Napoleon Smyith stirred very slightly. Sluggishly, his eyes opened into a void of darkness as he slowly began to regain his senses. “What is that putrid, gagging smell? Where am I? What has happened?” The terrorist’s mind whirled with questions as he attempted to comprehend his situation. His breath came in shallow gasps. “I must be dead,” he mumbled aloud.
“No, you are not dead,” grated a deep, disembodied voice. “But you will soon wish you were.”
“I am dead,” Smyith said somewhat amazed. “And this is hell.”
“This is hell, all right.” The raspy voice continued with a hint of amusement, “But you are not dead … yet!”
“I must be dreaming.”
A hideous laugh echoed in Smyith’s ears, “Dreaming! Heh! Heh! I like that one. Actually, I think ‘nightmare’ would be much more appropriate.”
Smyith
