(No action in this one...)
Big hulking guy. Full of himself.
They're a lot smaller - about the size of his hand.
When they set their sights on him, all that muscle doesn't matter.
They're strong. Stronger than him. It would be no problem to just drag him off... but they have big plans for him. Long-term plans. If he puts up the kind of fight they expect, he could sprain something. Unnecessary distraction...
If they picked him up and went straight up, high enough, he'd probably settle down. But the yelling - well, there was a risk of him managing to get someone's attention, even if they couldn't help him out. A small one. Gag him and tie him up tight, fifty feet in the air.
But that just didn't fit, here. Either take him down firmly, on the street - show him he's met his match...
Or let him find that out right when the fun's about to begin.
They shadowed him for a couple days. No wife anymore. Nobody else in the house. So they slipped under the blanket one night... and checked him.
He's got what it takes. Strong as an elephant, too. They could've tied him up right then and there, hauled him off. He slept, fitfully, with no idea they were there confirming his sensitivity.
Finally, they took off. Let him sleep one more night in his own bed. Get all rested and ready. It's Friday. They like the idea of grabbing him tonight. Start of a weekend that goes on and on, like it's never gonna end. Maybe he'll get drunk finally. So they went out and picked up some supplies...
And took 'em to the Kennel.
They hosed the place down, and scrubbed the furniture... Beefed up the straps, reinforced the framework on the main stocks, and fortified the anchors on both benches. Durable and solid. All set.
After the sun goes down, they let themselves in and wait.
Around one, he finally shows up. A few beers in him, from the look of it. Not drunk enough. But it doesn't matter now... they're prepared.
He takes a leak, and grabs a bottle from the fridge. Sports drink. One-liter. Cracking it open, he lands on his couch and reaches for the remote. And he sits there, watching. Feet up on the table...
No ashtray by his side. No smokes. It just doesn't figure. Beer on his breath, and nothing else. Looking at him, it makes no sense to 'em. Two, three packs a day - now that's what he looks like. No cigars in the house, no pot. Not even a cross-top. They can't understand him. Marlboros, if nothing else. Camels, maybe.
Well, they'd gotten Winstons for him. Real soon now, a few more hours, and they'll fix him up. Everything he needs, stacked up on the shelves in the storeroom. Just beer, huh? Fuck that. The sooner they had a cigarette in his mouth, the better. Whiskey in his gut, uppers driving the weariness away...
Slowly, along the side of the couch, one of them creeps toward his drink. The bottle, parked on the arm of the couch, is wrapped in his big fist. He stares dully at an old sitcom.
It's got something for him. The only thing they brought along. All they need...
A small white pill.
Into the bottle it goes. They retreat behind him.
He watches for a few more minutes, and frowns at the screen. Takes a chug. Time to pee again.
As soon as he's in the can, they race up to the bottle. Take the cap, screw it on, and shake the drink for a few seconds. Remove the cap and put it back on the table. Set the drink down where he left it.
Swirling through the green fluid - sleep. A catnap, short but deep.
He sits down and grabs the bottle without looking at it. Too busy flicking through channels...
Then he has a few more swallows. Good boy.
Soon, the bottle is empty.
Within a half-hour, he's snoring away, head back.
One of them picks up the remote and turns the TV off. No TV in the Kennel. Far more exciting stuff to do in there.
Another half-hour for the street to settle down. All the drunks are passed out, like him - but he's going on a trip.
They open the front door, and then the car door, pick him up by his arms, and take him outside. Prop him up, and go back inside for a paper bag they packed. Some clothes, and some papers. His bills.
No matter how long he'll be in the Kennel, his bills are going to be paid. He'll be AWOL from his job, of course. Get canned. Very irresponsible, to skip town like that. But there'd be no other reason for people to get too curious. They've got it covered, alright...
They've tipped off some of their peers. Others like them. Hey, this house is going to be empty for awhile. Wide open for their use. And with, say, a housesitter, it can be theirs the whole time. If this dude has a little brother who turns up right about now... A goofy type who's stoned all the time, pliable - he could field the phone calls and the visits. Hire a gardener, take the trash out, keep the mailbox empty. Maybe even make beer runs. Hell, no reason why he couldn't hang out there, if the bills keep getting paid.
His friends, too. Homeless young turks, thugs, criminals. Nighttime dudes who love to party, and lay around when they're not working out. They'd seen this kind of thing work out just fine for extended stays. Three or four guys, staying in all the time. King-hell party, kept quiet enough that nobody'd bother 'em. Safe inside the remodeled bedrooms, newly soundproofed and very secure...
They start the car. One works the pedals, the other steers and shifts. The ashtray has change in it, which is just wrong. Not this guy. It's good they're on the road now, heading toward all those Winstons. Very soon now.
There's one stop to be made, and six gallons of gas are poured into the tank. They let the car idle on the country road, and throw the cans way back into the brush when they're done.
And before long they're pulling into the subdivision. Pretty fancy. Big yards, with neighbors who respect each other's privacy. They ease the car into the driveway, set the parking brake and get out. He slumps over, on his side - but this is not the kind of neighborhood where anybody's out and around, not at four in the morning.
They open the garage door, and pull his car inside. Get him out and shut the car door softly. Now it's time for the escape attempt - a little ceremony they have. The last look at the outside world he'll be getting for a long-ass time.
He's still dead to the world, but they hold him up anyway. Slipping under his arms, they turn him around. Facing the door -
And now more of them show up. From the house, they cruise through the open door and pass him. Taking hold of the garage door and start closing it. Cutting him off. Locking him inside. He'd better wake up, right now, and make a run for it. Or else they've got him...
Down it comes. They even shake him gently. C'mon, asshole. Hop to it. Run. We're ready to take you down... tackle you and drag you back in. The gap is getting smaller, and smaller, cutting off the view of the sky, the street. Now or never. You don't wanna stay here. And we're ready to lock the door, fuckhead. Lock you in. The Kennel's all ready. Run now, now, now. Run!
But he doesn't move.
The door lands with a dull thud. Some of them pick up the padlocks and use 'em. There. Yeah...
Locked. All exits locked. Nothing laying around he could use to smash his way out. And there's only one direction now, really. He won't be hanging out in the garage. Nowhere else...
They carry him inside. The toes of his boots drag across the cement. Through the door, which closes.
Three locks, sealing that door, one by one.
Empty rooms, closed drapes - going unnoticed, as he's brought to a hallway. It's dark. They take him straight down to a bedroom. The master bedroom. Also dark.
Room-within-a-room, in here. Cinderblock walls painted black. Mirrored ceiling, tinted very dark... coated with a dusty layer of brown tar. Black linoleum on the floor, slanted toward a drain-hole in the corner. Caged worklights, and a nice quiet cooling system.
Benches, racks, and stocks. Black leather, black vinyl. Black iron framework.
And one massive fuckin' door. Iron, banded, jet-black, dull with old smoke.
It's a world of fun. Tools, toys...
They slide a box of supplies in after him, and stash it behind the sitting-bench.
And then they take hold of the door, and swing it in. Pull it until it stops. The push of a secret button shoots the bolts into the steel frame.
The Kennel is closed.
All kinds of wild things happen in here. They're possible, like all the hysterical weeks he'll be provoked, because of the restraints and the locks.
They set the new inhabitant down on the bench, and get him out of his clothes.
2000