Back to Part 1
Rodder woke up in yet another hotel.
His stomach muscles hurt - and his tongue ached too. Incredible sex. Sorority girls...
Breakfast came, and he ate it. No Camels showed up, though.
There wasn't a shower, so he lowered himself into the ancient-looking tub. Both faucets gave him the same smelly warm water.
The rod was hanging there, as usual. He splashed water at it, and it jumped up.
"Little shit," he mumbled. But he said it with a lot less conviction than usual. After his night with the Phi Delta... somethings, he felt less worried about what it was going to do to him next.
The rod wandered back down, closer to him than usual. He started to smirk...
It zipped up high when he splashed water again.
He thought hard about cigarettes, but none appeared. So he went outside.
Rodder was in the middle east, somewhere. He walked along a dusty street with about ten thousand other people, and turned down a narrow street. At the next intersection, he saw a few tables. He sat down at one and exhaled hard.
"Sir?" a guy said. Waiter, apparently.
"Uh, coffee."
"Very good. Will you please smoke?"
Rodder blinked. "Excuse me?"
"May I bring you some cigarettes?"
Inside, he jumped for joy. Every cell of his body wanted a cigarette - but he found he couldn't say that. He tried to nod his head, or gesture... but the rod wouldn't let him.
"I have a fine assortment of American cigarettes, which just arrived today."
Yes, he wanted to shout. Please. Now. If he could just move his head a little -
"You like Camels? Unfiltered?"
"No, thank you," his mouth said politely. "I don't smoke." He glared at the rod.
"Really?" the waiter smiled. "That is hard to believe."
"Never took it up," Rodder lied. He couldn't get the words out. Yes, dammit, oh, please. Bring 'em.
"Well... If you should change your mind -"
"I won't. But thanks. Just the coffee."
"As you wish." The waiter walked away.
"I hate you," he said to the rod.
It made a slow circle in the air... and his craving for nicotine increased again.
"Alright!" Wade said.
Rodder turned around - "Hey, you. What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing." Wade sat down heavily. He was dressed like a boxer. Gloves taped on, red satin shorts, headgear. No one noticed.
A pack of Camels landed on the table. Rodder whimpered.
"A minute ago, I was pouring concrete," Wade chuckled. "This is a lot more interesting..."
The pack shook, and one cigarette cruised up to Wade's mouth. Rodder couldn't help but watch it. Fuckin' desperate for a lousy smoke...
A lighter appeared, fired up, and cruised up to Wade. He sucked in, and nodded. A relieved sound oozed out of him. Then he took another drag, a long one -
Rodder wanted to scream. He started to reach for the pack - and his hand froze.
"Oh," Wade chuckled. "Wanna cigarette?"
"More than anything."
"You can't have one."
"C'mon -"
"Sorry." He tugged on it happily.
"I'm dying, here."
"It's gonna make us sit here until I've smoked the rest of this pack -"
"Your coffee," the waiter said. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Rodder looked at him, and at Wade. "What else may I bring you?"
"Your cigarette - Is that a Camel?" Wade asked. He was suspiciously eager.
"Why, yes. It certainly is."
"Do you have any more of those? Care to sell me a pack?"
"Certainly."
"Bring me a coffee, too... and make it two packs."
"Right away."
Rodder dropped his head, and started banging it against the tabletop.
"Stop that," his buddy said mildly, "and maybe the rod will let you have a smoke."
"Really?"
Wade hesitated. "No."
"Knock it off," Rodder barked.
He watched Wade blink, and shake his head. Then he grinned again. "Smoke, dammit."
"I can't."
"Oh. Trying to quit?"
"Dammit all to hell -"
"Your coffee," the waiter said. He set the cigarettes down on the center of the table, maybe six inches from Rodder's paralyzed hand. "And here are some matches."
"Appreciate it," Wade said happily. The waiter nodded and left. "How's the coffee?"
"I have no idea," Rodder said, staring at the Camels.
"You look like you want a smoke."
"Can we talk about something else?"
"Sure." Another cigarette slid out of the open pack. "What are we doing in Cairo?"
"Is that where we are?"
Wade was looking around. "That waiter sure is a helpful guy."
Rodder tried to turn his head, but it swiveled right back... to make him stare at Wade's new cigarette being lit by the old one, and the contented grin on the asshole's face as he looked at it, and puffed. Wade had pretty much quit smoking back in high school - so naturally the damn rod forced him to chain-smoke, sometimes, around Rodder. It made him love smokin'...
"What's the game plan?" Rodder said, with his teeth clenched.
"No idea. Knew something was up, though. The rod interrogated me last night."
"It did?"
"Uh-huh."
With an effort, Rodder forced his eyes down to his coffee. A cloud of smoke was drifting over the table, and he inhaled as deeply as he could. It didn't really help. "What did it... do?"
"That's the funny part," Wade said, and he took yet another drag. "Other than asking me a bunch of questions, I don't remember anything else."
"What's so weird about that?"
He thought it over. "It was really important, somehow. I remember that."
"Is that so."
Wade squinted at him, over his cigarette. "When I woke up today, I was thinking about when we were kids."
"Little kids?"
"Yeah," he said, looking puzzled. "I wish I could remember. It went on awhile. All these questions, in my head. I bet I smoked a whole pack of cigarettes -"
"Yeah, yeah," Rodder snapped. "About when we were little?"
"I'm thinkin' I dreamed about it, after it quizzed me. When we met -" He looked up suddenly. "Hey. You used to have a different name, didn't you? Before it st-"
"Yeah."
"So what was it? Your original name?"
"Hell if I know," Rodder snapped. He'd tried to remember. His dad even called him Rodder. It was on his birth certificate. The rod was thorough.
"What was I going to warn you about?" Wade muttered, looking all sheepish.
"Shit. Anything else you can tell me?"
"Questions..." He shook his head. "It must've been real interested in something, huh?"
"I know that one." He looked up at the rod. "It's planning something extreme."
They both watched it nod. Quickly.
"Uh-oh," Wade murmured.
After the pack was empty, they stood up -
Tight clothes. Padded.
"Oh, fuck yeah!" Wade cheered.
Motocross gear.
Their bikes were just around the corner.
They buzzed all over the hills. Ramps appeared, and their gloves took over, making them ace every jump. Wade grinned like a fool, usually with a cigarette between his teeth. He loved motorcycles.
Rodder was thinking about the rod - how quickly it was nodding, there. Definitely it had something big in store for him. But his mood changed instantly when it kept making him deliriously happy just to be riding. Goofball fun, completely assured and easy. He'd grind Wade in the dirt...
After they stopped to suck down some water, a cigar appeared between his teeth. He tugged on it, and laughed. It wasn't a fuckin' Camel, but it was a lot better than nothing.
"Okay," he said to Wade. "We gotta do this again some time."
"Hah." They were sitting in the Oval Office, getting stoned. It was dark... "Not too soon, dude."
Rodder looked at him. "What?"
Wade sighed. "I could be wrong... but, uh, I got a bad feeling."
"About?"
They looked at each other. Both were wobbly. "You're goin' down for a while, dude. Sorry. That's how I read it."
Rodder didn't say anything... mainly because he was watching the rod. It didn't move, but that didn't mean Wade was wrong. "Don't give it any ideas."
"Shit," Wade laughed. "I'm goin' on what I felt from the rod. There's something I told it... and I got the idea, now, that you're fucked."
"That would be a change. In the pattern."
"I know. Look, I'm probably full of shit."
"I already knew that."
Wade threw a paperweight at him. "Know what? I think I'll have me a cigarette."
"Son of a bitch," Rodder sighed.
He woke up in Russia. That was his guess. Some of the letters were backward, on the TV ads.
The air in the room felt like it was about to crackle. More energy. Rodder didn't think that had anything to do with being in Russia, though. The rod was flitting around like it was on dexedrine.
Anything could happen, at any time.. but that was nothing new. He felt powerful, though. Clearer - more alive - than ever.
Walking down the snow-covered street, his glove reached into the pocket of the leather jacket he'd never seen before that morning -
Camels.
"Cool," he said happily.
Rodder smoked one after the other...
And on a quiet lane, he heard a noise. Like a big spring -
Something dropped on him - and metal clamped tight, pinning his arms.
"Hey!" Rodder yelled, dropping his smoke.
Quickly and smoothly, he went up in the air. He kicked wildly, but the ground past his boots got further and further away. No one else was around. The buildings could all have been deserted, for that matter. Rodder couldn't see any evidence of life...
A wide band of steel held him tight. He struggled anyway.
He started moving backward. Through a doorway, watching old wooden doors swing shut. A dark metal shutter thundered down next, sealing him inside.
The band loosened, slid down to his waist and tightened again. It happened so fast that he couldn't do a damn thing. It was attached to a flexible metal... stalk, at least as wide as his head, that ran into a box on the ceiling near the door.
Something else dropped over his head. It kept going -
A smaller version of the band. It stopped moving when it was over his elbows, pulled tight, and started pulling him. For a few seconds, they started to stretch him... but the wider band became loose and slid down his legs.
That seemed like a good time to fight harder, but he was already being pulled backward.
He landed on a flat surface.
It started to roll.
The cart, or whatever it was, rumbled down the hall. He saw a door frame, and hooked one of his boot-heels on the edge. But something slapped his foot away.
The room wasn't very big. All of the walls were padded, and the ceiling -
A bench was in the middle of the room. Black, and wide. Cushioned. The cart rolled him alongside it. He felt something pull... his left boot. All he could do was Watch helplessly as it slid off, fell to the floor. The other one joined it. Then his socks were tugged off.
His jeans, long underwear, and briefs went, one after another. The band started lifting Rodder... until it slid him on top of the cushion. Black leather grabbed at him, but at least the room was warm.
When the ankle-cuffs drifted up into view, he froze. They were the heaviest cuffs he'd ever seen, and that was saying something. Worse, there was a chrome band around the outside...
The inner surface was some kind of foam. They not only had buckles, but the metal bands had some kind of lever - it reminded him of an oil filter wrench - that locked with a scary snap.
When the chains were clipped on, the whole setup made the rod's usual restraints look cheap.
After his legs were pinned, with a few inches of air between his feet, the band relaxed and slid up - but it grabbed his left arm. Rodder kept the other one moving, but his jacket started coming off. It was shoved up against the band. His shirt followed it, and his t-shirt.
More cuffs were there before he knew it. He watched his right wrist get caught, and cuffed. The most intimidating damn things he'd ever seen...
The band slid off him - but his left arm was slammed down immediately. His clothes were pulled off that arm, and the last cuff circled, buckled, snapped.
There was a grey-metal box on the ceiling. Longer than he was, almost as wide as the pad and ten or twelve inches deep. He studied it as he lunged around, but it was hopeless. The rod knew bondage, and even compared to all the other times it had restrained him, these cuffs were disturbingly secure. His arms were staying way out there, stretched toward the corners of the bench. And Rodder's heels were hanging just off the pad. His best kicks didn't do shit.
He tried every move he could think of. Leather cuffs, wrapped with metal. Damn...
When he gave up and laid there, breathing hard... the rod displayed another hologram. Two hands, with the fingers curled as if they were going to grab something.
He didn't get it.
The hologram went away.
After a minute, he heard something rustle. The jacket floated up -
The most wonderful thing he ever saw floated out of the inside pocket. It was the little pack of Camels.
The rod actually gave him a cigarette.
After about four hungry drags, the meaning of that hit him. He squinted up at the rod.
"Last cigarette. Condemned man. I get it."
The rod made little circles in the air. He'd only seen it do that when it was really fuckin' happy. That meant he was in for a long ass-kicking of one kind or another -
Thoughts flooded his brain, and he started to say them as he watched it dance.
"You found it. Didn't you? All the... recreation you've thought up, tailored just for me. You think you've got the ultimate fun for Rodder. Sustainable. Full-bore excitement. Right? You're so fuckin' jazzed today..."
The rod just kept making those circles.
He smoked as hard as he could, until the cigarette almost burned his lips. And still he really hated to see it go.
Above his chest, the rod froze.
Something floated through the door. Fiberglass? A box with rounded corners, about the size of a briefcase. Rodder caught a glimpse of some dials, but it turned around in mid-air so that side wasn't facing him. A cord popped out, and it snaked up to the ceiling. He watched it plug into the end of the big metal box up there -
A switch clicked, and the fiberglass box started to hum softly.
Rodder heard another click. Slits appeared above him, growing larger. Panels were moving. He saw shiny tubes inside -
And after the next switch was thrown, his stomach flopped so hard he thought it might land on the floor.
The tubes inside the ceiling-box were uncoiling. Slowly falling down...
But it was the attachments that made him gasp.
There were at least twenty gloves coming closer. They appeared to be made of the same material as the sadistic massage-gloves. A little smaller, maybe, but the fingers looked just as firm.
At least that many feathers were dropping, each on a thinner tube. And a similiar number of dark brushes...
Little circular discs of something dark - it looked like fur. Tiny little buffing wheels.
All of the tubes were extending with a graceful, horrible freedom.
Rodder jerked at the cuffs with everything he had. There was only one explanation occurring to him. So many things hanging over him, selected intentionally, way too soft... on tubes that appeared to have all the flexibility of vines, able to converge on a spot without getting tangled, easily long enough to reach all the way down to his body.
He refused to believe it. A scare tactic. The rod wouldn't go to all the trouble of building -
A thought interrupted his attempts to reassure himself. He heard his own voice, cocky as hell, laughing... All this time it's been studying me, and now the rod is positive - this is gonna be perfect. Real fuckin' fun.
It couldn't possibly be happening. Absolutely impossible -
Gradually, the tubes stopped moving. Gloves and feathers and brushes and fur bounced a little, halfway between him and the ceiling. It wanted him to get a good look, and then wait for the big moment. He knew how much the rod loved to tease.
Except there wouldn't be any big moment, because there was no way he could stand this. It just wouldn't do this to him -
The little box turned around and moved closer. It was coming... so he could study the switches. Right? Confirming what was going to happen to him. But it was only a bluff, Rodder told himself, because there was no way the rod could ever be that cruel.
It was the control box. And it looked old. Thirty, forty years. That case - and the yellowed plastic knobs. Nobody made dials like that anymore. The number range was silkscreened right on the case, and each of the four knobs had a tall red point which was parallel with the case. Turn the knob, and the point skims over the numbers...
He hoped it would break down. Old, and unreliable -
In his thoughts, he started to laugh. Built to last. It'll bury anything newer, because they knew how to built shit in the old days.
Right along the pad, it stopped moving. He scanned it, and saw the logo. Fat, fuzzy script...
I am going to die, he thought. This is it. The damn rod is going too far. Maybe it was just a matter of time - and that made him wonder why it hadn't thought of this before. Or maybe it had, and he didn't remember...
No, this seemed like a "first". Wade gave him away. When it interrogated him, he must've said something. Maybe the rod had never even thought of it before! That wouldn't be fun. Not cool enough.
But he looked at all the shit hanging over him, and it was pretty obvious his number had come up. It had thought about Wade's memories, and built this horrible fuckin' machine.
Of all the things it had done to Rodder, this scared the fuck out of him in a uniquely intense way. Not this. It was just too much. Period.
Something moved -
He stopped thinking and watched. A dial was turning. Above it, in simple black letters, he made out the word VARIETY...
The pointer, a little triangle, rotated clockwise past the smaller numbers. The tip covered the little 10.
"No. Look, rod... You gotta listen to me -"
Snap. Another switch had moved. The letters above it were spaced out over three switches. SUBSIDIARY ROUTINES. Underneath the one that was just flipped, Rodder saw the word WATER.
The next two switches popped up, one after the other. FOOD and CLEANING.
"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna die," he said weakly. "You can't. Not this..."
As he stared, the dial farthest to the right started to rotate.
No. He tried to tell himself that word couldn't be -
TIME.
And underneath it, HOURS.
The little numbers on that scale went all the way up to 12.
Rodder squirmed as the dial kept turning. "Oh, now listen - you don't know how awful this is gonna be for me! Rod, I'm begging you, here."
All the way. He couldn't imagine twelve seconds of... of those gloves. And the feathers. It couldn't be serious.
There was one more dial. It was to the left of the TIME knob. The pointer was already moving, but he couldn't stop looking at the label above it.
INTENSITY.
"Fuck. I'm... I mean it. I have never been this serious, rod. This cannot happen. It just can't."
The arrow passed the 5, and then the 6...
"Whatever you sucked out of Wade's head, about this, you got it wrong. So wrong. I can't stand this shit. Really. C'mon."
He watched the pointer slide past the little black 7.
Halfway after 8... and it stopped.
No fuckin' way, he thought. No, no, roll it back down. Get me out of here.
The arrow jiggled - and almost touched the 9.
"Aw, Listen. Anything but this. I mean it. Really..."
Something moved over him. When he saw it was only the rod, he was actually glad. It was going to the control box.
Rodder sighed with relief. It must have realized the truth. He couldn't think of anything worse. More unbearable. It wasn't as if he was in for the same level of impact that happened when he was a kid. Come on - this was the fuckin' rod, here. Thinking big. Look at the machine it designed, with his name on it. Just for him. All those tools -
The rod drifted in a wide curve... right past the POWER switch.
"No," Rodder said. "Back up -"
Huh.
It stopped at the INTENSITY dial.
"Oh, no," he whined.
Nodding. Oh yes. It tapped the arrow... and tried to push the damn pointer down. Past the 9 -
Hammering on it. Forcing it to move. Maximum.
"You gotta c- Too much. Way, way too much. I can't tolerate it. Listen to me!"
The rod kept pounding the arrow, moving it a little more each time. Closer to the 10...
"No. Let me out of here. Right now..."
It finally stopped, and hung there.
10.
He stared at that dial.
Something floated into the room. A wire rack... with water bottles in it. Rodder watched it rise up and hook into the far side of the ceiling-box, past his right hip. That must be where the machine expected the water to be. Those gloves could reach it, and make him drink. Squeeze bottles, with rigid straws sticking out of the tops, maybe quart-size.
Eighteen bottles.
Another metal bin arrived, and hung right next to the water. He figured it was food of some kind. The contents rattled... Some kind of hopper was built into the bottom, gravity-feed, and a thick plastic tube came from that to a wider thing that looked a lot like a funnel.
And one more thing - cruising through the door. It had to get one more taunt in, another twist of the knife...
A calendar.
He watched it slap against the far wall, and stay. Month-at-a-glance. The rod had hardly ever put a clock in front of him before. He had a terrible feeling that it wasn't just trying to intimidate him.
The rod was enjoying this much more than usual. Triumphant, almost.
After a year, it had found the perfect way to amuse him.
He looked from the calendar, to the rod. It nodded again. And moved -
All the switches were up. There was only one thing left. A push-button. The only red switch on the damn thing...
The big word, above it, was ACTIVATE.
Underneath, the smaller letters spelled out "20 SEC DELAY". All it had to do was float down a little, and -
"You wouldn't," he said to it. "Rod. Please." He was afraid to blink. "Ple-"
It made a few more circles, and dropped lower.
"C'mon, now," Rodder said, shaking his head slowly.
It backed in, using the wider end...
Click.
A bulb under the red plastic started to flash.
Rodder yelled as loud as he could.
The control box drifted down. Out of sight. In his mind he pictured that red switch, still blinking.
His lips moved, but no words would come. He looked up, scanning all the tubes above him and what they carried, seeing if they were starting to move -
The rod tapped him, right on the tip of his nose... and floated away.
Out the door.
"Oh, please, come back now, rod!" he whimpered to it. "Shut it off. No, no, please. You gotta. Not this -"
Quiet creaking was followed by a thump. The damn door was closed.
He was trembling. Rodder slammed his head on the leather, desperately hoping to knock himself out before the gloves reached him... but the padding was too thick.
The lights started to fade. Caught, in there, in the dark. With the machine.
"Just a prop," he mumbled. "Not real. It wouldn't."
Overhead, something clicked.
A tremor ran through the tubes... and they started descending.
More tapping noises, metallic whispers, a faint creak now and then. Oiled metal, reaching down. Fingers coming to life.
He tugged and lunged around.
The little wheels were spinning. It looked like they'd stop, pause and start rotating again. They made a quiet whirring noise. Intermittent buffing, he thought. Diabolical.
Breaks, for water. Eating. Followed, every time, by... more. Twelve hours. Intensity, forced to the limit, turned up all the way.
A cluster of tools was gliding down to his feet, and a different bunch was targeting his crotch. But there was a whole fuckin' squadron descending to his chest. Relentlessly moving in. Maybe eighteen inches away, heading directly to his belly, or his neck, or his sides. So many feathers. The fingers were spreading out, curving - and the brushes wiggled, impatient to get busy.
Three more inches, and they'd be on him. He tried to scoot sideways, lift his feet...
The ceiling lights faded away completely.
Something soft made contact with his right pec.
Rodder tensed up. Left pec - and his thighs. Toes! Biceps, belly, throat, kneecaps. Tools just kept on landing. Everywhere.
Grips were clutching, sliding around, as light edges started to sweep, points skated gently, bristles dragged back and forth -
He gasped, tugging at the chains, gritting his teeth.
The center of each foot, and each armpit, were jolted by a drill which was hardly even touching him -
He started roaring.
Most of the things stopped moving, but stayed in place. Except for his feet. Over, the sides, heels, between his toes. And thrashing as hard as he could didn't get his feet away from the fiery coverage.
Rodder howled, but that wasn't nearly enough relief. So he went back to screaming laughter. Rough and loud -
The movement on his feet... stopped.
After a second, it resumed on his crotch. Way down between his legs, almost up to his belly-button, creeping to his knees.
He whooped as hard as he could, and swiveled his hips. But some gloves started pressing down on his pelvis, steadying him. The tools shifted and continued. Feathers just kept dragging over and back. Brushes crawled.
So many fingers, methodically working.
His body jerked around. He couldn't hold still. Soft pressure was staying on his insteps, above his heels - alongside his neck. Not going away. He laughed his guts out.
Something else... Dizzy. That was it. He was getting light-headed. If he passed out, they couldn't ti-
But they stopped.
Fingers promptly dug into his armpits. He giggled like he was never going to stop. Gloves had a lock on his biceps, and they wouldn't let him squirm out of their grasp.
He laughed louder, hoping to faint soon.
The fingers stopped moving - and brushes roamed over his lowest ribs...
After a few seconds, they started slowing down. Barely crawling.
His laughter faded down. Rodder just snickered. What the hell...
Oh, no.
Of course, he thought.
Instantly, he was laughing - in his head - but it was a different kind of laughter. Excited. Satisfied. It was the rod, spelling things out for him. Clever machine. Programmed to avoid overdoing it... teaching me how to take more of this. More and more. Twelve hours. And there's the calendar. Don't forget that.
He was catching his breath. The dizziness was gone. Not allowed.
Pleasure.
A whole bunch of tools started moving - his neck, and his belly. Slower. He hooted like he was insane. Feathers slid between his toes, but they were barely moving. So soft... And fur - barely spinning at all, as it pressed underneath his balls.
Rodder's laughter slowed down. It was too much work. He tried to make himself roar, but the distractions - when he wasn't getting slammed with them, all over, the gentle touches seemed to force him to pay more attention. Riveting -
The tools stopped.
Fingers dug under his knees, a brush was moving under his ass, feathers were wandering up and down his arms. Fur buffed his heels.
He cackled for a minute. But it passed.
Couldn't fuckin' move. The action was too compelling. Insane.
No. Not a chance. He saw that now. Not even that escape. The rod wanted him to focus. All of the pleasure it had made him feel before was shit, compared to what it was going to force him to experience here. Increased capacity. Fuck that ordinary enjoyment, so shallow, and way too brief...
Another set of tools started up. The sensations were mesmerizing. He couldn't keep track of them all.
But the rod would make him learn.
Until... but he couldn't even finish the thought. Another one came, smug as anything. Victorious. Forget that. It's found exactly what it wants to do to me. No telling how much of an expert I can be. Right? Infinite possibilities. There's no such thing as enough fun.
He had to roar again, just thinking about that.
Back to Part 1
14feb03