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From the fine state of Florida we get a little bit of good news.
You will remember little Jessica Lunsford who was grabbed from out of her bedroom by a piece of shit named John Evander Couey who killed her and buried her no more than 150 yards away from where he was living at the time.
After 4 hours of deliberation the jury has found that punk guilty of kidnapping, rape, and burying her alive. Next up is the debate on whether Couey gets life in prison or death by lethal injection.
As is usual, the defense had a psychologist testify that Couey was showing signs of mental retardation and illness in the hope that his life will be spared from death. Source
It's also said that Couey sat in court a drew pictures with colored pencils. So fucking what? He and his lawyer were just getting ready for the sentencing phase ahead of time knowing that this creep was going to be found guilty.
Mental illness? Try that again Mr. Attorney, on a Fox News viewer. It is already known that Couey panicked and killed the girl after the police started looking for her.
He has had run-ins with the law at least two times before over his supposed mental illness and those were also sex crimes so save your story for someone who cares.
Mentally retarded do not plan on kidnapping a little girl and then kill her because the police may be getting to close to the truth.
This punk deserves to die a most painful death. Don't spare his life, execute him.
2 Comments:
Injection - cheaper than life.
I hope they kill that son of a bitch Couey. I wrote a story on how it should be done.
I hope you like it.
My name is Frank Gonzalez, a man speaking from a nearby parallel universe, a much more just universe than could ever be conceived of in this tortured reality.
For thirty-five years I have been Chief Executioner at San Quentin Correctional Facility, California, United States of America, a position I have held with utmost pride. In carrying out my sworn duties, each condemned man has been executed by me according to the rules of the day – in the past using cyanide gas, and later, using lethal injection. Presently, thanks to a change in procedure authorized by the California legislature and Governor Arnold Schwarznegger, each condemned criminal is now executed using the same methods that were employed by the condemned on their victims.
The legislation, unanimously approved in November 2005, resulted in depraved monsters like Tookie Williams, Clarence Ray Allen, Michael Morales, and Kevin Cooper being given fates they deserved, by me, using the duly approved California Protocol.
At 10:30 AM, the warden called me to his office. Arriving, he motioned for me to take a seat.
“Well Frank, the Floridian bill based on the California Protocol passed there last month by an overwhelming margin. Since you are the most experienced executioner using the Protocol in the entire country, the Governor of Florida has requested that I send you to train the executioners there for a period of six months,” said the warden.
“I’m honored,” I replied, “So, I imagine that I’ll be heading to Florida sometime soon.”
“That’s right,” the warden answered with a smile, “You have a date with the deathhouse in sunny Florida.”
The following week, I arrived at the entrance of Florida State Prison, welcomed with great fanfare by the warden and the prison guards.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Gonzalez,” said the warden while shaking my hand.
“Please, call me Frank,” I insisted, embarrassed by the formalities.
“Only if you’ll call me Sam,” said the warden as we headed to his office.
“Please sit down Frank,” said the warden, he taking a seat at his desk.
Another man sat across from me, the warden introducing him.
“This is Jimmy Cutler, Chief executioner of Florida State Prison.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Jim,” I said, reaching over and shaking Cutler’s hand.
“Thank you sir,” said Officer Cutler.
“Now, with regard to the condemned’s case, we have an unusual situation regarding this particular execution,” the warden continued.
“Meaning?” I asked.
“Well, the condemned man is a creep named John Evander Couey, he’s the freak that raped Jessica Lunsford and then buried her alive. Originally, Jimmy and the boys were going to fry him up in Old Sparky, but Couey chose lethal injection instead. However, according to our new law based on the California Protocol, Couey must die in the same fashion as his unfortunate victim did, regardless of his wishes. As guest executioner, how will you accomplish that?”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the case, judging from what I recall, it’s not going to be labor intensive on my part, but I believe I have a novel idea for his disposal. May I please use your telephone?”
“By all means.”
Dialing California via long distance, within moments I was speaking to my friend, the warden of San Quentin Correctional Facility.
“Yeah Frank, how’s Florida?”
“Beautiful, but we have a situation here, the condemned raped a little girl and then murdered her by burying her alive.”
“You’re talking about John Evander Couey. I take it that no weapons were used on his victim before her death?”
“Hang on a minute.”
“Were any weapons used in the assault or the murder?” I asked Sam, holding my hand over the phone.
“No.”
“That’s a negative boss,” I said into the receiver.
“Okay, sounds to me like they need Wayne Robertson from Pelican Bay for this job,” said the warden.
“My thoughts exactly,” I replied.
“Let me speak to the head honcho about it,” said the warden.
“Right, he wants to talk to you Sam,” I said, handing him the phone.
After exchanging amenities, the warden of San Quentin told the warden of Florida State Prison of the usefulness of a man named Wayne Robertson in such a case.
“Is that so?” said Sam with a smile, appreciating the subtle nuances of having John Couey raped to the point of death by Wayne Robertson.
“Yeah, I’ll talk to the warden at Pelican Bay and have Wayne sent over to Florida – how soon will you need him?”
“Couey’s execution’s set for next Wednesday at 9:00 AM,” Sam answered.
“In the morning huh, we usually kill ‘em just after midnight here. Don’t worry, I’ll see to it that Robertson’s on a plane to Florida Tuesday afternoon.”
“Thanks,” said Sam.
“Anything to help a fellow correctional officer, give my regards to Robertson when he gets there.”
“Shall do,” said Sam, hanging up. “Sounds like San Quentin’s warden is one hell of guy.”
“He’s my best friend, no nonsense, dedicated to the law and the pursuit of justice,” I replied.
“As are we all,” said Jimmy, Sam nodding in agreement.
Thinking further, Sam asked, “How are we going to bury Couey alive?”
I pondered the question for a moment, an idea blossoming in my mind.
“Do we have to use the deathhouse for the execution?”
“I don’t see any reason why we have to,” answered Sam.
“Good, then we’ll do this,” I said, telling Sam and Jimmy of my plans.
Wednesday morning arrived, warm and humid in the early Florida spring.
At seven, I headed to the warden’s office with Chief Executioner Cutler. On the way, I noticed convicted murderer and homosexual rapist, Wayne Robertson, in shackles, just outside the deathhouse, two guards in riot gear at his sides.
“Hey Frank Gonzalez – how ya doing man?” said a smiling Robertson, offering me his shackled right hand.
“Not bad, uh, it’s good to see you again,” I answered, shaking his hand, continuing to the warden’s office.
“Pleasure’s all mine Frank, thanks for requesting me,” called Robertson over his shoulder, looking forward to his work.
“Who was that guy?” asked Cutler.
“Wayne Robertson, a.k.a. the “Booty Bandit”, he’s going to rape Couey,” I answered, opening the door to the warden’s office.
“Hello Frank, Couey’s having his last meal before we drag him out to the yard and have your man Robertson rape him. What a clown – he ordered six McDonald’s cheeseburgers and a coke. A backhoe’s dug a hole near the baseball diamond – that’s where we’ll bury him alive.”
“Have you requisitioned a thick plastic bag to partially suffocate him before we plant him?”
Sam chuckled as a familiar voice said behind him, “I’ve got that covered Frank, Home Depot carries plastic bags quite suited to our purpose.”
“Bobby!” I exclaimed, turning to see the smiling face of Lieutenant Jones. “Did the warden send you here with Robertson?”
“Yup, I told him I’d love to see Robertson tear this one apart, just like he did with that bastard Morales.”
“That execution was pretty good, wasn’t it?” I replied, laughing while I recalled the execution of Michael Morales.
“Remember how he broke his neck by only flexing his arm?”
“Yeah, I’d hate to encounter that musclebound behemoth unshackled,” I replied.
“If that ain’t the truth, I’ll bet he can tie knots in horseshoes without breaking a sweat,” said Jones.
“I’ll see to it that you’re reimbursed for the purchase at Home Depot,” said the warden as Jones handed him a package of clear, 25 mil thick lawn waste bags, and a roll of duct tape.
“Forget it, it’s on me warden,” said Jones with a wave of a hand.
“Finally, justice is being done,” said the warden, looking out to the yard with a thoughtful expression on his face.
Officer Cutler and I were sent by Sam to inform Couey of the change in procedure. Originally choosing to die by lethal injection, Couey had no idea that merciful choice was no longer considered an option for his execution. Arriving at his cell, we watched a Priest finish giving him last rites.
“Okay Reverend, or whatever you are, get out of here,” said a smirking Cutler.
“I am a Jesuit Priest, sir,” said the Priest.
“I don’t care what you are, just go,” said Cutler, the Priest exiting the cell. Looking to the condemned, he said, “Boy, have we got a surprise for you, Mister Couey.”
“A reprieve?”
“Hardly, remember that you chose to die by lethal injection?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t worry, you’re still going to die today by an injection of sorts, but uh – ” began Cutler, breaking into laughter.
I smiled, appreciating the dark humor of the unfolding situation.
Regaining his composure, Cutler said, “This guy’s Frank Gonzalez, he’s our guest executioner from California.”
“Christ Jim, you’re killing me with this shit!” I said, breaking into riotous laughter.
“No – you’re killing him!” said Jimmy, pointing at Couey and bursting into laughter as the condemned looked on.
Fear filled his eyes as Couey realized what was happening. “The California Protocol has been adopted by Florida,” he said. He started shaking, looking at us in terror.
“Quite correct, I see that you keep up on current events Mr. Couey. Good for you, not that it’s going to help you any,” I replied.
“What are you gonna do to me?” asked a frightened Couey.
“Well, considering that you raped Jessica Lunsford, and then buried her alive in a hole to suffocate, that’s exactly what we’re going to do to you today.”
“That’s torture!” exclaimed Couey, tears welling in his eyes.
“Yes, it is,” I replied with a broad grin, Cutler and I again breaking into laughter.
At 8:30 AM guards dragged John Evander Couey from the isolation cellblock by a chain to the prison yard, the condemned kicking and screaming, tears running down his cheeks. Prison trustees, and other prisoners from minimum security, standing behind portable chain link fences topped by razorwire, had been invited to witness the execution, as were the shackled leaders and lieutenants of several prison gangs. Armed officers, Lieutenants Clough, Petersen, and three other men stood in sniper positions, equipped with automatic AR-15 rifles in the event of trouble.
“We couldn’t get ya you pedophile motherfucker, but the man’s gonna get your ass today!” shouted one, while other hecklers and trustees spat upon Couey.
“They passed the California Protocol, motherfucker!” shouted another.
“I can’t wait to see the Booty Bandit get him!” yelled yet another over the roar of the crowd.
“You fuckin’ child molesting baby killer!” shouted a tattoo covered Pagan, “I hope Robertson fucks you to death!”
The warden, Officer Cutler, Lieutenant Jones, and I stood in a secure area next to the “arena” as it had been dubbed. A coroner was also there to witness the death of the condemned. Couey, in a fetal position, was dragged past us and dumped in front of Wayne Robertson, the inmate still in shackles, riot gear protected guards flanking him.
“Okay Frank, you’re the guest executioner, read the death sentence to that perverted piece of shit,” said Sam.
“Right,” I answered, taking a piece of paper from the warden.
Passing through a gate to the arena, I walked up to Couey. A pair of guards moved the condemned to his feet. Covered in dust, Couey’s uniform was covered in grass stains. His cheeks were wet with dirty tears, revealing pink skin beneath.
Robertson, still in shackles, lunged at Couey, exclaiming, “Lemme at him Frank!” The powerfully built, predatory homosexual murderer was already sporting an erection beneath his orange prison jersey.
“In a minute Wayne, we have to get the legal horseshit out of the way first.”
“Okay, just do what you need to do, then let me fuck him,” said Robertson.
“Of course, just as you will do what you need to do,” I replied with a smile. Looking to the condemned, I continued, “John Evander Couey, upon the orders of the State of Florida, I hereby pronounce upon you a sentence of death, to be carried out immediately. “You are to be at first sodomized in whatever fashion deemed suitable by inmate Robertson, in such a way as to lead to your incapacitation.”
“You rotten sadistic bastard,” sobbed Couey.
“You are only to speak if given an interrogative; shut up you perverted son of a bitch!” I yelled, punching him in the face with a right backhand and knocking him to the ground.
“Nice touch Frank,” called Lieutenant Jones, as Sam and Jimmy smiled.
“Thanks Bobby; should you resist his advances, inmate Robertson is duly authorized by the State of Florida to employ whatever means necessary to ensure your submission, not excluding the fracturing of bones in your body. You are to be penetrated in whatever fashion inmate Robertson deems appropriate, either orally, or anally, or both, for a period of not more than one hour. You will then be suffocated to the point of death, using plastic bags, and then, you will be buried alive in such a manner as to lead to your death.”
“Have mercy on me!” Couey cried on his knees.
“Did I ask you to speak you piece of fucking shit!” I exclaimed angrily, kicking Couey in the mouth with my knee and knocking a tooth from it.
“Did you have mercy on the little girl that you killed?” asked Robertson, disgusted at the unfolding situation and looking to me with an imploring expression.
I added as the condemned rose to his feet, a hand nursing his bloody mouth, “John Couey, may God Almighty have mercy on your soul; for none of us here will have mercy on this day, I assure you of that.”
Frowning, I turned and left the arena. Calling to the guards, I ordered, “Unshackle inmate Robertson.” Other guards immediately trained their weapons on Wayne Robertson, the Booty Bandit. Once unshackled, he held his hands up while his guards exited the arena.
“Stand down Clough and Petersen, the execution is to proceed now,” said the warden after the arena was closed.
Inmates Robertson and Couey were now alone together, the rifles trained on Robertson withdrawn.
“This’ll be ugly Bobby,” I said, “Robertson wants him bad.”
“No shit Frank, did you see his hard-on?” replied an uncaring Jones, lighting and exhaling a drag from a cigarette.
“Lieutenant, can I bum one from ya, I left mine in the office,” said Sam, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a Colibri lighter.
“Sure,” said Jones, handing him a cigarette.
Offering Jimmy a Winston 100, Cutler replied, “No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Okay chicken, you like to fuck little girls and then kill ‘em. Well, I like to fuck men in their asses,” said Robertson in the arena, cracking his knuckles and making fists, a contemptuous smirk on his face.
“Fuck him Robertson! Fuck him! Fuck the baby killer!” shouted the crowd.
John Evander Couey, his pale blue eyes staring in horror at the powerful, muscular, homosexual predator, said nothing as he attempted to evade Robertson.
“Where you gonna to run to, baldie?” teased Robertson with a laugh, removing his jersey, standing totally nude and aroused before the cheering crowd. “You may as well bend over chicken and take my cock between your cheeks, cause I’m gonna fuck you hard, just like I did with Michael Morales before I killed him!”
Robertson leapt for Couey and caught him by a leg with his left, punching him hard in the face with his right, breaking his jaw in one blow. A whimpering Couey assumed a fetal position near the fence surrounding the arena.
“Not that way you little bastard, don’t you cry on me faggot, you’re my bitch and don’t you fucking forget it,” said Robertson, lifting Couey with one arm as he tore the bottom of his jersey off with the other.
Screams came from the condemned as Robertson, a demonic smile on his face, repeatedly beat Couey in the face with his fists for sheer pleasure.
“Christ, at this rate he’ll beat him to death before he gets a chance to rape him!” exclaimed the coroner.
“No he won’t, Wayne knows what he’s doing,” I answered confidently.
“Referring to the California Protocol, is it one hour commencing on penetration?” asked Sam, watching Robertson continue to beat the condemned unmercifully, fracturing several ribs in the process.
“Uh – yeah, why not?” I answered, laughing as Robertson finally got down to business and began to rape John Evander Couey before the applauding crowd.
“Okay,” said Sam, starting a 60-minute digital stopwatch.
“Like this guys?” asked Robertson, like a primadonna, looking to the warden, Lieutenant Jones, and myself, a penetrated Couey howling in agony beneath him.
“Sure,” I said with a shrug, turning away in disgust as Sam gave Robertson a thumb up.
“Come on Frank, it’s not that bad, considering what he did to the little girl,” said Lieutenant Jones, watching intently as Couey screamed in pain, his nude, pimply ass covered in blood as Robertson pumped him repeatedly.
“Fuck him to death! Fuck him Robertson! Fuck him!” shouted the crowd.
Forty minutes of brutal homosexual rape passed, Robertson slapping John Couey in the face, yelling, “Wake up bitch, I still have to fuck you in the mouth!”
“Smelling salts for that bastard,” I ordered.
Trustees entered the arena, waving smelling salts under Couey’s nose.
“Fuck that, shove ‘em up his goddamned nose!” I yelled, finally getting into the spirit of the situation.
Couey’s eyes opened in absolute terror, his breath coming in painful gasps, staring at Robertson’s filthy erection as the trustees quickly left.
“Take my cock in your mouth chicken!” yelled Robertson through gritted teeth, shoving his blood covered, feces laced penis deep into Couey’s mouth.
“This is unbelievable Frank,” said Sam, “Robertson has incredible stamina.”
“Yeah, maybe someone slipped him some contraband Viagra,” I answered, Sam, Jimmy and Bobby breaking into laughter at my remarks.
“Taste shit you twisted motherfucker,” yelled Robertson, achieving a final orgasm in his mouth seconds later.
Dropping a mangled, delirious, violated Couey to the ground, a nonplussed Robertson stood in the arena, looking to the warden and myself for further instructions.
“He’s just about had it Frank, what do you want me to do, kill him?” asked Robertson.
“No, not this time, please hold on a moment,” I answered, turning to Sam.
“Technically, there’s fifteen minutes left for this phase of the execution procedure,” said Sam, looking to his digital stopwatch.
“Forget it Sam, Couey’s half dead already, discretion’s the name of the game in these cases,” I replied. Looking to Robertson, I ordered, “Dress yourself Wayne, then assume the position.”
“Yeah, after all, we still have to suffocate him, and then bury him alive,” added Lieutenant Jones.
“You’re right,” said Sam.
A short time later, guards, under the watchful eyes of Officers Clough and Petersen, reshackled Robertson and ushered him from the arena.
“Good work Robertson,” I said as he passed.
“Anytime Frank,” called Robertson over his shoulder.
Couey lay prone in the arena, gasping for breath. Bleeding from the ass, mouth and nose, his shattered jaw gave his battered face the appearance of a lopsided grin.
“Wanna give me a hand with suffocating him Bobby?” I asked.
“Sure,” answered Lieutenant Jones, walking with me into the arena.
“Get up you piece of garbage!” I ordered while Couey lay there and moaned. Realizing he was in no condition to walk, I dragged the condemned from the arena by what was left of his jersey and into an open area of the prison yard. A deep hole had been dug nearby with a Deere backhoe.
“Arugghrarrruuh,” said Couey, looking up at me, one of his pale blue eyes ruptured and destroyed from the extensive beating Robertson had given him.
An eager Lieutenant Jones pulled a clear plastic bag over Couey’s head, wrapping the remainder tightly around his neck. Standing before the cheering crowd, over the next few minutes, Jones and I watched Couey’s face grow red, then blue from the duly ordered suffocation.
“Gonzalez and Jones are true professionals,” said an impressed Sam to Chief Executioner Cutler, watching as I slit the bag before Couey passed out.
“Yes, it’s fortunate that we have them here to show us the finer points of the California Protocol,” replied Cutler.
Motioning to the backhoe operator, I slapped Couey hard across the face. “Wake up asshole, time to breathe some air before you die.”
“Uhhahhaahaaa,” moaned Couey between gasps, falling to his knees and collapsing from utter exhaustion as the backhoe started and idled in the background.
“Get up you fucking pile of shit and die like a goddamned man!” yelled Jones, kicking Couey in the crotch with all his might.
Couey lay there, dying from his injuries, blood running from his ass, nose, mouth and left eye socket.
“Forget it Bobby, he’s finished,” I said, looking to Sam.
“Yeah, let’s plant his ass and be done with it,” said the warden, as Couey’s remaining eye stared at me.
Before Lieutenant Jones applied the final plastic bag, I grabbed Couey by the shredded remains of his jersey and asked, “How does it feel to die this way you bastard? How does it feel to be raped and suffocated?”
“Urrraagh,” murmured Couey in his delirium, his eye rolling back in his head for a moment.
“Wake up you son of a bitch and answer me!” I exclaimed, slapping him across the face. The eye returned and focused on me for a moment, filled with absolute terror. “Faggot!” I yelled as Couey passed out, spitting on his dying face and dropping him to the ground.
Jones covered Couey’s face with another plastic bag, wrapping duct tape tightly around his neck to assure that he would painfully suffocate to death after burial, just like his innocent victim, Jessica Lunsford did. Together we lifted the condemned and threw him into his grave.
“Alright, bury him alive,” I ordered, as the backhoe began covering Couey with earth. “That’s what we do to child rapists in California!” I exclaimed, the crowd cheering at my remarks.
Within minutes, child rapist John Evander Couey was buried alive, six feet of earth covering his dying body.
Looking to the warden, I said, “I figure we should leave his ass there to rot, that is if it’s okay with you.”
“Good idea,” said Sam, “I’ll have trustees resod the area later today, that way we don’t have to waste time digging him up.” Turning to the coroner, he asked, “Time of death for Couey?”
“10:12 AM I’d say, give or take five minutes or so,” said the coroner, looking to his watch.
“That’ll work, would you guys care for a beer at my office?” asked Sam.
“It early yet,” I said.
“Who cares, I’m taking the rest of the day off to celebrate!” said Sam, while Jim, Bobby and I headed with him from the arena into the cellblock.
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