The Lone Gladio Countdown Begins: 4 Weeks to Go
We are beginning our countdown to The Lone Gladio official launch date: September 11, 2014. We just received our proof copies, and are going through the final proof-reading of the hard-copy book. The project will be considered completed by August 25 (You can pat me on the back on that date;-). Meanwhile, other than a few links to be activated, The Lone Gladio website is completed: Click Here. If you haven’t already, please subscribe to my newsletter list for all the coming news, updates and promos for The Lone Gladio here at The Lone Gladio Website. You can also join The Lone Gladio pages at Twitter and Facebook
Next week, as part of our BFP quarterly donation drive, we will begin to offer 50 signed review copies of the coming book to our irate minority members-More on that next week.
Now, are you ready for the first select excerpts from The Lone Gladio? Here we go: Meet OG 68- a k a Greg McPhearson.
Chapter 8
…
Greg had efficiently and smoothly completed his setup in less than eight minutes. He looked at his watch. Two hours and six minutes. More than enough. Josh was on his back inside the stall with his legs propped up against the wall. A hand towel was draped over his eyes, extending midway over the bridge of his nose.
“Are you ready, Josh? Because I am. I am going to kill you slow.” He was hovering over Josh just outside the stall. Lifting the showerhead from its cradle, he turned on the water and set the temperature to coldest and the pressure to weakest. He let the water slowly soak the towel over Josh’s upper face; then he unfolded and lowered the fully soaked towel until it covered both Josh’s nose and mouth. He continued watering, holding the showerhead eighteen inches above Josh’s head. His watch beeped: 36 seconds. Time to break. He turned off the water and lifted up the towel. From the color of Josh’s lips and skin, he could tell the man was really getting it. His pupils expressed a level of fear rarely reached in the life of the average man. This is precisely what Greg wanted and intended to get—at this stage.
Greg sat on the commode next to the stall and watched Josh. “I suspect you’re familiar with our water splash party. How do they teach it to you guys nowadays? CIA Semi-Enhanced Interrogation Techniques, CSEIT 101. A prerequisite to CIA Enhanced Interrogation Techniques, CEIT 200; and what is it after that? I don’t think they offer that to guys in lower levels, like you. Because with guys like me, and there aren’t too many, we go through Souped-Up Interrogation Techniques—and beyond. Then we top that with the Pentagon’s own version of enhanced techniques and . . . well, we become the best in the business at pain and kill. The best in the world. Okay, are you ready for another round? Time to splash.”
Greg repeated the same steps all over again. This time he set his timer at 42 seconds: two seconds beyond the sequence limit set by agency guidelines for effective waterboarding techniques. When he lifted the soaked towel the second time he could see Josh regaining some muscle response: he was shivering. Involuntary muscle response to cold water and splash. Good.
Greg sat on the commode and gave Josh a few seconds of recovery time. “I have two theories, Josh. One, you killed my woman by design and per your bosses’ order. Two, you killed my woman because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that—ironically—is coming back to haunt you since she happened to belong to a very wrong man. I’m leaning toward number two. The outcome, what happens to you, isn’t going to change. Whether one or two, one fact remains the same: You killed my woman.”
Greg grabbed another towel and applied the semi-enhanced technique once more, this time for 48 seconds. By the end of the third session, Josh was shaking violently. His lips were turning dark blue-black.
With 1 hour 43 minutes remaining, Greg decided to move to the next procedure. Not as bad as Souped-Up but definitely above Semi-Enhanced. He plugged an extension cord into the wall socket above the sink and connected his open-end copper wire. “Josh, we’re going from cold to hot. Hot as in burning hot. In Spanish, they call it muy caliente; in Russian, ochen’ goryachiy; in German, sehr heiß . . .”
By the time he finished the first round of his enhanced procedure, Josh was beginning to recover some movement in his facial muscles and partially his voice. The bathroom smelled a bit like a barbecue joint. A mix of burnt hair, fat and meat not easily distinguishable as human; it could be pork or even a fatty Kobe burger.
Josh whimpered. He kind of howled. Mucus was running down his nose, out of his mouth, and dripping down his chin. His eyes were askew and out of focus, sometimes even crossed. Pathetic, true, but he was not yet out of it. Greg knew. He was not about to let him go so soon.
Greg, now towering over the man, began to free associate. “Unlike you, I don’t enjoy this. I did these things for no other reason than that they were in my line of work: mainly, to the Russians. Some people . . . deluded people . . . would call this, what I’m doing here, justice. I never use that word. I hear it a lot. I read it all the time but I don’t have a use for it. It’s a dumb word. It’s abstract. It’s a phantom—no, a gremlin—that affects what people say and what they do to one another, a right to let themselves off the hook, to evade culpability by invoking some codified rule or law . . . are you with me Josh? Am I getting to you?”
He paused and watched him. “Guys like you are a mistake for the agency. Granted, we all get in based on our unique qualifications, our special backgrounds. You know. Deviancy, sadism, extreme childhood trauma . . . Some of us, a few of us, can channel those traits in our jobs constructively. The rest, the ones like you, cannot. You end up using the missions—and especially the missions on the side, like this—to satisfy your impulses, compulsions and sickness. You’re out of control. I bet you jerked off during Keller’s session. The boy in the room back there is proof of your wrongness for the job.” He unrolled the wire and approached Josh’s limp body. “All right. Let’s barbecue some more.”
The second round of electrocution knocked Josh unconscious for a full minute or so. The blisters were already forming on his penis, buttocks and lower abdomen. Greg waited for him to come back. He did. Now moaning. Snot all over his face. Time for a break and talk.
“The other day I was thinking. What would happen if agencies like the CIA shut their doors for whatever reason? Consider this, Josh. Men and women just like you, thousands of you, with your inborn apathy, psychopathy, sociopathy, fuck-allpathy, paired with your expert agency training, out in the world running amok. Can you imagine, Josh? Think about the spike in murders, serial killings, serial rapes, pedophile rings, theft, hacking, cons and scams . . . one reason to let agencies like that stay operational. Somebody up there must know this. He or she must be watching out for the population at large.”
Greg checked his watch. Forty-five minutes before Maurice came to pick up the boy. “We need to wrap this up, Josh. Are you ready? You are going to die. I know you already know that. If there is such a thing as an afterlife, well, you better pray there isn’t. Because you and I will be meeting—in hell, that is. I have made peace with that, yet I wonder: Is hell a big open space? Are we all thrown together, all in one place, with no hierarchical division? That would make it a real hell for me, thus, for you. A better arrangement would be compartmentalized hell. If the delusionals are right about justice, we should be placed in different compartments quite a distance away from each other. Just because you and I worked for the same kind of people—the same bosses—you, Josh, and I are not the same.”
…