Fuckin' A.J. He's got a million of 'em. "Gimme two..."
Tap chuckles again, loping across the dark, rainy lot. That last joke of A.J.'s... Man, he knows how to tell 'em. They were roaring as they shoved the door open, so rowdy that a couple of older bikers had paused to watch 'em pass, then nodded and grinned when they recognized A.J. What a fuckin' clown.
He unclipped his keys when he came up to the ol' rustbucket. It was a good truck, but the sky was supposed to be clear tomorrow - today, that is - and he was more than ready to blow the carbon out of the ten-overs he'd just reassembled.
Peep - Tap looks up, seeing A.J. flash by in his old lady's Escort. Odd combination, the little cage straining to rev harder... and A.J.'s leer and middle-finger salute.
Grinning again, Tap flips him off in return and opens the door. No point in locking this beast. He parks his cig between his lips and tugs on it, slides in and grabs the door handle -
Wha? It swings in a few inches and stops cold. Like it hit something.
Kicking out smoke, Tap leans over to check - and sees something white flit behind his boots. One beer too many, he decides. Anyway, the door was moving now. He reefs on it - slam. There.
Chikchik.
He hasn't put the key in yet. Wrong sound, anyway. Familiar... what is that? Kind of a ratchet? Nah, not a tool. What -
His right hand raises up a little - and a handcuff flops around the steering wheel. Chikchikchik.
He backs up reflexively, but his arm stops - and he sees the other cuff pressing down on his leather jacket, mid-forearm. Cuffed to the-
"What the fuck?" Tap stammers.
More movement, something white down by h-
Pressure on his gut. A burrowing, under his jacket. That makes him jump. Jump real big. He slaps his left hand on it -
There are... hands grabbing his arm, wrestling it to his side. Unbelievable.
Worse, the thing in his jacket starts to move again. He pulls his right arm back as hard as he can - and more invisible hands slam down over his shoulders.
A loud guttural bark escapes from his mouth. In there, between his leather and his shirt - it feels like a hand. Roaming all over, digging and rubbing...
Tickling him?!
"Get the fuh-huh-huh-hawhawhawhawhawww -"
Zoom - slap. A hand covers up his eyes. Leather glove...
His head thuds against the back window. One pushes up on his chin, tilting it back with the Camel still in there, and holding on. Definitely smooth, slippery - not a biker's glove. No arms are anywhere near him, but there are gloves. Huh. Anybody who'd have the balls to jump him would have to be scoot-
Fingers, creeping over his left side now.
He's all fight, huffing smoke through his nostrils, snickering it out - and real pissed to be forced to be laughin', and like this... Some fucker's dead, he'll be roadkill when -
Wait. Nobody knows about him. His weird weakness. He's sure of that. He sucks in smoke without meaning to, and the fingers scrabble more heavily in his lower armpit. And he squeals, unable to shake the gloves that got him, really needing to roar now and they keep his mouth shut. It's bad, this need...
Sting - poke in the neck. He tries to flop again, feeling the needle move. And then it's gone. A mickey, probably. Knockout. When he finds out who found out, and yet he knows it couldn't be anybody because he kept it a damn secret.
His neck muscles are relaxing... without his permission. Dizzy.
What the hell...
"Good level?"
"Yup. Check check check check down maybe two check check. Check. That should work."
A radio... or something. Right ear, really close. Tap tries to move, and can't.
"Everybody ready? His breathing's changing."
"'bout fuckin' time. Alright, let's make it magic. Long pan in, two circle the bed, one just gimme a slow zoom. Ready with the gear, I hope."
"Thassa check."
"Yeah, he's coming around. Howyadoin, there, wild man?"
Struggling to... open his eyes. There.
Tap sees light, and a round thing. Two of 'em, on boxes.
Cameras.
"Biker... real glad to have ya on board. Bag did real good - you've got the look. Whoa. Hot shit. I know you're all psyched up, so you just follow yer gut. We got you. Makin' it real."
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. There's a clipboard, too, past the cameras.
And nobody holding anything. Cameras, clipboard... just sitting in mid-air. What's he doing here -
"Curled up like that, he ain't so tough. Kinda cute -"
"Gang? No more chatter 'til I say so. He's method, so let him do his work." Tap doesn't understand anything the voices are saying. He shakes his head - whoa.
The needle. His truck, getting bushwhacked -
He goes to sit, and can't. Wobbling around, old dusty pillow, stained mattress.
Jingle. Above him. No, beyond his head. A black circle is rising. Circle on a chain. One camera moves...
The circle splits. It's thick...
Tap watches it come down slowly. He tries to push himself up on his hands, but can't hold it yet. The
ring is dragging a thick, shiny chain.
He rolls over slowly, not aware he was meaning to. No one around, though, to push him-
His right arm slides out. He squints at it - no, it's floating. A couple inches off the bed, a camera tracking it carefully -
To the black ring... which yawns and takes his hand. No, that's not right. It's down around his wrist, closing snug. Buckling.
Mystified, he stares at his hand. What's -
Jingling, from the other side. Another cuff. That's what those are, they're cuffs.
His left hand goes up, apparently all by itself. Tap watches it, fighting a huge yawn. Leather, heavy...
As the cowhide tightens, he vaguely realizes what it's for.
It's already being buckled. Chains - he's fuckin' chained to th-
"Nuh," he grunts, trying to pull his arms free. Too loopy. And anyhow, it's too late. He looks from one cuff to the other, straining and yanking at the chains. This is bad.
They're heavy duty. Real, real bad...
"Muhffuk-"
Gotta wake up, now. He pulls for all he's worth, tries to roll over and stand up... but his arms are far enough apart and the chains must be short, 'cause he can't figure out how to end up on his feet without breaking his neck.
Throughout, the cameras are floating around -
"Hey! Wha- Who's... lemme outa these things!"
This is too much. He lays there, panting. Sweatin' pretty seriously under his jacket. Can't move the bed... can't roll over and stand up. So there must be some ot-
A glove is coming. Just entering the light, there's a black hand in mid-air, about eye-level... if he could stand up.
It would've been hard to see in the dark cab of his truck. It shines, somehow... so this one's not leather, whatever it's made of. Nobody wearin' it. No hand, no wires. It stops right near the foot of the bed.
A camera is tracking it from behind him, and another one's off to the left, pointed at his head. What the hell -
Moving as easily as a jet. Stops on a dime -
And it's empty.
Tap shifts uneasily. "Hey -"
Another one. No, dammit, there's a whole bunch of those fuckin' gloves.
Without knowing why, Tap starts to pull hard on the cuffs.
And behind them, one's carrying... chrome. It looks like handcuffs, only bigger. Huge. He's got a real bad feeling -
And the hands are targeting slowly, with a confidence and authority that makes him wanna be anywhere but here.
"Get outa here!" he yells at them. "Hey! No - I'm not into... uh..." He can't say it, what they're apparently out to do. But they gotta know that already... dopin' him, and the cuffs.
They're gonna do it anyway. Fuck. He aims a roundhouse kick at the nearest pair -
And sees 'em duck, then catch his leg... hold it up there. They're stronger than they should be, dammit. A camera glides in -
"You can't," Tap says hopefully.
Another pair glides over... starts easing off his boot.
"Dammit - NO -" He stamps at 'em furiously with his right leg. Not a good idea -
Snag. They got 'em both. He tries to buck and whip-saw 'em off.
One boot hits the floor with a faint thunk. And then the other.
His socks are peeled off, with the camera right there getting it all.
And the chrome thing moves in. There's four gloves on each leg now, steadying 'em as the manacles land -
"No! Dammit, no!"
Chackchackchackchack.
Chackchackchack.
His kicks are nuthin', now. Some of the gloves pull off, and maybe three stay on each ankle, keeping his legs out. He can bend his toes some. That's about it.
Tap makes fists and flops as hard as he can, shaking the bed. He can tough out a lot of things, but...
This has gotta be a nightmare. No other explanation -
Touch.
One finger, rubbing his left heel. More real than any dream. Fire, and yet too damn nice -
A camera swivels from his wild fists, shooting his expression.
Tap's leg jumps, and his hands clench and unclench. In less than a second, he knows he can't handle this like a man. He kicks and flops violently, shaking the bed.
But this is a bad dream. Gotta be.
The finger is cool, slippery... steadily sweeping back and forth under his scrunched-up toes. Fire, and yet too damn... nice -
He should be able to kick free. Right?
A camera swivels from his fists, and shoots the mob of gloves at his feet. Victim's-eye view. One magic glove's pulling chain over the middle of the fuckin' ankle-cuffs to pin 'em down. The other camera's in tight on his feet -
Where another glove's spreading out its index finger dramatically. And it starts to play on his right sole.
Tap laughs. Fuck. But he's gotta.
The fingers zig-zag and swipe, over and over. Two fingers. All these gloves in here -
And him with his fuckin' arms and legs caught, cuffed down.
He throws his head around, making his last attempts to kick 'em... and he brays like a fuckin' donkey.
On and on it goes.
Bellowing laughs, hooting hard, whooping like he's having a real great time. Roars, cackles, howls. Getting loose ain't gonna happen. The moving fingers blot out everything else. When he can manage it, he moves his toes, tries to flop around...
More. It's increasing, down there. The feel -
He squints, eyes blurring with tears. Still a dark crowd above his legs. Some are moving -
Soft, slippery grips around his heels, more fingers sliding on the sides of both feet, and all over the bottoms.
There's a camera pointed at his face.
Tap snorts... and bays like a wolf.
30may98