Idea log
Pieces and unfinished episodes, in no particular order
301
"You'd better do your homework."
"Screw it."
"Don't put it off. You never know who's watching."
"Huh? Is that a threat?"
"No... I mean, something invisible. Homework ghosts."
"Ha ha."
"Magical... enforcers. You don't do your homework, they're gonna get ya."
"You're stoned."
"Yeah. But still. I bet there's first-string jocks who wish they'd done their homework... Thick manacles, maybe, locked around their wrists. They're hanging there, getting tickled to the limit. Howling the night away -"
"Shut up."
"Oh, now, does that idea bother you? Guilty conscience? Then you better make sure it's not you - strapped down to a table, laughing your guts out as you think about the Life Sci paper you didn't finish but you wish you had..."
302
In the Superior Court of the State of South California, The People For the Best Interest and Protection of John Doe #08-3005 as a mentally ill indigent male, Order for Care and Hospitalization, Respondent Dr. T.M. Petty.
The petition dated April 11, 2008, alleging that John Doe #08-3005, having been presented to this court on the twenty-third day of April, 2008, and an order of detention issued thereon by a judge of the superior court of this State, and a return of the said order:
And it further appearing that the provisions of Sections 00062500 to 00062540, inclusive, of the Welfare and Institutions Code have been complied with; And it further appearing that Dr. T.M. Petty, a medical examiner of this State, has made a personal examination of the alleged indigent, and has made and signed the certificate of the medical examiner, which certificate is attached hereto and made a part hereof; Now therefore, after examination and certificate made as aforesaid the court is satisfied and believes that John Doe #08-3005 is a menace to himself and is so afflicted with paranoid delusions of invisible tormentors that he cannot adequately address his basic and essential needs. It is ordered, adjudged and decreed:
That John Doe #08-3005 is at risk of personal harm and that he be committed to the State Department of Mental Health for placement in a state hospital or a private hospital. It is further acknowledged that the proper authorities of the hospital or establishment known as Wolfsbane Rural Psychiatric Hospital have accepted custody of and have conveyed John Doe #08-3005 to said hospital to be cared for as provided by law.
Dated this twenty-third day of April, 2008.
______________________________________
Judge of the Superior Court
303
TM target rating scale
rate him, 1-5 (where 5 is highest) on his...
- stamina
- recovery of ticklishness after sleep & maintenance
- non-desensitizability
- non-distractedness - mental "presence" / focus / unlikelihood of passing out
- readability - subtle expressions and reactions which result from unspoken thoughts
- touchiness of soles
- touchiness of "floating" ribs
- increased effective of tickling in tandem with sexual arousal
40 is maximum score. All known 40's are booked for years.
Undiscovered high 30's can be found, if the TM's are prepared to search long and hard.
Age and habits are misleading - the scores of some junkies and couch potatoes are up there, when detoxed / slimmed down.
Anything above 25 is fun for a long weekend.
Anything above 33 is virtually inexhaustible, if given scrupulous maintenance.
304
A sick son of a bitch cruised into town. No one noticed. It was invisible. The asshole looked around, liked the look of the local hicks, and decided to check 'em out.
It had a twisted idea of what was fun. Real sadistic fucker. It had been at this shit a long time. Get set up, and then playtime. Bad news for somebody...
It had the experience to know what it needed in a place. Forgotten. Of no interest to anybody else. Just this fucker. A building miles away from anywhere, solid enough that it wouldn't have to be totally rebuilt, just reinforced. Fortified. Hell, it had used a cave before, underground bunkers a couple of times...
There were a couple options it could've lived with, but one top choice. The furthest one out. No road. An old logging shed. A long way to haul everything, but the risk of being interrupted was zero.
It stole a few credit cards, and ordered cases of shit. Stole a jeep and loaded it up with lumber and hardware. And a skylight. Made a ten-by-ten room at one end of the shed and built thick walls around it, strengthened the doors, added locks. Bolted chains across the hole in the ceiling and installed the fuckin skylight over 'em. Put the jeep back. Tongues wagged, but it didn't care. As boxes started showing up at the post office, it made 'em disappear.
While it waited for the last of the mail-order shit, there was equipment to make and install and test. Then all the boxes had shown up... At three in the morning, they were thrown on the back of a big flatbed truck. Dozens of cases were taken from the grocery store. And the drugstore. And the sporting goods shop. A big mattress disappeared from the motel. The truck headed out of town, pulled over about ten miles north of the shed, and unloaded.
This psycho got enough stuff for a year. A mutherfuckin' year.
The truck was hidden and returned the next day. It was all anybody could talk about. The fuckin stage was set. All it needed now was a victim.
305
One jumpy biker. Lookit that. Tats, scars, and one helluva strong reflex to a little poke in the ribs.
Can't stop himself, hating it. Jump, cuss, jump. Bellowing. Swinging at nothing, dropping his cigarette. Nobody there to blame, but boy is he gettin worked up. Fit to be tied.
Tied.
Hmmm...
Simultaneous chops on both of his jugulars, dark blurs slamming down. He sags, lurching forward - and continues moving. Held nearly upright and floating down the shadowy sidewalk, boot-toes dragging across the cement... upper arms well out from his body, held by thick lumps blacker than his jacket and chaps.
Across the street, to the alley...
Through a doorway.
An old building, full of secrets.
He's laid down in a utility room, breathing loud and steadily. The black shapes bring rope to him and encircle his limbs, pulling them together in front of him. A roll of duct tape is set near his mouth.
Despite the buzzing of the switch panels and the heat, he sleeps.
A bead of sweat rolls off his forehead.
306
The car door shuts.
He turns and heads for the sidewalk. Black leather, boots, jeans, cigarette glowing between his lips.
Less than a block to the liquor store...
He is examined, and selected.
Fifty feet away his car, the slightest jingling can be heard. Chain, falling. He turns his head slightly -
A loop of small chrome links is landing on his head, and still falling. Knocking the cigarette out of his mouth, cinching under his chin - and tightening.
He gasps. Automatically clawing at the choker.
Pressure, not unlike hands, is closing around his wrists. Pulling them up. Out of the way. Something digs under his jacket. Pressing - belly, pecs, sides, spreading rapidly -
He jerks backward, more than a yard, and slams against a security gate. Convulsing, trying double up, pull his hands free.
Invisible clamps lock on to his legs, thighs - and behind his right knee. He yells, collapsing, squirming violently.
He is sentenced.
Past his boots, a sidewalk grate swings up.
Shackles drift out of the tunnel.
He coughs, trying to kick. Something pins his right boot to the dirty cement, and a manacle closes around it. The other loop reaches, and his left boot is slammed down.
He tries to roll, and can't. Wheezing, jumping... and watching the shackle close. His legs are caught.
His hands are pulled out in front of him.
A pair of handcuffs float into view. The neck-chain tightens another notch, and he begins to slide toward the tunnel.
The cuffs lock as his heels are pulled into the darkness. Rope curls up, circling over his arms. His butt scrapes over the edge -
The grate is lowering. Loops of rope wrap his arms and legs together, keeping him doubled over. He continues to descend, looking up in time to see the grate close.
No one saw him disappear. The sidewalk looks as it did before...
Elapsed time, from collaring to replacing the grate: twenty-seven seconds.
The collar loosens somewhat.
He's carried through a hatch. Into the lower tunnels. Fighting the reflex to vomit at the stench...
Leather - at his hands. Gloves, being pulled on.
A right turn, and another, then a left.
Straight for several blocks. Pitch-black. His coughing echoes dully.
Then, finally - up.
Rope starts to unwind.
His struggles increase, but they don't reach the intensity they had before.
He floats through another hatch, through a basement... and into a stairwell. The rope falls off, and he's allowed to sit up. Groaning, but unable to shake the grips that ferry him up three flights...
At the last landing, his back is smalled against the wall. The handcuffs loosen and come off, only to close again on one of his belt loops, right hip.
Small sound of paper tearing -
Something is thrust into his left hand. He tries to pull free, but his fingers close tight. The gloves, overruling him. It's... a bottle.
The chain jerks firmly, and he grunts. His hand brings the bottle to his mouth. Whiskey.
Despite his struggles, he chokes down two or three shots. Wearing more of it than he drank -
A match flares... and a cigarette bumps into his lip. He turns his head away. The collar jerks savagely. He gasps, and yells. And he sucks on the cigarette.
After a couple drags, he's pulled off the wall. The leg-irons come off, and his legs are brought down. Pressure starts him forward...
As he starts up the stairs, the collar loosens again. Stumbling, sloshing whiskey, and kept on the march by the grips on his arms - but he's made to walk it himself.
At the top, a doorway is open to the left.
His destination.
Where he'll be incarcerated... until next summer rolls around.
An intense, grueling, feverish year. Never dull - this room is packed with ways to keep him amused.
His night took a hard turn. A wild adventure, only beginning. From the mystery of how he was kidnapped, to wherever this abandoned building is... All but condemned, ignored for years.
Ideal for confining him. Entertaining him. Savagely. Not a chance of being discovered.
He's getting the full treatment - until next July 17.
307
Something happened...
I was minding my own business, walking down the street. And I heard something, behind me. Nothing there. But waves were coming off the wall of this building I was passing - like heat squiggles. Like a sheet of disturbed air, fanning out -
And I... was someplace else.
Not outside anymore. At least, I didn't think so. But I couldn't see walls. There was this cloudy, milky white in every direction.
"Aw, fuck," I hear somebody say. Except... I didn't hear it, exactly. Thought it. Some woman's voice, as clearly as if she was right there. But there was nobody else around, and no... things, either. Sidewalk, cars, trees. Gone.
"Calm, everybody. Don't lose control," said this guy's voice, sorta British.
"It's not responding -," another guy said, and he sounded pretty worried.
Then, nothing.
I was starting to get concerned. I wondered where the street went -
Right then, the weirdest feeling ran through me. My head. Cold, almost.
And I was standing in the street. As in, the middle of a lane. A big ol' bus was heading right for me, and I didn't have time to get clear. Oh shit, I thought, oh no -
Whiteness, again.
I blinked and looked myself over. That was close.
And weird. What the hell was going on, here? I looked all around me for a way out, but I had a bad feeling -
Bars. I couldn't move. There were bars all around me, like a suit. Pressing down. Struggling was impossible. This is bad, I thought, and my heart jumped into high gear. Maybe I can raise some help if I yell, even though there didn't appear to be anyone... What if nobody can hear me? I can't st-
The bars disappeared - but I was surrounded by padding. Like foam rubber, maybe coated with something. Like a suit. I couldn't breathe. Air... I need room -
And it was pitch-dark. The padding let me go. I fell forward, and wished I could see. The next instant, light flared - too much - and then it dropped way down to a dim glow. I blinked at the floor under my hands. It was padded.
As were the walls, and the ceiling. I was in a room, maybe twelve by twelve. I didn't see a door. Or, for that matter, an air duct -
And there was a breeze, suddenly. From the far wall. No fan or anything to see, but air definitely moved past.
I got up and went to that wall. It felt solid. I thought I felt a big vent in a couple places, behind the foam. When I pounded on the foam, it barely made a noise. There were no seams to pull at, and it didn't rip when I pinched it. Working my way down one of the other walls, I started to worry. Stuck here. Who wanted me to - what else was planned? If -
The cage was back. Amazing. I wobbled, and started to yell. "Help -"
Somebody was there. I didn't see anybody, but I felt it...
No cage, no more, take it away. And before I was done thinkin' that, it was gone again. I never wanted to see that thing again -
"What the hell," a guy's voice said quietly.
I still didn't see anyone else. Did I actually hear that - or was it in my head again?
Then came this annoyed sound, like a sigh. "What are you doing?," he said. Slight drawl, didn't sound happy.
"Me?" I said to the empty room. "Nothing - I just want to get outa here."
"Then go."
"I... can't."
"Look," the guy said. "It's all on you. I don't know how you pulled me in here, but just... knock it off."
"I didn't -" But I just shook my head. Then, as an experiment, I didn't actually reply out loud, just in my head. "How?"
"You just stop doing it. Think."
I didn't understand... but I thought about the street. And the bus that nearly creamed me. Nothing changed -
"What's the holdup?"
"I... I dunno."
"Hmmmm." The voice paused for a few seconds. "I don't get this at all. You got some kind of problem with going back. Try going someplace else."
"Like, where?"
"I don't care. Pick a place. Someplace you like. Then I can get on my way."
"Alright." I thought about my truck. Wished I was in it -
And I was. Sitting behind the wheel. I heaved a huge sigh. Needed a drink... and a cigarette, even though I'd finally quit last year, just one of those random cravings.
Next time I blinked, I was exhaling smoke. Had one hanging from my mouth. Fuck, I was glad - although there was that disgusting taste in my mouth again... Looking down, I saw a fifth of Glenfidditch between my legs, open. I was sitting in the parking lot, right where I'd parked my truck. But where the hell did the booze come from? And the cig?
Whatever weirdness had been happening... it didn't seem to be over yet. I wasn't out of the woods. Was this even real? Maybe I couldn't get away. Still in that room, with the padding, and no way to g-
Back again. Inside. Trapped -
"Dammit," the voice said tonelessly. I looked around, but still nothing. My heart was pounding. From the smoke, maybe. I could feel the scotch in my gut, too. Wouldn't exactly mind hav-
In my hand. I had the bottle, down by my side. Out of nowhere...
And a cigarette between my other fingers. Impossible, I thought. It was lit. If this is real, I thought numbly, where's the pack?
A flash of color caught my eye. I looked down, just in time to see a pack of Camels land by my shoe. That was a relief - and it scared me at the same time. Wishes were coming true. What the hell was going on here?
"Knock it off," the voice ordered.
"What?," I thought back, getting mad.
"This back-and-forth shit."
"I'm not doing it!"
There was another pause. "Oh, great."
I just looked around and smoked. Then I realized what I did, so I went to drop the butt, except there was no place to step on it that wouldn't mess up the foam. So I frowned - and a coffee can appeared, a little in front of me. Too... weird.
"You really think you're stuck," the guy grumbled.
"Well... yeah," I said.
"But you're not." Another sigh. Then, like he was talkin' to a little kid, "You are in charge. You decide to get outa here, and you will be. And I will be, too."
"I tried. I just ended up back here -"
"And now you're so sure, you've blocked it off. Look, asshole, I don't know how I got sucked into this, but I -"
"Hey," I thought hard, "I didn't ask to be here either."
A few more seconds passed. "No. You didn't. Alright. Trouble is, I don't know how this happened. All I do know is you're making it happen, somehow. Your thoughts."
"Bullshit." I looked at the wall - and at the bottle in my hand. "I don't see how."
"Of course you don't."
If it was telling the truth, things could get... pretty fuckin' weird. "So - what happens n-"
"Stop that," the guy's voice barked. "Right now -"
"Stop what?"
"Thinking..."
That threw me for a loop. What had I been thinking about that was so b-
Oh.
"No!," and he groaned. "I can't -"
Please, I wanted to say suddenly. Because I remembered exactly what I'd been thinking about. Get me out of here.
"Can't... stop it -"
"Well, try harder!," I yelled.
A louder groan... And then I heard a sigh. "O-kay. Ooooooo..."
In front of my nose, a feather appeared. Big, and white. The voice cackled with triumph.
"Uh -"
"Too late," he chuckled. "Damn, are you gonna get it."
The feather moved a little closer. I backed up -
And suddenly, I stopped moving. As if I'd hit the wall... or something softer.
Padded. Long, angled. Like a wide bench, almost vertical.
Hands locked around my wrists. I saw nothing there, but it felt like hands. When I tried to yank free, my arms hardly moved.
I heard a quiet, taunting little growl - and my arms were pulled over my head. Then I went up in the air a few inches...
Wide nylon straps looped over my fists, pulling snug. As if the hands holding my off the ground weren't even there.
The feather turned into six feathers. Maybe eight.
"Whoops," the guy said softly - and my clothes disappeared. Before I even had time to react, it made sense. A certain, inevitable kind of sense.
"You don't, uh, have to do this," I grunted, trying to pull my arms free.
"Yeah I do," he shot back. "I'm... redesigned. And now I want to."
The feathers moved right in.
308
"Just kill me and get it over with..." Whispered, with an expression of pure pain.
How melodramatic. Typical, for the third day of abuse. The second day was worse than the first, and he wakes up again to find he's still strapped down. So he talks big. Like he'd rather die than go through any more of it.
Strong words call for a strong response. In this case, ten fingers. Twenty.
Landing down on his hips, and scratching lightly.
He squirms and starts to hoot. Wiggling, and completely unable to get away from the hands.
The fingers slowly start working their way up.
Of all the stupid things to say. Of course he's not going to be killed. What he's been getting is precisely why he was caught. His captor wants him in prime condition, so he can take more and more fingers. Hour after hour. Debilitating fingers...
More was expected of him each day. That's how it goes. He wasn't even allowed to pass out - too much excitement for him to feel. Toes to ears, and all spots in between. The fingers slide over his ribs, and he barks out laughter. Here's the response to his pathetic attempt for mercy. Much more of the same.
It has to get more intense every day. The amount he can take will increase - because it has to. He has no alternative than to get more sweet agony than he ever suspected he could tolerate. Rest up, and reach for a new goal the next day.
The challenge will go on and on. His captor knows what he's capable of. How many days and weeks of pure torment he can tolerate, petted and nuzzled against his roused skin. He'd never be permitted to escape this until the captor releases him from its grip. Alert, and responsive - more so, each day. That's what it wants. That's what it'll get.
He crows as the fingers creep toward his armpits. One hand stays where they started, provoking his hips...
The number of fingers will increase, just as it did yesterday. Spread all over his restrained body. Changing speed and technique to slam the sensation through to his distracted, feverish brain. All day long. Most of the night. This is mandatory.
And he will experience every second of fondling it has planned for him. No matter what route he'd take to escape this, he's in for hundreds of impossibly long, thorough hours of assault. Careful fingers, by the dozen, laying into him for unimaginably long rounds before he's allowed to rest. Crushingly short rest periods, before the torment starts up again.
It demands he take more abuse today than he did yesterday. He'll be buried in active fingers long after he loses count of the weeks that have crawled by since the torture began.
309
Americans have an unseen enemy in our midst.
Laughhunter.
Unseen, unstoppable, thought to be nonexistent by all - or nearly all, excluding those who have been caught, or are close to someone who's been caught.
Selecting victims at will... and releasing them when it chooses. They are changed men - leaner, tattooed, sensitized to a point where clothing is uncomfortable until they get used to it all over again. But the biggest change is in their attitude. They have a new anxiety, and it's not shared by many of their peers. An experience that was intense beyond their imagining is behind them - and possibly waiting for them again.
The apprehension concerns another disruption to their relationships and finances and career plans. Their freedom could disappear at any moment. Nothing they can think of will keep them safe. Laughhunter keeps affecting their behavior and their nightmares long after it sets them "free".
How frustrating would it be, to be unable to prevent your fate - an ordeal so excruciating than no one else can comprehend it? Just as there's no way to escape from its cells or restraints, there's no way for the targets to get their old tickle-free life back. Bribing or paying off the next potential tormentor is as impossible as influencing the previous one...
310
A rasping sound breaks the silence. Flare of warm light -
The match touches the end of a cigarette. The heat is inhaled, making the tobacco burn.
Its task completed, the match is shaken out. Tossed into a coffee can.
Hundreds of matches lie underneath it.
More smoke is exhaled into the dark room.
A blue-black sky defines the window frame. Open, for the time being. The night sounds are faint, and the number of stars is beyond all reckoning.
The cigarette moves, slightly. The tip kindles and glows.
Four minutes and forty seconds later, the cigarette is swapped with a new one.
A rasping sound breaks the silence...
After every third cigarette, a bottle of water rises, tilts - and buckles from the suction of needy lips.
The smoker doesn't move. Lying down, tugging on the unfiltered cigarette occasionally.
Hidden by the lightless evening, a young man - very young - does nothing else. Layered restraints ensure it.
He just... smokes.
As another pack is emptied, a new one is opened.
The fingers that tear open the foil are not his. They're not human.
Barely audible clicks are made when the knuckles bend. Relays, opening and closing. Intricate tensioning cables, anchored on the inner surface, where the fingertips would be.
No hand will ever wear any of these gloves.
The man is quiet, and motionless. Prior weeks have taught him the uselessness of struggling, of trying to attract the notice of other people.
Branches have been arranged effectively, to camouflage the small utility shed. It was positioned in a narrow gully where the overhanging branches hide it from overhead view.
Four hundred meters away, wide turbines squat in the path of a narrow creek. The blades spin endlessly, silently, and the current races back to the shed through waterproofed cables buried nine inches under the leaf-covered hillside.
The electricity feeds a bank of seventy-two charging stations which cover the front wall of the shed. Behind the man. Where the door has been nailed shut...
And thick cords run across the floor, to the silent machines.
A cluster of discs and appendages are positioned around each of the smoker's feet.
Similar devices form a lateral line on each side of him. Unique attachments are resting inside a narrow case that is centered between his knees.
The equipment is well-made, highly specialized - and unerringly effective.
Two of the charging stations are empty. The rest have hands protruding from them. More accurately - gloves.
Six of them, covered in dark brown leather, are there to make him smoke. Nonvoliatile memory, deep inside the palms, is etched with information. They have been programmed to respond to any number of unexpected events, but only in their subject area. Smoking is their area of proficiency. They are ignorant of all else.
Only two are in use at any given time. Redundancy is essential, given the isolation of the shed.
Twelve more, with grey rawhide surfaces, are charged with preserving environment integrity and target immobilization.
Eighteen are aqua-colored. Neoprene. They knowledge about food and water is exhaustive.
Red latex, as two dozen of the gloves are wearing, was employed to indicate their medical expertise. They monitor the man's health, dispose of his emissions, treat his overtaxed lungs, and cleanse all external surfaces.
The remaining twelve are black. Vinyl continually gleams from the lubricants and oils... for these units are the heaviest of all, with four times as much memory packed within them. They adjust the placement of the larger machines, scheduling the usage and duration with input from the medical monitors. If one of the devices which surround the man is in need of repair, they have the knowledge to effectively react - or compensate. Subsituting for them, as needed.
No telling when the faint snapping noise will signal the waking of the machines. It may not occur all night - which would mean, by prior history, that he will be allowed to sleep for a long time, because the following day's activities will be relentless and harsh.
Dumped there with cases and bags, which are stored underneath the shed...
When the click is heard, he becomes frantic. Pulling as if there was nothing he wanted more than to get his feet, his torso away from the waking machines. Sometimes, yelling. Desperate for any other option.
But they resume...
No one there to appeal to. No one for many miles who could hear him beg.
Cold, almost alien, the machines are operating with no ability to feel anything. Pity is outside their universe. When turned on, they work. For as long as they're turned on, when they're as well-maintained as these devices are. Only the intervention of an operator, a controller, can stop them.
Writhing in the restraints, unable to do more than flex his fingers, the man is certainly not that controller. All decisions are completely and securely immune from his influence.
No matter how much the excitement builds, and builds, he remains unable to pull himself out of the machines' grasp - and equally unable to say anything, or howl anything, that can turn them off.