In memorandum

Alistair Jonathon Beckett, or "Beck the Butcher," had dismembered and killed (in that order) thirty-eight people. Thirty-eight innocent lives were taken by this monster before he had been caught. There was no remorse on his face, though. He was taken into custody without a fuss and was sentenced to death row. I mean, there really was no other outcome, was there? This man clearly was either sick in mind or spirit; the first could be fixed... maybe. The second was permanent.

I'd seen all kinds come in to the prison; being the warden makes sure of that. But no one like Beck had even been in this prison before. He was kept in a strict leash and not allowed to interact with other inmates. If he did, he would try to rule them up or even attack them. There was something deeply evil about him. An unrepentent soul, black as tar.

They opted for the electric chair. I hadn't ever seen us use it before and I'd been the warden for fifteen years. No one had warranted such a hefty toll. No one until Beck, apparently. The damn thing was covered in dust and cobwebs as they wheeled it out. I almost doubted it would work. When the tech flipped it on, it whirred to life with the confidence of a classic car.

Beckett was brought in and strapped down all while wearing a calm, nonchalant smile that seemed to say 'I know what I did was wrong and I don't care.' The techs set him up and we all left the room, heading into the observation section. I looked at the man operating the switches and nodded. The switch flipped and the Butcher became the Conduit as electricity ran through his body. Still, even in the extreme pain, the murderer seemed to be at peace.

Then, in an instant, another man appeared. At least, I want to say it was a man. It was a figure in a purple, hooded cloak. He was facing Beckett and he took a few steps forward. "Turn it off!" I shouted. The logistics of how the man got in there were one thing, but the first thing we needed to do was make it safe for everyone else to enter.

"I'm trying!" The operator replied back as he slammed buttons and flipped switches in vain.

Now, I don't know if you've ever seen an electric chair execution, but they're hardly quiet. So when I say that I could hear the cloaked figure laugh, that must mean he was very loud. He started small with a light chuckle, then as he approached, the laughter grew. Louder and louder until it sounded far more like a shout or a scream than a laugh. The figure leaned against the machine and hanging his cloaked fist against it like he could hardly keep it together while he was laughing.

Beckett now wore a look of delirious concern or terror. While his eyes were... less than composed, they seemed to hold a fearful recognition as the man rested against the metal with his vicious laughter. It was almost as if he knew this man.

The laugh reverberated in my mind and I could feel this hilarity in my chest. The macabre situation of the man's torment seemed oddly funny.

Funny because he was such a horrible person.

Funny because he was unrepentant and now paying the price.

Finally, the laughing ceased as did the chair. Beckett was sufficiently dead. None of us moved as the man simply remained.

Then, he spoke.

"When the rich man begged Lazarus for water, I laughed. When Saul fell on his sword, I cheered. I am revelry in justice and joy in recompense. Woe to you who are the subject of my jovial tune, for the lake of fire awaits you with open arms. The flames already lick at your heels. I am the voice of your victims finding joy in your suffering. Woe to the unrepentent dinner who spurns the mercy of the Lord."

The silence that followed was also punctuated by his sudden vanishing. We all stood for what seemed like hours until we finally moved to check the body. Beckett was definitely dead, but I had a gut feeling that he was in a far worse place than just this prison.

The man's appearances were extremely rare; it seemed he only appeared for the truly deplorable creatures. Though, he did show up one time to cry instead of laugh... I almost preferred the laughter. It turned out, the man he wept for had been innocent.

No one ever dared to enter the rooms with him in them, nor did we ever try to interrupt him. I could tell that most of our men would hope that the next one brought in would summon The Laughing Man. He would appear, laugh, say his monologue, then vanish. He became a sort of legend around the prison; he became a spectacle.

Then, one day, he just stopped laughing and crying altogether. Instead, he just watched.