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Franz was never told what country
the prison was in. He was in a nightclub with a girl in Munich, things
were going well, and then she pulled a weapon on him. She called five
men in riot gear from another room, who bound and gagged Franz. He was
driven in a windowless vehicle for eight hours or so, to some stone
structure in the mountains. His cell was small and dank and wet, with
no cellmate. There was one small window, which was so inset in the wall
that sunlight never entered the cell. There was a small bed, and a
bucket, and once a week Franz was bound and gagged while guards emptied
the bucket. He could hear echoes of other prisoners, but they all spoke
Russian and Franz spoke no Russian. The only person he could
communicate with was the guard who fed him. He spoke German, with a
Romanian accent. He slid Franz a daily bowl under a slot in the floor,
and every once in a while he would tell Franz a joke. The jokes were
bad but they became the highlight of Franz’s life. Franz never
knew how much he wanted, needed human contact. He craved it almost as
much as his daily bowl of blood. |
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