Fucker's almost too tall to fit on the mattress. I doubled up the straps, just in case.
And he's definitely ticklish.
He wakes up - with a smile on his face! A little smirk, there. Just one more good sign. Cal wasn't kidding. This guy is... naturally happy. And a biker.
A pretty rare combination, from what I've seen.
The grin goes away, though, when he looks around. I'm enjoying this so much I can hardly stand it. It's obvious what he's thinking - what the hell is this place, and who's fuckin' stupid enough to strip him. And cuff him down? Who's wantin' to die that bad?
He's alert. Not getting angry yet... Probably not as well acquainted with fear as some people - as big as he is.
Instead, he's just blown away. The way he looks at the cuffs, keeping him laid out here, this has to be a first. His eyes dart all around the room, while he yells for help, hey somebody, anybody. I wonder if that's another new thing for him. Shouting for help.
Thirty seconds of that, and he shuts his mouth. Not another sound to be heard... Jet-black walls, a big slab of pig iron barring the door. He's figured it out. Nobody's gonna hear him.
And that's that, he doesn't wait for somebody to come and help. I got me a quick study here. So he tries to roll, and hisses -
I've seen Cal do that. This baboon's got some serious back hair. But I'm going to help him out with that. Get him all smooth.
After he looks around the room a couple times, he grits his teeth and stares at the ceiling, stretching the straps. And I bet this son of a bitch can break 'em... if nothing comes along to divert his attention. His arms are huge. Just born that way, I bet.
The straps are creaking in a way I never heard before. I think the leather's actually tearing! Good thing I doubled 'em up. After I first saw Rude, I laid in a couple dozen straps.
Soon he'll be putting that energy to much better use.
I pick up something from next to the mattress, under his feet.
A deck of cards.
He stares at it, hovering there, high enough for him to see. His face changes - puzzled expression, thinking hard. After a second, he pulls at the straps again...
His eyes are big. He doesn't look enraged or worried. And not too happy at the moment. Instead of panic, he gets thoughtful. I didn't expect that. A level-headed giant? Cool as an ice cube - until I show him why he's in the restraints.
Something else lifts off the floor.
One little white feather. Soft. No threat to ol' Rude-dog, here - except that I'm the one holding it up.
If anything, he looks even more confused. This is an instant that will never come again - only one of us knowing why he's naked and staked out. I take it all in so I can review it later, enjoying this moment again and again, whenever I want.
Before he figures it out, my invisible fingers bring the feather down to his feet.
His expression keeps changing. Annoyed, stunned, arrogant - desperate! Will he say anything now? Give the moment another detail to be remembered later?
I'm thinking he's about to shake his head. Watching the feather closely... and it only has a few inches to float now bef-
"Oh, no."
A classic outburst, as well as a challenge. He's concentrating on my feather, as if he could wish it away.
I've got only one response for him.
My feather does the talking.
His squints hard, and the straps really get put to the test. A low-pitched groan starts getting louder. Not a word, though. He looks determined...
I cover both his soles, wasting no time. Circling, flicking, creeping under his toes.
He grits his teeth again. The groan starts going up - in pitch. It's threatening to turn into a squeal. I bet Rude doesn't do a whole lot of squealing, usually. Tough guy. But there's nothing normal planned for him, here. The noise he's making is unmistakable. I know what it'll become.
What he's got, now, is the urge to laugh. The need - it's unstoppable. Loud laughter will explode out of his mouth, and keep coming out. Crude, gravelly howling. That's what I predict. Sounds that a gorilla might make.
Rude swallows hard, and the groan stops - for a few seconds. He's fighting even harder. His restraints are where he's trying to keep his focus. His thighs are slamming back and forth, but his feet aren't even rocking. His toes are waving frantically.
Straining, tugging, kicking. He tries to slide himself down, up, to each side. Arching, bucking, rolling over this way and that.
Every possibility has been checked out. He didn't move an inch.
I stroke all the way down his right foot, and back up. Left foot. No pause in between -
Crack!
That was loud... Leather, snapping. Right side - the vertical strap, clipped to the wrist-cuff and pulling straight off the end of the mattress. It's ruined. But there's one more strap there, coming over from the side. He doesn't have much slack to work with, but he reefs in, toward his head.
Destroying my property, huh? I'm going to put a stop to that.
Down where he can't see, I pull on a pair of gloves. He's really gonna hate this satin...
The feather will get a rest - until later, when I bring it back with seven others. Right now, I'm going to emphasize what we both already know.
One glove terrorizes each foot. They're big feet, but I'm up to the challenge. Every point gets rubbed, squeezed -
He starts bucking again. Rude snags one ragged breath... And he fuckin' laughs! Yeah. Laughs like a fool. As if he's dusted, on a real bad trip. Caught by a tickler with superhuman expertise. No way to make it end, either.
Loud and wild. Roaring like a hurricane. Not holding back a thing. I wonder about the women he fucks. They need earplugs, maybe...
Rude sure lives up to his name. It's just an unbelievable laugh. Airhorn, three packs a day, broken glass - turned all the way up. Hysteria. He keeps lunging and kicking.
I can't tell yet if he's ridiculously ticklish, or if I just expected less from him because he's a big tattooed ape.
Alongside the mattress, I bring more straps up. Setting the far ends quickly, and -
Gotcha - again. Looping around his right wrist. Then his left.
He bellows toward his hand, where I'm tightening the new strap. And then - snap! - the fucker breaks the side-strap holding his left wrist!
After I replace that one, I go ahead and put a third strap on each limb. All on the vertical edges of the mattress, to block him from pulling up. Reef 'em good and tight - okay, mutant, let's see you get loose now.
And I figure the man's due for some serious motivation.
Another pair of gloves. I keep 'em busy on his ribs from the first time they land. Roaming around like they belong there. Home turf... And that's true, in a way, because they're new gloves I picked up just for him.
That laugh of his is electrifying.
He tries to move in every direction... thorough, and careful. Giving it his best shot.
And then he shakes his head!
No? Wrong, bro. Totally wrong. This is how it's gonna be... You're not gonna move, asshole. You're gonna howl. Every different kind of laugh you got in you - they're all being forced out so I can listen. Maniac. Every damn one.
Ten minutes. Just a little taste.
So many spots I haven't even tried yet. His cock is standing up. He's not cut, like Cal is. Already I'm inventing some new tricks to try out, carefully...
I pull the gloves off him, but they hang there, just inches away. That means they'll be landing again. He's gasping for air - hey, you go right ahead and catch your breath. I have all the time in the world.
He gets busy, trying to break more straps. More desperate, but not pulling quite as hard. Distracted - those shiny hands, so close now, letting him see how totally fucked he is. The third strap, that's the difference. He's stuck. And he looks a little scared - but more than anything else, there's still that confusion. This shit just don't happen... especially to you, huh? Big guy?
Right here, asshole. You and me.
I think maybe he's trying to convince himself it's all a real bad dream. Maybe some water will help him get over that one. He's sweating so much already that the rubber sheets aren't snagging his body hair anymore... not even getting so much as a dirty look.
Rude drinks up, and starts to cough. He snorts back some lung butter. Dark brown crud, I bet. Camel straights. Green-bud. He's not gonna smoke anything for awhile. All this laughing is gonna clear him out good.
Speaking of which...
Fucker's getting aggressive with my straps. Ready for more.
The gloves are joined by another pair. Six hands, made for tickling. Done hanging back, and here they go!
He growls at 'em, just before he starts to laugh.
Throwing himself around, using those arms. I've got just the index fingers rubbing him, sliding on ridges and curves - and he's belting out that crazy laugh again. Let's try... twelve fingers.
Hell - make it twenty.
Thirty.
"Hhhhelp," he slurs, between devoted barks. Pure adrenaline. "F-fucker's... ticklin' me..."
Yeah. You got it, Rude. That's what the plan is.
Then I wonder - now who does he think he's talking to?
Hilarious stuff.
I do enjoy tickling Cal. All those weeks on him, learning just how to drive him nuts. Very satisfying. Messing with Rude is different - more like poking at a Rottweiler with a stick - but he could turn out to be addictive, too.
I can add more gloves, any time I want. Speed up, squeeze his pecs, dig into these armpits...
More ticking to come. That's a promise. Always more. This is how it's gonna be, Rude.
I'm torturing this fucker - with pleasure! Stimulation. Pure agony, total bliss.
That's gotta be humiliating...
He's delirious. Oh, I got his number.
He starts coughing again, and I slow it way down.
And after that, the fucker sags back! Instead of roaring - like he should be - all he kicks out is these weak, slurred moans. Shit. I was just getting started - and six gloves is his limit? What a pussy.
Rude heaves a big breath. I slap him a couple times, and his eyes flutter open.
Now I'm pissed off. He's really gonna -
Hold on.
I lift all the gloves, and study him. Gasping like a fish...
His lungs are doing fine. No needle-tracks, so a long-term love affair with dope isn't the explanation.
It isn't his fault. And that means - it was mine.
That's when I realize what I've been doing. Six gloves. Only six... but they were flying. He was taking so much tickling that I got 'em moving just about as fast and as mean as I could.
With all that I learned - on Cal's body - and my enthusiasm at seeing how much Rude can take... I almost made him pass out. Did that twice, to Cal. It scared the shit out of me each time.
Rude's getting more alert now. Damn - I just want to waste this bastard. He's an enormous dude. Big, bad biker. And to make him suffer, this way - it's so tempting.
If I don't get him used to it first - before I crank it up all the way, maximum Cal-Boss style - he won't last a week.
But it's so frustrating...
This has got to be unlike anything he's ever gone through. He's a moose. And here I got satin workin' him hard. Delirious, locked away.
I have a ton of surprises in store for him. It's going to take some time...
Okay, then. I want to make this last. Torture him all night, and watch him rediscover the cuffs each morning. Yeah.
I have got to get him accustomed to it, here. That way I can keep him around. Keep him entertained.
When I send four of the gloves back down, he starts to beg.
"No, aw no, you gotta... you, uh... no, I can't... uh... Fuck. No..."
Now that's what I'm talking about. I make the gloves pause - as if I'm reconsidering.
This dangerous fucker's already pleading for his freedom. He's not very good at it. Reluctant. Another new experience, I bet.
Hell, I even back the gloves up a little... until he sounds hopeful. Relieved.
Then they dive back in.
He settles into a monotonous cackle. Feverish...
Suffer slow, Rude. No more of that swooning action. Not here.
My fingers creep all over these enormous feet. And I put a pair back in his armpits.
He flails around again... and laughs harder. Nice and energetic.
Here we go. Gonna lay waste to you all night, buddy. That's a promise.
After a few minutes, I get the third pair back on him. Stretch it out, I tell myself. It's only his first night.
He's deranged. Hooting drunkenly. His eyes are glassy.
Overloaded - but not light-headed. That's what I want, for most of his waking hours. That's how I kept increasing Cal's limit, further and further.
I speed up the tickling...
Much better.
Damn... I must've really been thrashing the fuck out of him before. He's doing fine now. I take it back - he's not a pussy. I pushed too hard, too early.
He throws his head back and forth. He can't move any other part of his body that much. And it's obvious he wants to.
Fifteen minutes, and it's time for a break.
That was another key thing I discovered when I set out to make Cal's sensitivity go through the roof. Lots of breaks, so he can get his bearings again. Feel his feet throb, test the restraints some more...
And watch the gloves return. Just like this. Feel that shock as the brushes touch down and start to move.
Repeat that agonized moment at least twenty-five times a day -
"Nnnnnoh!," he yells - at the gloves! The pair I'm curling around his right side. I can't tell if it's an order - get the fuck off me - or if he's trying as hard as he can to not believe it's really happening. His face does look like he'd give anything to make the gloves disappear, and the cuffs. In other words, to wake up from this horrible fuckin' nightmare.
But the tickling isn't going to stop. I've got your armpits, don't I now? And I've got your feet.
I unclamp strong fingers from his hips and have 'em ride up and down his thighs.
He broke two of my straps. So he owes me... one hour per strap.
Pay up, Rude.
That's it.
Another twenty minutes, and it's so hard to let go. But I do. Cal was good for thirteen hours - fifteen, once. No way I'm going to settle for anything less from this gorilla.
As soon as he can get enough air, he's pulling at the straps again. Very serious about it... but there's nothing but pessimism on his face.
I'm going to be careful with ol' Rude. We've gotta pace ourselves.
Haw haw haw, yourself.
I'm really unclear on this "time" concept. Anything that limits me is my enemy...
Cal learned to quit asking questions about when or how long, because I never answered 'em. I'd rather just work him over until he needs a smoke break, or some food.
But I need something valuable to get to Rude. He's gonna sweat through a long nightmare - that Cal cooked up for him.
Time is what he'll be gambling with.
When the tenth break rolls around, I finally look - it's been over three hours since I started. The busted straps are paid for, and then some. Good thing I get to decide when "two hours" are up. I take the gloves away.
He takes a while to get his breath. Smokes too much. And all that pot... but that's about to change. He launches a careful, desperate assault on the restraints. So I let him have at it.
If there's an idea he didn't try, I sure don't know what it is.
When he's done, sweating again, breathing hard... all of the straps are still there. So is he.
Looks like a good time to greet him. Heeeeeyyy, Rude, how's it hangin'?
He jumps real big and starts tugging again, as he looks all around.
Now, Cal's a writer. He remembers conversations and stuff, word for word. I don't. Unless a quote really jumps out at me, I'm not going to worry about getting it exactly right.
This son of a bitch is one cool cat. He's still not scared and he's too smart to let the anger run away with him...
He thinks for a few seconds, and asks if I can hear him. And when I say, hell yeah, Rude, he flinches like I hit him. You better believe I know your name. Got your number.
He says there must be something I want that he can get me. No matter what. All I gotta do is just let him go, right fuckin' now.
That strikes me as a real shrewd opener. Nice and nonchalant. Me, I'm getting more excited by the second. Right now, I say, you wanna ask a bunch of really stupid questions. If I think they're too stupid, each one's gonna cost you. Then I just shut up.
Finally he has to say, cost me? How?
Another hour.
He opens his mouth, and shuts it again. Sharp fucker. And I'm thinking "baboon" isn't a fair label, though he does look like some kind of throwback. Only bigger again by half...
Cal caught on real quick, too. I wonder if I just lucked out twice. Or if smarter dudes are more ticklish. I've got so much to learn.
He watches me bring his smokes up. I drop 'em, carelessly, a few inches from his brown fingers. Laying right where he can see 'em, and wish.
Back down by his feet, I get ready. Okay, now. You and me, we're gonna play a game.
I lift up the deck of cards, and break the paper seal on the box.
I shuffle 'em, not even using gloves. Just cards in the air, riffling together. I've been practicing this, just for him. Like a magic trick that's got him real fuckin' interested.
And he'd better be. Like I said, I lucked out with this one, too.
I think I'll make Cal read this - hey, buddy, I'm talking to you. How's it hangin'? - and we're going to play the game later, so I'm not putting all the details down here. That just wouldn't be fair.
One deck of cards. Standard poker deck. I don't rig the order of the cards, and I don't cheat - because I don't have to. He guesses something, and then he guesses something else. Counting cards would help him - a little - though I bet that's gonna be tough when he's chuckling, or aroused. Or just drunk.
Luck comes into it, but he still has to play well. All he needs is five wins in a row, and I'll cut him loose. I was originally going to require three consecutive wins, but ol' Rude here is smarter than he looks. Hell, the odds against him making wild-ass guesses and hitting five in a row are so lousy... He's going to have to work for it, or else I don't know how long I'll be working him over.
If he loses a hand, he gets another hour of hard-ass tickling.
When he wins, that's one hour less.
Five wins in a row, he's outa here.
I'll give him fifteen seconds to make each guess. If he fails to make one... that counts as a loss. Another hour for me.
From the look on his face, right now, he's in no mood to play along.
I expect he'll change his mind in a day or two. He's smarter than that, right?
Obviously, the setup works for me, either way. If he wants to be stubborn, that's okay. Could be he'll decide he likes tickling - the way I pile it on. I'm prepared to wait him out. As long as it takes. It's fun, in a way, not knowing exactly how long he'll be stuck here. Giving him a chance to reduce his stay - if he wants - is totally different than what I put Cal through.
Rude is staying right in my hands, until he wins. That means I still got leverage. Fuck yeah, I do. Cal responded real well to some training. You want a cigarette, buddy? Sure you do. But I want to hear you ask real nice. For a good half-hour...
Later. Rude's future just got complicated enough. Let's keep it simple, here. He'll smoke when I decide he can smoke. Get his rocks off, or sleep. All of it. No side deals to make it easier on him.
Nothing else to think about. Tickling - and the game. In that order. The thing he's here to get, and the only way out of it.
Hours and hours of gleeful fuckin' agony, whenever he loses. Now that he's paid for the straps he broke, I think I'll keep it real straightforward. He loses a hand, and I thrash him. Everything else is secondary, when you come right down to it.
I mean, shit. Tickling is why we're here.
As I shuffle the cards, I explain the rules of the game. And the stakes.
He watches the cards for awhile, and gets busy trying to bust loose. But I think he was listening.
I hold up the first card.
He sees it, and looks away. Growling, jaws clenched, as he tries to damage more of my restraints...
When fifteen seconds have gone by, I go over the rules again - feeling pretty damn tolerant, actually. It's obvious he's new to the idea of being strapped down like this. Then I show him another card.
But he's not in the mood to play.
The fantasy of getting loose is too much for him. He never even looks at the card!
Fifteen more seconds, and I just have to laugh. Shit, dude, you're not gonna win that way, I tell him. You just bought yourself another hour of way too much fun. Now try it again, and I show him a third card... but from the look he gives it, I'm surprised the damn thing doesn't catch on fire.
Card after card. He's trying not to look, and it's seriously amusing to watch. He's real interested in the ceiling, all of a sudden. Wrestling with the cuffs and the straps, getting nowhere fast...
Turns out I'm enjoying the game a lot more than he is. I just want to keep on going. He hasn't made a single guess. I bet he'll change his mind right quick.
He racks up twenty-two hours. Finally, I gotta force myself to set the cards down. I know of nothing that can prevent us from having the kind of fun Cal and I had. Today, tomorrow, and part of the next day.
I'm so eager to get to it, the gloves tremble as I pull 'em on.
His feet... well, they just aim to please. It looks like he had no idea how ticklish his soles are, not to mention how much more ticklish I'm gonna make 'em.
A few minutes of scratching up and down the sides of his feet, rubbing around the ball-joints - and he gets frantic all over again when I attack his arches. I've seen that before, with Cal... tickling one area, and it multiples the sensitivity of another area, close by.
Rude is so wild, I think he's gotta be coming up on some kind of limit. The last thing I want to do is break him, this early in the game. So I let him catch his breath...
And four gloves move more slowly, over his sides. Polishing the blurry old tats on pale, sweaty skin. Tracing the curves of the muscle groups, so damn solid it makes Cal seem like a slacker by comparison.
By his sixth rest break, he's begging for the cards. Promising me the moon...
Somewhere during the ninth hour he got angry again. Lunging and snapping. Cussing his head off.
He has nothing good to say about me. I can't believe he eats with that mouth... And I learn all kinds of new insults before I let him sleep. After all, it's only his first day.
I get him cleaned up, massage his wrists and ankles for awhile. And his backside.
He snores like a chainsaw.
Now I'm all wound up, and the fucker needs his sleep. I think I won't feel like writing as much, later. Not when I've got all this very ticklish skin laid out in front of me...
So - a few details about Cal-Boss - the ruthless tickler of Cal and Rude and plenty of other tough guys after this, legendary hunter of biker trash. What I did after I let Cal go... The first time I let him go. First of many, dirtbag. I'm watching you.
Really, the only reason I'm writing this at all is to fuck with his head. My A-number one buddy. Give him some reading material he'll really get into, since it's about him. And besides, he wrote such a total tribute to me. What a asskisser.The most ironic thing - I chuckle to myself whenever I think of it - is that Cal made me exactly what I am today. He knows me to be the thing he least wanted running his life.
I mean, shit. I had my orders. But it was just a job. I could do it - as it turns out, I think I do it real fuckin' well - and anyway I was still trying to figure out what I wanted to do...
After he wrote his love letter, I took Cal's past away from him and had me some major fun. And I don't mean just a couple weeks. Many weeks. He was starting to get loopy, so I let him go - I'm going to be a lot more careful with you now, bud. I think Rude's gonna teach me all kinds of shit, and you're the main beneficiary. Throw your calendar away...
The things I found on Cal's computer were exciting. And they all came true. He didn't remember them from before, of course... so it was all new stuff. Sadistic ideas. Major fun.
Of course I didn't burn what he wrote here - way too entertaining. He's still writing his heart out. That was his own idea. I can't wait to see what he insane shit comes up with. All that chuckling, and jacking off, as he writes more material for me to use, after making him forget he dreamed it up himself. Sweet.
Before I unblocked his memory, he got his orders. He's been acting like they just occurred naturally to him. The first day he could stand to have boots on his feet, he took the cash I left in his pockets and went out. Bought himself an nice Softail with dark grey flames on the gas tank. The day after that, he picked out a nice back-piece, some art for his chest...
He rides everywhere now. After he's all rested up, I'm going to haul him and his new stories back in here. Gotta pace myself, though. He and Rude have spoiled me. I'm sticking with bikers. Gettin' busy on their ass.I have three other rooms done now. Cal broke 'em all in for me.
One cell is supposed to be a construction site, waiting for more sheetrock, so that one was easy enough. Sawdust on the floor, a few stray boards laying around. The "furniture" is sanded, but not painted. I used cinderblock, too, so Cal knew he wasn't going to able to kick his way out. And the door's hung right, of course. It may not be pretty, but it's secure enough.
And the cabin... I'm not satisfied with it yet. At some point I'll do it over. But it's another locked cell, and that's what really counts. There's a fake window, blocked with a few sheets of plywood and a lot of nails. The door got the same treatment. I experimented with some sounds... as if it was windy outside, or raining hard. The ventilation is hidden, and it's perfect, if I do say so myself.
I'm almost done with the locker room. Getting the damn lockers in here was the biggest pain in the ass... worse than the mattresses.
Rude won't be getting the grand tour. Not this time.Cal told me all about him.
If I hadn't been curious enough, things would be real different for me. The second time I laid hands on ol' Taylor, just before I renamed him Cal, he was getting ready to have some fun of his own. Playing with himself, and writing about the fucker he wished I'd caught instead of him.
That was tempting enough. Gotcha, buddy. Let's see you sweat again. But he had this same pad of paper in his hand that I'm writing on now, with a few notes he'd scribbled as he ate. I saw him get more and more excited, just staring at the pad. There was a name he wrote down...
Rudy.
I made him tell me the whole dream, and everything he ever knew about the guy, over and over.I already had my first cell built. And I kept it simple. All-black, free of distractions.
When I finished that first four-day run with Taylor, I headed west. It was a fairly strong instinct. Reporting in, mission accomplished. There was an effort made to give me a new assignment. Fuck that, I said - I was told I get to call my own shots...
And it was true. Okay, then. It wasn't all that much trouble to create another... awareness, such as myself. Part of the risk of building the creativity into me was that I'd want to go off on my own. That happens a lot. But I was told I can sign up for a new mission anytime. It's a friendly relationship. I mean, shit, I'm out here tickling. Right? What I was made to do. They seem to appreciate that.
Anyway. They gave me the ballcap. Basic instructions. Magic hat for ol' Cal, wipe his memories. I tell him what to do, slipping in there when his defenses are a little bit confused. And the suggestion sticks like I superglued it in there. Comes back out like a dream.
I didn't know what the Harley logo was, at first. They told me it goes real well with leather. That worked for me, since I arrived at Taylor's house along with a box full of tickling shit - and sturdy restraints. Sure, I could've just held him down myself - but all that cowhide made a real solid impression on him. So I really got into leather. As intended. So did he, pulling his new gloves on with a big ol' smirk on his face. That sealed the deal.So I took my new ballcap, and started hunting for the right place. Cal was going to fall off the face of the earth, right? I slipped into the library. Nevada would work - but I just took a shine to this spot in Utah, as far from anywhere as I could want. Scouting around, I found a small cavern. Good, solid roof. Clearing out the rocks was easy. That gave me some natural ventilation to work with. I was pretty ignorant at first...
But I got my first storeroom built, and Cal's first cell. The black room. I hid the solar panels as best I could. While the batteries charged up, I went to Denver and got supplies for Taylor. Stocked his dungeon up real nice.
For his restraints, I ended up at a store which specialized in leather. And I got real excited then. Wanted to try everything. I tracked down an address outide of Vegas where they make this shit. All kinds of clothes and toys I never thought of. And latex. They had a lot of inventory, too. I love that warehouse. I'll take a dozen of these, and a case of those... Throw in a few more of those rubber sheets, and ten gallons of oil. Yeah.
I also got me some magazines.
That set the hook, I think. Leather, and bikers. Dudes that appreciated leather, and were just about the last ones to expect the kind of ass-kicking I had in mind. I added a few things to the black room, to make those ol' scooter tramps feel right at home.
And I gave Cal one more day to write, since he wasn't smart enough to run off. Turns out that was the day he started scribbing notes about the shady character I've got strapped down now... And when I came back to see Cal I brought a footlocker along with me, just packed with laughs.When it was time to let Cal rest up, I knew just who to hunt down next. The big fucker Cal wrote about. The thought of me making this tough guy laugh had Cal all worked up.
I had to watch three different bars. While I waited, I picked out a few other prospects - for later - and got their license plate numbers, borrowed their wallets for a minute. The third night I was hunting, I heard the name I was listening for. It was sixth or seventh time I'd heard it, since their nicknames aren't all that creative. But that time, it belonged to a smirking giant, big enough to be a pro wrestler - and a dead ringer for the description I'd tickled out of Cal. He rode to another bar, and then home. But I was ready. He got up to piss, have a smoke...
And a little chloroform.
Okay. He wakes up...
Before he reaches for a cigarette - hell, before he even realizes he's got to piss - I take two gloves and start tracing up and down his soles. Up and at 'em, Rude.
His body jerks a little... and his eyes are open, all of a sudden. He looks shocked. But the sensation isn't new - not after yesterday! - and when he lifts his head to look, I figure it out. Rude looks at my gloves, tickling him - and he's stunned because it's real. Actually happening - again.
As if yesterday wasn't intense enough... which, of course, it wasn't.
I dig in on his soles, and send a few fingers under his knees. He slams around, checking out the room hopefully - as if there might be someone here who will stop me! - and squirms. Snickering gives way to hooting, and braying...
When he stops struggling, I pull the gloves off and give him a nice big heya, Rude, top of the morning.
His response isn't very polite.
16oct02