Thursday, January 14, 2010



Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend
your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a
minor (but by no means limited to the aforementioned),
please do not read this novel. It's not for you...

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are
fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.

Scene Twelve of the Serialization of "The Walls Have Ears:
A Novel of America"

By F. Scott Sinclair

CIA Case Officer: Ken Kendall

The world seemed to be turning around before my
eyes. As I opened my eyes slowly, the cubicle size
cell they’d dumped me in spun around like a world
globe that used to adorn my high school history teacher’s
desk. But the big difference was: I felt like I was on
the inside of the globe, and the world was spinning
around me. The only way I could extinguish the
nauseous movement was by closing my eyes. Suddenly
I remembered that someone had poured ice water
on my naked body, and my ears felt like they were
full of sloshing water. At that instant, I knew what
the problem was. The dingy and stained cement cell
walls were swirling around me because of an inner
ear infection, no doubt. There’ve only been two causes
of whirling ceilings and walls in my life. Once was when
I came off of a three day drinking binge on R and R in
Bangkok. And the other time was when I collapsed on
the carpet in the living room of my apartment for no
apparent reason. The latter experience was due to an
inner ear infection.

As I twisted on the shiny cement floor, the waves of
water that engulfed my inner ear from last night’s
waterboarding session caused me to roll over on my
back. My eyes remained in the closed and wincing position.
Before I could gather my wits about me, the cell door opened.

Abruptly a halogen light was turned on. I thought it
was the Fourth of July after being denied any sort of
light for nearly three days except for the natural light
that crept through the cracks in the walls and doors.
As I placed my hands over my eyes, a Spanish accented
male says, “How are you, Ken...?”

He said my name! What kind of psychological game is
this pervert trying to play? The good guy...bad guy
routine? No doubt..., I thought.

I kept my eyes shut; the intense light nearly burned
them out of their sockets. Before I could get my thoughts
together, the interrogator says, “Silence won’t get us
anywhere, Ken. You know that from your experience
with torture, don’t you?”

Yes, the truth hurt. But silence was the only game in town.
Once I opened my mouth, the game was lost. They could
tape my babbling statements and do whatever they felt like
with my words. If I talked long enough—coherently or
incoherently—they’d have enough of my own words to
compile a confession of my wrongdoing.

“We can do this the easy way, Ken...or the hard way. The
ball is in your court, my friend.”

I was so cold from the waterboarding I’d gone under last
night, I was shaking in my birthday suit. The air conditioning
unit made sure of that. I felt my bowels move, the stench
nearly choking me to death.

“Piss on you then, Kenny boy. I have a couple of friends
outside who are full of piss and vinegar—literally. If you
change your mind, you know how to reach me, don’t you?
That’s right, just open your little old mouth, Ken. That’s
all there is to it. And I’ll be down here to take your confession
like a fly on shit. Got it...?!”

The stranger kicked my kidneys and I felt warm urine
flowing over my thighs as I huddled in the fetal position
in the middle of the cell.

So I wouldn’t provoke my good guy interrogator, I nodded
and nearly passed out.

“Fucking hell...!” I screamed as the good guy yanked my
hair from their roots.

As my head was drawn backward like the string of a bow,
he said, “Now for the bad guys, Ken!”

As he left the cell, I heard him say in Spanish, “He’s all yours...”

I thought I heard the growling of a couple of dogs outside
the cell. Before I knew it, I heard footsteps and the heavy
breathing of a couple of dogs. Still unable to open my eyes,
I couldn’t detect what was going on.

“Okay, Salvadore, it’s your turn,” a husky voice said. To
whom, I couldn’t tell.

“That’s a good boy...,” another monotone male voice said.

And then I realized a warm sensation on my back. Christ,
it must be one of the dogs taking a piss, on me! My stomach
curdled and I almost vomited.

As I squirmed with anguish on my face, the husky voice said,
“We can’t seem to find any toilets around here. That bucket
would do, but I know you need that for your food. We wouldn’t
want to louse up your mess kit, now would we?”

Yeah, the friggin’ shit and piss bucket?! You assholes...! Don’t
you have any decency? I shouted out loud inside my
cranium—what was left of it, that is...

“We’ve got your lunch ready. It’s sitting outside on a tray. How
does the Colonel’s finger licking chicken sound? If you just
open your mouth a teeny-weeny bit, it’s yours for the asking.
On the other hand, if you don’t care to be cooperative, we
can accommodate you with the prison specialty: shit on a
shingle...! It’s one of my favorite dishes. Creamed gravy with
ground hamburger over toast. How does that sound? But
since there’s a shortage of meat in Venezuela, we thought
cockroaches might be more to your liking—or how about
maggots? They’re delicious...! Ever tried them? Yummy,
if I say so myself, especially when they’re seasoned and fried
in oil. And what’s on the menu for dessert? Well, we’re going
to give that to you Chinese style. What’s a Chinese style dessert?
You eat the dessert first, not last. And your silence has made
the choice easy... You’ve chosen the prison special that’s been
approved by the new retroactive American standards for
torture under the provisions of the Geneva Convention.
Enjoy your lunch!”

As curious as I was, I couldn’t part my swollen eyes. My
head still swarmed with nausea as I felt streams of hot liquid
again on my back, legs, and head. Piss...?!

“That’s your dessert. In a few minutes, we’ll bring you the
main menu: SOS—or shit on the shingle, as it’s so aptly called.”

His words drifted away as my thoughts faded away towards blackness.