I’m not sure what brought me back to consciousness, the pain, the screaming, something they injected me with, but I knew I was better off before my nerves and sensory organs began to interpret the mortal world again. The pain came first and now it felt as if more than just fingers had been broken. Of course the removal of flesh and the cracking of bone is just an amuse bouche to a professional and while digits don’t grow back when removed with a bolt cutter you can heal the wound. I was grimly aware of what they wanted and that they had no intention of killing me. No, there were things they wanted to break, shatter, and crush that do not ooze, snap, or spray precious bodily fluids.

“Just a little rewiring job today.” Cheney had hissed into my ear before he bit it, drew blood, sucked a fair amount and then spat it in my face. They had me in a kneeling position on the floor with my hands bound behind my back at the wrists. The restraints were so tight I had lost feeling in my hands. As the spittle ran down my face I heard the sound of boots smacking the floor as somebody ran at me from behind and I was filled with dread because I knew the runner would stick me or club me with something…just to get my attention. It took no time to learn what was coming as the runner struck me in the side of the head, flush with the ear Cheney had not drew blood from, with what I imagine was a cricket bat. Cheney had been carrying one when he entered the room.

Ear ringing, my body lurched away from the blow as I fell sideways smacking the other side of my head against the concrete floor. My eyes blinked rapidly and my brain whirling over which searing pain to alert me to first, for some reason, rushing adrenalin probably playing a large part, would not allow me the mercy of passing out. Instead my eyes worked to focus on the figure in the throne-like chair across the room. He seemed to be vibrating with excitement, rocking back and forth and waving his arms around as if directing a symphony. The room seemed to tilt and my eyes wandered up to focus on his face. I could see his jaw was pumping up and down like he was some meth stoked auctioneer but I had not yet regained the ability to hear so I had no idea what he might be yelling. There was just the ringing in my head that reminded my of an Egyptian phone box I once had to wait in for a call. I made out that he was wearing glasses and as he rocked back and forth the lenses caught the harsh ceiling light obscuring his eyes and making it seem as if there were small explosions emanating from his skull. When I caught his eyes they were wild but drugged. He looked a bit like a clean shaven and well groomed Charles Manson without the swastika carved into his forehead. It’s strange the things your brain will formulate during trauma.

As my hearing ebbed back his voice, hoarse and shrill, cut clear through the ringing. I realized who he was and now I felt cold as well as the pain. I had once heard Donald Rumsfeld tell a story of buying a ranch in Taos so he could be near “the boys” (he was referring to the local Boy Scouts) so he could have them over one at a time and show them his Silver Buffalo. When he said the word “buffalo” he flicked his tongue in and out of his mouth and grabbed his crotch.

“When are you gonna dust my broom!” Rumsfeld screamed again and again voice trembling with hysteria and blood lust.

Cheney’s polished black shoes moved past my face obscuring my view of Rumsfeld’s epileptic gyrations for a moment.

Cheney screamed over Rummy’s howling “You’re gonna come around, Wahoo! You’re gonna play ball! I’m a nice guy! I’ve still got Donny on a leash!”

At the mention of his name Rumsfeld rocketed out of his chair and screamed at the young soldier holding the cricket bat “Attention, Private!” the young man snapped to attention. He stood rigid as Rumsfeld circled him. Cheney turned to watch. I felt sickness creeping over me.

“Are you gonna be my dog?” Rumsfeld screamed into the soldier’s face.

“Sir, yes sir!” came the response.

“Are you gonna be my Sally with ice cream tits?” Rumsfeld bellowed while grabbing his chest.

“Sir, yes sir!” the response came back but this time there was a quiver in the young man’s voice.

Rumsfeld caught this and stared at the young man.

“Turn off the music!” Rumsfeld yelled toward a dark corner of the room I could not see and suddenly the recording of human screaming mixed with some sort of tortured animal wailing they had been playing in the background this entire time stopped and the concrete block room fell silent.

Rumsfeld stood an inch from the soldier’s face and his voice ragged and hoarse from all the screaming drawled “When I say fuck are you going to fuck?” and as he did this he ran his hand gently up and down the young man’s crotch.

“Sir…” the young man started but his voice cracked and Rumsfeld screamed “Shut the fuck up, shit heel!” and he paced around behind the soldier where he was obscured from my view.

There was a long silence and then I could hear Rumsfeld moaning in what seemed a sexual way.

“Donny…” Cheney said and then a loud explosion filled the room as the soldier’s face seemed to burst spraying Cheney with blood, bone fragment, and brain matter. The young man’s body jerked forward and smacked against the concrete floor.

Rumsfeld screamed “You’re my little sweetbread now!” and began to dance in a strange herky-jerky fashion waving a pistol.

Cheney picked a piece of gore off his suit jacket and popped it in his mouth. The strange recording of screaming and tortured animal sounds began again as Rumsfeld returned to howling “When you gonna dust my broom!”

Cheney snarled “Wahoo takes a nap while we clean up Donny’s mess.”

Something heavy struck the back of my skull and the room went dark again.