Jun 20, 2016, 09:45AM

The Dead Can’t Talk

Rooster’s spiritual dislocation in Guantanamo Bay.

Penjarapenjara.jpg?ixlib=rails 2.1

Drip. Drip. Drip. Chinese Water Torture. “Poo-tee-weet, poo-tee-weet.” Fuck that bird. Who even was that bird? Shit book. “Talk.” I spit in his face. The full-handed slap hits hard. It hurts. No tears. Just bite. All peck. The ropes around my neck are frayed but my feet are chained, and my spur claws are useless. Losing my edge. Everything is atrophying after three weeks here. I hold my resolve in the deepest reserves of my heart and don’t give in. Drip. Drip. Drip. “Talk.” Spit. Slap. Whip. My forehead is burning—they don’t tell you that the water is boiling hot. Losing my color, losing my edge. The masked man walks away and returns with a blindfold. Everything goes black and I hear him leave the rubber room. Was it worth it?

They torture me with pop music. Nothing you’ve heard of—the sounds of channel surfing on Uranus. Unintelligible, indistinguishable mush manipulated beyond any recognition. Lady Gaga’s voice is looped—“pa-pa-pa-poker-face-pa-pa-poker-face” for hours. I’ve lost count. Solitary is the only option at Guantanamo Bay. I haven’t had a meal in… three weeks… has it been that long? Since I got here? They feed me scraps, pieces of cornmeal and bread soaked in water and vinegar. As if I’m a fucking duck. Do they have proper protocol for roosters? I doubt it. Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it. I overreacted, but I do feel that my life was in danger, and caught up in the moment of discovering my disgraced friend, I was passionate. I was heated. Anthony Weiner’s veins were easy to cut. I didn't even really have to try. I just did my usual squawk-and-scratch, peck-peck, and he was dead. Glassy eyes staring up at me. Yet I felt nothing. I jumped up on the desk to console my sobbing, oblivious friend.

Lights on. Must’ve been three hours at least. Two men walk in. The blindfold comes off, and the water finally stops. They’re all in blacked, wearing gas masks, carrying hoses. I see my own mask dangling from the hands of the one on the left. “Look, buddy. Buddy. You’ve got one more chance. We really have no qualms about taking our time breaking your spirit. It doesn’t even matter if you die, really. You have no family. At least, no family that this country recognizes…” He’s right. Roosters are radically under-represented in Congress. “Just… just fucking tell us why you had to kill Weiner. We know Boehner is involved. We’ll give you immunity and just one more beating, not the mask. Not the gas. It doesn’t have to be this way. You can give in.” That sets me. I’m done. This isn’t worth it. The humiliation. The pain. The spiritual dislocation. I tear the last threads of my neck ropes and get a nice peck on the pants of the man holding the mask. They hold me back. I’m going away. Dinner. Roasted. “I’m being deported.” Gallows humor. The iris closes in. “I’m being deported.” Only now do I realize. I see what he means. The orange hand puts me away. brb. Going away now.

—Follow Rooster Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits


Register or Login to leave a comment