THE HELL-HOUND OF SOUTH FLORIDA

They called her Marla Vance, but in Miami’s back-alley whispers she was known by another name—“The Mangrove Butcher.”

Marla was a slip of a woman, barely five-foot-three in her snakeskin boots, but she ran her drug-running empire like she had gasoline for blood. From Key Largo to the alleyways off Calle Ocho, every low-rent gangster bowed when she flashed that cold half-grin. She smuggled cocaine through fishing boats, shrimp trawlers, even the luggage of unsuspecting tourists she picked at random.

But drugs weren’t the only trade she trafficked in.

When a man crossed her, he didn’t get a second chance.Six bodies—some say nine, others say a dozen—showed up in the swamps, bullet holes clean and professional. Every snitch ended up feedin’ gators. Every rival vanished into the mud.

And through all that carnage, Marla strutted through Miami nightclubs like royalty. Men feared her.Women admired her. Gangsters followed her.And the public? Lord, they ate it up like popcorn.

THE FALL OF THE QUEENPIN

June 17th, 1985.Fort Lauderdale sunrise burnin’ pink over the water. A DEA raid busts into a stilt house on the edge of the Everglades and finds Marla sittin’ at her vanity, curling her hair, pistol laid next to her lipstick like it belonged there.

“Morning, boys,” she said, not even turnin’ around.

They slapped the cuffs on her while she laughed—laughed like she’d been expectin’ this moment for years, like it was the final act of her own twisted pageant.

The trial was a damn circus.Reporters climbin’ lampposts.People sellin’ T-shirts that said “FREE MARLA” and others that said “FRY THE WITCH.”Marla herself? Smilin’ through it like a beauty queen.

And when the guilty verdict rolled in—First degree murder. Death by electrocution.—she blew the press a kiss.

THE CONDEMNED INTERVIEW

Recorded July 2nd, 1985 — Broward County Correctional Institute

They brought her in manacled at the wrists and ankles, but you’d swear she’d asked for the jewelry herself. She moved with the smug grace of a woman who’d never once apologized for who she was. Her eyes were cold glass—blue as pool water before a storm, watchin’ everyone in the room like she already knew their secrets.

INTERVIEWER: “Marla, the world sees you as a monster. What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

MARLA:“Well honey, I see a woman who refused to be scared. I see someone who took what she wanted and didn’t blush about it. Men been runnin’ crime in Florida since God invented the ocean. And they’re sloppy as hell. Somebody like me comes along—organized, sharp, smarter than the boys—and suddenly I’m a monster? Please. I think I just embarrassed the wrong men.”

She flipped her hair off her shoulder with a little smirk, like she had all day.

INTERVIEWER: “Did you order those killings?”

MARLA:“Careful now. You askin’ a lady to confess on tape.”(laughs, slow and cruel)“You’re real cute pretendin’ you don’t already know the answer. Let’s just say this: you don’t get to the top of my business by sendin’ candygrams and apology notes. In South Florida, people disappear. Sometimes they deserve it… sometimes they just get in the way. Either way?”

She shrugged.“The world keeps spinnin’.”

INTERVIEWER: “And the death sentence? Are you afraid?”

That’s when she leaned forward, chains clinking like she was wearin’ bracelets to a party. She locked eyes with the interviewer, a grin so cocky it could curdle milk.

MARLA:“Afraid? Sugar, I’ve been flirtin’ with death since I was sixteen. Half the men in this state tried to kill me before Florida finally landed a hit. If they wanna cook me, they better make it count. Tell the boys in the chair room to use extra voltage—”

She paused, savoring it.

“I wanna go out glowin’. Hell, I hope I light up half the county.”

She leaned back, satisfied.

“And between you and me? I lived more in twenty-nine years than most folks do in eighty. If this is the bill comin’ due? I’m payin’ it with a smile.”

Her smile in that moment… God help us, it chilled the whole room—and she knew it. She liked it. She soaked in that fear like it was applause.

THE FINAL 72 HOURS

Hour 72–48:

Marla was transferred to the death house. They gave her a clean cell—linoleum, steel, a cot so thin you could read a newspaper through it.

She spent most of that first night hummin’ old country songs, tapping her fingers on the bars like she was auditioning for one last show.

She refused her spiritual advisor.Refused last phone calls. Refused sedatives.

“Y’all ain’t breakin’ me in the final act,” she said.

Hour 48–24:

The warden came by for the formal procedures. Marla asked for one thing:

“A long, hot shower so I don’t meet the Lord smellin’ swampy.”

She blew the warden a kiss on her way back.

Her last meal? Fried shrimp, Key lime pie, and a glass of sweet tea.

“She eats like she’s goin’ to a picnic,” a guard whispered.

Hour 24–1:

The technicians prepped “Old Sparky,” checking the wiring, polishing the copper cap, strappin’ down the leg electrodes. The whole room smelled like floor wax, ozone, and the kind of cold nervous sweat that clings to men who know one wrong wire means a lawsuit or a headline.

The crew went through their checklist like pilots on a doomed aircraft:

• Voltage calibration—three cycles, each tested against a weighted dummy so the amperage wouldn’t spike.• Resistance test—gauging the flow through the copper mesh to make sure her body would conduct clean.

• Switchboard inspection—each toggle flipped twice, each fuse replaced whether it needed it or not.

• The death-room dry run—a guard sitting in the empty chair while they lowered the hood, just to check fit and alignment.

Every man in there kept his voice low, like speakin’ too loud might wake up the ghosts still clingin’ to the leather straps.

Meanwhile, down the hall, the preparation crew marched toward Marla’s cell—clippers, towels, and a folded white diaper in hand.

She was sittin’ on her bunk, swingin’ her legs like a kid waitin’ for recess.

“Alright, Ms. Vance,” the matron announced, “time for pre-execution grooming.”

Marla raised an eyebrow.“Grooming? Honey, this ain’t the Miss Florida pageant.”

But when they brought out the clippers, that’s when the performance started.

“Don’t you dare put that thing on my head,” she snapped, jerking away as two guards gripped her arms.

“You know the policy,” the matron said. “Shaved crown for electrode contact.”

Marla rolled her eyes so hard they nearly rattled.“You coulda just asked, sugar. I’d have styled it myself.”

She wasn’t done being difficult. When they moved to shave her calf for the grounding pad, she kicked once—hard enough the matron had to step back to keep from catching a heel to the chin.

“Hold her still,” one of the guards muttered.

“Oh lighten up,” Marla said. “If you wanted to touch my legs, you coulda bought me dinner.”

With the hair removed, they brought out the execution diaper, thick, white, humiliating.

Marla snatched it from the matron’s hands.“Oh absolutely not,” she hissed. “This is where I draw the line. Strap me down, zap me, cook me—fine. But I ain’t wearin’ baby drawers.”

“You have no choice,” a sergeant replied.

She clenched her jaw, eyes narrowed to razor slits, before finally slipping it on with exaggerated disgust.

“Y’all better hope the news cameras don’t get hold of this detail,” she spat. “I’ll haunt every last one of you.”

By midnight, after all the wrestling and fussin’, Marla finally quieted. She paced her cell, muttering to herself, then lay on her cot and stared at the ceiling like she was trying to memorize it.

She requested her hair—what was left of it—be brushed out.

“The camera folks will wanna see me,” she joked, though her voice was softer this time, just barely.

When the lights dimmed to pre-dawn hush, she drifted off for two hours of sleep—calm as a cloud, as if the state of Florida wasn’t countin’ down her last breaths minute by minute, as if she still believed she could swagger her way through the hereafter, too.

THE EXECUTION OF MARLA VANCE

July 5th, 1985 — 6:02 A.M.

They led her down that long green-tiled hallway, the kind that echoed every footstep like a church bell. Marla didn’t falter. Didn’t tremble. Just sashayed forward with her chin high, hips swayin’ like she was struttin’ toward a jukebox instead of her own end.

One witness swore later, voice quiverin’ as he said it:

“She looked… triumphant. Like we were the ones on trial.”

The door to the death chamber swung open with a hard metallic groan. The wooden chair waited—oak darkened from decades of use, leather straps laid open like hungry arms.

Marla didn’t wait for instruction. She lowered herself into Old Sparky slow, deliberate, like she owned every inch of that cursed thing.

“Well?” she said, glancin’ at the technicians.“Hope y’all charged it up proper. You only get to kill me once.”

A few guards swallowed hard. Even then—especially then—she loved puttin’ men on edge.

The guards moved in, tugging the leather straps across her wrists, her chest, her ankles. She fought ’em—subtle, but enough to make ’em earn their paycheck.

“Easy now, sweetheart,” one muttered.

She shot him a look sharp enough to peel paint.“If I wanted your comfort, I’da asked for a hug.”

When they cinched the chest strap tight, Marla sucked in a breath, muscles flexin’ under her thin prison shirt.Her shoulders tensed. Her jaw squared.But that defiant smirk never left her lips.

Finally, they took the copper-lined electrode cap—the heavy metal crown of Florida justice—and lowered it onto her freshly shaved head.Her mouth curled.

“Don’t dent my hair,” she whispered. “I got company waitin’.”

The warden asked if she had last words.She nodded once, slow.

“Tell Florida I ran this damn state longer than its governors ever did.”

A few reporters scribbled as if their hands were on fire.

The black hood dropped. The air went still—heavy—pregnant with the awful hush before electricity gives its verdict.

6:04 A.M. — FIRST JOLT

The switch slammed down.

A violent hum surged through the chamber, rattlin’ the metal rails.

Marla’s whole body arched against the straps—muscles seizin’ hard,fingers curling like claws,knuckles turnin’ white under the leather restraints.

Her shoulders jerked, tendons standin’ out in her neck like ropes. Her jaw snapped shut so tight you could see the strain through the hood. The chair creaked beneath her weight as if tryin’ to hold back a storm.

A low, almost mechanical groan filled the room—no one was sure if it came from the chair or from Marla herself.

6:06 A.M. — SECOND JOLT

The second surge hit deeper, heavier, the sound sharp as a hive of angry wasps.

Her legs tensed so hard the leather strap across her thigh quivered like it might split. Her feet—bound tight in state-issued canvas slippers—twitched in tight rhythmic pulses.

The faint smell of heated fabric drifted across the chamber. Someone coughed into their hand. No one dared move.

6:09 A.M. — PRONOUNCED DEAD

Silence fell like a curtain.

Her body slackened all at once, the tension evaporatin’ from her limbs. The warden checked the stethoscope once… twice…then nodded.

“It is done,” he said quietly.

And just like that—the reign of Marla Vance,queen of the blood-slicked mangroves,terror of South Florida’s underbelly,the woman who smiled at her own execution—

came to a cracklin’, electric end.