Peter Cawdron - Alien Space Tentacle Porn

—I SET THE RULES.

I don’t know how much of this I can take.

My head is pounding.

The rules.

Don’t play by the rules.

As difficult as it is to think straight with this infernal noise pounding in my ears, I have to try something. Anything. I’ve got to stop this tsunami of sound, but how?

I start tapping my feet and nodding my head in a vague sense of time with the music, if it can be called that.

“Do you take requests?” I ask, knowing there must be at least one other person in the room with me, perhaps a guard or an interrogator.

“Have you got any Def Leppard?” I’m trying to recall as many heavy metal bands as I can. I wonder if I’m yelling. It doesn’t feel like I am, but it’s natural to try to be heard above the noise, even though the maddening racket is confined to my headphones. “D-E-F not D-E-A-F. Be sure to spell it right.”

There’s no response.

I make more of a show, humming as I tap out an imaginary beat on an invisible bass drum with my right foot. Although my arms are strapped to the chair, my hands are free, so I make as though I’m holding drum sticks, beating at the air. I’m sure to swing quicker with my right hand than my left, giving my wrists a good flick to complete the picture, and make as though I’m tapping a snare drum and alternating with a cymbal. I’m loving this, at least, that’s what I want to portray.

“What about Black Sabbath?” I ask. “Iron Maiden? Megadeth?”

I’ve got a good wobble going on with my head. Funny thing is, the masquerade is helping me deal with the deafening wall of noise. Giving my mind something to do allows me a little respite from the insanity pounding in my ears.

“But please, no Metallica. That would be torture.”

And I laugh at my own joke.

Suddenly, the noise stops, but my ears don’t register the silence immediately. The ringing in my ears is so bad it’s easy to confuse that with more external noise, and it’s not until the headphones are removed that I realize the music has stopped.

“Hey, not fair,” I say, pretending to protest.

“Very funny, Joe,” a voice says. I can barely hear him over the buzzing in my ears.

“What was that you said?” I ask, hamming it up and yelling in response. “You’re going to have to speak up.”

A black bag is ripped from my head. I thought I was wearing some kind of blindfold, but it was a loose hood, not unlike those worn by kidnap victims when they’re led to an execution. My skin crawls at the thought.

A chair scrapes across the ground and a military officer sits in front of me. He has the chair facing backwards so he can straddle the seat, leaning on the chair back as he stares into my eyes.

“You want to answer some questions for me?” the officer says. “Or should I leave the music blaring until the boss arrives?”

“Suit yourself,” I say. “I was just getting into the groove.”

He tosses the headphones into a black duffel bag sitting on the floor. I try not to look relieved.

“They say we shouldn’t talk to you, that you can weave magic with words. Is that true? Are you some kind of Harry Potter from another planet?”

“Hah!” I laugh. “I wish.”

He clenches his jaw, not saying what he’s thinking. He thinks I’m one of them—an alien like Sharon and Mark. He’s sizing me up, trying to make sense of the subtlest quiver in my response.

I can’t help myself, I have to add, “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” Only I mean that in an entirely different manner to how it’s received. Which is good, I hope.

There are two black-clad soldiers standing by the door. At a guess, I’m in a seedy motel somewhere remote. There’s an old rundown sink in the corner with a mirror set above it. Paint is slowly peeling off the walls, signaling decades of neglect.

“What?” I ask. “No blinding lights? You’re disappointing, you know that? I mean, the whole heavy metal music thing to disorient me, and the spooky guards in black. You were on a roll. But no interrogation lights? What is wrong with you guys? You’re amateurs.”

I’m talking too much. I’m nervous as hell and trying to cover that with a plethora of words. Calm down, Joseph.

“Laugh all you want,” the officer says. “But we got you. We got both of you.”

“You’re lying,” I say, snapping out those words without any additional consideration. I’m not sure how I know. Perhaps it’s because, if they had Sharon, I’d be dead. I’m pretty sure she’d tell them I’m nothing more than a bystander, not realizing that for these guys that makes me about as useful as a sandbag in the Sahara.

The officer’s eyes narrow. Sharon’s escaped. He doesn’t admit as much, but if he had Sharon, he would have quickly figured out where I sit in the grand scheme of things and wouldn’t waste more than nine grams of lead on me, or whatever it is they make bullets out of these days. He thinks I’m one of them. I’ve got to play to that.

“No imagination,” I say, putting up a cocky facade. Bluffing is all I’ve got. “Black cars. Soldiers wearing black. Crew cut hair and starched shirts. You guys are about as inconspicuous as a Bond villain. Honestly, you’re clowns.”

The officer doesn’t bite, but I can see my comment is grating on him. I can’t figure out which branch of service he’s with as his uniform is nondescript.

I clench my hands to hide my trembling fingers and ward off the cold, flexing my fingers by opening and closing my fists. Although I’m doing this to hide my nerves and get some blood circulating in my hands, it gives the appearance of someone spoiling for a fight.

The crook of my left arm hurts, it’s as though I’ve been stung by a bee. Glancing down, I see a band-aid holding a ball of cotton in place, strategically set over the veins in my arm. Ah, that explains the music. They drugged me. Between being doped up and having Megadeth pounding in my ears, they must have been trying to keep me in a state of sensory overload. At a guess, they just stuck me with some kind of antidote, springing me back to consciousness.

“It would be nice if you were wearing a name tag,” I say, pushing my luck. No response. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. Thanks for the ride, but do be a pal and untie me. I’ve got places to go. People to see.”

Shut up, Joseph . I can’t help myself. If he’s not talking, I am. I have to. It’s self-preservation kicking in. Doing something—saying something—is better than nothing at all. Or is it? Am I tightening the noose around my neck? Stop overthinking things, you fool.

“So you admit it—you’re one of them?” he asks.

Without hesitation, I blurt out, “No, I’m not.” Inwardly, I curse myself for being so brash and honest. I really have to learn how to lie. Picking myself up from that slip of the tongue, I shake my head and say, “Actually, yes. I am.” Ah, there’s no words quite as powerful as a mixed message.

“So which is it?” he asks, and I see an opening to plead the case to avoid more torture. The thought of being waterboarded is terrifying. In essence, it’s drowning on land. And if at all possible, I’d like to keep my fingernails and teeth intact, along with whatever appendages they might want to slice from my body.

“Which answer do you want?” I ask. “See, that’s the problem with torture. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. True or not. So—No, I’m not. Yes, I am. The choice is yours.”

He purses his lips. I can see he wants to say something, but he’s choosing his words carefully. Out of nowhere, he laughs. Not with the side splitting laugh of someone recoiling from a joke, but with a laugh that suggests something cunning has unfolded.