I'm an American citizen!

I'm an American Citizen!



Sarah’s long black hair lightly caressed Dylan’s chest sending bolts of pleasure over his skin as she kissed his neck. Her perfume was like lilac enticing him to melt with her. His body was tingling, shivering actually, from the joy she was bestowing on him. She was so soft, yet so firm, and crunchy. He wanted her: wanted her body, wanted her soul.



Somewhere far away, he heard men whispering. Sarah, now bouncing on top of him, turned toward the bedroom door. As it slammed open, pure fright roared across her face. Black helmets and black fatigues poured in. Menacing, high-tech rifles pointed at Dylan and Sarah. Twitching fingers itched to squeeze triggers. A red light flicked on and off from a mini video camera attached to a man’s helmet.



“Don’t move!” somebody shouted.



Grubby hands were immediately all over them. A huge brute with a blonde mustache grabbed Sarah by her neck and between her legs.



“You pig,” Dylan screamed, just before one of them squeezed him in a chokehold. 



“I caaa ... n’t breath,” Dylan squeaked.



A stone-faced Gestapo type barked, “That’s enough. Get ’em dressed. We can’t leave here with’em stark naked.”



Dylan tried to sit up when the man released him.



“Stay where you are or you’re dead,” somebody yelled. Two henchmen pulled orange overalls––Guantanamo-style––onto Dylan and then Sarah. “ Hey, you’re hurting me!” she cried out.



“Shut up, bitch,” one of them barked.



Dylan looked down at his feet when they put shackles on his ankles. He noticed a dark, wet stain on the orange fabric around his crotch. He had pissed in his pants. He and Sarah waddled as the thugs half-dragged them out of the hotel. A few guests in the lobby looked at them with contempt. Outside,  Sarah and Dylan were shoved into a beige and brown camouflaged vehicle that looked like something out of a Rambo movie. Inside, they pulled a black hood over Dylan’s head and his fear quadrupled.



“Sarah! Are you okay?”



Giggles rang in Dylan’s ears, when one of them shoved something––most probably the butt of his rifle––into his stomach. The pain was negligible, perhaps because his body was pumping out adrenaline to flee or fight. Bodies are stupid like that; brains know better. Dylan felt his left sleeve being pulled up to his bicep. Somebody tapped on his elbow crease right before a needle pierced his skin. It was in and out quickly. A warm relaxation flowed over him.



When he awoke, he was alone in a putrid smelling, dark jail cell except for a brown rat that ran by. It had no bars, no sink, and no bed. It didn’t even have a toilet. His stomach froze as he spotted bloodstains on the gray stone walls enclosing him. The only thing he could focus on was a rusty, green steel door with several rivets. Absolute silence reigned.



“Hey, is anybody there?” he yelled. “Sarah?”



Not a peep reached his ears. He stood up and paced around. His shackles had been removed. The more he came to his senses, the more he realized that the torture that would surely come hadn’t really started. Macabre images from Abu Ghraib flashed through his mind at the speed of a stealth bomber. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about Sarah.



These bastards! These Gestapo bastards will torture her, too.



He sat back down and tried to figure out a coherent story to tell them. How could he convince them that they were only interviewing an Afghan tribal leader? Okay, he had encouraged Sarah to leave their I.D.s in the hotel security box, so they had no identification on them. But what the hell? It’s a free country. Journalists have the right to get insider information in the field. He floated off again.



He awoke with a bright light shining in his eyes. Doctors in white lab coats stood around him, some with smirks, others with sadistic smiles on their faces. Two held him tightly while a third one wearing a light green mask inserted another needle into his vein. Then they strapped him into a black metal chair.



An interrogator appeared out of nowhere and began questioning him. “My name is Sergeant Rivers. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’d better answer them fast and accurately.”



“Where’s my colleague? I want to call my lawyer. I’m an American citizen. I have rights!”



“You are a nonentity,” he replied.  “You only exist as long as I allow you to continue your miserable life.”



“I have my constitutional rights. I’m innocent! We are independent journalists!” flowed out of Dylan’s mouth in a torrent. A fist smashed into it and blood, sweet and hot, ran over his tongue.



“You are enemy combatants. You have forfeited all of your rights. You are no longer in the United States. Do you understand?” the interrogator snarled.



“You fucking Nazi!” popped out of his mouth with bubbles of blood.



The interrogator’s face turned as red as the blood dripping on his chest. “Billy,” he shouted, “get the hood and a bucket of water. This maggot just called me a Nazi!”



Dylan struggled to get loose from the leather arm straps. He wanted to attack this man like he had never gone after anybody in his life. He would scratch his eyes out, he would rip the flesh off his face with his teeth, he would ––



The interrogator moved closer to him. Dylan looked down at his boots and his brain did a somersault. The Nazi wore spit-shined cowboy boots with silver spurs on them!



What the hell? He was waking again. Why waking? He wasn’t sleeping ... he ...



“Sarah?”



Looking down on him were two misty green eyes. Sarah hugged him. “What’s wrong, darling?”



“Oh Sarah, I had the worst dream of my life. The Gestapo broke in here and arrested us! Well, they weren’t really the Gestapo, they had small U.S. flags on their ...”



Dylan jumped out of bed. He was soaking wet with sweat.



“Are you okay?” she asked, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Last night was amazing.”



He stared at her. Even after sleeping, her hair looked perfectly combed. She had no eyeliner or lipstick on. She looked adorable.



“It was ... so ... so real. They arrested us and flew us to a prison overseas. At least that’s what it seemed like.”



“Oh darling, you’re feeling the pressure of this job. Soon we’ll have our story and we can drive home. Don’t worry. Why don’t you take a shower and then we’ll have breakfast?”



He smiled. “Could you help me shower? I don’t know if I’m prepared to have you out of my sight just yet.”



“Of course.”



“Soap me down, too?”



Sarah began removing her silk pajamas with a devious smile on her face. “Darling, I promise to wash away the ugliness of that nightmare. Let’s hurry, we’ve got to meet Mustafa and finish our work.”