Terrorist on White House Grounds
Geoffrey M. Gluckman
July 02, 2009
It was a dark and stormy night. (Aren’t they all involving nefarious activities?) Wind and rain hammered the panes of the Oval Office. And all the while, the terrorist clung to his roots, waiting for the time to strike.
The President paced the official carpet, completely unaware of impending danger. As with most terror plots, they have been cultivating for some time. The seeds of the lurking suspect nearby could be traced back 69 years.
The fury of the storm increased; the hour crept toward midnight.
Then the terrorist let fall the strategic attack, right on the White House lawn. There was a sudden crack, a flash of light, and a horrible crash (not sure if anyone heard it though).
Fortunately, the Secret Service was prepared and squirreled away our esteemed leader from harm.
Quickly downed on the White House greenery, the terrorist was captured. Nary a soul saw him, cloaked as he was in camouflage made from brushes, branches, bark, and twigs.
Former Bush administration intelligence adherents rendered the captive, whisking him to their old favorite--Guantanamo.
‘This is serious,’ said the chief interrogator. ‘No other terrorist has come so close tot he White House grounds.’
Of course, the concern had by all was that the captive was not the only ‘tree in the woods’, so to speak.
‘We must get him to talk,’ said an assistant to the chief, who nodded in agreement.
But it had to be done under the strictest secrecy since the new administration no longer endorsed torture, unlike its predecessor, perhaps.
Dragged by the limbs, as if a log to the river, the captive was placed on a table and strapped down tight. Then came the blindfold, and the first question.
‘Who are you working for?’ asked the chief interrogator.
No reply.
An interpreter was fetched in order to facilitate communication. Meanwhile, another assistant to the chief filled a pitcher of water—the infamous waterboarding.
In came the interpreter, wearing a funny looking apron with an assortment of tools hanging from it. As instructed he approached the captive and told him what would happen to him if he chose to be unco-operative.
No answer. Not even the shake of a limb. In fact, a peculiar silence, much like encountered in a forest, pervaded the small concrete room.
The interpreter stepped away.
The pitcher bearer tipped the jug and the dreaded water poured into the captive’s opening below the blindfold.
Then the chief interrogator said, ‘Now, where are your associates? Hiding in the woods like you?’
No reply.
The captive’s appendages seemed to shake, but not with fear. Instead, joy abounded.
The chief interrogator, his assistants, and the others all stood, dumbfounded.
This torture had never elicited such a response, perhaps false and completely irrelevant information, yes. But not mute, ecstatic joy.
Alas, another case of confusing torture with stimulus. After all, trees thrive on water.
The President paced the official carpet, completely unaware of impending danger. As with most terror plots, they have been cultivating for some time. The seeds of the lurking suspect nearby could be traced back 69 years.
The fury of the storm increased; the hour crept toward midnight.
Then the terrorist let fall the strategic attack, right on the White House lawn. There was a sudden crack, a flash of light, and a horrible crash (not sure if anyone heard it though).
Fortunately, the Secret Service was prepared and squirreled away our esteemed leader from harm.
Quickly downed on the White House greenery, the terrorist was captured. Nary a soul saw him, cloaked as he was in camouflage made from brushes, branches, bark, and twigs.
Former Bush administration intelligence adherents rendered the captive, whisking him to their old favorite--Guantanamo.
‘This is serious,’ said the chief interrogator. ‘No other terrorist has come so close tot he White House grounds.’
Of course, the concern had by all was that the captive was not the only ‘tree in the woods’, so to speak.
‘We must get him to talk,’ said an assistant to the chief, who nodded in agreement.
But it had to be done under the strictest secrecy since the new administration no longer endorsed torture, unlike its predecessor, perhaps.
Dragged by the limbs, as if a log to the river, the captive was placed on a table and strapped down tight. Then came the blindfold, and the first question.
‘Who are you working for?’ asked the chief interrogator.
No reply.
An interpreter was fetched in order to facilitate communication. Meanwhile, another assistant to the chief filled a pitcher of water—the infamous waterboarding.
In came the interpreter, wearing a funny looking apron with an assortment of tools hanging from it. As instructed he approached the captive and told him what would happen to him if he chose to be unco-operative.
No answer. Not even the shake of a limb. In fact, a peculiar silence, much like encountered in a forest, pervaded the small concrete room.
The interpreter stepped away.
The pitcher bearer tipped the jug and the dreaded water poured into the captive’s opening below the blindfold.
Then the chief interrogator said, ‘Now, where are your associates? Hiding in the woods like you?’
No reply.
The captive’s appendages seemed to shake, but not with fear. Instead, joy abounded.
The chief interrogator, his assistants, and the others all stood, dumbfounded.
This torture had never elicited such a response, perhaps false and completely irrelevant information, yes. But not mute, ecstatic joy.
Alas, another case of confusing torture with stimulus. After all, trees thrive on water.
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