5.

We interviewed #316.Name. Genia. Genia?Age. 18. She is lying, of course.Height. Weight. Race. Sundry measurements, hands, eye radius, diameter of calf at widest point in ratio to length of calf’s outside measurement. Creed, orientation, terminal angle of cranial descent at occipital bone, party affiliation, etcetera. All standard by now, we were quite exhausted. We cross-referenced in silence.’How would it strike you to know that as of now you are trapped in this room?’ A start, nothing more. ’A jest, nothing more!’ I laughed, winking.An eyeblink, a single, accented blink of the eye. Pupils dilate ever so romantically, epidermal gas exchange rate increased noticeably, no change in respiration. Curious.’If forced on pain of death to choose,’ I said, ‘between a single violent stroke of fine suede leather across the backs of bared, shaven thighs and one thousand invariant strokes of the tongue of a cat upon the roof of your mouth, which would you choose?’ She struggled, torn. She was mute. ’Or to be compelled to squat in a bowl of hard-boiled eggs… shelled, of course, and cold. Yes, very cold,’ Mr. Win added solemnly.’We get ahead of ourselves,’ I replied.Genia at this point was quite flustered, naturally. She looked around her as she sat upon the simple three-legged rattan stool that so many unworthies had sullied before her, back arched yet straight, if you can see this. Genia had the satisfaction of the caged, unknown, on her face… untaught and innocent of her near brutal ignorance…yet willing to be guided. To be instructed.