3/25/2003

Torture helps

As we drove away from the dead Usman, the wind started to decimate the mound of sand that buried him. Shortly before the grave passed out of sight, his hand was uncovered, and his curled fingers gave the appearance of a final grotesque wave. I turned away, and fear gripped coldly at my stomach for the first time.

I felt anger seep into me. Anger combats and destroys fear. When one would be afraid, one can be angry instead.

We drove for many more hours and came near to Basrah. British and American troops were on the other side of the river, and we were about 20 kilometers away from them on the east side of Basrah. We parked the Jeeps, and I and two other men entered the American Humvee we had previously taken, and made a big detour towards the American lines, which were across the river. A massive duststorm had gathered at this time, which made our mission so much easier.

We drove to within 2 kilometers of the troops, undressed to our underwear, carrying rifles and knives, rowed across the river in small boat, and walked up a few kilometers behind the troops, then walked into the camp.

Many people were occupied, and the few people who saw us must have thought it strange to see dust covered men in green underwear, but they did not question us. We walked into a tent, where two americans were sitting, looking totally worn out. I walked up to the nearest man, grabbed his head and covered his mouth. James, my companion, ran up to and stabbed the other man in the neck, cutting his windpipe. He dragged his head backwards toallow air from his lungs to leak, and disable him from shouting. The man died after a few gurgles.

I let the man I was gripping watch this, then I broke his neck. He was young, maybe 24, and he didn’t look important enough to be worth questioning. To lower moral amongst the american troops a bit, and to announce our presence, I removed both his eyes. James decapitated the other man, and put his head in a bag. We then placed both men in sleeping bags, sealed them, and placed them to cover the blood on the floor.

We preened a bit, and decided that we looked like American soldiers. I played a bit with an American rifle, but it didn’t have anything that my modified Kalaschnikow did not have. So I kept my AK, though the possibility existed that it might raise suspicions when we went out.

And go out we did. We walked out, into the midst of the troops, and joined them to fire towards the town.After about 30 minutes, we began to advance. At this point, I had made out who was in control, and we both neared the man. At an oppurtune moment, when guns roared, and the swirling dust served to obfuscate, James shot him in the arm.

He screamed a high pitched girls scream, and dropped. I and James ran towards him, hoisted him on our soldiers and started taking him towards the camp, apparently to help him get medical attention. About half way between camp and front, we veered off, and ran towards the shore. The man resisted, and I knocked him so hard on the head, he might have fractured his head. I heard something crunch, but it might have been the piece of wood I was holding.

James, who is a large man, hoisted him on his back, and we ran the kilometers to our small boat. We dropped the man inside, and quickly roared back. Some more running, and we were at the Humvee, in full American camouflage, and with an American unit commander in our posession.

We were totally exhausted, and when we arrived where the rest of the team was, we had to rest for a long while before we could do anything more. When I finally felt fit again, the American was tied up, and stripped down to his underpants. Awaiting my mercy.

I felt a joyful glee. I felt that power that goes to your head, and corrupts your morals. The power that makes you want to watch others suffer at your hands, that makes you enjoy seeing them flinch when you raise your hand to remove dust from your face. My eyes gleamed.

“Curtis,” I read from his name tag. “You do realise you are in enemy hands, do you not?”. He looked at me with a mildy stubborn look on his face, and did not reply. A strong one, it seemed. I was going to enjoy this.

“You are not a prisoner of war. You are a war casualty, who just isn’t dead yet”, I explained to him. “You can either die quick, or Enrico Callan is going to make you die slow.” He blanched as he heard my name. “You know my uncle Tony, do you not?”, I spoke, smoking a thin cigarette. “You killed him. I am him, reborn. But I understand our inherited mental disorder because I studied it. And I know better than to fight it. I enjoy it, and Callan the elder never did.”

But the man still did not speak. I stripped him naked, and proceeded to surgically remove his finger nails. When he kept silent through that process, I saw that I had a hard nut. So I crushed his little finger, forced his mouth open, and made him swallow it. He choked on a splintered bone, and coughed blood. He started crying.

I explained to him that I would remove his eyes, and he could spare himself that pain by telling us all we wanted to know. But he didn’t. So I injected him full of drugs, and bound his eyes. Then I started speaking to him, explaining to him the horrors that awaited him. The drugs enhanced the fright, and gave him the don’t-really-care attitude. He pooped in his pants at the moment, and the shit ran down his leg. I kicked him, and he went sprawling on the ground. Limbs bent and loose. He babbled, and told us battle strategies and the names of his cats, and his birthdate.

Then I took him to edge of the camp and shot him. When I came back, someone had vomited on the floor.

We left, in possesion of 3 American uniforms and an American vehicle. We drove about 5 kilometers away, and set up a small camp. We started working on our plan for tommorow, when we will start the demoralisation campaign.

I feel satisfied and fulfilled. My agony and craving is gone, stilled and dampened. Torture helps me feel better.

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