I thought it’s the very same gunpowder attack we plotted. The relentless dream about exploding the unseen barricades of reluctance, the only thing separated us from the plateau. I thought it was.
I thought we shared the same idea about bringing down The Houses of Parliament with all those filthy infidels inside. I remember the 18 hundredweight we smuggled and hid by the bank of Thames. I can barely forget how our leather robes covered by the smells of sulfur and phosphate.
…and now, here i am finding myself locked and beaten in The Tower of London.
“The act of treason,” the judges verdicted. Since I didn’t know anything about their definition of treason, I gave them no objection. It was an in absentia hearing court, the one they held without my presence. What could I do to defend meself? Noth’n
I don’t have to be reassured, it’s an olde-english style death penalty: hanged, drawn, and quartered. Am I objected? It seems that I don’t even have the right to object. I am always the monotonic third best, I don’t have any right at all.
As much as it bears resemblance with Wallace and The Bruces, I refuse to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. When I stand before the tormentors tomorrow morning, I will jump from the gallows and break my neck so I can have a glorious beautiful death.
You may start chanting the condemnation rhymes while building the bonfires and firecrackers.
Remember, remember the thirtieth of October,
The gunpowder treason and plot,
I know of no reason
Why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot