The Star expected his prisoner to resist. After all, the man had proven to be a squirrelly fighter in the past. He’d even given Roger a black eye once, a difficult thing for the Fox News anchor to explain to his producer. But this time, Chrys didn’t even try to resist—no opposition at all. The Black One just walked down the stairs and climbed onto the gurney by himself.

It’s almost as if he wants to be punished, Roger thought, secretly wishing for a struggle. He enjoyed it most when he had an excuse to make them suffer.

Sister hurried to his side, her identity hidden behind a white plastic Buskin mask. The face of Greek tragedy added a sense of drama to their show without taking the focus off the Star—Roger. He appreciated that.

She circled the gurney, securing the restraints around the Black One’s wrists and ankles.

If it’s going to be this easy, I might not even need her.

Together, they’d built an impressive sound stage in their basement, complete with a realistic execution set. Roger had handled the heavy construction and wiring, but Sister hung all the noise-dampening foam on the walls. She’d also installed the boom microphone and light cans. She even gathered old teleprompters from work and wrote the scripts, ensuring the queers knew precisely what to say.

So Roger did need Sister.

“Welcome to the next episode of Exodus, my friends in Christ. Tonight, we’re featuring electrocution.” After raising the gurney to the incline position and spinning the entire rig so the Black One could see the Nasty One strapped into the electric chair, The Star did his best Ed Sullivan impersonation, “It’ll be a really big shooow. Really big.”

Chrys gaped at him in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“How’s my light, Sister?” Roger asked as he took his mark on the purple X taped to the concrete floor.

She gave him a thumbs-up from behind the camera. “Looking good.”

Of course, they’d also bought a professional video camera and dolly to capture all the action. That sure cost a pretty penny.

Sister hustled to the soundboard, put on her headphones, and called, “Mic check.”

“Ahem!” Roger cleared his throat and enunciated, “Testing one, two, three, four. Red leather. Yellow leather. Purple leather.”

She gave him another thumbs up. “Sounding good.”

From behind a strip of duct tape, a petite bearded man with long hair started humming the old classic rock song “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister.

Ignoring the Nasty One, Roger only said, “Roll camera.”

When the red recording light shone above the front lens, Sister said, “Rolling.”

Roger loved directing—loved it.

But the defiant transgender woman in the electric chair hummed that vile 80s song even louder.

Roger ripped off her duct tape, taking a chunk of scraggly beard along with it. He pointed at the teleprompter and ordered, “Read.”

The prisoner squinted at the words on the screen, pretending like she was going to obey, but instead, she recited lyrics from memory, “Oh, you’re so condescending…. Your gall is never-ending.”

“That isn’t in the script, Todd.” Roger slapped her, cracking his latex glove across her face. “Try again.”

“I don’t want nothing!” she caterwauled as loud as she could. “Not a thing from you!”

“Let me read aloud for you then,” Roger said calmly. “Repeat after me: I renounce homosexuality and accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.”

The Nasty One just laughed—an obstinate laugh.

“Wipe that smug grin off your face.” Roger sneered with disgust as he knelt before the electric chair. “And pay attention during spiritual counseling.”

Sister rolled the dolly toward her brother and zoomed in for a perfect over-the-shoulder shot.

But the defiant prisoner sang over the Star’s head to the Internet audience. “We’re right!”

Chrys joined in from the gurney, “Yeah!”

“Don’t you understand? This is your opportunity to repent,” Roger said. “Come to Jesus, and see yourself transformed.”

“And we’re free!”

Chrys cheered, “Yeah!”

“And we’ll fight. You’ll see!”

This time, Chrys kept his mouth shut as he discreetly loosened one of his wrist restraints.

“Did you rehearse that?” Roger checked her ankle restraints and pushed her bare knees apart to expose the bulging crotch of her white Fruit of the Looms. Then he scooted closer and lovingly gazed up at her in the electric chair. “I asked you a question. Are you hearing me, Todd?”

“My name is Rhonda.”

Roger’s hand slipped behind his thick rubber apron into his front trouser pocket. “Is this really what you want to do with your life, Todd?”

Then, the pesky guardian angel suddenly started nagging Roger: (Don’t do this.)

“Oh, great, now it’s the Pretty One,” he muttered.

The prisoner in the chair asked, “Who are you talking to?”

(Call me Patience. Why do you keep torturing Rhonda?)

“This One must suffer until he comes to understand.”

(Understand what exactly?)

“A man is the king of his castle. And I am the man. This house is my castle. And as king, I declare no sexual perversion shall be tolerated—”

(Then, as king, here’s your chance to be kind, to show mercy.)

“—and shall be punishable by death.“ Without missing a beat, Roger pulled out his tactical knife, unfolded the serrated blade, and sliced Rhonda’s groin muscles in two swift slashes. “If it bleeds, it leads.”

His bearded captive howled in pain.

Music to my ears.

(You’re king of nothing—only cruelty incarnate.)

“Save it, Your Righteousness!” he barked at the pesky angel, then told the Nasty One, “You think you want to be a woman? Are you sure? Real women periodically shed their blood. Isn’t that right, Sister?”

Her tragic mask peeked out from behind the camera, and she nodded.

Roger continued, “So, from now on, as long as you insist you’re something you’re not, this bloodletting shall be your monthly offering.”

The bearded woman cringed at the threat.

All this time, nobody noticed the dark hooded figure lurking in the shadowy corner of the basement next to the walk-in freezer.

But I did.

“Now, we will begin your conversion therapy.” Roger stood, tossed his knife onto the prop table, stepped into the spotlight behind the dial controlling the electric chair, and pointed at the teleprompter. “Unless you want to read the words.”

“Never!”

The camera captured the Star’s closeup as he explained to the home audience, “Fifteen thousand volts of electricity causes severe organ damage. And 2,000 will cause the human heart to go into cardiac arrest. Certain death occurs at 2,500 volts.”

Rhonda growled, “Go to Hell!”

“How many times have I asked you not to curse?” Roger cranked up the dial until she seized in the chair, and then he eased off the juice. “You’ll lose consciousness at 1,000 volts. That was only 700.”

“Fuck you, you psycho piece of shit!”

The Star sighed. “Great, now we’ll have to bleep-censor that in post.”

Sister nodded in agreement behind the camera. Then, Roger turned the dial to 850. This time, the prisoner pissed herself while seizing.

“Stop it; you’re killing her!” Chrys cried out from the gurney.

“Shut your mouth, or you’re next,” Roger hissed at the Black One as he twisted the dial back to zero.

“Woo-hoo, yeah!” Rhonda defiantly shouted as static electricity lifted the bleached ends of her long brown hair. “That’ll wake you up in the morning!”

The Star chided the Nasty One, “You mussed your briefs, Todd. And on camera, too. How embarrassing for you. Does the urine sting those cuts? Just read the words, and this will all be over.”

“Never!”

“If I go to a thousand, and you pass out, I can’t promise I won’t fry you all the way to the end.”

“Ha! Go ahead. I welcome Death!”

As if on cue, the dark hooded reaper stirred in the shadows.

“Will Todd say the words and repent? Or will Yours Truly be forced to deliver the ultimate punishment? Don’t touch that dial!” Roger dramatically announced to the camera, hovering his hand over the knob controlling the electric chair. “Stay tuned … … … and cut.”

At this point, I knew I was having one of my psychic visions. Rhonda’s guardian angel was named Omeal, but she preferred to be called Patience. And the shadowy figure lurking in the background was Mumiah, the Angel of Death. I’d seen these two angels in my dreams many times before. Most people know Mumiah as the Grim Reaper. But in the spiritual courts, they’re simply called Dispatch.

Once Heaven sends that particular angel, certain death follows.

I didn’t know where in the world this scene was taking place, but it was definitely happening while I slept. And I knew from years of experience that someone in that basement studio was about to die.

Sister emerged from behind the camera with a smile gleaming behind her tragic white mask. “Excellent work, Brother.”

Roger sneered over his shoulder at the Nasty One. “I hate it when they curse.”

“That’s why God created the bleep,” she joked, handing him a cold water bottle.

She blotted his makeup with a soft cloth as he twisted the cap to break the seal and asked, “Do I need a touch-up?”

“No, you’re good. Ready to get back to it?”

“Yes.” He drank and then gave the half-empty water bottle back before taking his place behind the console again. With his hand hovering over the dial, he waited for the red recording light and said, “Let’s kill him like they do in the movies.”

Rhonda taunted him back, “Bring it, sisterhumper!”

Roger grimaced. “So vulgar—”

“Rolling,” Sister announced as the red light finally came on.

The Star instantly straightened up and smiled for the camera. “Welcome back, family.”

He hadn’t noticed that Chrys had managed to get one of his hands out of the restraints and was quietly working to free the other. But the Grim Reaper stepped out of the shadows—ready.

Roger continued, “When we left, Todd had a choice to make. Read the words, or—”

“Just do it!” Rhonda spat.

So he did. Roger cranked the dial past a thousand, and Rhonda convulsed until she lost consciousness. Foam dripped from the corners of her mouth, and tendrils of smoke curled up from her ears.

“Turn it off! Turn it off now!” Chrys jumped off the gurney and snatched the knife from the prop table. “Or I’ll cut you!”

But Roger wrenched the knob all the way before backing away from the console with his hands up. In an urgent fit of pent-up anger, Chrys lunged at his captor, slashing wildly. The serrated blade caught the bridge of the Star’s nose and cut deep.

“Not the face!” Roger wailed in agony, clutching his gushing wound. “Not my moneymaker.”

Chrys came at Roger again, slipped in the puddle of blood in front of the electric chair, and fell into him. The two men grappled before accidentally landing in Rhonda’s lap. The studio lights instantly dimmed and flickered as they all fried in the chair. Soon, the power went out, ending the studio recording along with all three lives.

The Angel of Death stepped onto the dark set to collect their souls. But the righteous spirit of Roger Ford Garrison leaped out of his dead body and ran away.

I know many people would call that a nightmare, but for me, it wasn’t. Yes, the events were tragic. Yes, it made me feel horrible. But nightmares are our subconscious fears coming to life through symbolic imagery. They are our mind’s way of warning us of hidden dangers.

That dream wasn’t about me.

I was doing it again, traversing the astral plane and witnessing things no mortal should ever see. Angels. Demons. Ghosts. I first started accidentally tapping into Dispatch as a teenager. I’d watch some gruesome death while sleeping, get freaked out, and wake up screaming. Doctors called them night terrors. Mom called them episodes. It took me a decade of sedatives, sleep studies, and talk therapy to realize these dreams were messages from another realm. They don’t faze me anymore. But I still don’t like talking about my clairvoyant sleep powers because it makes me sound crazy.

So, instead, I write.

And along the way, I befriended a spirit with a particular interest in cases like this.

So I passed along the message before peacefully drifting back to sleep: Heads up, Fury, you’re about to get summoned.