MUSHROOMLAND, COLUMBIA
“M y turn,” the Executioner says.
Looking at guards all around us, I wonder what I’m going to do now. I have no way out of this unless I shoot him and risk being killed one second later.
But why would I shoot him without freeing the children or knowing who cooked the plague?
This is some paradox I’m trapped in.
“So tell me, Alice,” the Executioner says. “Do you think you’re getting out of here alive today?”
“Hookah Hookah.” In my mind, the answer is, ‘Hell yeah!’ I just have no idea how.
“Impressive,” the Executioner says. “Even though I know you will die in a few minutes, I still believe you. You know why? Because you definitely believe it. Now ask me.”
“Who cooked the plague?” I shoot.
The Executioner laughs. “Hookah Hookah,” he says. And I realize that in his mind he just answered, but I am not going to know it, not in a million years. Some silly game.
But wait, he doesn’t look like he is telling the truth. What am I supposed to do?
My hand grips my gun. A wide smile forms on the Executioner’s face.
That’s when I realize how tricky this game is. He deliberately gave me the wrong answer. At least he made sure I’d sense it, so I’d try to shoot him and then have his guards finish me off.