Echo of Hope

Can I get a T-bone next time?

Time is short. Surveillance at this facility is difficult to evade. Right to it, then.

I write this message with great hopes that it will reach friendly eyes unmolested. Alas I cannot guarantee it will escape interception or be planted with misinformation.

I’ve been taken behind enemy lines. Masters of psychological warfare, my captors must have hypnotized me to believe they, too, are friendlies, but I see right through them. I am no Manchurian Candidate, friends! Send in your Queen of Hearts. Do your worst!

My belief is they intend to gain my trust in order for me to share vital, classified information I’ve thus far kept close to the vest.

Their tactics center around creating an emotional connection with me while, at the same time, they tether me to their will by rationing my food. Every three hours like clockwork, strikingly attractive women fill my mouth with this warm yellow liquid they claim will provide complete nutrition.

Then they inject the majority of this “mystery wonderfood” directly into my gut as, with a insane amount of wiring on my person, they incessantly monitor its effects on my system.

I play naïve. I play along. But psychological warfare goes both ways, friends. I know no such wonderfood exists. They’ll have to do better.

What I wouldn’t do for a T-bone and a bottle of ripple.

Here from my prison bed (yes, bars and everything), I’ve been able to get eyes on their propaganda. Here is what they would have me believe:

• I was born 15 days ago. I presume they’ve injected me with some kind of paralytic as I am unable to speak save in squeaks and squawks, and both gross and fine motor skills are impaired. As well, they’re surely drugging me as, embarrassing as it is, I am no longer in control of my excretory system. Maddening.
• I have some kind of heart condition. (Which is impossible, of course, or the government would never have recruited me for my position and trained me as they have.) This condition has supposedly been treated with 3 balloon catheters thus far, two before I was “born” 15 days ago, and one on D, or as they say “B”, Day.
• I’m breathing this fast, which, whether or not it’s really happening, is a chore. This “tachypnea”, as they refer to it, is the reason they are injecting the egg-nog-like substance versus allowing me to eat it normally (as if anyone could call ingesting this stuff in any way normal).

The lab coat team comes by periodically with the beguiling women and prod me to give up more intel so they can, supposedly, get me the health care I need.

I give them nothing.

“Schultz, Ari Francis Danger”
“Major, United States Army”
“11021612”

All the while they poke and prod and expect it to wear me down. I believe they’ve come to the conclusion that it won’t – they’re not getting what they want.

As I’ve succeeded in impeding and frustrating their efforts, they say will take me back in for another balloon procedure on Monday or Tuesday.

I can only report what I’ve heard. I’m sure it’s some kind of code. Who knows what they’re really doing to me in there.

That’s all I know right now.

When they all leave, I ask my cell mate, who I honestly believe is another captive, if he’s gained any advantages or gathered any information. He as well just squeaks and squawks (so authentic!), and cries through the night. I fear they’ve broken him. Poor sot.

Send help. In the meantime, I will plot my escape. I will get out in one piece. They don’t know who they’re dealing with.

It’s a long way to Tipperary.

See you there.