Swap meets used to be more fun. Maybe it was because making ten bucks go a long way used to be so important. Or I just turned into a big snob, somewhere along the way...
"Yeah," I heard a guy say. Not talking to me, but I glanced over -
And he looked down suddenly. Busted, I thought. But he had a shy smile. On a young biker, that was unusual enough...
He was alone, behind a table with bandannas on it. A little nervous, but he hid it pretty well. He smoked hard, squinting at me and looking away again.
He was cool. I was never that together, and I had to be more than twice his age. It made me pause. Literally.
The genuine article. A modern gypsy or something. Brass balls...
But there was nothing hostile there. A lot friendlier than most scooter people.
He wore old leather gloves on his hands. Tattoos ran right down to the gloves, so I decided maybe he was just wearing the gloves to hide some art that would scare off the suits... like me.
"There he is," he said, nodding.

"There who is?" I shot back, and when he looked away I had to smile.
"Uh... I got somethin'."
I cocked my head a little, and chuckled. He couldn't be serious -
"They're for you."
"They are, huh..."
Time to shake my head and walk away. That's what I did in situations like that. Keep a smile on my face, and leave the carnival barker behind. But that didn't apply here. He wasn't acting like any salesman I'd ever seen.
Goofy, happy biker. One too many hotshots? At his age?
I walked over.
We grinned at each other some more. He seemed like an open book. Not trying to pick me up, which would've been the biggest shock yet. I didn't get that vibe from him.
The tats were definitely scooter tramp stuff, not prison.
He smoked some more, and nodded once. If it was a sales gimmick, it was the slowest... and weirdest one I'd ever seen.
"O-kay," I finally said. "I'll bite. What's for me?" Drugs, probably. Did he ever call it wrong.
He laughed - easy, and genuine - and reached under some grinning-skull headscarves.
I watched him bring out a pair of riding gloves.

I rolled my eyes - and he leaned closer. Just a little. There seemed to more at stake than the sale of a lousy pair of gloves. He was on to something... fantastic. And he wanted to share it with me. Maybe he was gay after all... but that still didn't fit. Not with what I was seeing.
He finished his smoke impatiently and sprang it past my shoulder - without looking to see where it went. So cool. And he never broke eye contact.
Do it. I thought he'd say that, any second. If it had been "the chicks love 'em" or something equally pathetic, I would've been gone already. So transparently eager...
What would it hurt?
"I'm not gonna buy 'em," I said, reaching for the gloves. "Don't need 'em."
"Shit! that's the exact same thing I said." And he laughed.
They were warm. And - tingly?
I sighed slowly. It felt good to do that.
"Huh?" he crowed.
And I felt... better than good, all the way through me. Really great.

Old feelings. Strong enough, suave... feisty.
"You used to ride," the kid growled. I heard approval in his tone. Metal clanked quietly -
He was lighting another cigarette. Still a happy camper. Satisfied. Scraggly guy, and if he was twenty-one yet I'd eat one of his stupid bandannas. Smooth operator, and he was still young. I envied him.
He closed up his lighter and looked over at me. Leering, just because he felt like doing it.
"Pull 'em on," he said, snickering again. "Try 'em. Let's do it." Carefree laughter.
So... I did.

"Damn," I said, flexing my fingers. They did fit me. Thin, and close - but not too tight. It almost seemed as if they'd evacuated all the air out of 'em, or something like that. What an imagination I had... I let my head droop. Studying them.
Back when I rode, these were the gloves I would've wanted.
Thin leather, dull black, with chain-links embroidered on the back side, in black thread, way down by the wrist. Subtle. I liked that. Nothing showy. No-nonsense gloves.
"Take care of 'em," the biker said quietly. "They'll take real good care of you."
I looked him in the eye, and he just beamed. Proud of himself, and... in his book, maybe, I was alright.
I started getting an erection.
A guy? This guy? No. It was the bulletproof feeling. Twenty years old, party all night, fuck all night, and nothing could stop me. I looked the gloves over again, lightheaded and confused.
"Hey," he said. "Here."
I looked at the pack of cigarettes he'd aimed at me.
Leather, all around 'em. His glove. Like my gloves. Bad, naughty - exciting.
It had been a good six, seven years without one, I thought vacantly. It was that first cigarette that started the whole ball rolling again. I couldn't even have a cigar, because that always led to the same thing. Short of breath, hacking up crud, snide remarks. Late-night trips.
Starting again, right now.
Turning it down was absolutely beyond me. One of those unfiltered cigarettes would make the moment even better. And he knew. There was nothing tentative in his big ol' smile. Slowly, he took a drag.
You used to ride. That's what he said.

I took the pack and shook one up. Grabbed it. "Thanks," I said, and there was no hiding the relief...
When he handed me his lighter, I expected to fumble with it. The gloves. But I thumbed open that Zippo and lit up as easy as could be. Damn, I felt cool.
He sighed. Mission accomplised, or something. Corrupting the citizens? Ridiculous. I gave the lighter back to him. It even seemed as if I could feel the cool metal against my fingertips, right through the leather. I wanted a lighter like his.
"Ain't they something?"
"Yeah."
He rocked back a little, totally confident now. It wasn't like the nervousness had been an act. He just felt better. I was hooked.
"How much?"
His head made a carefree little motion. "Fifteen."
"Bull-shit," I barked. His smile started to fall -
Parking the cigarette between my lips, I dug for my money. The fuckin' glove slid right into my khakis, for all the world as if there wasn't any added thickness around my fingers. I could wear these things all the time. And they felt so good.

I pulled off two twenties, and dropped 'em near his hand, amazed at myself for doing it.
"Naw," he said, eyeing the money.
"Yeah," I shot back, chuckling. "Take it."
He shook his head a little - and got an idea. Held up a finger, looked from side to side... and darted down. Got something from under the table...
Big, open-mouthed leer on him as he stood back up. Picking up his smokes - maybe a good half-pack left - he tucked a couple joints in there. Staring at me, and only too glad to hand me the pack.
"Alright," I laughed. "Fuckin' decent."
"Yeah," he said slyly. "You ain't kiddin', brother. Whole new game." And still, there was no irony in his voice. He was just... glad.
Why this kid would approve of me, when all he had to do was pocket the money and nod, was beyond me. I exhaled more smoke and chuckled at him. He was a good kid.
"There ya go," he said. "You got more money?"
"I can... get more," I said, as sly as he was.
"Little stall across the way," and he gestured carelessly. "The one with all the Mexican t-shirts? Miguel's table. You go there and tell 'em... Headcase dice hola. That's me, and it means I said hi. Gotta say it right."
"Headcase dice hola," I chuckled, already feeling all flattered.
He nodded. "They'll sell ya a carton for fifteen bucks. Throw in a Mexican Zippo for another ten. And two tables on down, where the pipes are, they've got the Zippo fluid for two bucks."
"Fuck. Thanks."
"You got it." He stuck out a hand.

We slapped palms and shook as if we'd been doing it for ten years. The glove seemed to tingle against my palm. Real nice. Leather against leather...
Charging me up. Transferring that attitude -
But that was ludicrious. It had just been a while since a stranger had been that nice to me.
Headcase reached under the table, still grinning, and pulled out some grocery bags out. He swept the bandannas off the table, punching 'em down into the bags. It wasn't even one in the afternoon yet.
"You outa here?" I asked.
He nodded, sticking his tongue out a little. Manic. "All done."
"Huh." I was sorry to see him go. One happy little biker, there. "Back here tomorrow?"
"Nooooo," he said right away. "Down the road."
"Alright," I said approvingly, and he chuckled. "Where next?"
He just shrugged. Looked at me. "Did what I came here to do."
I wouldn't have thought bandannas sold that well... but he was definitely on the move. "Take it easy."
"You, too. It's a ride. Hang on." And he nodded, one more time, as he slid past the end of the table. That wild grin, focused on me, for a couple seconds.
And gone.
Interesting character. And that parting shot - I didn't get that at all, but he looked as... wide-open then as he had before.

I had about forty bucks in my pocket. With a nod, I turned and started down to Miguel's, tugging on my cigarette. Dizzy from the smoke, and yet so relieved to have it in me again... full, heavy smoke in my lungs. It was like I was twenty all over again, careless, tough enough, and not a fucking thing in the world would touch me.
The gloves looked good. A faraway voice warned me that some people would find 'em ridiculous, on my hands. That was probably true, and I just didn't give a fuck. I didn't even know gloves could feel that much like... my own skin.
Fuck. I didn't want to take 'em off.

It was such a stupid thing to do.
Knowing that, I wanted to smoke even more. Odd. I carried my bag back to the car.
A whole carton. I sat there, filling my new lighter, and felt a craving I couldn't quite name.

So juvenile, and yet it was more soothing than I remembered - driving along, with a cigarette in my hand. Gloved hands.
Something big was going on, but when I'd start to analyze it - hell, think about any one thing too much - I'd get all spacey. Happier than I'd been in a long time. Years.
I drove with sharp concentration. Everything else was fuzzy, but in the best possible way. I had cigarettes, and weed. What the hell was I doing?
Better yet... why the fuck not?

It was great. I was remembering concerts I had gone to, incredible sex. Wallowing in old memories.
I watched leather fingers punching the keypad at the drive-up ATM. All that cash in my hands...

Coming out of a liquor store with a case of beer, and a bag full of bottles on top. My arms felt strong, even taut, with none of the ache in my left shoulder I'd gotten used to. That was a relief.
Three doors down, to the adult bookstore...

I had no idea what I'd bought. It was a feeling of liberation. I didn't seem to be able to stop myself.
Driving on the freeway, smoking like a chimney. Southern rock on the radio. I'd forgotten how great that music was.

A bunch of motorcycles, lined up. Gleaming.
I walked in like I owned the place, amazed at the swagger in my step. My right hand came up -
And pointed at thin guy behind the counter. That was my man. "Hey," I boomed.
He looked up, a little startled. Then, "Hey, yourself." I saw him stare at the gloves. Glancing back at my face, and down to my hands again. "A-ha."
"I'm here to spend money."
"I'll bet you are," he said, smirking. He stuck out his hand. "Perry."
"I need everything, Perry."
"Okay..."

It was like watching a movie or something. A slow, hazy collection of images. The pile on the counter got bigger and bigger, and I was getting more excited. Everything looked better - more and more "right" - all the time.
"Can I ask you something?" Perry said.
"Sure."
"I always get you guys. Buying everything a couple sizes too small..." He gestured at my gut.
I had to laugh, nodding.
"And you fire off the sizes you want, without a second thought."
"Like... it's for my kid?"
He looked down. "Yeah. Or something."
I laughed. "No. I know what you're thinking. This is all for me, dude. All mine. Motivation... I'm gonna fit in these clothes before you know it."
"Well, good for you. I mean it."
"Gonna be some changes," I said. "Major."
"Looks like maybe it's already started." And he looked at the gloves again.
"Say that, fucker."
He blinked at me - and relaxed. Instead of taking offense, maybe he remembered the huge mound of poser shit on the counter, there.
"You know what else you need?" he laughed. "Boxers. Officially licensed fuckin' underwear. Silk."
"30-inch waist," I said, nodding.

He had one more display case, which they kept hidden under the counter.
I know I picked out a few things, and that it was more black leather. Maybe chrome, too. It was almost like I was too happy to pay attention to what I was doing.
And the total had to be shocking, but I made a point of not looking at it. What was the point of even having an AmEx platinum card if you couldn't splurge once in a while?

Perry had to help me carry all the shit out to my car. Filling the back seat... and that bad-guy scent. Black leather.
I shook his hand and asked him... some things. Heard him answer. Maybe I was too dreamy because of all the cool stuff I'd just bought.

I must've gone home, then. My couch was piled up with bags and boxes.
Grabbing another pack from the carton and my new night-goggles, I went back out to my car. Clearing stuff out.
Fingers - and I kept forgetting I had the gloves on - nimbly digging through a folder in my file cabinet...

It was dark, and I stood on uneven blacktop. My new boots felt strange, and so fantastic, under my heels.
Sid looked doubtful - for a few seconds. Then he must've realized he already had a sale, because his mood changed. The conversation was brief...
Following him to a garage. Three bikes, on their kickstands. My mouth was actually watering.
And my fingers were all restless.
Not the Honda. The Fat Boy. Dark red. Yeah. Not too tricked out. It was gonna need new paint, and a new seat.
But the fucker started right up, and ran like a dream...

And I knew, signing the papers, that Sid was getting the better end of the deal. I was trading my Lexus for a stock hog, straight across. Insane.
But I'd paid off the car by cashing in some stock options. Not even three years old, fuckin' loaded. Nobody had ever smoked in it - until today.
Sid was in a good mood. Probably fifteen grand ahead on the deal. He threw in a battered half-shell helmet.
Maybe I looked ridiculous on it, but I don't know if any other moment in my life stood out like that one. Perfect. Finally, I was doing... exactly what I wanted to do.
I rode home.

Party for one.
I've never had a night like that. Energy that just wouldn't quit. It was the kind of 21st birthday party I would've wished for, if my friends hadn't dragged me to Vegas.
Hell. I drank, got out the sad ol' bottle of hand lotion and jerked off to a porn DVD, got a great buzz off half a joint, drank some more, picked up a magazine...
Smoking nonstop. And handling it. Absolutely amazing.
Your heart is forty-eight years old, my brain whispered. It's not up to all this.
Yeah, I thought contemptuously. But what a way to go.

I hadn't managed to jack off three times since - well, it was long before the divorce.
Snickering, I finished off the joint...
 

Four o'clock? Son of a bitch. I slept the whole day away.
And I felt even better than I had the day before.
Yawning, I lit a smoke and wandered into the bathroom. Made water, and jumped in the shower -
Shit! I still had the gloves on.
They needed to be cleaned. Cum all over 'em, and grey smears of ash. Greasy-looking. I looked 'em over, as the water trailed down my fingers, and thought about it. What did I have, in the house, to clean 'em up...?
I had to settle for a mild soap. And right then I remembered Perry holding something -
Saddle soap. And mink oil. In one of the bags of biker crap I'd bought. How cool.
Taking my time, I smoked and took care of my gloves. That critical fucker in my head was sure there'd be trouble, getting 'em all wet. Shrinkage.
But they felt fine, and they looked just like new.

There was something kinky, and arousing, about cleaning 'em without taking the fuckers off. My hands moved as if I knew exactly what I was doing - how much saddle soap to use, how long to work in the oil.
I felt like I could do anything in those babies. Anything at all. And I owned a fuckin' motorcycle again.
And they dried okay. That didn't make sense, entirely, but I couldn't even tell they'd been soaked.
Warm, but not too warm. Nice and tingly. Fuckin' molded to my hands.
No way I wanted 'em off me.
And my arms seemed to look better...
Something was odd, there. My skin. Was it tighter?
In a daze, I got up and went back to the bathroom.

The guy in the mirror looked about thirty years old. Thirty-five, tops.
And he looked good. Not as pudgy - anywhere.
I stared at myself for a long time.

Nobody - and I meant, nobody - was gonna believe this.
I lit another cigarette, and went into my room.

It wasn't time, yet, to pull on the new clothes I'd bought. That was a given, though I couldn't quite figure out how I knew that.
I had one more fuckin' errand to run. Couldn't wait.
An old cambray shirt, and my black jeans, would work just fine - for today.
I pulled the tags off my new jacket and slid it on.
Aw, incredible! I felt like I was armed, now. Armored. The pockets were waiting for a couple packs of cigarettes and a book of matches I scrounged from the kitchen drawer, just in case.
I pulled on my boots, and chaps.
Better and better...
Time to start that last joint.
As I got loaded, I pulled out my new wallet. Clipped the chain to my belt loop. I chuckled to myself... and moved a couple things out of my old tri-fold. Not that many. And I pulled almost all of the keys off my ring and let 'em fall on the rug.
Before I left, I gathered a few things from my bedroom. That pocket bulged a little, but it was okay. All good.

A few minutes later, I fuckin' stalked out to my ride.

Back to the ATM...
Then a pancake place, wolfing down a huge breakfast. Easing back, with a sigh, to finish it off with a fuckin' smoke.
I was in heaven.

And I rode again, watching out for the fuckin' cagers, going to a place... Well, I wasn't clear on what would happen, there, but I'd reached some entirely new level of contentment.

Colorful walls. Smoke. A hard-lookin' guy -
Smiling, when I flashed my money.
And I talked to him...

Pain. Mild, but persistent. Something rubbing my arm, and before long the pain would start back up. Not too bad.
A buzzing noise. Questions, occasionally. But I always had the answers for him. So I must've been awake...
It was like I was lost in a soothing fog. All that mattered was that I always had another smoke. Lighting 'em without even needing to open my eyes.

Joking with the guy. Another handshake, leather-on-leather, surprisingly thrilling.
And I asked him something...

Riding, again. It was so damn great.

A nice house. Expensive.
The door opened - and a middle-aged woman smiled at me.

Going inside, and talking to her.
I brought out my watch. Wedding ring, my grandmother's old jewelry. Ancient... but so valuable.
She seemed to balk at taking it all. I insisted, easily. What I was getting from her was worth everything I had.
Freedom to ride.
There was some disagreement over a number. But I held the line. Willing to take a chance about something - not smart, my brain kept saying. Too low. But when I looked at my gloves, I just knew it was gonna work out perfectly. Hell, I was a good fifteen years younger than I was when I passed out.
She shrugged, finally, and looked back at her computer screen...

Racing home, with an envelope in the left breast pocket of my jacket.
Nothing could touch me now.

DVDs, magazines, beer and whisky.
The last of the weed was total bliss.
 

As soon as I lit the first cigarette of the day, it dawned on me that my arms were itchy. I wasn't supposed to scratch 'em, though.
So - I must've been awake. And was it... Monday?
5:23, the clock said -
P.M. What?
"Oh, shit," I drawled. It wasn't a holiday. Why didn't my fuckin' assistant call me? Sighing out smoke at the ceiling, I knew I had to get up and check the damn answering machine.
AWOL. My division head, Snake-Boy, was gonna have a field day.
So I laid back and had another smoke. No rush, anymore...

Getting all comfy again. I needed to take a leak.
With an effort, I steered my way to the kitchen instead and put the coffee on. Reached for the machine -
My hand paused. Huh?
The gloves - I got a warm buzz, from them, running up my arms. And I laughed.
Watching them, rather than doing it myself - or that's what I thought - my hands unplugged the machine and slammed it against the floor.
There.

I needed the phone, though. One last time. Cell phone.
Remembering the envelope, I got it. A phone number. Older lady.
So I checked my voice mail -
Yup. Her voice. Mission accomplished.
I reached for an open bottle of Jack Daniels and gave that ol' broad a toast.
Waiting for dark.
Trembling... with excitement.

Part of the reason I was so geeked up was that my bladder was gonna explode. I poured JD into my coffee and took it into the bathroom. Hurrying.
I needed to shit, too. So I sat there, groaning with relief. Tugging on my smoke. Finally, wiping very carefully - of course - so I didn't get any on the gloves. And even that wasn't awkward. Unless I deliberately thought about it, the leather didn't even seem to be on my hands.
Hell, I whistled a little, walking...
The mirror.

It was impossible. Some awful joke.
I looked behind me and turned all the way around, twice, before I figured it out.
Shit like that didn't really happen.
I guessed my new age to be... mid-twenties. Green eyes, strong chin. Shifty fucker.
My hair was black and it seemed longer, though I might've been imagining that. And my nose looked like it had been broken a while ago.
A friendly thug looked back at me. Competent. Even haughty.
I repeated the word to myself, but the meaning was vague. That was weird. Other words seemed to breaking down, too. The big words. And I'd always had a good... uh, handle on words.
That was me, in the mirror. Good-lookin' bastard. He needed some tail, that's for sure.
Hell, I'd even fuckin' grown a couple inches. Lean. Decent arms -
And then I saw the tattoos.

I looked up at my clear green eyes and blinked a couple times... Then, at the tattoos on me. I was chained -
The gloves were in me. Deep in my skin. Little gloves.
Running the show.
They'd gotten in there, along with the ink. Way inside. And they wanted me to know it.
No goin' back now. Even if the gloves came off, somehow, I'd pull 'em right back on as soon as I could. No doubt about it. No choice.
My hands were where they belonged.
Freedom...
I looked at my face, and started to chuckle.
Fuck... yeah. There was freedom - and then there was freedom. I was, literally, a new man. The gloves had done that.
Stuff I knew began to get all spotty. Name, numbers, history.
Relaxing, smirking at myself, I thought it over as best I could.
This was gonna be fuckin'... fun.

The tattoos, they looked right. First tats. But they looked kinda lonely. I was gonna have to get 'em some company. All over me. Oh, yeah.
I went back into the living room and stared at my jacket.
Okay. There was a little tube in the pocket. This must be the shit I gotta put on the tats.

Then I ate, and pounded a couple shots. Not too much. Every damn thing had been worked out. I felt like a teenager - no aches and pains. It was incredible.
And so... it was on. The plan. Just waiting for the sun to set.
Excellent. And still I had to fight down this stupid idea that it was all nuthin' more than a stupid-ass thing to do. Fuck. Why fight it? I'd gone to a lot of trouble. Every step was gold.
I wasn't gonna turn tail. Not now. And really, best I could tell, I didn't even fuckin' want to. There was a plan, and whatever it was I was confident it was a damn good one.
Perfect.
So I kicked back. No TV on, just me and my smokes.

And later on I sat down in front of my computer, with a new cigarette hanging from my mouth, and knew it was the last time in a loooooong fuckin' time I'd touch one of the damn things.
I wrote a few letters. Fairly short ones.
My ex would be relieved. A cool quarter-mil from the insurance money. Shit, she wouldn't be too choked up. It was real good we hadn't been fuckin' dumb enough to have kids, between us.
Snake-Boy was finally gonna learn what a stupid fuckin' tool he was.
My only relatives got a note, too. My mom's sister, about as senile as they get, in a rest home upstate. And her kid... He was the only one I felt weird about. Writing the note to him. I started it a couple times, sat back, chuckled, and started over. I told him a little more of the real deal. The only way things could've been better was if he coulda gone with me, if Headcase had another pair of these fuckin' gloves.
Aaaah, he'd be okay. Probably he'd be the one who had to pack up all my shit. My old crap, here in this house, which used to mean the fuckin' world to me. Well, he could have the computer, and the other stuff. I typed all that out, too. And since he was smart enough to put shit together, it felt okay to let on that maybe I was goin' on the road. Different name, and that was all I said. Oh yeah - I wrapped it up by telling him to fuckin' enjoy every minute he lived, 'cause I was sure gonna make that my mission now...
As the letters printed out, I wrote their addresses out on the envelopes. Then I just looked at my new license for awhile. It was so cool. I even liked the fuckin' name. Twenty-four and ready to kick some ass.
The picture looked just like me.
That cool ol' broad said she'd get all the damn computers hinked up. A trail of files n' shit nobody would ever care to see. Right up to continuation school, a full history with the mutherfuckin' motor vehicle department, social security account...
No rap sheet, though. And no warrants. I didn't rate a second look.
And I sorta felt bad for the real guy, who'd been laying in the poor part of some old cemetery for the past twenty-some years. But hey, I was gonna do his name proud.
I'd have enough fuckin' fun for both of us.

Packin' up the last of it...
It was so great. The best. All this weight was falling off me. Bills, payments, shit I had to do.
No more. I laughed and punched my fists together. Fuckin' shadow, that's what I was. Everything was set.
And the gloves had done it.
They wanted me outa there.
"Sneaky bastards," I told 'em. "Good job."
And right then I thought my palms sorta tingled, real nice.

My saddlebags went over my shoulder.
There. My old wallet was in the bottom of the left bag. All the tags and receipts - that is, anything that might get anybody to thinkin', that was all ripped up real small and flushed down the damn can.
I looked it all over. Somebody else's pad. Nice guy, maybe, but damn - he was old.
I fired up a smoke -
Huh? Where was I?
Some fuckin' house. Leaving. That was the big thing. I didn't care whose place it was. Nobody there to see me off.
Definitely time to go!
There was a key in my hand. I kicked out smoke and laughed. Didn't know why. It felt good, though.
Shrugging, I closed the door. Stuck the key in the deadbolt, locked it -
And then my hand went sideways.
Snap.
Nobody was gonna get in this place, without callin' a... what do you call it, those key-guys.
I nodded, grinning, and stuck the top part of the key in my pocket. Hefted my 'bags once, and went out to the garage.
There she was, waitin' to go...
Yeah. Fired 'er up and rolled it off the stand, and out -
Aw, what the hell. Closing the garage door seemed like the right thing to do. I didn't think about it too much. Hell, I wasn't gonna think about anything! Just make it happen.
I was off.
Man, I could've shot my fuckin' wad in my boxers, right then, I was so happy.

Then I was at the fuckin' post office, for some reason. Sticking quarters into a machine -
Stamps. Ah. There were some letters I wanted to mail. Get it over with.

Off to the bank... for the very last time.

Oh, fuck yeah, I was finally on the damn interstate. Going east.
Grinning, I reached into my pocket and pulled out something. Some tool's credit card, maybe.
And I flung that fucker into the weeds at the side of the road.
A pocket full of money. My wallet had my driver's license in it - just beat up enough to look real - a fake insurance certificate, temporary registration for the plates... in Sal's name. That was okay. I watched my speed, so the fuzz would have no reason to pull me over.
I was a green-eyed youngster, one fuckable son of a bitch - finally off the leash.
 
 
 

The feathers started again, real slow.
"Fuck," I whispered at the nearest gloves, before they got busy again. That's all that came out. My voice had been gone for days, all laughed out.
That room. A fuckin' week, if it had been a day. Of all the crazy, sick-ass shit to go through. A real torture chamber, all that scary fuckin' shit to hold me down. And there I was, stuck to the damn chair again.
My feet jumped. They were strapped down good n' tight. My legs, my arms. I was fuckin' in for it again. And my eyes got all watery -
Dammit! More hell, coming up, and there I was leakin' all over myself, as if that was gonna help.
"Aw," a guy said. Tough voice. Not really sorry. It sounded like the asshole was about to laugh. "C'mon, now... Big, ticklish bikers don't cry."
That pissed me off so much - maybe 'cause I knew what was comin' next.
"They laugh," he snapped.
Gloves. Fuck! I had to get away. They were lookin' lively. Moving -
My feet. Aw, no.
The fire...
Insane, already. I was shouting laughter, oh wow, and nobody could even hear it.
"They laugh their fuckin' guts out," the voice said. Quiet, and real matter-of-fact about it.
So I did.

Oh, shit, all damn day. All day.
Water bottles come and go, food gets brought up to me. And I eat it. Hell, I take every cigarette too, and the pills. Whatever they fuckin' want, just so they give me a damn break for a few more minutes.
They...
I paid attention to my hands. Still caught behind me. Cuffs, I think, around my wrists. I hated that shit. Fire all over me, and I couldn't do a fuckin' thing -
The gloves were still on my hands. I could feel the sweat inside 'em.
They won. Didn't they though? Fuck.
If I'd had any idea -
"Smoke," the guy said.
The gloves brought me to this mutherfuckin' place. Dungeon. Yeah. I was wearing 'em - but not as much as they were wearing me. Took me here, where all the tickling shit was waiting. And the invisible dude with all the hands got busy.
I rode right here and walked my ass inside. Fuckin' tortured...
Feathers. Oil. Totally crazy. I was all young again, and what - so this could happen? Bullshit.
And I tugged on that cigarette hard.

Oh, fuck, oh wow, hours and hours of red-hot hell. I can't even believe how fuckin' ticklish I am. The gloves... How did they know? Or the shit in here just makes me this way. I don't know what all the pills were, but I was pretty sure some of 'em were plain ol' speed.
The tickling gets to me more and more each day.
And I can see the fuckin' door was still locked.
Can a guy be tickled for weeks? How about months?
Dammit.

I like it when the tickler lets me shoot a load.
It freaked me out at first - a dozen fuckin' tools and techniques to get me off, so far - and I didn't like how I felt about it. So damn grateful.
Like I'm a fuckin' bull or something. The magic dude drills my whole damn body, with the damn tickling, and I have to get the hell away from him. Away...
Dammit, you twisted fuck, this is not okay. I am not liking this. Torture. Gonna go insane, right there.
Maybe that's what he was after. Would my body still be that ticklish, once there was nobody home?
Fuck. So many gloves and toys...
When they work on my meat, I sorta get into the tickling. Anywhere. That is just so totally wrong, but I can't help it. Aw, hell, I haven't been able to think straight, well, since I don't know when. Like that matters. I can't stand it, what the bastard's doin' to me, way too much pleasure or not anywhere enough fuckin' pleasure - and it keeps right on going. Every day. All day -
Nothing else I can do.
Except, maybe... give in. Roll with it. Tell him, work with him. Give it up. I'm stuck, alright, but I don't know about caving, and giving him the satisfaction.
But what else am I gonna do? Whenever I, uh, notice that I'm liking this shit, I get happier - and ticked off, for enjoying it. Ain't nowhere near enough.
I get what's happening. Total fuckin' freak. That's me, in a couple more days. Oooo, tickle me harder. More, more, dammit.
Oh, well.

Another damn day. Ha ha ha. I get it.
I woulda been nuts already if they didn't make me smoke. I needed that first cig more than anything. Every one of 'em, really...
Coffee? I smell it. Oh, wait, there's a mug near my hand.
Fucker makes me coffee? What the hell is up now?
My... hands.
Shit - they let my hands go. About fuckin' time.
My feet are still stuck, though. Aren't they? Dammit. Not done tickling me. Ain't anywhere near over...
Are they just movin' me to the stocks again? I sorta feel like begging. Everything I could possibly think of, I'd already said. Nothing worked. Mister All-hands is in it for the tickling. That's definitely his main deal. Got me good.
This fuckin' dungeon - what a perfect damn place to hide a guy. It's all tricked out. I don't even remember what state this is in. It was a long ride... and I ate some speed, at some point. A bunch of that candyass stuff they sell at the truck stops. And fuck, I rode right up to the trap. Might as well have had a sign on my back, sayin' you win, now tickle me long and hard...
New Mexico? Colorado?
It don't matter. Not anymore.
They got themselves a victim, and he's one super-ticklish hunk lowlife. Goin' absolutely nowhere. Damn...
Paper. Coming over.
A fuckin' pad of paper, and a pen, cruisin' to me.
Well, huh.

"You got an hour off," the voice said, like it wasn't too happy to say it. I didn't believe it for a minute. It was too good to be true. "And that's only if you do what you're told, biker."
"Yeah," I said, real quick. "Yeah, okay."
"That's right." The pad set down in my lap. "You're gonna write out a five-hundred word essay on why big, ticklish... captured bikers don't cry."
Oh, fuck you, I thought -
Four gloves wander down to my feet. Just dyin' to get at it.
"Or..."
"Okay!" I yell - no sound in it, like a hard whisper - and nod my head for him.
"Go."
My damn hand reaches for the pen. Fuckin' glove...
feathers, in here, with nobody movin' em. The brushes, too. Little shoe-buffers. Hanging in the air, just like the damn pen, until they get busy on my ass. Light up the biker right.
I take another drag, and watched my hand come down to the pad.

WHY BIG, TICKLISH BIKERS DON'T CRY

The pen's moving right along. My glove's got handwriting that's even worse than mine...

I'm going to use small words, because you're such a bunch of stupid, half-assed "torturers" that you probably can't read any better than you can tickle. If you call this tickling. Which I don't ! ! !

Fuck - I had to stop it! The damn glove -
And I... couldn't.

You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Bikers don't cry if they're being tickled hard enough. Fuck.

And the other glove wouldn't let me do anything except smoke. It got me a new cigarette, real casual about it, and lit it off the old one. My writing hand didn't even pause.

I can't believe how lightweight this is. Your miserable excuse for tickling ain't even a decent warmup. I bet even the fucking worst of the worst bad guys would cry their eyes out if you pulled this pathetic excuse for "torture" on them. You can't even choke the chicken right. Fuckwads.

I whined and shook my head, real hard, slamming my ass around in the chair. The pad bounced a little. Not enough. Too many straps, I thought, really gettin' scared now. This glove was gonna get me killed...
It kept writing and writing.

I was a lot more ticklish before I rode up here. And if I had any idea how boring it was gonna be, I would've kept right on going. There's got to be some ticklers somewhere who have a single fuckin' clue what to do with a guy's feet. You got 'em all soft, and so what? Yawn.

Shaking my head, trying to kick my feet. And it didn't matter.
The glove kept right on scribbling, and I couldn't do shit - except smoke, and watch what it was putting down there.

This is fucking dull ! ! ! It just shows how much fun I could be having, right here, if any of you could manage to pick up the pace. You even shaved me, and it feels like a tennis ball or something is rolled around in my armpits. Big deal. Oooooo, you're pros. Get the hell out of here and send in some ticklers who have done it before. I can't think of a single spot on my body that's really been tickled yet. Assholes. You're all losers. I could tickle myself and suffer more than this. And you probably think you're so good at it, so damn mean. I'm falling asleep, and you haven't even noticed. It's a hell of a setup. This room. Anybody else could keep a guy batshit for months here. All kinds of gear, just for this. A big, giant fucking waste.

I couldn't believe it was happening. The glove had filled a whole page.
My other hand pulled the paper back, so there was a clean piece of paper waiting.
And the pen landed again. Moving along.

You want to know why I cried? Really? A sweet prison like this, and when I think of the misery I could be going through in here, it makes me want to bawl. I'd rather be shoveling shit out of stables - than bored to tears like this. You suck.

Hell...
I closed my eyes, and the damn pen didn't stop. Finally I had to look...

You don't even know that you suck. That's a crying shame. I could be laughing harder than I ever laughed before. But no. I'm suffering - from boredom. Maybe if you got a book or something you could figure out what the hell to do with me. I've laughed more just from taking a shower. If you put some thought into it, and kept me here long enough, maybe there's a slim chance I could really feel like there was something worth sticking around for. But you'd have to keep that door locked tight, and WORK ME OVER. I mean, don't you want me to be a basket case? After this past week, I know I do. That would be a nice change. I guess I'll have to put up with this fucking crap because you got me stuck here, but I have to tell you that I keep thinking about this kidney stone I passed once because even that was a hell of a lot more exciting than what you morons are doing. And more fun. Give me a book to read or something. I'm bored! And that's why bikers cry, when you get a hold of them. Ten words to go - you really, really, really, really SUCK ! ! ! !

 
All of a sudden, my hand threw the pen on the floor... and flipped the bird. Proudly held it up there a few seconds.
Doomed, and knowing it, I took a long drag.
My gloves - the fuckers - they were tingling like crazy. And dammit, that still felt excellent to me. Felt good, felt right.
I wondered...
When the other gloves tickled me, they didn't feel the same. Energy, or something. Less-than. They're just leather, or rubber - whatever - tickling the shit out of me.
Different, alright. I didn't know. The feathers, and those fuckin' toys they put on my cock. They weren't alive, not really.
It was stupid to think of my gloves as being alive, but there was definitely... something there. Look at all the stuff I'd done since I first pulled 'em on. They hadn't been off my hands since.
Oh, hell. Thinking about it, the damn things tingled more than ever.
I was right. Somehow. Inside, in my head, I just knew it. And the gloves were almost buzzing, 'cause they wanted me to know I got it right. So happy.
Damn.
I looked at the paper. Of course...
The gloves weren't with the fucker who'd been tickling me. They got me here - never letting on they were something other than ordinary, regular gloves. And the ass-kicking began.
It got hard to breathe. Terror. That was the word. I was scared enough to shit. I looked at the fuckin' death sentence they'd just written out.
The tickler wasn't gonna find out about my gloves doing me in. I saw how it was. A whole different vibe. It would think I really meant all that shit.
"Fifteen minutes," the voice said. "And you're done, huh? Must wanna get right back to it. Good man. Let's see what you wrote so fast -"
I didn't even dare take a drag, even though I sorta knew I might never get another one.
The pad floated off my lap and turned around.