Gitmo Me Outta Here!

 

The prisoner, dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit, was hunched over a sheaf of papers when the guard rapped his nightstick across the bars of the cell door. 
   “Hey camel fucker! The colonel wants to see you pronto!”
   The prisoner looked up wearily from the papers. 
   "I thought for once that you might be distracted by all that barbarous music outside and give your routine a rest."
   “Yeah Kareem, how insensitive of me. Cinco de Mayo’s might not be much of a thing in bum fuck Iraq but here at Camp X-Ray you're talkin" major Par-T-Y time! It's the one day of the year we get to fraternize with the enemy."
   "A true Muslim would never engage in such pagan festivities."
   "Not everything is about you Poncho!" the replied testily. "Them Cubans really know how to get their dog on!"
   The guard noticed the papers clutched in the prisoner's hands. “Hey, what’s that you're working on?”
   “Words… mere words.”
   The answer drew a hooded, wary look from his jailer.
   “Words I hope that might move humanity towards a higher ground," he replied, drawing in his breath for effect, "A Letter from a Guantánamo Jail... nice ring, wouldn’t you say?”
   The guard perturbed by what he heard crossed the threshold and yanked the pages from the prisoner’s hands and gave them the once over.
   “Hey, you got only one line!”
   “Sir!,” the prisoner spat back acidly, “do you think with all the interrogations plus the odd waterboarding King or Mandela could have done any better?”  
   But no answer was forthcoming. The guard's face had convulsed into a minor rictus; the nose twitched to a maniacal boogie while the rest of the face collapsed into a sour pudding of flesh.
   "What the hell stinks so badly Jabar? Did you Dutch oven me again?"
   "For that I'd need a blanket. Something not provided on fear I might hang myself."
    Through the facial crunch the guards noticed a small Post It Note on the back of the last page.
   “Who’s this John Malkovich?”
   “An actor and great humanitarian. Someone who’d be sensitive to my current predicament.”
   “Horseshit Ahmed.”
    The guard tossed a him a pair of shoes. “Mount up, Tonto!"
   'Shoes', he wondered aloud. Ever since his arrival he had yet to fathom the mystery of why they kept him as shoeless as Joe Jackson.
                                                                  
   The prisoner, dripping in filigreed chains - a style not seen the late Torquemada - was frog marched to an interrogation room. Little could be said of this room other than its central inspiration was found in the white tile and stainless steel décor found in your average airport bathroom.  He was chained to the long end of a faux wood grain table.   Within minutes Colonel Ollie Petroleus embodying Napoleon's Man of Starch bolted through the door followed in train by a battalion of sycophantic aides. The Colonel was dressed immaculately in a blue and gold tunic set off by black pants with silver stripping. He wore a hat that portrayed a set of miniature friezes across its brim. Petroleus believed them to be replicas of the Elgin marbles.