(The "action" just gets started in this one, FYI)
I smell smoke. It wakes me up -
Nighttime. Faint moonlight, dark walls.
Are those... bars?
As soon as I lift my head, I hear a big sigh. So I look over -
A thin guy is sitting there, smoking.
"Hey," he says sadly.
"What the hell?"
"You don't remember anything, do you?"
"No." Such as, where are my clothes... All I have on is a pair of thin drawstring pants, and they're ragged. He's wearing the same thing.
"Here." I see his hand move a little, getting my attention. I squint - oh. Cigarettes. He tosses the pack.
"Oh yeah," I say, getting one in my mouth. Fuck, I'm excited about it... He looks down, picks up a box of matches and lobs it over.
Shit. It's a Zippo. Heavier than I was expecting. "Thanks," I nod, and get busy.
And I can't believe how incredibly good it is, this cig -
"You too, huh?" he says.
"What?"
He leans back. Against the wall, on top of his bed. Holds up his cigarette.
"Yeah," I chuckle, and I take another drag. So does he.
"I couldn't fuckin' wait to burn one," he says quietly. "And it looks like you're just as bad."
Something isn't right. Just as bad...
I really need this cigarette. Nothing new there. But I have the idea that I quit, once - didn't I?
Oh, well. I tug on it again. This is perfect. I'm starting to feel normal.
No, I must've had a dream I quit. How weird. No wonder I was antsy when I smelled it.
"Yeah," I finally say. "This is gonna sound weird... uh, I think I had a dream that I didn't smoke anymore."
He stares at me. "No... It don't sound so weird to me. Get this - I've had that dream too."
We look at each other.
"Where are we?" I ask him.
"I don't know." He flicks ash on the floor. "I woke up about ten minutes before you did."
"I'm -" And I draw a blank. No names are occurring to me. I was going to introduce myself. Maybe I got knocked on the head or someth-
"Shit," the other guy hisses. "Me too. Can't think of my own damn name."
"Do you know why we're here?"
"Well, it's a jail." I watch him spring his cigarette out into the hallway, and get himself another one.
I look around. The two beds are wider than I expected, for jail. There are a few holes high up on the walls, and the ceiling...
And a bucket past the head of his cot. Above it, two metal cups hanging on nails.
Hoping for water, I stand up. The floor is stone, and it's cool under my feet. That gets me thinking about the temperature of the cell - warm enough, but not too warm. The floor is suspiciously clean. And the bedsheet. I pitch my own cigarette out, and walk over to the bucket.
It is water. I try it. Seems okay. As I drink a cup, I look around.
Across from me, in the other corner, there's a dark circle in the floor. A roll of toilet paper, next to it. Shithole. Past the foot of my bed, that's just great -
But it doesn't stink.
I slip it out and piss in the hole. And as I do, I sniff a few times. I just smell my own piss... as if there's no septic tank on the other end of the pipe, or somebody just cleaned out the plumbing.
Or am I just so used to the smell that I don't even notice it anymore? How long?
I just don't get it. Hole in the ground instead of a toilet, cheap cloth, old stone walls. So, everything's primitive... but clean? Even I'm clean. Hell. No flies... or fleas, that I've felt feel. Too clean.
The bucket's about half full, so I get myself another cup. The other guy's watching me, casual about it. "You want some?" I say.
"Actually, yeah." I take the other cup down, fill it and hand it to him. And he nods. Polite without wasting words. I know, somehow, that if you say 'thank you' to a guy ten times a day, no matter how thankful you are, he'll fantasize about smothering you with your own pillow.
There's something very familiar about all this. Him, the bed, the cell.
I look at his cigarettes. "Can I, uh -"
He nods. "Go. And I see something, there, under your bunk. At least it might be the right size."
"Yeah?" I turn around, and squat - and there is one. "Cool..." No, there's two packs of cigarettes, and a big box of matches. So we're set.
I park my ass down and have myself a smoke. Look around for awhile. No posters in here, or pictures. Nothing. Just the window, and thicker bars instead of the wall to my right. Without more light than the moon was giving off, reading is out - even if there was something to read.
The other guy is looking in my general direction. Can't blame him. what else is there to look at? So I size him up. A little shorter than me, maybe. Lighter hair, pulled back. I decide 'thin' is the wrong word for him, because his arms and chest are fairly well-developed. He's lean. Tattoos everywhere. Solid ink. Even his hands... If I squint, it looks like he doesn't have a body, in the dark. Pants, and feet. Over them, a cigarette keeps floating up to his face...
But I'm sleeved too. Can't make 'em out, really. I don't remember getting any tats. And at the same time, I'm used to them. Maybe I did hit my head or something.
I'm not sleepy, but I stretch out anyway. stare at the bars over the window. No screen - and no glass. Just... bars.
"Do you remember anything?" I ask, just to see what he'll come back with.
After a few seconds, he shakes his head.
"I'm thinking it's piss-poor odds that we both had a serious head injury."
"I feel fine," he says. "Dammit."
"I know."
"And I don't wanna just sit here." He leans forward and lowers his voice. "You get the impression... uh, that something weird happens, in here? Really - I don't know - rare."
I look over at him. That's a good question. And I have a feeling...
The cell is as plain as it can be. But it hasn't always been that way. Far too fuckin' exciting to suit me - and I don't mean the other dude, getting friendly.
"No," I say. "Something... intense. I can't find words to describe it. Red-hot."
He nods. "Uh-huh. But you'd never think so, looking around. Now, I mean."
"What the hell is going on here?" I bark.
"Ya got me."
"This isn't... I could be wrong, but I don't buy this place as a prison anywhere. In America. Not even a county jail."
"Off the map."
I sit up. "What?"
He smokes. "It's quiet." And I listen... He's right. "Too quiet, here. Private. Secret."
"C'mon -"
"I don't think it's a real jail at all."
"Shit..."
Both of us think that one over for a smoke or two.
"You tired?" he says.
"Not at all," I shoot back. "You?"
"Well... not tired." He grins - I hear a cheerful snort, rather than see it on his face - but his hand is closer to the moonlight, so I can see the gesture he makes.
"Oh."
He shakes his head slowly. No privacy, in here -
"Go ahead," I say quickly. "Look, I'm glad you... uh, just go for it. Anytime. I won't care. You know." I wouldn't mind the relief, myself, but this whole situation's just too weird.
"Yeah." He finishes his cigarette and springs it away, but it glances off the bars and sits there, near the door, smoldering.
Then he lays down, facing the wall.
I can appreciate that he's trying to keep it down... but it's still obvious my cellmate's found something real damn interesting to do with himself.
Looking out the window, I make it through most of a cigarette, and give up. Lighting a new smoke off the last one, I let it hang, lean toward the wall a little...
Slide my hand down into my pants.
We both go at it - for about three more minutes. Then I hear him laughing.
It sounds like him. The other guy. Fuck - I haven't heard him laugh tonight. But that's so damn familiar. Hoarse, smutty laughs. Nonstop.
And he's not rocking anymore.
"You, uh, okay over there?" I finally say.
"That ain't me," he says, laying down flat. He looks at his cock. "Shit." But he pulls his pants up.
I let go of my meat. We sit there, staring at each other.
The laughter is coming from over our heads. And he looks like he saw a ghost.
Steady, lusty cackles. I think about finishing my cumshot anyway. That's what the voice makes me think of - getting off. Except it never stops laughing.
As if the guy... couldn't stop.
"Easy," I say to the other guy, watching him breathe real fast. Getting frantic, if I'm reading things right...
The sound changes. Another voice, so there's two guys laughing. And I think I can see the speaker up on the ceiling, or at least the grille, out of reach. The other guy's voice fades away.
But not mine.
Now I'm the one we're listening to. Deeper voice, scratchy. I know it's me.
Just the most grueling, perverted chortling... and I don't remember laughing like that. Seems like it'd be unforgettable.
A drum - congas, maybe. Catchy rhythm.
"Smoke 'em while you can, boys," a different voice says.
Sounds like an announcer. A game show guy, on angel dust... Impossibly strong, and ready for anything. "It's time!"
My heart is pounding away. The other guy gulps and looks around, desperate for something. A way out of here. I know how he feels - my body is on full alert. It knows something I don't know.
I want a cigarette so bad it makes me groan. So I get busy, and see the other guy doing it too.
"Time?" he says miserably.
"Time for what?" I reply -
A sound, from the hall. Rumbling. The drums are still playing. Jungle, tribal -
I have to know what's happening. And, at the same time, I want to run. Get up to that window and yank the bars out. Get away...
Something big is rolling closer.
The other guy looks like he's ready to freak out too. His hands shake when he takes a hard tug on his cigarette - and the look on his face is pure confusion. We're both reacting to something, alright - but I can't fuckin' remember...
Dark - something big.
It's rolling. Up to the door. And it stops. Wide as a car, and black.
At least the suspense will be over, I tell myself, eating smoke.
After a few seconds, we hear a click - and it moves. The front is sliding open.
The moonlight barely reaches it, but I see rings. Bright, so they catch my eye.
Clothes, bottles -
And feathers.
I wish I could pass out. Right now. I don't want to be here...
Movement, from inside. Quicker. Coming through the bars.
Gloves?
Leather gloves. Slamming me down against the mattress. On my back. My head is at the same end of my bed as the other guy's is. Facing the door. Arms pinned, and my legs -
I grunt, trying to get up. Dark stripes are coming. Belts?
Straps.
The fuckers are strong, and there's about twenty of 'em holding me down. I yell, and whine, but they get the cuffs buckled, pull the straps tight. And they leave.
My pants are gone. Didn't even notice. One pulls my hair, so the pillow can be shoved under my head.
"There," a different voice says. "Fuck yeah, it's time."
And I see the worst thing in the world.
Feathers are being taken out of the cabinet, and brought over to me.
Oh, no, no, please not my feet. I can't even speak. Not that.
"More and more and more tickling, until you just can't stand it any more," the voice says. Calm, happy, chilling voice. "And then - more, and more, until you decide you really, absolutely can't take it another second. More, and more, and more, until you just know you're have to get away from it, but you can't, and you wish you could just go insane, because it's increasing. The agony - of tickling. And it'll continue. Much more! Harder... and harder."
The feathers start dusting my feet.
"And that's just the first hour."
I look over at the other guy. He's strapped down too... and laughing at me. Miserable, desperate eyes. It must the same expression he's seeing on my face.
There's something very familiar about all of this.
We flail around and howl.
26feb03