The "action" barely starts, but the stage is well and truly set...
Hank paused with a cigarette almost to his mouth.
Bozzer hovered around the guys, eager to get started. It thought he looked sorta dim-witted - hell, if he was wearing bib overalls without a shirt, he would've been a backwoods stereotype come to life. But apparently he made it through high school...
"Get outa here," he finally said.
His cousin Frankie laughed. "I shit you not. We gotta get high first. Then you'll see."
With another slow, skeptical look around him, Hank finally lit his smoke.
They were talking about the old haunted house.
It sat near the end of the next street over from Frankie's. The old farmhouse was huge. It sat way back from the road, a good five hundred meters from its only neighbor. Maybe in some other places it would've been checked occasionally by the adults... but there were only a few sheriffs in the sleepy little county, and a couple of them had their own reasons to avoid the place.
Bozzer was very pleased with the "improvements" it had made to three of the bedrooms.
When it arrived in town, the house already had a spooky reputation. Many of the kids had tested their nerve and visited the place.
Most of the trespassers who came alone stayed much longer than they planned, laughing and grunting the nights away.
Hank was going to be next.
More than a few of the townies and their children had squirmed in Bozzer's clutches. The state university, sixty-three miles away, was another fine place to hunt. Sometimes it was best to leave the locals alone for awhile...
Bozzer had perfected a few methods of persuading its ticklish guests to keep their mouths shut and stay far away from the house. If they blabbed, it was almost a request to be hauled back in for a lot longer. As a result, most of its targets walked around with the notion that they were the only ones who had done time in there.
Naturally, there were some obstinate cusses that plumb refused to play along. Ron Esterhaus was the worst. Yeah, if he'd been shooting off his mouth like that twenty years later... but at the time the adults had never heard such nonsense. Ronnie had been such a levelheaded kid, and a great offensive lineman, before he discovered beer.
Two of his friends had good reason to get all antsy whenever he started talking about what had happened in the old farmhouse, but they weren't about to risk being pulled back in there. His older brother Race believed him - and Bozzer enjoyed a hard month on both, in the same locked room, before they were shipped out of town. The boys were probably still touring the secret dungeons of Mexico City...
Part of the hunt was selecting candidates that wouldn't be inclined to talk about what Bozzer did to 'em. They needed to protect their image, and hardly anyone was eager to get dragged back into the spooky house. Guys in particular, from around these parts, didn't bring up such embarrassing subjects. They drank and got high instead.
And dudes had such nice, big feet.
The shock that came over 'em, when their newly shaved armpits were attacked and Bozzer's straps kept 'em from getting anywhere at all - well, it was addictive.
The whole notion of "limits" made Bozzer a little irritable. Of course each ticklish new pal had no choice but to stick around for as long as it wanted. Every time they woke up, the fun started right back up again...
But still, the risk after they were cut loose was a lot lower if they were old enough to party like the big dogs.
There wasn't much reason for the young fry to hang around town after graduation. A few, like Jamie Owens, had dropped out and run away from home - or so the townsfolk thought. He was a spitfire. Irresistible. Bozzer had found it really hard to pack him off to some comrades in Baton Rouge.
Bruce Wilson, though - now that had been a close call. He "went bad" when he was fifteen, thanks to Bozzer's efforts to make him shifty and suspicious. It had taken two years to discredit him, because he just wouldn't shut up...
From then on it tracked the boys closely - and waited until the weekend after they turned eighteen to break 'em in. College kids could always be caught to tide it over.
Several of Bozzer's friends had taken a real shine to Bruce. They all appreciated the value of investing a good chunk of time on a guy with that kind of talent.
Bozzer was even prouder of the Cotton family.
Frankie's dad knew what kind of fun Bruce was having, alright.
Bozzer got "old man Cotton" early on and really didn't want to let go. Three years, off and on, with the help of a lot of whiskey... making him call home every so often from a pay phone, talking about his great job, and then whisking him back to the dungeon. It was well worth sending money back to his wife. He was more fun than any man had a right to be.
His brothers and sister were just as gifted. Yeah, there was something in the genes there. A real affinity. One of their boys and the girl were still popular with Bozzer's buddies. Frankie's dad and his aunt were carefully persuaded that their adventures had been alcoholic dreams - just odd fantasies - certainly not real parties that dragged on for months and months.
Uncle Brett knew better, though.
So did his son and two of his nephews. Chances were good they were howling the nights away, somewhere...
Kirk Cotton, Frankie's brother, followed in Brett's sensitive footsteps. Working in Nashville, supposedly. Making something of himself.
After Bozzer got to know him, Kirk realized who was next in line. He just couldn't quite bring himself to say what he'd gone through - and what he suspected, even then, was going to keep happening to his ticklish ass - but he tried every other way to get Frankie scared...
Since Kirk never managed to admit what Bozzer had been doing to him, and then he disappeared, the effect on his little brother was all the tickler could've hoped for. Frankie, now seventeen, had snuck into the house twice with his friends... almost as if Kirk was given to making up the most impossibly weird shit when there was enough booze in his gut.
The boys' other uncle had a son who was almost thirteen. Definitely showing some promise, Bozzer thought. Actually if any male in that family looked disappointing - not up to months and months of delirious torment - it was Frankie. He was strung a little too tight. The school had talked his folks into getting him on some medication... but there was still something not right, there. His grades were good, and perhaps he had the best chance of actually going to college of any of 'em.
The kid just didn't test out like a Cotton.
But his cousins were definitely gifted, in Bozzer's opinion.
Hank had visited with his folks and his sisters before. It had been three or four years since he'd set foot in town.
Now he was eighteen years and four months old.
No plans, no goals...
That sensitive bloodline - and he had such nice, strong reactions. Bozzer woke him right up, his first night there, by just barely touching his feet and sides.
After he watched Frankie sleep for awhile, to make sure he hadn't been responsible, Hank had a smoke and laid back down. Bozzer had to experiment much more carefully on Hank...
And he had some wild dreams, to judge from the way he twitched and grunted.
He was going to look around Atlanta for a job. Having saved up money the past three summers from working on a dairy farm, Hank had a few months to line something up. Actually he was thinking about Pensacola - and Bozzer was amused to hear him say that to his aunt and uncle. They could see he was flexible, and tempted to wander. That same attitude had helped get his uncle and so many other men hidden away, and worked over, without a soul really worrying about what they were up to.
Saturday night came.
Hank had told Frankie he thought he'd head out after the weekend. There was no way Bozzer would watch him get away. It had just the thing to keep him occupied for the summer, and then some...
They went out with Frankie's friends and divvied up a case of cheap beer. Passed a joint around.
Bozzer, who was keeping a constant eye on Hank now, was happy to hear one of the other boys finally bring up the old haunted house. Frankie was eager to show his mettle, and Hank didn't seem to care one way or the other. They decided to head over there... but one guy wussed out, saying he had an ultimate frisbee game in the morning and was ready to turn in. Then the guy with the car decided he didn't really wanna drive with the buzz he had going.
"Let's walk there," Hank said to Frankie.
Hell, he might as well have begged Bozzer to snatch him.
So they slipped inside - through a back door that Bozzer had unlocked as they drew close. It didn't want to discourage them at all. In the past, about fifteen locals had forced that warped door open and squeezed inside, working hard to get where Bozzer wanted 'em.
The boys walked into the biggest room. A dusty table was sitting along the near wall, in front of two sheet-covered chairs. When they were sitting down, Frankie pulled out a half-smoked joint.
Hank didn't seem too eager to get high, but Bozzer knew his pride would win out.
When Frankie held the spliff within reach, Hank reached over for it...
After a few minutes, the guys sprawled comfortably, not needing to talk. They didn't seem to have a spooked bone in their bodies. Bozzer wondered if maybe Frankie, being so eager to hang out in the old farmhouse, deserved another look. His brother Kirk was such a delightful basket case -
"Yeah," he finally sighed. "So. Are you, like, really high?"
"Uh-huh," Hank said.
"So am I. And this place is cool. All we have to do is ask for something. I want - no, you do it. You're just passing through."
"That's right," Hank said. He grinned.
"What do you want? Tell the ghost. Or the house. Whatever."
Hank wasn't buying it. "I'm good."
"You gotta try it," Frankie said. "Donny Wilson swore it worked."
Frowning, Hank seemed to see that there was gonna be no peace until he gave in. "Well. Why not... I wanna try some decent whiskey. I mean, I had some cheap stuff before," he said to Frankie rather suddenly, as if he was saving face, "but -"
Bozzer made a bottle of JW Blue appear on the table.
The boys stared.
Frankie actually shook his head suddenly, making sure he was awake.
Hank started to laugh nervously.
After a couple decent shots for each, it made the booze disappear. Having them pass out wasn't the goal. Bozzer wanted them to wake up, seriously hungover, and wonder how accurate their memories were.
As it was, they were still able to stagger home. "I still say you knew that bottle was there," Hank slurred.
"Did not. How could I make it appear like that? It's the house, dude."
"Sure. Well, dude, I app... aa-appreciate it. Feelin' real fine, now, thanks to you."
"Wasn't me," Frankie complained. "I swear."
"Okay then..."
The next morning - Sunday - the boys laid around for the better part of an hour after they woke up. Too sick to move, really.
Hank lit a smoke, and that finally helped him to get to his feet.
"Tell Ma I'm sick," Frankie groaned. "This is awful."
"Then they'll know what we were doing last night. Nope. Try sitting up again. It'll pass."
"Ow..."
After dinner, Hank got up and told 'em he was ready to head south. His aunt started protesting about the lunacy of driving at night, but Hank had already looked up the budget motels and he could make it to Kennesaw before midnight, no sweat. He was a good kid - but he was a Cotton, of course, so his aunt knew common sense wouldn't work on him anyhow.
He hugged her, and shook hands with his uncle - taking up the mantle, real soon now, of his kinfolk and their hysterical ways. Then Hank got into his faded old Intrepid, bumped fists with Frankie, lit another cigarette and drove off.
He made it less than a mile.
Not long after he turned onto the state road, Bozzer made him "space out," checked to make sure no other vehicles were in sight - and turned the car around.
No one saw it approach the laugh-house from the west.
The meadow was smooth enough, though it slanted toward the creek. Hank's car rolled right along, with the headlights turned off, until it was about an acre away from the dark, silent house.
Bozzer eased it right into a cave in the hillside. A natural pit, bordered on two sides by granite boulders, had been enlarged and fortified by Hank's kidnapper. The ceiling was shored up with old railroad ties. It was just big enough for two pickup trucks. So many muscle cars, beaters and motorcycles had been stashed here...
Bozzer led its silent friend out into the moonless night air. It picked up two sheets of pressure-treated plywood that had dozens of holes drilled through, plants from the hillside solidly covering them and a thick mat of tangled roots underneath. They had been trimmed to fit the opening to the cave just right.
Satisfied that the hiding place for Hank's car would be as secret as it had always been, Bozzer pulled him toward the house.
When it snapped Hank out of that mindless, robotic state and he made that dazed little head-shake - the same reaction they all had! - the bondage sling was the first thing he saw.
Bozzer always looked forward to watching a guy hit all those sweet milestones the first night. Hank did a slow turn, with his mouth open, and looked at all the bondage "furniture." Then he stared at the thick chains that were bolted across the doorframe. Hank was so dazed by the sight that his hands got him a smoke, and he lit it without uttering a single word...
It allowed him to go tug on the door. The only window was hidden behind a shelving unit Bozzer had built. Some toys were left in plain sight because it was so damn entertained by watching the men worry about what was going to be picked up next.
Hank didn't waste a lot of effort. He was fighting to stay calm. Bozzer usually had 'em strapped down by now... but his reserved attitude seemed like a very good sign.
It let him walk around the room once.
At the shelves, he studied the feather-dusters and shoe buffers for a minute and smoked like a fiend. Then he frowned. Sighed...
"You can hear me. Right?"
"Uh-huh," Bozzer said, from just behind him.
Hank spun around. "Shit. Where... Of course. Don't that beat all."
"You're a pretty cool customer."
"I heard rumors," he said. And then a big shiver ran all the way down him. It was like a wonderful compliment, Bozzer decided. "How many people have you... brought in here?"
After a pause, it chuckled quietly. "You don't wanna know."
He nodded. "Right."
"C'mon over to the hanging sling," Bozzer said. "Let's get to it."
Hank looked around first - sure, as if there was some place to run! - and finally kicked out another soft, worried sigh. He walked around the back of the sling, looking at it more closely. Stalling for time. It was cute.
"Clothes off, please," Bozzer ordered. "Or else, you know, I can take care of that for you."
"Dammit," he said. "I really don't wanna g-go through this."
"I know. But it's gonna happen anyway, Hank. You've got the Cotton gift."
He stopped dead. "What do you m-"
"Save it. That reaction said it all. Who told you these 'rumors?' Was it Kirk?"
"No," he said immediately, with an expression that managed to be both guilty and frantic. He started gathering up the bottom of his t-shirt to pull it off.
You little liar, Bozzer thought. Kirk was so gonna get it... Well, it could've been Brett just as easily. Some thorough interrogation was in order for them both.
And yet Hank still drove right out to visit his cousin anyway. Whatever his motivation, the poor guy sure didn't look too happy about it now. "Isn't there, uh, anything I can say t-"
"Nope."
Bozzer sent a big bunch of leather gloves to grab Hank and put him on the sling. Empty fingers unbuckled his belt and hiked his jeans down. He still wasn't freaking out, as most guys did, so it decided to leave his underwear alone for awhile and keep the focus on what it loved best.
He did start to pull and fight when Bozzer's gloves relieved him of his basketball shoes. Then it had the dark hands lock onto his shins and take his socks off as slowly as possible.
"This can't be really happening," he said quietly, watching the last sock pull loose.
"Only to ticklish dudes."
"No-o-o-o," he whined at the leather hands, stretching the syllable out for a good five seconds - getting good and worried now. Perhaps Hank had finally figured out that this wasn't just a big, elaborate game that would halt if he put up enough of a fuss.
When he saw the padded shackles float toward him, Hank finally started fighting like a wildcat.
Bozzer rechecked the straps. "Yup. Good and taut," it said.
He had that wild-eyed look in his eye that the boys always got at first. Reality had taken a hard left turn for ol' Hank Cotton. His arms were chained up, and his feet were barely able to move.
His captor brought a big white feather down to his gut.
"No! Look - wait - can I have a smoke first?" he begged.
Bozzer took its time before answering. "Maybe later."
"Maybe?" he barked, trying to back away - but the feather closed the gap. Bozzer eased the tip right into his belly-button.
Hank tensed up. He grunted, shook his head nervously... and the first snort of reluctant laughter slipped out.
25feb11