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Sunday, March 14, 2010

THE THRONE: A FICTIONAL BLOG

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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 © 2007 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.


The Throne: A Fictional Blog


Installment Sixteen of the Serialization of "The Walls Have Ears:
A Novel of America"


By F. Scott Sinclair


CIA Case Officer Julie Duffy


Being a prisoner in someone else’s country—like here
in Venezuela—isn’t exactly a Caribbean holiday vacation.
The filthy ten by twelve cell I’ve been confined to is
getting smaller by the minute. I crawled to the so-called
throne: the toilet. I felt my gut wrench spasmodically as
I sat on the makeshift toilet—a wooden apple box with a
hole in it—as I gasped for air...grimacing after the pause
that refreshes. Before I could put myself back together
using the leaflike tissue my captors had so graciously
provided in lieu of a roll of 2-ply toilet paper, the rusted
cell door that imprisoned me suddenly burst open.

As the halogen lights spewed their high-powered beams
upon me and the throne I straddled, I was greeted by my
favorite torturer, Colonel Ramirez, who said cheerfully,
“Well, my dear, what do we have here?”

Flakes of rust from the cell door floated in the
air...drifting downward, and landed on the colonel’s shoes.

Ashamed of being caught in a private moment, I said,
“Can’t a girl have any privacy?”

Rolling his curly black mustache at the tips, Colonel
Ramirez says, “How do you like the fruits of others labors, my dear?”

Bewildered, I couldn’t fathom what he was referring
to, as I said, “Excuse me...?”

“Is that all you liberated women can say? Excuse fucking me?!”

As I pulled up my torn red underpants, trying to make
myself presentable, I quipped, “Fucking is a part of my
CIA lexicon. So, fuck you...!”

His buddy, Lt. Perez, grabbed my shoulder, halting my
frail body’s forward progress, and sneers, “He wasn’t talking
about that crude behavior between males and females
that makes the world go ‘round...”

“Crude, you call it? True. Because the better part of you
ran down your mother’s leg, sweetheart.”

“How does that feel?!”

My breath was gone. As I grasped, grabbing my solar
plexus, I slid down to the cold concrete wheezing for air
with a whining sound.

“That’s enough, Lt. Perez! The CIA’s star pupil is
about to take a trip.”

“A star witness is more like it!”

“You’d better keep your well-oiled trap in the locked
position, if you know what’s good for you.”

The colonel bent down and grasped my beltless fatigues,
lifting half of my body by the small of my back. “That should
help jump start your breathing. I’ve had the wind knocked
of me on more than one occasion.”

Grateful for the modest show of concern, I said, “Thanks.
I know you didn’t have to do that.”

Astonishingly, the colonel had moist eyes. Only for
a nanosecond, but I was sure I’d caught a glimpse of a
decent human being who’d no doubt been tortured
himself, or knew someone who had been.

“There’s someone outside who wants to see you. Make
up with your comrade because where you two are going,
that’s all you'll have: yourselves.”

Before I could reply, I saw a broken man limping
into my cell. Ken Kendall’s tattered and blood stained
garments were barely hanging on to his weedy frame.
How a couple of weeks could change a person. Unbelievable...!
I couldn’t even imagine what he was thinking about
me, as I said, “Ken, my God, I can’t believe it’s you!”

As he knelt down, I dragged my scrawny ass next
to him. “Colonel, may we have some privacy?”

Lt. Perez opened his mouth, then thought twice about
it...closing his mouth. With Colonel Ramirez’s eyes
bestowed upon him he relented. He never uttered a
single word.

“Lt. Perez,” the colonel said with creases on his
forehead, “don’t you have business elsewhere?”

After shielding his eyes from the intense halogen lights,
he eyeballed the stark interior of the cell...shrugged his
shoulders dutifully. He simply shook his head as he
turned around, departing like a scolded child.

Tasting the salty blood from the festering sores on
my arms as I tried to wipe the sweat off my face, I
couldn’t sit-up any longer. Both of our debilitated bodies
almost melted into the grimy surface of the concrete floor.

Colonel Ramirez shook his graying black hair, and says,
“You’ll have one hour; that’s it, before we depart for the Hague...”

Spontaneously, we said together, “The Hague...?”

Our eyes and ears were glued on Colonel Ramirez.

Without another word...only a nod, he left us alone to
speculate upon our destiny.

As the rusty and creaky hinged cell door closed behind
the colonel, I asked, “What are the charges...?”

Ken’s chapped lips parted slowly, as he spoke with
great effort, “Don’t be silly...”

“They’re playing our game, huh?”

Leaning uncomfortably on his right elbow which had
a bloody and tattered shirtsleeve covering his wounds of
torture, he says wincing, “C’mon, Julie, let’s get real. Do
you think our government gives a shit about the Geneva
Conventions?”

“Meaning...?”

“Meaning, they’ll file charges regardless of the truth.
That’s how governments work whether Communist, Socialist,
Capitalists, or whatever... Don’t tell me that you believe
all the bullshit our government propagandizes us with?
Freedom, liberty, democracy, free speech, the Constitution,
the Bill of Rights, habeas corpus and all that crap went
down the shitter when Congress in its infinite wisdom
passed the Military Commissions Act of 2006. Boy, you’re
more na├»ve than I thought.”

“Guess I’ve been playing “Cops and Robbers” for
too long, my friend.”

Taking a large gulp of air, and swallowing my Adam’s
apple in shame, I felt a surge of hatred engulf my inner
soul. I’d bought the propaganda, hook, line and sinker.
Remembering how my colleagues used to kid me about
being a robot: an average American Joe Lemming. I’d
believe anything I was told by my superiors and
government. Well, I bought the farm alright—the
propaganda—and now I’m about to walk off the
proverbial cliff into the frying pan.

My sour puss rose slightly, as our filthy faces met
and acknowledged our plight. How could we expect to
be treated any differently than those detainees we’d
beaten into submission at our secret torture chambers
spread all over the world? What goes around comes around....

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Late Night Political Jokes - Late Night Jokes Updated Daily

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A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR'S NOVELS

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