connoisseurs
Senator
Captured at last. Only because you didn´t trust Marie´s instinct.
Or maybe because you trusted yours.
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Last Liaison in Lyon
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
connoisseurs
Senator
Barb, I just learned that Barbie is amused about the name resemblance and knows your proclivity for luxury and therefore has decided that you will get their suit during your stay with them.
Migoz2
Senator
I sense a complaint coming on.....
windar
Teller of Tales
As long as I'm not paying, she can stay where she likes.
It;s believed that Barbie's paternal ancestors were French, with the name Barbier or Barber (though he was more of a butcher)
Barb, I just learned that Barbie is amused about the name resemblance and knows your proclivity for luxury and therefore has decided that you will get their suit during your stay with them.
Hmmmm ... wonder what room service is like?
More than one, I’d say ....
As long as I'm not paying, she can stay where she likes.
Still sore about that Dorchester stunt, are we?
Sharkman
Governor
Now the page turns. Luck is with the brave.
But Barb seems not to be the bravest one now.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
No, your train is too long!
(This is actually a real onversation that took place once. In 1886, a new station was inaugurated in Bruges, Belgium. But King Leopold's train did not fit along the platforms. So the king said to the architect :
"Monsieur, your station is too short!"
The architect replied :
"Sire, your train is too long!")
Hmmmm ... wonder what room service is like?
Complaining because she ordered a single room?
windar
Teller of Tales
I'd come and tuck you in, but there's no sheets. But it does have electricity, I see, which may come in handy
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
To be exactly : no pillow!
25.
I felt a keen sense of deja vu as Klaus Barbie’s henchmen cuffed me, dragged me down the narrow tenement building staircase to the street below, and stuffed me into the familiar backseat of a waiting black Mercedes. Memories of that fateful night back in Stuttgart raced through my head.
“Hôtel Terminus!” barked the blond-haired ruffian as he crammed his bulk in alongside me. His colleague, who was dark and looked anything but Aryan, circled around to the other side to get in. I was sandwiched between them. The driver gunned the engine, pulled out and sped down the empty street.
It wasn’t long before we arrived before the elegant hotel commandeered by the Gestapo to serve as headquarters in Lyon. I was hustled up the front steps, my arms gripped tightly on either side by my two companions ... whisked through the marbled, luxuriously-appointed reception area, heels clicking on the polished floor, ... straight to the lift, and down to the cellar and a dimly lit corridor lined on both sides with filthy looking cells containing dozens of partially-clothed or naked prisoners.
Some watched sullenly as we passed. Others, sporting bloodied faces and missing teeth, moaned, groaned and cried out with extended hands ... while still others lay sprawled on cell floors .. asleep, unconscious, or possibly even dead. The place reeked of sweat, urine, vomit and feces.
Near the very end of the corridor I was literally tossed into a vacant holding cell. I landed hard on my side, and skidded across the recently hosed-down floor until stopped by a wall.
“Wait here,” grunted one of my handlers, as though he actually thought I might be thinking of going somewhere. “We’ll be back for you shortly.”
As soon as they left, I managed to get myself into a sitting position with my back against the cold damp wall.
Next comes the initial, intimidating interrogation session, I told myself, recalling those harrowing days when Freddie and his SOE pals back in London put me through mock renditions of what I might expect at the hands of the Gestapo. But this promised to be far worse, for I knew I was in the hands of the ‘Butcher of Lyon’.
So I focused on my cover story and plan ... I imagined I would begin by grudgingly admitting under torture to have worked with the local Resistance to spirit fugitives to Switzerland. Barbie already knew that anyway. And perhaps divulge eventually that I was an American working with SOE. But on the issue of Klaus I would hold out as long as I possibly could. That would be daunting, because I reckoned Spain to be around 500 kilometers away and, even allowing for Klaus’ impressive cycling abilities, he’d probably need three ... more likely four ... days to get there. I was going to have to be very strong!
My two goons were as good as their word. It hadn’t been more than a quarter of an hour before they were back, unlocking the door to my cell.
“Raus! Macht schnell!” shouted the blond-haired one as he threw open the cell door and gestured to the corridor with a sweep of his beefy arm.
I complied, struggling to my feet and stepping out hesitantly ... only to be seized by both arms and propelled at speed past a heavy steel door,
This time the corridor was shorter and led to a single rectangular room of whitewashed walls. The floor was concrete with a central drain. Looming overhead were heavy ceiling timbers, from which dangled a number of pulleys, ropes and restraints. At the far end of the chamber was a comfortably upholstered chair ... the kind one would expect to find in a well-appointed parlor ... flanked by an ornate wooden side-table and a shaded lamp. A plush Persian carpet lay on the floor directly before the chair.
One sidewall was lined with shelves and wall hooks bearing an astonishingly wide array of torture instruments. Parked neatly along the other wall ... all on wheels, ready to be rolled out as needed ... was a torture rack, a wooden horse, an electric shock cart, a cast iron bathtub ... and a metal chair equipped with wrist and ankle shackles and a large metal phallus protruding from its seat ... not unlike the one I had the dubious honor of being seated on when i was interrogated back in Stuttgart by my old Gestapo friend, Kriminalkommisar Schwarz.
My blond-haired handler, whom I gathered by then went by Heinz, escorted me to the room. He referred to his comrade as Fritz.
Releasing my cuffs, he curtly ordered me to strip.
I rubbed my chafed wrists and looked at him blankly, which prompted his partner to cuff me sharply on the back of my head.
“Strip!” Heinz repeated, balling his ham-sized fists threateningly.
Slowly, having obviously no choice in the matter, I did as I was told, removing my little dark blue jacket and tossing it aside, followed by my blouse. After a brief pause during which I made sure my facial expression telegraphed my contempt, I continued by loosening my blue matching skirt and allowing it to slip down my legs to the floor before stepping out of it.
“More!” ordered Heinz, gesturing at my bra.
Heaving a sigh of resignation I reached behind my back, bent slightly forward, undid the bra, and bared my breasts.
Seeing no point in stopping there, I dropped my panties and reached for the thin little belt that held up my silk hose, but Heinz held up his hand and shook his head.
I looked at him quizzically.
“Leave them,” he said, with a wolffish grin. “Barbie likes it that way.”
Fritz laughed.
A pair of cuffs were lowered from the ceiling. I was ordered to present my wrists, taking some solace in the fact they weren’t the ones with spikes inside. Moments later I stood naked ... save for my silk stockings, garter belt and shoes ... in the center of the room with my arms stretched overhead. Fritz produced a sack of heavy dark fabric which he used to hood me.
“All gift-wrapped and ready for Barbie,” he chuckled, patting my bare bottom playfully. “Take my advice, dear friend. Don’t play games with him. He doesn’t take kindly to that.”
They left. I heard their laughter in the corridor as they departed. Then nothing but silence. I waited ... it seemed like forever.
The room was quite warm. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my back. My raised arms began to ache. Hooded, I could see nothing, but eventually I could sense his evil presence ... smell his scent ... as the ‘butcher of Lyon’ circled silently around me, not once but twice, studying me ... before taking his seat in the upholstered chair.
“Heinz!” he shouted.
Boots in the corridor. Clicking of heels, presumably a Nazi salute.
“Remove her hood!”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer”
I blinked as the hood was brusquely torn from my head. The lights had been turned up and it took a few seconds to adjust, but there he was ... seated in the upholstered chair, a steaming cup at his side, dressed in full SS uniform. My attention was drawn to his eyes, which were pale, and darted restlessly back and forth, up and down, as he savored my naked helplessness while calmly stroking the contented feline curled up on his lap.
“So, Fräulein Moreau ... or is it Frau Moser from Bremen ... or perhaps someone else?” He said at last, addressing me in German.
My spirits sank. Apparently he knew more than I thought. Stuttgart had definitely been in touch. I wondered if Kriminalkommisar Schwarz survived. I decided to keep quiet.
“Cat got your tongue?
His cat stretched lazily and rolled on its side, offering its tummy for a scratch.
“Heinz! A little persuasion, please.”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!”
The blond behemoth walked over to the trove of torture instruments arrayed along the wall and returned with a thick but supple length of rubber hose. Strolling nonchalantly around me and swinging it about experimentally, he suddenly smacked it hard into the left side of the small of my back, causing me to arch my back, jerk my right knee high in the air, and cry out in pain.
“Ah, not so pleasant on the kidneys, is it? Again, Heinz!”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer”
The second blow hurt more than the first. The third and fourth, delivered to my right side, had me screaming hysterically.
“Enough,” he said holding up his hand. “Now Fräulein Moreau, let’s say we get down to business. It’s always best to begin with what we know, wouldn’t you agree? We know you are an SOE agent. We have that on the authority of our good friend, Alain, here in Lyon, as well as from a bordello Madame in Stuttgart known as Olga, now regrettably diseased. We also know that your most recent mission was to persuade ... undoubtedly with your considerable feminine charms ... a certain Messerschmidt aeronautical engineer ... possessing invaluable technical data on aircraft design and production ... to turn traitor and deliver military secrets to the Fatherland’s enemies. We have that on the authority of Kriminalkommisar Schwarz of Stuttgart, who detained the two of you there ... that is, until you managed to escape during an air raid. Kriminalkommisar Schwarz is, in fact, on his way to Lyon at this very moment to assist in your interrogation and eventual execution.
I said nothing, although I was visibly shaken and I imagined that he knew it.
“So, what I want you to tell me now is where we might find our wayward aeronautical engineer. We know you and he arrived in Lyon together. The two of you were spotted at a cafe by one of our informers. So, save us time and trouble, and save yourself unnecessary pain, by kindly telling us where he is, where he might be going, and how he is getting there. We presume Spain, and if that is correct, how is he traveling and where will he be crossing the border?”
I closed my eyes and said nothing.
“Alright, how about something easier. What’s your real name?”
“Barbara Moore, and I’m an American!” I whispered hoarsely. It felt good saying that. I wondered whether he would try to check on whether it was true.”
“Good. Now back to the original question.”
I said nothing.
“Alright, Miss Moore,” he said in English. “It appears we need to apply a little more persuasion.”
Here it comes, I thought.
“Heinz! Wire our close-mouthed friend. Clips in the usual three places, if you please. We’ll see if a little electric shock will loosen Fräulein Moore’s tongue.
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!”
Heinz ran to fetch the cart with electrical equipment. Extracting a pair of wires with alligator clips, he rose to look appraisingly at each of my nipples, as if trying to decide which one to fasten a clip to first.
I figured I’d counter that threat by kneeing him in the groin, but Fritz anticipated that move. Kneeling unseen behind me he slapped a pair of shackles on my ankles, and affixed them to iron rings on the floor.
Undaunted, I began to gyrate ... twisting and turning my body wildly ... in a desperate effort to avoid the fearsome bite of those cruel-looking alligator clips. But it was all for naught, because Fritz grasped my torso from behind in a vice-like grip, while Heinz, squeezing each breast in turn, snapped the clips in place ... evoking each time a little whimper of pain from me as the sharp teeth dug into tender flesh.
Kneeling before me, Heinz eased a hand up my inner thigh, and began to probe my private girl parts with a forefinger. I grimaced at the unwanted intrusion. Finding what he was looking for, he snapped the third alligator clip in place. I yelped in pain.
“Alles fertig,” he announced, rising to his feet, electric control box with dial in hand.
Barbie rose from his chair, gently placed the cat on the seat, and came forward to accept the control box from his underling.
“Now, once again, Miss Moore...” he said evenly in English. “...may I have answers to my questions, or must I turn this dial? Presumably you were well trained by your friends in London ... were told about the use of electric shock in interrogations, perhaps even required to experience a mild example of what it feels like, yes?”
I said nothing, but could not keep from trembling at the vivid remembrance of being shocked in exactly the same places by Freddie and company.
“Yes, I believe I’m right. You have had the pleasure once before, haven’t you? Let me assure you that this will be much worse. We start with level 5 here. Now talk!”
I said nothing and braced myself. He turned the dial and a pulsating burning sensation raced through my body.
I bit my lip and closed my eyes.
Barbie turned the dial further and I began to jerk and shake convulsively. I kept expecting him to turn the current off ... but he didn’t. The guys at SOE had never shocked me that long and hard ... I was fast reaching my limit of endurance. I bit my tongue ... tasted blood. An animal-like howl escaped my throat as sensory overload took complete hold of me.
And then he turned the current off. I went limp. Hanging by my wrists, panting heavily and barely conscious, my head lolled from side to side before coming to rest chin on my chest. I tried to focus through half-closed eyes and became vaguely aware of a little river of drool snaking it’s way down the passage between my poor throbbing breasts ... and of the glistening sheen of sweat all over my skin. A pool of pee had formed on the floor beneath me and was spattered all over my shoes and stockings.
A hand gripped my chin and snapped my head back. It was Barbie ... his pale searching eyes bore into me.
“Talk!” He barked. “Where is Klaus Schumann?”
“Gone,” I croaked.
“Gone where?”
“Dunno.”
He drove his fist into my belly. The room spun wildly. Blackness closed in. I came around once or twice long enough to know that Heinz and Fritz we’re taking me down and dragging me from the room, and I distinctly recall hearing Barbie order them to keep me awake, feel free to rape me if they so fancied, and have me back and ready for a second round of interrogation as soon Kriminalkommisar Schwarz arrived on the morrow.
I felt a keen sense of deja vu as Klaus Barbie’s henchmen cuffed me, dragged me down the narrow tenement building staircase to the street below, and stuffed me into the familiar backseat of a waiting black Mercedes. Memories of that fateful night back in Stuttgart raced through my head.
“Hôtel Terminus!” barked the blond-haired ruffian as he crammed his bulk in alongside me. His colleague, who was dark and looked anything but Aryan, circled around to the other side to get in. I was sandwiched between them. The driver gunned the engine, pulled out and sped down the empty street.
It wasn’t long before we arrived before the elegant hotel commandeered by the Gestapo to serve as headquarters in Lyon. I was hustled up the front steps, my arms gripped tightly on either side by my two companions ... whisked through the marbled, luxuriously-appointed reception area, heels clicking on the polished floor, ... straight to the lift, and down to the cellar and a dimly lit corridor lined on both sides with filthy looking cells containing dozens of partially-clothed or naked prisoners.
Some watched sullenly as we passed. Others, sporting bloodied faces and missing teeth, moaned, groaned and cried out with extended hands ... while still others lay sprawled on cell floors .. asleep, unconscious, or possibly even dead. The place reeked of sweat, urine, vomit and feces.
Near the very end of the corridor I was literally tossed into a vacant holding cell. I landed hard on my side, and skidded across the recently hosed-down floor until stopped by a wall.
“Wait here,” grunted one of my handlers, as though he actually thought I might be thinking of going somewhere. “We’ll be back for you shortly.”
As soon as they left, I managed to get myself into a sitting position with my back against the cold damp wall.
Next comes the initial, intimidating interrogation session, I told myself, recalling those harrowing days when Freddie and his SOE pals back in London put me through mock renditions of what I might expect at the hands of the Gestapo. But this promised to be far worse, for I knew I was in the hands of the ‘Butcher of Lyon’.
So I focused on my cover story and plan ... I imagined I would begin by grudgingly admitting under torture to have worked with the local Resistance to spirit fugitives to Switzerland. Barbie already knew that anyway. And perhaps divulge eventually that I was an American working with SOE. But on the issue of Klaus I would hold out as long as I possibly could. That would be daunting, because I reckoned Spain to be around 500 kilometers away and, even allowing for Klaus’ impressive cycling abilities, he’d probably need three ... more likely four ... days to get there. I was going to have to be very strong!
My two goons were as good as their word. It hadn’t been more than a quarter of an hour before they were back, unlocking the door to my cell.
“Raus! Macht schnell!” shouted the blond-haired one as he threw open the cell door and gestured to the corridor with a sweep of his beefy arm.
I complied, struggling to my feet and stepping out hesitantly ... only to be seized by both arms and propelled at speed past a heavy steel door,
This time the corridor was shorter and led to a single rectangular room of whitewashed walls. The floor was concrete with a central drain. Looming overhead were heavy ceiling timbers, from which dangled a number of pulleys, ropes and restraints. At the far end of the chamber was a comfortably upholstered chair ... the kind one would expect to find in a well-appointed parlor ... flanked by an ornate wooden side-table and a shaded lamp. A plush Persian carpet lay on the floor directly before the chair.
One sidewall was lined with shelves and wall hooks bearing an astonishingly wide array of torture instruments. Parked neatly along the other wall ... all on wheels, ready to be rolled out as needed ... was a torture rack, a wooden horse, an electric shock cart, a cast iron bathtub ... and a metal chair equipped with wrist and ankle shackles and a large metal phallus protruding from its seat ... not unlike the one I had the dubious honor of being seated on when i was interrogated back in Stuttgart by my old Gestapo friend, Kriminalkommisar Schwarz.
My blond-haired handler, whom I gathered by then went by Heinz, escorted me to the room. He referred to his comrade as Fritz.
Releasing my cuffs, he curtly ordered me to strip.
I rubbed my chafed wrists and looked at him blankly, which prompted his partner to cuff me sharply on the back of my head.
“Strip!” Heinz repeated, balling his ham-sized fists threateningly.
Slowly, having obviously no choice in the matter, I did as I was told, removing my little dark blue jacket and tossing it aside, followed by my blouse. After a brief pause during which I made sure my facial expression telegraphed my contempt, I continued by loosening my blue matching skirt and allowing it to slip down my legs to the floor before stepping out of it.
“More!” ordered Heinz, gesturing at my bra.
Heaving a sigh of resignation I reached behind my back, bent slightly forward, undid the bra, and bared my breasts.
Seeing no point in stopping there, I dropped my panties and reached for the thin little belt that held up my silk hose, but Heinz held up his hand and shook his head.
I looked at him quizzically.
“Leave them,” he said, with a wolffish grin. “Barbie likes it that way.”
Fritz laughed.
A pair of cuffs were lowered from the ceiling. I was ordered to present my wrists, taking some solace in the fact they weren’t the ones with spikes inside. Moments later I stood naked ... save for my silk stockings, garter belt and shoes ... in the center of the room with my arms stretched overhead. Fritz produced a sack of heavy dark fabric which he used to hood me.
“All gift-wrapped and ready for Barbie,” he chuckled, patting my bare bottom playfully. “Take my advice, dear friend. Don’t play games with him. He doesn’t take kindly to that.”
They left. I heard their laughter in the corridor as they departed. Then nothing but silence. I waited ... it seemed like forever.
The room was quite warm. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my back. My raised arms began to ache. Hooded, I could see nothing, but eventually I could sense his evil presence ... smell his scent ... as the ‘butcher of Lyon’ circled silently around me, not once but twice, studying me ... before taking his seat in the upholstered chair.
“Heinz!” he shouted.
Boots in the corridor. Clicking of heels, presumably a Nazi salute.
“Remove her hood!”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer”
I blinked as the hood was brusquely torn from my head. The lights had been turned up and it took a few seconds to adjust, but there he was ... seated in the upholstered chair, a steaming cup at his side, dressed in full SS uniform. My attention was drawn to his eyes, which were pale, and darted restlessly back and forth, up and down, as he savored my naked helplessness while calmly stroking the contented feline curled up on his lap.
“So, Fräulein Moreau ... or is it Frau Moser from Bremen ... or perhaps someone else?” He said at last, addressing me in German.
My spirits sank. Apparently he knew more than I thought. Stuttgart had definitely been in touch. I wondered if Kriminalkommisar Schwarz survived. I decided to keep quiet.
“Cat got your tongue?
His cat stretched lazily and rolled on its side, offering its tummy for a scratch.
“Heinz! A little persuasion, please.”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!”
The blond behemoth walked over to the trove of torture instruments arrayed along the wall and returned with a thick but supple length of rubber hose. Strolling nonchalantly around me and swinging it about experimentally, he suddenly smacked it hard into the left side of the small of my back, causing me to arch my back, jerk my right knee high in the air, and cry out in pain.
“Ah, not so pleasant on the kidneys, is it? Again, Heinz!”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer”
The second blow hurt more than the first. The third and fourth, delivered to my right side, had me screaming hysterically.
“Enough,” he said holding up his hand. “Now Fräulein Moreau, let’s say we get down to business. It’s always best to begin with what we know, wouldn’t you agree? We know you are an SOE agent. We have that on the authority of our good friend, Alain, here in Lyon, as well as from a bordello Madame in Stuttgart known as Olga, now regrettably diseased. We also know that your most recent mission was to persuade ... undoubtedly with your considerable feminine charms ... a certain Messerschmidt aeronautical engineer ... possessing invaluable technical data on aircraft design and production ... to turn traitor and deliver military secrets to the Fatherland’s enemies. We have that on the authority of Kriminalkommisar Schwarz of Stuttgart, who detained the two of you there ... that is, until you managed to escape during an air raid. Kriminalkommisar Schwarz is, in fact, on his way to Lyon at this very moment to assist in your interrogation and eventual execution.
I said nothing, although I was visibly shaken and I imagined that he knew it.
“So, what I want you to tell me now is where we might find our wayward aeronautical engineer. We know you and he arrived in Lyon together. The two of you were spotted at a cafe by one of our informers. So, save us time and trouble, and save yourself unnecessary pain, by kindly telling us where he is, where he might be going, and how he is getting there. We presume Spain, and if that is correct, how is he traveling and where will he be crossing the border?”
I closed my eyes and said nothing.
“Alright, how about something easier. What’s your real name?”
“Barbara Moore, and I’m an American!” I whispered hoarsely. It felt good saying that. I wondered whether he would try to check on whether it was true.”
“Good. Now back to the original question.”
I said nothing.
“Alright, Miss Moore,” he said in English. “It appears we need to apply a little more persuasion.”
Here it comes, I thought.
“Heinz! Wire our close-mouthed friend. Clips in the usual three places, if you please. We’ll see if a little electric shock will loosen Fräulein Moore’s tongue.
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!”
Heinz ran to fetch the cart with electrical equipment. Extracting a pair of wires with alligator clips, he rose to look appraisingly at each of my nipples, as if trying to decide which one to fasten a clip to first.
I figured I’d counter that threat by kneeing him in the groin, but Fritz anticipated that move. Kneeling unseen behind me he slapped a pair of shackles on my ankles, and affixed them to iron rings on the floor.
Undaunted, I began to gyrate ... twisting and turning my body wildly ... in a desperate effort to avoid the fearsome bite of those cruel-looking alligator clips. But it was all for naught, because Fritz grasped my torso from behind in a vice-like grip, while Heinz, squeezing each breast in turn, snapped the clips in place ... evoking each time a little whimper of pain from me as the sharp teeth dug into tender flesh.
Kneeling before me, Heinz eased a hand up my inner thigh, and began to probe my private girl parts with a forefinger. I grimaced at the unwanted intrusion. Finding what he was looking for, he snapped the third alligator clip in place. I yelped in pain.
“Alles fertig,” he announced, rising to his feet, electric control box with dial in hand.
Barbie rose from his chair, gently placed the cat on the seat, and came forward to accept the control box from his underling.
“Now, once again, Miss Moore...” he said evenly in English. “...may I have answers to my questions, or must I turn this dial? Presumably you were well trained by your friends in London ... were told about the use of electric shock in interrogations, perhaps even required to experience a mild example of what it feels like, yes?”
I said nothing, but could not keep from trembling at the vivid remembrance of being shocked in exactly the same places by Freddie and company.
“Yes, I believe I’m right. You have had the pleasure once before, haven’t you? Let me assure you that this will be much worse. We start with level 5 here. Now talk!”
I said nothing and braced myself. He turned the dial and a pulsating burning sensation raced through my body.
I bit my lip and closed my eyes.
Barbie turned the dial further and I began to jerk and shake convulsively. I kept expecting him to turn the current off ... but he didn’t. The guys at SOE had never shocked me that long and hard ... I was fast reaching my limit of endurance. I bit my tongue ... tasted blood. An animal-like howl escaped my throat as sensory overload took complete hold of me.
And then he turned the current off. I went limp. Hanging by my wrists, panting heavily and barely conscious, my head lolled from side to side before coming to rest chin on my chest. I tried to focus through half-closed eyes and became vaguely aware of a little river of drool snaking it’s way down the passage between my poor throbbing breasts ... and of the glistening sheen of sweat all over my skin. A pool of pee had formed on the floor beneath me and was spattered all over my shoes and stockings.
A hand gripped my chin and snapped my head back. It was Barbie ... his pale searching eyes bore into me.
“Talk!” He barked. “Where is Klaus Schumann?”
“Gone,” I croaked.
“Gone where?”
“Dunno.”
He drove his fist into my belly. The room spun wildly. Blackness closed in. I came around once or twice long enough to know that Heinz and Fritz we’re taking me down and dragging me from the room, and I distinctly recall hearing Barbie order them to keep me awake, feel free to rape me if they so fancied, and have me back and ready for a second round of interrogation as soon Kriminalkommisar Schwarz arrived on the morrow.
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Usually it is so free, especially when being used for complaining...
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Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Barbie may be a sadistic harsh brute, but one cannot deny he got taste!
(Addendum to the SOE book of instructions : whatever happens, do never, repeat : never, return, (apart from being ordered) to the field of a previous action, where they know you already. Do not count on people you know there and think you can trust them. Allies of yesterday may be enemies of today!)
Migoz2
Senator
Very powerful writing, Barb.
Sharkman
Governor
As far as I know the Germans built the Me 262. In other words the cards are stacked for Klaus. I think they will catch him as cyclist with a doping check in the Pyrenees. This days methamphetamine Pervitin was very popular. Particularly with pilots. And what is nearer then connections of Klaus to test pilots. Barb, wreck all your hope Barbie just wanna play with cats.
... and you got it that hurts!
'Fuck! Not my kidneys, you blockheads!'
Usually it is so free, especially when being used for complaining...
Couldn’t resist, could you?
Now he tells me ...
I’d take a bow, but they have me strung up
And I thought only Tree liked cats ...
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
So how is that different from the usual?
So much for dribbling out unimportant info.
Tumescent?
Unless castrated or exclusively gay, I think we can count on that.
A reunion with an old friend.
windar
Teller of Tales
Will they strip my Tour de France medals? Now that hurts!
That's right. You have no idea. He could be in Bolivia by now...
Freddie wasn't long and hard? You shouldn't kiss and tell, Barb!
So how is that different from the usual?
Tumescent?
A reunion with an old friend.
Those roads were built for oxcarts originally. Try getting across the Rhein in an oxcart while pursued by the Gestapo. They wouldn't even have to run.It’s their fault for not building the roads straighter and wider!