***
"We are inside Blackwater Prison, home to more than one hundred of the
world's most notorious and dangerous criminals. A huge citadel
jutting straight out of the swamp, this fortress has over two-hundred
hand-picked security guards. Outer walls exceeding twenty-inches of
reinforced concrete. Manned battlements that overlook the inner
courtyards and the murky 'gator infested waters surrounding this
miniature island," Hector explained to the camera. He was standing up
in the parapets with the Tom nervously holding the camera. He pointed it down at the surrounding
swamps.
Hector turned, with the camera, to a stout, fat man in a grey business
suit, with thick-black rimmed glasses perched precariously on the edge
of his stubby nose. "Blackwater Prison was built on a reputation that
it was to be both inescapable and impregnable. A reputation that would
be shattered by the man who returns to these walls once again this very
day," Hector gave Tom, a quick glance before looking back to
the suited man. "With me is the prison warden, Mr. Spock--"
"Spoche," the warden sternly corrected him.
The reporter smiled and nodded apologetically, "Mr. Spock, you were warden here
when Cobra Commander was first brought in for questioning, but within
moments of his arrival. . . the impossible happened! You were
gassed along with the majority of the guards inside the prison, and
thanks to his fellow terrorists, Cobra Commander was able to escape the prison and recapture. . . Until now. Can Blackwater Prison
hold such a man? Is Blackwater Prison really all it is cracked up to
be?"
Hector recieved a sharp and simple answer in the form of the man's fist,
knocking him flat against the rampart. "The name is Spoche! I am not
normally a violent man, Ra-moron, but I am ill disposed towards those
who cast dubious assertations over the competence and capability of my
men."
Ramirez hastily brushed his ruffled hair back and held up his hand, fingers parted in two's as a peace offering. He quickly composed himself for the camera man and Tom's wide grin a deadly glare. As he went to
speak into the microphone he felt a twang in his jaw and clicked it back
into place with a slap from his hand. The warden watched him as if
slightly amused, causing Hector to grumble something that could easily
have been misinterpreted as 'you fludging basket!' had he not muttered it so
loudly. Tom coughed a little late to muffle out the profanity but he
liked the idea of it going on air. Hector was so good at shooting
himself in the foot afterall.
"What precautions are you taking this time, to ensure such a scene is
not repeated?"
"Well I won't do interviews for one thing," smiled Spoche, pleased
with himself.
Hector cleared his throat and gave a short sigh. "The prisoner, sir."
"Well, you see now. . ." the warden seemed to think for a moment, "he is
accompanied by two guards at all times--"
"--all times?" Hector interrupted.
"Yes, two guards. They don't leave him for a moment. Of course the
prisoner is entitled to some privacy, but at such times he is monitored
by surveillance cameras, and the guards are never far. Most of the day
however he will be spending inside a bleak windowless cell, in the
maximum security VIP wing of the prison," Spoche explained with an odd
hint of excitement in his voice.
"A bleak cell does not sound particularly VIP to me. What ever happened to live long and prosper?" asked Hector.
Spoche socked Hector in the stomach, winding the man and causing him to stumble away while turning blue in the face.
"Don't forget this is a prison, not a chateau. Why don't you take a
look for yourself? Follow me," Spoche signalled with a sneer and led down the flight of steps to the courtyard.
***
"This is the maximum security wing of Blackwater Prison, for the very
important 'prisoners'. As we walk down these dank and shadowed halls,
passing by the three-inch thick plexi-glass windows, it offers a pitiful view into the solitary lives of the pyschopathic, maniacal, and just plain 'loopy'. One can not help but have a feeling of trepidation that at any
moment these insane criminals might leap forth and do nasty and
unspeakably evil things to innocent reporters and camera-men. Indeed, it is some small reassurance that they
are securely held within this fortress, unable to loose their evil
upon our beautiful world." Hector's voice was shakey and he kept darting
his head about like a mongoose.
The warden shook his head from side-to-side at the reporter, "You really
make it sound a lot worse than it is. These may be the world's worst,
but they are all--"
"--Yes, we could interview some of them. I can see it now, 'The World's
Worst Super Criminals", a terrifyingly true insight into the psyche of
our planet's most sadistic villains. . ." Hector's eyes were glinting as
he pictured the ratings share.
***
In the studio, Hector looked angrily across from his news desk in the
direction of the director's booth. He hopped up from his seat and
dashed round the desk, smacking his thigh hard into the table corner and
yelping as he limped across to the booth. He flung the door open to the
darkened room and the director with his two female assistants turned in
surprise. "Charles, what is that part being aired for?"
The director didn't appear to understand and simply shrugged. "What
part?"
"Me, talking about the 'World's Worst Criminals' idea. . . and getting .
. . assaulted by that Mr. Spock. That was still in there too!"
whined Hector.
"Oh, those parts. Well to be honest, I thought they were too good to
cut out," Charles explained and looked back to check the continuing
broadcast.
Hector stamped his foot, "But Charles, it'll make me look like a fool!"
"Ramirez, people tune in each week to watch you make an ass of
yourself. This is what the show lives for. Do you think that last week
when we rated highly, it was because people were genuinely interested in
the dietary habits of the South Pacific Limpet? Don't worry yourself
about it my friend," the director offered him a smile which was about as
meaningful as a wedgie.
The anchor man stormed out of the booth, leaving the director to the
worried looks of his bikini-clad assistants. "Don't worry about it
girls. He had to learn sooner or later. Who'da guessed it would'a taken the sorry fool six years?"
***
"In this cell we have the infamous Dr Lucifer," the warden told the
camera, pointing at the rejected and balding lab-coated prisoner. He was
sitting behind the plexi-glass on an uncomfortable looking bed. He had
a sullen depression about him, though his eyes seemed to pierce into
Hector with the touch of frost. The warden caught Hector's attention
away from the evil scientist, leading them further down the hall. "Over
here we have Dr. Mangler. To our left is General Mephisto. Over here is Mr. Diablo. And on your
right is Blackthorne Shore -- an opportunist who is thoroughly corrupt
and as obsessed with power as all of them. . . next to him, we have Dr
Archevil--"
"--Yes, now wasn't he the man that collaborated with the Decepticons in
bringing Cybertron into Earth's orbit?" asked Hector as he indicated for
Tom to get a close-up of the villain through the glass.
Archevil was standing in his cell, his hands behind his back, his legs
proudly apart, as if he were about to address a platoon. His eyes were
sunken under a heavy brow, shadowed by his wispy white-haired eyebrows.
But neither his pointed nose, or spiteful face were the most memorable
of his features. Upon the pate of his head rested a skull-cap of metal
and wire electrodes, with two aerials protruding outwards like deamonic
horns. Sprouting from either side of his head was a mess of white hair,
as if he had styled it after Einstein himself. He watched Hector like
he were about to scream something so vile and full of hate that it would
rip the very flesh from the reporter's bones.
"Something best forgotten, I think," the warden warily muttered. He
urged them on as if even he was afraid to linger for too long in this
dark section.
"Enough! You don't have to treat us like zoo animals!" shouted Lucifer,
rising up from his bed and rushing to pound against the plexi-glass. "We are not animals, do you hear?!"
"Yah, geben Sie uns Sie despicable amerikanische Schweine frei!" cried
the mad General.
"Star Scream!!!" yelled Archevil.
Hector jumped out of his skin and dashed down the hall to catch up with
the warden, followed by Tom with the camera shaking from side-to-side
with each stride. The warden slowed his pace down a little, allowing
them to catch up. Hector didn't dare turn back at the disturbing
lab-coated bunch behind him, but his eyes darted about hoping to catch a
glimpse of them still secure behind the clear -- almost invisible --
plexi-glass. The warden gestured to the final cell at the very end of
the hall, and lead them over to it, ignoring the taunts and abuse being
hurled at them by the prisoners. On the otherside of the glass was an
unmistakable figure, dressed in a blue-costume. On his head was a blue helmet with a freshly polished face-plate
staring blankly back out at them. The leader of the most powerful
terrorist organization on Earth, for all they knew, could have been
reading the book on his lap, as he sat on his bed, but just where his
'eyes' were focused they could not tell.
"And of course, Cobra Commander, who you have already met," finished the
warden.
Hector relieved the guard at the end of the corridor from the use of his
stool, and took it for himself. He placed the stool before the
plexi-glass and planted himself upon it while the guard muttered
something unintelligeible due to the rating of the show. Hector looked
nervously back to the camera, as if he were waiting for Tom's
encouragement. When he received none, he turned slowly back and cleared
his throat. Something that Tom noted was an annoyingly repetitive
custom of his which Hector beleived gave him an air of authority.
"HOW--," Hector nervously shouted and then cut himself off in surprise.
He put a hand over his mouth and took a couple of deep-breaths while the
warden exchanged looks with Tom. Hector cleared his throat again, and
summoned back his courage. "H-h-how is the cell, Commander?"
***
Hector cringed in the studio, watching the broadcast on the small
television set, off-screen from the newsdesk. This was degrading. It painted him in completely the wrong light. He was going to have strong words with Charles for this.
***
Ramirez turned back to the camera, and then to the warden for help. "He
doesn't seem to have noticed me. He can hear us right?" Spoche simply
shrugged. Tom tracked along to film it and then back to Hector who
found himself caught staring straight into the lense on a close-up.
"Film the Commander, not me you silly asp!"
He turned back to the cell and decided to try once again. "Um, Excuse
me. Cobra Commander, may we speak?"
The Commander slammed the book shut with excessive force, like it were a militant
statement in doing so. Hector jumped
slightly and his lip wobbled in fear.
"Engaging book," he muttered in a throaty calm, before looking
directly at Ramirez. "Certainly, now what would you like to talk
about?"
"Well. . . um, what were you reading?" Hector asked as he uncomfortably
adjusted his collar.
"Mein Kampf, written by Adolph don't you know," had he a face the
Commander would have beamed.
"That's kind of scarey," mumbled Ramirez.
"I could write much better. The racial theories aren't really economical.
Why restrict ssslavery to racial groups? That Adolph was one mixed up
kid," Cobra Commander shook his head, puzzled by the book.
"Yeeeeeesssssss. . . he was," replied Hector, with hesistation.
"On the other hand, he's quite right about somethingsss, terror should
be employed in the running of society. Weaker countries shouldn't exist,
they're just cluttering map ssspace," continued the Commander.
Ramirez frowned, "Cluttering map space? As world dictator you would
abolish political boundaries and cultural identies?"
Cobra Commander nodded, "I'm a practical kind of
guy, ssso I'd handle the world in a pragmatic way."
"You don't have any racial policies of your own, then?" asked Hector as
he rubbed his chin.
"There's only one color in Cobra -- blue!" he explained with a cackle.
Hector gave a weak smile. The Cobra leader was a narcissistic
meglomaniac bent on being the world dictator, yet he still had a
charisma about him which was almost agreeable. In fact, off the battle
field, Hector found him to be not so intimidating at all. Ramirez could
feel his confidence returning and his interest growing, as he pondered
over how he could get something juicy and scandalous out of his laid
back interviewee. "What do you want? I mean really. Come on. . . man
to man. . . Mano el mano. what are you doing this all for?"
Cobra Commander made a steeple with his fingers and tapped them lightly
together. "Absolute power! Total control of the world. . . It'sss
people, wealth, resourcesss -- haven't you read my filecard?"
"Filecard, ah huh. Oh yes, the Joe files were very helpful," Hector
lied.
Hector had figured out how to catch the Commander off guard. He
couldn't make a come back on this one. As if he could tell, the
terrorist threw his copy of Mein Kampf aside and leaned forward on his
bed, in anticpiation of Hector's next question.
"How do you feel about the destruction, the suffering, the loss of human
life throughout this lengthy terrorism campaign you have been waging
with the free world? What can you say to all those people who have lost
family and friends thanks to Cobra?"
Cobra Commander gave a shrug and had his helmet had eyes, he would have
rolled them, "Who cares? If you watch the newsss reportsss and
film footage you will see that Cobra takesss every precaution to ensure
the sssafety of troopsss. Even Viper Glider pilots are equiped with
ELAPs."
"ELAPs?" Hector repeated.
"Extremely-Low-Altitude-Parachutes. Troopsss are also well-trained to
aim between the enemy soldiers in order to 'herd' them into captivity.
Thessse tactics, combined with low power laser settingsss reduce battle
casualties to zero. We are even investigating implementing the ELAPs for vehicle use. Parachuting from an exploding tank or jeep is an idea you'll only find in Cobra!"
Hector was puzzled and imagined a soldier being shot and falling to the ground, only for a parachute to explode free from his backpack and blanket him. He tried to bring himself back into focus.
"Okay then, no casualties in battle, but what about the G.I. Joe member
'Sparks' who is now confined to a wheel-chair for the rest of his life,"
Ramirez threw it in like he had planned it all night.
"I've never heard of him. He soundsss like someone with the
Autobotsss," muttered the Commander.
"No, he was a communications specialist in the first few years of the
G.I. Joe team," Ramirez explained and held a picture of Sparks with
Clutch, Grunt, Zap, Steeler, Short-Fuze and Breaker. The Commander got
up and had a quick glance over the photo before returning to sit back
down on his barely disturbed bed.
"They all look the sssame to me, sssorry," said the Commander with
another shrug. "To be honest, I don't think anyone would have missed this kid if we had snuffed him."
***
"It is now Cobra Commander's third day at Blackwater Prison, with no
sign of any rescue attempts having been made. Nonetheless, a detachment
of the G.I. Joe team are stationed nearby in the swamps to react to any
threat. Today however, the 'VIP's' -- that's very important prisoners
for people who tuned in late -- are at their weekly group therapy
session. Cobra Commander is among them, though a little unhappy about
it," said Hector, turning to watch the session taking place in the
center of the room.
The room was sparse and bleak, like so many other rooms throughout the
prison. What set it apart, was that this room had a cleanliness to it,
with white walls, almost hospital-like compared to the dungeon cells.
The only items in the room were furniture, upon which the prisoners were
seated facing each other in a large circle. There were eight prisoners
in all, half of them wore lab-coats, while the remaining four had oddly
distinctive costumes. Cobra Commander sat slouched forward on his chair
like he was in a severe depression, while the others seemed either
uninterested or in a world of their own.
"Dr. Green has just entered and is ready to begin this session -- which
is Cobra Commander's first," Hector quickly added while the doctor took
a seat among the prisoners.
"lassen Sie uns musikalische Stühle spielen!" shouted General Mephisto.
He leapt out of his chair and tried to force Lucifer off his own seat by
tugging violently at his arm.
"We are not here to play musical chairs, General," Dr. Green informed
him, as he quickly seperated the two and guided Mephisto back to his
seat.
There was a moments silence as Mephisto calmed down returning to his
wide-eyed normality. The other prisoners were unconcerned with
Mephisto's impulsiveness, though Lucifer was clearly disturbed. Dr.
Green flicked through his papers and finally looked across to Cobra
Commander. "Your first time in group therapy I hear. Don't worry, it's
not as bad as you might think."
"Really," the Commander answered dryly and looked in the direction of
Mephisto.
"I am Dr. Green. Everyone is famaliar with me by now as this is the
sixth week we've been holding this particular reform talk. Basically,
I'd just like you to relax. It's perfectly okay to be a little
nervous. But all these men have felt the same, so they understand," Dr.
Green waved a hand around the group, but they didn't acknowledge him.
He was unphased and returned his attention to the Commander. "Why don't
you tell us something about yourself, Cobra Commander?"
There was a long silence as Cobra Commander sat motionless with his arms
folded. Dr. Green frowned, then smiled peacefully. "Anything will do.
How about your childhood? Any hobbies?"
Cobra Commander shifted slightly, then spoke, "Very well. I was always
interested in politics and social revolution."
Dr. Green nodded, "How interesting. You know, General Mephisto knows a
lot about facism. I think I'll make you two buddies for the time
being." Green indicated for Lucifer to switch seats with Mephisto so
that he and Cobra Commander would be together.
"I'm not sitting next to him!" shouted the Commander.
Mephisto gave the Commander a wacky look as he sat down beside him and
offered his hand. Cobra Commander ignored him and Dr. Green cleared his
throat. "Now, is that anyway to treat someone?"
"I've been here for five years, and these therapy programmes really have
helped change my life. You should listen to what he says, it will
really help you," one of the prisoners pleaded to the Commander.
"Go to . . . hey, weren't you on an informercial?" the Commander asked
as he suddenly noticed the superficial charm. The smile on the man's
face was worse than Hector Ramirez.
"Yes. But my evil schemes to brainwash America were foiled by good
guys!" the man told him, then began to whimper and sniffle.
Cobra Commander slapped him across the face, "You can't let them get to
you! They beat you once, ssso what?! You're not down until you're
out. Good guys have ssso many exploitable flawsss. Don't you sssee?
Your plansss can only get better. I'm living proof!"
Dr. Green smiled calmly, "That's enough Commander. It's good that you
are trying to help him, but this is not the direction."
The blue terrorist growled, "I'm going to enjoy inversing your face!"
"What exactly is bothering you, Commander?" asked Green through
protruding teeth.
"Bothering me? Ah yes, good question. Now, let's sssee. What could be
bothering me. Hmmm, well maybe, it's you and these demented lunatics! Sitting around with their mouths gaping wide open like they are trying to catch flies! Look,
there's one now," the Commander pointed at Blackthorne, who clapped his
hand over his mouth in shock.
Dr. Green smiled, unveiling his unnaturally white buck teeth in full for
the first time. "You aren't comfortable and you are angry. There's a
reason for that, but what is that reason? Concern over my questions
perhaps? No one is trying to make you uncomfortable. We are only
trying to help by sharing the problems and--"
"--I'll tell you how you can make me comfortable," the Commander began.
Green raised his eyebrows with interest, "Yes?"
"Give me that guard'sss shotgun for a moment and I'll explain!"
The guard in question was standing nearby the exit, and suddenly
realized he was being filmed on camera. He waved and gave a cheerful
smile, before making sure his weapon was securely at his side.
"I'm sorry, but you know the rules," Dr. Green apologized. "Why don't
we talk about your schooling? Were you picked on as a child?"
"What? Nonsssense! In my day, having scaley skin and a rassspy voice
was a sign of maturity!" he replied nervously.
"What about later years?" Hector called across, interrupting Dr. Green,
"You attended a military academy where you lead a mutiny!"
Dr. Green seemed interested, "What drove you then?"
Cobra Commander waved a finger at Green, "The entire academia and
administration was a giant hypocrisssy. It was practically asking to be
overthrown!"
"Of course, you would simply have established another hypocrisy in it's
place with yourself at the helm," Hector shouted across from his
position with Tom, behind the camera.
"Well, that goes without sssaying," the Commander muttered under his
breath.
Dr. Green rubbed his hands together gaining everyones attention. "Now
boys, I hope you've all been practising the song--"
"What sssong?!" the Commander butted in.
"You can join in on the second chorus, Commander," Green told him, eager
to get started.
All the prisoners, with the exclusion of Cobra Commander, grunted,
coughed, and cleared the liquids from their throats in preparation for
the harmony. Dr. Green took the hands of the two prisoners opposite
him, and in a wave the whole circle was united, with the exception of
Dr. Archevil. Cobra Commander slapped Mephisto's hand aside so hard
that it caused the German general to yelp and almost cry. Dr. Green
suddenly leapt up as if he were about to shout, but his voice was just
as calm and monotonous as usual. "Now, now. You don't have to hold
hands if you don't want to. Just give it a chance, believe me it's a
beautiful heart warming song."
Dr. Green started the song and the prisoners hesitantly joined in,
though Archevil remained quiet.
"Our life's mistakes can be undone,
If we just have the will
Sharing and caring is the way,
That we may have a merry day
Helping others and doing what's right,
Knowing patience we never fight
We do the time and right our wrongs,
And know that by the end of this song,
We are united in purpose of mind,
And the right path we will surely find."
Cobra Commander groaned and clutched his helmet trying to block out the
noise. The prisoners sang with such complete boredom and lack of
enthusiasm that the monotony was truely mind-numbing. Tom chuckled but
was slapped on the shoulder by Ramirez when his laughter began to shake
the camera. The Commander began banging his head with his fists.
"Thisss isss terrible!!!"
"Oh, through truth we can be free,
And true friends we'll always be
Like the purest-whitest dove,
We heal our wounds with love."
Dr. Green waved at the Commander to join in for the repeat of the
chorus, but he simply sat back in his chair and folded his arms in
defiance. The doctor tilted his head looking at the Commander like he
was a cute little kid who was too shy to take part. "Keep going boys.
Mephisto, Mangler, Blackthorne and El Diablo, I'd like you to hum this
time!"
As they repeated the chorus, the camera zoomed in on the Commander who
was watching Archevil. A quick close-up on the mad-scientist's face
revealed a vacant thousand yard stare, which seemed to have been
developed through the months of rehearsals he had to sit through. The
Commander began fidgeting restlessly as Dr. Green smiled at him and
insisted on a third repeat of the chorus, still vainly hoping for the
terrorist leader to join in. The Commander pointed fearfully at
Archevil for Green's benefit, "Look you ignorant fool! I'm not going to
end up like him!"
Dr. Green shushed Cobra Commander with a wave of his arm as he began the
chorus once more.
"Oh, through truth we can be free,
And true friends we'll always be
Like the purest-whitest dove,
We heal our wounds with love."
"This is ridiculous! I'm locked up in an Asylum!" screamed the
Commander. He leapt from his seat into the middle of the circle, to the
surprise of everyone except Dr. Green. "I'm not crazy, but thessse
wackos are! If you don't let me out of here, I'm going to have thisss
place raised to the ground, and you along with it. You. . . wet,
tree-hugging, hippy!"
Dr. Green smiled and gestured for the prisoners to continue singing,
"Don't worry. It takes time to settle in with a new group. Why don't
you just hum if you are worried about singing? I think you would lend a
wonderful tone."
Cobra Commander lunged for Dr. Green, grabbing the man's lab-coat and
tugging him close. "You pussy-footed ninny! I have the perfect healing
therapy. It begins with me reaching down your throat and wrenching your
spinal column from your writhing body. Then clubbing your still
twitching corpse to death with that bloated smiling head of yours!"
"The first verse can be a little tricky to learn," Dr. Green admitted,
"But until you learn it by heart it will be perfectly fine for you just
to mouth the words. The most important thing is taking an active part
in the group and working together. Teamwork--"
"--I'll show you where you can put your teamwork!!!" screamed the
Commander in a terrible rasp.
***
The scene cut back to the Twenty Questions studio, with Hector sitting
with relaxed behind his desk. "Security guards broke up the therapy
session and returned Cobra Commander to his cell shortly after the
ruckuss. Dr. Green was admitted to the nearest hospital with severe
concussion and a broken nose. Stay tuned after these important messages
from our sponsor, as we conclude our questions with public enemy number
one -- the Cobra Commander."
"We are inside Blackwater Prison, home to more than one hundred of the
world's most notorious and dangerous criminals. A huge citadel
jutting straight out of the swamp, this fortress has over two-hundred
hand-picked security guards. Outer walls exceeding twenty-inches of
reinforced concrete. Manned battlements that overlook the inner
courtyards and the murky 'gator infested waters surrounding this
miniature island," Hector explained to the camera. He was standing up
in the parapets with the Tom nervously holding the camera. He pointed it down at the surrounding
swamps.
Hector turned, with the camera, to a stout, fat man in a grey business
suit, with thick-black rimmed glasses perched precariously on the edge
of his stubby nose. "Blackwater Prison was built on a reputation that
it was to be both inescapable and impregnable. A reputation that would
be shattered by the man who returns to these walls once again this very
day," Hector gave Tom, a quick glance before looking back to
the suited man. "With me is the prison warden, Mr. Spock--"
"Spoche," the warden sternly corrected him.
The reporter smiled and nodded apologetically, "Mr. Spock, you were warden here
when Cobra Commander was first brought in for questioning, but within
moments of his arrival. . . the impossible happened! You were
gassed along with the majority of the guards inside the prison, and
thanks to his fellow terrorists, Cobra Commander was able to escape the prison and recapture. . . Until now. Can Blackwater Prison
hold such a man? Is Blackwater Prison really all it is cracked up to
be?"
Hector recieved a sharp and simple answer in the form of the man's fist,
knocking him flat against the rampart. "The name is Spoche! I am not
normally a violent man, Ra-moron, but I am ill disposed towards those
who cast dubious assertations over the competence and capability of my
men."
Ramirez hastily brushed his ruffled hair back and held up his hand, fingers parted in two's as a peace offering. He quickly composed himself for the camera man and Tom's wide grin a deadly glare. As he went to
speak into the microphone he felt a twang in his jaw and clicked it back
into place with a slap from his hand. The warden watched him as if
slightly amused, causing Hector to grumble something that could easily
have been misinterpreted as 'you fludging basket!' had he not muttered it so
loudly. Tom coughed a little late to muffle out the profanity but he
liked the idea of it going on air. Hector was so good at shooting
himself in the foot afterall.
"What precautions are you taking this time, to ensure such a scene is
not repeated?"
"Well I won't do interviews for one thing," smiled Spoche, pleased
with himself.
Hector cleared his throat and gave a short sigh. "The prisoner, sir."
"Well, you see now. . ." the warden seemed to think for a moment, "he is
accompanied by two guards at all times--"
"--all times?" Hector interrupted.
"Yes, two guards. They don't leave him for a moment. Of course the
prisoner is entitled to some privacy, but at such times he is monitored
by surveillance cameras, and the guards are never far. Most of the day
however he will be spending inside a bleak windowless cell, in the
maximum security VIP wing of the prison," Spoche explained with an odd
hint of excitement in his voice.
"A bleak cell does not sound particularly VIP to me. What ever happened to live long and prosper?" asked Hector.
Spoche socked Hector in the stomach, winding the man and causing him to stumble away while turning blue in the face.
"Don't forget this is a prison, not a chateau. Why don't you take a
look for yourself? Follow me," Spoche signalled with a sneer and led down the flight of steps to the courtyard.
***
"This is the maximum security wing of Blackwater Prison, for the very
important 'prisoners'. As we walk down these dank and shadowed halls,
passing by the three-inch thick plexi-glass windows, it offers a pitiful view into the solitary lives of the pyschopathic, maniacal, and just plain 'loopy'. One can not help but have a feeling of trepidation that at any
moment these insane criminals might leap forth and do nasty and
unspeakably evil things to innocent reporters and camera-men. Indeed, it is some small reassurance that they
are securely held within this fortress, unable to loose their evil
upon our beautiful world." Hector's voice was shakey and he kept darting
his head about like a mongoose.
The warden shook his head from side-to-side at the reporter, "You really
make it sound a lot worse than it is. These may be the world's worst,
but they are all--"
"--Yes, we could interview some of them. I can see it now, 'The World's
Worst Super Criminals", a terrifyingly true insight into the psyche of
our planet's most sadistic villains. . ." Hector's eyes were glinting as
he pictured the ratings share.
***
In the studio, Hector looked angrily across from his news desk in the
direction of the director's booth. He hopped up from his seat and
dashed round the desk, smacking his thigh hard into the table corner and
yelping as he limped across to the booth. He flung the door open to the
darkened room and the director with his two female assistants turned in
surprise. "Charles, what is that part being aired for?"
The director didn't appear to understand and simply shrugged. "What
part?"
"Me, talking about the 'World's Worst Criminals' idea. . . and getting .
. . assaulted by that Mr. Spock. That was still in there too!"
whined Hector.
"Oh, those parts. Well to be honest, I thought they were too good to
cut out," Charles explained and looked back to check the continuing
broadcast.
Hector stamped his foot, "But Charles, it'll make me look like a fool!"
"Ramirez, people tune in each week to watch you make an ass of
yourself. This is what the show lives for. Do you think that last week
when we rated highly, it was because people were genuinely interested in
the dietary habits of the South Pacific Limpet? Don't worry yourself
about it my friend," the director offered him a smile which was about as
meaningful as a wedgie.
The anchor man stormed out of the booth, leaving the director to the
worried looks of his bikini-clad assistants. "Don't worry about it
girls. He had to learn sooner or later. Who'da guessed it would'a taken the sorry fool six years?"
***
"In this cell we have the infamous Dr Lucifer," the warden told the
camera, pointing at the rejected and balding lab-coated prisoner. He was
sitting behind the plexi-glass on an uncomfortable looking bed. He had
a sullen depression about him, though his eyes seemed to pierce into
Hector with the touch of frost. The warden caught Hector's attention
away from the evil scientist, leading them further down the hall. "Over
here we have Dr. Mangler. To our left is General Mephisto. Over here is Mr. Diablo. And on your
right is Blackthorne Shore -- an opportunist who is thoroughly corrupt
and as obsessed with power as all of them. . . next to him, we have Dr
Archevil--"
"--Yes, now wasn't he the man that collaborated with the Decepticons in
bringing Cybertron into Earth's orbit?" asked Hector as he indicated for
Tom to get a close-up of the villain through the glass.
Archevil was standing in his cell, his hands behind his back, his legs
proudly apart, as if he were about to address a platoon. His eyes were
sunken under a heavy brow, shadowed by his wispy white-haired eyebrows.
But neither his pointed nose, or spiteful face were the most memorable
of his features. Upon the pate of his head rested a skull-cap of metal
and wire electrodes, with two aerials protruding outwards like deamonic
horns. Sprouting from either side of his head was a mess of white hair,
as if he had styled it after Einstein himself. He watched Hector like
he were about to scream something so vile and full of hate that it would
rip the very flesh from the reporter's bones.
"Something best forgotten, I think," the warden warily muttered. He
urged them on as if even he was afraid to linger for too long in this
dark section.
"Enough! You don't have to treat us like zoo animals!" shouted Lucifer,
rising up from his bed and rushing to pound against the plexi-glass. "We are not animals, do you hear?!"
"Yah, geben Sie uns Sie despicable amerikanische Schweine frei!" cried
the mad General.
"Star Scream!!!" yelled Archevil.
Hector jumped out of his skin and dashed down the hall to catch up with
the warden, followed by Tom with the camera shaking from side-to-side
with each stride. The warden slowed his pace down a little, allowing
them to catch up. Hector didn't dare turn back at the disturbing
lab-coated bunch behind him, but his eyes darted about hoping to catch a
glimpse of them still secure behind the clear -- almost invisible --
plexi-glass. The warden gestured to the final cell at the very end of
the hall, and lead them over to it, ignoring the taunts and abuse being
hurled at them by the prisoners. On the otherside of the glass was an
unmistakable figure, dressed in a blue-costume. On his head was a blue helmet with a freshly polished face-plate
staring blankly back out at them. The leader of the most powerful
terrorist organization on Earth, for all they knew, could have been
reading the book on his lap, as he sat on his bed, but just where his
'eyes' were focused they could not tell.
"And of course, Cobra Commander, who you have already met," finished the
warden.
Hector relieved the guard at the end of the corridor from the use of his
stool, and took it for himself. He placed the stool before the
plexi-glass and planted himself upon it while the guard muttered
something unintelligeible due to the rating of the show. Hector looked
nervously back to the camera, as if he were waiting for Tom's
encouragement. When he received none, he turned slowly back and cleared
his throat. Something that Tom noted was an annoyingly repetitive
custom of his which Hector beleived gave him an air of authority.
"HOW--," Hector nervously shouted and then cut himself off in surprise.
He put a hand over his mouth and took a couple of deep-breaths while the
warden exchanged looks with Tom. Hector cleared his throat again, and
summoned back his courage. "H-h-how is the cell, Commander?"
***
Hector cringed in the studio, watching the broadcast on the small
television set, off-screen from the newsdesk. This was degrading. It painted him in completely the wrong light. He was going to have strong words with Charles for this.
***
Ramirez turned back to the camera, and then to the warden for help. "He
doesn't seem to have noticed me. He can hear us right?" Spoche simply
shrugged. Tom tracked along to film it and then back to Hector who
found himself caught staring straight into the lense on a close-up.
"Film the Commander, not me you silly asp!"
He turned back to the cell and decided to try once again. "Um, Excuse
me. Cobra Commander, may we speak?"
The Commander slammed the book shut with excessive force, like it were a militant
statement in doing so. Hector jumped
slightly and his lip wobbled in fear.
"Engaging book," he muttered in a throaty calm, before looking
directly at Ramirez. "Certainly, now what would you like to talk
about?"
"Well. . . um, what were you reading?" Hector asked as he uncomfortably
adjusted his collar.
"Mein Kampf, written by Adolph don't you know," had he a face the
Commander would have beamed.
"That's kind of scarey," mumbled Ramirez.
"I could write much better. The racial theories aren't really economical.
Why restrict ssslavery to racial groups? That Adolph was one mixed up
kid," Cobra Commander shook his head, puzzled by the book.
"Yeeeeeesssssss. . . he was," replied Hector, with hesistation.
"On the other hand, he's quite right about somethingsss, terror should
be employed in the running of society. Weaker countries shouldn't exist,
they're just cluttering map ssspace," continued the Commander.
Ramirez frowned, "Cluttering map space? As world dictator you would
abolish political boundaries and cultural identies?"
Cobra Commander nodded, "I'm a practical kind of
guy, ssso I'd handle the world in a pragmatic way."
"You don't have any racial policies of your own, then?" asked Hector as
he rubbed his chin.
"There's only one color in Cobra -- blue!" he explained with a cackle.
Hector gave a weak smile. The Cobra leader was a narcissistic
meglomaniac bent on being the world dictator, yet he still had a
charisma about him which was almost agreeable. In fact, off the battle
field, Hector found him to be not so intimidating at all. Ramirez could
feel his confidence returning and his interest growing, as he pondered
over how he could get something juicy and scandalous out of his laid
back interviewee. "What do you want? I mean really. Come on. . . man
to man. . . Mano el mano. what are you doing this all for?"
Cobra Commander made a steeple with his fingers and tapped them lightly
together. "Absolute power! Total control of the world. . . It'sss
people, wealth, resourcesss -- haven't you read my filecard?"
"Filecard, ah huh. Oh yes, the Joe files were very helpful," Hector
lied.
Hector had figured out how to catch the Commander off guard. He
couldn't make a come back on this one. As if he could tell, the
terrorist threw his copy of Mein Kampf aside and leaned forward on his
bed, in anticpiation of Hector's next question.
"How do you feel about the destruction, the suffering, the loss of human
life throughout this lengthy terrorism campaign you have been waging
with the free world? What can you say to all those people who have lost
family and friends thanks to Cobra?"
Cobra Commander gave a shrug and had his helmet had eyes, he would have
rolled them, "Who cares? If you watch the newsss reportsss and
film footage you will see that Cobra takesss every precaution to ensure
the sssafety of troopsss. Even Viper Glider pilots are equiped with
ELAPs."
"ELAPs?" Hector repeated.
"Extremely-Low-Altitude-Parachutes. Troopsss are also well-trained to
aim between the enemy soldiers in order to 'herd' them into captivity.
Thessse tactics, combined with low power laser settingsss reduce battle
casualties to zero. We are even investigating implementing the ELAPs for vehicle use. Parachuting from an exploding tank or jeep is an idea you'll only find in Cobra!"
Hector was puzzled and imagined a soldier being shot and falling to the ground, only for a parachute to explode free from his backpack and blanket him. He tried to bring himself back into focus.
"Okay then, no casualties in battle, but what about the G.I. Joe member
'Sparks' who is now confined to a wheel-chair for the rest of his life,"
Ramirez threw it in like he had planned it all night.
"I've never heard of him. He soundsss like someone with the
Autobotsss," muttered the Commander.
"No, he was a communications specialist in the first few years of the
G.I. Joe team," Ramirez explained and held a picture of Sparks with
Clutch, Grunt, Zap, Steeler, Short-Fuze and Breaker. The Commander got
up and had a quick glance over the photo before returning to sit back
down on his barely disturbed bed.
"They all look the sssame to me, sssorry," said the Commander with
another shrug. "To be honest, I don't think anyone would have missed this kid if we had snuffed him."
***
"It is now Cobra Commander's third day at Blackwater Prison, with no
sign of any rescue attempts having been made. Nonetheless, a detachment
of the G.I. Joe team are stationed nearby in the swamps to react to any
threat. Today however, the 'VIP's' -- that's very important prisoners
for people who tuned in late -- are at their weekly group therapy
session. Cobra Commander is among them, though a little unhappy about
it," said Hector, turning to watch the session taking place in the
center of the room.
The room was sparse and bleak, like so many other rooms throughout the
prison. What set it apart, was that this room had a cleanliness to it,
with white walls, almost hospital-like compared to the dungeon cells.
The only items in the room were furniture, upon which the prisoners were
seated facing each other in a large circle. There were eight prisoners
in all, half of them wore lab-coats, while the remaining four had oddly
distinctive costumes. Cobra Commander sat slouched forward on his chair
like he was in a severe depression, while the others seemed either
uninterested or in a world of their own.
"Dr. Green has just entered and is ready to begin this session -- which
is Cobra Commander's first," Hector quickly added while the doctor took
a seat among the prisoners.
"lassen Sie uns musikalische Stühle spielen!" shouted General Mephisto.
He leapt out of his chair and tried to force Lucifer off his own seat by
tugging violently at his arm.
"We are not here to play musical chairs, General," Dr. Green informed
him, as he quickly seperated the two and guided Mephisto back to his
seat.
There was a moments silence as Mephisto calmed down returning to his
wide-eyed normality. The other prisoners were unconcerned with
Mephisto's impulsiveness, though Lucifer was clearly disturbed. Dr.
Green flicked through his papers and finally looked across to Cobra
Commander. "Your first time in group therapy I hear. Don't worry, it's
not as bad as you might think."
"Really," the Commander answered dryly and looked in the direction of
Mephisto.
"I am Dr. Green. Everyone is famaliar with me by now as this is the
sixth week we've been holding this particular reform talk. Basically,
I'd just like you to relax. It's perfectly okay to be a little
nervous. But all these men have felt the same, so they understand," Dr.
Green waved a hand around the group, but they didn't acknowledge him.
He was unphased and returned his attention to the Commander. "Why don't
you tell us something about yourself, Cobra Commander?"
There was a long silence as Cobra Commander sat motionless with his arms
folded. Dr. Green frowned, then smiled peacefully. "Anything will do.
How about your childhood? Any hobbies?"
Cobra Commander shifted slightly, then spoke, "Very well. I was always
interested in politics and social revolution."
Dr. Green nodded, "How interesting. You know, General Mephisto knows a
lot about facism. I think I'll make you two buddies for the time
being." Green indicated for Lucifer to switch seats with Mephisto so
that he and Cobra Commander would be together.
"I'm not sitting next to him!" shouted the Commander.
Mephisto gave the Commander a wacky look as he sat down beside him and
offered his hand. Cobra Commander ignored him and Dr. Green cleared his
throat. "Now, is that anyway to treat someone?"
"I've been here for five years, and these therapy programmes really have
helped change my life. You should listen to what he says, it will
really help you," one of the prisoners pleaded to the Commander.
"Go to . . . hey, weren't you on an informercial?" the Commander asked
as he suddenly noticed the superficial charm. The smile on the man's
face was worse than Hector Ramirez.
"Yes. But my evil schemes to brainwash America were foiled by good
guys!" the man told him, then began to whimper and sniffle.
Cobra Commander slapped him across the face, "You can't let them get to
you! They beat you once, ssso what?! You're not down until you're
out. Good guys have ssso many exploitable flawsss. Don't you sssee?
Your plansss can only get better. I'm living proof!"
Dr. Green smiled calmly, "That's enough Commander. It's good that you
are trying to help him, but this is not the direction."
The blue terrorist growled, "I'm going to enjoy inversing your face!"
"What exactly is bothering you, Commander?" asked Green through
protruding teeth.
"Bothering me? Ah yes, good question. Now, let's sssee. What could be
bothering me. Hmmm, well maybe, it's you and these demented lunatics! Sitting around with their mouths gaping wide open like they are trying to catch flies! Look,
there's one now," the Commander pointed at Blackthorne, who clapped his
hand over his mouth in shock.
Dr. Green smiled, unveiling his unnaturally white buck teeth in full for
the first time. "You aren't comfortable and you are angry. There's a
reason for that, but what is that reason? Concern over my questions
perhaps? No one is trying to make you uncomfortable. We are only
trying to help by sharing the problems and--"
"--I'll tell you how you can make me comfortable," the Commander began.
Green raised his eyebrows with interest, "Yes?"
"Give me that guard'sss shotgun for a moment and I'll explain!"
The guard in question was standing nearby the exit, and suddenly
realized he was being filmed on camera. He waved and gave a cheerful
smile, before making sure his weapon was securely at his side.
"I'm sorry, but you know the rules," Dr. Green apologized. "Why don't
we talk about your schooling? Were you picked on as a child?"
"What? Nonsssense! In my day, having scaley skin and a rassspy voice
was a sign of maturity!" he replied nervously.
"What about later years?" Hector called across, interrupting Dr. Green,
"You attended a military academy where you lead a mutiny!"
Dr. Green seemed interested, "What drove you then?"
Cobra Commander waved a finger at Green, "The entire academia and
administration was a giant hypocrisssy. It was practically asking to be
overthrown!"
"Of course, you would simply have established another hypocrisy in it's
place with yourself at the helm," Hector shouted across from his
position with Tom, behind the camera.
"Well, that goes without sssaying," the Commander muttered under his
breath.
Dr. Green rubbed his hands together gaining everyones attention. "Now
boys, I hope you've all been practising the song--"
"What sssong?!" the Commander butted in.
"You can join in on the second chorus, Commander," Green told him, eager
to get started.
All the prisoners, with the exclusion of Cobra Commander, grunted,
coughed, and cleared the liquids from their throats in preparation for
the harmony. Dr. Green took the hands of the two prisoners opposite
him, and in a wave the whole circle was united, with the exception of
Dr. Archevil. Cobra Commander slapped Mephisto's hand aside so hard
that it caused the German general to yelp and almost cry. Dr. Green
suddenly leapt up as if he were about to shout, but his voice was just
as calm and monotonous as usual. "Now, now. You don't have to hold
hands if you don't want to. Just give it a chance, believe me it's a
beautiful heart warming song."
Dr. Green started the song and the prisoners hesitantly joined in,
though Archevil remained quiet.
"Our life's mistakes can be undone,
If we just have the will
Sharing and caring is the way,
That we may have a merry day
Helping others and doing what's right,
Knowing patience we never fight
We do the time and right our wrongs,
And know that by the end of this song,
We are united in purpose of mind,
And the right path we will surely find."
Cobra Commander groaned and clutched his helmet trying to block out the
noise. The prisoners sang with such complete boredom and lack of
enthusiasm that the monotony was truely mind-numbing. Tom chuckled but
was slapped on the shoulder by Ramirez when his laughter began to shake
the camera. The Commander began banging his head with his fists.
"Thisss isss terrible!!!"
"Oh, through truth we can be free,
And true friends we'll always be
Like the purest-whitest dove,
We heal our wounds with love."
Dr. Green waved at the Commander to join in for the repeat of the
chorus, but he simply sat back in his chair and folded his arms in
defiance. The doctor tilted his head looking at the Commander like he
was a cute little kid who was too shy to take part. "Keep going boys.
Mephisto, Mangler, Blackthorne and El Diablo, I'd like you to hum this
time!"
As they repeated the chorus, the camera zoomed in on the Commander who
was watching Archevil. A quick close-up on the mad-scientist's face
revealed a vacant thousand yard stare, which seemed to have been
developed through the months of rehearsals he had to sit through. The
Commander began fidgeting restlessly as Dr. Green smiled at him and
insisted on a third repeat of the chorus, still vainly hoping for the
terrorist leader to join in. The Commander pointed fearfully at
Archevil for Green's benefit, "Look you ignorant fool! I'm not going to
end up like him!"
Dr. Green shushed Cobra Commander with a wave of his arm as he began the
chorus once more.
"Oh, through truth we can be free,
And true friends we'll always be
Like the purest-whitest dove,
We heal our wounds with love."
"This is ridiculous! I'm locked up in an Asylum!" screamed the
Commander. He leapt from his seat into the middle of the circle, to the
surprise of everyone except Dr. Green. "I'm not crazy, but thessse
wackos are! If you don't let me out of here, I'm going to have thisss
place raised to the ground, and you along with it. You. . . wet,
tree-hugging, hippy!"
Dr. Green smiled and gestured for the prisoners to continue singing,
"Don't worry. It takes time to settle in with a new group. Why don't
you just hum if you are worried about singing? I think you would lend a
wonderful tone."
Cobra Commander lunged for Dr. Green, grabbing the man's lab-coat and
tugging him close. "You pussy-footed ninny! I have the perfect healing
therapy. It begins with me reaching down your throat and wrenching your
spinal column from your writhing body. Then clubbing your still
twitching corpse to death with that bloated smiling head of yours!"
"The first verse can be a little tricky to learn," Dr. Green admitted,
"But until you learn it by heart it will be perfectly fine for you just
to mouth the words. The most important thing is taking an active part
in the group and working together. Teamwork--"
"--I'll show you where you can put your teamwork!!!" screamed the
Commander in a terrible rasp.
***
The scene cut back to the Twenty Questions studio, with Hector sitting
with relaxed behind his desk. "Security guards broke up the therapy
session and returned Cobra Commander to his cell shortly after the
ruckuss. Dr. Green was admitted to the nearest hospital with severe
concussion and a broken nose. Stay tuned after these important messages
from our sponsor, as we conclude our questions with public enemy number
one -- the Cobra Commander."