RobertM
New Member
Hole Card
I was keeping track of the days for a while but they found the pencil stub hidden under my mattress. I discovered it lying unnoticed in a pocket of my jumpsuit and tried to use it. Really stupid of me to keep it under the mattress, though. I should have known better. They find out everything in the end. They came in and scrubbed off the calendar I created on the wall. You really have to give them an ‘A’ for persistence, the bastards.
I try to keep mental notes of everything I see and hear, but they keep me half-starved and alone in this damned cell. I can’t even think straight anymore. I’ve been here maybe six or seven months. Who the hell knows?
I’ve lost track of time. Questions, nothing but questions. Each time they take me out of my cell for interrogation I want to leap across that table and break their necks; maybe make a run for it.
It wouldn’t work, of course. They always handcuff me to the chair.
I’m locked in a cell about ten meters square. In the center of the door is a metal flap that drops with a clang every time they shove their slop in for me to eat. I find oatmeal in my morning bowl and soup with a bit of meat at night. That’s it. I think they are putting drugs in my food because it tastes bitter and all I want to do is sleep after I eat. I can’t even tell if it’s day or night.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m still alive.
NO! I have to hang on to the sanity I have left. I have to think things out until they make sense. It’s becoming more difficult all the time.
I’m sitting on a steel bed with a hard, thin mattress and no pillow. I keep a cotton blanket they gave me wrapped around myself for company. I hate the bastards.
I haven’t done anything wrong. If I did, I don’t remember it.
They’ll be back in a while. They enjoy trying to confuse me. Coming at different times. Asking their ridiculous questions. Thinking about it makes my brain hurt. ‘I have a family, boys’…I tell them. ‘I want to go home.’ They say nothing and move on to the next question.
“You’ve had an accident,” is all I can get out of them about my situation. I want to jump across the table and choke the life out of the first one I can reach. Smart guys, though. They always handcuff me to the chair. They leave no openings for escape. All I ever do is answer their questions. They never run short of questions. They always place a recorder on the table and scribble notes like madmen…no…I can not think about it. I’ll catch another headache.
Catch a headache. That’s funny. I have to get a grip. I squeeze my temples tightly to shut out the thoughts. There…that’s better. I take a deep, slow breath and try to relax. Sit quietly, stay focused. Good.
They watch every move I make. I’m not stupid, you know.
The big box above the door with the glass front obviously has a camera. They did not even try to hide it. Talk about stupid. You can actually SEE the damn thing. Probably some childish psychological maneuver. They want me to know I’m being watched. Big deal. They can all go to hell.
All the questions. I’m tired of questions.
I’m a damn question answerer. Put it on my resume, you sons of bitches. I want to jump across the table and bash your heads together.
I can refuse to answer any more questions. I’ve pulled that one before.
It really pisses them off good. The food always stops for a while.
I have to check back into the Reality Hotel somehow.
‘Bellboy, can you take my bags to the top floor? Best room in the house!’
‘Certainly, sir!’
‘Let’s hop to it, then!’
‘At once, sir!’ The bellboy grabs my bags with a grin.
Yeah, right. Not a chance in hell.
It makes my brain hurt and I laugh. Push those temples harder! Squeeze your head together until your skull fractures.
It’s time to go home, and I mean now.
Not a chance in hell.
‘No!’
I slam my hands over my mouth. Watch it! You can’t yell out loud or show any emotion. It just gives them more ammunition. If I shout, they always drop the steel flap in the door and stare at me for a few seconds. Check the monkey. Check on the monkey. Shall I dance for you, or sing perhaps?
When I first arrived, I used to cuss a blue streak at anyone I saw. After a while, I gave it up. It’s no good to cuss somebody right into the ground when they just stare at you with a blank expression. Only once did I get a reaction; a look from one of my guards resembling, well…pity.
I never saw him again.
He was caught showing emotion to the monkey and replaced. These guys don’t miss a thing.
I used to kick hell out of the door. No one cared. I did it for three straight hours once. They kept the food away for a couple of days, so I quit kicking the door.
One thing I can’t fathom is how guys so smart can be so ignorant at the same time. I mean, they ask the stupidest questions. Who were my parents? My grandparents? My great-grandparents, even? They ask about where I’m from, how I lived, questions about my everyday life. I’m always drawing things for them on these big white tablets. They ask …no, I don’t want to think about it…makes my brain hurt.
I wrap the cotton blanket around my body like a cocoon and fade down onto the mattress. I ate a few minutes ago and now I’m tired. Sleep is good. I close my eyes. Sleep is escape.
It’s time to go home. I want to go home.
***
The tall, gray-haired soldier stared at the television screen on the console. He carried the insignia of a major general on his shoulders and several rows of ribbons across his chest. He shook his head. “He’s not doing too well. We may have to move him to the new location, soon. At least the poor bastard will be able to get a little fresh air.”
Dr. Jackson shrugged and switched off the television monitor. “I’m just glad I’m not in his shoes. It might be more merciful to take him outside and shoot him in the head.”
“That’s not an option.”
“I suppose not.”
“No. Do you realize how much we’ve already learned from him?”
“I don’t enjoy thinking about it, General.”
“The best minds in this country are already researching the information we’ve gathered. We simply leak it to them one piece at a time. A group up in Chicago is working on something called a ‘computer.’ I have no idea what it does.” He added quietly, “You wouldn’t believe some of the things he’s told us. It’s going to change everything we know.”
“Maybe. It seems wrong, though. A cheat.”
General Martin rubbed his chin for a moment. “Who’s to say the whole thing wasn’t meant to happen this way?”
Jackson yawned and stretched. “Paradoxes. Right. I’m not a physicist General, I’m a psychiatrist. Personally, I think he’s on the brink of a total mental breakdown. Then, nobody will be able to squeeze anything more out of him. He’s cracking already, you know.”
“I know.”
“Do you believe his story? I mean, where he’s from…and when?”
“Yes.”
“It’s all true, then. You found him in that wreckage, with those…things?”
“That’s classified.”
A long silence hung over the little room. A row of bulky control banks with analog needle indicators and big flashing lights kept a silent vigil on the prisoner. The vacuum tubes beneath their sheet metal panels hummed in unison.
The general finally broke the nervous silence. “All right, yes. We found him at the site you’re talking about. He said those ‘things’ were ambassadors or something. He was supposedly ferrying them to some type of meeting here on Earth. He calls himself an ‘astronaut.’ That’s what he claims, anyway. One of our own scientists tried to explain it to me once. When he started talking about time warps, or whatever, I made him stop. I don’t really understand it all.” He gave Jackson a warning stare. “Say anything about this and you’ll be the one going outside for a pistol shot to the head.” He added, “That’s not a threat.”
“Hell, general. Who would believe me?”
“Take my advice. Keep your mouth shut.”
Jackson said nothing.
“I have a meeting now. I’ll be back in a few hours.” The general exited the control room and inserted a special key into the elevator lock. He could see the prisoner’s cell and the long interrogation table sitting a few feet away. “Too bad he’s one of our own,” he muttered. When the elevator opened, the general stepped inside and pushed a button marked ‘surface.’
A few minutes later, the general was in a jeep and heading out the main gate in a cloud of desert dust. As he passed the guards at the box, they saluted smartly. The sign on the gate said: Groom Lake Test Facility – Area 51. U.S. Government Property. No Trespassing.
Witnesses, thought the general, what a pain in the ass. Time to drive back to Roswell and straighten out a few more. The future of the United States, and possibly the world, depended on it.
Things were going to change, that was for sure. How much,
and in what direction, he was not certain.
The End
I was keeping track of the days for a while but they found the pencil stub hidden under my mattress. I discovered it lying unnoticed in a pocket of my jumpsuit and tried to use it. Really stupid of me to keep it under the mattress, though. I should have known better. They find out everything in the end. They came in and scrubbed off the calendar I created on the wall. You really have to give them an ‘A’ for persistence, the bastards.
I try to keep mental notes of everything I see and hear, but they keep me half-starved and alone in this damned cell. I can’t even think straight anymore. I’ve been here maybe six or seven months. Who the hell knows?
I’ve lost track of time. Questions, nothing but questions. Each time they take me out of my cell for interrogation I want to leap across that table and break their necks; maybe make a run for it.
It wouldn’t work, of course. They always handcuff me to the chair.
I’m locked in a cell about ten meters square. In the center of the door is a metal flap that drops with a clang every time they shove their slop in for me to eat. I find oatmeal in my morning bowl and soup with a bit of meat at night. That’s it. I think they are putting drugs in my food because it tastes bitter and all I want to do is sleep after I eat. I can’t even tell if it’s day or night.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m still alive.
NO! I have to hang on to the sanity I have left. I have to think things out until they make sense. It’s becoming more difficult all the time.
I’m sitting on a steel bed with a hard, thin mattress and no pillow. I keep a cotton blanket they gave me wrapped around myself for company. I hate the bastards.
I haven’t done anything wrong. If I did, I don’t remember it.
They’ll be back in a while. They enjoy trying to confuse me. Coming at different times. Asking their ridiculous questions. Thinking about it makes my brain hurt. ‘I have a family, boys’…I tell them. ‘I want to go home.’ They say nothing and move on to the next question.
“You’ve had an accident,” is all I can get out of them about my situation. I want to jump across the table and choke the life out of the first one I can reach. Smart guys, though. They always handcuff me to the chair. They leave no openings for escape. All I ever do is answer their questions. They never run short of questions. They always place a recorder on the table and scribble notes like madmen…no…I can not think about it. I’ll catch another headache.
Catch a headache. That’s funny. I have to get a grip. I squeeze my temples tightly to shut out the thoughts. There…that’s better. I take a deep, slow breath and try to relax. Sit quietly, stay focused. Good.
They watch every move I make. I’m not stupid, you know.
The big box above the door with the glass front obviously has a camera. They did not even try to hide it. Talk about stupid. You can actually SEE the damn thing. Probably some childish psychological maneuver. They want me to know I’m being watched. Big deal. They can all go to hell.
All the questions. I’m tired of questions.
I’m a damn question answerer. Put it on my resume, you sons of bitches. I want to jump across the table and bash your heads together.
I can refuse to answer any more questions. I’ve pulled that one before.
It really pisses them off good. The food always stops for a while.
I have to check back into the Reality Hotel somehow.
‘Bellboy, can you take my bags to the top floor? Best room in the house!’
‘Certainly, sir!’
‘Let’s hop to it, then!’
‘At once, sir!’ The bellboy grabs my bags with a grin.
Yeah, right. Not a chance in hell.
It makes my brain hurt and I laugh. Push those temples harder! Squeeze your head together until your skull fractures.
It’s time to go home, and I mean now.
Not a chance in hell.
‘No!’
I slam my hands over my mouth. Watch it! You can’t yell out loud or show any emotion. It just gives them more ammunition. If I shout, they always drop the steel flap in the door and stare at me for a few seconds. Check the monkey. Check on the monkey. Shall I dance for you, or sing perhaps?
When I first arrived, I used to cuss a blue streak at anyone I saw. After a while, I gave it up. It’s no good to cuss somebody right into the ground when they just stare at you with a blank expression. Only once did I get a reaction; a look from one of my guards resembling, well…pity.
I never saw him again.
He was caught showing emotion to the monkey and replaced. These guys don’t miss a thing.
I used to kick hell out of the door. No one cared. I did it for three straight hours once. They kept the food away for a couple of days, so I quit kicking the door.
One thing I can’t fathom is how guys so smart can be so ignorant at the same time. I mean, they ask the stupidest questions. Who were my parents? My grandparents? My great-grandparents, even? They ask about where I’m from, how I lived, questions about my everyday life. I’m always drawing things for them on these big white tablets. They ask …no, I don’t want to think about it…makes my brain hurt.
I wrap the cotton blanket around my body like a cocoon and fade down onto the mattress. I ate a few minutes ago and now I’m tired. Sleep is good. I close my eyes. Sleep is escape.
It’s time to go home. I want to go home.
***
The tall, gray-haired soldier stared at the television screen on the console. He carried the insignia of a major general on his shoulders and several rows of ribbons across his chest. He shook his head. “He’s not doing too well. We may have to move him to the new location, soon. At least the poor bastard will be able to get a little fresh air.”
Dr. Jackson shrugged and switched off the television monitor. “I’m just glad I’m not in his shoes. It might be more merciful to take him outside and shoot him in the head.”
“That’s not an option.”
“I suppose not.”
“No. Do you realize how much we’ve already learned from him?”
“I don’t enjoy thinking about it, General.”
“The best minds in this country are already researching the information we’ve gathered. We simply leak it to them one piece at a time. A group up in Chicago is working on something called a ‘computer.’ I have no idea what it does.” He added quietly, “You wouldn’t believe some of the things he’s told us. It’s going to change everything we know.”
“Maybe. It seems wrong, though. A cheat.”
General Martin rubbed his chin for a moment. “Who’s to say the whole thing wasn’t meant to happen this way?”
Jackson yawned and stretched. “Paradoxes. Right. I’m not a physicist General, I’m a psychiatrist. Personally, I think he’s on the brink of a total mental breakdown. Then, nobody will be able to squeeze anything more out of him. He’s cracking already, you know.”
“I know.”
“Do you believe his story? I mean, where he’s from…and when?”
“Yes.”
“It’s all true, then. You found him in that wreckage, with those…things?”
“That’s classified.”
A long silence hung over the little room. A row of bulky control banks with analog needle indicators and big flashing lights kept a silent vigil on the prisoner. The vacuum tubes beneath their sheet metal panels hummed in unison.
The general finally broke the nervous silence. “All right, yes. We found him at the site you’re talking about. He said those ‘things’ were ambassadors or something. He was supposedly ferrying them to some type of meeting here on Earth. He calls himself an ‘astronaut.’ That’s what he claims, anyway. One of our own scientists tried to explain it to me once. When he started talking about time warps, or whatever, I made him stop. I don’t really understand it all.” He gave Jackson a warning stare. “Say anything about this and you’ll be the one going outside for a pistol shot to the head.” He added, “That’s not a threat.”
“Hell, general. Who would believe me?”
“Take my advice. Keep your mouth shut.”
Jackson said nothing.
“I have a meeting now. I’ll be back in a few hours.” The general exited the control room and inserted a special key into the elevator lock. He could see the prisoner’s cell and the long interrogation table sitting a few feet away. “Too bad he’s one of our own,” he muttered. When the elevator opened, the general stepped inside and pushed a button marked ‘surface.’
A few minutes later, the general was in a jeep and heading out the main gate in a cloud of desert dust. As he passed the guards at the box, they saluted smartly. The sign on the gate said: Groom Lake Test Facility – Area 51. U.S. Government Property. No Trespassing.
Witnesses, thought the general, what a pain in the ass. Time to drive back to Roswell and straighten out a few more. The future of the United States, and possibly the world, depended on it.
Things were going to change, that was for sure. How much,
and in what direction, he was not certain.
The End
