Dante Is A Bad Hostage

The image above is what we usually picture when we picture terrorists. Especially in 80’s films. Now they come in all shapes and sizes to represent equality and all that business. I was just reading this article about this poor bastard that was captured by a group and has begged President Obama to rescue him and give in the demands of his captures.

As always the line given back is “We don’t negotiate with terrorists.” I like to imagine myself in a lot of random ass situations that will never happen. Being a slave. Being a cop. Or this time being held hostage. Now, I know I’m not a good bargaining chip as comedian Dave Chappelle once pointed out. But for the sake of this blog let’s imagine that I was captured and ended up on the radar of the media and in turn the President.

Harry Potter doesn't know who he's fucking with. Expectus Beaticus!

Whenever I see movies and someone is held with the threat of having something cut off their body or electrocuted or something they always try to remain strong. Maybe they’ll crack after three fingers have been broken. I’m under the mindset of “These fuckers mean business so either I’m gonna talk or I’m not.” I will not wait until you have started making less Dante before I tell you what you want to hear.

Terrorist: “We are going to use this clamp to electrocute your balls off.”

Dante: “You guys look for reals. I will tell you everything you want to know.”

It's about to go...down.

The end. Seriously, I’m not gonna get my nuts clamped for nothing. “What about for friends?” you ask…because you’re an asshole and listen to too much TLC. Well, I assume my real friends know the rules and that I wouldn’t have them take a beating for my Black ass. How can I ever pay back some shit like that?

Friend: “Dante, can you help me move some furniture?”

Dante: “Oh, I don’t know. I’m supposed to go see a movie and--”

Friend: “I remember movies. Before I lost my eyes protecting you!”

I hate pain. Though I have lived with various forms of it its not like I was tied to a chair and made to suffer through it. If I’d ever been tortured every single one of you would know about it. Why? Because I’d continually bitch about it.

“Yeah, you all sit and enjoy your Bunch-A-Crunch! Meanwhile, I gotta sit here with no goddamn ankles! Oh, excuse me for ruining your Quinceañera, but my socks don’t fit me properly anymore! And whose dick do I have to suck to get a glass of Kool Aid?!”

What was I talking about? Right. I would be a terrible hostage for the same reasons I would be a bad slave. I’d bitch all the time. I’d be asking too many questions. “When are you gonna free me? Does this ever really work? Can I get a new poop bucket? Can somebody put some music on?” Shit like that.