It's an average jobsite. Nothing unusual, just some tract homes going up on a new cul-de-sac. Maybe a dozen carpenters working on two or three units.
But not far up the hill, there's a vacant house. Small, needing a lot of work. Isolated... convenient.
And the weekend is coming. All those hours.
Time for a simple kind of... amusement. A mystery, an adventure. Uncomplicated, original. Intense.
The workmen are inspiring. All that raw potential to be tapped. Developed.
The target has to be ready and able. Healthy, for the coming weekend... and available. One who can disappear for a couple days without being missed.
That rules out those with wedding rings, and three men not in excellent health. Three prospects left.
In one of their unlocked trucks, a small disposable diaper is found. The other two are studied, observed...
At the end of the workday, one of them mentions a weekend trip with his woman, and being expected to go right home to her now. He's eliminated.
The remaining possibility is followed to a liquor store, and then to a rented duplex. Two other roommates, one intermittently living at his girlfriends'.
Disappearing for days at a time is almost expected here.
Supplies are collected and taken to the house, and hardware is installed in a bedroom floor.
The next day is Friday.
The prospect appears to be slightly hung over when he arrives. Gruff, efficient... quiet. This should prove to be quite a contrast to twelve hours from now.
At the end of the shift, the beer and the weed are brought back out. The target empties a couple bottles, then has one more for the road. He lights a cigarette, makes a parting remark to the stragglers still throwing their tools together - and gets behind the wheel...
He drives around the little bend in the road, conveniently out of view -
And a skillful chop lands. He slumps over.
At the stop sign, his truck turns left instead of right.
When he comes to, he's laid out on the bed... staining the new sheet with sweat and grime.
Layers of rope secure his ankles, and his wrists, counter-tied through large eye bolts in the floor. His heels hang off the edge of the mattress.
The muddy laces of his work boots... stand up. As the knots release he notices the motion, blinks and tries to focus. "Hey," he says uncertainly.
The sides of his left boot are being pulled away from each other. He tries to sit up - and can't. Glancing at his left hand, tethered up high, his limbs tense. He tries to turn his foot. It barely moves...
But the boot slips off his heel. It falls to the floor -
"Hey! Knock it off!" he says, looking at his dirty sock.
The flaps on his right boot are pulled to one side, then the other. Pressure tightens near the heel, pulling it away. He springs forward again, but stays down. He looks angry -
And as he looks at his hand again, his expression changes completely. Confusion... then amazement.
His right boot coming off gets him to look down again. He tries to lunge, rock back, scoot to the side. Gaping at one wrist, then the other.
Looking at his tied wrists, trying to lunge up. Or to the side. "What the... hell... is this?"
Something invisible hooks the cuff of his left sock, by his heel, pulling it out a little. That gets his attention. Sliding down to the ball of his foot - lower -
dragging under the curve of his heel. And up -
"Stop! Stop it right now! Dammit!"
The material is piling up... getting pushed over his toes. The cuff of the sock follows. Smooth, unhurried. Over and off. Moist, filthy, wadded-up.
Pulling both hands down toward his head, groaning with the effort and gritting his teeth, he watches the sock fall.
Now his right sock begins to peel off. He gets mad again. "No. Uh, freeze! Wha - Hey! Help! Haaalllllpp!"
Down it goes, over his heel... back up, and off. The sock springs free, and is discarded. No socks on him, no work boots. He won't be wearing 'em while he's here.
Snapping and flailing, yelling for help, he can't seem to get free. So his struggles get more and more violent. Flopping, pumping his legs, throwing his torso from side to side... And his feet stay where they are, held by the rope that disappears from his view, pulling down the edge of the mattress.
An impressive effort to get loose. Completely unsuccessful. Too much rope, thick nylon, just not budging. Too snug, too taut. He's sweating again, cussing and yelling for help as loud as he can. There are no buildings anywhere near this weathered house. His truck is parked behind it, where it can't be seen from the narrow road below.
He's going to stay tied down.
Now, he'll find out why...
A yard or two beyond the bed, a pair of shapes rise up -
Ah. He sees them. Stops tugging and yelling, and his eyes get wider yet. Mouth hanging open.
White, shiny gloves, floating in. Fingers moving slightly, getting ready...
On a path that ends at his feet. Bare, tied feet.
He flops again, a massive arch and twist. "No-oooooo..." A last agonized glance at the rope trapping his left wrist, as he jerks his arm down, then out.
And he looks down. Big, solid fingers zeroing in. Eighteen inches away - twelve - six. "No!," he screams again, and takes a big breath. Perhaps the loudest yell yet: "Haaaaallllllll -" Cut off, suddenly.
The fingers are... skating. On him. Right on the most tender part of his feet.
"No whoaohhohowhoahohoe," he says to the gloves.
They continue rubbing gently - even though he keeps protesting, and keeps doing everything he can think of to break free.
But he can't.
The soft fingers keep roaming, stroking, riding the wrinkles and curves.
He shakes his head... slowly, then frantically. Still kicking. But the fingers aren't thrown off. They're not going anywhere. And they keep rubbing.
"Whuhhuhhuhahwhoahoohoohoowhoohoo..." He pulls with his arms again, with an incredible expression on his face, as if this just can't be happening, this is not his deal.
The satin doesn't stop. Sliding gently, up and down, across.
"Naaauuugh uhahhahhhahhellaahahhahh-heeellllllppahahhahhahohwhahhoohoonooowhooooo..."
He pounds his head on the mattress a few times, and squints at the ceiling, shaking his head. Making fists, trying to fold his toes... laughing and laughing.
After another minute, the gloves suddenly clamp on to the inside of each foot - fingers pressing into his soles - and race up and down, squeezing a little as they do. Tight, heavy, real fast -
He throws his head back. "Naaaawhaaaaaaawowoooooo hooooohooooohooooeeeee heeeeeeewhooooo..." Howling, eyes slammed shut, unable to move.
They drill him for thirty endless seconds... and then resume the lighter strokes. Eventually, he winds back down to the soulful hooting. And he peeks, blinking furiously 'cause his eyes are watering.
Trying to watch 'em. Now he knows they can really kick his ass. And they're willing to do it.
Plus, they can do it as much as they want.
He pulls and kicks weakly. Sure to realize, sooner or later, they can fuck with his belly too. And his ribs, and pits. He's stuck and no one's gonna hear... even if they drill him all night.
They keep him braying, and squealing, and chortling real hard.
An hour later, the gloves are still fingering his arches. He's still yelping and chuckling his guts out.
It's ten minutes to eight on a warm Friday night.
His laughter sounds mournful, heartfelt - and giddy. Sweat is pooling around him, and his t-shirt is soaked through. The hands slow down, removing one finger at a time. Finally there's just an index finger wiggling on each of his soles, and their movement ends.
He chuckles for a while and then just lays there, chest heaving. After a minute, blinking furiously, he looks down at his feet.
The gloves lift off and rise, index fingers pointing.
"Unh," he grunts, sounding relieved. Closing his eyes, he pants for a few more minutes. Then his fingers begin to move, and his feet. Slowly he starts tugging again, twisting in the ropes. Looking at the ceiling now, pushing out, trying to scoot down and get some slack.
Something appears from alongside the bed. Coming up...
He sees it, and stares. Recognizing it. Hell, he bought some last night, but didn't open it. Perhaps waiting for the weekend. A regular activity, to gauge from the assortment on top of his refrigerator...
No reason tonight should be any different.
It's a pint of whiskey, hanging in the air above his chest.
But he shakes his head slowly. "No, c'mon, just... don't. Don't do this to me -"
The cap twists, breaking the seal.
"You're crazy. I can't, this is killin' me already, not gonna happen. No. I'm not gettin' drunk, here, so you can t-...," he says, raspy voice trailing off.
The gloves move. His eyes get bigger, and his arms start to pull again.
The left-foot tickler points at the bottle... and then slowly points at his foot. Moving that extended index finger a couple inches closer -
"Fuck! No! Don't - aw, shit," he croaks, looking from glove to bottle. Both gloves are about to touch him again! "No fuck no no alright! Alright. Just don't..."
As the bottle comes to his mouth he mutters, "Gonna happen anyway, isn't it? Drunk, gettin' fucked with. No choice here."
The pint sets down on his lip and tilts slowly. Pouring, with long pauses for him to breathe between gulps. After two slugs he tries to turn his head - but the bottle immediately quits pouring and presses down harder, clicking on his teeth. He makes an angry sighing sound... and after a few seconds, the bottle tilts again.
When it pulls off, about a third of the whiskey is gone. "Shitfaced," he says, watching it leave. "I'm gonna be... And then - unless I get the fuck outa here, right now." So he pulls diligently, burping now and then.
When his coordination starts to fall apart, the gloves saunter off, down below the foot-end of the bed.
A bottle of water drifts up to him...
Ten minutes later, he looks around. His head wobbles loosely. Drunkenly.
He's more relaxed than ever... and less inhibited. It's a whole new game.
And they're coming back.
He notices the motion, and squints at 'em, struggling to watch. "Naawwwwwww sheeeee-iiiit..."
But the gloves don't stop. Past his feet - floating... floating... separating... lowering...
To his sides, halfway between his armpits and his ribs. Cool, full -
"Aw noh hoh hoh hah aaah hoh," he laughs.
31jan01