Scriptor and Joe collaboration 10
Hi there! It’s that time of the month again, time for a collaboration between myself and and the talented Scriptor Obscura . It’s the same as before; we each wrote a bit and the other had to follow and the whole thing gets strung together It’s all a bit of a laugh. Anyway; Enjoy!
I first have to admit that I was very drunk that evening when I left the bar and staggered along the sidewalk back to my apartment.
This, you can imagine, is something that I do regularly. I know that pavement like the back of my hand.
So! no matter how drunk I might have been, I swear that what I saw next was real.
A large dark van slowed to a stop next to me, motor running. With its headlights off I hadn’t even noticed it. A thick hand clamped over my mouth and my arms were wrenched behind me. As I struggled, kicking and twisting, I was bundled into the van, my arms and legs tied. A cloth was pressed over my face and everything went dark.
I awoke in a dark room. My head was spinning and there was a chemical taste in my mouth.
I tried to move but I found that my arms and legs were tied to the chair. There was some muffled speaking from in front of me and a light switched on and shone in my face.
“Where is it?” Asked a heavily accented voice.
I was dazed and highly confused. “Where is what? I don’t know what you are talking about! Where am I? Please let me go!”
“Hahaha,” the man smirked, chuckling. “Hah. That’s a funny one. Let you go? Hahahaha…” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his ponderous belly. “Nah, I don’t think so,” he smiled, a huge grin spreading across his face.
“Don’t play dumb. Its not gonna be good for you,” a harsher voice said, again in an American accent. I heard knuckles cracking. “Where’s the email you know? The one you “deleted”, hm?” He made air quotes in front of me. “From a certain…Mr. Snowden? We know you’ve been talking to him. Don’t play dumb. Its not gonna go well for you.” He adjusted the light, pointed it more directly. I winced, looked away.
I had no idea what he was talking about. “You have the wrong man. I swear it. I never spoke to anyone by that name.”
The First voice spoke again, even more menacingly “It is no good lying to us Mr Jameson. If you don’t give us the right answer we will only ask again in a more… Direct manner.” I could hear some equipment being moved. “What!” I protested “You can’t do that to me. I have rights! I demand a lawyer! I demand…”
I was silenced by the second voice. “At home that may be true. But we are now somewhere where the laws are a little more… liberal about this kind of thing. Protest all you want Mr Jameson; no one will hear you.”
“It doesn’t matter what I tell you ’cause you already decided what you wanted to hear. You don’t really want to hear the “right” answer, you just want to hear what you already decided. Just kill me now and get it over with, don’t drag this out.”
“Tsk tsk tsk. Not yet.” The first man shook his head. “You’re more valuable to us alive for now. We just wanna get that email. That’s not so bad, hm?”
“You’re the fucking NSA for God’s sake, you’re the fucking CIA. You don’t need me. You already have all the emails from everybody in the entire universe, you already know what everybody’s been saying, why do you need me for? You don’t need-Aaah!”
“Mr. Jameson. There was no need for that. We don’t wanna hurt you. Just tell us, come on.” He dabbed the blood from my face gently. I leaned over the side of the chair, spit teeth.
He was about to hit me again when there was a buzzing from a phone in the background. I heard another voice speak softly followed by an embarrassed cough.
A third voice spoke “Jack! Listen to this! You’re not going to believe it.”
‘Jack’ grunted and walked back behind the light. There was some more muffled speaking followed by ‘Jack’ shouting out “What the fuck do you mean by that? Fine! I’ll ask him!”
‘Jack’ came back; this time more sheepish. “Your name is John Jameson… right?” I was confused and in pain but nodded in the affirmative. “John Jameson from 23B Russel’s Avenue right?”
“No!” I shook my head “I live in 25B.”
“Well that’s just fucking great!” The man thrust his hands to the sky “We’ve got the wrong man!”
“No. We. Don’t!” “Jack” was grabbed by the shirt, shoved against the wall. “What do you think its gonna look like if we admit we made a mistake, hm? Hm? Have you ever thought about that? Have you, you moron? Heads are gonna roll, and mine’s not gonna be included. You bastard, Jack. What’dya think, we can just fucking let him go, just let him waltz out of here like the fucking Bolshoi Ballet, like nothing ever happened, just so he can go running to the media and sue the fuck out of us? We’re talking about international law here. We can’t just let the bastard go, you moron.”
“We’ll grab the other guy,” “Jack” said, quiet. “As for him…well,” “Jack” tilted his head towards me.
“We don’t. Make. Mistakes. Moron!” The man shoved “Jack” again. Letting go of “Jack’s” shirt, he turned to me, knelt in front of my chair. “Listen Mr. Jameson, how’d you like to work for us?”
“You’d be a sort of informant, you know, blend in undercover. You’d still keep your day job. You’d just be giving us little details we’re interested in, you know, that type of thing. Observing people…You know what we’re talking about.”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” I stared at the floor.
“Well, since you know what we do here, its either that or…You understand, I’m sure.”
“Smart man. You start tomorrow.”
So that’s how I came to be working for the CIA. Not officially, of course. You didn’t hear it from me.