GWOT III- The Giving Spirit
Nov. 24th, 2022 04:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT III- The Giving Spirit
[Reminder: all of GWOT III is really dark.
Not least of which because some aspect of it is really happening to people, not just around the world but in the USA, as you read this. And likely that will always be true.]
There's starting to be a terrible sameness to each day.
The count, as with any well run prison, is eight times per day. But it rarely affects me because seven of the eight are on video and the eighth is during an interrogation session.
The floors are kept well mopped. My cell is cleaned while I am in interrogation. I only know because of the faint smell of cheap bleach, no scent, and the failure of grime to build up. The sink / toilet combination, of course, is never cleaned. At least by Homeland. I clean it myself twice a day. Bare handed of course.
That ends the good news.
At Site we took care to feed our prisoners.
Homeland feeds us. We presumably contain information of intelligence value.
Breakfast is a bowl of cooked oatmeal, allowed to cool so that there is no risk of a prisoner giving a cell escort a boiling facial. Every few days, there is a slight hint of maple syrup in one of the bites.
Lunch is dependent on the interrogator. So I don't get that. At one point there was a discarded food wrapper in the interrogation cell, that I could reach with considerable effort. I licked it. You would have too. MRE cheese packet. Better than sex.
Dinner is from three rotating menus, that have in common three pieces of bread. One is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, hold the jelly, extra mayo. One is two thin slices of processed cheese, with margarine. Sometimes this is toasted. Usually not. And the third dinner sandwich is ... I kid you not ... applesauce.
Every now and again an extra item is added. A ladleful of green beans. A ball of rice. A mash of potato. But not every dinner. And always just the one.
I eat everything. I can do the math. This is not a healthy long term diet.
The plate itself is a piece of rectangular plastic with indents for servings and rounded corners. Prison issue, not intended for use as a weapon.
Nonetheless, I am to put my hands behind my back and stand against the far wall facing away from the cell door as the plate is placed in my in tray. Failure to do so means a skipped meal.
They should be handcuffing me for each meal delivery, but then they have to uncuff. Too much work.
They do chain me up for removal to interrogation. Leg irons, belly chain, handcuffs. I am careful to be cooperative, a model prisoner. It cuts down on, but does not eliminate, punches and kicks.
I am in the interrogation cell at 9 AM sharp every day. Belly chain to the staple in the middle of the table. Hands cuffed in front. Sometimes they leave the leg irons loose, sometimes they tighten them up.
The interrogator floats in about 10, 10:30, maybe 11. There is no clock. So I have to run a count or watch the shadow from the hallway window start to move across the edge of the door.
It's a mild form of torture, sitting on the concrete bench of the table in that position. But I now use it as PT, stretching muscles in turn. Especially my legs.
Once the interrogator arrives, it can go from mild conversation to a 'referral.'
A referral, of course, is to the anal interrogation chair.
They can't do that every day. I might prolapse and bleed out.
Around 1530 or so, the interrogator gets bored and leaves.
I am removed from the room and returned to my cell at 1700 sharp.
Nine to five, that's me.
And a high value prisoner. They are tying up a _day shift_ interrogation cell just for me.
After the initial few weeks, they're no longer messing with my sense of time, serving multiple meals, waking me up constantly. Sleep dep tactics don't work when your detainee already has severe PTSD and nightmares.
The only good news is that this is all taking place in spring. So there's a lot of sunlight. Winter would be a lot tougher.
After my work shift, so to speak, I am returned to my cell.
No outdoor time. This is a major violation of Federal prison regulations. Even ultramax prisoners are supposed to get 30 minutes a day. And although this is strict regime, and I am malnourished, this is nowhere near as hard a time as pre-War ultramax.
I have no access to shower or bathing facilities. I handwash with the toilet sink.
There is no commissary so I have no commissary privilege. No soap, no toothbrush, no washcloth. Of course no personal food.
Riot worthy if this were not Homeland - my cell has no TV set, only the unwinking camera behind plexiglass. No TV room, no community room, no shared tables and little human contact. I hear other prisoners being moved but my corridor is empty on my trips to and from interrogation.
I've asked various questions. Sometimes at some cost in suffering.
Sick Call? Tell my interrogator. Until I break, fuck you.
Lunch? Same answer.
Yard? Same answer.
I am shown a picture of a Homeland cell with a writing shelf, a book (the Bible), a golf pencil sharpened at both ends and two pieces of three hole college paper. This is the privilege I could get for cooperation.
There's no point to cooperating. None at all. Because - and this is the sticking point that gets me ass raped every other day - my interrogator is NOT cleared for access to Site information. Therefore, it is a criminal felony violation of the National Security Act for me to tell him anything about the Site, or its security procedures, or especially its Employee and contractor personnel.
My arrest for aggravated treason is bullshit.
If I break - if I talk about the Client or the Site - I would then genuinely committing hard felony crimes good for twenty years to life.
So I won't talk.
All kinds of stubborn.
Of course I've said things. I've screamed. I've cried. I've begged. I've made up stories and I've made up names.
Probably shouldn't have tried to claim that my Chinese espionage contact is Egg Foo Young.
Any real names have been uniformly those of dead people.
My Reno trip has been discussed.
My Utah trip has been discussed.
My non-existent Vegas trip has been discussed.
Last but not least, in exhaustive detail, my Detroit trip has been discussed.
It's tying up some investigative effort, and revealing quite a bit about what the initiated call National Technical Means, to treat me as a terror and treason suspect.
Punchline. I'm not. I am not a member of the Resistance. I couldn't have laid my hands on one if I'd tried, before I was arrested. I'm not a traitor. I had questionable contacts and I took one wide risk in a controlled environment, but the people I disclosed to are neither foreign nor enemies of America. Enemies of Homeland, however...
America fuck yeah.
Homeland hell no.
Even the torture is perfunctory. The operator is careful to keep an eye on my heart rate after the last time I coded.
The only way I knew _that_ was waking up in cell the next morning to the peeled hair and singed flesh on the right side of my chest and lower left side. AED pad placement.
There are two things that keep me going.
The colossal unfairness of it all. Which is an old and familiar friend since I first crawled to the bathroom with semen dripping from my anus at age five.
The thought that by tying up so much of Homeland's resources, teasing them, giving them a little here and a little there, but no CFI and no Site info, I am protecting actual Resistance fighters and support personnel. Actual people who are fighting Homeland are safer because they are torturing me, a dumb idiot who doesn't know jack shit.
I work out in the evenings. Sit ups. Angle pushups using the concrete bunk. Careful stretching.
I hold my own sick call, mostly looking at my ruined left hand, using the reflection off the plexiglass at a certain time of day to look at my face and eyes and gums, and looking at my urine and feces for signs of blood. Which comes and goes.
I take an hour for recreation. I recall as carefully as I can, a book or a movie. I've performed for an audience of one Star Wars, Star Trek II, Top Gun. Plus the camera.
The camera operator must think I'm crazed, muttering "Talk to me Goose!" as my hand waves as if it were a particularly ham handed pilot flying a fighter jet.
I lie down and compose myself for sleep at 9 PM as close as I can determine it. I usually cannot go to sleep.
Eventually I drift off. Sometimes I wake up screaming. But I am always woken at 0700 for my oatmeal bowl.
Then came the day that I was taken to interrogation, left there all day, and taken back to my cell.
My interrogator did not show.
But a little after noon, my cell escort threw a packet on the table consisting of Grade D hamburger meat, singed, with a piece of processed cheese between two pieces of bread, and said "Enjoy your burger."
Lunch.
My God. Lunch.
That remains, to this day, the best burger I have ever had. I licked the wrapper.
I spent an hour that afternoon, with no sexual feeling at all about the subject, visualizing the intense toe-curling blowjob I would cheerfully give that escort if the opportunity ever existed. For that burger.
It was a welcome change of pace from working the much more interesting problem that took up nearly all of my 'work' time.
How to lull my captors into a false sense of security so that I could get a hand, or preferably my entire body, free, in the interrogation cell with my interrogator present.
It's important to have long term goals.
[Reminder: all of GWOT III is really dark.
Not least of which because some aspect of it is really happening to people, not just around the world but in the USA, as you read this. And likely that will always be true.]
There's starting to be a terrible sameness to each day.
The count, as with any well run prison, is eight times per day. But it rarely affects me because seven of the eight are on video and the eighth is during an interrogation session.
The floors are kept well mopped. My cell is cleaned while I am in interrogation. I only know because of the faint smell of cheap bleach, no scent, and the failure of grime to build up. The sink / toilet combination, of course, is never cleaned. At least by Homeland. I clean it myself twice a day. Bare handed of course.
That ends the good news.
At Site we took care to feed our prisoners.
Homeland feeds us. We presumably contain information of intelligence value.
Breakfast is a bowl of cooked oatmeal, allowed to cool so that there is no risk of a prisoner giving a cell escort a boiling facial. Every few days, there is a slight hint of maple syrup in one of the bites.
Lunch is dependent on the interrogator. So I don't get that. At one point there was a discarded food wrapper in the interrogation cell, that I could reach with considerable effort. I licked it. You would have too. MRE cheese packet. Better than sex.
Dinner is from three rotating menus, that have in common three pieces of bread. One is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, hold the jelly, extra mayo. One is two thin slices of processed cheese, with margarine. Sometimes this is toasted. Usually not. And the third dinner sandwich is ... I kid you not ... applesauce.
Every now and again an extra item is added. A ladleful of green beans. A ball of rice. A mash of potato. But not every dinner. And always just the one.
I eat everything. I can do the math. This is not a healthy long term diet.
The plate itself is a piece of rectangular plastic with indents for servings and rounded corners. Prison issue, not intended for use as a weapon.
Nonetheless, I am to put my hands behind my back and stand against the far wall facing away from the cell door as the plate is placed in my in tray. Failure to do so means a skipped meal.
They should be handcuffing me for each meal delivery, but then they have to uncuff. Too much work.
They do chain me up for removal to interrogation. Leg irons, belly chain, handcuffs. I am careful to be cooperative, a model prisoner. It cuts down on, but does not eliminate, punches and kicks.
I am in the interrogation cell at 9 AM sharp every day. Belly chain to the staple in the middle of the table. Hands cuffed in front. Sometimes they leave the leg irons loose, sometimes they tighten them up.
The interrogator floats in about 10, 10:30, maybe 11. There is no clock. So I have to run a count or watch the shadow from the hallway window start to move across the edge of the door.
It's a mild form of torture, sitting on the concrete bench of the table in that position. But I now use it as PT, stretching muscles in turn. Especially my legs.
Once the interrogator arrives, it can go from mild conversation to a 'referral.'
A referral, of course, is to the anal interrogation chair.
They can't do that every day. I might prolapse and bleed out.
Around 1530 or so, the interrogator gets bored and leaves.
I am removed from the room and returned to my cell at 1700 sharp.
Nine to five, that's me.
And a high value prisoner. They are tying up a _day shift_ interrogation cell just for me.
After the initial few weeks, they're no longer messing with my sense of time, serving multiple meals, waking me up constantly. Sleep dep tactics don't work when your detainee already has severe PTSD and nightmares.
The only good news is that this is all taking place in spring. So there's a lot of sunlight. Winter would be a lot tougher.
After my work shift, so to speak, I am returned to my cell.
No outdoor time. This is a major violation of Federal prison regulations. Even ultramax prisoners are supposed to get 30 minutes a day. And although this is strict regime, and I am malnourished, this is nowhere near as hard a time as pre-War ultramax.
I have no access to shower or bathing facilities. I handwash with the toilet sink.
There is no commissary so I have no commissary privilege. No soap, no toothbrush, no washcloth. Of course no personal food.
Riot worthy if this were not Homeland - my cell has no TV set, only the unwinking camera behind plexiglass. No TV room, no community room, no shared tables and little human contact. I hear other prisoners being moved but my corridor is empty on my trips to and from interrogation.
I've asked various questions. Sometimes at some cost in suffering.
Sick Call? Tell my interrogator. Until I break, fuck you.
Lunch? Same answer.
Yard? Same answer.
I am shown a picture of a Homeland cell with a writing shelf, a book (the Bible), a golf pencil sharpened at both ends and two pieces of three hole college paper. This is the privilege I could get for cooperation.
There's no point to cooperating. None at all. Because - and this is the sticking point that gets me ass raped every other day - my interrogator is NOT cleared for access to Site information. Therefore, it is a criminal felony violation of the National Security Act for me to tell him anything about the Site, or its security procedures, or especially its Employee and contractor personnel.
My arrest for aggravated treason is bullshit.
If I break - if I talk about the Client or the Site - I would then genuinely committing hard felony crimes good for twenty years to life.
So I won't talk.
All kinds of stubborn.
Of course I've said things. I've screamed. I've cried. I've begged. I've made up stories and I've made up names.
Probably shouldn't have tried to claim that my Chinese espionage contact is Egg Foo Young.
Any real names have been uniformly those of dead people.
My Reno trip has been discussed.
My Utah trip has been discussed.
My non-existent Vegas trip has been discussed.
Last but not least, in exhaustive detail, my Detroit trip has been discussed.
It's tying up some investigative effort, and revealing quite a bit about what the initiated call National Technical Means, to treat me as a terror and treason suspect.
Punchline. I'm not. I am not a member of the Resistance. I couldn't have laid my hands on one if I'd tried, before I was arrested. I'm not a traitor. I had questionable contacts and I took one wide risk in a controlled environment, but the people I disclosed to are neither foreign nor enemies of America. Enemies of Homeland, however...
America fuck yeah.
Homeland hell no.
Even the torture is perfunctory. The operator is careful to keep an eye on my heart rate after the last time I coded.
The only way I knew _that_ was waking up in cell the next morning to the peeled hair and singed flesh on the right side of my chest and lower left side. AED pad placement.
There are two things that keep me going.
The colossal unfairness of it all. Which is an old and familiar friend since I first crawled to the bathroom with semen dripping from my anus at age five.
The thought that by tying up so much of Homeland's resources, teasing them, giving them a little here and a little there, but no CFI and no Site info, I am protecting actual Resistance fighters and support personnel. Actual people who are fighting Homeland are safer because they are torturing me, a dumb idiot who doesn't know jack shit.
I work out in the evenings. Sit ups. Angle pushups using the concrete bunk. Careful stretching.
I hold my own sick call, mostly looking at my ruined left hand, using the reflection off the plexiglass at a certain time of day to look at my face and eyes and gums, and looking at my urine and feces for signs of blood. Which comes and goes.
I take an hour for recreation. I recall as carefully as I can, a book or a movie. I've performed for an audience of one Star Wars, Star Trek II, Top Gun. Plus the camera.
The camera operator must think I'm crazed, muttering "Talk to me Goose!" as my hand waves as if it were a particularly ham handed pilot flying a fighter jet.
I lie down and compose myself for sleep at 9 PM as close as I can determine it. I usually cannot go to sleep.
Eventually I drift off. Sometimes I wake up screaming. But I am always woken at 0700 for my oatmeal bowl.
Then came the day that I was taken to interrogation, left there all day, and taken back to my cell.
My interrogator did not show.
But a little after noon, my cell escort threw a packet on the table consisting of Grade D hamburger meat, singed, with a piece of processed cheese between two pieces of bread, and said "Enjoy your burger."
Lunch.
My God. Lunch.
That remains, to this day, the best burger I have ever had. I licked the wrapper.
I spent an hour that afternoon, with no sexual feeling at all about the subject, visualizing the intense toe-curling blowjob I would cheerfully give that escort if the opportunity ever existed. For that burger.
It was a welcome change of pace from working the much more interesting problem that took up nearly all of my 'work' time.
How to lull my captors into a false sense of security so that I could get a hand, or preferably my entire body, free, in the interrogation cell with my interrogator present.
It's important to have long term goals.
no subject
Date: 2022-11-25 12:31 am (UTC)https://drewkitty.dreamwidth.org/484032.html
In case you need to clear your palate.