(Very little "action" in this one, FYI)
Holder stalked big dudes. Mean, powerful thugs were so much fun to break...
The prison was its favorite place to hunt. If no one there was suitable, there was always the camp. Oddly enough the camp was a rougher place to survive than the prison.
It had all the interesting prospects ranked. The big qualification was obvious. While they slept, Holder probed their armpits - so lightly it barely made contact at all. In the hard world of these men, it was not the kind of touch they expected. Defenses were bypassed. The twitching would begin, and perhaps quiet grunts. Holder would persist until the prospect woke himself up with mesmerizing, fuzzy chuckles.
Men who woke up too quickly weren't the best candidates. It was more interested in those who broke a sweat, not quite able to bring themselves out of sleep. Trapped, and responsive - that was their future, if Holder had its way.
Obviously it kept track of their release dates. And the men who had a lot of people waiting for them, on the outside, were passed over.
There was a young guy, nicknamed Slat, who was definitely selected. Mean and violent. Barely human anymore. The guards kept a close eye on him, though, and his street date was almost three years away...
Holder had all kinds of imaginative things planned for Slat. But in the meantime it was going to hone its skills on some worthwhile target. Nobody at the camp looked interesting.
Its next choice, Richie, was utterly amoral. More ticklish than most, though. Only eleven weeks until he was out... but he had a girlfriend who visited him all the time. That was annoying.
So the more likely victim was going to be Croc - older, tattooed everywhere, five months left, and he was sure to get violated again within a week. He was exactly the kind of beast the world could do without.
But something was going on with him. At first, Holder had assumed it was just another con. The guards all thought so...
Croc got religion.
He spent hours reading. There was a group that would set him up with a job, help him stay out of trouble.
Maybe he'd had enough of life on the inside. From what Holder saw, it looked like Croc was sincere. That gave it something to think about, alright.
Tormenting bad guys was what Holder did. Extended attitude adjustment for devolved animals. It had big plans for Croc. Excruciating fun... but the longer it watched him, the more it became confused. And irritated. The change in him was quiet, and he was surprisingly consistent. Determined.
Punishing him - this new Croc - just wouldn't be the same.
Maybe if it wrote a letter to Richie's girlfriend, in his handwriting, telling her to hit the road. He'd be even more angry when he got out, that much more shocked by what it had in store...
She didn't take the bait.
Holder didn't want to, but it picked out another prospect. Ledonn just might end up taking a long vacation from his gang buddies.
Croc's cellie got busted making pruno, and they transferred him out.
At first, it didn't think much of the new guy that was moved in. Race.
Car thief. Burglar. Real bad luck when he smoked pot and drove at the same time...
Race was twenty-five, thin, average height. He must've been pretty when he was younger. That really didn't work well for him, at the camp. The other prisoners had jumped him at least twice. Holder could understand why he was sorta distant. Glazed-over, even.
By accident or due to the consideration of somebody up the line, Race's new cellie was Croc. Three months earlier, it would've been a whole different story... but Race looked younger than he was, and Croc had a boy who was starting college.
This new, nicer version of Croc had a paternal instinct.
Well, Holder didn't know what to do with the fucker after that.
Croc turned into the ideal cellie. It was crazy.
He gave Race time to settle in, and relax. Lobbed a pack of smokes over the top of his bunk - no expectations. Just doin' the new kid a solid.
Slowly, Race started talking...
Holder's whole attention had been on Croc. On the one hand, the scumbag had already earned every minute of torture it was planning. But he was really putting himself out to help the kid. Tips on how to get along, which guards were bent, how the gang leadership was shifting that particular week. And definitely where not to go alone.
Croc put out the word that the kid was his. It was safer than the truth - that he wanted Race to make it out of the system in one piece. Maybe even with a big change of heart. There was definitely some weird fatherly concern showing up.
Holder didn't see why. Race wasn't bright. Experience had made him quiet, watching everybody with a blank calmness. Not the kind of savage Holder hunted. He'd end up doing something stupid and getting caught again. In ten years, he'd have the same inhuman attitude as Richie, only without the massive muscles to back it up.
On a whim, Holder put a couple hundred bucks into Race's account. It wanted to see how Croc would react...
It was spent on cigarettes, food, and pot. Croc wasn't so reformed that he'd turn down weed. They talked more - that is, Croc said ten words for each one from the kid.
Eventually, the subject of religion came up.
Race didn't seem to mind.
Nothing made any sense, anymore...
Damned if Croc wasn't winning the kid over. As much as Holder wanted to view it as Race doing whatever it took to keep his protector happy, there was something odd going on.
It seemed pretty clear that Croc was wrestling with his own thoughts. Interesting stuff. He paid off a guard and borrowed a homemade tat gun, and did Race's arms. That idea wasn't met with much enthusiasm, but Croc had stayed on the kid until he gave in. Not really optional, not exactly forced either. Curious.
Croc even managed to get rubber gloves. Sharp work - he really had an eye for it. They both smoked a lot, as the ink spread... and Race relaxed more. Sly little jokes, now and then.
Holder noticed something else.
The kid was more content than it had ever seen him... and it had to be the contact. Even through the gloves. Croc's big hand, clamped over his elbow, holding steady.
Touch.
Croc knew it, too. On some level. There was more slugging, the occasional slap on the ass.
Eventually Race had to give some back. Big, clear grin on his face.
Very interesting.
Everything changed one day.
Richie, the moron, got into a fight. With new charges, his release date was up in the air.
In a very dark mood, Holder started planning how it was going to really put the screws to Croc. When it got back to his cell, it found him and Race in a light mood. Almost giddy. It was probably the reefer...
Their joking around was so wholesome, it maddened Holder beyond endurance. An urge came over it to tie Race down and gag him, so it could start Croc's torture right here and now.
From the top bunk, Race threw his socks down at Croc. The older criminal growled and reached up -
Snagging an ankle. He pulled Race's left foot off the mattress.
Holder froze.
Croc started moving his fingers...
And Race laughed - shit, exactly like a little kid.
It only lasted fifteen or twenty seconds, until Race managed to swing down and punch Croc in the arm. But it was the kind of thing Holder had always liked to see - especially there, in the prison. The only thing better, if he'd had the upper-body strength, would've been Race tickling Croc, giving him a preview of what was in store.
The kid tried to get a few pokes in, but Croc was on to him. Holder already knew, even if Race didn't, what a goldmine was right there, under Croc's sweaty arms. What happened next was as odd as anything else that day...
Croc gave the kid a bear hug.
Race stiffened... and when it was clear Croc was in no hurry to let him go, he relaxed. Staying put. He knew that everybody thought he was just Croc's punk. But he didn't resist the hug.
If only he could've seen the older con's face. There was a battle going on, in there. The old Croc wanted what it wanted. The new man, for whatever reason, didn't want to give in.
Five truly mesmerizing seconds passed.
With a huge sigh, Croc messed up the kid's hair, and let him go.
The look Race gave him, after he eased out of the bunk, was confused... and grateful.
Holder didn't understand that - until it saw the erection Croc had, which surely pressed into Race's back as he was caught in those arms.
Croc had gone against his instincts. It was almost as if he could turn into a human being after all.
Dammit...
They smoked a joint and went to bed - in their separate bunks. Croc got himself off, and Race ignored it so thoroughly that he went pretty much right to sleep.
Holder waited another hour.
The kid was unimpressive, in every way. Until that laugh...
It began probing his armpits.
Race woke up almost immediately. That figured. But he snuck a look underneath, to see if Croc was snoring.
Holder was disappointed he came awake that quickly. There was the possibility, though, that the weirdness of the whole night was affecting him. Without much hope, it waited two hours.
Ah.
Very different results.
Within the first minute, it found a pace that made him shudder and fidget. But Race slept on.
His cock, however, woke right up. That was not the typical reaction to Holder's quick little tests.
Fascinated, it kept him provoked and helpless for nine minutes. Croc had never gone more than six. Richie had made it to ten, while Slat was always good for fifteen minutes despite his unparalleled brutality.
But only Richie and two other men had become this aroused.
Holder looked at Race in a whole new light.
Little repeat offender. Lost in the system... fourteen months to go.
Why not?
Croc was becoming a problem. Or, instead, the kid's growing respect was getting in the way.
There was something about the whole religious bit that didn't sit well with Holder. Not only because it was having such an effect on Croc. A good effect, admittedly.
Race was falling for it slowly, and Croc showed he was smart enough not to push too hard. If Slat turned over a new leaf, Holder was definitely going to punish the fuck out of somebody. Anybody.
What was really going on, there, behind the kid's cold blue eyes?
It did something new. This group Croc was so taken with... maybe it was time for a little research.
Yeah.
As Holder suspected - bad news.
There were groups that were sincere, and did great work. It had no beef with them. But these people, the ones that got their hooks into Croc... no. Not good.
He was too smart to fall for that.
Holder photocopied a few articles, and shoved them into the cell.
Croc was catching on. It was sure.
A note was folded in with the next batch of articles. Unsigned, of course. Croc, ol' buddy, if this is the road you really wanna take, don't get too cozy with these vultures. Use 'em, get your act together out there, and check out these other ministries instead. Don't fall for the bullshit.
Race, naturally enough, didn't know a thing about the note. Croc had his doubts, but they didn't last long. The prison library and the internet terminals there weren't easy enough for the kid to use like this.
Holder had mixed feelings. Croc would be okay - which meant he wouldn't be visiting the dungeon, if he behaved himself. Damn.
But Race... that was another story.
It was angry that Croc was slipping away. Maybe the kid was just playing Croc. The little fuckup, listening attentively to all the warped bullshit Croc had been so taken with...
It watched Croc stay up late a few nights, smoking like a freight train, thinking it through.
He'd kept the note. Maybe one more nudge, Holder thought. There was a young chaplain - pretty conservative church, but a genuine good guy. It arranged for Croc to have a visit.
That worked out better than it had dared to hope.
The chaplain had Croc's number right away. He couldn't offer the same kind of help as the shady group did, but he was pragmatic. It wasn't like Croc would have to sign up permanently. He could take his time and figure out where he fit in best.
If more of the men listened to that chaplain, Holder would've had a harder time coming down on them.
But Race was still on the fence. As Croc was seeing the downside of his new... church, the kid was getting more confused about it all. Holder had a bad feeling about it.
All this contemplation would blow over, and Race would be just as aimless - and ticklish - as he was before. It was time, maybe, to separate Croc and his punk... before Holder lost both of 'em for good.
Of all things, the answer came because of Aguirre.
What an asswipe. Only the prison bureaucracy could stick a complete failure like Aguirre at the north gate.
There was a four-minute window before the shift change walked down the block...
It would be tight. But the idea was so outrageous that Holder couldn't resist.
Race was trying hard to go along with Croc's new ideas. It cast some serious doubt on what bad stuff he'd do back on the outside.
Holder worked out all the details, getting more excited by the challenge. The idea of losing was more and more intolerable.
The kid needed a little encouragement... to do the wrong thing.
6:02 in the morning. Cold.
It poked Race more firmly. He rolled over fast, blinking in confusion -
The cell door was wide open.
He stared for a few seconds, and started whispering to Croc.
The older con was going to sleep for a few more hours, no matter what. An injection from the infirmary stores saw to that. Race's fingers had already been pressed against the syringe.
He shook Croc for a half-minute, but Race couldn't wake him up.
Then, so slowly it infuriated Holder, he walked over to the door...
The block was quiet. It only had about thirty seconds left to pull this off -
Thankfully, Race ducked back and grabbed his shoes.
Yes!
He was taking the bait. He had to make a definite move. That was what Holder wanted to see. And there he went...
It pulled the nearest door open - just enough.
After watching for a few seconds, Race turned and saw the way out.
On his cot, Holder threw some clothes under his blanket and hoped for the best.
He made it through that door, checked again for anyone watching... and pulled on his shoes. A piece of paper in his right sneaker got a glance - some kind of map - but he kept on going.
Three more doors were propped open. He was smart enough to pick up speed.
That left the outer gate. Any guard with a brain would've noticed the cameras Holder had turned off, but Aguirre couldn't see them from the floor... where he sat cross-legged, huffing on the joint it had left for him. Against the rules, he had his MP3 player on.
Just before Race came through the last door, Holder threw the switch that turned off the gate alarm. It made a loud clacking noise -
Aguirre moved his head, but the earphones apparently did the trick. He was more interested in another toke.
Below his tower, Race ran the last fifty yards.
The inner gate swung open when he pulled on it. So did the last gate.
Immediately, Holder turned on the cameras and gate alarm. That time, Aguirre did get up... scanning the board and the monitor screens. He looked at the block, where the door was closed - as usual.
Race made it over the hill a good five seconds before Aguirre thought to turn around and glance out the window.
It had to give him some credit - Race stayed off the access roads. Jogging steadily over the next hill, he shivered from the cold air, or the tension. Maybe both. Looking at the map as he went along.
Ten minutes, tops, until he made it to the car. Way too close... If the new shift did anything more thorough than see if there was a lump in each bunk, the chase was already on. Or they'd find out in - shit! - eight minutes, when they roused everybody for breakfast. Croc wouldn't be waking up on time, though.
And Race was done with prison life. Maybe for good.
Holder had everything ready for him.
The car was nothing flashy. Faded paint, but there was a good, solid V-8 under the hood. Plenty of gas in the tank...
A few presents were waiting for Race when he skidded down the hillside, flopping over the hood. After catching his breath, he opened the car door.
His new leather jacket got a slow smile. When he picked it up, Race saw the gloves and sunglasses waiting. Another map, too.
A carton of smokes waited on the dash, and they were his brand. Water, beer and beer jerky were in a brown paper bag on the far end of the seat.
Holder had loaded up the pockets of his jacket. A lighter, one enormous joint... and several hundred bucks he'd never get the chance to spend.
But he laughed - voluntarily! - and got behind the wheel.
Race didn't pull the gloves on. That was almost too much to hope for, but Holder could wait. As it expected, he started the joint and pounded two beers in no time at all.
The sedative kicked in about fifteen miles later.
Holder turned the car around, and burned both maps. He wasn't going anywhere - except straight to the dungeon. And it was barely an hour from the prison.
An old gully had been transformed into a tight cave. Holder had built it seven years before, and no one had discovered it. There was nothing in the area that anyone had found attractive. The dirt road didn't reveal a thing...
The car was hidden. A good place to lay low - at least it hoped Race would think so. The game was over already, but now Holder just longed for him to be dumb enough to get curious and deliver that extra added thrill.
Race made a snorting sound and woke up. He was sweating. The car windows were down, but the roof of the artifical cave was corrugated steel...
He lit a cigarette and fought with the jacket until it was off. Then he froze - seeing that the sleeves of his state-issue t-shirt were gone. Croc's tat work was barely visible in the thin crack of light from the entrance behind him. The roof was already locked down. Either he'd discover that himself, and be dragged into the dungeon... or he'd do it the way Holder wanted. Either way the end result would be the same.
Looking puzzled, he got himself another beer. Leaning back again, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror.
Holder had cut his hair. Pretty drastic, too... short and bristly. Race looked more like a prisoner than ever. That was truer now than it had been a few hours ago.
Turning his head this way and that, he studied his head for awhile. Then he sat back and got another cigarette, thinking hard.
Eventually, he turned on the car's headlights.
There was a wall of dirt, right in front of the car - and a door off to the left.
After a minute, Race stuck his head out of the car window, and saw there was no room to open the door. Cigarettes and lighter were slipped into his front pockets... and he pulled himself out of the window, crawling down the fender.
Storm door. He fired up his lighter, looking down at the unpainted wooden stairs. They led down to another door. Race stopped moving suddenly -
Good. He heard the music.
It was his favorite band. That's what he'd told Croc. Holder figured he could only take that to be a good sign. Get your ass down there, it thought furiously.
He looked around. The car, between him and a thin line of afternoon sun which he'd have to climb over the car to investigate...
Or the stairs.
Race got a new smoke going, and started forward. Then he stopped, and leaned over.
Smart boy - checking the storm door. An easy way to lock him in. Race's hand found the chain links and the padlock, and tugged a few times. No, the door was locked down. Open. Nothing to worry about, right?
So he walked, carefully, down the stairs... to the other door.
It was open. Cheap knob, no keyhole.
Don't be afraid, it thought. Welcome home. Your freedom is already gone. The guards are already looking but they'll never, ever find you here.
He eased the door open.
Weak light from overhead revealed big dark shapes. Furniture. Very special items, well-used but sturdy as ever. To see them better, Race could reach in and feel around for the light switch. That would be the last time he'll touch it, of course.
He stood there and tugged on the the cigarette, leaving it between his lips. Stubble hair, scraggly whiskers, bad-guy tats - and those concerned blue eyes squinting to keep out the smoke. Either he has to back out now, it thought eagerly, or step forward into the dungeon.
During his next drag Holder drew closer, and closer...
Race took another step.
Dammit... Close enough. It hooked fingers into the waistband of his jeans, and pulled.
By the time he lurched back upright, the door was swinging out.
Slam.
He turned fast. The door had no locks... that he could see. With the touch of a button, Holder fired the frame-bolts. The top and bottom of the door were staked now. It was staying closed.
Got him.
At last, he's in here. I got him I got him I got him! Locked in. Gonna have some real fun with him now...
It was just so fuckin' excited. He escaped from the joint - and sure, he had some help. A free man. Wrong again, kid. Escapee - that meant another felony on his sheet. Guilty!
Holder figured that called for another year to be added to his sentence. And he'd serve it right here.
Got him got him got him!
Boxes of fun for his cock.
More boxes for his feet, armpits, belly, ribs...
The first tattoo it gave him?
That's easy. A clock face... with no hands on it.
Common enough, in the pen. The meaning comes to him after a few seconds. "Doing time."
But getting that ink on him - in here...
Well.
He was so helplessly ticklish.
Holder paced his days, and kept improving his sensitivity.
Within a couple weeks, he seemed to be enjoying himself more...
They both had an electrifying time.
It took quite a while to adjust the records of the corrections department - after all, it wasn't strictly accurate to say that Race hadn't served all his time. Hard time. But Holder succeeded.
The celebration was distinctively intense.
Holder learned all kinds of things that would make Slat's days that much more exciting...
And Race found a way to run with it too. Gleeful when it wanted, tough as nails when the tickling was paused. He was diligently cared for, and entertained, doing his probation time as well in its confident hands. In fact, he remained in custody right up to the release date of a certain long-timer.
The night finally came when Race woke up, slowly, in the back seat of the car. It was parked in a small town a good half-hour from the prison. He found a fat bundle of twenties in his pocket, and a carton of smokes under the driver's seat.
For the longest time - before the tickling even started - Slat fought furiously with the cuffs and chains...
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