Name, Rank and Serial Number

The woman in black twisted the crank another notch. Her prisoner screamed out in agony. She grinned. It was one more notch closer to a pronouncement — the one she had to hear. So far he hadn’t said a thing; he had not begged for mercy; he had not prayed to God for deliverance; he had only screamed out in excruciating pain, and anger. It had been hours now. She had started out with a lengthy interrogation without success. She had warned him that torture would follow if he didn’t speak, but there was only defiant silence. At one point, just before the torture started, she lost her cool and went into an angry tirade in her native tongue. She had barked out belligerent Russian syllables that numbed him more than frightened him.

She had warned him but to no avail.

His wrists and ankles were bleeding now. Sweat was rolling down his brow and glistened on his bare chest under the single 200-watt bulb. She slowly twisted the crank some more. The rack was taking its toll. He could feel his bones separating at the joints. A loud crack reverberated throughout the cement chamber as his right femur snapped out of his hip joint. He wailed in agony. “Tell me, comrade!” she screamed. He ignored her and writhed in pain. She cussed him out in Russian as she unzipped his pants and pulled them down to his knees. The bitch grabbed a white-hot poker and held it menacingly over his genitals. His eyes opened wide with fear. He instantly flashed back to his days in the Special Forces. He thought to himself how he had planned to react in a situation like this: Name, rank and serial number was all he could allow. He had been up against other adversaries, but not like this one. She was good! He hoped that he would pass out again. He hoped that the whole thing with this horrible woman was a nightmare, that he would wake up in bed in his beloved bachelor pad. It was not to be.

He knew that the only possible way he could even hope for freedom was silence. The pain was becoming unbearable though. Not only could he feel his freedom slipping away, but he felt like his soul was being sucked out of his head where it would be cast in a wretched Purgatory with the souls of other pathetic losers who had broken the silence, and given in. Death would be better. Perhaps the Grim Reaper would be his savior. Perhaps death was the last bastion of freedom.
The Russian was going to get what she wanted even if it meant killing him. She moved the glowing iron poker an inch from his penis. He could feel the head heating up and it frightened him. Not his penis! It was being slowly roasted. He screamed a shrill screech as his steaming penis plumped up like a ballpark frank. It had been his best friend all his adult life and had led him to adventures in beds all over the world. It had led him to this maniacal bitch. Whether he uttered the words that she needed to hear or not, his penis was hers.

No. She couldn’t destroy this object of joy but she had no qualms about castrating him. She would start that devious process the moment he confessed. She took some stainless-steel garden shears and rapidly squeezed the handles in and out. The razor sharp blades clicked as she put them in front of his tired and nearly defeated eyes. The evil woman then took his testicles in her left hand and pulled. She positioned the snippers around his scrotum above the balls and asked him one more time.

The man suddenly gave up. He had had enough. She had won. His life as he knew it was over.

“Stop!” he screamed. “I confess! I…love you.”

“And?” she asked.

“I’ll marry you…”

At that moment the castration process started and would continue for the rest of their married life.