Aaron Mahnke

And so it all had to go.

I can only imagine how terrified young Alan was as he was strapped into a high-backed oak chair.

Maybe hymns still echoed in his head from the night prior, when his fellow inmates had tried to comfort the frightened young man by singing to him.

The soul can be ready, Alan told a reporter, but the flesh ain't, and I'm worried.

Leather straps tightened around him.

Through a window, Alan mouthed goodbye with a forced smile.

And then, the dreaded fog began to rise.

It swirled in silver clouds at his feet.

It clawed up his legs and then his torso.

Alan waited until the gas had reached his face, and then he inhaled deeply.

In the words of one witness, he exhaled the grayish vapor as if it had been cigarette smoke.

But it wasn't, of course.

It was something far worse.

And within moments, Alan Foster began to shake.

And then he kept on shaking.

Whatever peaceful, painless death Guy John had experienced back in Nevada, this was not it.

Before 30 horrified witnesses, including doctors and reporters, Alan retched and jerked.

His eyes glazed and his head tossed.

And beyond a doubt, one thing was devastatingly clear.

The young man was suffering.