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storiesofdeathsblog · 1 year ago

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Cop Crucifixion Derby

By Allen Eagles

Cop Crucifixion Derby

The naked man paused for a moment at the top of the ramp, half-blinded by the brightness of the sun. Then, one of his guards lashed him with a whip, and he stumbled out onto the gravel track which led around the center of the stadium.

A capacity crowd at Los Angeles Coliseum roared its approval.

"The first prisoner to enter our arena," said a voice on the loudspeaker, "represents the state of Alabama. His name's Russell Johnson, he's 26 years old and until last October, when a jury in Mobile convicted him of drug dealing, he wore the uniform of an Alabama State Trooper." Johnson began his long walk around the track - a wooden crossbeam tied with barbed wire across his out stretched arms. He looked like a healthy enough specimen of manhood, with a seven inch erection jutting from between his legs, but at the same time, I couldn't help but notice the look of panic etched the agonizing death about to be inflicted upon him, and men who show their fear this openly don't usually last long on the cross.

I took out my program and wrote "Doubtful" in the space by the Alabama entry.

"Our second prisoner hails from Alaska," the loudspeaker announced over the shouts and cheers of the crowd. "He's a former patrolman on the Fairbanks Police Department and his name's Alexander Hodges. This 32 year old father of three, incidentally, has been sentenced to death on a first degree rape charge."

Officer Hodges, who also carried a wooden beam strapped across his bare shoulders, seemed to possess a more rebellious personality than Trooper Johnson. In any case, despite the weight of his burden and despite the tit-clamps chewing away at his flesh, he still had enough spirit left in him to aim a vicious kick at one of his three guards.

However, while this act of defiance brought cries of approval form many of the spectators, it also cost the officer a precious amount of blood.

"Rip his hide off!" someone shouted from the stands, and the guard who'd been kicked at immediately began to lash his prisoner's back and buttocks until they became criss-crossed with a number of dripping red stripes. A roving camera man from one of the networks now rushed forward from the press area to take some close-up footage of the scene.

I wrote the word "Troublemaker" next to Hodge's name in my program.

"From the Grand Canyon state of Arizona comes our third entry." the loudspeaker said.

"He's a part time deputy sheriff from Maricopa County who's been convicted of beating to death one of his prisoners. His name's Victor Belmont and he's just turned 22 years old."

The crowd applauded with enthusiasm the entrance of this policeman whose youth and sturdy build had helped establish him as an early favorite in the betting, but while I admired the deputy's good look and obvious virility, I also took note of the heavy growth of black hair which covered the front of his torso and which nearly hid from view the metal clamps attached to his nipples. Body hair may add an aura of manliness to a naked physique, but today it'd prove a handicap to those prisoners nailed to crosses since one of the torments to be inflicted on them was the dreaded "Ordeal by Fire."

I uncapped my pen and wrote "Too hairy" next to Belmont's name in my program.

Arkansans' entry proved to be fat and forty, while the policeman from California; who'd run over a child while under the influence of alcohol; bore dozens of cuts and bruises on his surprisingly thin body. Rumor had it he'd been savagely beaten several nights ago by some of his fellow prisoners who'd caught him trying to shave off his chest hair.

In any case, neither he nor the big bellied officer from Arkansas looked like the probable winner of this, the Fourteenth Annual Cop Crucifixion Derby.

Later in the morning, however, when the Pennsylvania entry walked naked and sweaty onto the gravel track of the arena, I knew I'd found the man to bet my money on. His name was John Mckee, he was 29 years old, only lightly haired and according to the program I'd bought at the gate, he stood six feet tall and weighed 182 pounds. While his physique may not have been as impressive as those entries from, say, Iowa or New Mexico, it had a certain toughness about it which indicated its owner possessed an unusually high resistance to pain and suffering. More importantly, Sgt. McKee; formerly of the Pittsburgh Police Department; seemed to have put himself in the proper frame of mind for the agony which lay ahead of him. As I studied this man through my binoculars, I thought he not only looked resigned to his fate, but also grimy determined to live as long as possible while hanging on the cross in order to qualify as the last survivor of the Derby.

After all, the man who lived longest in this ordeal would receive an automatic pardon and would then be rushed to a near by hospital for treatment of his wounds. Even though ten of the last thirteen winners had died in the hospital anyway, the will to endure still remained strong among all the men in the Derby, because the benefits paid to their families would be determined by their order of death in the arena. The policeman who died first, for example, would leave nothing but shame and debts to their next of kin, while those who died toward the end of the Derby would earn generous pensions for their families as well as bringing a kind of perverse honor to the states and agencies which they represented.

Since McKee looked like the kind who'd hold out till the very last, I wrote "$500" next to his name in my program.

The police chief representing Rhode Island didn't impress me, despite the length of his hard-on and the entry form the sate of South Carolina; an overweight traffic cop guilty of bribe-taking; lumbered so slowly out of the ramp that his trio of guards soon had to use their whip to hurry him along. By this time, however, the gravel track had become so slick with blood from the prisoners' lacerated feet that when the traffic cop speeded up his pace, he only succeeded in slipping and falling to the ground with a bone-cracking thud. Two of the cops' guards leaned over and flogged away at his horizontal back, but these blows failed to achieve any of the desired results. The third guard then took out his cattle prod so he could press its tip against the lawman's unprotected anus.

The crowd at the Coliseum reacted noisily to this unusual development and a squad of TV cameramen raced over to broadcast to their viewers the sight of a naked policeman getting jolts of electricity shot directly into his rectum.

"Fry his ass!" a man shouted in the stands, and soon other spectators began to take up the chant, but the cop from South Carolina could only scream and writhe helplessly on the ground as the electrical torture device was shoved deeper and deeper into his body.

Finally, the disgusted guard yanked out his prod, bringing with it a trail of reddish-brown fluid. Then, with the aid of his two colleagues, he angrily jerked the prisoner back to his feet and set him on his way again around the gravel track. Through my binocular, I could see trickles of dark, sticky fluid oozing down the inside of the cops' thighs, and on the scoreboard's big-screen monitor, I could see that those two clamps attached to his nipples had been torn off in the fall, ripping open both his tits in the process. Two steams of blood now ran down the front of the cop's mutilated torso, which was already pitted with dozens of tiny gravel wounds.

I wrote "Helpless" next to the South Carolina space in my program.

On the other hand, the next entry into the arena; a sheriff from South Dakota had the hard, leathery look of an ex-Marine about him, and despite his rather advanced age of 44 years, I decided on impulse he might be worth of bet of $250.

"Hey, sheriff," someone shouted from the sidelines, "you wouldn't look so tough when the nails go in!"

The crowd roared in unison as the Texas Ranger made his appearance at the top of the ramp. This ranger had the hulling, hirsute physique of a modern-day Clint Walker, and like the young deputy from Arizona, he'd emerged as a early favorite among the bettors in the stands. His very frailness, however, tended to discourage my betting instincts, but; I had to admire the way his swollen sac hung down almost halfway to his knees.

"Jesus, just look at the balls on that stud!" exclaimed a bald headed man sitting near me as he stared through his binoculars at the naked ranger. "They must have really shot 'em full of juice!"

The "juice" referred to by my fellow spectator had been developed after the staging of the original Derby some thirteen years ago. It seems that a combination of fear and pain had understandably shriveled the genitals of that first set of condemned lawmen, a situation which had disappointed viewers and angered police groups as well.

"It's bad enough executing police officers in public," complained one law-enforcement organization, "without making them look like a bunch of eunuchs!" To remedy this problem, a drug had been concocted which would not only force a policeman's scrotum to swell up to maximum size, but would also give him a solid-steel erection lasting or many hours. The fact that the drug caused excruciating pain and had to be injected directly into both of the policeman's testicles only encouraged it use in the Derby.

"Wish I could have been there when they jabbed him in the nuts," my fellow spectator continued, still staring at the Texas Ranger's crotch. "I'll bet he screamed bloody murder."

I now recalled that another side effect of this drug was its tendency to prevent crucified policemen from losing consciousness during their slow deaths in the arena. Thus, another complaint made by viewers of the First Derby - namely, that too many cops had simply hung from their crosses in dead faints - had been virtually eliminated in all of the subsequent derbies.

"Bet your balls are really burning!" shouted a peanut vender as the Texas Ranger passed by my section. The ranger didn't turn his head, but he probably heard the remark, as well as number of others taunts hurled in his direction.

"That stud's worth a $1000 bet," the bald headed spectator said with boastful enthusiasm. However, I simply wrote down "Too hairy" in the space next to the Texas Ranger's name.

Only two more of the remaining entries caught my eye: a blond, crew-cut state trooper from Moab, Utah, whose sharply angled erection reached clear up past his navel, and a broad shouldered M.P. who came from a military base outside Norfolk, Virginia. I wrote down "$100" next to the name of the Utah trooper and then added a question mark after the figure.

By 10:15 a.m. - Pacific Daylight Time - each of the fifty condemned policemen had made his painful way around the Coliseum's gravel track and was now standing next to one of the fifty upright poles which formed a miniature forest in the middle of the arena.

The morning was hot and the policemen sweaty bodies were already beginning to turn red from exposure to the mid July sun. I bought my self a Bud from a passing vendor and then, through my binoculars, studied the two officers on whom I'd decided to place definite bets. Both the sergeant from Pittsburgh and the sheriff from South Dakota had badly-torn feet from having to walk over all that razor-sharp gravel, and both had bloody splotches around their tit-clamps and round their V, which held their crossbeams in place. While each man had moved fast enough to avoid most of his guard's whip lashes, the sergeant had several fresh welts across his broad back and the sheriff - Sheriff Earl Canby - had a nasty cut across his buttocks and two more across his calves. Still, both men looked in good shape for this stage of the Derby, so I allowed myself a moment to admire the size and shape of their exposed sex organs.

Sgt. McKee had the longer cock of the two, and it rose upward at a noticeable sharper angle than the sheriff's. His ball-sac looked a little fuller as well, which meant his must have sported quite a "basket" back when he'd worn the dark-blue pants of the Pittsburgh Police Department. However, Sheriff Canby certainly had no reason to apologize for what he had hanging between his well muscled legs. Wit a hefty set of equipment like that, the sheriff must have been a real stallion between the sheets!

In fact, nearly all the naked policemen now waiting to be crucified seemed to possess unusually large genitals - even taking into account the swelling effects of that drug injection. I guess Derbies such as this proved at least one thing about the criminals they pursued, they also filled out their jockstraps better than any group of men in America.

I now turned my attention to the crew-cut entry from Utah - Trooper Mike Sutton - who, according to the program, was 24 years old, six feet three inches tall and 191 pounds in weight. He'd been sentenced to the Derby for "giving false testimony under oath," and he'd made his way around the Coliseum track suffering only one lash from his guards' whips. The lash cut horizontally across his buttocks which, at the moment, looked considerably paler than the rest of his suntanned body. He also had a fresh bruise on one side of his hairless chest, and I wondered if someone from the stands, in violation of the rules, had managed to throw a bottle at him.

Before shifting my gaze elsewhere, I paused to admire the trooper's reproductive organs which not glistened in the bright sunlight as if they'd been rubbed with some kind of oil.

Seeing the organs reminded me of an incident which and occurred years ago in the men's room of a Texaco station somewhere near the Kansas-Oklahoma boarder. In this men's room, a highway patrolman had dropped his khaki-colored pants so I could lick every drop of seat and grime from his dangling ball-sac. As I recall, his sac was large, somewhat wrinkled and shrouded with a layer of thick brown hairs that scratched against the surface of my tongue. I was only a high schooler at the time, but I decided then and there that the best flavors in the world must surely come from between the legs of uniformed police officers.

Smiling to myself at this pleasant memory I took out my program and studied the notation I'd make next to Trooper Sutton's name. He certainly looked as if he'd be worth a $100 bet, but I decide to delay a final decision on the matter till I'd actually seen the trooper nailed to his crossbeam.

Sometimes even the strongest and bravest-appearing men crumbled when those heavy iron spikes were hammered into their flesh.

At this point, the man on the loudspeaker began to make a brief welcoming speech, but his words were quickly drowned out by a chorus of laughter prompted by the actions of that young deputy from Arizona. Without warning, the deputy suddenly bent down in an awkward half-crouch. Then, with an explosive grunt, he spewed out a rive of cop-shit onto the freshly-mown grass of the arena floor. While everyone in the stands hooted and howled at this disgusting sight, the scoreboard flashed "FOUL!" in 50 foot high letters and two guards went to work with their already-bloody whip. Nothing, however, could move the deputy till he'd finished emptying his bowels on the ground beneath his feet.

"Make him eat it!" several people shouted from the stands, but the deputy's guards merely pushed him back toward his upright pole after he'd finished his shitting.

Through my binoculars, I saw that the deputy's inner thighs were now caked with a sticky coating of excrement which had already begun to attract a swarm of flies.

The voice on the loudspeaker then gave the order to begin the initial stage of the crucifixion. In this stage, the cops' wrists would be nailed to their wooden crossbeams, but first a means had to be devised to lay the cops face up on the ground. Most of the guard-teams accomplished this by simply grabbing their victims' ankles and then jerking them forward so that the cops were dropped suddenly on to their backs with spine-snapping force. Some of the guard-teams, however, chose to level their cops by punching them hard enough in the face to send them sprawling backward to the ground. This proved to be the method used by the three guards assigned to crucify the police sergeant from Pennsylvania.

I watched as one of these guards moved into place behind the sergeant while another guard, obviously to boss of the trio, stepped in front. This boss-guard had a wicked grin on his face and he kept grinning even as he smashed his right fist directly into the face of the defenseless officer.

The officer, now bleeding from the mouth and nose, stumbled and tripped over the second guard's outstretched leg. Then, pulled down by the weight of his crossbeam, he topple over and fell heavily on to his back, stirring up a small cloud of dust that hung lazily in the air for several seconds.

Though I couldn't make out distinct sounds through the general noise of the crowd, I saw the sergeant's mouth fly open in pain as his bloody welt were pressed into the grassy surface of the arena floor. In fact, most of the cops seemed to yell when they hit the ground, especially those whose backs and buttocks had been torn open by lashes from their guards' whips. As everyone in the stadium knew, however, the cops' torments had only just begun.

I used my binoculars to locate the sheriff form South Dakota and the state trooper form Utah. Judging from the blood on the sheriff's face, he too had been brought down by the punch in the jaw method, but the Utah trooper has apparently been felled by the grab the ankles technique. This rather surprised me, for I though the temptation to punch a state trooper in the jaw would have been irresistible, especially since the trooper couldn't fight back.

"Hey, look at that!" the bald-headed spectator said, pointing toward the north end of the stadium. "He doesn't want to go down!"

I adjusted my binoculars and saw that the entry from Florida - an airport cop convicted of drug-smuggling - refused to fall backward to the ground, despite a flurry of punches being slammed into his face by all three of his guards. Blood from this thickly-haired chest, prompting several TV cameramen to use their zoom lenses for close up shots.

"Kick him in the nuts!" someone shouted.

Finally the three guards simply jumped on top of the policeman, bringing him down by sheer weight of numbers. The crowd broke into applause was meant to commend the guards for their perseverance or the police officer for his stubborn resistance.

At 10:45 a.m., a noisy surge of excitement began to run through the stands as each of the fifty boss-guards proceeded to take out a hammer and nail from off his broad leather belt. The time of crucifixion had finally arrived! Then, at a signal given by a Derby official, the crowd fell silent in order to hear the actual sounds of the cop's wrists being hammered to the wood of their crosses.

(Contrary to popular belief, nails were never driven through the palms since the bone structures there aren't strong enough to support a man's weight.)

Once more I trained my binoculars on the police sergeant from Pennsylvania to see how he responded to the pain and shock of this latest act of brutality. I saw that he'd closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as the guard positioned the tip of a seven-inch spike against his right wrist, directly between the radius and the carpels. However, when the guard punctured his wrist with one blow of the hammer, the sergeant's eyes and mouth shot open and he seemed to let out a hoarse cry that was nearly drowned out by the sound of the remaining hammer taps.

The guard, sweating from heat an exertion, and splattered with drops of cop blood, moved to the other wrist when he repeated the nailing process. His victim, still not recovered from the impact of the previous wound, managed to keep silent this time, but a number of other policemen filled the arena with their groans and yells and curses.

"The spikes sever the median nerves in the policemen's wrists," said a voice in the row behind me, "which causes a red-hot pain to go shooting up their arms. It also causes their fingers to curl into that claw-like grasp."

I quickly shifted my gaze to the sheriff from South Dakota but saw, to my disappointment, that both his wrists had already been hammered into place. The same proved true with the trooper from Utah. However, knowing I'd be able to view all these nailing later on "instant replay," I paused to watch the guards rip off the V strands which had bound the trooper's arms to his crossbeam. The guards weren't any too gentle about doing this and before they'd finished, they'd managed to cut several bloody gashes into the trooper's skin.

A fresh wave of excitement now began to sweep through the crowd as the moment came for the horizontal cops to be raped by his trio of guards. While these rapes had always been one of the most popular features of the Derby, they'd been consistently opposed by police organizations which considered them to be "degrading" and "demeaning." Several years ago, in fact, these organizations had succeeded in making a rule change in the Derby, so that all rapes now had to be completed in a six-minute, rather than a nine-minute, period. While this might not seem like much of a victory, it had inspired police groups to begin a campaign to keep cop-killers from working as guards in the Cop-Crucifixion Derby.

I could certainly sympathize with the police point of view. After all, it seemed highly insulting to force condemned police officers to be tortured, raped and then executed by the most detested of all their many enemies, but on the other hand, the police would soon be getting their revenge since all these Derby guards were due to be killed next month at the annual Cop-Killers Barbecue being held at Kansas City's Arrowhead Stadium. At this always popular "cook-out," policemen would have the privilege of torturing, raping, then slowly roasting all those cop-killers now wearing guard uniforms, so in the long run, things would be evened out between these two highly antagonistic groups.

"The six-minute `rape period' begins now," said the loud speaker.

Unlike many of my fellow spectators, who frantically tried to take in this whole scene with a single glance, I decided to focus my attention on a single cop and his trio of guards. Fortunately, the cop in my best line of vision proved to be that hairy-chested Texas Ranger, and I managed to focus my binoculars just in time to see two of his guards jerk his legs up into a V position.

This exposed to view the ranger's firmly-sculpted ass, but I only got a quick glance at it before the boss-guard stepped in the way. The boss-guard had now dropped his pants and bent over before plunging his hard-on straight into his victim's rectum.

The ranger jerked with pain, because the boss-guard had also managed to slam his belly squarely into the ranger's swollen ball-sac, which looked as if it might split open at any time.

"Hey, look at Idaho!" a man shouted.

"They're trying to double team him!"

It took me a few moments to locate the policeman from Idaho, but when I did, I was rewarded by the sight of two Derby guards simultaneously attempting to penetrate his anus with a pair of large erections. They hadn't yet succeeded in doing so, but the agonized yell coming from the policeman's mouth clearly indicated the degree of pain he was already feeling.

"I'll bet that shot will be on the evening news," the man continued, as a CBBS cameraman hurried over to photograph the double-rape.

I swung my binoculars back to the Texas Ranger. By now, the two guards holding on to his ankles had pulled his legs so far back that his knees were almost touching his shoulders. This made his asshole an even better target that before and the boss-guard was taking full advantage of the situation by ramming the ranger's ass with a furious series of in and out strokes. These strokes quickly led to a climax which, judging from the expressions on their faces, must have been quite pleasurable to the guard and quite distressing to the ranger.

Quickly the other two guards took turns riding the lawman's upturned ass. As they did so, the boss-guard amused himself spitting into the ranger's eyes and rubbing his soiled cock back and forth across the ranger's nose and mouth. (He never actually inserted his cock inside the ranger's mouth, however, for ranger still had a full set of teeth.) The boss-guard also seemed to be talking to his victim and while I obviously couldn't hear the words, I imagined them to be something like "How's it feel having cop-killers' sperm pumped all the way up your shitty cop-ass?"

A bell soon signaled the end of the "rape period," and I lowered my binoculars to take in the panorama of fifty naked, gasping, spraddle-legged police officers trying to recover from the shock of being gang-raped on cost-to-cost television. At the same time, I couldn't help but wonder about the ranger's colleagues back in Texas. Had they gathered around a TV to silently watch him being fucked in the ass by a trio of sadistic cop-killers? Did some of them feel themselves growing hard as they say those big erections sliding between their brother officer's buttocks? Or had they decided to disassociate themselves from his shameful ordeal by refusing even to view it?

Cops tended to be very secretive about questions such as these, so probably I'd never learned the answers to them.

One more task remained before the half-crucified cops could be hoisted onto their crosses. This task involved the insertion of "butt bombs" deep into the rectums of the condemned men. Butt-bombs are round, gelatin coated objects about the size of tangerines which contain at their centers a packet of concentrated, highly-caustic powder. After being shoved by hand inside the policeman, the gelatin coating on these bombs begins to slowly dissolve so that, several hours later, the packet of powder comes into contact with the tender linings of the officers' intestines.

The resulting pain is said to be indescribable and it always produces a flurry of screaming and squirming from even the most stoic of victims.

Butt-bombs had been developed about eight or nine years ago to enliven the late-afternoon hours of the Derby, when TV ratings generally start to decline. They also tended to weaken the crucified cops, so they'd be likely to die during prime-time rather than in the hours around midnight when most of the nation's TV sets had already been turned off.

In any case, insertion of the butt-bombs had quickly become an established feature of the Derby, and all around me people now began to shout things like "Ram those bombs in there!" and "Split 'em open!" and "Here they come, coppers!" I looked through my binoculars as once again two guards roughly pulled on the ankles of the Texas Ranger, bringing into sight the blood-smeared curves of his ass. A TV cameraman then blocked my view for a moment, and when he moved to one side, I saw that the boss-guard had already wedged the butt-bomb against the ranger's exposed anus.

"Begin the insertion!" the loudspeaker ordered.

I watched the smiling boss-guard press his right hand forward. The ranger struggled and tried to kick free as he felt the gelatin orb forced past his anus, but the two men pulling up on his legs held firm. Within seconds, the boss-guard had his bare arm rammed elbow-deep inside the lawman's body cavity where the butt-bomb would now be held securely in place by its sticky coating.

At this point, the arrival of fifty fork-lift trucks diverted the crowd's attention to the far end of the stadium. These specially adapted trucks would be used to elevate the cops' cross-beams into place atop the vertical poles, and since this usually turned out to be tedious operation, I decided to leave my seat and pay a quick visit to one of the betting windows.

Apparently many other people had the same idea, for the lines at all the betting windows proved to be exceedingly long. I therefore made use of one of the computer tellers to place my three bets: $500 on Sgt. McKee of Pennsylvania, $250 on Sheriff Canby of South Dakota and $100 on Trooper Sutton from the state of Utah. Then, after a trip to the men's room, I bought myself another beer and glanced over the display area, where a series of souvenir stands were in the process of being set up. Most of these stands hadn't opened for business, yet, but the one devoted to South Dakota paraphernalia already had some of its stock on display, so I stopped by to take a look.

"How about some of this?" the salesman offered, holding up a half-pint bottle of urine. "Came straight from Sheriff Canby's own bladder."

"Expect to sell much of it?" I asked.

The man shrugged. "Depends on if the sheriff makes it to the Top Ten," he replied.

I didn't buy any of the bottles containing Sheriff Canby's urine, nor did I purchase any of the other "souvenirs" collected from him during the "Hell Week" period preceding the Derby. It wasn't that I didn't dabble in Derby memorabilia, but I knew I'd have plenty of time for shopping later, during those long afternoon hours when the temperature at the Coliseum was expected to pass the hundred-degree mark. Therefore, after chatting a few more moments with the souvenir salesman, I began to head back toward my seat.

"Nailing of the feet will begin at exactly 11:30" warned a loudspeaker on the wall.

In the first few Derbies, each policeman's feet had been nailed side-to-side to the wood of his upright pole. Since this required the use of a pair of seven-inch nails, however, the practice was changed during the times of metal shortage so that only a single ten-inch spike pierced each policeman's overlapped feet. Now, of course, all those metal-shortage restrictions had been eased, but the Derby never returned to the two-nail technique because it had been concluded that one large nail driven through both feet simultaneously actually caused more pain than two smaller nails driven individually through each foot. Most people seemed to agree with this decision, but it did not present a problem for the boss-guards in the Derby. While each of these guards had been trained on how to position the tip of the iron spike between the second and third metatarsals, they often found it difficult to pound the spike through all those squirming layers of skin and bone. This meant that in each Derby, a few of the boss-guards messed up this part of the job, resulting in some policeman's feet being seriously mangled in the nailing process.

Since cops with mangled feet usually died early on the cross, I watched anxiously through my binoculars as two of the Pennsylvania guards too hold of Sgt.

Mckee's calves. (Like the other cops, McKee now hung by his wrists from his elevated cross beam.) These guards then crossed the sergeant's legs at the ankle so they could place his left foot flat against the pole with his right foot firmly on top of it.

"So far, so good," I muttered to myself, seeing how tightly the guards wee holding on to their victim's legs. Then I watched as the boss-guard carefully pressed the tip of his spike near the center of Sgt. Mckee's foot.

Once more the crowd fell silent in order to hear the cries of the policemen as their feet were split open by the passage of these solid-iron spikes. The crowd wasn't disappointed. After the loudspeaker gave the signal, all the boss-guards swung their hammers in unison and the entire Coliseum suddenly echoed with the sounds of fifty naked police officers screaming in agony.

These screams sounded considerably louder than the yells produced by the nailing of the wrist, but this was to be expected. Test on criminals proved that a nail driven through both feet caused at least three times as much pain as a nail driven through the wrist.

Besides, a wrist could be securely nailed to the wood with just three or four blows from a hammer, where as feet required eight such blows - and each blow reportedly sent a shock wave of pain burning like fire through every fiber in the victim's body.

The expression on Sgt. Mckee's face certainly seemed to bear this out. As I watched him through my binoculars, I saw him bang his head frantically against the wood of his cross, with his mouth forced so wide open by his screams I could even see the glint of filings in his back teeth. The sergeant was obviously in utter torment, and yet the nail was still only half-way through his feet!

I couldn't get a good view of Sheriff Canby since he now faced the opposite side of the stadium but I could see in profile a spike being hammered through the overlapped fee of Trooper Sutton. The trooper, not surprisingly, was howling in anguish as his metatarsals were brutally split open, but otherwise I thought he seemed to be holding up pretty well. His muscle tone looked good, he wasn't vomiting and his horse-sized cock still thrust up from his groin just as firm and eager as it must have been on his wedding night. I began to regret that I'd only wagered $100 on this entry.

People who had bet on the entry from Wisconsin, however, couldn't share my confidence. The scoreboard soon flashed onto its screen a close-up shot of the feet of this entry; a plainclothes detective from suburban Milwaukee and I saw at once that his chance for extended survival had been sharply diminished. Apparently, his boss-guard had driven the spike in at the wrong angle, or perhaps there was a defect in the nail itself. In any case, the nail had torn its way horizontally through the detective's right foot and had emerged just below the knob of his ankle bone. The boss-guard was now in the process of trying to pull out the nail with the claw end of this hammer so he could pound it through again in the proper fashion, but the damage he's already inflicted obviously could not be remedied.

Another problem occurred with the police sergeant who represented the state of Kentucky. The boss-guard had successfully pierced the sergeant's right foot with a nail, but the sergeant had then somehow kicked himself free, ramming the blunt end of the nail squarely into the boss-guard's face. A brief struggle then ensued, but I could see that the bloody-faced guard had now gotten control of the situation once more. With the help of his two colleagues, he took the sergeant's impaled right foot and placed it atop his undamaged left one. This time, he swung his hammer forcefully enough to finish the job without further incident.

The Kentucky police sergeant had screamed without shame as the hammer and nail did their work, and part of this screaming may have been due to the realization that his feet had been fastened so far down the cross that he had little opportunity to move his legs or flex his knees. Not only would this lack of movement soon cause painful muscle spasms, it would also hasten his death by making it more difficult for him the breathe.

This meant that the wife and six children he'd left behind in Kentucky would probably not inherit any winning share from this year's Derby.

I noted with relief that Sgt. McKee's and Trooper Sutton's feet had been nailed to the cross high enough so that their knees could jut outward. Thus, as the day wore on, they'd be able to straighten their leg muscles, thereby increasing their ability to exhale air from their lungs. I hoped that Sheriff Canby had been crucified in a similar manner, but I couldn't be sure till I walked down on to the field later in the afternoon.

At the moment, however, there wasn't much to do and since the sun was becoming decidedly hot, I decided to venture out of the stadium for lunch at a nearby restaurant which a friend had recommended. As I'd expected, this restaurant featured a large-screen TV set behind its bar tuned to the Derby and a noisy crowd of people had gathered around it to compare notes on their bets.

I didn't pay much attention to the TV, concentrating instead on my food, and this proved to be a wise decision. It seems that when the TV camera moved in for a close-up one of the crucified cop-the patrolman from Alaska, I think-the cop unexpectedly puked a chunky stream of fluid directly toward the camera lens. The people at the bar giggled and groaned at this stomach-turning sight but I simply went on eating my beef Stroganoff, undisturbed by all the commotion.

"When they start heaving up their guts," said a well-dressed young man at the bar, "you know they're beginning to hurt." "I hear they force-feed them lots of greasy food right before the Derby," another man said, "to make sure they'll do lots of vomiting."

"That's right," the first man agreed, "and they make 'em drink about a gallon of water so they'll have full bladders then they're nailed to their crosses."

"And we all know what that means!" the second man chuckled, apparently amused by the thought of all those cops erupting into golden showers.

Back at the Coliseum, where the clock now read 1:27, I walked briskly past the rows of souvenir stands and chased away two little kids who'd taken over my seat during my absence. Then I took out my binoculars and gave a quick once-over of the current situation. Although the cops had only been hanging on their crosses for slightly more than two hours, their naked bodies clearly showed the ravages of the tortures to which they'd been condemned. The exposed portions of their skin, for example, had been reddened and blistered by the merciless rays of the midsummer sun, and each policeman now glistened from the Amazons of sweat which came flooding from all portions of his anatomy. This sweat which came flooding from all portions of his anatomy. This sweat gave the cops' bodies the attractive look of liquid bronze, but I knew it also represented the onset of serious dehydration and, besides, it served to attract hordes of flying insects to the center of the arena. These insects, quickly discovering that they wouldn't be shooed away from such a delectable feast of flesh, literally.

blackened the air in front of some of the policemen's faces, and I knew that many of these insects were now busily exploring inside the nostrils and underneath the eyelids of their unwilling hosts. More bugs flocked around the policemen's crotches, drawn by the rich smells and liquids which collected there.

Through my binoculars I found the Texas Ranger and noted that a solid layer of hungry insects had now completely covered the tip of his still-solid erection. Some of these insects had surely worked their way into the ranger's piss-tube by this time and the thought of having real bugs actually crawling around inside a man's dick almost made me cringe.

Then I focused my gaze on Sgt. McKee of Pennsylvania and saw to my initial disappointment, that his physical condition had dramatically deteriorated over my lunch break. He seemed to be having trouble lifting up his sagging torso in order to empty out his lungs, and the trail of half-dried vomit which ran vertically down his chest showed that he must have violently regurgitated at some recent point in his ordeal. The sergeant also seemed to be trying to spit insects out of is mouth, and I feared this was costing him both valuable energy and moisture.

On the other hand, Sgt. McKee's sex organ was still thrust into the air at a 45 degree angle, and he'd learned how to "stand" up on the nail that ran through his feet, thus helping his lungs to function. I took these signs as a hopeful indication that my $500 bet on the Pittsburgh police sergeant would not be wasted.

I still couldn't get a good view of Sheriff Canby from South Dakota, but Trooper Sutton - all things considered - also appeared to be in good shape. At least his pecker hadn't yet begun to wilt, but I was worried about his balls. They looked even more swollen than when he'd first entered the arena, and they'd also begun to turn a sickly shade of purple. The pain these balls were causing the trooper must have been enormous and I didn't like the thought that this pain might be sapping the trooper's all-important will to survive. At least his sac hadn't split open yet, which would provide an early entry for all those ravenous bugs now crawling on its surface.

I spent the next few minutes making polite conversation with the young couple seated in the row ahead of me. This couple had driven down from Oregon to spend their honeymoon in Southern California and I learned that the Cop-Crucifixion Derby, along with a visit to Disneyland, had constituted the high points of their trip to date.

"We have a little money on the cop from Oregon," said Wayne, the good-looking husband who'd just graduated from dental school. "Sort of supporting the home team, you might say."

Wayne's bride then said something about having fears the Derby would be "grim" and "depressing," but apparently Wayne had dispelled these doubt by assuring her that policemen were so big and tough they didn't feel pain the way ordinary people did.

I nodded but said nothing on this point. Nor did I state my belief that the slightly paunchy, 52 year-old entry from Oregon probably wouldn't make it past five o'clock in the afternoon. Instead, I turned my attention to the workers who were bringing onto the field a supply of buckets and long-handled brooms. Their arrival meant that the first stage of the "Ordeal by Fire" was about to begin.

By now, most of the people who'd left during the lunch hour had returned to reclaim their seats, so the Coliseum was once more near capacity as the buckets and brooms were distributed to the boss-guards.

Many spectators now wore sunglasses and sun-hats to ward off the heat and glare, and the smell of suntan lotion suddenly seemed as strong as the ubiquitous odors of hot dogs, popcorn and beer.

Another odor now began to blend with this mixture; an odor something like kerosene.

This latest scent came from those buckets which were filled with a gummy, flammable substance especially concocted for this phase of the Derby and nicknamed simply "sauce."

"Prepare the right armpit," the loudspeaker instructed over the growing excitement of the crowd.

I watched through my binoculars as the boss-guard assigned to the Texas Ranger dipped the bristles of his broom into the bucket of sauce. Then he lifted this broom by its long wooden handle and jabbed the bristles into the exposed armpit of the Texas Ranger. Since the sauce had the consistency of rubber cement, it now clung in glistening drops to the patch of black hair which grew in the ranger's pit.

"Use lots of that there deodorant!" someone shouted in a hillbilly accent. "All them cops stink really bad!"

This remark prompted some laughter on the part of my fellow spectators, but the Texas Ranger didn't look amused. He just shook the bugs from his eyes and then glared down at his right armpit, as if he could somehow stare away the flammable material clinging tenaciously to his fur.

"Light your matches," said the loudspeaker.

The boss-guard then teased his victim a bit, holding the match in front of the ranger's thigh. The ranger gritted his teeth but didn't cry out. The boss-guard then teased his victim a bit, holding the match in front of the ranger's face and pretending to jab it into his eyes before finally moving into the crook of the ranger's right arm.

At a signal from the loudspeaker, the boss-guard touched the burning match to the ranger's pit and instantly this hair-filled hollow exploded into a miniature ball of flame. The Texas Ranger let out a howl and pressed forward against his spikes in a valiant but futile effort to escape from this latest torment. Damn, but he looked beautiful - every muscle straining in that big, hairy, sweat-soaked body of his.

Other cops were straining and yelling too, as the flames ate into the flesh of their right armpits, but the cops' reactions were measurably less than when the spikes went through their feet. For one thing, they now had less energy to spend, and for another, the fire in their armpits compared to their other torments must have seemed like a relatively minor irritation. These armpit burnings did, however, serve to satisfy audience demands for "action" in the Derby, and I noted that my fellow spectators watched with rapt attention as the boss-guards then dabbed the flammable gunk into the policemen's left armpits.

This time I watched Sgt. McKee's face as the match was touched to his lush undergrowth. The sergeant let out a good yell as the flames scorched the flesh of his armpit, but he'd realized he had worse pain yet to come. In fact, the most graphic evidence of his suffering came in the form of a strand of saliva which now drooled out of one corner of his mouth. Crucifixion was certainly a foul and distasteful way to die, and I was glad I'd gone to lunch before sights such as this tended to dampen my appetite. Adding to my feelings of disgust were the odors of burned hair and flesh which soon came drifting into the stands.

"Nothing like the smell of roast pork!" chuckled the bald headed spectator. He clearly didn't smell my aversion to the smell of scorched cop-flesh, but the young bride in the row ahead of me took a perfume-sprinkled hanky and held it up to her nose.

I cast a quick look at Trooper Sutton, who seemed to have weathered the armpit burnings in good shape, but I couldn't help but be concerned over the slight droop now evident in his erection.

It had been suggested several times in the past that a second dose of drugs be injected into the policemen's testicles about halfway through the Derby in order to keep their sacs swollen and their dicks rigid. I tended to favor this idea, along with the suggestion that the policemen's eyelid muscles be slit so they couldn't be shut against the glare and dust and insects of the arena. However, I had mixed feelings about the plan to force every condemned policeman to enter the arena with a nightstick securely wedged up his ass. What if the cop should fall backward and drive that nightstick clear through his guts? He'd probably die right there on the gravel track, thus depriving the audience of the pleasure of watching him squirm on the cross for hours of glorious agony. I was also opposed to the suggestion that the cops' mouths be propped open with wooden sticks throughout their long ordeal.

True, this would allow all those nasty insects to freely crawl over the cops' tongues and down their parched throats, but it would also hamper the cops in using their voices and I, for one, greatly enjoyed listening to their screams and grunts and curses not to mention their occasional pleas for mercy.

Still, the search went on to find new ways to torment and humiliate the policemen in the Derby, since it was generally agreed that these big, powerful men could always absorb just a bit more pain. Now, for instance, the cops on the crosses were about to experience a "chestburn" as part of their Ordeal by Fire.

I watched as the Pennsylvania boss-guard ran the sticky bristles of his broom down the from of Sgt. McKee's chest, leaving behind not only a layer of sauce but also two dozen or so small vertical cuts. Soon, however, I turned my attention to the thickly-haired Texas Ranger who'd emerged as the heavy favorite among the bettors. As the boss-guard brushed the flammable sauce onto the ranger's torso, I once again decide that the bettor would be proven wrong in this matter.

You see, when sauce is applied to a smooth chest, it only forms a thin coating on the skin which burns off in a flash when a match is put to it. However, thick growths of chest hair tend to capture and retain more of the sauce and through my binoculars I could now see large clots of sauce clinging to the ranger's fur. These clots would cause the fire to burn longer and more intensely than on a smooth chest - thus causing additional pain and damage to the victim.

Sometimes these burning clots would break free from the chest and roll down toward the victim's crotch or even along his bare legs, inflicting still more agony and shock.

Sure enough, when the boss-guard touched his match to the chest of the Texas Ranger, his chest turned into a raging forest fire that swept its way from the lawman's collarbones clear down past his navel. Naturally, the ranger let out a shriek as he felt his chest being roasted like a marshmallow over a campfire, and he jerked his head violently to one side to avoid breathing in the rush of smoke and flames. Forty-nine other policemen were doing pretty much the same thing, for a chorus of masculine screams now filled the Coliseum and probably carried over into the surrounding parking lots as well.

(If past experiences were any guide, someone would edit tapes of these screams into one of those novelty hits like last year's popular "Scream, Piggy, Scream!")

It was all over in a few seconds, of course, but after the puffs of blackish smoke had drifted away from the forest of crosses, I saw what a toll these few seconds had taken on the crucified cops. They now squirmed on their spikes like insects pinned to a display case, all the while groaning and whimpering and looking down at their blackened tit-clamps and blistered flesh. As I'd expected, however, the smooth-chested cops like Trooper Sutton of Utah seemed to have come out of this torture in slightly better shape that their more hirsute colleagues.

(No wonder the Cop from California had tried to shave his chest prior to the Derby!)

One cop, however, did not come out of this ordeal at all. A metallic white shield - about the size of a dinner plate - suddenly popped out of the top of one of the crosses and a distinctive whistle blew loudly for a solid twelve seconds. At 2:06 p.m., after hanging on the cross for less than three hours, that over weight traffic cop from South Carolina had become the first policeman to die in this year's Derby.

Moments later, the whistle blew or the cop from Wisconsin; the one whose feet had been so badly mangled in the nailing process. Though it would be several days before autopsy reports would be released, I figured this cop had died on the usual cause of cross-death: asphyxiation. According to medical authorities, the weight of the body pulling down on the outstretched arms and shoulders would tend to fix a crucified man's breathing muscles into an "inhalation state." To effectively exhale the stale air piling up in hi lungs, a man would have to push up on his nailed feet, despite the excruciating pain this produced. Since the cop from Wisconsin could hardly push himself up in this condition, he'd probably slowly suffocated.

Axes were produced from somewhere and the guard-teams from South Carolina and Wisconsin began to chop away at the bases of their crosses. After much sweating and cussing, the three guards from South Carolina managed to push their cross backward so that the fat traffic cop went crashing face-up to the ground. The Wisconsin cop soon followed.

During this momentary lull in the action, a TV cameraman stepped forward to record the sight of a dead cop being removed from his cross, so I watched the proceedings on the screen of the Coliseum's scoreboard.

First the trio of South Carolina guards removed their sweaty, blood-spattered shirts.

Then, using the claw-end of their hammer, they pulled the spikes out of the dead cop's feet and wrists. The gore and bits of flesh clinging to these spikes wouldn't be wiped off since the spikes would be sold at auction after the Derby, and bloody spikes always fetched higher prices than clean ones.

Finally, the guards grabbed the South Carolina cop by his swollen ankles and dragged him face-down toward one of the exits. As they did so, they made sure to keep his legs spread at a comic angle, and when they came to that pile of excrement produced by the young deputy from Arizona, they managed to drag their victim's face straight through it.

"That cop's going to wake up in hell with a mouthful of shit!" shouted the bald-headed spectator.

The crowd around me laughed as the carcasses of the cops from Wisconsin and South Carolina were dragged unceremoniously through the exit and into an underground lab where their bloated genitals would be removed for later sale. While both men had died far too soon to win any Derby prizes, at least their male organs would bring a good price since they hadn't been charred in the last stage of the Ordeal by Fire.

The cocks of policemen killed in the Derby were sold in mummified states to private collectors or to museums specializing in the bizarre and macabre. The cops' testicles, sold separately or in pairs, often would up being auctioned to exotic restaurants where they were served in various forms ranging from "toasted" to "fried." Last year, however, a health-food company had bought up most of the supply of Derby testicles in order to use them in a medication called "Essence of Manhood" which was designed to help impotent men.

At this point, the loudspeaker announced a half-hour break before the conclusion of the Ordeal by Fire, and since the heat of the summer sun was now reaching its mid-afternoon peak, I decided to leave my seat again for a visit to the exhibit area.

Wayne, the bridegroom in the row ahead of me, offered to tag along.

"God, what a stench!" he muttered as we climbed our way up the aisle. "And I guess it'll get a lot worse when they set fire to their, you know, their crotches."

"Probably so," I agreed.

"Did you know there's an aroma-disc you can buy called "Burnt Cop" that's supposed to smell just like a policeman after his armpits and chest have been set on fire?"

"I prefer Pine Forest myself," I admitted.

It turned out that Wayne wanted to buy his wife a souvenir so we spent a few minutes at the Oregon booth looking over the various items which had been collected from the Oregon cop during "Hell Week."

(Hell Week actually lasted only six days and it comprised that period immediately before the Derby when all the condemned cops were jailed together in a special facility with cop-killers again being used as guards.

During this period, the cops were confined in hot, windowless cells and forced to wear nothing but handcuffs and jockstraps. They were denied normal shower and toilet facilities and were constantly subjected to numerous forms of humiliation and abuse.)

Wayne wanted to buy a sample of the cop's sperm which had been "milked" out of his balls with a pump and sealed into a glass tube, but he found the price too much for his honeymoon budget and he didn't seem interested in the bottles of souvenir urine.

(He said he didn't know what to do with them once you got them home, and I didn't mention my recipe for cop-piss cooler.)

"How about this?" the vendor asked, holding up a nightstick encased in a clear plastic tube. "It was stuck up Officer Benson's rectum once a day during Hell Week and it'll only cost you $400."

Wayne didn't buy the nightstick or the used jockstrap or the handcuffs Officer Benson had worn during the days before the Derby.

However, he did purchase a series of 8x10 glossies showing the Oregon cop in various poses - mostly of the pornographic variety.

"I like this one," Wayne said, showing me a photo of Officer Benson being forced into a 69 position with another naked cop. "And this one too," Wayne continued, holding up a photo of Officer Benson getting his balls emptied out with a sperm pump. "But here's my favorite," the bridegroom concluded, pointing to a picture which showed the officer squatting down over the open drain in his cell floor. The officer was in the process of taking a very messy shit while two of his guards, grinning like excited schoolboys, were pissing hard yellow streams into his face.

I suggested he buy a photo of the guards injecting juice into Officer Benson's left nut while the officer screamed in agony, but Wayne considered this too violent for his tastes.

I then did some shopping on my own while Wayne visited the nearby Listening Room.

(In this room one could tune in and hear the actual sounds being picked up by the microphones built into each cross.

Occasionally one might hear something interesting in the way, but most of the time it was simply a chorus of groans and moans and mumbled prayers.) Since I wanted a souvenir of each of the three policemen I'd bet money on, I visited the booth from South Dakota and arranged to buy the tit-clamp that was currently fastened to Sheriff Canby's right nipple. This clamp would be delivered to me after the Derby, and I specified that it be ripped off the sheriff's tit and not simply unclamped. At the Utah booth, the vendor allowed me to sniff the pouch of the jockstrap worn by Trooper Sutton during Hell Week, but the $4800 price-tag put it out of my range.

"Look, it's got all these piss stains on it," the vendor pointed out. "That's because the guards wouldn't let him pull down his jock when he wanted to take a leak, so he had to piss right through it. And see here? These are genuine cum stains."

I admired the crusty surface of the jock and though about the hot set of state trooper balls which had so recently been squeezed into its confines. Then I reluctantly put it aside and instead bought a glass tube containing about two teaspoons of Trooper Sutton's semen.

"That makes a great topping on a baked potato," the vendor advised.

At the Pennsylvania booth, I bought a poster showing three guards shoving Sgt. Mckee's head into an overflowing slop bucket. The poster had the words "Dinner Time" emblazoned across the top, but while I enjoyed this touch of humor, I bought the poster primarily because of the way it showed off Sgt. McKee's naked physique.

I also bought a thirty-minute video tape of "highlights" from Sgt. McKee's Hell Week experiences, including of course, the injection of juice into his testicles. I planned to watch this tape later at one of the stadium's video rooms, but now the time had come to find Wayne and return to my seat in Section 36.

"I met this fellow dentist in the Listening Room," Wayne said after we'd checked our purchases into a locker. "He's going to contact the Derby Committee next year about getting permission to pull out all of the policemen's teeth, just before they're crucified."

"Without using Novocain?" I asked.

"That's right," Wayne chuckled. "He'll just use chisels and pliers."

By the time I got settled in place again, my watch read 3:07 p.m. and the stadium thermometer registered 98 degrees. It felt at least five degrees above that figure and it was due to get even hotter since the guards were preparing to set fire to the condemned cops pubic hair and sex organs.

I looked through my binoculars and saw that Sgt. McKee's dense pubic patch already gleamed with a thick coating of sauce, as did his still-erect penis and his dangling ball-sac.

I suspected the boss-guard had skimped on the sauce when he dabbed the sergeant's chest so he'd be sure to have lots of it to use on the sergeant's groin.

The sergeant, quite frankly, didn't look in very good shape at this pint in his execution.

His skin had been blister by fire and by the heat of the sun, his body looked dehydrated by excessive sweating, his tongue lolled out of his mouth, his scrotum seemed on the verge of splitting open, and the cloud of insect surrounding him was doubling in size with each passing hour. Still, his hard-on had not yet begun to droop, and there were plenty of other cops in the arena who looked just as wretched as he did - maybe even worse.

"Oh, God! Not my nuts!" I heard a voice cry, and I soon picked out the speaker as being that young deputy from Arizona who'd once been a crowd-favorite but who'd rapidly fallen into disfavor after that shitting incident. Obviously, he didn't like the idea of his "meat" being barbecued for the amusement of the crowd, by his pleas to be spared from this torment made him look not only cowardly but foolish as well.

The deputy's boss-guard already had his match lit and attached to the end of his broom-handle, and when the signal came from the loudspeaker, he touched this match without hesitation to the tip of the deputy's hard-on. The deputy's genitals and pubic patch went off like an atomic bomb, forcing the boss-guard to jump backward to avoid being singed by the flames. Similar explosions wee also occurring between the legs of forty-seven other cops, accompanied by a chorus of full-throated, masculine screams.

"They'll be yelling in soprano after this," someone joked as the roar of pain began to subside.

A new wave of smoke and sicking odor sweep over the stands, but I managed to focus my binoculars first on Sgt. Mckee and then on Trooper Sutton. Both men had suffered enormous pain during the brief but intense fire-storm, and both men's crotches now looked surprisingly similar: a long but deflating cock hanging down like a piece of scorched rope over a ball sac that resembled an over ripe eggplant. The triangles of pubic hair which had once grown in profusion above these crotches had been reduced to little more than ash and stubble - sort of like two fields of dry brush after they'd been swept by lightning fires.

At lest their sacs hadn't split open from the sudden heat, though both of them now seemed to be oozing thick, yellowish fluid from cracks in their surfaces. The genitals of the other cops hadn't held together as well. A pack of television cameramen, for example, now jostled for position in front of the cop from New Hampshire. It seems this cop's sac had literally exploded after being set on fire, and his exposed testicles now quivered between his knees at the ends of two rubbery-pink cords. The scoreboard quickly flashed a close-up view of this grizzly sight, prompting the young bride ahead of me to squeal: "Ooooooo! How gross!"

Other cameramen had gathered around the cop from Indiana whose ball sac had also been ripped open by the hellish inferno which had recently consumed it. Unlike the cop from New Hampshire, this one wasn't screaming. He simply hung limply from his nailed wrists with a glazed look on his face, and I figured he wouldn't last another fifteen minutes.

One cop didn't even last that long, a whistle and a white shield rising from the Louisiana cross indicated that its occupant had just arrived in cop-hell where the tortures Satan might inflict on him couldn't be any worse than the ones he'd just experienced in the Los Angeles Coliseum.

Within the next few minutes, cops representing the states of Rhode Island, Delaware, Kansas, and Hawaii also died, and several more cops were only hanging on by a thread. This sudden death toll struck me as being normal for the period immediately following the Ordeal by Fire, and I expected another wave of deaths to occur after those butt-bombs started "exploding" inside the condemned cops' guts.

My chief concern at the moment involved Sheriff Canby of South Dakota. I hadn't gotten a good look at him in several hours and I wondered how my $250 bet on him might be faring at the moment. Thus, I was unusually glad when an usher touched my shoulder and said the time had come for me to pay a visit to the playing field.

As the usher led me down to the gate which opened onto the field, I noted the envious glances being cast in my direction, and I felt a surge of pleasure that all my hard work at the magazine had gotten me a field pass for this occasion. Of course, such passes were available to the general public, too, but at a price that put them out of most peoples' reach. In fact, as I reached the gravel track, I spotted less than forty individuals converging on the center of the field.

"Tell Nebraska his cousin's got $2000 bet on him!" someone shouted at me.

As I crossed the track with its blood-spotted carpet of gravel, a glint of metal caught my eye. Bending over, I picked up one of the tit-clamps which had been torn from the chest of the South Carolina cop after he'd tripped and fallen during his walk around the arena. A generous slice of tit-flesh still clung to this clamp which I hurriedly slipped into my pocket before some Derby official could come along and confiscate it. I then looked around without success for the other clamp, but apparently it had gotten kicked over into the grass where it'd be hard to spot.

Pleased with my good fortune, I then headed across the turf toward the crosses. God, did it feel hot....and the stench! It smelled like a mix between a barbecue pit, a locker room, and a dirty toilet.

A crowd of people had formed in front of the Texas Ranger, so I by passed this area and went straight to where Trooper Sutton hung in exquisite agony from his cross. This cross looked a lot bigger when seen close up, and it must have measured more than twelve feet tall because my face barely came to the level of the State trooper's toes. I now noticed with surprise that both of the trooper's toes were missing their nails.

"What happened to your toenails?" I asked, shielding my eyes against the sun as I looked up the trooper's blackened torso toward his once handsome face.

"Got ripped off during Hell Week," Sutton replied in a strained but still audible voice.

"I'll bet that hurt," I commented. "Did you yell?"

The trooper grunted, which I took to mean "Yes."

"I have a $100 bet on you, "I went on, "and I bought some of your semen in one of those little glass tubes. Tell me, does it hurt to have cum pumped out of your balls?"

"Everything hurts," the trooper rasped.

Then, without warning, he suddenly squirted a stream of urine out of the charred tip of his pecker. This action made the trooper groan in pain as hot liquid suddenly surged through his insect-bitten tube, and it made me jump hurriedly out of the way.

Actually, I shouldn't have been taken by surprise since these golden showers predictably occur shortly after the conclusion of the Ordeal by Fire. It seems that the injection of juice into the policemen's testicles effectively prevented any urination for the first few hours of the Derby. Then, after those crotch fires had burned away the top layers of skin on the policemen's genitals, the effect of the juiced dissipated and every surviving cop suddenly felt the urge to empty his overflowing bladder. In fact, all around me I could see, hear, and even smell cop after cop shooting off his last reservoir of yellow fluid. Most people on the field carefully avoided these showers, but I saw several men standing directly under the flow, laughing and splashing about like kids. Well, I guess it takes all kinds.

"Damn bugs," I said, shooing a squadron of flies away from my face. "How do you stand' em?"

The trooper groaned and then, with a cry of anguish, he straightened his legs and pushed himself upward on the cross so that his entire weight now pressed down on that single spike hammered through his feet. The pain shooting up through his damaged nerves must have been horrendous, but I knew the trooper had to do this in order to keep on breathing. The trooper stayed in this upright position for about ten seconds, all the while gasping air in and out of his lungs. Then, with another cry, he let his body sag back into its suspended posture. I now noted several trickles of fresh blood beginning to make their way down past the trooper's feet toward the base of his cross. With a start, I realized this blood must be coming from the welts on the trooper's back. Every time he slid up and down, the rough wood of the cross reopened these wounds and scraped off even more of his skin. By the time the Derby came to an end, the flesh of this man's back would be hanging in ribbons.

"Keep your chin up, Trooper." I said with a chuckle as I prepared to move on.

"Remember that $100 I've got riding on you."

As I walked over to the next cross, two more "death whistles" sounded, almost simultaneously, and the loudspeaker announced that the entries from Missouri and Oklahoma had just died. I paused for a moment in front of the cop from New Mexico, whose physique I'd already admired from a distance.

"This may not be of much comfort to you, "I called up to the tortured lawman, "but you're just about the best hung cop in the whole damn Derby-or at least you were. I only wish I could have sucked on that big tool of yours before it got burned to a crisp."

The cop glared down at me through a fog of insects but didn't say a word.

"Wish I could have sucked on your balls, too," I went on. "They must have been a real tasty mouthful. And those tits of yours look like..."

"Fuck you, " the cop interrupted.

I laughed. "You're the one who's going to be fucked," I said. "After your dead body gets hauled into the lab, all those lab workers will line up for a chance to corn-hole your ass while it's still warm."

"Damn you," the cop growled.

"And they'll use your mouth as a toilet," I added with a smile as I headed off for Sgt.

McKee's cross.

Sgt. Mckee was standing up on his spike when I arrived and obviously in no mood to chat, so while he took a number of labored breaths, I told him how I'd staked $500 on his becoming the winner of the Derby. Then I said how I'd watched him being nailed to his cross and later being subjected to the Ordeal by Fire.

"I curious about something," I continued.

"Which hurt more - getting your wrists nailed, or getting your armpits set on fire?"

"Armpits," Mckee managed to gasp, still standing up on his spike.

"That's what I figured," I said. "What about this - did getting your feet nailed hurt more than getting your balls barbecued?"

"About the same," Mckee replied. Then he sagged down again on the cross, wincing as he did so because of the splinters being driven into his already-lacerated back.

I talked to the sergeant a bit longer, trying to encourage him to endure his pain as long as possible. Then I walked over to the Nebraska cop and gave him that message about his cousin's $2000 bet. The Nebraska cop, who had a long strand of reddish fluid dangling down from his dick, didn't bother to thank me, so I told him how I planned to buy his nuts so I could feed them to my dog.

This seemed to rile the cop and - who knows? Maybe his anger extended his life on the cross by another half an hour or so.

That's what the nearby boss-guard thought.

"The ones who get mad live longer," he said, wiping the sweat from his face. "It's the ones who just hang there and bleed who'll probably die first."

I gave the boss-guard an appraising glance, noting that he looked unusually young-maybe 22 or 23 years old; and surprisingly handsome. I found it hard to believe he'd been convicted of killing a cop.

Then, almost reluctantly, I found myself wondering what he'd look like chained naked to a horizontal spit while rows of hungry flames licked up at his body.

The boss-guard seemed to be reading my mind. "Ever been to one of those Cop-Killer Barbecues?" he asked, almost shyly.

"Only seen them on TV," I replied.

"I hear those cops can keep a man alive and screaming for six or seven hours while they roast him to death," the boss-guard went on.

"I hear they can make things even worse if they've got a special grudge against you, so I've been real careful to follow the rules here. Ain't that right, cop?"

The Nebraska policeman didn't answer, but he seemed preoccupied with a wasp which had just landed on his lower lip.

"Of course," the boss-guard continued, "I fucked this guy's ass, but that's all part of the Derby - you know what I mean?"

"How was his ass?" I asked.

"Really sweet," the boss-guard grinned.

"And even snugger than my fist, but that's the way cops are: big dicks and tight holes."

I nodded. Then, noting that my allotted time on the field was already half over, I turned away and walked in the direction of Sheriff's Canby's cross. As I did so, I heard one of the cops let out a blood-curdling shriek, and I knew his butt-bomb must have just broken open inside his guts. The crowd naturally roared its approval and the scoreboard obligingly flashed a scene of the unfortunate officer - the one from Alaska - writhing so frantically on his spikes that his cross actually swayed back and forth.

I picked up my pace, wanting to talk to Sheriff Canby before his own butt-bomb began to eat away at his intestines.

The sheriff looked like hell, mainly because of the mutilated eyeball which now hung against his right cheek, suspended by a greasy looking nerve. He also stank to high heaven, mostly because of the traces of vomit which still clung to parts of his burned over chest. The odor of stale urine also drifted about him, as did the strong smell of male sweat.

"What happened to your eye?" I asked, holding a kleenex up to my nose.

It took some effort for the sheriff to answer, but he didn't seem to mind my curiosity.

Perhaps I helped take his mind off his pain.

"A crow did it," he managed to reply.

"About 12:30."

"Damn! I was out having lunch about then.

Did they show it on TV?"

"I guess so," the sheriff replied.

"Well, maybe I can catch it on a re-play." I then told the sheriff about the money I'd bet on him and about how I thought he still had a good chance of winning the Derby despite having had his right eye pecked out by an inquisitive bird.

"Can you still see through that eye?" I asked.

The sheriff shook his head. Then he asked me which cops had already died, and I tried to provide him with a complete list. He seemed upset about the death of the police chief from Rhode Island because they'd been cell mates together during Hell Week. This meant they'd probably been forced to suck on each other's cock for the amusement of the guard, but I didn't say anything on the subject.

"I bought your right tit-clamp, by the way," I told the sheriff before I left. "They're going to rip it right off your chest, so I'm hoping to have a bit of your titty to remember you by."

"Why not buy my nuts?" the sheriff gasped, pushing his body up on the cross.

"Too expensive," I replied.

More cops were now screaming as the caustic substances inside their butt-bombs began to come into contact with their innards. I paused for a moment to watch the young deputy from Arizona writhe helplessly on his cross as he yelled: "My guts! My guts!"

A man behind me laughed. "They ought to play `Twist and Shout' during this part," he suggested. I nodded.

"Say," he went on. "I'm looking for a cop who's supposed to have a Green Beret tattoo on his left biceps. You see, my kid collects those things, so I want to see about buying the tattoo after it's...."

The man's words came to an abrupt halt in mid-sentence as the Arizona deputy suddenly made a farting sound so loud, it almost echoed off the stadium walls. Then the deputy started to eject a load of shit down toward his overlapped feet.

All of the cops in the Derby now seemed to be evacuating their bowels in unison, and they were doing so nosily and without a trace of shame of modesty. It looked as if Wayne and his bride had lost their honeymoon bet.

All things considered, I prospered with my betting choices in the Cop-Crucifixion Derby. Trooper Sutton, unfortunately, expired at 7:47 p.m. so I lost every penny of the $100 I'd bet on him. Sgt. Mckee, however, survived till 9:26.

I didn't actually make much money on my $500 bet, but I didn't lose any either and I had the pleasure of realizing that the poster I'd acquired of Sgt. Mckee would probably increase in value before the next cop memorabilia convent.

Sheriff Canby proved to be the surprise of the evening Despite his age of 44 years, which discouraged most bettors, and despite having lost an eye to some hungry crow, the sheriff outlived all but two of his Derby competitors. He finally died at 10:37 p.m.

after having endured more than eleven hours of incredible agony on the cross.

I was back in my hotel room, watching the conclusion of the Derby on TV when Sheriff Canby finally took his last labored breath, but I drank a toast to him because his many hours on the cross had turned my $250 bet into nearly $4,000!

The Texas Ranger died just sixteen minutes after the sheriff. This left the well-hung cop from New Mexico as the winner of the Derby, but as often proved the case, the cop died as a medical team was rushing in to extract the spikes from his body.

"I'll bet his nuts will sell for a record price." said Officer Wilson of the LAPD as I flicked off the TV set. I'd met Wilson directing traffic on the north side of the Coliseum, and since his shift had just come to an end, I'd invited him to come back to my hotel to watch the conclusion of the Derby.

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