Most People don’t know but the “Hour of the Pink Squirrel” precludes the “Hour of the Wolf”.

The orange slush spills across the table cascading against my cheek like the floodwaters against a levy.  My breath makes gentle waves across the spill like a zephyr on a sunny spring day.  Two men stare down at me, standing like only men with military training stand.  Their eyes cool and inhuman like the eyes of the dead. The eyes of these men are an organ alone with no connectivity to the brain; I know they are alive only because they blink.

One hand tied down to force my face to the table, I tried to drink the slush but my broken fingers allow little dexterity with the 20 ounce cup. I lap greedily at the pool; my mouth is dry as if I had slept all night long with my mouth open.  It’s as if my tongue is a worm writhing out of a dry sack.

A light is shined in my eyes by some unknown entity, I squint.  I can see nothing, I taste only the watered down orange drink. I smell strong cologne, used in this manner to cover up the heavy-duty stench of BO. This new entity stands so close I can feel the hot breath against my neck; I can feel the sweat drip from its face on to my head.  I feel cold metal on my back as the shirt is cut off my back and ripped from me violently.  I loved that shirt I wore it at least once a week.  It was a cheap well-made shirt I found in a vintage clothing store.  It was blue and well stitched.  I started to go to the store to remember the day, but that also was ripped from me when I got hit in the back.

I expected a whip, but I think it was a bat…probably a wooden bat.  I know how much these guys like baseball.