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It's a half-sheet photocopied flyer, stuck under his windshield wiper. He skims the larger print:
 

Your money is not wanted - just your compassion In a faraway place, Alonzo is locked in a tiny cell... ... imprisoned for longer than he can remember ... ... he has done nothing to deserve this outrageous fate ... ... hours of sadistic, unimaginable torture each day ... ... sleep deprivation and constant drugs to control ...

 
Whoa, he thinks. That sucks. Glad I'm not him...

At the bottom right-hand corner of the flyer, there's a small black heart, fuzzy and slightly crooked. Shaded as if it was embossed or something.
 

 
Ben reads the words "finally set free" again, thinking about some generic third-world prison. Idly swiping his thumb over the black heart
 

and everything around him
 

c h a n g e s .
 

Inside. Musty room, dark, lit only by the window.
A guy sits in a weird chair, facing him. Head back, wild blond hair, cigarette between his teeth. No shirt. Tats. Sweaty. He looks tired. Lifting his head -

That's... a mirror.

He looks at his tattoos in it. Stares - is that a wig? And where'd the cigarette come from? It's been years since h-
Leaning forward, he stops abruptly. And notices his arms are behind him.
Tied. No, cuffed. Thick, heavy. Leather. Hands well apart from each other.
On some pads below, extending his legs a little - where did his boots go? - his ankles are pinned the same way.

"Zo."
A guy's voice. Not his. Younger... perkier.
He kicks out smoke he accidentially inhaled, eyes stinging, and looks around for whoever's speaking. "You alright?"
There's a bed behind him, but nobody's on it -
"Alonzo?"

He snaps into a vivid daydream. Seeing...

His car.
A guy standing next to it, holding a piece of paper. Leather jacket, pants, boots. Dirty blonde hair down past his ass. He turns a little, looking up from the flyer.
Tears are running down his cheeks.
He checks his pockets, finds a roll of bills... and a key-ring.

Those keys look just like -
Hey!

He gets into the car and shuts the door. And cries. Heaving shoulders, head against the steering wheel, the whole bit. After maybe fifteen seconds he lifts his head and looks around - not self-consciously, but like he's truly afraid of something.
Then, as he pulls himself together, the expression on his face is... blissful.
Tears of joy.
Blinks a couple times, wipes his face with his hand. He's not old, maybe mid-twenties, but he's seen hard times. There are deep lines around his eyes and mouth, but his eyes look like he won the lottery or something.
He pats his chest... And pulls out a pack of smokes, unfamiliar design, then a matchbook. Lights up -

He's smokin'. No. Not in my car! What's he t-

He looks the keys over, selects one... slots it, turns it over. Takes a couple hard drags off the cigarette, still snuffling now and then.
Then he stares straight ahead for a few seconds. Looks around the car, and glances past the side mirror. He's picked out a point to focus on. Uncomfortable coincidence, but he's staring at the car's owner, almost eye-to-eye. He rolls down the window...
Picks up the flyer. Holds it up, facing out.
His face looks pained now. He tugs on the cigarette, lets the smoke out... and then his lips move.
I'm sorry. Fuck. Sorry, bud.
Tears, welling up in his eyes.
He sets down the flyer, and looks out again.
Hang... in... there.
As he puts the car in gear, a huge smile breaks out. Relief. Big happiness. Grinning like a fool, he takes another drag and pulls out. Races off.
 

Shit. That guy steals his car, and smokes in it...
He's... going home. Or somewhere he's glad to get back to. Could be another town, across the country.
The same flyer -
Sorry.
Hang in there -

"Hey. Alonzo... Hel-lo."

He -
Oh, get serious. This can't be... what it looks like.

"Time for bed." Where is this guy? Sounds like he's a yard or two away -
"You talkin' to me?" he says. There's gunk in his mouth... why did he just smoke a cigarette? His tongue pushes it away from between his lips.
"Who else? You ready to stretch out? I think they're c-"
"Wait," he says. "I'm Ben. I'm not Alonzo."
"Riiiight."
"No, I'm serious."
"That game again? It's been years since you tried to pull that one."
Years? What the hell. "I - now look... I'm not who you think I am -"
"Sure you are. You're Alonzo. Always have been."
He's... Alonzo.
That must've been the old Alonzo stealing his car. The guy who was so happy to be... free, from here, that he cried -

"C'mon!"
"Huh?"
"Get up. Go to bed, by yourself - for once."
He tugs - "My hands are cuffed, here."
"And?"
"And?"
"Ask 'em," the voice urges. "They're waiting."
"Ask 'em what?" he shoots back.
"Zo," the voice sighs, "You're digging a deep hole here, amigo."
This is crazy. "Lemme go, now," he barks.
"You're only making it worse. A lot harder -"
"I want to be back at my c- where my car was, before the real Alonzo stole it -"
"Man. Oh, man. This is not a good time to be playin' this game." He lunges around in the chair. "You're stayin' there until you ask the right way. You know that."
"Fuc- okay. What's the right way?"
"Alonzo!"
"I can't say it if I don't know it, can I?"
"Dammit -" The voice sounds worried. It comes closer, somehow, and almost whispers. "My keepers, wise and powerful."
"What?"
"Say it!"
"You're out of your m-"
"You know they can hear you? Why are you setting yourself up like this?"
He continues pulling at the cuffs, and takes a deep breath. "HAAAAAALLlllpppp-"
"No! Stop it!" He yells again. And again...

There's no reaction.
"Oh man. Zo, man, now you've really done it. They're gonna go after you -"
"Who?"
"- and you know there can't be anybody who can hear ya. Oh wow."
"Who's gonna go a-"
"Them! My keepers, wise and powerful - c'mon, you gotta say it -"
He shakes his head, not believing this. "My keepers, wise and powerful -"
The voice sighs with relief. "Who do with me whatever they will, and t-"
"Wait just one fuckin' minute here," he says, straining again.
"Don't make it worse than it already is! Say it!"
"No-"
"Who do with me," the voice coaxes.
"Shit. Who do with me as t-"
"Whatever. Whatever they will. Do it right, Zo, please."
He keeps tugging. "Who... do with me whatever they will."
"And train me for a long life of obedience in their inescapable care..."
"No way." It's a bad dream. That's it.
"Zo! Say it, now! And train me for a long life of obedience."
"And train me for a long life of obedience..." he says, as sarcastically as he can.

The fuckin' speech goes on for nine or ten more lines. Ridiculous shit. A bad horror movie.
"Unh. Good. Two more lines. Get a smoke."
"That's real funny."
"Dude, you're almost done. Do it. Never seen you go that long without a cig anyway -"
"Aw, enough of this bullsh-"
"Look at 'em. Move your head. Signal 'em."
"I don't smoke."
"Aw, not that again, Zo."
"I'm not gonna do it."
"You have to!"
"What'd I just say?"
"They're not gonna open the cuffs unless you're smokin'. They never have. You know that. It's bad already for ya, don't make it any worse -"
"So? Fine. I'll just sit here... and pull one of these fuckin' cuffs... loose."
"That won't work."
"Why not?"
"It never has before..."
First time for everything, he thinks. No, the other guy, who was here before, he must've put up a fight. The leather is really thick. Must be bolted to the chair, maybe a lot of rivets... "How long ha-"
"Not now! This is not the time. I'm tryin' to help you out, bud. You gotta do it, take my word for it, pleeeeeze."

Absolutely nuts. "Alright. Shit. Look at 'em, then what? Nod my head?"
"No - uh - beckon 'em. You know, c'mere."
He rolls his eyes and looks at the pack. It's sitting on a skinny table next to the chair, near a matchbox and a full ashtray. The brand is the same one the old Alonzo ha-
The old Alonzo ?!
No way. This has gotta... stop.
But until he can bust out of here, he may have to play along. A little.
He looks at 'em, and frowns. "Salvaje," huh? Bet they taste like shit. He jerks his head to the side...
On the third try, the pack rises in the air. Tilts -
"What the hell?"
A cigarette slides out.
"How are you doin' that?"
"The keepers. Just take it. They're waiting!"
The butt cruises on up to his face. Free as a bird. He has no idea how it's moving...

It parks on his lower lip. The matchbox rattles, and one match saunters out, drags across the table and lights. Coming in, and landing, so he sucks in -
Eeyyuck. He doesn't inhale, and ends up coughing just the same. Nasty. And the head rush -
"Don't drop it, whatever you do. I hate to think what would happen."
"You satisfied now?" he says, highly annoyed.
"You didn't finish. Can't go to bed until y-"
"Aw hell. I'm not even tired." This isn't exactly true. He doesn't know why, but ever since he first saw himself in the mirror he felt as though he'd just run a marathon or something. Hadn't been tired before then -
"It's not a request. Why are you defying 'em like this?"
"I never asked to b-"
"Stop! Stop stop stop. Just get the lines over with. I mean it, Zo. If pleasing to your mighty whim and stern design..."
"This is unbelievable." Definitely a dream.
"If pleasing to your mighty whim and stern design," the voice says urgently. He repeats it. "Suffer me and I will be moved from your lesson-chair to your reenergizing bed."
"I don't like the sound of that," he complains.
It's the last line, Alonzo, for your own sake, say it! Suffer me and I will be moved."

He takes a long time saying the words, mockingly. It seems like a better idea to stay away from that bed. He's not sure why.
When he finishes talking, nothing happens.
"Oh man," the voice says worriedly.
Then he feels pressure, behind. He cranes his neck, but he can't see anything. The right cuff lets go. Then the left. He gets up right away, awkwardly. Throws the cigarette on the floor and stumbles forward -
"Are you crazy?"
Not bothering to reply, he pulls at the - nope, it's not a wig. Dyed blonde. Who in the hell would go to the trouble, and when did they have the time to do th-
A frame, mounted on the top corner of the mirror, catches his eye.

 
The flyer. Another copy of it, he thinks numbly. The last guy, he held it up... for me to see. Before he drove away. Sorry, bud.
What's it mean? The other guy was suddenly holding the exact same piece of paper - the one left on his car, when... Switched. That guy goes free, he gets stuck here. With blonde hair.
There's another frame, too, across from that one. A smaller piece of paper there is filled with very small print. All he can make out is the headline at the top:
 

 
Getting angry again, he slides past the mirror... And finds no door.
Stone walls. All four sides. Floor, ceiling. Cool, almost damp beneath his bare feet. A piss-hole in the corner, and an ancient bucket, half-full of water -
"Don't! Come here. Oh, I hate to think what they're gonna do to you, and for how long... Please, Alonzo..."
He goes to the window. Thick iron bars, way too close together to slip through. They don't budge. The view is of... nothing. A uniform dull-white color everywhere, which might go on for miles or end a few feet from the barred window, he can't tell without some other object out there to suggest a scale. A light breeze blows in, now and then gusting or settling down for a few seconds. Warm, but not too warm. Carrying no scent at all.
Something - he'll need a knife or something to dig those bars out.
It sinks in, finally. He could be here a long time.
Years.
Yeah, right.

"I'm begging, here, Zo..."
Well. He could start on the bars tomorrow. And he is kinda tired. What a totally bizarre day...

He turns and looks at the bed. It's wide, leaving no space on neither side. Filling up at least one-third of the cell. No, it could be an ordinary king-size, this room is just so fuckin' small...
A threadbare cotton sheet, and two sad-looking pillows. No blanket. An iron shelf on the side wall holds another full ashtray, matchbox, open pack of Salvajes.
Pressing down tenatively on the mattress, he eases down and sits. Looking at the chair, and the mirror. Home sweet home. Naw, quit thinkin' like that.
Seeing no other option, he decides a little sleep wouldn't hurt. He lays down cautiously. The pillows smell bad... like they've never been washed. The last guy... all that hair. He tosses 'em off the foot of the bed.
Nothing happens. Watching for trouble, not exactly knowing what or why, he rolls over and curls up the way he usually sleeps. At least the sheet is clean -

"'night, Zo," the voice says wistfully.
He grunts once.
"Don't let the bed-gloves bite."
Tired old cliché -
Did it say... "glubs"? Instead of "bedbugs"? 'Cause he thinks he heard "gloves", and that makes no sense -
Pinch. On his ass.
He jumps -
Sure enough, there's a glove in the air, only an inch or two over him.
He gapes. Just a glove, backlit - No arm in it. Hell, no torso.
Other movement -
Many. Gloves.
The closest one must've... pinched him. It didn't hurt that much - not with the sweat-pants on - but it fr-
They dive on him!
Instantly finding his limbs, pinning 'em -
"Hey!"
"I tried to warn you, hombre. Really I did. Now they have you... and you've got them in a wild, wild mood..."
"Lemme - go -"
Something creaks. And... faint jingling. Surrounded.
He feels an odd texture on his ankles. And wrists. Wha-
Tightening.
That can't be...

Too late. No, aw no - "NOOOOO!" He flails like crazy. And it doesn't matter, he's already cuffed. They're done, they got cuffs on him. Magic gloves. Not poss-
And they pull. The cuffs stretch his limbs out a little further. This is an incredible... posture. He can't move. Just a little wiggling of his ass. That's it. Inconcievable, how stuck he is.
The gloves huddle in the air above him. What is going on here? Is this standard for "bedtime"? Where the hell was he gonna go?
He was intensely aware that he had no shirt on. No shoes. If they'd taken the sweat-pants off, he'd really be expecting the worst. Yelling, throwing his head all around, he does his best to arch and twist and rock. Nothing buys him any slack, or breaks a cuff -
A group of black hands swoop down - and grab his legs. Pulling away. Loud, familiar sound -
Hook-and-loop. The sweat pants are off, taken away. The outside of the legs must have been designed for this.
He's naked.
"No. You stop th-"
The gloves start in on him.

Not slugging him...
The hands, slippery and dark, heavy, wide - smooth.
Satin. They're made of satin. Spreading out, taking hold, beginning to knead.
"Oh fuck, no!"
Strength, like iron, cool chrome -
He slurs into hard chuckling.
Belly-laughs.
Screeching roars.

They take to his feet.
They clench his neck.
Wriggle under his knees.
Roam up his thighs.
The hands check him out everywhere.
And he responds. Hysterically.

Perfect, machinelike purity of tickling.

All over him, nonstop, light dusting and unbelievably deep squeezing and fast wipes and relentless creeping. Making him thrash, howl, spasm, whoop, jerk, shriek, lunge, bay, and fifty other things he doesn't have time to recognize.
 

He comes back around slowly...
It seemed like they rode him for hours. Is that smoke? He sucks in a little - yep, he's got a cigarette. When he checks his limbs, they're still anchored.
If he doesn't open his eyes, he can try to hold on to the idea that this is all a really, really bad dream -
Soft hands cradle his head and lift it. The cigarette is taken away. A... spout is put into his mouth - water. Flat, somewhat bitter - but he guzzles it desperately. It does wonders for the fire in his throat.
After draining that... wineskin, canteen, whatever - he gets another.
Another cigarette is pressed into position, and he hears the scrape of a match. In a second there's a tiny push at the cigarette, and he drags on it. Replused by the harsh smoke in his mouth and lungs... and vaguely comforted by it at the same time.
His head is slowly dropped back. He doesn't dare open his eyes.

When a new smoke is there, lit from the last one, he doesn't dare resist.
His pulse rate is up. Smokin'...
A couple minutes later, that doesn't wash. He's fully awake and then some. Something ain't right -
The water. They dosed the water.
Too wound up. He won't be able to sleep - or pass out - for, shit, maybe eight hours. Twelve. Hell, he can't imagine going through twelve more minutes of that -
He shudders. And, because he can't stand not to, he opens his eyes.
Gloves everywhere. Just off him. In position. Dark, relaxed fingers, curled to take hold of his ribs, dig into his feet, polish his belly.
It's no less dark than it was when he first... arrived here.
His cigarette is taken - and then it backs up, until he takes one more drag. He makes it a long one. Shaky...
Then he watches the cigarette float over to the shelf, where the ashtray was.
He looks at his feet - and at the mirror, which is now closer to the bed. He can't tear his eyes away from reflection of the keepers down there, an inch above his flushed soles. Sadly certain that begging won't do any good.
He realizes he's still holding the smoke. Then he exhales unwillingly...
You're Alonzo.
The last guy had been here so long, his hair was past his ass.
Before his lungs are empty, the gloves take hold... and make it pay.

And... pay.

Time dissolves.

They ride him for weeks. Months.
The keepers learn his finer points. Exactly where to dust, where to bulldoze, which spots are most provoked by intermittent fingering instead of nonstop strokes.

He laughs or squirms very rarely. It doesn't matter.
The petting continues.

More breaks... unmemorable food... and coming around to take the cigarette which hangs in the air above his nose, smoking it while he waits for them to continue.
 

Decades later, he's staring at his thighs. Eventually he figures out that this means he's not laying down anymore. Tilts his head, slowly... carefu-
"Zo. Hey, buddy."
"Ow. Fuck. How long have I b-"
"Uh-uh, Zo. You know I can't."
"What?"
"They said so. Can't answer that."
"Wh- why not?"
"No questions that start with 'How long'. C'mon now, quit playin' around."

He looks at himself in the mirror...
Is his hair longer? Or is his mind just playing tricks on him?
A stray glance at the little table brings the pack on over. He frowns -
"Please don't make trouble, amigo. You know what happens when you do?"
"What the hell is going on?" he says loudly. "Why?"
The voice sighs. "I don't know why you do this. Every so often you act like you just got here -"
"I did just get here."
"Aw, Zo..."

Over the course of the next few smokes, he gets more details from the voice. Life sentence. No sickness, no tooth trouble. Not here. Several bouts of "amnesia", and strong protests about having just arrived.
How many different Alonzos, he wonders vaguely...
But the gloves - the keepers - they gotta know. That guy, in his car right now - he was taller.
"Time to eat," and a bowl approaches. "They're waiting..." A crude wooden bowl and spoon, filled with some grey slop.
It tastes like dust.
"This is a joke, right? Where's the real food?"
"You're eating it. Same as always. It's very nutritious."
"I'm not gonna eat th-"
"You know you are, Zo," the voice says, all worried again.

Then more water comes, and more cigarettes.

He stares at the flyer, with its mocking headline. The voice said he had to memorize it, and the other framed document. His sentence, or judgement, some bullshit like that. There were other long manifestos he'd be required to reel off. In praise of the keepers.
Maybe he could rush the mirror when they moved him back to the bed. Break the glass, and touch the heart on the flyer. Maybe it would work, and he'd be out of this fuckin' nightmare -
Fingers touched his thighs.
"No," he said sternly, rearing back...
More gloves took hold and began to knead.

And the odd, milky light beyond the bars never changed. No darker, no lighter...

Uncountable cigarettes, and water breaks, and bowls of gruel. And at some point - as he was being carried back to the bed again - he realizes he's repeating phrases, not even aware he's doing it...

Hours later, squinting through howled tears, he sees the mirror back at the foot of the bed, angled for his convenience. Gloves, and restraints. And him.
 
 
 

Waking up again back in the chair...
There was a big crate, or something, behind the mirror. He stretched his neck to look. Cartons of cigarettes, unlabeled bottles that were probably booze, and big white tubes that looked like they might contain some kind of cream. A supply run, he thought numbly. From civilization to Alonzo's cell.
His hair - his bleached hair - was now past his shoulders.
 
 

As he squirmed on the damp bed, under a crowd of dark gloves, he remembers taking the flyer from under his windshield wiper. It seems like a fable he heard twenty years ago...
Could've crumpled it up, then. If only he hadn't turned it over, given it a look. And touched the magic heart on the paper.
If only.
The fingers massage in unison, and he moans soulfully.
Beyond the window the day is no older than it ever was, or ever would be.

04sep00