So you fire up your last smoke and head for the store for a pack. Four blocks. A nice night to walk it...
More than halfway. Passing a store that's been vacant so long the "for rent" sign is seriously faded. The side entry has a cement step, with a bottle sitting on it. Kinda odd.
Maybe eight feet from it, you see the coal of a lit cigarette. A few inches over the bottle. And there's nobody there. Very odd. You approach more slowly - nope, no hand or arm.
Flashback, you decide. Not really there.
The cig is between a couple of fingers, though. A dark... glove is lowering, palm down against the mouth of the bottle. Definitely no person there - but the glove looks like it's on somebody's hand. Moving on its own?
"Hey."
You spin - and see nobody.
The voice is friendly, right next to you. Not yelling or anything, and not sounding like it comes from any kind of speaker. The door hasn't moved at all - is someone behind it? Nah. Too clear... This is pretty damn detailed for a hallucination.
Automatically you're taking a little step forward, and toward the street -
"Uh-huh." The glove floats up a yard. Smooth, straight path.
This is not sitting well with you. You stop, considering a dash backwards, or to the left. The glove, clearly empty, makes a fist. Fingers loosening a little, and - clearly a pumping motion. You hear a goofball chuckle. And you laugh out loud without thinking, surprised into it, regretting it immediately. What th-
In front of you! That's another glove, and it's holding a... feather? Huh. Tail-feather from a big pigeon, or something - the tip is pointed more or less at you, and it's approaching slowly. Swaying... back and forth. Menacing. But it's just a feather. Still, gloves don't just fly around on their own -
"'sup?," the voice says. Casual tone, near your right side. The glove with the cig hangs there, palm down and half-open. Relaxed, easy as hell. Amazing.
Whoa - the feather's... thrust at you suddenly, about chest-high. You leap back a good couple feet... which is weird, 'cause it's not like it's a knife or anyth-
And that glove pulls it back. Magic gloves with a mind of their own. Enough to spook anybody...
The bird. The feather-glove has turned its palm away and given you the finger. The sight of it makes you snort once, quietly. The middle finger's pointing toward you now - a hard gesture like a jab -
The door flies open, and hands lock onto your arms. You rear back hard -
Fists hitting the back of your knees. Legs buckling - gloves hustling you, backward, toward -
The one with the cig picks up the bottle and follows you in.
In. Three or four seconds. Just enough time to wonder if you're really being hustled into this building, behind the dirt-caked window glass. And then, the door's shutting. Wham.
"Are we quick, or what? Hey. Good to know ya." The voice still seems to be only a couple feet away from you, an average guy on the street.
Squirming, still held, you say to yourself well, there's definitely no one there. But if this isn't real, no move's the wrong one. Besides, no alternate plan is occurring to you...
"Yeah..." you say, "damn quick."
A snort of agreement. Fuckin' unbelievable. "Thirsty, bro?" Sloshing noise - the bottle.
"No th-"
"Aah, c'mon, fuck that noise, it's yours. Here." The grips on your arms tighten, a new one grabs the scruff of your neck. You fight a lot harder -
The bottle's shoved between your teeth - burning... Your shirt's wet. And you're swallowing. Several times -
"There." You cough hard, and the hands let go. "Don't see what's the big deal. You dropped your smoke - here." A coal approaching, and you turn away. It swings around - "What's this shit? You lost your cig. Take it. We got more." Not really having a choice, you take it. Nonfilter... a quick drag - it's okay, just a Camel. "There ya go."
You step toward the door. Stumbling - "Whoa! You wanna sit, before you trip yourself?" Hands pressing on your shoulders. The booze is... working. You manage to lower yourself, hearing a little noise. A pack. New cig. You feel kinda... rebellious, sitting here in the dark. This stuff with the gloves, though... way too weird.
"Here, bro." Sticking a new cig between your fingers. Lighting it off the old one, you're having big trouble focusing...
There's silent movement a few feet away, between you and the door. The feather, being wiggled slowly...
"What's the deal?" you mutter.
"Hey, this street's got cops on it all the time. You don't wanna be where they can see ya. Just bein' neighborly... well, okay, and we like to show off how fast we can move. Impressive, huh? To the rescue." No reply occurs to you that's safe, as well as honest, so you're just nodding loosely.
A couple more smokes. The voice stays friendly, but damn it's got a stubborn streak. Easier to go along...
Door's opening.
"Okay. The coast is clear." The glove and feather are silhouetted in the entry now, 'cause it's less dark outside than it is in here. You start standing - but the booze is doing its work. No way you can walk yet.
"You're trashed, fucker. Can't hang out here, with all the cops around. Somebody might've seen you come in this place." Gloves are steadying you as they get you to your feet. "So where's home?"
"Uh..." You're trying to say the street number right -
"Hey. I know. We gotta place right around the corner. All set up, quiet, real secure - nobody comes near it. Big ol' yard. Sleep it off there tonight." They're basically carrying to the door, and you're protesting. Slurring your words badly, then giggling - "Shut up. No argument. Really, it's no problem. Come with us." And then, they stop. "Dude." Sneaky tone, now. "Hate to see this go to waste..."
They're shoving the bottle back in your mouth.
Your head's rolled back, and gloves with strong hands in 'em are rushing you down the street. Sure.
They're lighting another cigarette for you. Floating you just over the railroad embankment, you're distantly aware that they haven't had to pause or rest once. And you wonder why this house of theirs is farther away than they said it was... How can gloves even have a house? Is it like that store you were just in? Hell, how can gloves even talk? You're confused, and drunk. Everything's spinning...
"Awake, bro? Shit. Whajda do, sleep right through the hangover?"
Clink, click, pause. Clink.
You squint - click, clink. A Zippo. Glove holding it, firing it up. Cig in your mouth - so you crane your neck and light up.
Tug on it and look - small room, carpeting on the walls. No window. Above, one of those florescent lantern-type lights, battery operated... You're -
Hey. Your clothes are gone. There's a mattress under your back... that squeaks a little, as if there's some liner under the sheet. Wha-
Bracelets. No - you're wearing wristbands. Seriously wide... and thick, stuck through a D-ring and - are those rivets? Rivets!?
"Cool, or what? Look good on ya. And durable - man. We got all kinds of that shit. Yours, bro. We sure can't wear 'em. No arms or legs." No way - but yeah, they're wrapped around your ankles too.
This is not right. You check a wrist cuff for slack with your thumb - and there is none. Not pinching, but not about to turn any, either.
"Those rings, see... they look way too thick." A glove, index finger pointing as it comes carr-
"But these aren't just for show. You take a hasp, and... snag it in here-" A big fuckin marine hasp, the kind with a spring to pop the tongue right back out so it looks like there's not even a break in the loop... snags the ring of the left cuff... "See?"
More gloves, flying in fast, with metal. "Take some chain or something, catch it on the same hasp and fasten the other end somewhere with a hasp too. Heh." There are really thick, gleaming links at both cuffs now and streching off -
You try to look - and see the invisible dude has you chained to thick rings in the wall, a little higher than the mattress.
"Wha- what are you d-" you stutter, distracted by the hasps and chain at your feet -
"Same thing down below..." You're sliding fast - 'til there's no more slack, and your wrists drop. Taut. Fast clicks - stretched out tight... in just a few seconds, before you can even finish your sentence.
"See? Caught right. Try to turn, or do anything. These rings in the wall, they're like bolted into double studs - and this kind of clip ain't never gonna open 'til we press the cutaway piece down. Now you tell me how you'd be able to do that, yourself, when the chains don't have any slack. No way. Fuckin' down... for the count."
You're snapping the chains, giving 'em all you got. There is no way this could be real.
"Now, say you got a honey who's into the kink. Put her down here, and dude! Sky's the limit." From the other end of the room, just past your left foot, gloves are pulling a piece of carpet off the wall. Space... a cubbyhole, maybe a closet. "Anything you want." A glove's coming out, cruising way over your legs - you try to see wha-
Rubbers. Another one, carrying... wires. Electrodes. You're staring. "Or say... say some dude wants some custom work -" A glove's rummages around in the cubbyhole, and the others start taking their stuff back. "- but he's tweakin', real hyper. Wants it done now. You just get him high..." The latest prop.
That can't be a tat gun -
"Presto. Sleeve him. Full front side - no problem. Fidgeting is nuthin'... so long as you got enough hands." Pulling for all you're worth, groaning to yourself - a glove darts up, pulls the cig. Another's come over with a bottle. Empty. The butt's dropped into it. The label, or at least the part you can read, says DEXIHY-
"Neat, huh?" A new Camel hits your teeth. The Zippo's lit, not going away... so you quit flailing long enough to light up.
"This, though, is probably our favorite." And gloves are rising straight up. More, from the closet - pairs. Must be a dozen of 'em. More. Right up to the carpet, behind the lantern -
"Escape hatch. Cooler n' shit. The door's behind your head, but the mattress is tight up against it. And you're gonna have to get up to slide the mattress any, aren'tcha?" One glove's dropping a few inches, under the light. "Seeya!"
Gone. No voice... no gloves.
"Hey. Uh... C'mon." Nothing. "Hello?"
The cig's done. Trying to ditch it, you end up dropping it right by your arm. You get it snuffed, finally...
Under the hole you just burned the sheet, there's another layer visible. Rubber.
You try and try to get loose.
"Bro. Bro. Piss now. 's okay."
You make a low noise, squinting - there's a pickle jar under your dick. You need to go pretty bad... How long did they leave you alone here, anyway?
"Fill 'er up." A plastic bottle, cap gone - tilting - it is, it's just water. "Da man." You watch the bottle and jar being taken away. A glove's bringing another cig. Filter - there's now a pack of 'Boros laying by the ashtray.
"You're right where we left ya! Didn't get too far, huh? We like just hangin' out here too..." The Zippo's clinking open - and a glove comes, jabbing a finger into your breastbone.
"Hey. Listen up." Jab. "Now you know that you really can't get loose. We gave you time to see for yourself. There's no fuckin' way we'd actually run out on a bro, and leave him chained down 'til - nuh-uh, now get this, you couldn't be in better hands right now. And we mean it totally, bro." Jab. "No matter what, all your parts are gonna be in even better shape than they were before. We're a little pushy, I suppose." Jab. "But we ain't gonna break nuthin', no shit. No lie. We're that careful. Straight-up." A last jab. Gloves are pulling on the wrist-chains, making sure they're still taut.
You glance up - and freeze, halfway through a drag on the smoke. Maybe a yard over you, there's the glove with the feather. And it's dropping -
You try to jump away from it. Pure reflex.
"Dude! Whoa!" That glove rears back just a little. "Sheeit. Watch it." Another one pulls your cig and drops it into the bottle. "Don't be burnin' no more holes. Now wha-"
This feels... scary -
"Oooohhhh." The feather spins between the glove's fingers... slowly. "Heh heh heh."
Oh... fuck.
"You wanna get away from this little thing? Hoooo-oooo." The voice laughs, sounding sneaky. "Well, what would be way more intense, tough guy?"
Wha- two gloves are flying up, and now they dive to your sides -
"This."
Shock. Slamming through you. A scream busts out of you that's high and loud -
The damn gloves knead your ribs like they're never gonna stop. As if you'd set up and harden like stone or something when they lay off...
You're out of it. Barking laughter real loud. They're driving you nuts - oh, whew, they're slowing down. Not as fast, maybe not as hard - four gloves, there's now four of 'em riding your sides -
"Fuck, dude." The voice is close to your right ear, or else you'd never hear it over the full-steam roars you're kicking out. Even slow, this is fuckin' bad. They're workin' you... real thorough.
"Those cuffs holdin' just fine, ain't they? Sure they are. Chains still gotcha spread out... Stuck tight, no matter what." A glove settles into your right armpit, digging in. Its open end is an inch or two from your face. Satin, black - and now you sound even wilder -
"Oh, and what do we have here? Betcha wish you could - yeeee-eah." Another glove - no! No! Gentle - but it's curling around your meat. Wrap - you're already hard, it looks like. The satin creeps up, twists... eases on down, rides around again, teasing back up -
"Gotta be the biggest fuckin' rush you - hey, wait just a minute here." Gloves creep under your head, and hold it up. "You clue us in, here, 'cause we're forgettin' something. What was that again?" You're hooting, and you squint - four gloves, six, eight. Two of 'em just hanging over you, and another pair starts to descend -
"You know what we're forgetting?" Almost on your thighs, then moving toward your chest. "Where'd be the worst fuckin' place these two could - man, the place to really get busy...?" Moving down now, the gloves slow down over your knees -
"Can't move, not at all..." They've stopped in their tracks. Right over your feet.
Squealing, trying to shake your head -
"Aaahhh. Got it. Can't ignore these -"
Zip. They clamp on your soles, squeeze hard, and then get the black fingers rocking.
You howl, head falling back, flailing around - can't move your feet, your legs, your arms. Not at all.
"Yeah..." More! Other pairs, coming around - legs. Your tits. Creeping under your neck - and your ass -
"How long ya good for?" Crowing, repeated about three times.
Solid, invisible hands are inside the gloves, rubbing and squeezing you everywhere.
Hoot, howl, fuckin' yell laughter, and it's nowhere near enough to cope with 'em.
"Days? Fuck, yeah. Heh, heh, heh. We'll check ya over, and there'll be smoke breaks... after tonight. You're a three-packer, right, bro? Or four? But now, let's do this right - long-timer!"
More fingers. Busy, impossible - full-on. So many spots getting covered, quick here, deep there.
Whooping doesn't get across how nuclear the impact is, and neither does hollering...
25apr97