorry that today it will all end. He'll end up with six murder-rapists and psychotic serial-killer wannabes, that lacked Mr. Greenwick's icy calm and tact, and his articulation, to boot. 
 
 But even more importantly than losing an adequate inmate... Beneath those words, he knew that Carl Greenwick was afraid to die. Still was n't ready for it. Those who did n't fear death, usually killed themselves, not embarked on a 8-year trip around the globe to hide and shake the impending doom off. It was always sobering to see men like that to succumb to basic human biology. 
 
 He will face the needle alone. On the needle's terms. No comfort before oblivion. 
 
 `` It is their right. After all, I...'', Greenwick paused, the spork hovering over the cous-cous. `` I... I never deluded myself into thinking that I was above encountering consequences for my actions. I never got peace - but then, I was n't exactly looking for it''. 
 
 `` It's admirable, Mr. Greenwick'', Hank reassured. 
 
 `` Welcome to the fanclub, Hank'', the inmate chuckled, and Hank joined in, his laughter revebrating through the corridor. The fan-mail that Carl received to this day, was a source of low-key fun for both the inmate and the guard. The administration screened the prisoner's outgoing mail, not big on letting him write anything too instigating to the already unhinged `` followers'', but the incoming mail was largely left uncensored - and thus, the most hilarious. 
 
 There were other letters, too. Those which brought Mr. Greenwick no joy, but had instead cast a shadow over his face, shut him out, turned him into his unfeeling, murderous, focused doppelganger. Letters that he never opened - ones that started with a `` Dear son...'', or `` I'm still missing you, Carl''. 
 
 Mr. Greenwick tilted the plate with the chicken feet to his lips, lapping up the last of the sauce. Put it down, cleaned his face - it had finally assumed that half-relaxed, determined look many of the death-row inmates were known to get on their final hours. Hank knew it would n't stay such for long. Other procedures - some humiliating, but even then, implemented to preserve the dignity of the condemned - awaited Carl Greenwick, and further down the road, there would be pain, terror and agony, before the final flutterings of the heart would still to peace. Ha, peace. 
 
 `` I'm done, Frank'', he lightly pushed the tray back to the hatch. Hank stood up and collected it. The bowls, containers and utensils were in perfect order. He imagined Greenwicks's sniper rifle parts to be in same pristine shape and practicality of position. No mess, no trouble. 
 
 A last gesture of appreciation. No resignation, Hank was sure, for that hateful, dark edge never went away, but it was n't like Mr. Greenwick had any way to show his gratitude in such an environment. Hank did his job well. There was no unnecessary suffering, and in return, he received a modicum of restraint. 
 
 Not peace. Contentment. Perhaps, the greatest balance two men could achieve when separated by bars, by struggling altruism and buried bloodlust. 
 
 `` That you are, Mr. Greenwick''. 
 
 As Hank walked away, the tray in his hands, he could feel Mr. Greenwick's mercury-tinged gaze follow him, boring into his back... but for the first time, he did n't feel like a target. 
 
 For some reason, that was the saddest thing. 
 

