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Fingers curled around Cale's upper arm.
That woke him right up, as always, but he acted like he was still asleep. Same drill, every damn morning...
Sometimes the gloves backed off. It was Saturday, he remembered. No reason he shouldn't sleep in -
The grip wiggled his arm around.
"Fuck off," he growled.
A clinking sound over him was familiar. It was his lighter, being opened and closed slowly.

Dammit. Now he wanted a cigarette. There weren't any in the apartment. Sighing, Cale opened his eyes. There it was, alright - a dull black glove flipped the lid of his lighter back, and closed it back up lazily. The other one let go of his arm and zoomed out the door.
Ska music started playing on his stereo. That was get-your-ass-in-gear music. When they were gonna do something intense to him, Cale usually heard jazz. Yeah, tough guy, you just holler your head off all night to the cool, smoky sounds of these instrumentals.
In the kitchen, his coffeemaker started gurgling.
"Run out and get some smokes," he told the glove. "Make yourself useful."
Dropping the lighter on his gut, the phantom hand turned and flipped him off. They hung around him most of the time - every day since the trip to
Mardi Gras last year.

He and his friends had wandered a few blocks past the Quarter and into this rathole of a bar. Later, they agreed it was a risk not worth taking if they'd been sober...
It definitely wasn't a tourist place. Creole. Folks had been friendly enough. The young bartender had sure been glad to see Cale. Asshole. Even as shitfaced as Cale was, he'd picked up on the haunted look the kid had. It was in his eyes. But he was real happy too, grinning around the cigar, as he pointed right at Cale - with a thin black glove on his hand, some tight mesh almost like chain mail.
That night, back in the motel room, the gloves had grabbed his hand and shook it, all by themselves - pumping his arm like they couldn't be any happier to meet his ass. They'd been fucking with him ever since.

Maybe they just messed with whoever they wanted, for as long as they wanted, and then moved on. Cale really would've liked that to happen before they filled up the next three months of his life. The gloves never got tired of fucking with him - and they had some seriously hardcore friends.
Uncle Ron knew that better than anybody.

After the first couple times he got worked over, Ron didn't dare to talk to Cale. But he came around, and they checked in with each other every couple days. There wasn't anybody else who really believed what the gloves did to Cale when they got feisty. Playful.
But his uncle had disappeared for a week, the first time. Then almost three weeks, and the last time it was closer to ten. Cale felt responsible at first, but Ron wasn't putting up with that. He was messed with by an invisible smartass - who talked. No telling if the gloves were somehow responsible for Ron's troubles.
That first year, he'd gone with his folks to the family reunion. Out in the garage, his uncle had wandered out while Cale was getting high. They shared a joint - and for some reason he didn't remember now, Cale told his uncle about the gloves.
Ron was kidnapped by the invisible fucker the next weekend, mo'cycle and all. He howled his fuckin' guts out in some brick cellar. Apparently it was a different room than Cale had been taken to.
Sometime during Ron's first week, Cale woke up with a monster of a hangover - and his uncle's fuckin' firecracker tattoo on his forearm. Like they were twins or something. Comrades in suffering, his uncle had said, giving him that same old tired grin...

His folks, Cale decided, really thought it was some kind of parlor trick he and Ron were pulling. If Addy and Boxer really believed him - and fuckin' Boxer was there that night, he even remembered seeing "those cool gloves" on the bartender's hands - they'd be looking over their shoulders all the time. Cale had come to understand why they were in denial about the whole thing.

After he got dressed, one glove opened the front door and the other shoved him from behind.
"Yeah, yeah..."
They snuggled over his hands before he even got to his truck. The damn gloves fit perfectly. Even though their last owner - their last pet, he thought sourly - had been skinny as a rail, Cale's guards had somehow resized themselves. He could still remember that first morning, when he finally came to and saw them on his hands, with an old stain here and there on 'em but otherwise in good shape. They hadn't let him take them off for a few days. Even when he went to take a shower...
There were no cigarettes in his truck either. The damn things never got tired of messing with his head.

He was forced to drive a couple hours to Hickory Lake. A bag had already been laying on the floorboard, and Cale could see his swimsuit and a towel poking out. Halfway there the gloves pulled the truck over and made him piss into the weeds alongside the road. He felt like a little kid being told when to go and where.
Sliding back behind the wheel, his right hand reached casually under the seat and pulled out a flask. It was about one-third full, a few big chugs.
Ten minutes later he had a good buzz on. Doing seventy on the old highway, he didn't even look for cops. The gloves had never gotten him into trouble before. Same went for Uncle Ron, for that matter. Just another one of the mysteries that kept 'em available for whatever the fuckers had in mind.
One time, on a Sunday, it had been all about spanking him. All day. Paddles, riding crops, and of course the fuckin' gloves themselves, whaling on him as Cale yelled and strained at new canvas straps, with tears just running down his face. He couldn't sit down for, like, three days after that.

Old-school punk played softly from the truck's speakers. Cale slouched behind the wheel, toking on a good-sized hooter that had been brought out after the flask was empty...
The gloves were off his hands now. They'd been busy, covering his arms with temporary tattoos. He couldn't tell if it was a hint - what was coming when the apprenticeship program broke for the summer - or if they just wanted to make him nervous.
But the meadows outside his truck were nice to look at, with the temperature just right and everything. After a while Cale dozed off.

It was darker when he woke up. His captors made him get out and pee again, then drive off. He finally figured out that there was a casino about sixty miles further down the road...

One glove grabbed the wheel suddenly and reefed on it. The truck slid on loose gravel -
"Shit," he wailed. But the other glove patted him on the head, and he had plenty of time to hit the brakes. There was a little store attached to the gas station. The tank was still half-full - which meant they filled it, somehow, before they hustled him out the door that morning - but the gloves rarely missed a chance to get more alcohol into Cale.
After jumping back onto his hands, they led him inside and to the beer cooler. A twelve-pack of Jax was hauled out. All for him.
His left index finger was used to trace a J, over and over, in the air. Cale nodded.
"That all?" the old guy behind the counter asked him.
"Pint of Jack," he said. "Three of 'em."
The gloves didn't squeeze his hands, so Cale knew there was enough money. He figured they stole it -
Slowly, his left hand rubbed his tattoo. That made him sigh. He wanted what the glove was after, but being ordered around just sucked.
"And, uh, a pack of Camels. Shorties." Same as his uncle. It was the usual brand they went for, whether the packs just showed up on the kitchen counter or he got to buy 'em himself. Same tat, same fuckin' hardass smokes...
The glove curled his fingers into a C.
"Wait. Why not make it a carton," Cale blurted fast - before the cashier had time to reach for a single pack, and definitely wanting to get the words out before the opportunity was snatched away. It had been months since they'd let him smoke a whole carton -
His right hand was slipped into his back pocket, fishing out a fuckin' wad of new fifty-dollar bills that he'd never seen before.

"Oh, hell yeah, my life is just one big fuckin' party," he told the floating gloves, back in his truck and ripping the first pack open. "I really owe you guys."
One of them brought his lighter and served him up.
"How long did you fuck with the Cajun kid?" Cale asked. He wasn't in a bad mood overall. Even a smoke meant more than it used to.
The glove not rubbing his lighter gave him an 'N', in sign language. He'd picked up the alphabet pretty early on, when the bastards made it clear he wasn't gonna be allowed to get his rocks off until he memorized it.
"Not gonna tell me? That long, huh?"
The glove socked him on the arm, and reared back. Still in a fist. Ready to mix it up.
"You just wanna keep me wondering about it," Cale said, smirking. "Mind-fuckers."
Dark fingers gave him a sign-language 'Y', for "yes."

After a few more slugs of booze, thirty miles closer to the casino, he decided to check on his uncle.
"Hey," Ron said. He always sounded gruff on the phone.
"How's it going?"
"Fucked."
"Still got a bad feeling, huh?"
His uncle sighed. It sounded like he was kicking out smoke. "Any day now. I hope they let me fuckin' finish this rebuild first."
"Me too."
"How's your hands?"

That was an old joke. At least it seemed like they'd been throwing it back and forth for ten years or something... "Hangin' right here. They're letting me smoke all by myself."
Ron chucked a time or two. "Well, it's a banner day. Where are ya?"
"On my way to the casino in Lees Ridge, I think."
"Cool."
"It's next week I'm worried about -"
"And next week ain't here yet," his uncle snapped. "Nothing you can do, right? Just live for today. That's all I got. We're gonna get out of this shit, just you wait."
"Yeah. You're right."
"Can't last forever."
"So you keep saying," Cale sassed.
"Hey, now, you're not too big for me to come and slap some sense into ya."
"Big talk. Like they'd let that happen."
"Fuck... Alright, you take it easy."
"You too, Unk."
"Later." As usual, his uncle hung up right away. He never did seem comfortable when he was talking on the phone...

He lost something like six hundred dollars. Cale wasn't sure, because the gloves kept him drunk. Like usual when he wore 'em there were one or two smartass remarks, but he'd been wearing 'em for so long he had a half-dozen answers all ready. Most people gave 'em a stare, shrugged and forgot they were on his hands.
Walking back out to the truck was a challenge. If they didn't do the driving, he'd get popped immediately at times like this -
But as soon as he closed the truck door, they peeled off his hands and pushed him down against the bench seat.
"Hey," he said doubtfully.
Fingers curled around each side of his rib cage.
"No! N-not... now, I'm gonna puke. Wait, just wait," he snickered. It was confusing, because the gloves never did that to him out in the world unless they were trying to get cuffs or rope around his wrists. A couple minutes of that serious takedown handling, and he was a goner. Usually they just drugged him, but there were times when they seemed to enjoy leveling him when he was at his best - strong, clear-headed, laughing anyway as the rope was wrapped around and around. From what his uncle had let on, it could be a hundred times worse...

They held him for awhile, and Cale wondered if they were gonna dig in anyway. But they let go, and started rubbing his triceps. It was one of the ways they liked to pet him. Tell him he was gonna be okay.
Relaxing, Cale frowned and let loose with a big yawn.

Next thing he knew, the truck was rolling down the highway.
He sat up. A black hand was curled around the top of the steering wheel. Getting a cigarette out of the pack, Cale looked down the highway and guessed he was maybe halfway home.
 

Done. He passed. Cale was an apprentice now. On top of the world. He and the other grads were gonna meet at Pro's later, and probably get shitfaced...
The gloves weren't waiting in his car, either. They usually latched on right after class. Now there would be no more class. How cool was that?
Feeling more defiant than usual, he stopped and bought a couple packs of cigarettes. The brand he used to smoke. Maybe the fuckin' gloves were gone for good -
It was more likely, though, was that they had a hell of a month planned for his ass. Probably wouldn't draw a sober breath until the weather turned.
Well, shit, he'd earned tonight's party. Wearing gloves or not, he was a graduate and it was almost time to drink like one.
Still walking on air, he unlocked the door of his apartment - and saw boxes everywhere. Packed, taped up.
Before he could put things together, a glove flew up and sprayed some gas in his face.
 

He woke up slow. In his truck.
The cigarette they gave him was a Camel. Same shit as usual. He laid there and tried to get his lips working.
Rolling through the dark, Cale realized the celebration at Pro's was going on without him. The gloves had other plans.
When he could finally pull himself up and sit there, the road was unfamiliar. Crude.
Dammit. They were gonna do something special, it looked like. This time they were really driving him way out into the sticks. He wasn't even sure if he was still in Georgia...
"C'mon," he complained. "I don't wanna... uh..."
But they knew that. As usual, it didn't faze 'em at all.
 

Strong leather-hands dragged him down the hall.
Cale couldn't even get his mind around what had been done to him since - yesterday? Was it only one day? So many gloves... And this place was built to last. It must've been here for years.
He could be locked in here... for years.
His gloves wouldn't do that to him. There was no way they could sign him up for this. But they had, and here he was.
A door opened. This room had cabinets covering the whole back wall too. Maybe they all did. In the center of the little cell there was a weird chair. Cale was turned and pushed down on well-worn leather. The cushioning was thick, but each of the pads was skinny...
As his arms were caught behind him by heavy manacles, he rocked around - not trying to get away, because that obviously wasn't gonna happen. He'd given it his best, all night. The chair was comfortable, but it took him a second to figure out why it was built like that. A lot more of his legs - and his ass - were exposed than if he'd been in a lawn chair or something. This contraption wasn't budging either.
There were two angled rails in front of him. Invisible hands caught his right ankle and cuffed it down, then his left. He could rest his weight on the padding, so that was okay - but his feet were sticking out there. Cale's knees were there for the taking. He didn't like that. Maybe a half-meter of space separated his feet...
Just thinking about the way his meat had been played with last night made him shiver.

Fuckin' comfortable, and casual. The chair was annoying - like the whole damn setup. This wasn't shaping up like just another kinky weekend.
A cabinet opened behind him, but all he saw floating over was cigarettes, a lighter, and an ashtray. The brand was his favorite, the one he'd bought on the way home from school. He relaxed for the time being.
Somebody packed the cigarettes like they'd been doing it for years and got him one. A couple of water bottles, sweating with the cold, came and set down alongside his chair. It wasn't going to break either. Cale pulled for awhile...
The door was still open, and that was just another little way of fucking with him. He wasn't gonna bust loose and make it out the door. There were probably all kinds of locks to make sure he didn't get anywhere. All those other rooms probably weren't empty either.
This was some kind of secret torture club. He'd never been tickled anything close to what they'd dished out last night. It looked like he wasn't done yet either. Caught, and just sitting there, kicked back in somebody's idea of a custom recliner.

Finally Cale sat there and smoked his cigarette. When it burned down, he watched the old cigarette get held steadily against the end of his next smoke. He couldn't keep himself from watching the first butt get punched out in the ashtray. Magic all around him. And somebody sure liked to drive him out of his fuckin' mind with more tickling than he could handle. Laughing wildly and squirming around until he couldn't fuckin' move anymore, but the torture kept right on coming -
The door started to move.
"No. C'mon," Cale protested, trying to get up. "Dammit." Locked in. Here it comes. More fingers, a lot more of the impossible brushes fucking him up, just pure fever eating him up all the time.
After the sound of the lock turning, he slammed back. "Shit!" Scowling, he finally took another drag -
"Howdy, Cale."
He jumped. Nobody was around.

Invisible fucker. The one who grabbed Ron, maybe. That explained why some stuff had just floated around like magic. A pair of brown leather gloves were cruising over to him now.
"You know my uncle?"
"One cool customer here. So is he. Ain't that right?"
He wondered what the right response was. "I dunno -"
"And ticklish. Oh, yeah. Got it real good..."

"You gonna reel him in too?"
"Maybe later. Look, here's the deal. It's you or your uncle. Oh, it could be both, if I feel like it. But that's later. I'm gettin' to know a real badass first - so I can use what I learn, on you and all of the dudes down the road."
"You want my permission?"
Loud laughter! Rowdy as it gets. "Work with me," and it chuckled good and hard again, "and I'll give your uncle a pass."
"For how long?"
"For as long as we've got you to play with."
Damn. "And... after that?"
"Well, I'm sure not thinking that far ahead yet, buddy. But if you wanna keep your new job, with long vacations as part of the deal, I guess I could slap a tat on ticklish Ron's hand that would buy him out of his future."
"You mean it?"
"Yeah. We'll need him to keep his mouth shut, of course - and do a good job reassuring folks. Your mom and dad, Boxer, the union."
"I don't know if -"
"Heh. I think you do. The look on your face... Now Cale's just takin' a long break before he goes to work. Got himself a bike, and a babe. Stoner dude."
He finally snorted a little.

"From what I hear, Cale's diggin' it."
"Don't," he whined. They would believe that shit. Oh, hell.
"Livin' the life."
"They won't buy it," he said. Knowing better. Shit, they expected him to pull that off. Sooner or later -
"Well, Ron better see that they relax. We don't need them to be fuckin' happy about ol' Cale dropping out of sight... not that anyone's ever gonna find you anyway."
"Fuckin' wonderful."

"Now, now. If you're a good boy I'll even let you call 'em every so often. So they won't worry. Ten-second delay on the phone line, and if need be I'll tickle you or get you drunk so any cockeyed plans you have about telling 'em stuff in code will be written off as more of Cale's shitfaced ramblings. You get me?"
"Yeah. Uh... "
"You don't sound too confident, there. You know why? I hold all the cards. And we just love to fuck with your heads, all of us."
"It's workin'."
The phantom laughed. "Gonna take you awhile to ease into things here, and know when to trust us. But really, Cale, what do you think you're gonna demand... in your position? Huh?"

2012