Past Targets
Autumn Twilight Links
Twilight:2000 Links
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My cell is twenty-five feet by twenty. I have a window with a view that overlooks the beach and a drop of around thirty-five feet. Bulletproof, Plexiglas slats open and close at several intervals during the day affording me some fresh air. I have a fairly comfortable bed, twin in size (I expect no visitors, nor am I allowed them). A twenty-one inch screen television is mounted to the wall, and surrounded in the same Plexiglas that surrounds my window. I have a shatter and tamper proof remote control that is permanently mounted to the wall at an angle directed toward the television. A small walled in room with transparent walls serves as lavatory and shower. I am far from being considered a low risk and as such have no kitchenette to prepare my own meals from, but have to rely on the courteous souls who bring my three mains a day and snacks if I so want. A camera is placed in a high location in the corner of the room that looks at me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, this is also protected by a barrier. I have no rugs or bath mats. The floor is kept at a constant temperature. I am allowed my choice of reading material so long as it has nothing to do with; electronics, chemistry, physics, computer science, hard-core pornography, security systems, woodcraft, history of American Law Enforcement, materials pertaining to the FBI or CIA, novels involving prison escapes and magazines that have had their staples removed, just to name a few. Upon reading a book or magazine I am to place the object in a receptacle located in the floor, which I believe leads to some sort of incinerator. Placed in my cell is a microphone (Whose whereabouts still remain mystery), so that I can speak my desire and have it brought to me. Twice a day I have a two-hour period to stand outside and bask in whatever the elements have decided to bestow upon me, all under the carefully scrutiny of armed guards of course. There is a workout room that I can use at my leisure so long as I ask and have my guard of course. My guards consist of a detail of four. They are heavily armed with MP5-SD silenced submachine guns, .45 ACP and two stun grenades. The armor they wear is standard Kevlar and they have communication bands placed inside their ears. I have never seen one smile and have tried my best to "make nice", but I am constantly aware of what separates us. Once a week an official from the Government will come by to have a little chat. I know very little of Special Agent Chase, aside from that he is from the FBI and is slightly less than six feet in height. He has two children a pretty wife (I will have to take his word on that as I am not allowed to see any personal photos from the people I have talked to), dog and enjoys hockey. We chat for hours at a time going over current events (I am allowed to watch the news), books and articles I have read and what my life was like prior to my incarceration in this facility. There are other "members" of this exclusive club, but we are not allowed to visit each other or even fraternize. Once a year on Christmas I am given a present of a woman for a night (under guard, which takes the fun away) or a couple of extra hours outside. I always opt for the outside time. The plaque over my cell door reads "DuLac, Pierre E." and I have been here for three years. That name over the cell is the only thing that I can actually call mine, and that is stretching it. See when I get here all records of my having ever existed are swept away like so much debris. And in my defense that is actually not very hard to do considering I have made a business on not having any identity. But more importantly I am not allowed any particular item or object with which I can call my own. I am not even allowed a deck of cards. You see, the higher-ups in the America's great machine, and many other nations have decided that any object with which I come in contact with can be utilized as a weapon. To illustrate, I was at a pub with a companion of mine about five summers ago, we were engaging in a game of cards when this large drunkard approaches our table…to make a long story short, as the particulars of the event are not as important as the result, I had flipped a card in the gentleman's direction, which soundly landed in the his throat. It is not a power, but an incredible gift. To my credit I have over Three-hundred confirmed kills. All sorts of methods have acquired these; gunshot wounds, explosions, suffocation, playing card, poison, car bomb and I have even killed someone using a straw out of a McDonald's beverage cup (Which is no mean feat, any one can do it, the straws are made fairly thick). During my visits with the Special Agent, we often play chess. This game I have come to thoroughly enjoy over the years, the move, and countermove. One opponent trying to read the mind of the other, to get inside his head and think what he is thinking, to uncover that golden thought which will be his next move and counter it. Yet I have no compulsion to use any of the pieces on the good agent. He is the only one who plays with me and after living a less than productive and fulfilling existence here; I would not want to spoil it. Besides which I would never live through the encounter and it seems such a waste to kill one Special agent just because I can. HE has never come to visit, though I doubt that his superiors would let him. It will have been three years and two months ago that he caught me. It was a long game but I underestimated him and a game that I was sure to win turned into a checkmate on his part, my loss. We had a lovely time playing our version of chess over the period of two years. I was all that he thought about, and I had been on the scene for over ten years playing my dangerous game. Surprisingly we have never spoken, except for the occasional threat or curse word toward each other, but never a face-to-face chat. I have no idea what I would say to him, something clever like "Game well played", or "What a an excellent move, your superiors would be proud", or maybe just a simple "How are you? The mustache looks nice by the way. It suits you." I will never get the chance, how sad. I will say that I have probably made him change the way he thinks about hostages and their role in the grand scheme of hunter/prey relations. I wonder if he sees her face every night before he goes to bed. She was quite pretty and skilled, but not as skilled as I. And was just as shocked as she was, but it passed quickly and we both gave each other remembrances, he and I, to last the rest of our days. Today is physical therapy day. I forgot I do own one other item, which
I can claim as mine, even though it says property of the United States
of America on it (A sick joke, I believe on their part). It is constructed
of a plastic polymer base and has ample flexibility, with a titanium endoskeleton.
Every time I take it off the stump of where my knee used to be itches
some, but I persevere and at the least I can keep my beautiful face clean-shaven.
At night I read some and watch some inane shows on the television, shows
that have thirty-something actors playing twenty-something roles and trying
to be clever while dealing with sexual angst and drinking exorbitant amounts
of coffee. And just before the lights go out on one of the many endless
days I roll to the temperature-controlled floor and kneel on my real and
fake knees and I grasp my hands together and I pray. I pray to the man
who took my leg. I pray to GOD.
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