Shon's amazed. He keeps rubbing my bicep.
That was one of the longest days of my life. Another one of 'em...
Tor let me sleep in. I stumbled to the kitchen, and there's D, already eating. But he's all sweaty. Stuntman-eyes. He's been up for a while, getting fingered.
I was so hungry, I just plowed through whatever they set in front of me. Shon waited until I leaned back and lit a smoke... And then he came around the table.
"Can I... uh..." He's looking at my arm as if was made out of toaster bagels. I frown at him, but he doesn't see it. Lift my arm a little.
He whistles, and starts pressing down on my skin. It wasn't until then that I really looked.
Naked, I think. First thing. Of course, we're only wearing our loincloths. And the fuckin' moccasins. But damn...
My body is a big blank. Everywhere. Except for the blurry words on my right forearm. That hasn't been my only tattoo since I was seventeen.
"You look... younger," Shon says, locking eyes with me.
I picture myself slugging him right in the mouth. Debate it, enjoy the possibility... and bust out laughing.
"Fuck you."
He laughs, too - and groans. Like laughing hurts. Don't I know that one.
We do it anyway, and end up coughing. But so what. Sometimes the ridiculousness of it all just hits home. Feeling underdressed, without my tats... Shit.
And knowing Tor's real eager to start slinging ink again.
"So how come," Shon says, wiping his eyes, "the guy on the tape wasn't yelling about the itch?"
I stare at him. "You must've been worked over real hard this morning. or else you're even stupider than I thought."
"Both," he said. "What's my name, again?"
"Buck," I shoot back. "Okay. Listen real close. The guy on the tape didn't even move, did he? We had to watch close just to make sure he was still breathing. He was drugged, pretty-boy."
Finally, he nods. "It looked grim."
I take a long drag. "Uh-huh. But Tor loved it. Didn't ya?"
"Oh baby," Tor says, punching me on the shoulder.
"Hey. You got any more of that bread?" I shoot back. "I'm still hungry."
- - 9 - -
Tor lights my cigarette, and hustles me out of the shop. To the clearing. My arms are held tight against my back. I stink... but I'm not looking forward to getting scrubbed down. Not the way Tor likes to do it.
Well away from the firepit, it turns me around. The sun has just set. I don't see any sign of D.
It chops behind my knees, and drags me down in the grass. My arms are pulled up smoothly, held out as if I was spread-eagled on a bed... and slammed down. There.
My legs are pulled straight out. And it lifts my feet. Pushes in a little, so I bend my knees -
And they freeze. My legs. It almost feels like they're trapped in stone. Instant concrete or something, around most of my shins. I can't see it, but the result is the same. Invincible -
Tor starts taking my moccasins off.
I twist in the grass, with my arms not even breaking contact.
A few gloves float up from behind. Most fall on the grass. But one pair starts in. Oh, fuck, I hate satin. Hate it...
Tor has a good ol' time with my right foot. Sometimes I laugh. If it wants me to, it tells me... in the way it's tickling me. Since we got here, it's learned a lot.
The fingers do amazing things to my heel. I work my way up to a low howl, and scale it back down to raspy giggling. The fingers don't stop. Tor knows exactly how to produce the sound it wants to hear. Or no sound...
After a while, I quit laughing. The sensation hasn't diminished at all - not at all - but I get a cigarette. And I smoke hard. Smoking is what us rabbits do. That tells us there's more tickling on the way. Always more.
My left foot gets it...
Next thing I know, it's dark. The tickling has been continuous.
The fingers move back to my right sole... pause... and go back to my left foot instead. On a whim. I used to think it was changing things up just to keep me off-balance. The explanation is simpler than that. Sometimes it just likes to be spontaneous.
The gloves go away - and then they grip under my knees.
And I laugh it up. For a while. Oh, man, I let it know. This is too much.
Nothing changes.
For a long time, it focuses on one knee, then the other. Then, both. No rush.
I suck in on a Camel I didn't know was there, and take a little peek. The bonfire's started. Shon's on his rack. From here, it looks like he's twitching...
Cuffs wrap tightly around my wrists. I see a stake being positioned. The hammer makes it clank, over and over.
I can lift my left arm a little, but the wrist is stuck tight.
Tor gets me another cigarette, and anchors my right wrist. My smoke hangs over me while I drink, oh, maybe a liter of water. Then it's returned to me.
The fucker leaves me alone for a minute. Lets me think about it.
And I wait for it, looking at all the stars. Vaguely wondering where it'll tickle me now. A long drag, which helps a lot. One more -
I look toward my feet.
Six gloves are hanging around. Over my legs. Hmmmm. Feet, knees... Sides. Where to tickle me next...
I close my eyes.
The fingers start above my knees, and work their way up.
Getting my tats "itched" right off me is a perfect excuse for obsessively consistent moisturizing. I think my skin's lighter than it was, but Tor says I'm on drugs. Which I am... They're feeding us all kinds of weird shit, along with the venison and ducks, wild pigs, strange-tasting fish. Some other bird, an ibis, which isn't too bad. And usually there's the bitter taste of one root or another - in the water, or stirred in with the fruit.
Joints keep getting stuck in my mouth, too.
In the shop, Tor's busy working on new designs. Strap me down, light a joint, and get out a sketch pad. Careful sketching. Sometimes it gets so proud of an idea that it lets me see.
And one of these ends up tacked over the workbench. A back-piece, replacing all the shit that used to be across my shoulder blades and the tribal feather and claw pattern that ended at my beltline. Tor likes this new concept so much - or it likes the way I'm affected by it, which is the same thing - that it hung the sketch right in my eyeline...
It's a rabbit. Skinny, big ears, big feet. Okay, then. It's a hare. Field hare.
In a cage.
A black leather glove holds the rabbit-ears up, by the tips. Another one is curled around a hind paw. Rubbing its thumb on the foot-pads. Obviously, the gloves are empty.
Black straps keep the rabbit pinned on its back. That's so the feathers can tickle it. I suppose there's no real doubt it's a male-rabbit. Or who it represents.
The feathers are poking into the rabbit's long ears. Very sensitive there, I bet. Points and the quill-ends of other feathers are sunk into the fur under its front legs, and on its belly, and between its hind-legs. The back paw that isn't being rubbed by the glove has a feather sawing across the pads.
The rabbit's fur is matted down. Wet. Not from the water-bottle that looks like it's out of reach... It's perspiring. Its mouth and eyes are open a little. It looks like it's stoned, to me. There's a large pile of rabbit shit pushed against the side of the cage, which struck me as a weird detail until I figured it out. What helped me was the padlock on the end of the cage, past the hare's feet. There are weeds growing into the cage, and back out of the wire mesh. Grass hides the bottom of the cage wall, and there's grass under the rabbit, so the cage has no bottom. Sunk into the ground...
All those rabbit turds, and the weeds growing through the hasp of the padlock - plus some different plants by its head, which must be the remains of its food - it all says the hare's been in that cage for a hell of a long time.
Through the cage, there's nothing to see but the open field around it.
See, this drawing actually pissed me off at first. What kind of sadistic fucker would invent a trap like that, for a poor little innocent rabbit? Lured in, or dragged in - the padlock clicking, then the perverse little restraints holding down its paws. The gloves, and the feathers, never resting. Held there - and I don't even know if rabbits are fuckin' ticklish or not, real rabbits, though now I have the idea that they are. Just an innocent wild animal, in a solid cage, hidden in the wilderness. Traps like that could be all over the place. Made, stocked, dropped off. Gloves go out and catch themselves a field-hare, shove it inside. Keep bringing it food and water. Nobody would know.
A sick fantasy, even for my keeper. I mean, shit. The drawing is good, I can admit that. Very realistic. Almost like a photo. It looks like a real hare - and naturally the feathers and gloves are drawn so carefully. To enjoy the thought of tormenting an animal that much...
Eventually, the meaning dawned on me. But it takes too much energy to stay angry. I mean, shit, I have tickling to deal with. That's so far beyond what I can manage to do that everything else will have to wait.
- - 10 - -
Their way of dealing with our teeth is typically bizarre.
Every third day - or maybe it's every fourth day, I'm getting fuzzy about time - Tor shovels this really digusting black crap into my mouth. Tilts my head back, and warns me not to swallow it. I only made that mistake once, and I came really close to tossing my breakfast.
It's like holding a big mouthful of thick, slimy mud, for a couple minutes, with an invisible hand keeping my lips closed. And my mouth just ached, the first few times.
But Tor doesn't budge. It never laughs, either, for what that's worth. At least three minutes, with my gums throbbing, before it would let me spit it out.
The first time, it loosened the straps right afterward, so I took off - and almost ran into Shon, who'd just had the same thing done to him. We headed for the kitchen and drank a lot of water.
But my teeth are used to it now, I guess. And they feel clean. Real solid.
Each day is way too long. They don't... blur together, I guess.
There's no set pattern. Tor does what it wants, for as long as it wants. That's the routine. If it feels like getting busy in the shop for a couple days, that's what we do. All night on the clearing - cool nights, almost too cool if I wasn't being fucked with - hey, no problem. Three nights in the hammock. Most of the day in the infirmary.
And the tub. Another thing I hate. We both hate it. Usually one bath a day. Sometimes, two - one time, I was there all night. Warm water, thick shackles. Oil. The brushes dancing on the same spot for what has to be fifteen minutes, and moving on, and repeating the circuit. It puts a collar on me sometimes, or a strap across my forehead. Holding me against the custom pillow. No way to slide down, under the water...
Sometimes the stakes are pounded in, and I lie there on the clearing. In the sun. Half an hour, and rolled over. Then, carried to my hospital bed, maybe staying there a day and a half. Another time, I was laid out on the grass, cuffed down, for at least three days. No set pattern.
I'm darker than I've ever been. We both are. Fuckin' A. They laid us out in the sun, never more than a hour at a time. They had to get a good tan on their jungle savages. Private pets. Of course, tanning is a perfect excuse to keep piling on the sunblock. Very oily. The sweat makes it run into my eyes. It tastes like beer... Tor keeps wiping my face with a towel, makes me drink more water - and pours another handful of sunblock on my chest. Its fingers move slowly, reapplying it to my forehead, my nose...
Being caught in the infirmary is all the reason they need to focus on "skin care". Creams, and more oils. Checking my reflexes - Tor's version - is a absolute nightmare. Usually it sneaks a massage in. I can't stand that. All the way down my backside, without tickling, but I lay there and just wait for el gusano, the gloves getting meaner and meaner.
In the shop, Tor comes closest to being... predictable. I get cuffed to the chair, and I chain-smoke. I feel like a pet dog or something. Kept where I can't fuck with its tools, but close by...
At first, it makes stuff on the workbench. Just straps, or something unique... maybe a vest with cuffs all along the back, and the sides open. Easy to get to. Just for me. Or really elaborate toe-restraints...
Some days it just starts taking stuff down, off the hooks, and cleaning. Oiling 'em up. So carefully. Or a feather duster makes a big production of swiping the chaps, the ball-spreaders... I sit there and smoke, maybe eating a few nuts now and then. Plenty of water, a few shots of JD. Pissing on my legs, but that's ignored for now. And it takes its sweet time, rubbing the gear...
Maybe it starts to set up the padded rack. Or it'll haul that out later. But at some point it pauses. I hear mean little chuckles. And then the saddle soap floats over me, or the mink oil, plain ol' petroleum jelly... Maybe a rubber, or a ball-gag.
All of its work on new leather shit is ignored. It polishes me instead. All afternoon. Or all night. Two days and two nights...
When my limbs are just too fatigued to twitch, it usually gets out the tat gun.
Yeah, I spend a lot of time in the shop.
Shon lives in the dorm, mostly. The hammock. Or the futons. Lots of oil, of course. Cock play. I guess if there was a dominant theme, in there, it would be our meat. Which is not to say the tickling doesn't come first...
The racks, usually out at the firepit, are almost always used at night. We're at an angle, most often. Groaning at the trees and the stars. More hands and feathers than I can count.
When I think of the racks, I usually think of amphetamines. I don't think I ejaculate much when I'm there. I mean, not compared to the dorm. That's for sure.
I'm catching my breath. Tor has me start a smoke... and it takes off the cuffs.
"Levóntese."
"Huh?"
"Get up. Now. And go find Buck." Moccasins fly over and get tugged on my feet, locks clicking...
This is odd. Is something wr-
Go.
I don't even get my question out before the command echoes in my head, not audible.
"Okay." Leaning against the rack... It takes me a few seconds to get my legs to work right.
"You can walk okay? Right?"
"Right," I sigh.
It's not dark enough yet for the fireside tickling. Something's up...
He's in the infirmary. No lights on. Sitting on the side of the bed. Used rubber gloves are all over the floor.
"Deck," he says, looking up. "Hey." There's something... real vague about the way he sounds.
"Shon." I sit down next to him.
He takes a fierce drag. "I am having... the weirdest dream."
Trying to figure out what to say to that, I let a sigh slip out -
"Dammit. Wrong answer.... Fuckhead." He pitches his voice lower, imitating me. "What - a weird dream, D? The fuck you say. Like a nightmare? Good thing it's only a dream..."
"All dreams end - eventually."
He sighs then, and thinks for a second. "How can this be happening?"
"Beats the fuck outa me."
"Huh."
I get my hand on his shoulder. "This isn't going to last forever."
D laughs once. A bitter, humorless laugh. Well, you're the one who likes it, I think to myself. The reason I'm here - But right away, I'm ashamed of thinking it. I take a real deep breath... He didn't choose to like it, never asked for this.
Then I make myself say something. Anything - "It's gonna end sometime. If you don't want to stay here - we won't. I won't even try to guess how much longer this'll go on, Doran. But we're not licked yet."
He mumbles a word.
I look at him more closely. "Say again?"
"Tomorrow."
What the hell -
"That's tomorrow's main event," he says. "Licking. Invisible tongues..."
Then he shoots me a look - and laughs. A fairly disturbing laugh.
"Al-right," I say slowly. "We're not beaten yet." And I wait for it.
"Next week."
I make a face, and he laughs at me. But it's a much better laugh, sounding more like his old self.
"You are one sick piece of shit..."
And this time, I get the goofy old cackle he's known for. So I pop him on the arm, and he punches me back -
"Rab-bits," Tor says quietly. We freeze. "C'mon. Kick back by the fire."
We look at each other. His eyes are big. Mine probably are, too.
"S'mores?," I say, going for the weirdest thing I could think of.
He leans a little closer. "S'mores?" All I can do is grin, and shrug. "Did you really say that - s'mores? You're more twisted than I am."
I look at him, and stick my hand up. Straight up.
He puts his hand up against mine.
Then I find his moccasins, he puts 'em on, and we walk out to the racks.
- - 11 - -
I spending more time laying on the clearing than Shon does. Field-Hare, that's me. Sure.
The grass is... alive.
Tor pins me, with or without restraints. Sometimes it tickles me for awhile, and pulls off. Has me smoke... waiting -
Fingers touch my ribs. Barely making contact. If I don't squirm, I barely notice 'em.
Until they start to move - or multiply. More and more of them, laying against my hips, my armpits. I start to panic, at some point. But I'm always held down tight.
On my heels, inside my thighs, under my knees. Arms. Neck. Too big for fingers, but I can't see anything. Just laying in the grass, with... wider strips snuggling up to me.
Wind or no wind, the same thing always happens. The grass starts tickling me. The slightest movement, on dozens of spots at once. It just drives me nuts.
There's no getting away from them. Surrounded, anchored in the grass, while Tor's fingers rub harder, make room for more. Sliding up my nut-sac, and my arches. More and more aggressive, and lunging around doesn't help me at all because they're everywhere. I keep picturing blades of grass tickling me - thoughts planted by Tor - even though I know better. Everything about this is maddening, and the tickling gets fierce after I'm too worn out to tense up anymore.
Over time, I catch myself thinking it is the grass doing it. All these hours of watching Tor fuck with me, and now it's nature's turn. The soft, fat "stalks" reach higher up my feet, and curl over my shoulders, and make it to the base of my cock. And it goes on for hours.
Shon hears me out, and thinks for a few seconds.
He's had it done to him - the magic-tickling-grass bit - but it doesn't fuck with his head as hard. "Did you used to... go camping, or something?," he says. I shoot him a look, until he rolls his eyes. "No. Not you. Chollo. Stupid question. More like the opposite -" And he snaps his fingers. "That's it."
"What's it?"
"You're bugged so much 'cause you're basically afraid of the great outdoors."
"Well. I wouldn't say... afraid."
He laughs out loud, then. "Of course you wouldn't. Not Deck. You got stones, buddy. Me, I'm just the talent, we're all pussies."
"You're making less sense than usual," I warn him.
"Like hell I am. It just clicked, all of a sudden. The opposite thing works on me. It's like Vex is gonna... luxury me to death. And I get seriously creeped out with all these fuckin' thoughts of health spa shit, playing with me and way too happy to do it. Gettin' pampered until I smother from it. Extravagant bullshit -"
"You've lost it," I shoot back. But then I start thinking about it. Despite the business we're in and all the money, Shon is still a blue-collar guy. He's happier when he gets away from all the personal care professionals.
And I'm more at home in Montebello than I am in the woods. "Huh."
"Personalized head-games," he says, nodding.
"But... I'm the field-hare. Right?"
He grins at me. "You will be. Before they get through."
"Aw, fuck..."
The rain comes down. Brief storms, at first... then more water, and stronger winds that whistle through the cells. Full days and nights spent in one place, with my meals brought in to me.
All this time to kill. Indoor games. New ones. And they're grueling.
In the shop, it wastes no time getting me strapped me down to the rack. Then Tor putters around for a long time, cutting leather, polishing it until it gleams.
Eventually the oil bottle floats over to me, tilting slowly...
The big moment. Two leather gloves ready to grab my sides. I see at least two more, somewhere by my feet -
"Liebre," it says. "Hombre. Give me one reason not to tickle the fuck out of you, until morning."
I've been waiting for that question for a long time. Given it a lot of thought, and rehearsed exactly what I was going to say - if it ever asked. The perfect answer...
Except I can't remember the words. Suddenly. Suspiciously enough, I'm thinking of a whole different response. It's ready to come out, too. I take a long drag and hold the smoke in, mainly to keep my mouth shut.
Because you don't the first thing about real tickling. Punk-ass fraud.
That's what I'm ready to say. And I know where it's coming from. Tor's all set to have me shoot my mouth off, dig a hole nice and deep...
"Uh-huh," it says finally. "Thought so."
The gloves get busy.
I get feverish, eventually, and start to fantasize...
Wanting to be somewhere else. Fuck, yeah. Someplace safe. That worked for awhile. Dreaming of... old days. Before I met Shon. But it got harder and harder to remember it. Times when I was safe from all this.
And now the whole fantasizing thing has seriously... backfired.
I think Tor fucked it up. Now I always picture this cartoon world, sort of. Maybe like a video game. It takes me hours to slip into it... and when I do, I'm stuck there. And it's not helping. I know I was out to dream up a place where tickling doesn't exist. But instead, I get the exact opposite. Wall-to-wall tickling. And whenever I do snap out of that fantasy, I'm still here, gettin' played with.
In this fantasy world, Tor really runs the show. King, or something. Big ol' house, like a prison... thick walls around the yard. Shon's not there. Nobody else is there, that I know of. Just me.
There's a cartoon city, not too far away, but it's totally full of ticklers. I climb the wall and make a run for it, wearing my moccasins and the loincloth, and no matter where I go in this fuckin' city there are gloves, and scarves... I duck down an alley to lose a pack of brushes, find a door open - and there's a room full of feathers, leaping up to get at me. Or I try to sneak under a delivery truck, and just when I start to relax there's a trap door opening over my head, and a dozen leather hands pulling me inside. And they fuck with me for a long time, until Tor comes to get me. It's never angry or anything, but it hauls me back inside the fortress - and punishes me, el liebre desafortunado, for trying to escape. Unlucky, and estúpido...
Damn, do I hate that place. But I keep ending up back there anyway.
I call it Torland.
- - 12 - -
"Turn around," he says, at the table. So I do. "Aw. Shit."
"What now?" I say, with a sigh.
"Where's the new artwork?"
"What new artwork?"
"Well... Ain't got no caged rabbits on ya."
It takes me a couple seconds to realize what he means. The sketch over the workbench, in the shop. "Not yet."
And he laughs. I just stare at him.
"Go on," Vex says, as a couple of beers land on the table. "Firepit."
"Aye, aye," Shon giggles.
"What's so funny?" I ask him. Probably some head-game from Vex, likely as not.
"I just thought..." and he shrugs. "Y'know. You'd have it on you already. Inked."
"No thanks," I say. "You twisted fuck. You just notice it, finally? It's been hanging there for a couple months."
D nods. "When I'm in your little workshop, there, I'm facing the other way," he says. "Looking up at all those straps and toys. Comin' down to get me."
"Been there," I growl, sitting down on one of the chairs that's been carved out of a stump. "Lucky you. I get to stare at that fuckin' sketch a lot..."
"You don't like it?" he says. Sounding genuinely surprised. "I think it's hilarious. That's you, D."
I stare him down.
"Well..."
"Torturing an animal."
He nods real big.
"Nobody'll find out," I continue, spelling it out for the cover boy. "Could be cages like that all over the woods, there. Scattered around -"
"Yeah, yeah. Like the ticklers. I get it."
"And you think it's funny?"
He shrugs at me, trying not to laugh. "Well, yeah. It's better than gettin' all weirded out by it. Tor probably came up with it to fuck with you. I mean... Goin' to all that trouble, with a real rabbit? Food and water, the little restraints for its paws... just so th-"
"So it can be tortured."
He squints at me. "You're overthinking this, D."
"Can't help it."
"Irony. Remember it?"
"Yeah. Every damn day, here. I just don't like it." I get another cigarette out. "And I don't wanna fuckin' wear it."
"Like you've got a choice?," D says quietly. And then the asshole starts to grin.
That stops me. "Well..."
"Huh?"
Shit."
Whenever it's dark, they start. It feels like a hundred thin fingers, and I can't see 'em. Starting low, down by surface of the pads, or the futon. Creeping their way up.
When it starts, I have to check all around to see if I'm actually staked out in the clearing or not. But it doesn't matter anyway. Fuckin' grass, tickling me...
One game I'm really grown to hate is "inventory". Usually in the shop, but it can happen anywhere. The clipboard floats up. I start to squirm right away.
"Okay, bato," Tor says, all excited. "Where should we start today? Huh? Gotta check, make sure all of you is still here..." As if I left a foot laying around somewhere.
"Let's see. Right heel -" And leather gloves start rubbing it. Squeezing it this way and that. Even that's enough to set me off, these days. Hooting at 'em.
"Right... sole."
I have no idea why this gets to me so much, but it always does.
- - 13 - -
"You ain't no white boy, now," I tell Shon.
He nods, smirking. "Didn't know I could get this dark of a tan -"
"People pay good money to look like that."
"And you got it naturally."
"Yeeeeeah." I get another cigarette, and sigh. Actually, I feel good. My calves itch, from the newest tats. Flaming black gloves. I'd never say it out loud, but Tor has a great eye. So to speak.
We ate in the kitchen. D made a happy little noise when a pair of toaster bagels were set on his plate. A simple man, Shon is. All the tickling he can stand. It must be a dream come true for him...
Now we've adjourned to the firepit, with our coffee and our smokes. It's a rare break from the rain, but more is coming. They let us sit around and shoot the shit for awhile - just about every day now. We get too freaked out, and they shove us together... Even though we try hard to find other things to talk about, it always comes back around to this totally bizarre life, here at the palace. I mean, he's like the only one on earth who could understand what I'm going through.
A coffee pot has been over, twice, to top us off. Now this is really cool, just sitting here, passing a joint back and forth.
At some point, Tor will grab me again. No way to tell when. I give up. Trying to prepare for it, I mean. That laugh. It snickers like a fuckin' murderer or something. So fanatically happy to be starting back in. Two hours, or fifty. Brutal. Increasingly... effective. All-consuming -
But, see, dwelling on that ain't gonna change it.
"So," he says expectantly.
"So... what?"
He grins, and cocks his head past the firepit.
"Oh..."
There's a wide line of flour, maybe fifty feet from the firepit. Beyond that, logs are being piled up. A new building. Solid. Unfortunately, the work looks like it's being done right...
If we cross that line, we're going to be stuck inside that building - for a month - when it's done. Tor made it real clear. The fucker likes to chase me across the grass. Every few days, he lets go of ol' Liebre, drops all the toys. Pulls off my loincloth. And eventually, a couple fingers wiggle in my armpit. I can't see 'em... But I jump, and squawk. Then a few seconds go by, and it gooses me. Or rubs my cock. Whatever. I always end up moving, more and more, and the fingers land more and more often. It gets me so mad I yell at it, nonsense shit, as I'm sprinting around. Until I start to flag. Then it starts grabbing me. That gets more and more determined until I finally trip for the last time - and it pounces. Maybe the stakes show up. Or maybe it gets a dozen hands busy, while I float off to the tub...
Shon gets chased too. Not as often, but I hear him, sometimes, when I'm sweating in the shop. Even if they're chasing one of their hot-shit Originators around the clearing, they've made it real clear - the fuckin' bunny better not go over the white line.
"I'm thinkin', cellblock. Prisoner of Zenda -"
I make a face. "Man, D, I wish you wouldn't do that. Don't say that shit out loud."
He laughs at me. "Yeah, like that's gonna matter. We're thinkin' it anyway."
He shakes his head, and slurps at his coffee. It's really good coffee, which just irritates the crap out of me if I think about it for too long. Everything's top of the line, here. "You already know... whatever's goin' in there, it's tailor-made," he says.
"Uh-huh."
"Just for us."
I take a drag, and look at the logs. "Or... it could be, oh, more specialized than that. Buck-rabbits only."
A nice pause occurs - and then, "Fuck you!" He laughs. "Thank you very much. If that's so, the next building that goes up is gonna have your nickname on it."
I smirk at him. "Yeah. But I'm not the one who gets to do everything first."
Happy-fever oily finger place.
I try to focus on the tickling, but I just zone out anyway. The firelight fades, and Shon's grunting gets quieter and quieter...
Bright colors. Sunny day, and not a cloud in the sky. Shit. Back there again. Torland is hoppin' today.
All of the ticklers in the city are acting as if they're having some trouble keeping me caught. I get away, and get away, and run into another trap. Manacles, snaking down from a streetlight. Stocks in a dark elevator, locking shut, taking me up to the roof of a building that's ridiculously high. And somehow I keep slipping away, and something else wraps around me or blocks my path or pops out of a manhole. Eventually Tor will come, and get me out of this insane place. Back within the dark stone walls of my cell, watching black gloves drop down to my sides...
We weren't ready to believe how relaxed things are. Time seems to go by at about half-speed. That drove me crazy the first week - make that the first month - when I still thought I could figure a way to get off this... plateau. Eventually I worried about it less and less.
Once in a while, I get a new idea. Talk myself into thinking this is the idea that's gonna get us out of this playground. Tor lets me try, snatching me up when I'm about to fall down to the jagged rocks. Carrying me into the shop, where it lays into my sides for a couple days. Any excuse will do. It's like some kind of weird game we got going. I try to escape, it prevents me from hurting myself, and then I get punished for trying to get away.
But now I know. I believe it down to my toenails. We ain't gettin' out of here until they carry us out. Before, I didn't really buy that, through-and-through. I do now.
The change, in the ticklers, is real obvious. I only thought I'd felt that massive relief before - pressure rushing out of 'em, gratefully, when the door of a cell was locked. With me inside.
Their relaxation is so clear it's hard for me to totally comprehend it. It's like Vex and Tor were massively stoned, all the time. They never cut us a fuckin' break - they don't hold back at all - but the stress is completely gone.
So we couldn't help but relax ourselves. Both of us. It just sorta happened that way.
There was no way Vex could've explained it. We had to find out for ourselves. They worked their asses off - uh, so to speak - and now, they don't have a care in the world. They got us. All the fun they want. Now I know there's no need to party like a maniac if the party's not gonna end any time soon. Sure as the sun rises.
We'll be here, and then some other slobs will get their turn - and of course we're going to be back here again.
I didn't want to give in to that... mood. Satisfaction. Absolute control, calm and steady, without any concerns left. But here - living it, having it rubbed into me every day - I don't think I can help it. Shon, either.
That's what they wanted, of course. Even better for 'em this way. We're on their wavelength now. Our health is... perfect. If we run out of smokes or feather dusters or canned ham, why, they'll just fetch us some more. No problem.
That's it, in a nutshell. No worries - for the fuckers. Everything is going their way, and it's gonna keep going their way. Of course they're all calm and shit. Their plan worked out just great. Got the palace all set up, and they got their rabbits here. Long after the thrill of the chase wore off, they're still into it... fucking with us, every which way. As much as they were the first day they got hold of us.
I can't even stay frightened anymore. Or depressed. It's been weeks since I felt anything stronger than a good solid dread. Big emotions need a backdrop... Some picture of the future, I guess. And we don't have one. "When they let us go" is such an abstract fuckin' idea that it gets blown away by the contentment they've got going. So obvious...
Frustration just evaporates. It's been like that for a while.
Things are exactly the way they want 'em.
I just don't see the point in getting angry about it. Not anymore. Nothing will change.
Vex, now, it wasn't kidding. The odds of somebody finding the palace are... nonexistent. And I've seen how fast the ticklers can move. Altitude doesn't bother 'em. Nobody's gonna track 'em... following, what, the supply rafts? Down that fucked-up tributary? They could hijack a chopper and have it land anywhere. A hundred klicks away. All those invisible hands, strong as hell, they could just grab the supplies - or the new arrivals - and cart 'em on in, treetop-level, a winding course underneath the branches. Say, twice as fast as anybody could run. A fuckin' army couldn't track 'em. Oh, fuck - easier yet, just do a little invisible gremlin shit to the vehicles of anybody trying to follow. Or bag the scouts, and slap together a new dormitory. And a wild time is in store for everybody.
Shit. We thought they were totally obsessed with us, before... But that was nothing. Here, they got no distractions - and they never will.
That's what changed our attitude.
This one game is called "Or".
Usually, left or right - which side is more ticklish? How about if the fingers really speed up? And break out the oil...
Front or back is pretty excruciating, no matter how many times I go through it. Hooded or not, suspended or spread-eagled, stocks or cuffed to the chair.
Tor is always enthusiastic, though I never can see all that much fuckin' difference. Just another game to fill up a rainy day.
- - 14 - -
Shon disappeared about a week ago, but I know where he is.
Maybe it hasn't been that long. I don't know anymore. I tend to think, "a week", when it's been anything more than a couple days. Or it might work the other way too. A month. How long have we been here? The rainy season ended a while ago...
I suspect the ticklers aren't even keeping track. That's a tough one to mull over.
On to Part 4
Back to Part 1
20oct2002