Jack Cassidy hears a commotion outside of his Bastille’s cell window. He takes the toilet paper he’s writing on and hides it behind the crevice of a loose stone in his chamber. He walks to the window and looks down upon the courtyard far below him. A throng has gathered around the guillotine. People are shouting. Prisoners with their hands tied behind their back are led up the stairs to wait in line for their turn at the guillotine. Yet no one seems in charge. People scream louder for blood. And then she comes.
Nearly eight-feet tall, a naked woman as black as night with a black shag haircut to match parts the crowd. She climbs the stairs to the guillotine. The mob has grown silent now, almost embarrassed with their thirst for violence. But the black woman motions to the guards to place the first victim head first into the guillotine. She then pulls the lever and the head rolls into the basket; blood lightly misting the air.
Head after head is decapitated by the black woman. Jack Cassidy is transfixed staring down in horror. He wants to pry himself away but every time a new victim is fed to the bloody mouth of the guillotine he excitedly watches. And then the black woman stops and slowly turns her head and looks up at him peering out of his barred window. She stares at him and then smiles.
