"Clyde! What are you doing?"
I jump. Look all around. I never can see this guy. "Nothing."
"Room 4. Right...now."
Shit, I think. Now what? But I walk down the hall. There's a desk chair, in the middle of the room, and a big tarp covering something. Maybe a machine.
Damn, I'm nervous. I sit down and get another smoke out as I look around, light it off the last one, grind the butt under my bootheel -
"I'll ask again. What do you think you're doing?"
I think about that. Trick question... "I, uh -"
"What's in your hand?"
"Nothing."
"Oh, for Pete's sake."
My cigarette slips out from between my fingers. It floats up to my mouth.
I'm confused. Not really sure what to do, here... I reach up, but it flies away.
"You're smoking."
"Y-yeah."
"What did I tell you about smoking?"
"Nothing," I say, looking around. "You didn't tell me not to smoke."
He sighs. And there's an awful pause...
"That's it," the voice says, sounding pissed off.
"What? You never said -"
"I never said? Clyde. How can you... I can't believe this. Oh no, you don't. This calls for a time-out. A long one."
The tarp slides off. There's a weird black seat, long. A little like a lawn chair, except it's all leather, with big plates of metal. I don't like it.
"Get up."
"C'mon..."
The voice growls, sorta. Hands clamp around my arms.
I drop the smoke and try to get away.
"Why you think you can walk all over me, when I'm trying to help you, I will never understand..."
I can't see the hands, but they lift me up. Dragging me over.
"I didn't know!" I yell.
"Wrong answer. I've told you over and over and over again, Clyde. It's disappointing that you can sit there, with a straight face, and say you don't remember any of those conversations. it's an insult, actually. So you're going to sit right here and think about it."
The hands push me down. Sitting on the side of the pad. They yank my boots off. That makes me panic.
"Hold... still," the voice grunts. But the invisible hands pull my legs up without any trouble. One ankle goes in each half-circle, padded with thick foam. They hold my shins down and swing up the other matching metal plate -
"No!," I beg. "Please. I won't smoke. Okay?"
"Too late. If you're not going to act like an adult, I guess I won't treat you like one -"
"What? Nooooo -"
I can't believe it. It's a padlock.
"You wouldn't," I say, throwing myself all around.
It hooks through some rings - and snaps shut.
My feet are locked in. I can't move 'em hardly at all. Hanging out there -
Hands pull my arms up to the other plate. My knees are bent a little. I can touch my kneecaps with my elbows if I try. It's scary that I can pull as hard as I can and still not get my arms away from these invisible hands...
One hole for each wrist. The top half comes down.
"Hey!" I watch another padlock do its thing. The keys are still in 'em. I'm so glad to see that, even if I can't reach the fuckin' things. But this sucks. He can't be serious -
"Let's see you smoke now," the voice says.
"C'mon!"
My cigarettes float up from the floor - Oh, my jacket's down there, where it was dropped. I watch 'em, wanting a cigarette even worse now that I know I can't have one. The pack sets down in my lap.
"I'm going to break you of this habit, Clyde. No matter what it takes."
"Don't - dammit!" I yell, trying to bend the thick metal rails.
The door closes.
Maybe ten minutes later, I know there's no slipping out of the damn contraption.
When the door starts to open again, it startles the fuck out of me.
"I don't have time to sit here and watch you..."
Gloves are floating inside. I stop breathing. They scare the shit out of me. I don't even know why... but they make me wanna scream.
"And so I guess you need a few babysitters."
"Please," I say quietly, straining to get my feet loose.
More gloves wheel a TV into the room. I count eight gloves. So fuckin' scary -
"I have to be... somewhere else. I'll try to check in on you tomorrow. My associates will take good care of you - better than you deserve."
The voice seems so far away. I can't stop looking at the gloves. Shiny, magic hands. I want, so badly, to think it's all just an incredibly bad dream.
"You brought this on yourself, Clyde."
"No... no no no aw pleeeeeeze -"
The voice sighs. "He likes to smoke. And he likes to forget what I tell him. That's why he's trapped like this. He's staying like this tonight."
One of the gloves sticks a thumb up. I can't even swallow.
"Feed him, give him plenty of fluids... and a urinal..."
I watch the TV roll over to the wall. The cord slithers out and plugs in.
"Test him -"
A squeal bursts out of my throat. The TV is turned on.
"See if he gives in. I wanna know - if he gives you any static..." The threat was unmistakable.
I look down at the cigarettes in my lap, even more scared.
"Watch him nonstop. I don't want him... sneaking off."
"Oh nooooo, noooooo -"
All of the gloves made the same gesture. Thumbs-up.
"Please no no no I get it I'll behave oh no no oh please," I babbled, sweating already.
"Calm down," the voice snaps. "They're not going to hurt you."
"I'm gonna die!"
"No, you're not. Clyde. You're going to think about what you've done. When you're ready to do what I tell you - you can leave. But not before."
And the door... closes.
"Please," I whimper at the gloves. They don't move.
I pull and squirm for a good thirty seconds.
The door opens again. I look right away, all hopeful. Maybe it was just out to scare me -
A cabinet rolls in. Coming over to me. More of the damn gloves are in here now.
I don't know why I'm freaking out, exactly, but I can't help myself. Wailing louder, pretty much losing it.
One of them cruises back. Outside -
The door! Fuck. Closing.
The glove darts back in, holding something.
Oh no. Please, no. It's locking the door.
A pair of hands open the cabinet door, and get a box out. They bring it right in front of my feet. The glove holding the key meets up with them -
Two others pull the keys out of the padlocks, and palm 'em. Solid-looking fingers open the box -
Keys. Maybe, I don't know, two hundred keys in the damn box, all unmarked, looking pretty much alike. Just looking at 'em makes me groan.
The door-key, and the padlock keys, are dropped in the box. They're closing the lid...
Turning the box over, and over. Mixing up the keys.
"No, don't... please," I whine at 'em. But they turn the box over a few more times, and put it back in the cabinet.
Another glove turns off the TV.
Fingers come up... and they're holding my lighter.
"No!," I wail. "I can't!"
The hands floating around me all come a little closer. One of them keeps coming, and gets my cigarettes. Shaking one out, and holding it under my chin.
They're waiting.
"You heard him," I say, and my voice is all shaky. "If I, uh..."
One of them brings something out of the cabinet.
A whole carton of cigarettes.
And I get it, suddenly. So scared I can't even feel it anymore. Until I'm done smoking, they get to keep me here. With my feet stuck. And if I smoke, obviously I haven't learned my lesson yet.
There's a full carton, there.
"No," I whisper. "You can't."
Something else is brought into view. Carried past the cabinet door.
A big black feather.
Confirming...
Oh, I'm dead.
"P-please," I whisper.
The glove is holding the feather out to one side. The carton moves in a little. There's no doubt in my mind anymore, what they got in mind.
They want me to choose.
And I know, in my bones, I'm getting both. Lots of... both. The damn door is closed, and I can't get out of these locked holes, the plates designed just to hold somebody and keep 'em from getting away.
A feather! They wouldn't... really do it. Please, no.
"I'm gonna go out of my fuckin' mind," I tell 'em, "if you come any closer with that thing."
The cigarette moves up. Right in front of my lips.
"No! Dammit. I'll get my ass kicked -"
Suddenly I feel like they whacked me with a baseball bat. Of course. Either way, I'm fucked.
Oh, hell, I'm all theirs now.
They want me to think about it, first. Before they get to work.
"Don't... touch me," I whine. Like it's gonna help -
They stick the cigarette in my mouth.
Dammit.
I take it.
Just so incredibly fucked. When the lighter is waiting for me, I lean forward and suck in.
The other gloves don't move. Carton, feather, still right here. I don't know if they can hear me or not.
"This isn't fair! Guess I'm not supposed to even smoke... but I wanna..." I look over at the cabinet, wondering what's in there. The gloves needed so much stuff that the brought a whole cabinet. More feathers? Brushes?
I get so panicky thinking about it I start tugging at the locked panels again -
A glove moves in and takes my cigarette away.
"What? No!," I yell. "Wait... Don't!"
The alternative is so bad I can't even imagine -
Another pair of hands is moving. I feel 'em pulling.
Oh no, no, don't do it. Not my socks.
"Shit..."
They pull 'em off slowly -
I want to bawl.
Hell, the door is locked. This is the last thing in the world I wanna go through. They got it all set up just right. Caught me, gonna tickle me -
One of the gloves gets another feather out of the cabinet.
So, I think to myself, crying isn't gonna stop 'em. But it's just so damn frustrating. I watch the carton taken over to the cabinet, and set on top. The wide side is facing me - so I can stare at it, I think. This is too much.
Looking at the gloves, there, holding feathers right over my damn toes...
"The w-worst thing," and I have to hawk back some snot, "I mean it -"
Here they come.
Strokes, up and down. So soft. Oh, dammit, I got it bad.
Yelling, slamming all around. It's crazy how much it gets to me - thanks to my stupid brother-in-law, and his brothers...
Grunting - and suddenly I make this loud, crazy screech.
The gloves don't stop tickling. Why would they? I can't budge. No way they're gonna quit now. And it'll feel like fire, when they speed up. Shit! I remember.
Smooth fingers, holding the feathers. Moving 'em over and over. I bet those gloves feel slippery. I'm gonna die. Tickled to death, right here, just like this. Unless they're smart. Aw hell.
I keep trying to get loose - everything - and I got tears about to flow. No, dammit, get off me...
Bark a laugh. Real hard. Pissed off.
Then I hoot a few times.
And it's on!
My mind is locked on the tickling. I shit you not.
It seems like it's real hard to think about anything else. That other part of my head isn't as loud. I got far more important things to deal with - two feathers. Still movin' pretty slow.
Some of the other gloves look... I don't know, twitchy. Ready to tickle the absolute shit out of poor Clyde. Ain't they, though. And nothing's gonna stop 'em.
From way back in my head somewhere, I notice something. I'm not fidgeting as much. This slow, steady roar is coming out of me. I bet they like that.
It's started now, incredibly deep chaos rising up from my feet, and they ain't gonna stop for a long time. That pisses me off... so I laugh harder, and make it sound as angry as I can. Not that it's gonna do any good either.
My brother-in-law would kill for a setup like this. I hope they don't tell him I'm in here...
No. All these gloves - they want to fuck with me. I'm all theirs. I don't know, but even my stupid family might feel sorry for me, in here. After long enough. But not these hands. They got it all planned out.
Oh, shit, I just can't believe this is really fuckin' happening.
Laughing like - like one of those toys, little plastic box with a speaker. Press the button, and it laughs. That's it. I ain't howling - yet - and I just keep on with these meaty ol' whoops and chuckles. It's all automatic.
All I can think about is the feathers.
After a long fuckin' time, they pull off.
I catch my breath... looking at a water bottle. When I can drink, they make me. Then a cigarette comes up.
I'm not gonna say shit. Whatever they want. It's a break, ain't it? Break in the action. Wow...
Three smokes, right in a row.
Two gloves head on over to the cabinet, and each get themselves a feather. That makes four.
I can't take this!
Oh hell. Pissed myself.
Can't do a thing about that...
Rest up, drink water, smoke.
Feathers on my belly. And my chest. That gets me wiggling again.
I don't know how many times they've stopped, now. My pack was empty, so they got a new one from the carton...
And finally I watch, wishing I'd pass out right then, as the fuckers stick the tips of the feathers right in the middle of my armpits.
I start to beg. Voice all rough and shit, but hell. I never ever begged anybody like this before, not even in my sister's cellar back home.
Rest breaks are always the same.
Ten so far. Or eleven. I wish I knew. Sorta. Doesn't really matter. The shit goes on and on.
When I finish another smoke away, it's time to pull at the plates again. More tickling, fuck, no...
Near my feet. Shit! Four gloves. They've been taking turns with - hold on. Where are the feathers?
No, no, no, this ain't right. They've been all over me with the feathers.
Here they come.
"Wait!," I holler. "You can't..."
Like hell they can't.
My whole world has gone completely crazy. There's a magnifying glass, it seems like. A big one. I can't stop thinking about 'em, huge fuckin' fingers. Tracing. Rubbing.
They got my feet covered.
More than two of 'em, then. Yeah.
And they're so slippery.
Flailing, shouting bigtime laughs.
I thought it would be bad - but aw hell. It was unbelievably bad.
Intense. Times a hundred.
They're not even gettin' harsh, yet...
I jump.
Oh, fuck, that was the worst damn dream I've ever had.
A cigarette sounds great. I reach over to where I leave 'em at night, on the little table.
But my arm doesn't move.
Well. That's weird.
I think about that for just a second, and then I open my eyes.
The ceiling is white. Where -
"Nooooo," I said. Couldn't hear it. Just a whisper.
Not a dream. It can't be true.
Straps around my wrists, holding 'em way up there.
My ankles are stuck. Wrapped together. And dammit, dammit, my feet are hanging off the end of the mattress.
Oh, fuck, it's true. Real! I'm awake, dammit. It's not... Son of a bitch, I wish I was dreaming all this. They got me wide open. It's gonna be even more insane, today.
I do not believe my luck.
Off to my right I can see the bench with the plates, where I was before... and the padlocks wide open, with the keys in 'em again -
I see gloves. Floating over, from somewhere around their cabinet.
I have this feeling come over me. It's strong, but I got no idea what it is. Oh, shit - it can't be possible. More? I hardly even thought about still being here today. That wasn't important, before, but it sure is now.
Another day with the gloves. Tickled. The whole day, maybe - and what will that be like? I'm just a total target, laid out like this. They can, so they will. I'm having trouble believing it, or picturing it. But's it's obvious.
Two of the gloves come right on up. Cigarettes, and a lighter...
I need this smoke. Dammit, it's the only thing that still makes sense.
The door opens, and two gloves bring in a tray.
They're going to feed me. I almost wish they wouldn't.
I look at the hallway. Fuck. I never appreciated it before. It was just a hallway. Now it's like paradise, definitely out of reach. The bed wouldn't even fit there. In the hall. And there's always the chance somebody might come by - down the hall, again - and see me. Oh, you poor guy. What are they doing to you? Tickling you? It must have been horrible... but it's all over now.
But then I remember something. Ever since I got here, I haven't seen anybody else. The voice that orders me around - the one that locked me up, and told the gloves to... test me. Gave 'em permission. Even that guy is invisible, and I still haven't figured out how he was strong enough to get me caught as easily as he did.
There's something weird about hearing a voice without seeing the guy. And all these gloves, with nobody wearing 'em... Dammit, I don't get it. And I don't really have time to worry about it now.
The gloves. I look 'em over. No hands in 'em. They move too fast.
One of my ticklers brings the fork up. Steak.
They made me steak and eggs. Hash browns. Small bites. I'm flat on my back. They're in no rush.
Feed me real good, so they can tickle me some more.
I stare at the hallway as I eat.
After that, they make me smoke again. The tray leaves.
Those gloves come back inside, and shut the door. I shake my head, but they don't care. So I can't look outside the room anymore.
They go to the cabinet and bring three bottles of oil.
Oh, fuckin' son of a bitch.
Slow. Horrible. Gloves.
Laugh. Now, stop. Have a smoke. But the brushes, they ain't gonna stop. I gotta fight the urge to laugh. If I drop the cigarette, the gloves tear into me. More of 'em, anyway...
They found out about my knees. But they're movin' so slowly.
My nipples. Belly-button. Ears. Throat.
Slow, but they're always on me somewhere.
After lunch, the torture continues. I can't imagine lasting until dinnertime, but I know I will. And later, maybe they'll pick it up. Make me squeal. There's something to look forward to.
Oh no. Not there...
I don't wanna cum. Dammit. I've been tickled for - well, quite a few smokes. Down there. Shooting off is all I can think about. And afterward -
My feet. No no no no not my toes again. Get the brushes off me.
Armpits. I'm laughing so hard the bed is shaking. Can't hear a thing -
Fuck! I dropped the cigarette.
I'm sorry. Gloves. Sorry - Nope. That doesn't... matter.
Wow, no, too much, too much, stop, no, too much, way too much.
Dinner was so long ago. And they're still making me crazy.
There isn't always a smoke in my mouth. Half the time, maybe? I don't know. What's important is that they want me to laugh some more. Silk, dragged over my sides. Buffing me. It's unbelievable.
Voice totally fuckin' shot. And I'm laughing good and hard. Oh, yeah. They don't care if I'm quiet about it. Fuckin' crazed...
I can just see the top of the door, if I cock my head all the way back. It's blurry, but I don't care. There's a hallway, it's just on the other side. I saw it. Hell, I walked down the hall. Right into the trap. The fucker locked me up, so the gloves could rock my world. Oh, shit, I wanna be in the hall. No tickling there. No cuffs. Help, I'd yell - if I was out there. Help, dammit, they're tickling me half to death.
Why would he do this? Why? I thought he was nice... Except about the smokin', and how many packs have they made me go through? Forced me. Chain-smoke while we tickle you. And don't you dare drop it. We'll really make you come unglued then.
The door is on the side of the gloves. It hides the hallway. An obstacle, and if I could break these straps the gloves would catch me before I even got that far. Into the metal plates again. Punishment tickling, all night. I'm not going anywhere.
If someone walked by, they couldn't hear me. No voice... Walk right on by. The gloves would like that. They got plans - Well, that's it. I need that door to open. Can't stand this.
So I concentrate as hard as I can, while I'm laughing. Oh, shit, they're digging in my pits again! Fingers. Noooooo...
Open. Dammit, door, I order you to open up. Swing in.
But it doesn't move.
They're making me cum again. It takes a lot longer, the fourth time. And the tickling makes it a real challenge.
Where is he? He said he might be back today. Open the door, now, and see this. Please! Never mind the cigarette... He wouldn't yell at me about that. My hands are cuffed down, right? They're makin' me. Smoke, laugh, shit... laugh some more...
I wonder what he'll say. Oh, fuck, get off him. Clyde, I'm so sorry. I never thought they would do this to you. Let me get these cuffs off... What? Did you say - the whole time? Ever since I left - you mean, nonstop? That's barbaric. They've been tickling you the whole time... Oh no. Not that. How many times have they made you cum? I'm shocked. No, go ahead and smoke all you want. It's the least I can do -
Aw, no.
It's just a daydream. No... I made it all up. The door didn't even open yet. Tomorrow, probably.
Lots of hours left. Right, gloves? Shit. More tickling. More after that. Maybe all night...
So tired.
I know. Not a real bad dream. It has to be true. This way, if it's not - cool. But I don't wanna get my hopes up.
White ceiling. Son of a bitch.
Here they come -
Get him. Yeah. Dig in. He's not goin' anywhere. Laugh harder, Clyde. Now...
They feed me, light another cigarette, let me smoke it -
And get busy.
Lunch. No. I can't, it's just more energy they wanna use up...
Why won't he show up, and get me out of here?
Hours and hours. I get the feathers, I get the brushes, I get those scrub-brushes that almost make me pass out. And the metal things that feel like a pen, tracing millions of circles.
The spunk is coming out of me again, real soon now. And all the fingers will dig in, right after. Help...
Tired. But I'm... awake. Wish I wasn't.
Sitting up? Huh. I'm back on the bench. Ankles caught, wrists caught -
Wait a minute. My clothes? And my socks? On me? Wow. Oh, yeah. It's too good to be true.
The cabinet's gone. All that horrible tickling shit... out of the room. The bed's been made, and there's a pillow on it which I never saw before. No straps, either.
It doesn't smell like an outhouse in here. Somebody's been cleaning.
I look at 'em all, hanging there. Maybe this is where they let me think I'm done, and when I'm buyin' it they roll the cabinet back in. Or they'll let me walk out of here, and another set of gloves will drag me into the next room, some cell that's all soundproofed. Tickle me in there.
Some of 'em break ranks. Here they come -
Water bottle, urinal, pack and lighter.
I smoke like I'm supposed to, watching 'em...
Waiting. Now what?
The door!
Oh. Time to eat. It's just a tray.
Steak and eggs, again.
Three more cigarettes. They're makin' me nervous. Any minute now. They fuckin' want to jump me. I can feel it -
But I hear a click.
My hands. Oh, wow. Yeah. They swing the plate up, and my hands are free.
Tears come to my eyes. The gloves are gonna let me go. Finally.
They don't unlock my ankles, though.
Shit...
They turn the TV on. I look around, but most of 'em don't budge. Well, huh.
I get to light my own cigarettes. And not have to chuckle all the time. Or hoot. Nothing. But the gloves don't leave.
About fifteen minutes after they turned on the TV, I light a new smoke -
"Clyde!"
I lift my head up and look real quick - oh, fuck. The door. It's open! Thank you, door. Saved.
"What the hell?"
The voice. How wonderful!
"Look at you? Has he been smoking the whole time?"
He sounds ticked off. That's... not right. I pictured this moment all different.
One glove floats closer to me, makes a fist - and nods.
"They made me!" I yell. But it's silent.
"What's wrong with your voice?"
"Tickled," I say, rattling the ankle-plate. "All the time -"
"I can't hear a word you're saying... Has he been yelling?"
The fuckin' glove nods again.
"You yelled yourself hoarse?"
"No! Laughing, fuckin' roari-"
"I think I get it. He yelled so much you couldn't stand it anymore... so you brought him the cigarettes to shut him up." Several gloves nod slowly. "Unbelievable. So much for mandatory meditation and reflection for this one."
"No!," I holler. Shaking my head. "They tortured me, the whole ti-"
After a click, the ankle-plate lets me go. Close to my feet, the voice sounds louder than before. "Can you stand up?"
I nod, and do it.
"You have completely ignored what I told you. Smoking. A lot of smoking."
No. It's pissed off - with me. I shake my head. "They... made... me."
"They made you."
So I have a chance to get through to him. That makes me hopeful. "They made me smoke. Kept tickling me."
"The gloves tickled you?" He sounds about the same way he would if I told him the gloves took me to Mars.
All of 'em shake their fists, side to side.
"They're lyin', dammit!," I yell. "They did! It was horrible. Hours and hours. If I didn't smoke, they tickled me harder. It's true!"
"Did you tickle him? At all?"
Shaking themselves faster. No, we didn't tickle him. Uh-uh.
Fuckers.
"Look!"and I start pulling off my shirt.
"No." A hand grabs my arm. I freeze - but it's not one of the gloves. It just holds on, and I let go of my shirt. He won't let me prove it. And I could -
There's this long, awful silence.
"Listen to me, Clyde. I want you to listen very carefully."
His mind is already made up. He believes them. Not me. Shit. Everything they do goes just the way they want it to go -
"Maybe I made a mistake, putting you in the stocks."
Stocks? Oh. The bench. I scowl, and nod my head real hard. Maybe. Shit!
"Since you said you don't remember being told not to smoke, it seemed obvious to me that you needed some time to think about what you'd said. A dose of reality."
I look over at some black hands. Fuckin' reality, huh? "Now wait a -"
"No. Just wait." He's all business now. Dammit... "Why are you here, at this clinic? Do you remember?"
"To get fuckin' tickled, apparently." Whispered, it wasn't nearly as angry as I was thinkin' it.
"Clyde. Please, just - hear me out. You've got this one subject that distorts your thinking. And your memory... You agreed to come here to treat it. An obsession. Something you couldn't stop thinking about. A craving, so strong, it kept you from sleeping."
I have a bad feeling about this.
"People who have a craving as strong as yours have been known to become delusional. About their craving. What they want. They can get worried enough, or angry enough, to think that something is really happening... that didn't happen in the real world. They imagine things that seem so real that th-"
"No, no, no... Please! No." It's all I can get out. Too blown away. Imagination? My feet ache. My sides are so sore. And my voice - "You gotta let me show you my feet! I tell ya, these gloves w-"
"When a person believes in one of these obsessive, uh daydreams, strongly enough, their mind can make evidence appear on their body... of trauma that never happened. The gloves did not tickle you, Clyde. They would never do that. No one here is going to tickle you. Right now, you want it to happen so badly that you believe you were tickled."
"I do not!"
"Deep down, you do. And that embarrasses you. So your mind came up with this fantasy - that seemed just as real as me talking to you now - about the gloves. That way, you get the thing you're secretly craving. But it was all in your imagination."
I shake my head over and over. He's got it backwards. I feel like I'm gonna start bawling if I open my mouth.
"And I can't help you right now. Even by listening to your account of what happened - because I know it's not true. Clearly, you're not able to work on this - here. You're too upset. And not only that... My patients have to follow the rules, not because I make them, but if they're not willing to trust me. I mean, I catch you smoking, I tell you it's not allowed, you do it again - and again, tell me you don't remember ever being told not to do it... And now, I walk in and see you lighting a cigarette? Right in front of me? And you've been chain-smoking, from the smell in here -"
"Please. Real tickling. It was real! Unbelievable tickling. C'mon."
"After I very clearly told you not to smoke. But the gloves made you do it... And now this room has all these bad - imagined - memories for you. I don't see how you can stay here at all, with a reaction that strong. I'm going to mail you a referral, in a week or two, to somebody else who can help. After you've calmed down. But this clinic will only cause you anxiety now, I think. Right now, it's best if you go home."
Leave. Out of here. That's what I want! Gonna get as far away from the gloves as I possibly can...
I nod.
Most of the gloves nod, too. That strikes me as weird... or maybe not. Don't upset the crazy guy any more than he already is. Merciless tickling, huh? Who, us? We're just gloves. Helpers. We're innocent - and all the wild shit I've been saying about 'em, that's all a big ol' daydream.
"There's no reason I can see to continue talking about it right now, Clyde. Go pack up your stuff and take off. Good luck."
I shrug. And turn... Pick up my jacket off the floor, and my boots. I can't wait to get my boots on, even if my feet fuckin' throb -
But first... Out into the hallway I go. Leaning against one wall, pulling my boots on real slow. Ceiling, floor, walls. I love this hallway.
Watching for the gloves. But they don't come and grab me. So I look at that fuckin' bench one last time. Stocks. Fuck.
The hall is empty. But that's okay. I can relax now. I'm free.
Out of the tickle room - forever!
Down the other wing, I pick a door. How I knew it was the right one, I dunno. But my bag is at the foot of one of the beds.
Cool. Grab my shirts and underwear out of the little dresser. Socks, gym shorts, another pair of jeans, my little pouch with the bathroom stuff in it. Stuff it all in the bag.
I check the end section. Wallet, extra pack of cigs... and my keys. Oh, yeah. I pull 'em out. Gonna punch it and leave this place in the dust. What a fuckin' torture chamber that room was. It feels incredible to think of driving away, and just keep going.
Oh man, I'm happy.
My lighter clicks - shut. I got a cigarette going while I was thinking about my car - but it was my own doing. No lying ghost-hands made me smoke this one. As many cigarettes as they put me through... And so intense. I'm gonna be smokin' hard for awhile.
That's fine with me, so long as it ain't here. I pull the door open. Gone -
No.
There's a glove in the air. Way over my head.
My heart starts beating double-time.
I watch it, but it doesn't fly at me. What is this? They're makin' sure I go... before he starts to think maybe I was telling the truth?
Man, I hate these fuckin' gloves.
Deep breath. Good. I park the cigarette between my lips and eat smoke.
And I look up at it. A tickler.
I give it the finger.
It feels good.
Down the hall. Parking lot, here I come. After what I went through, I'm gonna need to smoke like a fuckin' chimney. My dad will never believe this - but wait, if I tell him it'll probably get back to that asshole my sister married. Wouldn't he and those fuckhead brothers love to corner me and replay it all. Shit.
But I'm not thinking about his hands when I step out to my car. Nope. I'm seeing the rat-bastard gloves on me. Feeling 'em, all over me - and fuck, it's breathtaking, as if my clothes were still off and I'm in the stocks -
Whew. I shiver. Almost fall down. That's how strong it is. But I make it to my car.
It's dark, and I'm in a hurry. Got the door open before I see 'em. In my back seat.
Boxes. Are those mine?
I know that feather-duster. And those clear bottles.
My car is full of shit... from the cabinet!
Their stuff. I look at it. And fuck, those are bottles of oil.
Three packs of cigarettes are sitting on the passenger's seat. I didn't leave 'em there.
But I know who did.
They've loaded up my car. I'm totally afraid to move. It must be too late already. I know it. And while I think about running, or screaming - well, forget about screaming, I didn't see anyone else out here in the parking lot and it doesn't matter when my fuckin' voice is this shot anyway. I just stand there, and look at the feather-duster.
There is no hallway. That's what I realize. A magic place that's safe from tickling hands? The whole world used to be that way, except for my brother-in-law's cellar or his paint booth. I was going to be okay, so long as I got away from here. But there is no way I'm tricking the gloves. They're not done with me. Tickling me. Lots more. A great big double-triple shitload of tickling, coming right up.
And the beauty of it is that they don't have to find me. THey're just gonna drive me to the next torture chamber. And I bet it's a fine one. Nobody else there, and the door won't ever open. No hallway. Of course not. I'm too much fun. So they're about to take me to where the tickling is - where it never has to stop. They won't ever have to get me dressed, and pretend they didn't whomp my ass. Because it's their place, I'm the damn patient, and nobody else is gonna know. They're gonna take me there, right now, and get me inside. All they have to do, then, is lock the door. And I'm getting the kind of... advanced tickling the gloves can't wait to give me. They won, again. Tickle me all night - well, why not? A month... a year! Oh, shit. Fifty gloves at once. Big fuckin' fun. I can't take this. But there's no escaping now.
Hell, they already loaded up my car. I'm going. Fingers, and oil. Right after I watch one of 'em, at the door, locking me in -
Fingers curl around my left arm. Careful... and firm.
Another one.
More.
Flipping the bird at that one glove, in the hallway - maybe not such a smart move.
They push me in and shut the door. The air is full of gloves. I think they gotta be real pleased with snagging me. One by one, they clamp down. Starting at my ankles, they get hold of me.
Setting my wrists on top of my thighs - and there's so many of 'em making sure I can't lift my hands that I can't even see my jacket sleeves at all, from my biceps on down.
A soft hand takes hold of me by the scruff of the neck.
Digging in my jacket, a glove gets me a smoke. And I nod. Of course. Whatever they want. That's what will happen anyway. No use fighting it now.
When the lighter fires up, the neck-glove pushes me a little. Do it, fucker. Because we say so. And I suck in, which I was gonna do anyway. They just had to get another dig in. Show me I'm gonna dance to their tune.
One of 'em starts the car. They've got the wheel, and the pedals...
At the road, they turn left. The highway is to the right. Not another car in sight.
Something lays on my forehead. I can't see. It's being tied, even though I throw my head around. A bandanna, probably. They don't want me to know where they're taking me. If I knew - so what? I guess I'd know which way to run. The nearest town, or the freeway. Shit, I can't imagine these gloves making that kind of a mistake. Like that'll happen.
They're taking me to a secret hideout. Laugh, Clyde. You're gonna stick around -
I have myself a big ol' drag. It helps, a little. The future sucks, but at least it's definite now. No more wondering when they'd let me go, right? Somebody accidentially walking in and rescuing me.
Or believing me.
I can't think of any reason to think I might still get away. Now... or later. It's a sure thing. Maybe this is what guys feel like when they're rolling up to the prison gates. Some fancy maximum-security pen.
Rolling on. A truck goes by us, and some cars. I'm thinking, somebody call the state troopers, you stupid assholes, I look like I'm driving a car with a blindfold on. But deep down I know it's too dark outside, and they blew by me too fast.
My ticklers drive my car. I smoke one after the other. Turn left, and right, and right again. Left...
Fingers creep under my shirt. Fuckin' bastards couldn't even wait. Gotta get back to it, I bounce around, and laugh.
I lose my cigarette.
They hurry to pull my boots off. And my jeans.
A dozen hands fuckin' thrash me. High-speed drilling. Feet, knees, thighs.
So I laugh...
For a long time.
Not moving. the car is stopped.
They shut off the car, but they went right on tickling. Who knows how long?
Well, it's their gig. Why is it so dark? A garage? Figures -
The door opens, and they carry my ass out of the car. Not takin' any chances with me. Lock that door, and I can't possibly get out of any tickling.
They're taking me... out of a cave.
When I'm a good twenty feet out, rocks start falling down. The pile is not as tall as I am. No way I'm gonna get my car out of there quickly. And if there are gloves trying to drag me back into the super-deluxe tickle room -
I think of something else. The cave is less attractive since it's not the kind you can walk right into. Easily. So could my car go unnoticed? Hell, yeah.
They carry me for a couple minutes... into another cave.
Total darkness. Fingers still massaging my sides.
Down, way down, and then back up. Down, just a little -
A click.
One glove is holding a lighter to a candle. When it's burning, the fingers wrap around the candle and light more candles with it.
Slowly, I see more stuff.
Now this is a torture chamber.
It's a lot worse than the room back at the clinic. There's more stuff to hold me and spread me out... Lots of toys. I just look at it all.
How many other guys have whooped it up in here? I'll never know. But it doesn't matter. I'm here now.
Everywhere I look... Maybe it's not that much bigger than the fuckin' room at the clinic, but there's gear all around me. In the center of the room - of course - is a huge pad. Stakes in the ground circle it -
One major improvement, as far as the gloves are concerned. My ticklers. I look around again. Shit, how perfect. What a way to make sure I know I'm staying, and laughing...
There is no door.
Big hole in the ceiling. It's fifteen feet up if it's an inch. Even if I stood on the tallest rack I can see, there's no fuckin' way I'm getting out of here... until they're done with me.
Gloves pull my shirt off, get the cuffs on me - and tickle a dozen spots. They're not goin' easy. Victory tickling.
I twist, and howl. Held up in the air, carried... to a big 'X' with wide boards. Tilted up some.
They have chains, here. Three for each limb.
The fingers make me squirm. No end to the tickling. Not now. Their place, their rules.
A bottle of oil tilts, pouring oil from my cock on down.
And I look up at the exit. And laugh harder. There's no door in the ceiling - no need for one. So the big moment I was dreading, when they lock me in their torture chamber, is never gonna come.
No - that's it. The fuckers are smarter than that.
03aug03