Image
In the basement he kept the electric chair. It was a gift from a friend, who had dropped it off without warning one night, dollying the chair down the ramp of a large moving truck. One of the smaller prisons in the area had been shut down, its furnishings liquidated to anybody who was interested. His friend had struck a deal to buy both of the prison's electric chairs for a reasonable price, keeping the nicer one for himself.
To generate the necessary current to correctly run an electric chair, of course, one needs a very powerful source—more than can be mustered up in an average home, even for one as handy as himself. Over a summer of nightly work, he managed to build a decent conductor, complete with a large lever that could be dramatically lifted, sending the contraption into order. It wasn't powerful enough to kill someone, but enough to get their attention.
He shared the house with his sister, who taught at a local elementary school and often came home tired and stressed. The two of them, having together given up alcohol, found solace in the chair. At night they took turns playing the roles of executioner and convict. After a few minutes under the metal hat, feeling the churn of invisible waves running from head to toe, the weight of life felt pleasantly distant. It was a short-term fix for their problems, and would have long-term consequences (neuropathy, for one). But in the meantime it was an escape. She described it as feeling like you are inside the sun, exploding with light.
