(FADE IN:)
   (TIGHT CLOSEUP - black soft-sided suitcase, being carried)

(CAMERA PULLS BACK to show pale legs... bermuda shorts... a hawaiian shirt...
   ...back view of a man - PAUL - white, thirtyish, fit, "corporate" hair
   and posture, expensive sunglasses, carrying a suitcase.
FOLLOW Paul as he walks through a tropical resort, looking around, scowling.
He finishes a cigarette and throws it away.)

(FOLLOW Paul up the steps and into a building. PAN UP to sign over door:

Hótel Sueño

Paul walks up to the front desk, drops his bag with a sigh, and looks around.)

    (Standard ONE-SHOTS and REACTION SHOTS follow)

PAUL (leaning over counter):
Hello?

(Paul knocks on the counter impatiently. Shakes his head, lights a cigarette.

A man enters from the back room - GUSTAVO - native, fiftyish, friendly and
  relaxed, in contrast to Paul.)

GUSTAVO:
Buenas dias. Welcome to Bahía Delirante.

PAUL:
Yeah, thanks. Name's Kittleman, gotta reservation...

GUSTAVO (looking at a printout):
Yes... Señor Kittleman. If you would be so kind as to fill out this card...

PAUL (nodding, taking card and pen):
Beachfront, right?

GUSTAVO:
Yes. A private cabana -

PAUL:
With a bathroom? Full bath?

GUSTAVO:
Yes, Señor.

PAUL (nods curtly):
Good. Phone too?

GUSTAVO:
Oh, yes. Recently rewired. International calls are very clear -

PAUL:
Sure. We'll see.
(He signs the card and passes it to Gustavo, drops the pen)

GUSTAVO (rummmaging around):
A guide to all services of the hotel, and a menu for room service, are in 
   your room...
(finds key)
Ah. Here we are.
(rings desk-bell)
Number Six.  

(A boy - FELIPE - native, fourteen, skinny / wiry  - trots up to the desk.)

GUSTAVO:
Felipe, show Señor Kittleman to Num-

PAUL:
No, that won't be necessary. I'll get it.

GUSTAVO:
As you wish.

PAUL:
So which hut is mine?

GUSTAVO:
Uh... from the door you came in, go straight. Numero seis is the last of 
  those huts you see -
(gesturing)
- the last on the left side.

PAUL (nods, reaching for key):
Got it.
(looks right, at a gift shop)
Can I buy booze in there? Rum?

GUSTAVO:
Yes, Señor.

PAUL:
Can I have the key?

GUSTAVO:
Of course.
(starting to hand over the key)
Please note - it is the last cabana on the left side of the path.
                                           ----
PAUL (curtly):
Left. Alright.

(Gustavo hands Paul the key.)

GUSTAVO:
Six. You will find it across from the p-

PAUL:
Got it. Thank you.

(Paul exits, toward the gift shop, shaking his head slightly.)
(Felipe steps up to the counter)

FELIPE:
Stupid Americans.

GUSTAVO (mildly):
Felipe...

(CAMERA follows Paul as he exits the lobby door, bottle under his arm,
  suitcase handle in right hand, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He starts down the walkway.)

   (VO - OFFSCREEN, as Paul walks:)
    FELIPE:
    Did you tell him?

    GUSTAVO:
    Of course not. It may not happen today.

    FELIPE:
    He would not believe it anyway.

    GUSTAVO:
    Well, that is true -

    FELIPE:
    Too stupid.

    GUSTAVO:
    I told him which way to go. Left. You heard me.

    FELIPE:
    Si.

    GUSTAVO:
    I was very clear. Too clear, perhaps. Such a smart businessman does not 
      need things repeated.

(CAMERA pans to last hut on the right)
(CUT to CLOSEUP of hut door - ZOOM IN on weathered numeral hung on door:)
     9

(The numeral slowly rotates 180 degrees, becoming...)
     6

(CUT to shot of Paul, from vantage point of hut door)
(Paul pauses, rolling his neck around. Looks at number on hut door. Looks at 
  huts to his left - staggered, so the last hut on the left is further ahead.)

(CUT to shot of Paul, from in front of him)
(Confused, Paul looks back toward the main hotel, then back at the hut to 
  his right.)

(CUT to shot of Paul, from behind)
(Paul stares at the hut, finishes his smoke and throws it away, shrugs, 
  turns, and walks to the door... 
  of the last hut... on the right.)

(CUT to shot of Paul's entry, from inside the hut)
    (SFX: Key in lock, door opening)
(Paul pushes the door open. Glances around, grimaces. Walks inside.)

(CUT to shot of Paul, from just outside the door)
(Paul walks up to bed, grabs bottle from under his arm, starts to lift suitcase
 in order to set it on the bed)
     (FX: The hut and its contents, including Paul, shimmer and fade away.
          Creeping vines and small trees remain, covering the space and 
          making it appear as though there was never a hut there.)

(CUT to shot of Paul, from in front of him)
(As Paul starts to bend, setting down the bottle and suitcase, GLOVES - White, 
  large, "limber", extremely glossy (= "patent leather", but not stiff or 
  awkward / bulky) - rapidly enter the frame and take the items from his grasp. 
Paul reacts uncertainly, as the items are carried away.)

(Quick CUT to CLOSEUP of the gloves, carrying Paul's belongings.)

(CUT to shot of Paul, from in front of him)
(Paul does a "double-take," stepping backward. Gloves and items exit the frame. 
  Paul takes another step or two back, and turns around quickly.)

(CUT to shot of Paul, from just behind him)
Eight gloves are just inside the door, at various heights, blocking his way.
  They move slightly, not synchronized.)
 
(CUT to CLOSEUP on Paul - headshot)
(Paul looks from glove to glove, starting to get frantic. He looks "higher",
  beyond them.)

(CUT to CLOSEUP on highest gloves and door frame) 
(Outside the hut, the view has changed - vines, trees, beach,
  breakfront to the right - the same location, but without the other huts and the office
  that were visible when Paul entered through the door.)

(CUT to CLOSEUP on Paul - headshot - reaction)

(CUT to shot of Paul, from in front of him)
(Paul slowly starts to back up. A number of gloves are seen approaching him from behind.
 They take hold of him before he sees them.)

 
He looks at his left arm... and at the gloves holding it. Tricep, forearm. Jerks quickly, reflexively. They don't budge.
Gloves on his other arm too. Both legs.
Big white gloves around his shins, below the knee and above the ankle.
Paul shakes his head - little automatic movements - and his mouth hangs open.
The ones guarding the door don't move in. They don't have to. Grunting suddenly with the effort, Paul tries to bust loose from their grasp. He can't. Instead, they lean him over. Sit him down, on the bed. His arms are raised into the air.
Still more gloves take hold of his shoes. He kicks hard, once... After that, the grips tighten, steadying his ankle. Quick barks, too short to be syllables, escape him as he tries to kick and fight. His cross-trainers are pulled off without being untied. Right, then left.
Another pair stops at the hem of his shirt and begins pulling. He flails around, ass still planted on the mattress... growling irregularly, unconsciously, as if to himself. The body of the shirt is over his face, and they pause...
More fingers unbutton his shorts and pull them down. By the time he reacts, lunging hard and rearing back, the shorts are down by his ankles.
Thumbs hook into the top of his bikini briefs and slide them down. They pull firmly, smoothly, without haste. When his underwear is laying on top of his shorts, his shirt is pulled up the rest of the way, the thick jersey cotton bunching up between shoulder and the gloves commandeering his upper arms. It reduces his mobility further, as he shakes his head and looks at his exposed crotch... at the gloves holding his arms up.
Six of the door-guards fly over - deliberately, smoothly, no wasted motion - to the far end of the bed. They grab the headboard and pull it, straight up. Two of them carry it away, to the right of Paul and behind him.
The others descend, to the mattress - and push it. The bed moves out from the wall. He looks around wildly and keeps fighting, eventually watching the carpet scroll past his socked feet. When they stop pushing, the bed is between two and three feet from the wall.
Without pausing, the gloves swing his legs up and onto the mattress... then extend his arms over his head and lay them down.

"No," Paul says emphatically. Then he yells, "No! Hey! Stop it! Heelllllllppp!" He tries to scoot backwards, then springs toward the far side of the mattress. These manuevers are ineffective. He starts to arch, then fakes left suddenly, toward the side where he'd been sitting - and manages to slip out from under the grips on his right arm and leg.
Paul keeps rolling, and the fingers slip off his left bicep. He kicks his right leg out of his shorts and underwear, and gets it in the air. Waving his free arm frantically... But his motion is stopped by his shirt. The rolls of fabric trapped under his shoulder act as a ramp, or wedge. He can't get any further without pushing himself up somehow. Groaning, he tries to lean further, shoving his captured arm out. It slides, and the lone glove remaining on it reefs down, pressing it into the mattress.
Paul tries to flop over, onto the floor - and can't get any further. He's holding his weight in the air as it is, and pumping his free limbs. If he used them to push, he could roll off... but the gloves have come very close to catching his forearm, several times. Others are wrapped around his thigh and calf, and have been trying to land his leg. He can't stop moving long enough to push with them, and he can't get more momentum to roll without them.
The opportunity to pull free... has passed.
Paul holds himself up, reaching desperately in the direction he wants to go. Growling, which becomes a yell. Two gloves clamp onto his wrist, and push him onto his back. His shout of frustration gets louder, stopping suddenly when his right shoulder hits the mattress.
Four gloves slam into his leg in various places, and pin it. Fingers quickly wrap around his biceps and wrists.
If he had worn a thinner shirt, the outcome might have been different. If he didn't smoke so much...
"Son of a bitch!" he shouts passionately. He can't move his limbs now. Motion... at his feet -
Gloves are pulling his socks off.
"No! Heeelllllllllllllllppp..."
Others rise into view, carrying leather cuffs - brown-orange cowhide, lined with thick "sheepskin" - and chains, which run somewhere below the foot of the bed.
"Hey - hey! Need some help in here -"
Gloves bring a cuff to his right ankle.

"This isn't funny, dammit. Call 'em off..." Paul tries to squirm, and watches the gloves carefully lift his leg, just enough to slide the open cuff underneath his ankle. Kicking, twisting and groaning with the effort, he tries to arch... The gloves pull the cuff's strap tight, pushing a chrome loop through a precut slot. They clip the chain to the loop with a thick spring-hasp.
"Nnooooooohhh!" he shouts. "Anybody! Get help! Uh, assistancyuh? Aw, fuck..."
Gloves move to his left leg, slip his shorts and underwear off that ankle, and secure it. Then they slip the jersey off his arms, inching it up against gloves that anchor him heavily, putting a new grip down behind the shirt before removing one. It's a slow, cautious process, that ends with the shirt being carried away, and four gloves all but bruising each arm - at wrist, forearm, below the elbow, and mid-bicep.
The gloves do not budge, except to allow each cuff to be placed. Paul yells while they do - at them, at the hotel staff, the other guests that should be nearby... calling for help, ordering the gloves to stop, cussing at them. He tries to turn and bounce, rolling his head at times, looking at the ceiling in his helpless frustration, watching the door and the window for people - for help, rescue...

When all four cuffs are in place, the chains are tightened. He grunts, and pulls with his arms, very determined. They shake a little, but the cuffs stay right where they were, chains pulling them down against the mattress.
Finally, the gloves start releasing him.
"Hello? Anyone - if you can hear me, get help! I need heeeellllllllpppppp!"
The gloves guarding the door float away, behind the bed where the others went. He stares out the door hopefully. No groomed anymore, no huts. The wind ruffles the palm fronds, sometimes swaying the trees. It's a warm wind, and a fairly bright day...
But no one comes.
"Some hotel this is," Paul says disgustedly.

Gustavo looked up when the boy ran in. Knowing, from the look on his face...
"No... numero seis?"
Felipe nodded, with big eyes. He said nothing. That told Gustavo everything - no sign of the gringo. He nodded and waved the boy out.
The rude norteamericano, tight-faced, frowning. He had not stayed to the left, had he? He'd taken a wrong turn.
Well, he was not frowning now.
Gustavo wandered out to the lobby door. Looking down the row of beach huts...
The wind played with the swaying trees. There it was, the empty space at the end. Nueve was gone. No hut there. But Señor Kittleman, he had seen it. Hadn't he? Turned, to the right... and up to the door. Opening it, walking inside. All by himself. Or perhaps there had been a little "help". And when the Americano looked outside again, Hótel Sueño was gone, no huts, no docks. No one to hear.
And how long it would be, before he left the hut.
Gustavo remembered. Twenty-five years ago, and still it crossed his thoughts each workday. Cackling himself awake, from insane dreams that were not exaggerations...

A strong, lean man of twenty-five, staggering drunkenly down the path. An open door, which he must have thought was numero seiete - and the white hand, the curled finger slowly beckoning. The lusty chuckle burping out of his throat, as the gesture made him think of a woman, hiding in the darkness, smiling at him. He, too, had walked right up - to the doorway - squinting in confusion, no one there. The bright hands had taken hold of his belt and drawn him, slowly, inside.
And how he had howled. So many weeks... To finally wake up, a lifetime later, back at the resort. Only five days was he gone, they told him. Five days.
He'd watched for it to return. Never confident about walking down that path, even in daylight...

Other workers also knew. From personal experience. Felipe's brother... The hut would appear anywhere. Bellboys had trotted down to the docks and right through the doorway, inside before they could come to a stop. A cook swore he had gone to bed in his own bunk in the staff barracks, well behind the hótel office - and woke up the next morning cuffed down, oiled...
Walking near the hotel, at night - while drunk - was dangerous. They had all been warned, the employees, as soon as they arrived. Those who persisted, the proud men, skeptical... they learned. Workers and guests.
And ever since the cantina reopened, down the beach, there were the gringos. Drinking too much... and every so often, reports of them stumbling out onto the beach, ridiculously shiny gloves on their hands. Given a wide berth by the natives, for those men were obviously selected. Too late to help them. Walking toward the resort in an odd, hesitant way, arms up slightly, as if their hands were leading them somewhere their bodies were reluctant to go.

He hears -
No. The dream, it's going. Wonderful dream. Paul wants to stay in it, desperately...

A big metal shell, metallic blue. He crawled in and locked it, and the gloves couldn't get at him. They pounded on his metal chest and tried to pry it open at the seam. He laughed at 'em. A triumphant laugh, so different than th-
And he could walk around in it. So he goes to the titty bar. Sits in back, with a couple packs of fuckin' Winstons - oh yeah - and a little mouth-hole he could just get the filter in through, or a couple of those little bar straws to suck down single-malt as fast as the little honeys could bring it over. Drunk on his ass in his robot suit, with a cloud of gloves determined to get at him. And they can't -

 
It's gone. He groans, and gives it up, looking...
Out the window, bright morning sky, a stiff breeze.
Smell of bacon, and coffee. A pan, rattling. And hipster Vegas jazz on the radio, like every other day, their kind of mood music whenever they wanted it - they never turn on a fuckin' light for him, but magic tunes... well, sure. Paul doubts he'll ever be able to hear that cheesy instrumental lounge crap again without getting an instant hard-on.
Gloves bring his first smoke of the day. And a light.
They pick up his head and shove the big pillow under him, so he can eat sitting up, sorta. He gives the cuffs a slow, hard pull. No good.
Twenty-six, he thinks. Not sure anymore. And he'd been determined to not lose track. Three weeks and five days, and he's not getting numb. Oh, no.
It's worse. Breathtaking, mindblowing, exponential...
Stop it, just don't. Don't think about how much more ticklish you are. Don't.
Don't daydream about getting away, either, 'cause they're not going to let that happen.
They cook his breakfast, same as the other days. Mixing up what they do to him, how they hobble him... but there's a routine in the morning. They've got it down. Every morning he wakes up smelling breakfast. On clean sheets. All washed up and moisturized, body shaved smooth, ready for an even more intense day. Even his teeth are clean.
A smoke, and breakfast, a few more smokes...
The predictability - reliability! - gives him a solid sense of... permanence. Wishing that today is the last day he'll spend in the hut seems ludicrous. He's getting more ticklish. They know it. It was scary, a while ago, but each day it hardens a little more into a fundamental icy truth. Paul just can't maintain the fantasy that maybe they might kick him loose tonight, or tomorrow. Anytime soon. The casual atmosphere contradicts it.
He stares at the trees, sucking in smoke.

They float the bed-tray down and park it over his chest, the teak underside cool on his nipples. The food is consistently terrific. He doesn't know if that's a good thing, or not...
He watches them while he eats. There's something hypnotic about the way they move. He used to watch 'em carefully for a misstep, some abrupt hesitation. Maybe a feather dropped, and picked right back up. Didn't see one.
And they never hurry. That really bugs him. It's like a living illustration of "all the time in the world". He has no say in the schedule.
Hell, he has no say in anything. They have complete freedom. What a setup - whisked away to nowheresville, inside a hut he's been stuck in ever since he walked through the door. Walked in, on his own. Shit. And saw 'em trade his clothes for these thick leather cuffs.
His situation couldn't possibly be any more different than theirs. They can do any fuckin' thing they want. He can't even squeeze his armpits shut, and dammit, he's tried. There's no right move to make - and he's always prided himself on knowing what was best for Paul. But not here. Doesn't matter what he does. He's outfoxed. Every angle is covered. It's perfect - for them.
Solid, for the long term.

He's made to smoke for awhile.
A coffee cup is cradled in front of him. Big fingers wrapped up the sides. He takes a long drag, and wonders how much it would hurt if that glove turned upside down, deliberately. Where the coffee would drip, still scalding... It's an idle thought, probably another one he'll look back on with embarrassment, since they obviously have endless activities, much more extended marathons in store for his skin.
Cigarettes keep coming. Then water. A bottle to piss in, and a last smoke, the pillow gets yanked out, and then -
Stop it. They'll be doing it soon enough.
Paul thinks about it anyway. Can't stop. Still can't believe, in some yearning way, that this is really happening. But he was only ignorant the first day. The first ten minutes. Then they got out the oil... and welcomed him. And he thought it was bad then. Rookie shit.
They bring the urinal right after the water bottle goes. This is hasty, for them. Could be a bad day - oh, that's rich. That's just right. Could be. Could be the first day they don't tickle him at all. Could be the Marines are landing on the beach right now to liberate his ass. Sure.
He was on his back yesterday. That just sucked. Ten times worse than the last time they'd tied him that way...
What'll it be this time? What toys and techniques will he discover today?
They get a new pack open. Chesterfields. Always more smokes, and food. And oil. That doesn't make sense, but at least it's consistent. No possible way they'd let something so basic rob them - rob him - of a single minute of horndog tickling.
This is probably the last smoke for now. Oh, fuck...

Far as they're concerned there's no such thing as too much, he thinks.
The oil bottle is above his belly, tensing him right up. Nimble fingers screw off the cap. And it starts to roam, in the direction of the window -
"Not my feet," he says quickly. And then slams his head against the mattress, and slams it again, 'cause he didn't mean to say that out loud.
They keep on floating - Yup. Down, tilting the bottle... dribbling oil over his toes. Soles. Heels.
But no gloves head down there. He keep his mouth shut tight.
The oil returns... and his crotch gets drenched. A little squeak slips out of him. Hard as a rock already, and now the oil too - and soon -
It's being moved again. Slopping on his... neck. Oil spreading out from that hollow spot above his breastbone, running into his armpits, his hair.
And he keeps staring, 'cause that isn't all. Thick, pale yellow misery, glazing his right arm... striping his left.
Here they come. Six of 'em. Paul gets a last deep breath in, as they take position. The front of his neck, behind his neck. Armpits. Biceps.
Holding him. Sometimes they do this. Just wait for a minute, holding on, and he just fuckin' hates this, if he moves they dig in, if he doesn't they dig in anyway, and they're gonna kick his ass all day and half the night -
Arms. Sliding up his arms. He turns his head away, growling -
The back of his neck gets a squeeze. Not hard. Just enough. And another.
Leather fingertips dip into the little puddle of oil below his chin, and start petting their way up.
And wham! There they are. Just mining their claim in his armpits. Cultivating their property. Theirs. They like his armpits.

He twists and makes the usual weird noises. It takes a lot to make him laugh these days. He's beyond that, somehow... Not when they fuck with him like this. Firm, but not deep, and so slow. They know right where the edge is, and the worst part is that he's gonna be kept here for the next, oh, seven or eight hours. Then more fingers will play with his cock, his balls. Knowledgable fingers. Taking their time. Pushing him along, on a more roundabout journey to the next bone-crunching cumshot than he could ever have taken himself.
And then they'll let him howl, pulverized by the post-climax boost to every ticklish nerve in his fuckin' body. Not even able to twitch, much less howl hard enough to take comfort in it. That's what's coming. The tools change, his body position, what they tickle and when... but the climb up that hill is about the same. Each day.
Except the peak gets higher and higher.
The gloves slow down just a little, and random fingers press in more -
That does it. Rational thought is officially over with. Paul hisses in air suddenly, and lets it out in a long, rumbling moan.

Gustavo saw Felipe outside, sitting there on the top step.
Stopping first in the gift shop to get a Pepsi and a Tecate, he pushed the door open and eased himself down alongside the boy. He dug out his cigarettes and lit one gratefully.
Felipe looked at him and then stared at his cigarette, there between his fingers. Gustavo knew that expression, from his own sons. But he said nothing. Instead he opened the Pepsi and handed it over.
Felipe guzzled for a few seconds, and his eyes strayed... to the vacant lot. He sighed.
"It won't be the same here without you," Gustavo said lightly. "All that energy."
The boy looked down. "Ree said... Did you loan him money?"
"Just a little. To get you men into an apartment." Far from here. "It sounds like his job is working out very well."
"Yes," Felipe said mechanically. He looked, again, where the hut had appeared. And disappeared.
Gustavo drank some of his beer, and smoked. And still the boy said nothing more. "You think about it too much."
"But... the gringo."
"Yes."
"It's been a month."
Thirty-three days, Gustavo thought. But he just nodded.

"We should tell los federales," Felipe blurted, unable to stop himself.
Oh, that again. "And tell them what?" Aurelio tapped the boy's shoulder with his beer bottle. "There is nothing we can do." Felipe frowned. "We cannot find him... and he cannot help himself. That I know, all too well." He looked up at the sky. "Perhaps you should go help Lupe with the dishes."
The bellboy looked up at him, as if he had something else to say... then he nodded and ran inside.
Gustavo looked down the rows of huts, noticing some bird shit on the window on cinco, loose shingles on ocho. Time to have a word with the new groundskeeper. And he gazed at the vacant lot...

Thirty-three days. Twice as long as Aurelio, even. And no one had disappeared for anywhere near as long as Aurelio had. They always came to the front desk, out of some common reflex, so Gustavo was sure. He had become very good at dealing with them when they were finally set free, just as old Pedro had been before him. Sometimes he had even managed to steer the reckless and stupid away from the trial that was waiting...

He tried to imagine it. Over a month. Each day in the real world, did it count as twenty long days with the gloves? Thirty? And now, this poor man. They must really like him. Incredibly ticklish?
And now - still caught, after all that time, by the hungry hands - he must make Aurelio's unusual ticklishness look as dull as a corpse. They would have let the gringo go free and caught themselves another, unless they still found him worthwhile.
Much more attention than any of their victims had ever earned before...