Tyler -- The Interrogation Room

“You are an inhuman, vile piece of refuse,” started the cold man in the drab gray suit. His fishy lips wobbled as he talked. He seemed to smirk at my obvious pain as my arms were bundled behind the chair, head and legs constricted by leather straps.

I was starting to warm up to him already.

“But not only are you an inhuman, vile piece of refuse,” he continued, “you are also an inhuman problem. And do you know why?”

I chose a greasy spot on the cement wall and stared at it.

“Because you exist.”

I had to talk. “So do you, and no one’s trying to kill you because of it.” I pretended to think. “Well, on second thought…”

He curled his lip in disdain. “I know pain,” he hissed. “I can produce it; I can tame it. And I can most certainly inflict it.”

“Look,” I said. “If you’re not even going to do your job and ‘interrogate’ me, why not just let me go?”

“Oh, don’t fret just yet.” He smiled as he walked out of the small room to leave me alone in the dark. “Pain, then questions.”

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