(No "action" in this one, FYI)
Gotto stared at the newest complex, not even bothering to hide.
A low chuckle got him to look to his right.
There was a shape hanging in the air next to him. A pack of cigarettes. His old brand. A metal rectangle floated out from behind it - Zippo lighter.
Moaning quietly, he reached for 'em. Got one out of the pack, clinked open the lighter.
Whew.
"How'd you know," he said softly, "that I wanted one?"
"One of the other times, you said as much to Dutch. Standing not too far from here. He held his pack out, and you just barely turned it down."
"And I told him I always want one when I'm at one of these fuckin' places."
"We got all kinds of stuff you like, Gotto. C'mon in."
He snorted. "And stay in there for... a few months."
"Well, you've snuck in before, but y-"
"Because you let me. I'm dosed, when I come around here - is that it?"
"Sometimes. We don't get why you guys set 'em down."
"You drugged me." Chuckling seemed to be the only response that fit. He shook his head, and took another drag.
"You don't look too happy," the tickler drawled.
"Gonna make me say it, huh?" There was no response. "Sure. I ran into a brick wall again. The last two inspectors are in no hurry to be hauled back in here. Signing off on everything. That Gotto dude is off his rocker."
"I bet you told the truth."
"A lot more carefully than I used to. Nobody believes..." He shook his head. "And why would I say something that obvious to one of you? Green light, again, for you Handlers. Nothin' unusual happening here. Dozens of men getting full-tickled, but I'm the crazy guy who never has any proof. No one else will even try. And the homeless guys and... occupational training students just keep rolling in."
"This isn't the only heehab complex."
"Heehab. I just can't... You got this new wing filled up yet?"
"The building we're closest to? There's a few beds -"
"Bondage beds."
"Of course."
"And you're gonna get me in there."
No answer to that, either. Another implied "yes."
He shook his head. feeling like a complete loser, and brought the smoke back up.
"We've got more than four hundred graduates," the disembodied voice said. "All kinds of certificate programs, two-year degrees. Tradesmen getting other guys trained."
"And that doesn't make what you love to do any better."
"Gotto. C'mon, now. Sure, we've boogied on a couple hundred other howlers too. But who's gonna help these guys who need it? All of our veterans who keep their mouths shut, and come by for their annual checkup, are productive citizens again."
"Annual checkup. Right. Once a year? More dungeons for 'em, closer to where they live. And that's just a fraction of -"
"We exist. Yup. Before we set up places like this, th-"
"Tickle prisons."
The phantom chuckled. "The best insurance, for what we do, is when no one wants to believe it. So you hit a dead end - again and again."
He tugged on the smoke. "None of you ever pulled this shit - forcing me in. Inside."
"It wasn't time yet."
"Heard that bef-" But he stopped talking... and froze, mouth hanging open.
Why the hell did the whole week feel like it was leading up to this? Finally. Had they been messing with his dreams? Was he even standing here, helplessly looking at the new dungeon-complex for another eighty men, because they'd "suggested" it?
He finished off that cigarette. "Isn't," he sighed. "That's what you always say. Any of you."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Horse... shit. 'It isn't time yet, Gotto.' Every time, until now." He looked up at the third floor of the building. "One word changed. Isn't time yet, sucker. But now you just said wasn't. Fuckin' fits, the way everything's been going."
"You tried. We know that your main goal has been to actually help our howlers. All along."
He just nodded.
"That couldn't be any clearer. And to help 'em reach their goals, despite the tickling, they need mentors who really get what they've lived through, so... Hey, finish that sentence for me."
Gotto had to groan, and shake his head, until he forced himself to stop.
Another cigarette was the only help around, right then. No people were on the staff here - that was faked by inmates acting like they worked there until an inspector left, or that one reporter he'd nagged into coming out the complex. The uniformed guys were coached into playing their parts by the fuckin' Handlers, and rewarded after the risks had passed. A few of the captives were totally brainwashed - on board - and they were credible, oh hell yeah.
There was probably going to be a wild celebration soon...
"Hey," the Handler said.
"Whoops," he muttered automatically. "You wanted me to say something."
"Finish this. Howlers get the most help from other people who don't just sympathize..."
"So I'm gonna end up in there," he sighed. "Tonight. You're talkin' about empathy. First-hand. Knowing about their... high times, because I'm in the crosshairs too. Fuck, no one is ever gonna believe this."
"Your turn. So they'll see that it isn't just aimless guys that get t-"
"One lure after another," he groused. "It didn't work before. No excuse is good enough. What gets done to 'em in there is insane." He looked up suddenly. "And it's on now. Before, it isn't time for me. Always. And did you... make a mistake just now? It wasn't time yet?"
"You're not a good loser."
"How about answering me?"
There was a pause. "Smart as a whip, though. I said what I wanted to say, Nat."
He finally nodded.
Maybe everything he'd been out to do was leading up to that confirmation. Defeated, scared... and thoroughly excited, he stood tall. Parked the cigarette and tugged on it, as he held his arms out for capture.
Gentle laughter - affectionate and calm? - made him look up from the ground in front of him. "Strokeon is... ecstastic."
"That just figures," he grumbled.
"I'd be glad to haul you inside, right now - damn near any of us would. But here's one more choice for you to make -"
"None of you have ever called me Nat before. I bet you pulled every bit of data y-"
"And we got you."
"Any ticklish guy is -"
"Not like you are. I'm gonna love workin' you over later."
"Uh... you never dragged me in. Lockdown. Why not?"
"The Handler who wants you most has always hoped for two things to happen before you ended up inside - here, or any dungeon. Are you ready?"
He wrestled with panicky thoughts. "A joint sounds like it would help... Aaaah, forget I said that."
"As soon as the door closes behind you," the Handler promised, "excellent weed. First, you were permitted to make every fuckin' effort you could to stop us - before we'd grab you. Thanks to other guys, currently in our hands or afraid of returning to 'em... we haven't been stopped yet. These places must be legitimate, because so many guys get helped. Heh heh. And nothing you've tried has worked. What can you do now, sparky?"
Complicating our revels, here - is it possible?"
He smoked, trying to come up with an answer...
"Do you need me to ask you again?"
"No. And the answer is... nothing. Dammit. The bureaucrats aren't going to help 'em. Your howlers are not going to get any help from the press. There is nothing more I can do."
The voice snickered quietly. "Next question," and it seemed to move right in front of his face, "is known only by you, Nat. I know we lure guys and mindfuck guys, convince 'em of all the outrageous shit we want to. Yeah, that's a given. You're not immune from our tricks. Here's the thing Strokeon was always completely sure of - and you don't have to answer or respond, dude. I mean that."
"Does it even matter? If I don't?"
"Listen up... Strokeon was always sure that you wanted to be a howler. One of the guys. Tatted-up, drugged or high, smoking like a freight train... and full-tickled for months. Core-howler. Joining the gang. A big win for us, right?"
"Oh, wow."
Quiet, triumphant snickering. "We were unstoppable because we can't get enough - and it only follows that our most diligent local enemy has to end up as a long-timer. You came to expect this..."
"C'mon now."
"Didn't you? Oh, you dreaded it. But that wasn't all. Strokeon has always been one-hundred-percent sure of that - though you hid it, even from yourself. What was inescapable was what you longed for, and that urge got more and more intense until it haunted your dreams. Tonight is when that conflict ends. Some howlers want what Handlers want."
"Gotto does," he mocked, as quietly as he could.
Easy laughter. "Uh, that's what I was going to say next. Look, you don't have to agree. I mean that. We're tricky. Your captivity never depended on what you have to say, here."
He nodded.
"In you go."
Looking around again, he grimaced. "No gloves? Riot chains?"
"Big ol' cuffs would send the right message, I think. Thick leather straps for you. If you want that, or need that - sure. Okay. Total reinforcement that you are going right inside there..."
Getting yet another smoke out of the pack, he froze. "Whether I want to, or not."
"Your future is the same, Nat. Carried in... or, as Strokeon has been fantasizing, finally walking in yourself."
He lit up. "Another mindfuck. I can blame myself forever, because I..." But he shook his head, thinking hard. "No, fuck that. There's all kinds of 'if only I hadn't done that' moves. There is no damage, that I can see, from... oh, wow. Being escorted in."
"That's the right way to put it. Hey, there's no damage that I can see, either. Whatever you howlers really need, we provide. Period."
"I believe you," he finally said. "Dammit."
"Will you head to the dungeon now? Strokeon has it just about ready - ah, it's remarkably eager to get you on video, coming into your first playroom. Strut through the door."
"And that is not proof of anything. Or justification."
"We get that. Works both ways, right? It could've just hauled your ass inside ten minutes ago, or five years ago."
He took a long drag. "I can't believe... no, wait, I knew this was, uh, in store. Someday. Where do you want me t- uh, if it wouldn't be easier all the way around for me to put all of my stuff in storage first..."
More easy snickering. "This, coming from the man who knows we're not new to any of this. You want to walk to the end of the building - to your right. Your house will be fine, Nat. Your car, your motorcycle. All of your papers and belongings. Leave that to us. Everything will be there when Strokeon lets you come up for air."
"But nobody will believe a word I say."
"Right again. You've heard that from enough howlers. When you're a howler too, they'll have a guy in their corner who's... irreplacable. You won't have to open any doors, here. I've got 'em."
"Voluntarily walking in - for full-tickling."
"Hah. Try to run, and I'll pounce."
"No way out of this."
A quiet, triumphant hoot confirmed that.
"Drag you right to Strokeon," it promised. "After you get used to our fun, the least little bit, it's clear that you'll see what a... a fan you have in it that Handler. Seriously. You walk what you talk - more than anybody else around here, Nat. The defeat today is theirs, not yours. Better help is what you think our howlers need, and not too many of you fuckers get the kind of respect you've earned."
"Sure. You think I was craving this. Couldn't be avoided, so hey. Double-quad -"
"No, it seems to me that you're oversimplifying. Hear me, and hang on - Strokeon gets you, Gotto. There is more going on that isn't obvious, dude."
"I hope that's right."
"Well, turn right here," the Handler laughed nervously. "You get the last top-dog suite."
Near the end of the hall in front of him, a door started swinging out.
"This will start much better than you're expecting," his escort just about whispered, "if you don't make us cart you in there. Walk tough, Nat. Confidently."
Nodding, he parked the cigarette between his lips, cocked his head back... and started taking a long drag. He pulled the door open a few inches. There was a swagger in his stride, which came naturally. Shit.
Five more steps - and he stopped behind an angled bench. Thick cushions, formidable restraints hanging, a fat joint sitting right in the center.
Gotto exhaled slowly, taking his time, as he scanned the padded cell. The door magically started to close.
09sep2020