Former FEMA fanatic David Richardson was perp-walked to a Guantanamo Bay gallows Monday morning, following a long-overdue military tribunal that JAG had originally scheduled for April 10 but, for reasons unclear, got delayed until May 28.
Real Raw News previously published four articles about Richardson’s arrest and descent into madness (Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four). At this point, JAG hasn’t supplied us with a tribunal transcript; however, we saw compelling proof of death.
At 8:00 a.m. Monday, the maniacal pill-popping, booze-quaffing traitor consumed his final breakfast—six raw eggs in a tall glass and three slices of buttered wholewheat toast. He had requested a liter of Grey Goose Vodka, but JAG doesn’t serve alcohol anywhere but inside the officer’s club. He then asked for ten bottles of vanilla extract, which hold 35% alcohol. Naturally, JAG refused. By then, Richardson had overcome the delirium tremors and opiate withdrawal side effects he displayed after his arrest, so why he wanted to relapse is a mystery. Perhaps, knowing he was about to shed his mortal coil, he hoped to die numb.
Two hours afterward, MPs handcuffed a listless Richardson, placed him in the rear seat of a Hummer, and told him they were escorting him to his doom. During the 15-minute drive, Richardson made small talk, asking the MPs whether they enjoyed their jobs and what plans they had for the future. Then he fucked up. Grinning like a hyena, Richardson inquired whether the MPs had “especially young” children at home, inspiring the MP in the passenger seat to curl his fingers into a fist and strike Richardson’s face with such force his skull shook back and forth like a bobblehead. Richardson slumped forward, blood gushing out of his nostrils.
“Unacceptable, of course, but Richardson provoked them. Just a bloody lip and broken nose. NCIS later reviewed bodycams and judged the MP’s actions justifiable,” a JAG source told Real Raw News. “Richardson was conscious when they got there.”
Storied JAG prosecutor Rear Admiral Lia Reynolds superintended the execution. She ordered the MPs to lead Richardson to the platform where the hangman diligently checked a braided rope for imperfections—abrasions, weathering, and ablation.
Admiral Reynolds spoke: “Detainee, you were offered but refused Last Rites, is that correct?”
Richardson unexpectedly blurted, “I just doused my drawers.”
“Excuse me,” said Admiral Reynolds.
“I pissed myself, and I’m still pissing,” Richardson said, giggling.
“Get that rope around his neck,” said an exasperated Admiral Reynolds.
The hangman put a gag across Richardson’s mouth and a black sack over his head.
“We’re not professional tailors, but I think we got your measurements right,” Admiral Reynolds shouted, as the hangman roped Richardson’s neck. She palmed the FOB that controlled the swinging door beneath Richardson’s feet and pressed the button.
Somehow, through his gagged mouth, Richardson uttered three comprehensible words before he died. “I’m a scion.”
A Corpsman recorded the time of death, and Richardson’s corpse was sealed inside a polyurethane body bag.
If we receive a tribunal transcript, we’ll publish that as a separate story.