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POW by Take No Prizners
My guards bring you into the interro chamber, where I rip your t-shirt off and strap you into the chair. I spread your knees and wrap-strap the uppers of your boots to the legs of the interrogation chair, then kick you in the nuts just to get us both in the mood for what's coming down. The profanity you hurl at me, all your anger and hate, are music to my ears. Carefully regulated electrical currents do most of my work for me. Before you know it the alligator clamp electrodes are biting into several parts of your anatomy, and you're trying desperately to jump out of that chair when the jolts hit you. Every time you scream I put my boot against your chest and crush the air out of your lungs. I punch you in the face, blacken your eyes and bust open your lips, and yell "Talk or die!" But you know you're gonna die, no matter what. On the way into the interrogation compound we marched you past an execution post with some mounds of earth not far from it. There's also an open, as yet unfilled grave nearby. It takes me nearly an hour to break you. I have to pull your heavy nuts and thick cock out of your camo pants and clamp them with electrodes. Even if you lived through this you'd never have kids. Eventually you crack, as have all the men who have preceded you in this place. Only when you talk, the tears of resignation and defeat streaming down your handsome face, will I allow you to die. The information you reveal to me is not particularly interesting, hardly worth dying for. But such are the wages of war. We drag you out to the post and tie you. I admire the way you're able to summon the strength to stand up on your own instead of slumping against the ropes. You even stick your chest out when the riflemen fall in and raise their weapons. Your cock, still hanging out of your camo trousers, stiffens to erection, and I wonder if you know that your comrades who died at this same post before you likewise went to their deaths with stiff meat between their legs. It's gonna be a shitty execution for you, though, because my eight men are positioned only 20 feet from you, the four in front dropping to one knee. The slugs are gonna tear you up real bad. All that PT, all that weight-lifting, all the training that brought your body to the point of physical perfection - all of that was merely preparation for getting shot through the chest. You see me out of the corner of your eye, unsnapping the holster of my side arm for the coup de grace. There has been no thought of a blindfold. The alligator clamps left you pretty scarred up. Some of the guys on the firing squad are using the bright red marks on your chest as orientation points for their shots. A couple of them will try to drill you through your nips. You're defeated but defiant to the end. Right after you hear the command “Aim!” you curl your lips and snarl a last desperate insult at the men who are about to kill you, but the shots cut you off short. My men fire off eight rounds as if it were a single shot. Your chest is suddenly a patchwork of mincemeat. Your knees buckle, your head bangs back against the wooden post, then flops forward, your face contorted with agony. It passes quickly, however, and soon your stubbled jaw rests on your sternum. I place my palm against your strong forehead and push your head back up. Your eyes are still open, slightly glazed. I look you in the eye and notice a trickle of blood from the corner of your mouth. You're urping up some of the blood that is filling your lung cavities. I stick the barrel of my pistol deep into your gaping yap. "So long, soldier," I tell you, and squeeze the trigger. The shot blows the back of your neck out and finishes you off. It's only then that I look down and notice that your erect dick has ejaculated deathwad onto my uniform. After we drop you dick-down into the open grave, the guys on the squad use your corpse for pistol practice and put 18 slugs into your bare, muscular back and your high-and-tight head. We begin to shovel dirt onto your mutilated corpse. When our hard-ons recede enough to allow us to piss, we use your grave as a latrine. Later that night, jacking off in my bunk, I think about how you died. If I ever get captured and executed, I’d want to go out with the same kind of stiff-jawed resistance you showed, and with a dick just as stiff as yours was. Good job, soldier. |
