I couldn’t wait to get this whole mad tea party over with. I wondered which pot bellied bullock they had for me today.  I yawned and went to stretch my arms forgetting they were cuffed. I yawned again, this time hard enough to feel the long scratch on my forehead expose itself a moment. Finally, three uniformed frightened little blokes grabbed the back of my wrists and pulled me into the interrogation room. It was dark and all you could see was the warm glow from the lamp above the table. It was cheap looking like the lights that are used to showcase buffet dishes in Las Vegas. The wee little soldiers left before the sweaty, tubby little pig who was going to grill me stood up.

 “That’ll be all guys.” The merriment of this idiot was shining off his sweaty brow. He pulled up his pants that were too tight, and began to try and makes himself look busy.

            I walked three feet and sat on the metal chair. I looked at the fucker’s round butterball ham head and waited for him to check me out, they always do. The twit took his free look at me and turned around quickly to grab the voice recorder. Before he could blink I silently swept my foot across the table and bent my knee to allow the piglets pack of Kools to drop into my lap. Mr. Brilliant sat down and slapped his hand full of chubby stumps on the table like a fool. He then began looking for his cigarettes like a blind scallywag before giving up and fetching some from his bloke’s pack behind him. He smiled at me and said nothing. I pushed my eyes toward the tape recorder as if they were my hands pressing the little black box towards him. He paused and popped his suspenders before pressing play, just to make sure I knew it was his idea to start rolling the tape.

Image via Wikipedia

             “Name?” he said while taking a puff from his cigarette as if it was a Cuban cigar. The ingrown hairs on his face peeked out from under the over head lamp like dead ants, as his little mouth exhaled with tootsie pops of smoke. I cleared my throat, and leaned towards the recorder like it was a microphone.

            “Madison Ali.” I breathed while slowly sitting up in my chair.

            He sniveled and I noticed his tities were about to start producing sweat under his un- tailored shirt. One faded red strip caught some of his sweat and brightened up the color. My wrists smiled.

            “So, Miss Ali is there anything you want to tell us that we don’t already know?” He kicked his feet up on the table looking dreadfully uncomfortable.

            “May I?” I pointed to his borrowed box of Reds on the table with my nose.

            “Just one,” he said as he placed a cigarette into my mouth. His hands were shaking so hard he barely touched the cigarette as he lit it. He almost dropped the lighter, while looking all the way through me towards the door.