I am harboring a fugitive.
Well, not so much harboring a fugitive as holding a captive. He's in my bathroom. Right next to my office. I normally leave the door open. But not tonight. He's not getting out any time soon. I've had enough. If that door had a lock, I'd turn it and throw away the key. Okay, that might be a bad idea, what with those 44 oz. Diet Cokes sometimes making for an overactive bladder. But I'd WANT to lock it up and throw away that key.
My captive is indignant. He is most likely, at this very moment, rubbing his nasty little hands together, plotting an escape. I can almost hear him carrying on in there. The closed door helps silence him. But when I visit his NASCARed prison, I can't hear myself think. His incessant sounding-off makes my skin crawl. Just the thought of him makes my skin crawl. Maybe that's because he has been found crawling on my skin more than once.
Nobody needs to notify authorities concerning the Geneva Convention. I stashed my prisoner in what he must think of as a luxury suite. He has running water. Artwork on the walls for his big ol' eyes to gaze upon. A seat. A wastebasket. He doesn't eat much, so I don't have to worry about feeding him. In fact, feeding him would make him vomit. Sure, he'd rather be loose, following me around the house. He's kind of a stalker. I can't get away from him. His favorite activity is walking around on my lips as soon as I doze off in the recliner. I'll get him one of these days. I keep a weapon at the ready.
No need to notify those Geneva Convention hosts and hostesses. Or even Jeff Goldblum.