Hollywood squinted his pale blue eyes. “You young guys-you think this is some kind of extreme sporting event. Let me clue you. This is a war. This scumbag is the enemy. You better get some hate in your chest, son; ’cause if you don’t, when the time comes, you’re gonna hesitate…”

Bugs stood his ground and stared directly into Hollywood’s eyes. “You got no cause to bad-mouth his religion.”

“Wise up,” Hollywood said evenly. “This raghead wants to kill your family because he’s an intolerant Wahhabi creep, get it?”

“Fine, but I’m telling you, he ain’t going to talk, not to us.”

“Oh yeah? There’s ways.”

“Spare me.”

“When I was in Nam…”

“It’s too early in the day for the geezer hour,” Bugs said. “And it’s way too hot, besides.” Rolling his eyes, he reached down, hoisted the prisoner by the arms, and guided him back to the chair.

Hollywood walked to the corner, stooped and plucked a half-liter plastic bottle of springwater from a twelve-pack. He got up, opened the bottle, and returned to the seated prisoner. Slowly he poured several ounces of the water on the prisoner’s bare chest. The prisoner reacted to the touch of liquid, instinctively licked his lips. Thirsty.

“All you need is a gallon of water and a washcloth. Put the rag over his mouth and nose and just dribble the water. Slow suffocation. Works like a charm. Don’t leave mark one,” Hollywood said.

“They catch you doing that today you go to Leavenworth. Besides, evidence acquired through torture is not admissible in court.”

“Court? Court!” Hollywood actually shuffled his feet in a brief dance of rage. “Oh great, why don’t we read him his rights and have a seance and see if we can contact William Kunstler.”