Have you ever wondered how difficult it would be to breathe with a bag over your head? Neither had I, but there I was, sucking fresh wisps of air through the hessian like someone was slowly pouring honey on me through a sieve.
I couldn’t remember why I was here. I couldn’t see anything, which was just as well because I think I was naked and tied to a chair. Perhaps it was best not see the person or persons who were holding me captive. I struggled slightly against my bonds as I tried to unstick my clammy buttocks from the chair underneath, failing spectacularly and instead sitting on my own left nut.
Before I could correct this terrible wrong, an alarming wave of ice water was thrown all over me, making the hairs on my arms and legs ping off in state of shock. I began to gasp as my mouth filled with unwelcome, freezing liquid. My senses had barely recovered when I heard a guy shout “wake up!”
“I’m already awake, you fucking bastard!” I calmly replied.
With that, the bag was ripped off my head and my world was filled with light once more. Well, as much light as you can get in a leaky basement. At first I thought I’d been tricked into parlour with Uncle Peter again, but I didn’t recognise the two burly guys in suits and shades. I doubted that these two would hang out with a chronic stool collector and general shut in like my uncle.
“Oh sorry about that” mumbled the first, tallest suit.
“Don’t apologise to him!” the second chastised, picking up another bucket and throwing it towards me. My hopes of a bucket full of confetti were dashed as I received another drenching. My unmentionables would need ironing to undo all this shrivelling.
As the water drained from me like a freshly-birthed hippo, the second man (who I had decided was the nastier of the two. I had already given him the nickname “Horrid Henry” before I realised this was already copyrighted and I received an imaginary court summons for merely thinking of it) grabbed the back of my chair and dragged me across the room. He positioned my chair underneath a dripping pipe. I could feel the soft pat of each drop on my scalp, although I was already too wet to care at this point. When I enquired as to the purpose of this exercise, the nice one explained that I was being subjected to Chinese water torture. I wasn’t sure what was so Chinese about it. Perhaps the leaky pipework had been sourced from the World’s fastest growing economy. I daren’t ask in case it was considered racist.
After a few minutes they decided that their torture methods weren’t working. The only things they’d forced me to talk about were the plotlines of my favourite soap operas. They didn’t seem interested in Ken Barlow’s latest sexscapades and resolved to use other, more dreadful forms of torture.
Before I knew it, we were jet skiing in the nearby harbour. Apparently, they were going to water board me, but they didn’t do waterboarding at this particular establishment, so jet skis it was! We had such a wonderful day splashing each other, racing around buoys, and trying to mercilessly kill seagulls.
I still didn’t have information for them and, after ice cream and short sunset stroll across the promenade, the pair were starting to get desperate. I told them I wished I could help them since they’d treated me to such a lovely afternoon, but I soon found myself back in their torture basement listening to Dan Brown audiobooks.
After twenty minutes I started to crack. I was cracking like Humpty Dumpty at a comedy roast. I started shouting out things that I thought they want to hear.
“I’m the gunman behind the grassy knoll!”
“I orchestrated every plot on Scooby Doo!”
“I am the Elephant Man!”
None of these appeased them, although they were adamant that it would be kept on file for future torturings. No, they wanted a confession for something, but I had no idea what. If it wasn’t for the severe case of Stockholme Syndrome I was feeling for the first guy, I’d have told them that they got the wrong person.
“We have reason to believe that you’ve been involved in espionage” said Hideous Henry, which was news to me. The nearest I’ve ever got to spying was looking at ants through a magnifying glass. Funnily enough, the ants were never too happy that I was looking at them and always spontaneously burst into flames. I imaged that this was a protest akin to Buddhist Monks who immolate themselves in the name of their beliefs, meaning that ants must really dislike being looked at. But I digress.
When I informed them that I had no idea what they were talking about, they said that I had been caught whistleblowing. Funnily enough, my last memory before waking up here was that of booking a player as I refereed my local junior football game. I explained that I was only blowing the whistle to stop the flow of play, but apparently whistleblowing is a serious offence and cannot be tolerated under any circumstances.
They class it as “aiding the enemy”, although I don’t see what’s so bad about a sports game for under 11’s.
And that’s the end of my story. They locked me in this concentration camp, which is ironic because I can’t concentrate on anything through the starvation and occasional gunfire. It’s all terribly distracting. Apparently, I’m here until the end of my days, which means my Sudoku puzzle book will go unfinished. But worst of all, I’ll never see that charmingly tall grunt again. They may break my bones, but my broken heart hurts most of all.