EXCERPT from THE SINK
Torture: a time-honoured game for hurting souls
“Stick to your whipping,” I tell him. Then the two of us have a go at the horns. I’m surprised to discover whatfun it is to see them jump and cower and cry. I believe it’s just what they felt in some way when they were tormenting us. At this point their nervous systems are self-destructing. Some are having spasms, others are trying to climb the wall or hitting their heads on the floor. Many of them are fighting and trying to bite each other in the tail. A few just sit and weep or chatter incoherently to themselves. Why, there’s Ally Oop! My God, he’s far gone! Hair’s on end. Eyes are poppng. He staggers about with one hand on a fancied steering wheel. With the other he gives the finger salute. He’s trying to spit on everyone but he’s too dry.
Torture! It’s a time-honoured game for hurting souls. A remedy from the Stone Age. By Balder, it works!
Klutz, of all people! I encounter him there and he greets me fondly, daring to give me a little clap on the shoulder. I dart him a sulphurous look. He draws back. He tells me he's been doing well in the CDA. I wonder how he made it in but don’t bother asking. He’s risen from section leader to whip and carries an ugly black lash as the symbol of his authority.
But on day two we refine the process, so the blast is infrequent but can come at any time--while they’re eating, sleeping, or on the can. On the third day they’re all deaf. On the fourth day signs of mental dishevelment appear--surprise, surprise! Some roll on the floor. Others go fetal with hands pressed to their ears. At last they’re getting their just deserts.
