> But I found the basement irresistible. It drew me in like a tractor beam. Long, stale, sunless corridors, cracked linoleum at your feet, illumined by flickering fluorescent light-fixtures. Like something out of (or inspired by) Last Year at Marienbad. Nary a footstep now treads down those halls, which had overheard such secrets, hushed whispers, momentous occasions and portentous events.
> One day, to my surprise, I turned the corner, and there, sitting in his cell, was none other than Manuel Noriega, the ex-dictator of Panama. Seeing as how I did not know him personally, but recognized him from his many media appearances, I hastened to introduce myself. “How are they treating you?” I asked. “Si si, not so bad. Every now and then some junior CIA type comes in and we do some more – what is it, water-surfing? Boogie-boarding? No, no, water-boarding. But it is more for his pleasure, than mine.” I told him that the U.S. actually had given Panama the canal. “Yeah, I heard about that,” he replied. “But how about all of the new peoples who are there now, think of all of the opportunities for a little friendly mordida!” I said I was gonna mosey on, but I’d be back. “Please bring me some of the CDs by the band Pink Floyd,” he said. “They are like the thinking man’s AC/DC – I got so sick of all that puerile metal crap they were blasting at me when I was in the compound.” “Better than Sadam Hussein,” I replied. “They got him in a spider hole, and it didn’t look as though he was enjoying any music!” “They got Sadam, too?” he replied, querulously.
- David Kronemyer, My Days at RAND Corporation
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