Saddam Swings.

The sun sinks in the sky, but it rises over there, or so they tell me. The TV emits an incessant din similar to the echoed muttering of restaurant patrons anticipating their main meal.

The feature presentation begins. The main chamber is dimly lit and harsh. The rounded ceiling and walls are tarnished white. Images dart across the monitor against a stage set with muted illumination and murky definition. The movement stops intermittently. The words freeze frame in bold capital letters flash through my mind. I have an audible memory of The J.Geils Band performing the famed song of the same name. Throughout the unexpected suspension of activity, talking heads continue to churn out the spoken word. Their collective assertions hum and swirl around me like the animated aroma of comic strip cuisine. Abruptly the images are set in motion. A sporadic yellow bar outlined in black breaks across the screen. Is this really happening?

The hostage enters center stage. The shackled prisoner is a tall, slender, well-groomed mature man. His hair is thick, black, and wavy. He dons a thick black brow, and a salt and pepper beard. He wears black pants and a white shirt. The lapels of his shirt are folded over under a black button-down jacket. I would guess he has a date. How does one choose what to wear to his own execution? Several escorts in black hoods surround the established villain. I presume they are men. They hover around their quarry like vultures waiting to scavenge a larger predator’s kill. Only two shepherds remain steadfast, the others are frequently in and out of view. Where could they be going and why?

The condemned one does not want to put on a hood. He speaks privately with one of his controllers. Indecipherable jeers jab through the barrier of the arena at the convict from an unknown number of spectator's. I sit speechless. Continual flashes of white light shatter the gloomy foreground and streak the background like bolts of lightening.

The executioner wraps a black scarf around the neck of the admonished. In aid to his adversary, the captive bows his head. The temporary confidant brings the rope into view. One end of the lead reveals a noose. The spiral is longer than and almost as wide as the man’s head. The noose seems as though it could bind the walking dead’s entire torso. The eradicator places the noose around the villain’s neck and tightens the coil. The doomed was silent with no obvious change in his resigned facial expression.

Two hooded men arrange the convict onto the trap door. One on each side, they grab the closest upper arm to them and steer their guest into place. A few seconds pass. It feels like minutes. Sounds of agitation emanate from the crowd. The infamous principal yields before his accusers. He faces them with no apprehension or dishonor. Their voices swell in volume and it feels like they are counting in unison. The icon speaks and with that, a raucous clamor resonates through my being and shakes me to the core. The entertainment disappears from view. The wooden gallows are vacant.

The killing field swiftly fades to black. The voices of the invisible mob are possessed and turbulent like the sound of white water rapids. The picture reappears and there is Saddam. He swings back and forth. My stomach sinks and the bottom of my feet tingle as if I will fall. Saddam is alive.

There is no body. There is no head. Like the Cheshire cat, his solitary face bobs through the black oblivion. There is no smile, no dignified countenance, and no stately wave. I watch in utter disbelief. Saddam’s eyes are slightly open and look straight up to the sky. His lids are swelling. His face is flush. Red splotches paint his cheeks and forehead like streaks of bright color on a southwestern mesa. The spiral lodge rests upon the left of his chin. It forces his lips partially agape. Saddam is dying.

For a split second, a startling flash of blue-white light reveals Saddam’s entire hanging body. Saddam arches and sways. His arms drape to the rear of his torso and his hands lay behind his bent lower back. The loop pulls the nape of his neck into the shape of a sideways V. The crowd’s voices thunder with exhilaration. And Saddam swings.