The Death of Hombar, Part I


Hombar didn’t beg for mercy. He gave that up during the torture. He tried to tell them the truth, but they only waterboarded him more.
“Who are you!?” The men in black would scream. Their attire was bizarre to Hombar, the men wore the same anachronistic suits he used see in the history books during his school day’s. He couldn’t believe Earthlings still had a need for neck ties.
He also couldn’t believe it when they would use those ties to strangle him.
They would always beat him, and torture him, all while screaming these questions at him.
“Who are you!?”


“Hombar,” he would tell them.
“Where are you from?”
He would tell them the coordinates, and they would usually slap him across the face, one time they stomped on his testicles.
Then he would just say his planet’s name, and they’d slap him even harder.
Then they’d ask him more questions, questions he still couldn’t understand.
“Why did you come to the United States?” 
“What can you tell us about any plans to attack the United States?”
Hombar didn’t know what the United States was. All he knew was that he was sent to Earth on a field research mission to study plant life. His planet needed medicine and Earth is known throughout the galaxy for being abundant in natural medicine.
Not much was known about its inhabitants though, except that they were still very primitive and had yet to make contact outside their world.
Now Hombar knew about the Earth creatures all to well, and he hated them for what they were.
He would tell them the truth, over and over again. But the more he did the worse the beatings and torture got.
They started keeping lights on while Hombar would try to sleep.
They would splash buckets of ice cold water on him to wake him up every morning.
Then more beatings would come, sometimes with vicious canine animals the Earthlings had apparently trained.
Hombar never saw the others in their cells, he only heard them scream and beg for mercy.
Hombar would scream and beg with them at first.
He was only here to do his job. Now he just wanted to go home.

And he kept wondering, “What is a “filthy muslim,” and why did they keep calling me that?”

Published by James J Jackson

I'm a poet from California.

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