The Interrogation
This story is a work of fiction, all characters and plot lines are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
The Interrogation remains the property of the author. The story or characters may not be reproduced or republished elsewhere without the expressed written consent of the author.
So there we were, myself and the four munchkins and Paul of course, making our way down through the trees back towards the campsite. Paul was not a happy bunny! This was understandable because he was being led along at the end of a rope by one of the munchkins. His hands and elbows were tied tightly behind his back and he was forced to walk along in a sort of mincing shuffle by a short hobble rope that linked his ankles.
Paul was thirteen years old, as was I, and he was my best friend. He was also the patrol leader of the Ravens, our arch rivals in the Scout troop to which we all belonged. We had been lucky enough to surprise him in an ambush and to take him captive. The plan was that we would escort him to a suitable place and there force him to reveal where the Raven's had concealed their flag.
Me?? Oh yeah, My name is Mark, and I'm the patrol leader of the Eagles. Unfortunately my patrol consists entirely of fresh new recruits, all around eleven years old and totally wet behind the ears. I have privately christened them the munchkins. Still, this arrangement does have some advantages - for one thing they are unbearably enthusiastic. More importantly however, me being so much older and experienced, they look to me as the fount of all wisdom and power - like I was some sort of god. Ha! If only they knew. But I was very flattered and anxious not to disillusion them.
When we arrived at the clearing I had selected there was an expectant silence and they all looked at me. "Well, how do we torture him?" piped up one of the munchkins. I was momentarily flummoxed - after all I had never tortured anyone before. "Let's stake him out!" piped up another one. I was pathetically grateful for the suggestion and dispatched a couple of the munchkins off to camp to collect stakes, ropes and mallets. Paul glared belligerently at me but said nothing.
The equipment duly arrived and we quickly had four pegs hammered into the ground. We lowered Paul to the ground and removed the hobble. With his hands still tied he couldn't resist much as his legs were spread wide and roped to two of the pegs. We then cautiously untied his arms and with a good deal of sweaty grunting and heaving got him stretched out and securely tied to the remaining pegs. Time to review the situation - Paul was now spread-eagled on his back, all four limbs tightly stretched out. The weather was hot and we were wearing only shorts and trainers so his chest and stomach were bare. He was still panting after the struggle and his body was covered by a thin sheen of sweat. I felt strangely excited watching the play of his muscles as he strained and tested the security of the ropes.
I was rudely awoken from this delightful reverie by a punch in the arm from one of the munchkins. "Oi! Wake up - what now?" My mind whirled as I extricated myself from the illicit fantasy I had been enjoying with my bound friend.
"Eh? Oh yes, well now we tickle him make him talk."
The munchkins went to work with a will. Shoes and socks were removed and forty tiny fingers went to work enthusiastically on every part of his body that they could legitimately reach. It turned out that Paul was quite ticklish. The air was filled with hysterical screams, cackles, pleas for mercy and choked off gurgles. He writhed and twisted and bucked against the ropes. His body alternately arched and flexed and his head twisted wildly from side to side as he sought to escape the questing little fingers. I watched fascinated, and preoccupied with some familiar bodily sensations of my own. One thing we did not hear however was the location of the Ravens' base. Paul had fortitude. After ten minutes of fruitless tickling I was forced to call a halt.
The munchkins gathered around and four little faces looked expectantly up at me. "Well, what now?" As usual they were full of enthusiastic but impractical suggestions.
"I could hit him in the nuts with this mallet !"
"We could pull out his fingernails - I've got a penknife"
"I saw a film once where the Indians dug up ants nest and dumped it onto the bloke’s di.."
I hastily curtailed this unhealthy train of speculation before they could further develop the theme. After all we didn't really want to hurt Paul. He was my best friend, and besides he might be the one to capture me next time. However my continued god-like status with the munchkins depended on getting him to talk so I had to come up with something. Then it struck me - Paul was notoriously fastidious about his personal hygiene. He hated being dirty or sticky and would rush off to wash at the merest suggestion of grubbiness.
Once more I dispatched the munchkins back to camp and they returned laden with comestibles from the store tent. There was jam, tomato ketchup, chocolate sauce, squirty cream and peanut butter. I mention the peanut butter because as you will see it has a pivotal role to play in the development of this tale.
So once again the inquisition set to work. We put the question to Paul and, as he repeatedly refused to answer, every available surface and body crevice was liberally anointed with a sticky mess of edible foodstuffs. What we could see of his face was puckered up in extreme distaste but he remained adamantly defiant.
We had just retired to hold a further council of war when from the far side of the clearing we heard a commotion that could only be Buster.
Buster, I should explain, was the scout leader's dog. He was an Old English sheepdog, about the size and weight of small pony and very hairy with it. Now while Buster was a very friendly and amenable dog, he did have certain shortcomings that one had to be aware of. He was irremediably greedy and suffered from extreme halitosis and bouts of flatulence. He was also inordinately fond of peanut butter.
Sure enough, from the bushes at the far end of the clearing burst Buster travelling at high speed and towing behind him a helpless small boy who was allegedly taking him for a walk. With a great yelp of joy Buster spotted the naked and helpless smorgasbord of free food that was Paul. Here were the two things he liked most in life - a human boy on the ground to play with and food.
Buster sailed though the air and landed with a soft thump on Paul's chest where he began to slobber enthusiastically at the helpless boy’s face. Soon our prisoner was coated with great ropy streams of slimy doggy drool. Paul by now was incoherent as he struggled helplessly to dislodge his new canine friend.
And then it happened- Buster caught the scent of a particularly tasty morsel of peanut butter which happened to be lodged in Paul's navel. To reach this he had to turn around, which he did with all his usually excitable clumsiness, and then so that he might more comfortably attack the morsel he sat down! Paul's face was buried in the dog's great hairy rump, and from the muffled sounds that he was making I could tell that the view wasn't up to much.
Did I mention that Buster was prone to fits of flatulence ? This was now making itself evident to all downwind, and none more so than Paul who was now making desperate gestures of surrender.
Well we tried to get Buster off - I swear we did - but he was a very large dog and very intent using his tongue to remove every last particle of peanut butter from Paul's navel. It took five, very long minutes, before we were able to dislodge the beast.
Paul confessed all and was released. He stomped off towards the showers leaving a trail of doggy drool and vowing revenge. I retained my aura of godhood with the munchkins who seemed to think that I had somehow mysteriously arranged the whole affair. We set off armed with our hard won knowledge to collect the Raven's flag, but were soundly beaten in the ensuing dogfight. Paul did get his revenge later in the camp, but that's another story.
© Copyright Cinched 2009
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