When the Smoke Clears

So there I was, minding my own business when I was kidnapped, kidnapped against my will and whisked away for the weekend. Indeed, 24 or so young ones gathered together and plotted my destruction, bundling me into my own Jeep which I was then forced to drive, laden down with gear and cold-weather clothing as well as snow transport equipment. I think they originally planned a caravan but the captors in my vehicle endeavored to take a less obvious route, thus evading the watchful eyes of the authorities and all government agencies that might have been mobilized to mount a search and rescue operation.

Several hours later I found myself being forced under threat of bodily bitch-slapping to carry my own gear into a large house. Although they brought me in under cover of darkness I could see signs that this was, in fact, a safe house located in the woods alongside what I could only deduce to be a top-secret ski resort. Several streams gurgled loudly alongside and even underneath the house to help mask the noises that might emanate from the anguish about to be unleashed inside or on the deck.

Once again I was trundled back into a vehicle and driven to a store where many hops-based beverages were purchased in order to be used during my interrogation. Clearly they were attempting to start the psychological operation by showing me the implements to be used. I attempted to give sign of the fact that I was a prisoner without alerting my captors.

“Do you have your FoodSaver Discount Card?” the supply clerk asked.

I calculated my response, looking round for my captors. “No. I’m not from around here,” I said, raising my left eyebrow in the international symbol for espionage and intrigue.

Surely without the proper identification the local authorities would have to detain me for questioning away from my kidnappers. This clerk must have seen too much action. Without even looking me in the eye, she merely waved her own identification over the scanner thus de-activating the clearance system with a loud beep.

I was returned to the house, shown where I would sleep, where I would be allowed to cleanse and bathe myself. The sinister nature of it all was insulting. From my cell I heard “Where the hell are you? Get out here!” Poking my head out my unlocked door, I was ambushed by 4 large young ones, two of whom had markings of the US Marine Corps, the other two of the US Army. I still do not know what I had done to warrant such attention from rogue elements of my own country. The agency that arranged this must have felt that only the youngest and strongest interrogators would be allowed. I felt I would be hard pressed to identify with any of these agents 15-20 years my junior.

They took me outside and introduced me to my first torture device. I have read about such events before but I never thought I would be a victim of waterboarding myself. Oh, they didn’t call it that, they used such euphemisms as a “beer funnel,” but I’m sure the effects were similar.

Throughout the weekend I heard such things as “Is that one empty? you want another one?” and before I could respond, another of these men would replace the can or bottle with a heavier, colder one.

Among the things I endured:
* sleep deprivation from constant noise, hoots, hollers, and general raucousness. Apparently there was some sort of disagreement between the marines and army groups over who was actually the loudest or most terrifying
* a steady supply of some sort of ingestible truth serum in a variety of flavors that caused me to say some pretty messed up things
* an unprovoked tickle attack
* being forced into a gladiatorial combat ring (basically the kitchen) where I squared off and got my butt kicked by a state-championship wrestler a little less than half my age and 40 lbs. heavier (at least he was impressed by the amount of strength I had and that he had to use real wrestling moves to take me down since force wouldn’t do it)
* snowball fights of epic proportions with densely packed snow which slightly melted then refroze into solid ice chunks
* enough empty aluminum cans to manufacture a medium-sized cargo airship
* a cell-mate who had been forced to ingest so much truth serum that he actually became lost for 7 minutes trying to get out the door of our 10′x15′ cell
* attempts at kicking in my Stockholm syndrome by allowing me to win excessively at Poker while pretending to be concerned with their own losses

After several days I managed to escape with 3 other comrades (including the oversized wrestler/fellow gladiator) and very little apparent physical damage, other than the slightly black eye and cut on my eyelid from one particularly powerful and unexpected snowball that struck me as I attempted to escape out the back door.

Harrowing. The life I live is harrowing.

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