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The all-night gas station sure came through! Good ol' self-serve. I helped myself to a hair-trigger type here, that's for sure.

He bought smokes, not gas. Reds. One measly pack. I'd already laid in a couple more cartons of 'Boros than usual... and he was considerate enough to park well out of the floodlight.

A spitfire, this one. Big ol' reaction to my acetate. When they're that bothered that much by a lil' ol' test, it's gonna be a wild time when they wake up. Yep, I got rope for him, and 'Boros. A whole lot of satin for this buckaroo. Toys for days. No shit.
 

He's still unconscious, sprawled out in the easy chair... a couple of shots of gin down him, the bottle between his legs, his truck safely hidden away in the garage. Reek of fresh weed in the air arou-

Coming to. Time now to welcome this month's special guest... Groaning, moving his head just a little.

I hit the 'play' button on the VCR, fire up a cigarette and shove it between his fingers. Pretty rough-lookin' customer... Polish him up, like a gemstone or something. By hand. That's what he needs. A whole lot of buffing -

Ah. Noticed the 'Boro at last, checking out the room.
 

"Wha?"

"Hey. Laughing boy. Back among the living?"

"Who - unh -"

"It's me. Shit, dude. Guess you had enough of this." I lift the bottle and take it away real slowly.

He's baffled... very satisfying. "Where are you?"

I wiggle the bottle, and set it down. "Duh." I get the ashtray and put it on his thigh. "Here."

Right where I want him. "Say what?"

"This is a dream, right?"

"Hah. Ready for dreamland, you mean."

He blinks. No comprende, huh? "Naaah. I gotta go h-"

"Right. Can you say 'DUI'? Check your keys, ace." They're already hidden away, but he's feeling around for 'em. "I'll just hold onto 'em for you. Look, it's late, nobody else is here, and you're more than welcome to get horizontal. Nice bed down the hall... just changed the sheets, too." He finishes off the Camel, not looking pleased.

"I really need t-"

"Whoa!" I rewind the tape a little. "Ever seen this one? These dudes are bad. Hardcore." He stares at the scene I picked out for him - the big climactic battle between the head honchos. "Nice gloves. Tough."

He opens and closes is mouth, then starts to get up. "Just - just give me my keys..."

"Yup. Later. Not tonight, though. Sleep it off first. Stay in the chair, if you want, but the bed will just go empty." He'll be spending a lot of time in that chair, later on. Howling and squealing like a real happy pig... But I want to break him in flat on his back, with all that jumpiness wide open and easy to get to. "Just get your ass down that hallway there." I'll be right behind ya, sucker. I shut off the TV and VCR, and wait.
 

After a few seconds of hard thinkin', he sighs and eases himself up, walking carefully. Atta boy. Twenty more steps, and then he'll stretch out for a good long time. I turn on the night light in the bathroom.

"Here's the john. Man, that was a good flick." No response. "Real badasses... Sharp-lookin'. You need a pair of those..."

"What?" he says, in that are-you-totally-insane tone of voice. "Pair of what?"

"Those gloves. Like the bad guy had. Full-finger. Look good on ya." All over ya.

"Huh." Weaving slightly in front of the toilet, not pissing all that much... no problem. I'll fix that.

"That movie, though... real life ain't like that. Nobody could take all that and keep standing." I turn on the reading lamp over the bed, but it doesn't show him much. Of course, all the fun stuff is out of view. He rounds the corner, eyes taking it all in. No alarm, though. Not yet.

I cut to the chase. "Hollywood... All one big fantasy. Nobody's that - shit, there's a lot rougher things than that fight scene. That's make-believe. This is real." He's sitting on the bed, untying a sneaker. Eventually he makes an affirmative noise, clearly not too interested... But that's gonna change. Right now.
 

"Now here, it's real... mean." That makes him pause, shoe in hand.

"Where're your smokes, dude? They in the other room?"

He looks up - as I reef on the door, shutting him in. Slam!

"See? Now that was... sorta mean." He watches the blocker-bar drift up. "But not as mean as this." I shove the bar in place, hard, and snap the padlock through the end. The cage is latched nice and tight, and he walked himself right into it!
 

He's up, pulling and pushing. The bar is thick and doesn't move. "C'mon -"

"Mean."

Frantically, he zooms to the window, yanks the drapes back -

Jaw dropping. He starts to rattle the half-inch steel bars, looking past 'em to the empty field beyond the window, the darkness -

"More mean!"

I make the closet door creak menacingly. He jumps... "And in here... well, there's mean shit like you never even thought of." Oh, good - slowly backing away, then flailing at the door again, hollering.

Soft, thick rope floats out of the darkness of the closet. Can't wait to see it on him.

When I've looped it around his right wrist, he freezes. "No -"

Backward, turned away from the door... he fights hard as I drag him to the bed. Lunging, yelling, but he can't stop me.

Smoothly tying him down, one limb at a time.
 

"Even meaner. Am I right? Check it out for yourself. Take your time. You'll see... This just makes it real fuckin' mean, huh?" He's in a frenzy now.

I rip off his shirt. "Buck naked, tied down good and tight... It'd be damn mean to shred your clothes." I bring over a fishing knife and click it open. The serrated teeth really make a mess out of his jeans, his underwear... Gonna leave the last shoe and socks for later.

He eventually gives it up, chest heaving, eyes wild. So I stroll on over with a big ol' ashtray, and just setting it down next to him gets him squirmin' away. "Yup. Mean, when you're talkin' about a guy who really likes to smoke, could be cuttin' him off cold turkey. Leave a couple packs right close by, maybe get a good thick haze so he can smell it. And watch him sweat." He's making a noise somewhere between a growl and a whimper. "Of course, you could go the other way, get him up to, oh, four or five packs a day, good ol' Camel shortys... or cigars, big fat ones - but weren't you buyin' Reds earlier tonight? 'Boros, huh?"

"Oh no, shit no, pl-"

"Can do. No problem." I bring him a carton, drifting up slowly.

He watches it open, and then his first pack. Not making a sound. I get his Zippo. Light him up!

"There ya be. Think about smokin' another pack or two, or three, tonight. While you're at it, think about how seriously mean it could get in a room like this, way far away from anybody who could get nosy, and all the time in the world..."

I let him mull that over for a half-dozen 'Boros.
 

He tracks my sports bottle as it ambles over. "Gettin' thirsty? It'd be mean to bring water over and not let ya drink it." He swallows hard, and - dry. Primo dude. "Sometimes, what looks like a favor is just a setup for bigger meanness down the line. Like, maybe... givin' a guy a smoke. Right?" I bring the bottle closer, and snuff his ciggy. "You can put shit in the water, make it taste like crap. Mind-fucks. I usually just load it up with dex or caffeine, keep ya speedin' all night. Up for anything..."

He turns his head away, so I put the squeeze-tube right under his chin.
 

Three, four minutes of serious thought. And he's drinkin'. Maybe a cup... Enough to keep him bright-eyed for a good twelve hours. There's a shitload of dex here. I'm takin' no chances.

When he's smokin' again, apprehensive but all calmed down, I start talking quietly. More about - what else? - mean and meaner. I read him his name and address off his driver's license, and that gets him whining... Next cigarette, he hears about all the food I've laid in for him. Gin, bourbon, weed. As another 'Boro slides out of the pack, he gets the lowdown on cuffs and straps, putting them to use after the ridiculous idea of snapping the rope has been long abandoned.

The Zippo clanks shut again. "Even a simple thing can be totally mean. I'll show ya."

Movement, from the closet... He cocks his head, squinting -

"Here." Gloves. Black leather, all filled out, cruising toward his hands. "Let's see how they look on ya." He's having no part of this. Funny, considering all I've been saying lately. I just leave 'em in position, ready to go, and within a few minutes his fingers unclench...

Before two more 'Boros are smoked up, he's wearin' calfskin. Ready to ride.

"Yeah. You got your gloves now. Get a load of mine."

At last. I start with six, entering the room two by two. Posing way over his chest.
 

He exhales smoke. Eyes darting from one to another. Puzzled, counting 'em. Studying -

"It'd be too mean to say how many of these gloves there are in that closet, or to point out that I can definitely put 'em all to use at once -

"You're not -"

Comprehension! "You got leather, I got latex... and cotton. And these. Lots of firm, black, shiny hands of... satin. Waterproofed 'em myself. Didn't hurt 'em a bit. Still the slipperiest thing goin'."

"Oh no oh SHIT nooooo no-"

"Thick... and durable. Real, real soft."

"You can't DO this to me, I can't sta-"

I bring one pair down, ever so slowly, to his ribs.
 

He babbles, lurching hard and not making any progress. Mindless panic. He can't help it. It's as automatic as his bigass howls will be in about thirty seconds... And all those earnestly sincere roars I'll be milking out of him all week, and next week even.

Stricken, he stares at another pair coming to his armpits.

And two dropping straight to his belly.

"Ain't they perfect?" I take the glove closest to him and rub its thumb and forefinger together, and curl the others a little, ready to mold 'em over his curves.

"This is a dream," he blurts out. Almost a plea.

"Naw. The mean truth is i-"

"A dream! There's no way you coulda known how t-" And he shuts right up. Priceless.

"How... what?" I have a glove take his 'Boro and punch it out. "There. Now, what were you saying?"

His lips move just a little, but no sound comes out.

"Can't hear ya." I keep badgering him, and he keeps trying to twist and shift. Hypnotized by my glove, a wide black palm and long black fingers about nine inches away from massaging his left tit. He's too quiet...

So I have that glove make a slow, tight fist.

"Ti- uh, I -"

"Beg pardon?" I lower the fist an inch.

"Ticklish," he hisses.

I give it a couple seconds, work up my best monumental innocence, and go: "You are?" The glove relaxes to a wide buffing position. He gulps! "My very favorite mean thing to do! My field of expertise!"

He loses it! "Naaaw, oh naaaaawww waaaaaaay..."
 

"Shit, I'm an old hand at this! Seriously! Found a real remote house, with a garage for keepin' cars and trucks hidden away... bootlegged a power hookup, bars and locks, a shithead of grub and smokes and toys, this here bed - and I made up a whole lotta gloves like these. All that work, just so I could go out and get hold of a wild man such as yourself... locked in here, stripped and staked out. Good and snug. A-"

"Don't, oh fuck don't tick-"

I snort cheerfully. "Naw. Ticklin's for kids, and women. With a gym rat who's stayin' put, it needs a different name." He doesn't even breathe. "We're talkin' the difference between, say, a Miller Lite... and tequila. Motorbike versus a badass Softail Classic, bro. Takes serious fuckin' stamina. Whole lotta smoke breaks, lotsa skin cream, food. Water. Nuke 'em all night, into the morning, let 'em sleep hard... go at 'em again, and again, a-"

"No. You can't t- You wouldn't, aw no-" Staring at the satin, pulling like a mad dog... Nuthin' doin', ya squeamish maniac.

My gloves make contact! His sentence trails off into a frantic squeak.

"Meanest of all," I tell him carefully, "has got to be keepin' 'em totally apeshit. Day after day."

And we're off.

To see other adventures of this TM, check out Runner and Friday Night.

22nov98