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If Online Retailers Controlled the Lubyanka
The concrete corridors, damp from dark fear
Echo the heavy boots and occasional screams
The overhead fluorescents flicker like
Irregular heartbeats in dying men
In a numbered room a beaten man weeps
Through battered, swollen eyes, and in his pain
Unknown hours of beatings, blood, and pain
He can barely hear his tormentor’s words:
“We are not going to ask you again:
What was the name of your childhood pet?”
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