The Sarcastic Spy

 You ever been tortured? Well, for you lucky sods who haven’t, I speak from experience when I say it hurts like the proverbial motherfucker. The mission was simple: go in, get the plans, get out. But unfortunately reality is never as simple as the plan. Now I’m tied to a table dictating this to my mind journal while the big scary bearded torture master screams questions at me with a mastery of the English language so impressive a first grader would turn green with envy. What’s that you say? A mind journal? Why yes, I have a mind journal, after all, one should always have something sensational to read while being tortured. It’s like a normal journal, but not for stupid people with shitty memories. Put more simply, like a normal journal, but not for you.

“What you know!” the guard barked.

“No, no, no,” I said, “you’re doing it all wrong. It’s ‘what do you know.’ Proper English is important for interrogating, otherwise you just sound silly.” The guard punched me in the stomach. We’d been going at it like this for about a day. Thus far the guard had learned nothing and I had discovered a distinct correlation between correcting someone’s grammar and getting hurt. I think I’ll name it the Ouch Effect.

“Last time. What you know?” the guard grunted.

“Well I know that Mozart wrote his first symphony in 1764, ten percent of humans are left handed, carrots were origina-” The guard punched me again, harder this time. I groaned, straining at my restraints. “You know it’s rude to interrupt people.” I said through gritted teeth.