Written by Michael R Christer   

In the middle of the night, my door is kicked in. I scramble from my bedroom and find myself face to face with the NSA. I see duct tape and a whip poking from a bag he’s holding. A compact DataVac--a Hoover?--is strapped to his back.

Me: What do you want?

NSA: You know why I’m here; I’m fighting terrorism. I need your metadata.

Me: Sweet Jesus!

I’m not really surprised. I mean, I’ve been reading the news, but it’s one of those things you never imagine happening. Sure, it happens to other people.

So I’m really not prepared to handle the NSA in my living room. Running would be pointless. I think about punching the NSA in the face and then fleeing to Canada, but realize it’s a stupid idea. No matter what I do, they’ll surely take whatever they need in the name of safety. They’ll threaten me with a new 9/11.

Still, I can’t just bend over and take it.

Me: Hey, what about the constitution? You have no right to—

Fifteen seconds later I’m blindfolded, cuffed, and stripped of my clothes. My bits are exposed. Crap, I should have ran. Anything but this.

Later, while the NSA is savagely data-raping me, it’s Obama I sense behind me, pulling my hair, digging his nails into my private data. Intellectually, I know the NSA is a faceless, emotionless organization created to save us from certain, immediate death. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s our president holding the DataVac hose.

He's wearing ridiculously large headphones. He's panting and sweating. He's straining to listen. Suddenly, his face lights up. He’s sucked up some fresh nuggets of intelligence: he learns I'll be preparing veggie burgers and roasted sweet potatoes within two days. I have a dentist appointment a week from Thursday. I called my mom twice yesterday.

Me: Stop!

The NSA pumps his fist, removes the hose, and writes something in The Official Spy Book.

I think it’s over, but it’s never really over, is it? The NSA wants everything from everyone. I scream NO over and over.

NSA: Shut up and take it like a good American. You know, you can thank Mr. Snowden for the pain; this goes much smoother when you don't know it's happening. And you call him a hero?

Finally, he towels the sweat from his face, unplugs, and shoves me violently to the floor.

NSA: See, that wasn’t so bad, huh? I think we have what we need for tonight, but we’ll be back.

Me: You’re a monster.

NSA: No, think of us as a collective superhero, tasked by the United States government to keep the world safe from evildoers. You served your country well tonight, son. You ought to be proud. Just know that you’re helping to prevent the next 9/11.

I look around for the first time since the data-rape began and notice bits of data running down the walls.

Me: You son of a bitch! You said you just wanted my metadata!

The NSA laughs and pushes a button on the DataVac. The electrical cord retracts. He holsters the data-hose. He turns to leave, stops, and puts his index finger up to his lips.

NSA: Remember, I was never here.

He steps on my broken door and vanishes into the darkness.

Cracked shells of my communications are scattered throughout the house. Old text messages have been stripped of their text. Phone calls are now silent. Tweets, some of my wittiest, are smudged and illegible. I picked up what I thought was a Facebook post to see it was only a random string of numbers and a fractured photo of . . . something.

Still naked, I limp into the bathroom. I want to report the data-rape, need to tell someone, but I’m ashamed. They’ll think I wanted it, that I asked for it.

In the shower, sobbing, I lean my head against the wall as bits of data debris clog the drain.