Requested Individual 103

If you haven't been reading or even seeing the past few posts, June is Torture Awareness Month and the 26th is Torture Awareness DAY, which, in this age of acronyms, some might think is a TAD too much -- I disagree of course or wouldn't be posting like this. If you scroll down to the right, you should see a blog roll of blogs participating.

Torture is the mistreatment of someone one over whom you have total control.

Torture is bad. Torture is evil. Torture is terror.

Torture can occur spontaneously in any situation where there is incarceration or imprisonment. However, systemic torture can occur only when there is political will that torture be used. That is, where the political leadership wants it. The LA Times has a hint here how political will is transmitted down the food chain.

We continue now with the story of Jamal Palooka, which took place somewhere in the Third Galaxy after Guanocow was declared a War Zone by Ronald Rexona, the Supreme Hole of the United States of Arrogance.

Requested Individual 103

He was dropped roughly on the floor.

He heard a door shut with a hermetic “whoosh”.

The floor was cold. He listened, but heard only silence and the sound of his heartbeat. After what seemed like a long time a door opened.

A female voice spoke, “What have we here?”

A deeper, male voice answered, “Case one-oh-three, an AR-EYE from the Guanocow War Zone – requested by MERDE for special detainment. We gotta prepare it ASAP for Coercive Questioning regarding Possible Terrarist Plans.”

“Good, I was afraid they might have brought a man in by mistake – introduce it to its new reality.”

His heard his bonds being clipped away with some instrument. He was then roughly dragged to his feet and ordered to disrobe. He stood, swaying on his feet. Something hard prodded his butt and an electric shock surged through his body. Fumbling with the buttons he could not see, he began to take off his clothes.

Someone shouted, “Hurry it up, mudderfugger!” When yet another shock coursed through his body, he retched inside the bag as he dropped the last of his clothes.

“Geeze, get it in its cubicle before it starts shitting too!”

A hand with an amazingly strong grip grabbed him by the back of the neck, pushing painfully on the nerves and made him stumble a few steps. He heard a door whoosh open and was shoved forward. He fell headlong and hit his head against a wall.

“Welcome to MIAOW, Ar-eye, this could be your home for the rest of miserable fuggin life, enjoy yerself, azzhole!”

The bag was jerked from his head just before the door closed.

He struggled to his knees and had his first look at what had been referred to as his “cubicle”.

It was small, the walls a vague off-white, well but not brightly lit by some sort of indirect lighting – the floor appeared to be stainless steel, yet, like the walls, seemed to be somewhat resilient. The ceiling was so low that he could not quite stand up straight. On one wall he could barely see the outline of what he supposed was the door he had heard closing, next to it a smaller outline about a foot square. In the wall opposite what he assumed was the door there was a small niche which contained some water in a built in basin. He assumed it was water, despite the brownish color.

The floor of the “cubicle” was slightly concave towards the middle where there was a small hole less than three inches in diameter.

He scooped some of the water up from the niche with his hand and tried to wash some of the barf off his face which he had spewed into the bag. Tasting the water, he found it somewhat bitter, yet assumed it was at least potable, he drank some. He was very thirsty.

Having had water on his hands he suddenly felt the need to urinate, but there was no toilet facility to be seen.

“Hello? I have to use a bathroom?” he said aloud. There was no answer. None of his repeated requests we answered by other than silence. At last, he kneeled carefully over the hole in the middle of the floor and carefully urinated into it.

The room was silent – it was as if his voice almost died in his throat.

He tried to lie down, but the design of the cubicle was such that not only could he not stand up straight, neither could he find a comfortable way to lay down flat. So he satisfied himself by sitting with his back against the wall. He drew up his knees and laid his head on them, closing his eyes. He was very tired and he quickly dosed off. But just as he drifted off to sleep, there was a sound like a penny being spun on a glass plate. Instantly, he was wide awake – this was the first time he had heard a sound other than his own since the door had closed.

He tried laying on his side in a fetal position, but as soon as he started to dose off, something would wake him. The sound of clinking chains, a loud bang, even screams – horrible screams, pleading for mercy. Just where the sounds came from he could not determine, there were no loudspeakers visible.

Finally, he managed to drift off into near sleep and without sounds to wake him. Barely had he dozed off when he woke to freezing cold. It was ice cold. He huddled in a corner, shivering and felt like he was turning blue.

Just as quickly, it turned hot – a dry heat like an oven. The steel floor became unbearable to the touch. He tried to stand on, first on one foot then the other.

Suddenly as it had started, the temperature returned to normal.

He had no idea how long this had gone on when the heard a sound from the wall where the door was. The small square he had noticed earlier had opened, revealing another niche which contained a small bowl. There was something in the bowl, bland in both color and texture. From the smell, it seemed to be food. His hunger was ravenous, so he first tasted then ate it. As there was neither fork nor spoon, he had to scoop it up with his with his fingers. Finished, he placed it back in the niche.

The small door slid shut.

How long this went on he did not know.

He ate when food appeared and relieved himslef in the hole in the middle of the floor when nature required it.

The light in the cubicle never turned off. Sometimes it would dim, other times the light became so bright he had to close his eyes – occasionally it flashed like a discotheque stroboscope.

If he fell asleep, he was soon awakened by loud noises, changes in temperature, electric shocks given through the floor. Sometimes freezing cold showers blasted down from the ceiling and left him shivering.

He started seeing things, the small scuff marks discoloring the walls here and there began to move and change into colored creatures.

When they crawled up his legs and bit him, he screamed.

It was after he started having the hallucinations that the Extended Conversations began.

A soft, sweet feminine voice asking him questions came from the hidden loud speakers.

He answered as well as he could, so that the conversations would continue. He was asked about his sex life and whether he believed in God – he replied that Masher was God’s Prophet. A giggling laughter told him that where he was there was no “God.” – not here.

Many of the questions he barely understood – when had he been contacted by the terrorists of Ahsawyah Been Lately, why had he tried to loan a book about making bombs from chicken shit. He didn’t understand, but tried to find an answer that would please the lady’s soft voice. He knew when he was on the right track because of the small rewards, a piece of bread along with the tasteless gruel, a slice of fruit. He was ecstatically happy for the pink underwear when it appeared in the niche.

But he balked at naming his wife and some of his friends as members of a terrorist cell. The lady’s soft voice turned cold, “Maybe you need something to think about...”

A short time later, the door opened suddenly, four men wearing white ski masks over their faces stormed in and beat him with truncheons for several minutes. They stripped him of his underwear held him in position as a truncheon was shoved into his anus and twisted while someone shouted in his ear, “Gawddam mudderfuggin terrorist shidhead azzwipe faggut quearazz!”

Then, as suddenly as they came, they were gone and the door closed.

As he lay sobbing on the floor, death metal music began blasting from the hidden loudspeakers at a level just below the threshold of pain and continued to do so for several hours.