And now, head shaven, dressed in a loose shirt and pants, without shoes, you are ready to take your last walk down the carpeted corridor to the little green room. The large door is opened and you stare in at two cold chairs marked A and B. Again the guard tugs at your arm as he slowly walks you to the chair marked B.
Even as you sit down he quickly straps your ankles, and then, with cold unconcern, he straps your wrists and then places the pneumograph band across your chest. You glance down at the bucket that you know is filled with acid, perhaps to reassure yourself that this isn't real. As you look up and see the round handle of the large door being turned, you know that they are locking it. It is real. You now take your last glance; the walls are bare, broken only by the intermittent portholes through which stare your accusers. They press closer to the ports, and you now hear a splash.
You have become another victim of a most heinous crime; you have been murdered by the righteous state.
And society shall rejoice because you have atoned for your sin.