Any Means Possible

"Any means possible.”

That’s what the form said. It also said I would be paid handsomely for this job. I tried to keep that in mind as my pliers slipped and broke his tooth in half, splattering blood on my new shirt. Kanye West played louder as I turned up the volume on my phone to drown out his screams. The next tooth looked like it had a lot of cavities; hopefully it hurt even more.

“One more time. Tell me who your commander is.” I sighed, tired of his stubbornness.

I waited a few moments to see if he would say anything, yet nothing came. I proceeded. Through my experience, I find it’s easier to pull out teeth after they’ve been broken so I squeezed as hard as I could, snapping it in half. I fished the broken fragments out of the newly created crater in his mouth and slapped him around a few times for good measure. This one was really testing my patience. I usually don’t even get to the teeth pulling because the waterboarding generally sufficed. But this subject was different – he opened fire inside a restaurant while not wearing a mask, knowing he would die. Unfortunately for him, American doctors are exceedingly good at saving lives.

“God Bless America,” I whispered quietly under my breath. I turned around and saw a small piece of paper slip out of his pocket. I walked over and grabbed it, much to his obvious dismay. His eyes went from apathetic pain to tortured panic.

“So I’m assuming this is important,” I taunted.

I opened up the crumpled sheet and expected orders from his higher-ups. Instead I saw a drawing scrawled in red and blue crayon. It showed a crudely drawn man and two small girls with writing at the bottom.

“Happy Birthday Daddy!”

Memories flashed of my son and daughter playing in the backyard. Memories of birthday cakes and the soft smell of freshly cooked steaks. Memories of Nathan’s smile.

No, do not empathize with this man.

He is not American.

He is the enemy.

He is a savage.

He has no family.

He is a murderer.

He is not human.

He is not American.

Memories of watching the plane crash on TV, wiping out my family. Memories of the counseling and drugs and alcohol. I promised I would find the terrorists that took them away from me, any means possible. At that moment, I realized how to get my information.

I kneeled down next to him and took out my headphones. “Do you see this? Do you miss them? What if I said that my people can find your family? All I have to do is pick up some of these misplaced teeth, send it off to the lab, pass it through some tests and all of your information is mine.” I leaned in closer. “What if I said that everything I’ve done to you, I will do to them? Every slow, agonizing moment you went through, repeated on your daughters and your wife. How does that sound?”

A soft whimper escaped his lips.

“So one more time buddy, tell me who your commander is.”

Needless to say, I got the information that I needed pretty quickly. After a quick shower, I left the complex. It was 3 AM and a two-hour drive back to the airport. There was nobody around the abandoned building. That was good, because no one could see as I wept, clutching the crayon drawing.



Originally written on November 2015.