Prisoner's Log, Day 2: The Interrogation Continues

"Who is a Good Boy then?"

Wouldn't you like to know, I think, as I brace myself for the inevitable interrogation that follows.

"Would he like a biscuit? Would he?"

The bastards. The callous, callous bastards. At the word "biscuit" I feel my ears pricking up; it's a weakness they obvioulsy know and are playing on. They've done their background research all right. Professionals, I'm dealing with here; no doubt about it. I don't know about Good Boy, but I would definitely like a biscuit. I've only had 30 today. They are starving me, trying to wear me down until I've no strength left, so they can ply me for more information on Good Boy and his eating habits.

The questions continue: would he like his tummy rubbed? Has he missed us? Is he a Good Boy? I remain resolute and refuse to answer, giving only my name, rank and serial number.

And then, suddenly, it gets personal.

"Would you like to go for a walk, Murphy".

I freeze, paralysed with fear. I've heard of these so-called walks. I've watched the Sopranos; I'm no fool. I'm not the naive cocker spaniel they think I am - I know a direct threat when I hear one. I know that if I go on this so-called 'walk', I am unlikely to return alive.

"Yes", I finally tell them, dying just a little inside. "Good Boy would like a biscuit".