It’s a generally understood, a reluctantly accepted, unpleasant fact that the US has secret prisons all around the world. Probably the biggest reason we haven’t had another 9/11, we’re staying one step ahead of the terrorists by collecting everything, everywhere. And anyone who passes a threshold of intent, they get wrapped up and put in one of these secret prisons.

20 plus years of these facilities running 24/7. All those operators, interrogators, analysts, guards, maintenance crews. Gotta be thousands of folks who got inside experience. So where are the books, movies, first hand accounts of what these prisons are like?

Well, I think I can tell you why we don’t get those stories. First off, it's hard to find the right structure to talk about what happens there. The time there is packed with surreal experiences, sharp primal emotions. And for me personally, pulling out a memory from my time there, it feels like... Damn, this analogy doesn’t really capture it, give it justice, but my best try, it feels like getting that memory out is like yanking a rusty 1.5 inch thick chain out of a 1.25 inch rubber insulated, unlubricated hole in my mind. So much effort. Tugging and pulling and the painful relief when I get one link to jerk out. Then I gotta plop drop down sit on the grass. Exhausted. Reflect on all the hard work. Try to remember why I tried to pull it out in the first place. Try to remember why, how I got that chain into the hole in the first place. Getting those memories out, you gonna get farm boy country strong. Calloused mind.

For me, the easiest way to approach one of those memories with enough steam in the tank to get it out? I gotta tell myself I was awesome, a good guy. That I was righteous in the way I did it. I tell myself I was the best interrogator on our roster. It wasn’t a skill I had to develop. I am so naturally curious. My parents shoulda named me George.

During our training. During selection. They put us through so much psycho analysis. Pulled all of our worst life experiences out. Our most traumatic stories. Helped us see it wasn’t our fault we are who are. Why, what led us to want to become agents. Give us an opportunity to see how it all came together, so we had the chance to take responsibility from here on out. Say, yeah, it wasn’t my fault. But now that I know how I got here, now I can make a conscious decision where to go next. And then, I’m taking personal responsibility for whatever good or bad I do with all this training.

So yeah, I guess my training, combined with my curiosity, that’s what made me good. I wanted to make the detainees feel safe to tell me their story, because my curiosity drove me to want to know the psycho-social physics that brought us together in the interrogation booth. Why they came in wearing a mask and I came in wearing tactical business casual clothes. The environmental factors. The decisions. I wanted to give the detainee a full picture view of their life too. Let them see how they got here and give them an opportunity to decide where they would take their life next. Work with me. Help me help you? Hahaha. Yeah, maybe.

Hell, some bad guys, we formed real bonds. They felt like I was the only one who understood them. Like I was the only one who they could talk to straight. No judgement.

If I had enough sessions with a guy, I always found that it was easier for him to tell his story as if he was a victim of circumstances. That usually led to him passing blame onto some other guy in the organization. That usually led him to tell me how and where we could capture that other guy who screwed him up, got him wrapped up in this shit in the first place. That was usually my angle. Some other interrogators had other methods. I preferred to be pleasant and kind. It's just my nature. And since I believe in karma, I’m glad it's my nature.

So many people feel like they have always been getting rape fucked by life. They want just a little bit of power, status, and affiliation to stop that rude dick from ripping their ass to shreds. So they become criminals. Terrorists.

And I was a victim to some serious shit when I was a kid. My biggest basic issue vectored me into the agent world. Never gonna be stupid, weak, and used ever again. Made that decision when I was 6 years old, to become a mix between James Bond and MacGyver.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

So I believed in their innocence just as much as them. Yeah, I was still letting them tell me how to get more bad guys. You could say I was exploiting them but that’s not accurate. Nope.

Sometimes, even with our all seeing technologic eyes, we detainee innocent guys. Like I’m talking Andy Dufresne Shawshank Redemption guys that need to be released ASAP. I always took great pride helping these guys out.

If shit didn’t add up, I did the extra work, stayed after my 16 hour shift, skipped a sleep cycle and made sure I did the paperwork and personally met with the commander to arrange an immediate release.

This wasn’t altruistic though. I loved the selfish fresh chocolate cookie soft guey goodness feeling that came with being able to personally tell a detainee that I arranged for his freedom.

One time, the last time I met a detainee and told him he was being let go, that was a memory that no one should forget. We’d be stupid to forget. So many lessons.

That detainee, he was a truck driver. A mountain of a man. Six foot eight, at least. Thick grizzly bear muscles. He made me look tiny and I’m six two, one ninety.

He and I didn’t get along but I knew he was innocent after I went through his phone records line by line and checked all his financial records. Just a truck driver. After I did his paperwork and he was processed for release, I arranged an event to give him the good news.

The guard accompanied me to the detainee’s cell, which was a pitch black, cold, cinder block closet like hole in the wall. I knocked on the solid steel door like I was a house visitor. In my best Arabic, I called into the cell and told the guy, “We’re opening it up. You know the routine. Turn around. Hands on the wall.”

The door sounded like a dungeon opening up. I called the grizzly bear mountain over to the door. Standing two feet away from him, looking up into his his salt and pepper Santa Clause beard, I told him, “I arranged for your release. I know you’re innocent.”

He was at a loss for words. He started sobbing. Tears pouring out. Then he started to laugh big hearty belly laughs. He looked down at me and I guess he got lost in the moment because he grabbed me up in a big bear hug and lifted me off the ground and forced our faces together and we were beard to beard and then he rape kissed me and French style tongue in my mouth and him making crude romance noises.

The guard broke it up before it could get any further. But it had already went far enough for me to know that I wasn’t gay for this man. That I wasn’t ever going to kiss anyone without permission because I know now. I know. I can’t forget. Fuck.

Later that day, he was back at home relaxing with his wife and kids and I was still in the prison hunched over the computer writing my reports.

That memory, I earned it. I paid the price. It’s stored in my memory bank forever. It's also stored on that security footage that became a hilarious training video they show all the new interrogators. Warn them about letting their guard down.

If they can share my story, then why can't I. How could they own my experience more than me?

For a long time I was afraid to share these memories. But now I realize, first, there isn't anything classified in the story. So I'm not going to prison for letting it out. Second, I was a good guy, no matter who wants to pass judgement on me for being affiliated with something that makes them uncomfortable. So I'm not going to be cut off from connecting with good people. Third, I believe in karma. So even amongst possible enemies, I earned a reputation for fairness. And maybe even kindness. So if the world order shifts or I get wrapped up by a terror organization, their version of Charles A. Rothbard will come to my cell and give me fair, kind treatment too. I believe this. I know this.

Okay, getting that memory out. I got a better analogy for how it feels.

So imagine this. After a long day doing lawn work in the summer sun, you refuel with a four beer and Indian curry dinner. Sleep is not good that night. Your mouth feels cotton ball filled dehydrated and your stomach tells you rumble roll twist that curry wasn't fresh. You make it through the night, turn tossing the sweat drenched sheets off the bed. No need for an alarm clock when you wake up at 0530 and run to the bathroom. Sit down on the cold toilet seat. The pain in your belly says a ten pound brick is coming down the chute sideways. You push flex and do labor lady lamaze short breaths to give birth to that shit. What needs to come out, comes out. You sit there on the now warm toilet seat, a little bit of wonder at how brave you were, how stupid you were. A little bit of PTSD. A lot of relief. You can't get up and start wiping until your asshole finishes its recovery pucker. Gotta let your digestive system understand the new normal you burned in there. You stare off into space, no desire to look at your smart phone or read the back of the shampoo bottle. You gotta process this, interpret the honest signals. Your body and brain telling you, don't eat like that again. Don't live like that again.