Dan steps on a piece of paper. He's not the first... but his toe hangs over the edge of his sandal, touching it -
He stops suddenly. Alert. Interested -
He looks down and sees the paper, moving his foot a little, as he opens the generic smokes he just bought. White paper, black ink - no, a photocopy... with a cartoon on it.
A naked guy, limbs tied behind him. Tied together.
Gigantic feathers are tickling his feet and ribs.
MONSTER HOOT
CD RELEASE
He blinks -
Feelin' great. Yeah.
Dan fires up a cigarette and drags on it hard, grinning like a fool. He turns, swaggers over to the trash can and reaches behind it.
His hand finds a dark green bookbag.
He nods happily, and heads for his car.
At the gas station on the opposite corner, he pulls up to the pump and digs into the rucksack. His fingers close around a small roll of bills. Going right to it, as if he knew right where it would be. He chuckles at this and peels off a couple twenties. Fills his gas tank - and then, all of a sudden, he's got a phone call to make...
"Shawn! Hey. Dude, you're not gonna believe this. There's a chick here, oh man..." He listens for a second and nods, chuckling low. "I can hardly walk. She's hot. I mean it. Black Mercedes, buddy. Out slumming. In the mood for a stray dog, or something." Another pause. "Blonde, maybe around thirty. Tits out to here. She came up to me - no, I mean it! I'm just minding my own business, walkin' out of the Jug..." He lights another cigarette, and a big grin creeps over his face. "Verdi. She's gonna fuck my brains out. All week, she says. Uh-huh. Oh yeah, you know I got enough ideas - whoa, she's... dude, she's unbuttoning her blouse! This is incredible! Chance of a lifetime - I'm so outa here." He listens for another second, and chuckles again. "Uh-huh. Shit. I'll see ya when I see ya. Later."
Dan gets in his car and starts it. Reaching into the backpack, he pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels.
He gets on the interstate... but he doesn't head for Verdi. Driving east instead.
Good tune on the radio.
Dan stirs and lets out a slow, happy sigh. His hand wanders around the dash until he finds his smokes. After a few seconds, he looks around. The car is parked, shut off. He fumbles for the door handle and eventually finds it, all wobbly as he gets out. Damn, he's still blitzed.
There's a building nearby, a mobile home or something, all dark. Nothing else in sight. Taking a step away from the car, he unzips and takes a leak. Feeling good...
The parking lot of the Jug and the phone call are just about forgotten. The drive here is really vague, too. He finishes up, and chucks the smoke. Stumbling against the car, he nearly goes down, laughs at himself, and manages to crawl back behind the wheel. When he gets the car door closed, he rewards himself with a couple pulls off the bottle and another cigarette.
Kicking out smoke, he reaches for the keys in the ignition, and misses 'em. Tries again - there.
"Whoa, there." A guy, real close.
Dan looks around the car, blinking a lot.
"No way, Danno." His nickname. "You're fucked... up."
He laughs at this, nodding real sloppy. Something jingles. Metal, shiny, rising out of the knapsack. It goes to his arm - no, his hand. Around his wrist.
A handcuff.
"Huh?"
Closing, and then pulling his hand away from the key ring. It goes low and pulls his hand around, behind -
A grip gets hold of his left wrist, and starts easing it back.
"Way too toasted to drive, buddy. Those state cops would love to get their hands on you."
"No..." Dan's overpowered, nice and easy but no quarter is being given. The other cuff closes, and the grip lets him go.
"Apprehended. Another drunk driver off the streets. Hey, sleep it off, DJ."
Another nickname, one he hasn't heard in a while. Well, Shawn calls him that sometimes. "Where, uh, are you?"
The voice, a young stoner type, laughs, and Dan laughs too. "You're busted. Before ya even got the engine turned over. Just another DUI. You don't want that. Property of the State of Nevada. No way." Chummy, friendly voice.
"No, c'mon -" he starts, and drops the cigarette in his lap. "Shit -"
The butt rises up, somehow, and springs out the window. "Yup. You're 'faced. Definitely under arrest."
Dan squirms, and the open pack lifts off the dash, tilting. He blinks, shaking his head a little, and watches another cigarette come to his mouth. "How - how are you d-"
"Magic, Danno." He jerks his head away, fidgeting, not liking this. The cigarette hangs there for a second -
And suddenly he wants to smoke it. Never mind how many he's had today - Dan's ready for another. Eager for it, right now. But it starts going away.
"Hey - uh, I'll take that."
"Oh. Okay." The cigarette returns, and he grabs it. He even starts to reach for his pocket, to get his lighter. The cuffs jingle. "Uh, I need a light."
The voice laughs. "Sure do." And a book of matches is rising up, opening, one torn off and struck. He sucks in hard - and it feels great.
He nods, wondering again where the hell this guy is. "How are you doing that?"
The match shakes out. "Easy. No reason you gotta get all antsy over wantin' a smoke. Uh-uh. This here's a full-service drunk tank." Dan thinks that over, and all he can do is chuckle. "Think that's funny, huh? Just you wait." The pack cruises up again, and goes into the backpack. The car door opens. "Out ya go."
"That's - that's okay, I'm good here -"
"Naw. Might as well stretch out. Hah hah. C'mon."
Dan doesn't have a good reason to protest. "Well... I want these cuffs off, you understand?"
"Sure. You got it. C'mon in, sleep it off, and you won't be seein' these cuffs again." His keys slide out of the ignition and dangle in front of him. "And you'll get these back. Eventually."
"Hey," he says, trying to swing over. Stumbling forward onto his knees, and almost going over the other way. But he makes it to his feet, weaving badly.
"Shit. You need a hand." And sure enough, hands grab his arms and steady him. He can't see 'em, much less anybody standing there, but it's sorta dark.
"Can't even stand up, ya fuckin' stoner..." The grips sorta drag him toward the building, over sand and rocks, low scrub. "You got a job to show up for?"
"Nope."
"And Shawn thinks you're in Verdi, ballin' such rich chick.. Having some fun."
"How'd you know -"
A door opens in front of him, and he's all but carried in. "So you ain't gonna be missed for a while, huh? Free agent."
A burst of excitement races through him. "Fuckin' A," he crows.
"Yeah." He's brought down a hallway, and into a room. He sees a bed - and instantly, he's tired, wiped out. Ready to sleep for a good, long time. "It's gonna be a wild time for ol' Danno. Tomorrow..." The hands shove him, and he lands on his belly.
"Hey," he yawns, wriggling.
Sleepiness, like a comforting blanket, knocking him out. He feels a vague tugging, far away... his boots, hanging off the bed there, laces loosening, being pulled off.
"Hey. DJ. Hey, wake up now. Time to eat."
That sounds good to him. He's ready. Yawning, he looks around. There's a couple energy bars, a can of peanuts and a big bottle of water lying on the mattress. Seeing 'em, he's blown away - just what he wanted!
It's still dark outside, but dawn is starting to break. The window is closed... and barred. Dan doesn't think anything of it. He's forgotten the handcuffs, which have disappeared.
So has his shirt. And his boots, and socks...
He wakes up later in the morning. Stumbles out and finds the bathroom, pissing for a long time. He splashes water on his face and drinks for a while. Dried out, but not hung over, which is a relief.
Heading back into the bedroom, he sees the pack of smokes - and nothing sounds better right then. He lights up, seriously enjoying it, sighing contentedly.
The door starts to move.
Dan sits on the foot of the bed, exhaling smoke slowly and watching it close. He's confused, and he doesn't know why -
The door closes. There's a big poster on it.
A guy. Hogtied. And... feathers.
Someone took a black crayon to it... adding shaggy black hair, a goatee, stubble. Tattoo of an eagle, swooping, on his left shoulder blade. Barbed-wire coiling down his left calf.
The tats look familiar. In fact, he has the same exact tats. Huh.
The cartoon guy's got a smoke, even though his mouth is wide-open, laughing that hard. The cigarette's hanging in the air in front of him in that cartoon way. Big mound of butts, there. As if he'd been like stuck that for hours. Tied, tickled. Apeshit. Totally wild.
Dan blinks at the caricature of himself... and he doesn't figure it out. He mulls it over, but isn't allowed to grasp the obvious. He smokes, and wonders, but he doesn't get it.
Above the cartoon, in huge letters:
MONSTER HOOT
And underneath:
CRUDE DELIRIUM
RELEASE PARTY
Then something zips up to the poster -
It's a padlock. He watches it float to the door, all by itself, and hook itself through the security blocker, like they have in some hotels. Dan flicks ash on the floor absently, watching, as it clicks shut. The padlock flips up once, twice, as if it was being tested. Proving he's locked in.
He yawns and gets himself another smoke. Quietly, the air conditioner kicks on.
"Danno. Bud. How ya doin'?"
"Tits," he says with a grin, looking around for whoever said that...
"Feelin' good?"
And, dammit, he's never felt better. Even his skin - he nods.
"Alright. You thirsty, right now? Need to go to the can?"
"N-nope." Dan looks at the poster again, 'cause he's sorta wondering if the cartoon guy is supposed to be him. He thinks about it for a minute. Those feathers, they're way too big. No feathers are that big...
In his head, he thinks of real ones, eagle feathers maybe. A few inches long, brown with fuzzy grey edges. Overhead, moving smoothly in the air, wiggling.
Then he's imagining a lot of fingers. well, gloves. But they move... All kinds and colors, but all empty, or like they're on invisible hands.
This is even weirder, he thinks to himself, lighting a new smoke off the old. He thinks about the rope in the cartoon - then canvas straps, nylon tie-downs, leather... cuffs. Black. One wrapped around a wrist, the hand straining - and a thick cowhide strap anchoring it, holding it down.
Dan takes another drag - and his head clears.
Suddenly, without warning, he's wide awake. Staring at the poster again, rereading the words.
"Can't -"
His... wrists! grabbed by something, circled, like steel. Invisible. He tries to leap off the bed. But his arms go up, and he's dragged backward.
Black leather, above him, is coming down. Not the cuffs he just imagined - these are twice as thick, and wider. Definitely real.
"No," he says, squirming. "You gotta be kidding -"
Around they go. Got his wrists now. Buckling down snug.
A half-dozen straps appear - and they're astounding. Fat and thick. Circling the cuffs, through black iron rings and buckles. These cuffs, they're more... serious than anything he's ever seen before. The ends trail off the bed, and pull tight. Loud metallic snapping noises. Three straps pin each wrist.
Dan tries to move 'em - fuck! As if his arms were caught in cement. They don't budge. It's an unbelievably helpless feeling.
He kicks and flops around when more cuffs materialize above his legs.
Four straps for each ankle.
Thinner straps, lassoing his big toes.
And still more. Leather, pulled tight over his hips. More immobilizing his thighs.
He babbles frantically - "No, no, aw help, c'mon now, this is crazy, no, no, aw, c'mon, help, help..." - but it doesn't do him any good.
The pack lifts off the nightstand, and opens. Smoke - now? They gotta be crazy, no w-
Yes. Instantly, the idea becomes important. Have a smoke. Yeah.
"Oh, yeah," he murmurs, relaxing. Whatever he was so torqued about? It can wait.
A cigarette comes to him, and a kitchen match drags across the edge of the table, blazing. He watches it gratefully, tugging hard when it comes up to give him a light.
His hands start to pull idly, as he smokes.
"You ready now?"
"Ready for what?" he says with a smirk, looking around.
"Crude. Delirium. Release."
"Hey. C'mon. No way."
"Monster hoot."
"Dude..." And he decides he wants a hard drag, right now. Then another -
The cigarette is pulled from his lips. He exhales smoothly.
And the calmness, the hunger for smoke - leaves him. Dan blinks -
"Bonzai."
Hands are over him! Six, seven, eight gloves in the air. Ready to pounce. They're jet-black. Satin. And they're empty... but they look like they're stretched over big, solid hands. And he can't budge!
Something like a yelp escapes his throat.
The impossible ticklers start coming down.
Completely shocked, and utterly unable to do a fuckin' thing to stop 'em, he watches the fingers land on him. Tense as he can be, at the start of their private, all-out, thoroughly planned, unimaginable party.
One finger tickles... from each ghostly hand. Playing with his belly button, an "outie" that's always been far too sensitive. Another creeps behind his neck, across and back, onto his collarbone -
And two are wriggling deep in his armpits.
Of course, a pair are traveling across his feet. Insteps, sides, between his toes. And his feet... can't move.
"Naaaaww whah hah haaaah haaaaooowww whhhaaah haaah hah haaaaaah..."
He can't move anything except his head, so he throws it around. The glove by his neck doesn't seem to mind.
Oh, fuck, he's always been ticklish. But this is a whole new dimension. Way too much pleasure, in too many places at once. And they're hardly even trying. He's so fucked.
If only he could wrestle around. They've got him excellently, perfectly stuck.
Six fingers, and he can't st-
Each glove adds a second finger, and continues to stroke him.
He fights like a wildcat. Roaring, just roaring his guts out. Still laid out -
Dan opens his eyes. Black shapes everywhere. Black stripes around him. Ankles still wrapped in leather. He kicks again, as hard as he can. Hardly a quiver.
The empty fingers aren't fazed at all. They keep on stroking.
While others trace his ribs... and pinch his right nipple gently.
His struggles have gotten him nowhere. They're not going to get him anywhere.
He shuts his eyes, and brays like a donkey.
Squeezing, and stroking, and stimulating. The gloves make him produce a whole variety of manic noises.
Time
blurs.
An exploratory tug, when he thinks of it. Still caught. Snug leather, impossibly sturdy... an earthquake wouldn't snap these fuckers.
Feverishly, vacantly, Dan imagines the trailer shattered, walls blown out, ceiling gone - and the mammoth cuffs still pinning him down, straps good and tight... and the gloves still stroking away, workin' him over, out here in the fucking desert with no roads in sight. Lying here, laughing in the noonday heat, hooting as the sun goes down and the wind stirs, chuckling at the dew wetting his clothes and the birds singing... Maybe hee-hawing at the work gloves as they build a new cell around him where he lay. Pinned. Still gettin' tickled.
If, say, he did get a hand free somehow, and they didn't just strap it right back down, he didn't know how he could get his other hand loose. Until he did, the fuckers could just boogie wherever he couldn't reach to block 'em.
Or if, by some miracle, both hands free - then what? There could be fifty fingers tweaking each foot, and he couldn't get in their way. Not for more than a few seconds. Couldn't pick the ankle-cuffs apart, or bite 'em. Shield one foot, and his other side would be all exposed.
Dan pictures himself holding a match against one of these thick, heavy fetters. His little Bic lighter, or a cigarette - one after another. Roaring his head off while he does. The leather, hardly blemished.
Shiny black fingers still tracing, fondling, sliding.
All over him - wherever they're stroking - it's just impossible. But they haven't left his feet alone. Not once. Always there, usually both of 'em, all sides and spots.
Dan had no idea the sides of his feet were so fuckin' touchy.
And they're really getting to the base of his toes. Making 'em scream.
He looks at the ceiling, and bellows, and shakes his head a little. Chest heaving with brutal laughs...
The gloves don't stop, though.
His ass. Oh fuck fuck fuck, gloves are buffing both cheeks, slipping up and down his crack, and it's murder.
Others keep busy under his knees. A minefield - and they've discovered the base of his neck, way below his adam's apple.
Horribly gentle palms are blanketing his Achilles tendons. Devastating. But Dan, he keeps on hooting. And he thinks about the poster.
Copy some flyers, get the trailer all set. Go to Reno and look around. Pick out a guy. Him. Get him drunk, make him drive out to the trailer...
And tack up the poster. Look at this, asshole. Stare at it. This is you, here. With your goatee added. Your tats. Tied up. Staying put... to get the shit tickled out of you. And a cigarette added to the poster, deliberately. Big pile of butts in front of his face, like the cartoon guy's been smokin' a lot. Made to smoke -
Dan realizes he wants a cigarette. Real bad.
Why the hell doesn't he have one? He's gotta - say something, yell it. Hey, you sadistic glove-wearin' bastard, get those 'Boros over here now...
No, wait, don't piss it off. It could cop a 'tude... erase the cig from the cartoon Dan's mouth. Fuck. Let him beg, cackle, cry for a smoke. Gloves sliding double-time. No. Gotta ask it nicely.
He tries to figure out... how to talk. So distracted, all the tickling. Damn. Can't stop giggling and whooping long enought to get the words out... Trying and trying. It must not know how fuckin' bad he needs a smoke. Sick fuck. Even this tickler couldn't be mean enough to... not get him a cig, right fuckin' now, if it only knew how absolutely gone he was. It wouldn't leave him without a 'Boro if it knew. Gotta tell it, he's frantic, and he just can't.
The gloves tickle him... on, and on, and on.
They roam under him, and up his pantlegs. He tries to watch, sometimes, thinking it'll help him tolerate it. But his eyes keep closing - never more awake in his life, the sensation pounding away...
He laughs at the poster for awhile. Yucks it up, staring at his cartoon portrait, caught good and getting the works. Smokin' a cigarette. How long would it take to pile up that many butts, anyway? Hours...
So how come the cartoon gets to sm-
Boom. The mental picture is right there, so damn clear - just lying here, no cuffs on him, no gloves in the room. Smokin' hard. Digging it, totally relaxed... very happy.
The need is so huge, he stops laughing. He gulps. The fingers keep on polishing him, soles and ribs... But the urge is enormous. He could take all this tickling, and more, if he had a cigarette. Right now. No way he can stand it... This fondling is too much, way too much, without a smoke!
The gloves pet the top and bottom of each foot, real firm pressure. Like some kind of terrible socks, left then right then left again. And he squeals, arching his neck...
A carton. Full carton of 'Boros. Oh damn, damn.
His elbows. Mutherfuck. Never would have guessed they'd react like this. Slippery fingertips lightly tracing back and forth in the crook of each arm. Anchored arms, and he can't even turn 'em.
Remembering when he sat in the car, here. Right after his hands had been cuffed behind his back - and the damn pack of smokes floating up to him, oh yeah. Yeah. Drenched with the hunger. And this magic tickling fiend had helped him, right away, giving him a cig, and a light. 'Cause it had cuffed his hands, and he needed help. And it got him smokin' then. Didn't keep him waiting.
Why is it holding out on him now? Dammit...
He decides he's never gonna wear socks again. They turn on ya -
No, wait. Peeking, eyes all watery... Black things, moving. On him. All... over.
Oh. Of course.
Dan learns that his nipples get incredibly touchy if they're fingered long enough.
Thing is, the gloves discover it a few minutes before he does.
They let him catch his breath from time to time, and bring him water. Let him smoke, sometimes. But the breaks seem to fly by, even though he can't count 'em. No time at all.
What looms bigger in his memory, playing over and over, is the exact moment he realized that some body parts were a lot more ticklish than he knew. His nipples. His ears, of all things. Right behind 'em...
And his hands. Aw, hell. He'd seen 'em rubbing his palms, teasing between his own fingers, real slow and easy. Forgot it, rediscovered it a few times. But that one horrible moment, when they were wrapped around his thighs, moving, crawling... and sliding down his fingertips. He couldn't believe it. Like oil, like a kiss, like ice. Unbelievably demanding. He couldn't do anything. Too overwhelming. And it went on and on.
He must've passed out, because it's bright outside the window. Again.
Sunlight, beating down on the black iron bars.
A cigarette pokes between his lips.
"You want a gag?"
"Do I want a gag?"
The shiny hands drop on him. "Alright. Suit yourself..." And they dig in.
"Waaaaaaaaaaah..." Dan yells for five solid seconds - before he explodes with laughter. He arches again, strenuously, but it doesn't faze 'em in the least. They pet his ribs and his pecs and his feet solidly, until he settles down.
Then they slow down just a little, and keep stroking.
The first time they cuff him down on his stomach, they discover the extreme sensitivity of his shoulder blades.
And, of course, his butt crack.
Dark outside, light outside, dark outside. Whiskey, sometimes. Speed. Smokes.
When they strap his wrists and ankles together in front of him, the soft fingertips are ever harder to take. It seems like he should be able to do something, since he can move around a little more. Danno barks and cackles so hard, bothered by the idea that he might as well be sitting there by choice. Ridiculous. But it's like he should be able to roll away now, even if there's a strap making sure his ankles don't get too far. Fuck, he can't just sit here and take it. Laughing his head off...
One time Dan looks and sees dim sunlight outside the window... but he can't remember if it's morning or night. He'll find out soon enough, but it really bugs him, not knowing for sure.
Before long, his cigarette is taken away - and the hands race around, flipping him over. Stretching him tight. About a dozen gloves start in with big white feathers, driving all other thoughts right out of his head.
Hours later, after they've turned him back over, fed him, kept the water coming and let him piss into a jar, smoke maybe half a pack...
They rotate him, so his head was at the other end of the mattress, and get him hogtied. Only they use the cuffs and straps.
"Ow, it hurts," he says, into the sheet.
"Not for long, dude. Between gettin' numb and the tickling you're gonna get..."
Soft material wanders over his collarbones... up his shins -
"Naugh haw haw hoh whah haah haaaaaah haaaawww..."
All the fidgeting and wrestling he can manage doesn't make it any easier to take.
A while later, fingers tunnel into his hair and lift his head gently. Others pour water down him... and then continue to fuck him up.
Another half-hour, and the fingers slow down. A cigarette floats into place. Dan snickers around it, completely unaware.
The gloves dig in deep, and he drops it - several times over the next hour. But eventually it stays, and a match is struck and brought up.
His body sucks in. Pure reflex.
After the smoke leaks out of him, the feathers are brought into play, dusting his feet - stimulating a more urgent reflex.
He hoots, dropping the cigarette one more time... but not long after he's too tired to move. So another smoke is started, and a couple more feathers are put to use.
Before the pack is gone, the gloves are provoking him all over, solid as ever.
Dan laughs and brays, not moving otherwise. Eyes shut tight, cigarette hanging from his mouth. Growing pile of butts in front of him, one still smoldering...
Just like the poster, right in front of him. On the locked door.
Long, eternally long hours of 'em, head to toe. Really going to town between his legs.
Night, day, night, day, night...
When Dan's not panting anymore, the pack glides up.
Gratefully kicking out his fourth lungful of smoke, lazily watching it swirl above him...
"Y'know... tobacco is made for tickling."
His eyes open all the way. "C'mon, I just - you gotta give me a couple minutes at least -"
The voice chuckles. "Take it easy, Danno. You're smokin' this whole pack before you get to howl again. A little booze, a lot of water, set'cha up. Don't worry. Save your strength."
He sighs out smoke uneasily.
"Yeah. You just go ahead, and give a listen." A pause, for effect.
"It just might be the ideal drug for you, ya squeamish fucker. Helps ya relax, hypes you up. You smoke to calm down, and you smoke to wake up. What a double-bind. How may things can you say that about? It's your way to celebrate, and console yourself, and it's so routine you don't even think about how it says 'normal' to ya. Except when you're watching a pack open up by magic, over your chest. Right? Your habit, stinky ol' trademark of rebellion, getting... misused. That ain't right.
"None of this is right," he complains.
"Aw. Goin' through the most intense sensations of your hangdog life, and what should be crossin' your mind but how badly you need a smoke. To cope. Somehow it'll keep the whole wild insane setup from makin' you absolutely crazy. So you can stay on the... right side of the line.
When you get a little panicky, thinkin' about what's comin' next, you smoke up and steady yourself. So you can think. You wake up, come to, and can't get a handle on whether this is the nightmare you've been havin' or some impossibly weird real scene, you smoke up and the you're able to think. It's beautiful.
"If there's, say, ten or more hands - satin hands, that know your quirks - roaming all over ya, maybe not leaving your meat alone either... and you know for a stone cold fact you can't stop 'em, and they're not gonna even pause until they're damn good and ready, if those are hard facts there's no way you're gonna get around... what could help you deal, more than a constant stream of ciggies? A good thick cigar, maybe, warm and soft, jetting all that nicotine into ya whenever you puff?
"Comfort, DJ. In the middle of the ultimate, intolerable... embrace.
Dan had to groan...
"You still awake, there, bud? Is this a good bedtime story? Well, you got sixteen or seventeen more 'Boros sittin' there in that pack, waitin'. And it's not anywhere near time for a nap, Danno. Not for you. So guess what's in store for your fuckin' titties, next. And your armpits, and your legs."
He moans.
"Correctamundo. But there's more, about the smokin'. That cool thing you've been doin' for, what, ten years? How long, DJ? Answer."
"Uh... Fourteen or fifteen, I started - so maybe eleven years."
"Yeah. Most of that every damn day, huh? The way you're handlin' all this smoke, in here, you must've done some two- or three-packin' in your time."
Dan doesn't say anything. The voice is right, but there's nothing to be gained by confirming it.
"Uh huh. Made you feel like a man, didn't it? Badass. Lets people know you're a shady character. A stud. All that macho iron-man testosterone pumping through ya. So a couple years go by, and you maybe realize you're smokin' continuously, day after day. You set 'em down, and the craving drives you back. They gotcha.
"And here, dude, here's the best part. They're the little piece of everyday normal life keepin' you from goin' banzai from all this magical weirdness - but... even better - they make you more ticklish.
"You didn't know that, did you?"
He snorted. "Makin' guys believe that shit, huh?"
The tickler chuckled. "Listen up. A guy in primo health, lifelong gym rat or something, he's gonna feel the feathers more sharply. And when he shoots his load - well, ya drunk, you can't imagine how much better it is. So that healthy guy, he could have a few hours that put your sensations to shame, DJ.
"Sure, he's got more wind. Volume ain't what it's really all about. That's short-term shit, like kindling, right? But he'll numb out... a lot faster. Even if his skin gets careful attention. The best tune-up known to the tickling arts, his usual diet or a seriously amped-up load of vitamins and amino acids and herbs, all that shit. Build him up for days, and he still can't deliver all night like you can. Can't keep going, run as hot. Now that makes no sense. He should be puttin' you to shame -"
"Go get one, then," he wailed.
"Hah. But you know what? Turns out your smokes are adding a little something extra. One of those chemicals you're burnin' keeps your nerve endings... maxed out. He's gonna suffer more than first hour. You're gonna feel it, way more, the tenth hour. And the tenth time you spurt. And the tenth night. It's no contest.
"And it's your 'Boros, or that friendly cigar, helpin' you deal. The ones you've been needin' for years. They're keepin' you full of the wonder chemical, and you're consistently ready to rub and be absolutely apeshit. That's why you're comin' up on four packs a day now, buddy. If it has to come down to having the lungs to howl, or being a reliable basket case from the effects of one li'l ol' feather duster... you're smokin' up. Hardwired, too, whenever you remember your stay here - it'll all come back to ya, and you'll just have to fire up another one, to make your heart stop racing. You with me?"
"Shit," he sighed.
"But hey, why talk about afterward? That ain't now, is it? And don't you go gettin' the wrong idea. The job ain't done yet. You got a shitload of delirium to release yet, before you get cut loose. A boatload. You can't even grasp it in that skittish little party-animal brain of yours. There's cartons of smokes, right close by, waitin'. What does that tell ya, DJ? Now, you just forget all about being done here, and anything after that. Hah. 'cause that's not even in the cards yet. Fucker."
He pants for breath.
"Danno. You wanna smoke?"
Fuck no, he thinks -
Then wham. Cigarette. A whole pack, nonstop. More than anything. Keep him strapped down another week, just let him smoke -
"Please. Yeah, oh please."
A knowing chuckle. "Y'know... You smoke a lot, buddy. Too much. Maybe time to give 'em up. Cold turkey -"
"No! Aw, no -"
The pack lifts up and wiggles. "No time like the present, since you're strapped down and all -"
The need explodes. Dan yells with gusto.
"Okay, okay." A cigarette slides out. "Shit. Easy, here ya go."
"Thank you, oh, mutherfuck, thank y-"
"Aaaah, shuddup." The lighter serves him up, and he smokes as hard as he can. "That better?"
And the urge dissolves. "Oh fuck." Better to go along, though...
"Good. Hey, listen. You know how long you've been here?"
"H-here?" he says distractedly.
"Yeah. Figured you weren't paying attention... but you're on day number eleven of the monster hoot."
"Fuck."
"What is that, the only word you know? The deal is, you got a hell of a lot of delirium left in ya. Definitely. But ol' Shawn, he's gonna start to wonder what's up."
Hadn't thought of that before -
"Rent's gonna be due. Utilities. But no need to worry about that -" And, over his chest... floats an envelope. "You're still in Verdi, havin' an even better time than you thought you would. She kicked down some dough to encourage you to stick around for a while. This could go all summer, and it'd be alright with you. And..." The envelope comes closer. "So there isn't any problem on his end, you're enclosing a thousand bucks."
Dan swallows hard. All summer? He can't be hearing this, correctly, no way, not possible.
"The gamble is, will Shawn notice this envelope - with no return address - doesn't have a Verdi postmark? Or will he be so glad to see the cash he won't give it a second thought?"
Knowing Shawn, who's not big on details, Dan sees how it'll go. He'll read the note once, chuckle over it... and with the cash in hand, he won't care that the handwriting is different. Would he be sober enough to notice? After getting a wad like that... not for long. And Shawn hates cops. Yessir, officer, my roommate's missing, said he went off with this rich chick, he sent a note but, uh...
"I'm screwed," Dan says dejectedly.
"Yeeeeaaah." The cigarette is pulled... and he feels that external sleep taking him. "You get an extra nap in. The mailbox is a ways off. And then it'll be time to celebrate, huh?"
His eyelids droop. "Naw..."
"Sleep, ya lowlife. Real long monster hoot, Danno. Damn straight."
26july2000