“Oh!” he cried, “Why don’t they just kill me? I can’t take this anymore! What do they want? Why are they doing this? Why don’t they just kill me?”
“I don’t know.” I answered his pleading, but really I couldn’t tell if he heard me, so I tried a bit louder.
“Hey, you want to hear something funny?”
The crying out stopped so I took it for a sign to go on. I began my story.
“A few weeks ago I was walking down 7th Street, just minding my own business, looking at a story on my phone. I came to a corner and stepped out to cross the street, when I was grabbed and pushed back onto the curb. I saw a cab rushing past. It could have hit me! I turned around to see this young guy looking concerned, asking me if I was alright. I told him I was good, then thanked him for saving my life! I told him I owed him my life, you know how we say things like that. He waved it all away and said he was just glad I was OK. And, he shook my hand and walked away.
“Now here’s the funny part. I shook off the fright I had been given, and started walking on my way to work. I got about another block when black van, pulled up beside me and four men leapt out and grabbed me and brought me here.
“So,” I laughed, “My Good Samaritan saved me for this torture! I owe him for this!”
A key rattled my cell door. They were coming for me, again.
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