Saturday, January 28, 2006

Just Confirmation to Those of Us Who Suspected It All Along: Ken Starr Is an Asshat

Just Confirmation to Those of Us Who Suspected It All Along:  Ken Starr Is an Asshat

For those of us old enough to remember vividly the topsy-turvy days of the Clinton Impeachment, there remain many questions.  For instance, why did Ken Starr choose to make a semen-stained dress the centerpiece of his prosecution, rather than, say, the wholesale giveaway of American military technology to the Chinese on the part of Bill Clinton?

Despite the constant stream of vituperative that the Clinton Administration unleashed virtually daily on Mr. Starr, there have long been reports that Clinton knew all along that Starr was nothing but a lapdog prosecutor.

Now, we have proof that Starr is a liberal asshat:  Mr. Starr is whining appealing to California Governor Schwarzeneggar for clemency for a man (named Michael Morales) who raped and killed a teenaged girl in 1981.  Worse, get this, he is appealing on the grounds that the rapist/killer has “repeatedly expressed remorse for what he did” in the drug-abusing of “his youth.”  

Note to Mr. Starr:  If Mr. Morales was 20 or 21 when he committed the crimes in question, then he was a bit more than “a youth” at the time to most normal people’s way of thinking.

So, a clue to all would-be killers, rapists, and so on: You can go ahead and commit your crimes, just so long as you do one of two things afterwards:  Claim insanity or claim post-crime “sorrow” and “responsibility” for what you have done.  (To hell with the victims and their families and what they have suffered.)

Then, everyone from Katie Couric to the ACLU to Ken Starr will rush to you defense to make sure that you don’t have to face the consequences of your actions.

Where do I get off being so hardnosed, you ask?  Easy!  I make every effort to identify with the late victim (robbed of her life at age 17) and her bereaved family.  

This is something that I have learned to do more resolutely after listening to Michael Savage, who always seems to look at these situations from the vantage-point of the crime victims and their families.

Oh, and Mr. Starr?  You can kiss a certain part of my anatomy, as well.  (Just like Uncle Walter.)

Now, we will have to wait and see if the hugely popular “conservative” talk-show host Hugh Hewitt comes to his friend, Starr’s, defense on this issue or if he has the cojones rightly to take him to task for his misguided defense of the killer Morales.



It’s getting interesting for execution personnel at San Quentin as of late.

No, strike that, “labor intensive” is a better word. Thanks to an executive order signed in mid January 2006 by Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, all condemned inmates are to be executed in a manner that reflects the seriousness and methodology of their crimes, it being ordered by him to dispatch murderers in the same fashion that their victims were slaughtered.

That brings us to the case of Michael Morales, a condemned murderer who killed a young woman named Terri Winchell on January 8, 1981. She, only seventeen years old at the time, had been strangled with a belt, then beaten with a claw hammer, and afterward stabbed with a kitchen knife. As she lay dying from her wounds, she was raped by the vicious Morales.

I, Frank Gonzalez, duly sworn Chief Executioner of San Quentin correctional facility, sat in the warden’s office on a sunny afternoon, pondering my latest assignment. Looking to the warden, I asked, “Morales doesn’t have AIDS or anything, does he?”

“Nope, he’s healthy as a horse, but you will be issued a biohazard suit for this job, as a lot of blood will be encountered during his execution.”

“A lot of blood was encountered during the last execution,” I observed ironically, recalling the January night when I was literally covered in the blood of Clarence Ray Allen, a condemned inmate I had shotgunned to death on orders of the California Parole Review Board, Governor Schwarzenegger, and the warden.

“Yeah, that fat, senile injun sure had a lot of blood in him, didn’t he,” said the warden, breaking into laughter for a moment.

“Uh, what about the raping?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“Well, who’s going to rape Morales in the deathchamber?”

The warden smiled. “We have that covered Frank, I’m having Wayne Robertson brought down from Pelican Bay on February 20.”

“Robertson?” I asked in shock, all California prison personnel aware of convicted murderer Wayne Robertson, also known as the brutal, hulking, “booty bandit”.

“That’s right, he’ll give Morales a great sendoff to hell.”

The welcome night arrived on a foggy February 21. I stood outside the death chamber, dressed in a white Kevlar biohazard suit. The assistant warden handed me a worn belt, a brand-new Stanley claw hammer, and a somewhat dull Ginsu kitchen knife with a broken tip.

“These are your tools for carrying out the execution Frank, the warden will instruct you on how to apply Morales’s punishment over the intercom.”

“Right,” I answered.

Wayne Robertson, the infamous “booty bandit” of Corcoran State Prison, stood beside me, shackled in irons.

“This is inmate Robertson from Pelican Bay, he’ll be assisting you in the execution this evening,” said the warden, introducing him to me.

“Hi,” said Robertson, offering me his shackled right hand.

“It’s uh, a pleasure to meet you,” I replied, shaking his hand.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” answered a broadly smiling Robertson, looking in expectation to the death house.

“Oh well, let’s get this over with,” said the warden while a terrified Michael Morales was dragged past us and into the Green Room, kicking and screaming. Wayne Robertson leered at Morales as he was strapped down in the chair by a smiling Lieutenant Jones. I entered, and a pair of trustees closed the door behind me.

“It’s 12:01 AM, time to get to work on him Gonzalez,” said the warden over the intercom, “First, strangle him until the belt breaks, but make sure you don’t kill him in the process.”

I nodded; placing the well-worn belt around the condemned’s neck. Pulling it tight with all my strength, Morale’s face first turned red, then blue from the duly ordered strangulation. Moving a foot to the back of the chair for more leverage, I pulled harder while Morales strained against the belt, trying to break free by reflex.

Finally the belt snapped and I tumbled to the floor while Morales struggled to regain his breath. Bruises and leather burns covered his neck. He coughed, spitting out blood and part of his tongue.

“Hold for five minutes,” the warden ordered, turning and explaining to several witnesses, “This execution is going to take a while, considering that, according to the coroner, Terri Winchell took at least fifteen minutes to expire from the depraved assault that inmate Morales perpetrated on her.”

I nodded, dropping the broken belt to the floor of the deathchamber, awaiting further instructions.

“Okay, use the hammer on him,” said the warden after the appointed time passed, “Hit Morales in the head with it; strike him at least ten times, enough to fracture his skull but not enough to kill him. Then, break his jaw and cheekbones with the hammer.”

“Right,” I answered, having learned to precisely fracture bones the previous week by practicing on cadavers at the prison morgue.

Screams of terror and agony came from the condemned as I applied just punishment, Morales passing out from the pain after his jaw was fractured, three broken teeth flying from his mouth and landing on the floor of the Green Room.

“Smelling salts!” the warden ordered after examining the condemned, a trustee being sent in to revive him.

“They are barely working,” I observed, watching the trustee break another vial and wave it under Morales’s nose, the condemned attempting to move his nostrils from the noxious vials.

“Wake up you murdering bastard and die in pain!” the warden yelled, pushing aside the trustee, slapping Morales across the face and shoving the shattered glass vials of ammonium carbonate up his nose.

The condemned’s eyes opened and stared at the warden in terror, his breath coming in gasps.

“Hold for five more minutes,” said the warden, looking to his watch, “We’ll let this evil bastard feel Terri Winchell’s pain for a while.”

“Right,” I answered as the death house door closed, watching Morales’s blood drip from the chair to the floor. Placing the blood-covered hammer on a nearby table, I reached for the dull Ginsu.

“It’s 12:20, okay Gonzalez, four stabs to the chest, avoid the heart but make sure at least one lung is punctured,” the warden said over the intercom, having regained his composure.

“With pleasure,” I replied, shoving the dull knife into Morales’s chest.

“I’ll bet he wishes he never killed that girl,” said Lieutenant Jones, the condemned’s screams filling the hall.

“No doubt,” the warden answered.

“Goddamnit!” I exclaimed as an offending rib stopped the blade on the fourth thrust, while Morales screamed and writhed in agony, one shattered ammonium carbonate vial shooting from his bloody nose as he choked and snorted. Rivers of crimson poured from the chest wounds, pissed, I stabbed him a fifth time in the abdomen, just for good measure.

“Nice touch Frank,” the warden observed, giving me a thumb up. “Unstrap Morales and gather up the tools. Your job’s done, come on out and then we’ll send in the booty bandit to finish him off.”

I left the death house as Robertson was unshackled. A tall, powerfully built, predatory homosexual murderer, Wayne Robertson was ushered into the death chamber. “You have five minutes Robertson; rape him and then kill him,” said the warden over the intercom.

“Kill him too?” asked Robertson, looking to the warden.

“Sure, I’ll talk to the folks at Pelican Bay and see to it that you’re granted more special privileges due to your cooperation with the authorities.”

“Whatever you say,” Robertson answered, having his way with the condemned for the next five minutes.

After Michael Morales was sufficiently violated, myself and others even turning away at times in utter revulsion, Robertson lifted the dying inmate in the crook of his right arm, flexed it and snapped his neck. Dropping the body to the floor, Robertson pulled up his pants, moved to one side of the deathchamber and assumed the position.

As the door opened, the warden said, “Good job Gonzalez, you too Robertson.”

“Anytime,” Robertson replied as guards shackled him in irons.

“Time of death’s 12:31 AM, Pacific Standard Time,” the coroner announced, looking to the remains of Michael Morales on the death house floor.

“Did you check for a pulse?” asked the warden.

“Nope, but if he isn’t dead, he sure as hell outta be,” said the uncaring coroner, using his left foot to push the lifeless cadaver onto its back.

“Okay you two, get this piece of shit out of here and clean up the deathchamber,” said the warden, motioning over a pair of trustees.

As they dragged the mangled remains of Morales from the death house, I finished removing my biohazard suit and asked the warden, “So, who’s next in line?”

“You’re going to love the next one Frank,” the warden answered with a chuckle, “Some joker named Kevin Cooper, he killed four people down Chino way with a hatchet and a knife.”

“That’s great, I sure hope bloodstains wash out of Kevlar,” I replied, looking to the blood-covered biohazard suit.

Mon Jan 30, 05:38:00 PM PST  
Blogger GunJam said...

Thank you for this post, which illustrates beautifully my post -- showing just how brutally Morales murdered and raped his victim!

Clemency, indeed, Mr. Starr!


Mon Jan 30, 08:42:00 PM PST  

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