Plan B.

I watched a disturbing video on YouTube tonight, all about extremely disturbing videos that are available on YouTube. Thankfully it showed no clips; heaven knows the verbal descriptions were bad enough. But it did raise an odd thought: how does a torturer cope with being given a masochist as a subject?

‘Tell us where the invasion plans are hidden.’

‘No, I refuse to talk.’

‘Then are you ready to have red hot needles forced down your fingernails?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes please.’

‘Shit! He’s one of those... Very well. We are not going to force red hot needles down your fingernails, we are going to give you an ice cream instead. What do you think of that? And what is your favourite flavour?’

‘I refuse to tell you.’

‘If you refuse to tell us it will go badly for you, my friend. We will find out from your mother and give you two ice creams.’

‘Aaargh… OK. I give in. The invasion plans are hidden in…’

I suspect the summer heat mustn’t be getting to me.

One day later...

I'm currently drinking the litre bottle of scotch given to me by Dave the Mechanic for writing up his accounts, and it's a bit odd. It doesn't taste anything like what it says on the label; it's rougher, more fiery, and makes you feel strange after a mere two doubles. I suspect it's somehow been tampered with. Unsettling as that fact is in a general sense, at least I hope it excuses the dire nature of this post.