Every day, my captors wake me up, strip me naked, and check for microchips in my brain.
This morning, three armed guards stand on the far end of the corridor facing my cell. Dressed in riot gear, they keep assault rifles trained on me as I remove my clothes. Two more guards stand in
front of the locked door, pistols ready.
I count four regulars and one rookie on mad scientist detail today. The new kid hangs in back, keeping his finger on the trigger and ignoring proper gun safety. New blood makes my mornings more exciting, but also increases my odds of catching a bullet if I unbutton my fly too quickly. Fear makes people do stupid things.
I didn’t earn nine PhDs and shrink the state of Delaware to pocket size just so I could die in prison because somebody thinks the naked super-genius wants to take over the world from his cell. I just want some toast and oatmeal.
I fold my gray uniform neatly and place the clothes precisely two feet from the cell door. Then I step back and sit on the edge of my bed with my hands up and my feet flat on the floor. One of the door guards opens my cell, and the other scrambles forward to put the clothing in a clear plastic bag. She then places a new uniform down and steps back into the hallway, never taking her eyes off me.
Mornings used to feel awkward, but I’ve stopped being self-conscious about my nudity. After 1,829 days of this routine, I don’t have much choice but to accept it.
From my understanding, the bagged uniform goes to a group of forensic scientists who examine my clothes under a black light and a microscope, light it on fire, mix the ashes with concrete, and ship the remains to a landfill in the Arizona desert. In the early days of my incarceration, I may or may not have made a couple idle threats that gave certain people the impression that a hidden satellite in orbit around the planet can home in on any trace of my DNA.
Despite occasional lapses like that one, I usually have the good sense to stay quiet. True, I did slightly threaten death on eight of the nine sitting Supreme Court Justices when they rejected my appeal, but everybody has days like that. I just hope my lawyer can successfully spin my diatribe as a moment of stress-induced insanity rather than a legitimate plan to show those fools and meddling heroes what a true genius can do.
Once I have new clothes on, I turn around and place my hands behind my back so one of the guards can handcuff me. The other passes an electric wand across my head and body, ensuring that I haven’t hidden any foreign objects on my person in the last twenty-four hours.
I catch a little bit of my reflection in the chrome of the scanner and muse that my already short hair has begun thinning recently. In my prime, I could crash the Earth’s moon into Jupiter, but I never figured out a long-term cure for male pattern baldness.
“You’re clean again today,” the scan-man says as he takes his equipment out of the cell.
“Just like every day,” I respond. My voice sounds raspy from lack of use. “Has the warden still not realized I know the specifications of those scanners? If I wanted to hide something, I’d do it in a way you’d never pick up.”
“Of course, of course,” says the guard who handcuffed me.
“One day, you’ll show us all, right?”
I swallow my pride and just grin as the others guffaw in my direction. I wait until they uncuff me and leave before I allow myself the satisfaction of a response.
“No,” I mutter. “It’s too late for me to show you. You’ll have to learn the hard way now.
Babbling Brooks 