Post by guest on Mar 19, 2008 16:39:10 GMT -6
The booth is dark. What little light there is comes from a monitor that seems to be keeping track of someone's heart rate. Nothing can be seen outside of the booth, only the monitor's reflection in the glass. A black, high-backed office chair rolls quietly across the floor stopping in front of a microphone on a console.
"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey," a mechanical voice calls out, carried on unseen speakers. With that, a muffled screaming can be heard from somewhere on the other side of the glass. A gloved hand reaches out to flip a switch, shedding a little light on...well...the subject. Another switch, and this time another monitor comes to life. On this one, a middle aged man sits, duct taped to a rather comfortable looking chair, wearing what looks like the latest in sleepwear. He tries his best to thrash about in the chair, but can do no more than furiously shake his head.
"Morning, Franky. Nice jammies."
Yet another switch, and the silence is filled with Franky's screaming.
"What the F*** is this....WHO THE F*** ARE YOU....I swear when I get outta here your BALLS will be in a F***ING MARTINI GLASS on my MOTHERF***ING DESK!!! ANSWER ME!!!"
Nothing. The chair turns slightly toward the monitor this Franky fellow is shown on. The occupant waits until he calms down, then the chair turns back to the mic.
"How cute. It thinks it will be leaving alive. Isn't that sweet."
No response, at least if there wasn't a spike on the heart rate monitor. Even altered, the smile that can be heard in that voice is enough to make the blood run cold.
"The public is quite mistaken if they believe waterboarding is the only nasty form of torture the CIA has at their disposal. Couldn't be more wrong. Now I'm not saying waterboarding's not bad, oh no. I've been through a session or two myself, Franky my boy, and it's not fun. Not at all."
"So what? You bring me here to torture me? That it?"
"Got it in one, smart boy. Of course, it's pretty obvious. There you are, strapped to a chair, in a stark, bright white room underneath a dark ominous booth. On the other hand...I could just be your dentist."
"Just be my....what the f***?"
On the monitor, Franky stares up at the booth, confused.
"You are one crazy s.o.b, ya'know?"
"Again, duh."
"How crazy are you, man? Am I screwed, no matter what, or can we come to some sort of agreement here? I got lots of money, man, I can top whatever you're being paid to do this. Was it Luce? He hire you for this?"
"No, Franky, it wasn't. No one hired me. I get no money. All I get is the warm fuzzy feeling your suffering will give me. Sometimes, when the urge strikes you, you just have to...let it carry you away. Because you know you just won't be polite company until you give in. Scratch the itch. And once June gets freaky with the milkman, she can go back to Wally, the Beav, and Mister Cleaver. This is the last night in my body. I want to go out...with a bang."
The voice can see Franky trying to hold it together on the monitor. His eyes dart all over the room, frantic.
"So what's on the menu then? Just gonna talk until my head explodes?"
"No," the voice replies, chuckling, "Much worse."
One last switch, and the sound of a familiar restaraunt's jingle comes to life on speakers that go way past eleven.
I want my babyback, babyback, babyback, I want my babyback, babyback, babyback....
The sound in the booth is cut, and the chair turns again toward the monitor to watch the show. Only minutes pass and the subject is already visibly...distressed. A flick of the switch and once again, screaming fills the room, nearly drowning out the music.
"WHEN DO THEY SAY IT?!?!!? WHEN DO THEY SAY RIBS?!?!"
"Never," the voice replies, laughing.
This time both gloved hands appear, opening a large envelope as the chair turns toward the monitor. A folded piece of paper is produced, and when unfolded....
....shows a promotional poster for Hog Heaven: Southern Salvation.
"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey," a mechanical voice calls out, carried on unseen speakers. With that, a muffled screaming can be heard from somewhere on the other side of the glass. A gloved hand reaches out to flip a switch, shedding a little light on...well...the subject. Another switch, and this time another monitor comes to life. On this one, a middle aged man sits, duct taped to a rather comfortable looking chair, wearing what looks like the latest in sleepwear. He tries his best to thrash about in the chair, but can do no more than furiously shake his head.
"Morning, Franky. Nice jammies."
Yet another switch, and the silence is filled with Franky's screaming.
"What the F*** is this....WHO THE F*** ARE YOU....I swear when I get outta here your BALLS will be in a F***ING MARTINI GLASS on my MOTHERF***ING DESK!!! ANSWER ME!!!"
Nothing. The chair turns slightly toward the monitor this Franky fellow is shown on. The occupant waits until he calms down, then the chair turns back to the mic.
"How cute. It thinks it will be leaving alive. Isn't that sweet."
No response, at least if there wasn't a spike on the heart rate monitor. Even altered, the smile that can be heard in that voice is enough to make the blood run cold.
"The public is quite mistaken if they believe waterboarding is the only nasty form of torture the CIA has at their disposal. Couldn't be more wrong. Now I'm not saying waterboarding's not bad, oh no. I've been through a session or two myself, Franky my boy, and it's not fun. Not at all."
"So what? You bring me here to torture me? That it?"
"Got it in one, smart boy. Of course, it's pretty obvious. There you are, strapped to a chair, in a stark, bright white room underneath a dark ominous booth. On the other hand...I could just be your dentist."
"Just be my....what the f***?"
On the monitor, Franky stares up at the booth, confused.
"You are one crazy s.o.b, ya'know?"
"Again, duh."
"How crazy are you, man? Am I screwed, no matter what, or can we come to some sort of agreement here? I got lots of money, man, I can top whatever you're being paid to do this. Was it Luce? He hire you for this?"
"No, Franky, it wasn't. No one hired me. I get no money. All I get is the warm fuzzy feeling your suffering will give me. Sometimes, when the urge strikes you, you just have to...let it carry you away. Because you know you just won't be polite company until you give in. Scratch the itch. And once June gets freaky with the milkman, she can go back to Wally, the Beav, and Mister Cleaver. This is the last night in my body. I want to go out...with a bang."
The voice can see Franky trying to hold it together on the monitor. His eyes dart all over the room, frantic.
"So what's on the menu then? Just gonna talk until my head explodes?"
"No," the voice replies, chuckling, "Much worse."
One last switch, and the sound of a familiar restaraunt's jingle comes to life on speakers that go way past eleven.
I want my babyback, babyback, babyback, I want my babyback, babyback, babyback....
The sound in the booth is cut, and the chair turns again toward the monitor to watch the show. Only minutes pass and the subject is already visibly...distressed. A flick of the switch and once again, screaming fills the room, nearly drowning out the music.
"WHEN DO THEY SAY IT?!?!!? WHEN DO THEY SAY RIBS?!?!"
"Never," the voice replies, laughing.
This time both gloved hands appear, opening a large envelope as the chair turns toward the monitor. A folded piece of paper is produced, and when unfolded....
....shows a promotional poster for Hog Heaven: Southern Salvation.