They watch people come and go. Studying them. Making guesses...
Watching them leave. Sometimes the people hesitate, looking around as if they're not sure which way to go.
Then he pushes the door open and appears, bouncing his backpack a little so it'll ride better. Leaning against the side of the bus station, he gets out a pack of cigarettes.
Standing there, leaking smoke, his expression cannot be any clearer. What now?
He doesn't look lost, scanning the street signs. He isn't frightened. Alert, but not helpless. He looks like he could take care of himself. Wiry...
Just not sure what to do next.
If that look on his face is any sign, there isn't anybody who will be expecting him. Wondering what's taking him so long, getting concerned... So he could just disappear and no one would know.
They have a good feeling about him. It gets much stronger when he starts walking. Left. It's the direction they wanted him to go.
His hiking boots leave no trail on the sidewalk. Light snow whips around his legs.
Crossing the alley, he's smart enough to look. The streetlight is directly overhead, and there are no muggers waiting. Four winos are sleeping under piles of newspaper and rags, but he doesn't look at them. No cars are going by him, and there is no one else around to hear or see...
Less than a block away from the bus station, right after he arrives in the city, they close their fingers around the straps of his backpack - and tug.
He stops suddenly, and turns around. Seeing no one, he spins again. And then, just as they hoped, he slowly turns to face the alley. One last look -
Some of them float into the open. Just inside the alley, hanging there.
His mouth opens, and he blinks a few times.
One of them has a set of handcuffs.
Another holds a bandanna, rolled up and ready to tie.
He steps backward - but doesn't move. They shove the backpack, and he stumbles toward the alley. Four of them cruise forward and grab his arms.
Another pair is much quicker. The bandanna -
"Hey," he barks. The pushing continues, getting him closer to the alley. Reducing the distance.
"Hey!," shouted, and the fear is there in his voice. They pull on the backpack and turn him around, pull his arms back, bend his elbows. "Nnnnnuh -"
The gag cuts off his last yell. Fingers tie it quickly, pull it tight. One of them curls a cold palm over his mouth, quieting him further.
Gloves are pulled onto his hands. The handcuffs click around his left wrist, and his right wrist.
And they pause. He lunges around, but stays where he is. Alley entrance, off the sidewalk. No one is looking at him. His shouts are muffled quite well -
One of the winos starts moving. Down the block, the cars have a green light, and they're starting to approach.
They lift him off his feet. The backpack provides a convenient way to carry him, as he kicks and flops around. A good two meters off the ground, he floats backward, looking around frantically, swinging in a desperate attempt to slam himself down to the ground. But the straps of his backpack are well-made.
The wino coughs. They stop moving him. He hears the coughing and stares at the lump of papers, yelling as loud as he can.
For a moment, it seems that the homeless guy is going to stick his head out and take a look. But the night is cold...
After some digging sounds, the wino groans. Settling down. The other men don't even stir.
They carry their victim further back, out of the light. An angry yell, one anguished wail - and he watches the cars go by. There's a pained expression in his eyes as he floats back into the dark alley, kicking less violently...
Slowly dropping, as they approach a metal door.
As they turn him toward the entrance, one of them swings it open. So close now - they've won, and they can't resist a little gesture. A flat palm, right in the doorway, invites him inside.
He sees it, and fights harder than ever. One boot-heel stamps against the door frame - his last chance to keep from going inside - and they really enjoy grabbing the leg of his jeans and bending his leg. He's inside now, all of him, and the door is closed. They pick up the padlocks and close them up, a distinctive sound in the empty room.
A palm peels off his mouth, and wipes the spit on his jacket. He can yell a little louder now, but it doesn't matter at all.
Still fighting to get loose, he's determined to get his feet on the floor, or shake the grips on his arms. As they carry him through the air, two of them are pulled on his hands. In his distraction, all that useless panic, his hands don't stay in tight fists. Intent on swinging his legs, he doesn't fight the leather sliding over his own fingers, pulled down over his palms...
To the stairwell, and down. Two of them grab his ankles, so he can't kick the walls. Pitch-black hallway. Turning right -
An old boiler room.
When he's inside, shiny new padlocks seal the door.
A new mattress is in the center of the room. They carry him over it, and sit him down...
Two of them strike a match, open the flue and start the fire. The old boiler has a chamber which used to burn coal. Sealed off from the rest of the building now, but the vent works fine. Smoke flies up the chimney, too little to draw attention in their earlier tests.
The drafty room begans to get warmer.
They pick up the canvas straps at the corners of the mattress, anchored and ready. Fingers - excited, happy fingers - untie his boots. Pull them off...
Canvas wraps around each ankle, and pulls tight.
Now they can take the handcuffs off, and the backpack. Eight of them steady his arms and get his jacket off. Even as he fights them, his hand digs into a pocket -
When he sees his cigarettes, he stops fighting. Confused expression. He tries to drop the pack, but his hand won't let it go. His grip is relaxed - or rather, the glove's grip. Inside it, his fingers are straining... but he can't move them.
His other hand comes up and takes a cigarette out.
Squirming with frustration, he tries to get his hands to do what he wants them to do. But they're encased in leather, and he has to learn the hard way.
They untie the gag.
He yells and shouts for help, trying to sit up or roll around. They don't permit him to move too much. His hands sit there, in front of him, and wait...
Until he quiets down.
His hand brings the cigarette to his mouth, and chases his head around for a minute. Persistent. Finally he gives in and bites the filter.
His other hand drops the pack, and pulls his lighter out of the pocket of his jeans. His head rears back, and his eyes are big... but they make him cup his hands and light up.
There. He starts to drop the cigarette, and his hand gets ready to catch it - so he lets it hang. And smokes. Just the way they planned.
It's important to them. Calming him down. How sinister can they be, if they let him smoke? Make him... well, that's a little different. But it's familiar, and it gives him a reason to be hopeful. If they're determined he's going to do something he normally does, how bad could they be?
The squirming reveals some fear in there. Maybe he'd calm down more if he had another cigarette...
The room has warmed up. Not too warm.
Sweat rolls down the sides of his head. His shirt is wet... but they figure that was due to the workout of trying to get free. He'd really be sweating in a few minutes.
He's on his last cigarette. Seven down, one to go. They'd eased him down, and he lays on his back. Watching his hands light the cig.
When he didn't fight them, they let him hold the cigarettes. Flick off the ash...
Still kicking, now and then. But the straps have been watched carefully. They'd taken the most concentrated efforts he had, but his ankles were still caught tight.
Another drag, slowly exhaled toward the ceiling. Haze and sweat and crackling wood, dancing shadows from the small flame in the boiler...
One of them picks up a bottle of water. They had four liters, which seems like overkill to them. That's all they brought.
Mattress, restraints, paper towels, wood for the fire, water...
And six big jars of petroleum jelly.
They've never actually done this before.
Only one thing could go wrong. He'd better be... reactive. Or else it was all over. Let him go, grab somebody else. But the whole process of capturing him had been so much fun.
And here he is, all ready. Two more drags.
They try to be patient... until he brings the cigarette up again. A long tug -
His fingers move. Closing around the butt, and springing it into the fire.
Slowly, he reaches for his beltline. Obviously fighting to stop his hands, but all he can do is stare as they pull his shirt-tail out, each getting a grip on one side - and tearing. Buttons tap on the cement floor around him, and his hands pull the flannel off his arms. He struggles and wrestles around, but the shirt is tossed away.
His right hand stretches out, above his head. The fingers relax...
And there, up by the corner of the mattress, they bring the strap to his arm. All of his effort to get his arm in motion is foiled by his hand, and the loops of the strap slide over his fingers. Down to his wrist. Good and snug.
If anything, he tries hardest of all to get loose when his left hand is brought up... and caught.
He bangs his head on the mattress and yells again, swearing, making threats. They bring him the water bottle, and wait until he stops pulling at the straps.
Cradling his head as he drinks...
And then, he lays there, snapping less violently than before.
Trapped - just the way they wanted.
Two of them cruise out of the shadows.
He tracks them as they float through the air. Over, and down -
"No," he says. As if he's guessed what they're going to do. Not sounding so angry anymore. More like... he's doomed. It's not the tone of an unreactive man, they suspect.
Pausing, over his feet.
"Oh fuck, nooooooo," he whines. "Aw pleee-"
They take off his socks.
His legs are determined to move. Toes curling as much as they can, trying to protect his soles. Callused toes, not nearly long enough. Such a little area, there - trapped in boots or shoes a lot of the time. The soles, the heels... unable to move enough to get away from them.
And they have been looking forward to this moment. More than anything else.
One finger, on each foot. Moving in. He screams at them, flailing around...
They pick the spot, high on the arch - and pause again. This is the ultimate thrill, and it's worth every minute of watching and planning, the waiting - the boredom. Now it's time for the payoff. And it's going to be a huge payoff! Feet, armpits, ribs that can't get away. Raw laughter filling the room...
Right then, they notice his face. His expression is changing, just a little. The moment has a different meaning to him. What could he be thinking? Daring to hope, maybe, that they were bluffing? Okay, now, you proved your point. You won. Let me go now... Or perhaps it's the refusal to believe it. They are not going to do it. They just... wouldn't.
The fingers touch down.
"Fuck," he gasps. Tensing up. They haven't even started - ah. So he didn't believe they'd actually do it...
The fingers trace down, and up.
He gets frantic. All of a sudden, the effort to break free is intense. Groaning - shaking his head! - he does not want to be there. Definitely not.
They roam all over the bottoms of his feet.
A throaty whine turns into forced chuckles.
"Awwww nuh huh huh nuh nuh nnnnooo uh huh haaawww..."
They lower the other fingers, and rub faster. Heels, toes, sides of the feet.
"Neeeeeeeeeeeeaaaah haw haw haw haw naw nuh aaaah hah hah hah..."
The straps are holding. Just fine.
Their fingers sweep and polish his feet.
Another pair fetches a jar of petroleum jelly.
He sleeps.
They pull clothes out of his backpack and dress him. Getting curious, they checking out the rest of his possessions - such as they are - as they watch him sleep.
He has nowhere to go. And it's so cold outside.
At least he's got a warm place here. Warm... and exciting.
But they have no food. He needs food. Get out and eat something -
Or...
What an idea.
But really... why not? He'd be just as much fun today. Maybe more. It wasn't like he had a room waiting somewhere. Somewhere else.
This room - well, he is already here. And they had some serious fun with him.
Wouldn't it be terrific. If he... stayed.
It's for his own good.
An ironic thought, but they run with it. He doesn't have nearly enough money to get his own place. They could steal some money for him... Help him out.
Of course, there's no real hurry. He's safe, right where he is. No one knows where he is. No one will miss him. And the building hasn't been inspected in years. It's locked up tight.
He's still locked in. Right here.
Oh, it's a crazy idea...
They go to a store. Pick up a cardboard box.
Nuts, candy, dried meat, cheese in a can. More paper towels, and some trash bags. Vitamins.
Oh yeah. Water. A case of liter bottles...
Might as well grab more petroleum jelly. And they pause, at the counter. Studying all the glass bottles behind the register. He's old enough. Legal. He might enjoy having a drink. Whiskey, rum, bourbon.
A pack of cigarettes. No, make that five packs...
They make it ten.
It carries the boxes back to his cell. Way too much stuff. Unless...
Well, it'll take him quite a while to go through all of it.
And then they can get more.
Since he's still asleep, they head back out again. There are a few other things they want to try. No time like the present, right?
Rope, feathers. Silk scarves. A few different kinds of brushes. Disposable razors. Massage oil, mink oil...
A large box of rubbers.
As they wander down an aisle of an adult toy store, the title of a book jumps out at them.
There's a wealth of information inside - and it even has a few pages about tickling! But what really makes it a book they can't pass up are the chapters on construction - directions and diagrams for building swings and benches, racks...
And some tough-looking stocks.
16oct02