I was ten. My father, the People's Executioner, placed the rope in my hand. I pulled, hard as I could.
The kneeling man cried, "Stop! Don't do this..."
The crowd jeered. One wit yelled, "Don't worry! Gravity is a myth!"
The blade fell. The crowd roared. Many took bloody souvenirs. Some wept.
That night my father got drunk. He said the man was a 'talking head' before the Collapse. A liar, paid to convince people that science was merely opinion. A murderer, hated by all.
"Should I have hated him, father?"
He began to cry, "Someday, you'll hate us all."
Author bio: When he's not watching the news on television, and knitting furiously, Steven posts surrealist short fiction at subsequentemissary.tumblr.com.