A seven-foot tall steel scuba suit sulks inside the interrogation room of John F. Kennedy Airport. In the adjoining room, I watch him from the safe side of a one-way mirror. I never thought I’d see Big Daddy locked up, let alone flagged as a domestic terrorist.

A hotshot TSA officer named Jeff Church taps on the glass.

“Look at the big dope,” Church cackles, flecks of Cinnabon stuck in his beard “Hope dope don’t cry, ‘cuz  dope might drown inside his big dopey mask.”

I’ve been brought in to vouch for video game icon, but the TSA couldn’t care less, Church and his goons are determined to put this man-thing – my friend – behind bars.

But you know. I can’t blame them. Big Daddy’s a metal detector’s worst nightmare – scrap metal breastplate to steel toed boots. And he does have a history of disemboweling seafarers.

“You know what he does with that drill for an arm?” asks Church, rhetorically. “I bet he kills dogs with it. Whole litters. Goes down to the nearest pound and kills puppy litters. Filthy terrorist scum.”

I volunteer to take in Big Daddy’s meal – stale bread, unidentifiable meat and a glass of water. I unlock the door, step inside, and then stop at Big Daddy’s loud, mechanical croak. I set the plate down before him, but he pushes it away with a big, metal finger.

With mashed potatoes on the table, Big Daddy writes out “Home?” “Soon,” I say. It hurts to lie.

I know what they’ve planned for him. I know he won’t be home for a very long while. Church told me everything over a cup of extra bitter coffee.

The government cannot let Big D board the plane. Makes sense, he’s made of metal and half of his appendages are projectile weapons. And they cannot let him return to the city. God knows the political fallout. So where does a man without a place to go… go?

Big Daddy board a small private jet filled with a dozen or so American soldiers. I hug him goodbye as he disrobes, at least as much as a Big Daddy can disrobe. Church hands him a bright orange jump suit and pulls a black bag over his head.  That’s the last I see of him.

It will be a long time before we see Big Daddy again. I call church a few days later and ask for an estimate time the creature, my long gone pal, will return. “Fiscal year 2010,” Church says.

Why so long?

“Oh, you know, it’s almost August,” replies Church, “and fall’s a really busy time for us.”