At first, only rope... husky coils falling around him from overhead. Loops on top of denim - closing up, pinning his arms, bearing down on his tongue despite fierce resistance... the ends knotting in the small of his back and over his shins.
His boots break contact with the asphalt.
He rises over his car, above the liquor store...
The panicky figure is lifted ten yards, twenty, across a dozen backyards and gently down to a dark house on a big lawn. His frenzy doesn't change his course - feet first, through a window which slides down and latches immediately. All done waiting.
He's rotated and brought further into the room. Facing the window - and dropped. Four, maybe five feet.
"Ooof," he manages. There's a pad under him, but still... He tries to sit up - the pad is greased. Won't be getting far...
Ropes loosen and retighten, spreading him out. Three minutes of panic and outrage, as the rope end slither through eye bolts far out of his reach, knotting...
Boots are eased off, and gloves are pulled onto his uncooperative hands - black calfskin, a little too big... lined with something greasy.
He fights wholeheartedly and hollers for help. Twisting, flailing... The ropes are knotting a last time. Bowstring taut...
This room was a recording studio once. Thick acoustical baffling absorbs his shouts. Triple-pane glass keeps the neighbors, a hundred yards away, from hearing anything. The room was ideal, needing only the bolts in the floor, and the pad...
The owners of this most suitable house are in Europe. Until the new year.
He gives up, panting heavily, tugging less. Angry. Doesn't notice the movement 'til the pack is out of his pocket. Fights all over again as one smoke magically creeps out, moving toward him. He shies away until a rope circles his forehead and eases it down to the mat, and tightens, and tightens, until he takes the cig between his teeth... tightens a bit more until he sucks flame from his own Zippo, hanging there traitoriously, now clanking shut and landing off to his right. The headband-rope loosens considerably.
He huffs smoke and keeps trying to get loose. His hands throb, slick with trapped sweat. The grease inside the gloves has turned out to be liniment.
A flash catches his eye - metal glinting in the weak moonlight. Moving in... Coldness touches his forearm, and his sleeve tightens a little. A familiar sound - and the cuff of his jacket falls open. Scissors, a big pair... now further up his sleeve. Snip. The blade turns, resting on his shoulder - he lurches back and forth, and the rope bears back down on his brow. A new smoke comes up, and it's burned to life by the old one. He sucks in, distracted by his other sleeve being sliced open...
Four more cuts, a couple tugs - the scraps of denim are taken away.
His shirt goes quickly... split up the front and down each sleeve, chrome resting briefly on his tats, exposing 'em. His socks are soon rags, tugged hard from beneath the rope. His struggles fade when his jeans are pulled out above his navel to let the scissors in. His underwear is ruined at the same time...
Bare, with no cloth for traction... sliding a little on the oily vinyl as he strains at the ropes. Yelling, again - as long and as hard as he can.
Something touches him -
Two things.
He can't help but stare.
A pair of hands -
No. Gloves. Armless, unfilled, riding from his ribs to his navel, sliding together.
Instantly tensing up, he cackles twice and sucks in smoke.
The hands slide apart to their starting points, and he tries to turn... his ass scoots the opposite way.
They keep moving over him, glossy, extravagant. Just enough pressure. He chuckles crudely and squirms.
Shiny fingers poke under his right knee and clamp gently. His leg stiffens - and the other too, as it's also clenched. He laughs louder... and thrashes his head, losing his 'Boro. Hooting, trying to watch the hands on him. Astonished expression.
The scissors levitate again. He lifts his head, squinting hard, to yowl at the gloves in protest. The rib-polishers make room for another big palm which lays restlessly on his stomach, a finger probing his navel as if it's checking for lint...
Four snips along his hairline, and the back of his neck is visible for the first time in a decade. Satin grips and caresses the tendons, leisurely searching for the most drastic reaction it can cause.
He roars. He isn't "just" getting tickled - this is unexpectedly total kneading, gloves molding to him, manipulating skin and muscles. Far more deep and thorough than mere sliding or massaging...
Gloves lock onto his armpits. He shrieks, chin pointing toward the ceiling. Another hand investigates the small of his back. He doesn't see the glove clamp down on his right instep... and when the other foot is attacked, he falls silent.
His body relaxes slowly - all except his face, locked in a mammoth grin.
They hold him, squeezing intermittently. He doesn't move or open his eyes.
The gloves start to slide again, very gently.
He flops twice. Violently reflexive jerks that get him nowhere.
Number twelve leans hard on the ropes holding his left wrist... and sweeps up and down his forearm. It squeezes the leather covering his fingers, getting in between them and working the liniment in deeper, pressing the back of his hand and then the palm. It plays with his right hand too, which dodges faintly...
Not a snicker out of him. He doesn't so much as move his head.
Fifteen minutes...
Baby washcloths are opened, cleaning up urine.
His eyes don't even open.
A bag tears open behind him, and a disposable razor floats to his stomach.
No lather... just his sweat. A baby wipe follows its path.
New razors and baby wipes relieve the old ones.
A bottle of lotion shakes in midair, brisk and sure.
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