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Z Wang

Period 6

“He’s cleared!” Bramm Lomb let out a deep sigh of relief and relaxed; then realizing his

mistake, edged back into the safe shadows. Fortunately, nobody took heed of his fault; not the

dark raven on a flickering lamppost nearby, fighting off the chilly thrashes the relentless night

wind hit it with; nor the black old-fashioned automobile in the corner.

“Hehe, we wouldn’t want our beloved minister in DC caught hiding a bomb, do we now?

Imagine if they found you there as well…” The man in the phone chuckled, and continued.

“Anyways, that’s no concern to you; just continue the operation. We have a schedule to

keep, WWII hasn’t ended yet!” The thin 6-foot man silently closed the phone. He glanced at his

wrist, a black watch with a faded cross-like symbol on its face, a short red hand pointing directly

left. The outsider walked into the streetlight revealing a defined, carved face with long thin

pincer-like eyebrows, pulling open the door to a shop nearby. Signaled, two stout men popped

out of the black car and approached the shop. Upon arriving, they nodded at each other, threw

open the poor door, and seized Bramm, shoving him into a shelf of scissors and cuffing the half-

conscious customer. They rushed back to the car, shoving Bramm into the backseat, which

contained oddly recent odours of blood, sweat, and soggy fries left out too long. The mysterious

car drove off into the night.

Bramm woke up with a startle. Alarmed, he shot up, only to be slammed back down by

his seat belt. It was early sunrise, as the clouds were just beginning to receive their daily bath in

sunlight. Just as he started to recall the last night’s happenings, the car screeched to a halt outside

an abandoned office building. The two officers, stern as always, threw him out of the car and
shoved him through the plastic doors that read: Bomba Inc. Inside, however, was a much

different environment. Bramm was led into a covert government facility, busy with officers on

fancy typewriters and staring at huge maps; and everyone was wearing the official OSS cap. The

prisoner was quickly led into the room they use when interrogating suspects, whose designer was

anything but decorous. It was miserably equipped with only a small white stool and table, a

discoloured toilet, and a haggard looking mattress in the corner.

The bulky officers left without a word, and Bramm was left in solace, or so he hoped. A

few minutes later, a clean young man with menacing almond eyes and an army-style haircut

walked in. He placed a manila folder on the table, the usual routine, and demanded in a

controlling voice, “Why don’t you sit down?”

Reluctantly, Bramm dropped on the tiny stool. The man in the suit introduced himself as

Slips Loosehold, an OSS Leader in Operation Whack-A-Mole, and got down to business, “Now,

Bramm,” referring to the file, “why don’t you tell about your little plan?”

Silence. Slips started walking back and forth slowly, “Why don’t you tell us who you

work with, then? Hey, the quicker you blab, the quicker you get to bust outta this dump.”

More silence. Slips’ appearance became more strict. “You want to tell me anything,

jerry?” he emphasized the last word.

Bramm remained frozen. Obviously pissed off, the failed attempter left the room without

a word. The aching captive lay down on the cot and immediately fell into reposeful slumber.

Sleep escaped as the cell door opened again, 8 hours after the night at the drug store. A

short lady-like woman of young age walked in. She was dressed all in black, which matched her

acute dark eyes, which when looked closely enough seemed to contain an endless universe. She

pulled up the stool and sat down, examining her client. He rose, lethargic, yawned, and looked
around, stopping to meet the other pair of black eyes. The woman got straight to the point. “We

know who you are, so don’t embarrass yourself.”

She reached into her pocket and took out a distinct pocket knife. Out of habit, Bramm

quickly felt his left boot, to find his holder empty. He scowled at her, who was busy examining

the artfully crafted and clean blade, scared to touch the red embroidered swastika on the handle.

Indeed, the knife was gleaming, as the rusty knife is the knife whose purpose is never fulfilled.

She suddenly awoke from her state of awe, getting down to business. “Who’s working with you?”

As if she knew he wouldn’t answer, the woman continued, “I know your type of people

too well, it’s just no use asking. What you need is a little persuasion…the bucket will do.”

A huge security guard walked in, carrying a metal tank filled with water. He dropped the

tank on the table. All this while, the silent one was watching, with surprise, even a little fear in

his eyes. “Go ahead, Hugo.”

At her command, Hugo the guard pulled Bramm up, and forced his arms behind his back

with one huge hand, and grappling his neck with the other. Without a warning, the guard shoved

Bramm’s face into the ice-cold water. No amount of struggling would have overpowered the

experienced guard. After a preset 90 seconds, he softened up. Bramm gasped for air, but was

immediately shoved back down, this time for almost 3 minutes. Seeing layers of bubbles

emerging, Hugo let go. “Now, are you willing to talk?” the peremptory one asked.

A notebook and pen were slid across the table. After a while, Bramm sighed and picked

up the pen. After what seemed like a lifetime later, the witch woman walked out of the room,

with a look both of happiness and evil, pressing the small wet booklet greedily to her bosom.

Back in the room, Bramm lay down, exhausted. He picked up the business card the

woman left him, as he was to be moved that night. Angered, Bramm crumpled the card, throwing
it into the toilet. The blood red ink on the card dissolved, red patches formed in the toilet, like

spilled blood. Disgusted, Bramm flushed the toilet, hearing an unusual click-click. A double-

click, he realized! Reaching under the toilet, Bramm found a lever. Without believing that the

minister had hid it under this toilet, he felt a cold metal package fall into his grasp. For once, the

prisoner smiled, and laughed, placing the package in his pocket.

That night at 9 o’clock, the two guards from the first night came in and led Bramm away

in handcuffs. They didn’t notice the beeps sounding, nor did they search him; a decision they

would dearly regret. At the security station before leaving, Bramm met with Slips and his boss,

grinning maliciously. Smiling himself, he felt no pain of being thrown on a wall. He could only

hear the beep intervals shortening, grains falling in an hourglass, the time left winding down. The

beeps were getting faster and faster; the tempo along which Bramm’s heart was trying to fly out

of his chest. The beeps now became a flat tone; Bramm’s heart stopped, his damned raven of a

soul took its last dark breath.

The minister of services in the OSS received an urgent call that night. He was in Romania,

supposedly talking with Russian security leaders. He was told that a bomb had been detonated,

blowing apart half of HQ, killing two agents in Operation Whack-a-Mole. The minister hung up

smiling, playing around with his pocketknife. “Es ist vollbracht” he told the uniformed

commanders next to him, all wearing distinct red swastikas. They smiled.

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