GWOT III - Crazy Time
Oct. 30th, 2023 07:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT III - Crazy Time
The thing you have to understand, gentle reader, is that I did not fake or simulate going insane during the latter part of my stay at Homeland's Rest Spa For Suspected Traitors.
I did in fact go cuckoo. Bughouse crazy. Nuttier than a bowl of granola ... which as you may know, contains fruits and nuts and flakes.
Insanity can be a survival strategy. It can be a useful response to a life threatening situation.
Understand that as a Homeland inmate, they controlled my food, water and sleep. They could inflict pain on me at any time. Or damage. Or severe or even fatal injury.
I'd been shown what they were willing to do.
Cut someone up to hurt them.
Surgical torture.
A bright line felony punishable by death anywhere in the world you care to name. The kind of stuff Russian or African troops would execute you on contact for doing.
I wasn't getting out of this one. This is where I am going to die.
You don't let people witness such things and keep breathing.
Before you ask, they don't have a use for my organs. The facility I'd seen strongly suggested that they were doing a side line in organ harvesting. But I'd been mistreated for too long. My organs were likely crap.
So far America has fallen.
Here's the thing about memory.
I'd learned in several different places, but especially the Learning & Training Center Of Excellence (really!) at Site, that people learn best when well rested, well fed, and slightly stressed. No stress, they bored. Too much stress, they scared. Trainers hit the middle mark.
You experience short term memory. Your brain creatively saves elements into long term memory. The memory itself is plastic. I'd been in a classroom where a man walked in with a gun and the students were asked to describe the handgun. The previous class, half the students had been shown one action movie and the other half had been shown a different one. A revolver was prominent in the one movie; a semiautomatic pistol in the other.
When polled, the students were far more likely to identify the weapon _based on the movie they had watched in the previous class_. Also, it was a cut down shotgun. (Simulated; no need to call the ATF, I mean Homeland, I mean fuck those guys.)
Now if you put people under the kind of extreme stresses that human subjects review boards down check you for - and yank your funding and refer you to the campus police for prosecution - memory gets funky.
Some stuff gets seared in. Sometimes literally. I can tell you exactly how it felt, in several different ways, as the electrode equipped butt plug was fitted into my rectum by seating me on the chair to which it was attached.
Some stuff just doesn't get recorded. I vaguely remember being hoarse from all the screaming that shortly followed. But I don't remember the screaming itself.
Some stuff, your brain focuses on a trivial detail. My first interrogator carried a Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol made by Armscor, a Phillipine firearms manufacturer with a license from Colt. The hammer had a burr on the external sear. I knew because I saw it a lot. You have no idea how much I longed to take a file and remove that burr. Would only have taken a moment.
Being hit in the head repeatedly with the pistol? Yeah, it happened, but I don't remember it.
How that sear felt when it split the skin on my cheek? Yup.
The little daub of blood on the hammer when I literally beat the motherfucker's brains in? Big grin.
From careful reconstruction, with expert help, we believe that the time between my first exposure to the furnace and the immediate prospect of surgical torture, to the time when it all ended, was somewhere between six and eight weeks.
I remember only little snippets of that time.
I remember big rubber bands holding my left arm down to a surgical tray while someone fiddle fucked with my fingernails with a scalpel.
I remember frantically memorizing every conceivable aspect of the Ferno gurney to which I was so frequently strapped down.
I remember hugging the cell toilet. I remember kissing it and licking it. Thanking it for putting up with my shit. Telling it how much I loved it.
I remember using my bloody fingernails to start writing wedding vows to the toilet before the cell extraction team piled in and put me in a straightjacket.
I named the straightjacket Site Location Executive. I thanked him for hugging me back. I offered to suck his cock. The straightjacket didn't have one, but it told me it liked it when I chewed on the straps.
Soon I was fitted with a helmet, because I'd started banging my head against the wall.
I remember the furnace. It was a point of warmth in a world of cold.
I remember being IN the furnace.
The little spark wheel of the stick lighter also had a tiny burr in it.
It whirred.
The gas smelled of rotten eggs, as natural gas does.
Click, whoomph, click, whoomph.
The straightjacket asked if I could not let it burn too. I was going to burn, that was a given, but it didn't have to. So I could play sane long enough to save the straightjacket.
At least I could save something.
They took the helmet. I was sad. It had a happy face on it. And labels.
"PSYCHOTIC EXTREMELY DANGEROUS"
I liked my new names. They were tasty.
Then one day I had a moment of clarity while strapped down to a gurney.
It was, I was told, my last chance to talk.
If I stayed crazy they would just burn me.
"Fuck you, you dense motherfuckers! Burn my ass! I beg of you! Light me on fire!"
They paused.
"Not until you beg us not to."
I wasn't the only crazy one.
They were all bugfuck crazy.
They let me live past that moment.
That's some serious crazy right there.
The thing you have to understand, gentle reader, is that I did not fake or simulate going insane during the latter part of my stay at Homeland's Rest Spa For Suspected Traitors.
I did in fact go cuckoo. Bughouse crazy. Nuttier than a bowl of granola ... which as you may know, contains fruits and nuts and flakes.
Insanity can be a survival strategy. It can be a useful response to a life threatening situation.
Understand that as a Homeland inmate, they controlled my food, water and sleep. They could inflict pain on me at any time. Or damage. Or severe or even fatal injury.
I'd been shown what they were willing to do.
Cut someone up to hurt them.
Surgical torture.
A bright line felony punishable by death anywhere in the world you care to name. The kind of stuff Russian or African troops would execute you on contact for doing.
I wasn't getting out of this one. This is where I am going to die.
You don't let people witness such things and keep breathing.
Before you ask, they don't have a use for my organs. The facility I'd seen strongly suggested that they were doing a side line in organ harvesting. But I'd been mistreated for too long. My organs were likely crap.
So far America has fallen.
Here's the thing about memory.
I'd learned in several different places, but especially the Learning & Training Center Of Excellence (really!) at Site, that people learn best when well rested, well fed, and slightly stressed. No stress, they bored. Too much stress, they scared. Trainers hit the middle mark.
You experience short term memory. Your brain creatively saves elements into long term memory. The memory itself is plastic. I'd been in a classroom where a man walked in with a gun and the students were asked to describe the handgun. The previous class, half the students had been shown one action movie and the other half had been shown a different one. A revolver was prominent in the one movie; a semiautomatic pistol in the other.
When polled, the students were far more likely to identify the weapon _based on the movie they had watched in the previous class_. Also, it was a cut down shotgun. (Simulated; no need to call the ATF, I mean Homeland, I mean fuck those guys.)
Now if you put people under the kind of extreme stresses that human subjects review boards down check you for - and yank your funding and refer you to the campus police for prosecution - memory gets funky.
Some stuff gets seared in. Sometimes literally. I can tell you exactly how it felt, in several different ways, as the electrode equipped butt plug was fitted into my rectum by seating me on the chair to which it was attached.
Some stuff just doesn't get recorded. I vaguely remember being hoarse from all the screaming that shortly followed. But I don't remember the screaming itself.
Some stuff, your brain focuses on a trivial detail. My first interrogator carried a Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol made by Armscor, a Phillipine firearms manufacturer with a license from Colt. The hammer had a burr on the external sear. I knew because I saw it a lot. You have no idea how much I longed to take a file and remove that burr. Would only have taken a moment.
Being hit in the head repeatedly with the pistol? Yeah, it happened, but I don't remember it.
How that sear felt when it split the skin on my cheek? Yup.
The little daub of blood on the hammer when I literally beat the motherfucker's brains in? Big grin.
From careful reconstruction, with expert help, we believe that the time between my first exposure to the furnace and the immediate prospect of surgical torture, to the time when it all ended, was somewhere between six and eight weeks.
I remember only little snippets of that time.
I remember big rubber bands holding my left arm down to a surgical tray while someone fiddle fucked with my fingernails with a scalpel.
I remember frantically memorizing every conceivable aspect of the Ferno gurney to which I was so frequently strapped down.
I remember hugging the cell toilet. I remember kissing it and licking it. Thanking it for putting up with my shit. Telling it how much I loved it.
I remember using my bloody fingernails to start writing wedding vows to the toilet before the cell extraction team piled in and put me in a straightjacket.
I named the straightjacket Site Location Executive. I thanked him for hugging me back. I offered to suck his cock. The straightjacket didn't have one, but it told me it liked it when I chewed on the straps.
Soon I was fitted with a helmet, because I'd started banging my head against the wall.
I remember the furnace. It was a point of warmth in a world of cold.
I remember being IN the furnace.
The little spark wheel of the stick lighter also had a tiny burr in it.
It whirred.
The gas smelled of rotten eggs, as natural gas does.
Click, whoomph, click, whoomph.
The straightjacket asked if I could not let it burn too. I was going to burn, that was a given, but it didn't have to. So I could play sane long enough to save the straightjacket.
At least I could save something.
They took the helmet. I was sad. It had a happy face on it. And labels.
"PSYCHOTIC EXTREMELY DANGEROUS"
I liked my new names. They were tasty.
Then one day I had a moment of clarity while strapped down to a gurney.
It was, I was told, my last chance to talk.
If I stayed crazy they would just burn me.
"Fuck you, you dense motherfuckers! Burn my ass! I beg of you! Light me on fire!"
They paused.
"Not until you beg us not to."
I wasn't the only crazy one.
They were all bugfuck crazy.
They let me live past that moment.
That's some serious crazy right there.
