Congratulations on Yammering About Star Trek Until They Just Leave You Alone!

You’re an unlikely covert operative: a computer programmer turned super spy after he uncovered a super-secret group of spies located outside the purview of the government, like a less stupid Alpha Protocol. But here you are, sitting in a prison cell in Saudi Arabania, alone and with the intelligence that all of those terrorists so desperately want.

Which wouldn’t be a problem for a real super-spy. A real super-spy would just crack his suicide tooth and let the sweet, sweet cyanide course through his body, removing any threat of exposure. Or, if he was a real badass, he’d endure the torture and then murder his way out when his antagonists dropped their guard in a year or two.

But your training was sort of rushed (thanks, War on Terror) so you didn’t get all of the prep work that would’ve taught you how to resist interrogation. And you’re a devout Catholic, so suicide, like divorce from your soul-sucking whore of an Eskimo wife, isn’t really an option. So you’re going to have to draw on a some of your more unique espionage techniques in order to get out of this sticky situation.

When the burly, be-turbanned man who has been shocking your balls shows up in your cell this morning to give you your wake up pain you’ll go through your ordinary, perfunctory screams. You’ll writhe and moan and then, as you always do, you’ll start talking.

“THIS IS JUST LIKE PICARD AND THE BORG!” you’ll shout at the torturer, who will pause and fix you with a perplexed look. He’ll assess the information you just offered, consider his battery, and then pull up a chair.

“What is this to be meaning?” he’ll say, sitting on the chair backwards like a rapper in the nineties. You’ll take a minute to gather your breath before you go on.

“You’re trying to make me into your tool. But in doing so you’ll destroy what makes me useful. So you can’t push too hard.”

He’ll consider your logic, your panicked breathing and the burn marks covering most of your lower body and then stand up again.

“Like Jordi. Whenever he gets mind-controlled. Or Data with his programming removed,” you’ll continue, ignoring the menace he seems to be preparing to bring to bear upon you. He’ll pause mid-step as he slowly translates what you’ve been saying.

“Data?” he’ll say.

You’ll nod. “Brent Spiner.”

With this name in hand he’ll promptly exit the room. For a few minutes you’ll sit there in rare silence, laughing silently at the ceiling as the weight of your arms above your head constricts your breathing. After a few perfect minutes of this dull, throbbing pain he’ll return, frowning, with a man in a suit in tow. The man will pull up a chair and sit in it properly, looking you in the eye, effortlessly avoiding glancing at your exposed genitals

“Who,” he’ll say, “is this Brent Spiner. And where does he keep the data?”

This man will speak without an accent. This man will be the one you’ve been waiting for, the link you need to strike to attain your freedom.

“Who’s Brent Spiner?” you’ll spit out before tossing your head back and cackling. “One of the more underrated actors of our generation, my friend!”

The man will lean in closely as if he expects you to continue. You’ll give him a few seconds to consider the wisdom of so closely approaching a mentally unstable prisoner before you continue.

“Data, the chief science officer on the Starship Enterprise. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” When you finish your angry declaration you’ll laugh again, this time collapsing into yourself.

The man in a suit will ask you a few more pointed questions over the next few minutes before he realizes you’re just talking about Star Trek. After he gets the idea he’ll shake his head, whisper something to the burly interrogator and leave the room. The burly interrogator will proceed to lower you to the ground after the man in a suit leaves. Then he’ll wrench you to your feet and force you out of the building.

He’ll almost drop you a few times, seemingly purposefully, but after a long, baffling walk he’ll hurl you out of a plaster building and on to the cold night sand. Then he’ll toss a blanket on top of you and turn around without speaking a single word.

He, along with the be-suited Saudi prince, will have assumed that you’re so mentally shattered that Star Trek is now the only topic that you can hold within your brain. The same coping method you used to avoid people in high school will have served you once agaiin, and you’ll be free. Free to fight terror once more.

Congratulations on Yammering About Star Trek Until They Just Leave You Alone!