We talked about firing squads and how interesting it was that in fact we didn't think such a thing would exist in a day like today. Because we remembered that firing squads were all about helping the men firing feel less responsible for causing death - ie - with one of them having a blank and the fact they did it in a group.
We realised we live in a nasty era because someone would do the job. One single, nasty cunt. We don't worry about the psychological impact on the assassin these days - plenty of people wouldn't mind pulling a trigger. Isn't that awful we realised.
And then we talked about death row dinners of course, not only because of the firing squad conversation but the exceptional roast chicken Mr Rabbit had prepared.
He described his as starting with four to six betel leaf seafood roll thingies from Limeleaves or whatever it's called in Melbourne. That was after I reminded him he must choose an entree. Then a steak with the gratin from La Marine on the canal. Not two gratins? I asked. No, he said, impatient. I'm not greedy. Not even on death row? No. He gave me a Shut Up look and drew breath in that way that he does when I'm pressuring him to change his very set un-greedy, gentle, refined way. So I didn't comment more. But he was silent. Oh my god, I said, not dessert? Ok, he sighed. A fine dark chocolate mousse with a scoop of vanilla icecream. ONE SCOOP? He sighed again.
That's when I realised I was a death row glutton. I always thought I'd have my favourite thing but actually, the first thing I thought of was the vanilla slice I'd ogled that afternoon in the bakery, or snot block as it's affectionately called here because of its viscous consistency. I realised - I would really like a snot block for my death row meal.
I know, I said. I think I'd start with something rancid I never eat like say, McNuggets. And a Big Mac. Then I'd have two packs of fish and chips with heaps of tartare. Then I'd have about eight snot blocks.
And then I realised - it's a good way to go because then if you were going to face the firing squad or electric chair or lethal injeck you would have such a pain in the tummy you wouldn't care so much. You'd just want to be put out of your misery.