"You wouldn't."

The voice found that way too funny. "Good one, Bobby."

"How do you know my name? Where the hell are you?"

"Shoot. We know all about you. And we're right here. We're gonna stay here... with you."

The door looked solid. "No, no, hell no," he groaned.

"Hell, yeah. Listen up. Gonna have a real hot time, Bobby. We're gonna see to that."

"What 'we'?"

"Well, me and Doc. Doc's here too. Don't talk much. And me, well," the voice said, dragging it out, "you can call me... Big Earl."
 

They know, he thought. They really, really know. About the toolshed.

"No," was all could manage to get out, thunderstruck.

"Yeah."

"Wh-Why me?"

"Well, we met up with Earl."

"Earl?" Bob said. "I don't know any Earl-"

"Hah. You don't, huh? Well, he sure remembers you. One afternoon in particular, what, seven years ago?"

"No..."

"Sure it was. See, Bobby... Earl moved to St. Louis. Got himself a post office box. And you should see the kind of videos he gets. Magazines. So we shadowed him for awhile. One night, drunk off his ass, he started to tell a story. Our kind of story, actually. The only thing he didn't say was your name."

"Then - how di-"

"Easy there, cowboy. We tagged along, when the bar closed up. And we generously offered to give him a lift. Matter of fact, since we had him in the van, we took him on a little field trip. And when we saw this place... well, our minds were made up, they were. We found a way to... persuade Earl to talk. He's fun, Bobby. You would've want to see him there. But he's gettin' fat, and he's got asthma. He did tell us your name, eventually."

But I was in Chicago, Bob told himself. Maybe still there, in the park? Dreaming all this?

"That afternoon really stuck with him. Made a real impression. He had some of the details wrong... probably the story got better as he told it to himself over and over. But he came up with the name of the town. Scola, Kansas."

"Aaaaaw, fuck -"

"Yessir. We know, Bobby. We surely do. Seven long years ago, you and the guys. Right here. Earl had some fun -"

"No!"

"You know it. All afternoon. He got your tennis shoes off... and your socks. Pulled your shirt way up. so the chain held it out of the way -"

"You're crazy! That didn't really happen, he's lying -"

"Oh, Bobby. C'mon now. You told us yourself. Last night."

"Bullsh-"

"All about it. We filled in some of the blanks, of course. But there weren't too many. So here ya are. Again. The toolshed, better than ever."

"Noooooo..." This can't be happening -

Big Earl laughed at him again.
 

"I didn't drive back here. I wouldn't -"

"What's the matter? Don't believe your eyes?"

He just drops his head, shaking it slowly.

"You ever heard of a 'hologram', Bobby?"

He looked around, even more confused. "Like a movie? 3-D movie -"

"Close enough. Like a movie that's so real, you'd swear it was the real thing. Yessir. Believe that, if you want. If you want to get on our bad side... Go ahead and ignore what you already know. This isn't the toolshed - it's a different toolshed. Maybe we tracked down the original and studied it. Took a camera out there. Copied it. Beefed it up so it'd hold a big guy. Closed it up tight. You just go ahead and think that, if you wanna tick us off. Up to you."

"You couldn't know, not before... there's no way you could find me."

"Didn't have to. We found Earl. He squealed - in every way - and told us your mom was still on Prairie. She's got a phone bill, Bobby. With her brother's number on it. And his last phone bill had a collect call on it, from a homeless shelter for kids. Downtown Chicago. So that's where we went, with an old picture of you, borrowed from your mom's place -"

"Fuck," he whispered.

"We found you, and we watched you. Biding our time. Got ourselves some pentothal -"

"Some what?"

"Truth serum, Bobby. And we asked you if what Earl said was total bullshit... or if any of it was real."

"No -"

"And... wow. You told us about some real bad dreams."

Oh, fuck, he thought. They know, they really know -

"You told us everything, on the way here. Don't you remember? Ah, must be the booze. The original dream, where Earl gets you back out there somehow and ties you down. That goes on for, what, one night? All night? And then you have the summer vacation one. Earl saying he's gonna boogie all summer. But Jason goes looking and finds you, what, the second night? The possibility, though - bein' caught there for a whole month, maybe two - that just didn't seem to sit too well with you. Heh."

His mouth wouldn't work right. Too scared.

"There's the one where you go out to the mill, with some other guys, to smoke your first joint..."

"Don't -"

"But you get lassoed and hauled back in. Magic rope. Invisible hands. And the other guys never come looking for you, that time. Do they? A long weekend. That version where you get drunk was sorta confusing. Magic rope again, is that it? Booze, too. And feathers. That one's either four or five days long. We couldn't tell for sure."

He stares at the door, wondering if there's any chance it'll budge if he kicks it hard enough.

"And then... of course... Tough Bob."
 

"Don't! Please, aw please, don't."

"Your uncle's a oil roughneck, ain't he? The one everybody says you look like?"

"No -"

"Yeeeeeah. Out on the oil rigs. Big guy. Wild as they come. Takin' after him, there, Bobby?"

"Please -"

"So it's only natural to picture him... as the grown-up version of yourself. About twenty-four, twenty-five. Is that right?" The voice made an affirmative noise, but didn't give him time to interrupt. "So, one fine summer night, after the bars close... He's walkin' around. A little privacy. Gonna smoke himself a joint, maybe. Finish off the bottle he's got in his hand -"

"You... c-can't..."

"And he's goin' right past the old mill - but something grabs his attention. Out back. Gets his curiosity up. Or maybe the place just looks made to order for a guy to wander into, take a load off. Get high. And the fences are loose now, right by the posts. Enough to squeeze through. So he does. Tough Bob walks through the doorway like he owns the place."

Bob just shook his head slowly, eyes shut tight.

"So there he is. Sits himself down, digs out his joint. Fires it up. Has a good ol' time. Maybe he likes the atmosphere. Old deserted workshop, that garage smell... no door on it any more, and the moonlight coming through the doorway. Anyway, he gets good and stoned. And the poor guy doesn't even see the rope floating up. Behind him. Silent. Around his left wrist, the one he's leaning on. Another piece bein' careful, staying on the other side of his arm. Then around. Looping slowly."

Shaking hard, all over, he lit another cigarette.

"And he doesn't even know it..."

Bob's hand started to move. His left hand. He tried to stop it, but the glove was in control. Down, along the ground.
 

"I'm beggin' ya."

"He takes one more snort from the bottle. And the rope tightens. Slowly."

Pressure. Around his wrist. And he knew what it was. No doubt. He tried to jump up, but his hands didn't budge.

"Tough Bob brings that joint back up to his lips, and has himself a nice long toke. Lets it hang from his lips. And when does reach for it - his hand won't go. Somehow. And instead - what do you know - his left arm, it's starting to lift up... and out..."

Bob didn't want to look. But he couldn't help it -

Rope. Straight up in the air. Two strands, pulled tight over the bar. Wrapped around... his wrist...

And his right hand was being pulled behind him. Slowly, reluctantly, but going anyway.

"He catches on when it's almost fully extended. Trying to get to his feet, he lurches a little. Drunk. And high. Laughing a little at himself, like he thinks it's funny. He steps backward, to keep from falling. Right boot-heel skidding on the concrete, as that arm rises, behind his back..."

Bob got up, off the floor, despite trying to keep his ass on the ground. Several loops of rope were around each of his wrists, keeping his arms way up. They made it look as if he was reaching for the pipe. His hands, going up. Reaching.

"But he catches his balance when he's on his feet. Stands there, looking at his arms, all puzzled. He doesn't get it. He takes a puff - then he seems to remember it's a joint. He wolfs down a good long hit, edging backward as he does..."

Bob ended up standing... directly under the pipe. He tried to fall, but the rope was taut -

"And then - he goes up -"

"Ow! No!"

"Up in the air. Just a few inches off the floor. Tough Bob, he goes, 'Fuck! Hey!' And his fingers pushed down - held - around the pipe."

The gloves made Bob's hands do the same.

"He looks up there, at his hands. His wrists. Staring, as the rope knots. Tying real slick, huh? Around and under, and over. All by itself. Thick rope, good knots. And there he hangs, Tough Bob... All tied up."
 

It was hypnotic. He stared, telling himself there was no way it could really be happening. Bob saw the rope move around the pipe again, and around itself. Easy... and efficient.

"He blinks at that a few times. 'What the fuck is this?,' he says. Ignoring the joint... So, since he's not paying it any attention..."

Bob's cigarette was pulled from his lips. It floated straight out a few inches, hung there... and dropped.

"No, please, you just... c'mon," he whined.

But Big Earl was on a roll. "And next, if we remember rightly..."

Tug. And then Bob couldn't see. Blindfold. A bandanna or something, being tightened -

"Yeah. That sounds right. He fights hard, but it don't matter now. Swings there. 'You're fuckin' dead, you hear me, you better cut me down right now. Hey. Hey, somebody. I'm gonna kill... somebody. Some son of a bitch is gonna wish he was dead.' And that's true enough. Ain't it, Bobby? Somebody is gonna wish they were dead. Real soon, now. Only he's got it backwards. You said he's a brawler. Good in a fight. But - come to find out - even he's got a weakness. A big one. Sure as shit. Probably nobody knows about it..."

Bob whimpered.

"Except here. In the toolshed. Where this roughneck's gotten tied to a pipe. And blindfolded, so he can't see... what's coming."

And he twisted, kicking as hard as he could. It didn't loosen the ropes any.

Poke. His gut.
 

He yelped, too loud - and immediately wished he could take it back.

"Yeah. You got it. Tough Bob recoils too, just like that. 'What? What the fuck?' What did he just feel?"

Fingers. One hand... pressed over his belly-button, fingertips starting to dig.

"Naaaaagh!," Bob yelled. "Don't, no, nooooooooo...."

"Uh-oh! There it goes again! He flops back - but he's still tied up there! Somebody's... pokin' him!"

The hand attacked Bob again. Quick jabs, dragging off. He snorted and tried to whip himself around, so he'd face the other direction. Get his belly away from the hand. Of course, the rope was too tight for that, and he spun right back around, facing front.

"Now, even when he's wasted, ol' Tough Bob is a... handful. After he gets done growling and twisting, he rears back - movin' real quick, like he does - and swings a hard roundhouse kick right above the hand. But he doesn't connect. The fucker couldn't have moved out of range, not that fast. He tries it again, and again. Nothing..."

A thumb hooked into the front of Bob's jeans.

"And when a hand grabs on to his belt... to hold him still... he kicks some more. Still - nobody! No sounds to tell where the guy is. None. And this one hand, it's got a grip on his belt."

Fingers replaced the thumb. Bob reared back, but now he really couldn't move far.

"And then - another hand dives in!"

Attack. All over his gut. Squeezing, scratching his shirt hard, always moving.
 

Under his shirt?

"Naaaaa aaah haaaah haaaaa!..."

"Oh, yeah."

It was impossible. He couldn't thrash around enough. The hand stayed right there. Roaming.

Tickling... 

A few eternal minutes passed. He was pretty sure it was only a few minutes. But they were preposterously long.

Then there was a sound. Bob's head flew up. Panting, while he tried to listen.

He should recognize that sound. Right? It was his nightmare, after all.

"Oh no," Big Earl mocked. "He doesn't wanna believe it. So fuckin' ticklish. When he finally puts it together..."

A tug. And he felt air - cool air, on his chest. His arms.

His sides.

"...the sadistic so-and-so had already cut off his shirt."

"Noooooooo-"

The hand - it was back! Roaming more firmly. Impossible force... the feeling -

Across, and up - Up! Bob found new energy to buck. And hee-haw. No!

"Aw, yeah..."
 

"And then... well, you know... That one hand had his ribs..."

Bob hissed in air.

"Wait - on both sides? No... now, that there's a second hand."

They squeezed and kneaded... slowly...

Bob kicked backwards, and started to chuckle.

"Both of his sides. No hand on his belt anymore. So now he can swing..."

Bob was already in motion. Back, returning forward... yanking sideways didn't get him anywhere. Fingers rode along, moving, clenching.

"Yup. You got it. But it just don't matter. They've got a-hold of him..."

They crept around. A thumb landed higher - and he laughed harder, louder.

"And he... can't... get out of their grip."

"Nuh huh huh huh huh huh huh huh," Bob chortled, trying to throw off the blindfold. "Naaaannnnnnaah hah hah hoh noh hoh hoh huh hunnnnuh huh huh..."

And they slid up. Fire, climbing his sides. He tried to swing harder, snap the rope. The fire coated him anyway, sinking in deep. Steady, solid. He roared and whooped, but it kept burning. Tears ran down his cheeks.

More than anything, Bob wanted to laugh harder. Give the hands an accurate idea of... how much it tickled. How much. And Bob couldn't express it strongly enough. That was the biggest need. Sorta like needing to piss so bad you couldn't get it out of your bladder fast enough...
 

And there came a time when the hands were barely moving.

"And as bad as it's been, so far..."

Fingers. In his armpits. The other pair was still clamped on, lower.

"Twice as many hands... take hold of him, and -"

They all kicked it in.

Bob howled once, and flopped backward. Gibbered like a monkey. Started a pull-up, and pedaled his feet. And the hands didn't go anywhere.

And it was far too exciting. Like being stuck between big bass amps, the effect of each finger pounding into him like a gigantic booming note. Flailing around didn't take him any farther away from 'em. He'd finally identify where a particular hand was, what it was doing - and wham, his attention snapped to another one. Oh shit, no, it's, it's, aw no, aw no...
 

"And when he's all worn out," Big Earl was saying, "too tired to move... The hands up and take hold of his legs, a-"

"No! No! Please, no! Don't -"

"And they lift 'em up... Like this? Do we got it right? Locked on? So, after he tries and tries to kick 'em off..."

Pressure. Right foot - over the ratty canvas of his tennis shoes. Fingers gripped tight, above his heel.

"They... take off his boots."

He reared back as hard as he could.

"Remember, Bobby? What you told us? They definitely go for the boots. They gotta come off. Oh, yeah. You know why." Aw fuck, he thought hopelessly. No. Not that.

"So he's wheezing - and what is it that Tough Bob says -"

"No. Don't. Aw, I can't s-"

"Tell us again. He's kinda scared by now, isn't he? Big bugger. Pretty damn worried. He's stoned, he's addled, fightin' for breath. Still hanging, up there. Just like this. Legs held tight... Tell us. As the fingers start to land, what in the world does he blurt out?"

"Help! Helllllp! Not my feeeeee-"

Bob's left shoe came off his heel. Then the right. Both shoes slid forward. Coming off. It was the last thing in the world he wanted. But his shoes were being taken off anyway.

"Say it, Bobby."

He knew what they wanted to hear. He didn't want to say it. And he knew he was going to, eventually. Sure as shit. They had ways of making him... talk. So finally he growled it, and it came out all scratchy...

"You break 'em in... You bought 'em."
 

Big Earl chuckled then. "That's right. Very good, Bobby. That's just what he says to the hands."

His shoes went away. Gone. And fingers hooked into his socks. Slid 'em down.

"And that doesn't discourage 'em at all. Nossir."

His socks pulled free. Bob felt air on his feet. Nothing left. No protection.

"Naaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwl..." There had to be, like, six hands steadying each of his legs. Maybe more. He couldn't stand it. This was far worse than the most graphic Tough Bob nightmare. They had him. It was really gonna hap-

No. This wasn't possible, so it couldn't really be happening. Another nightmare... but he felt 'em, holding his calves tight, his ankles. Under his thighs. And he remembered that last cigarette. It was real. Too clear. Not a dream - but still, they were not going to actually... tickle his feet. No. This was not really gonna happen! The ceiling would fall in now, or the floor would explode. Okay by him... Or his blindfold would be pulled off, and the guys would jump out, laughing, and cut him down.

Bob hung there, ass in midair, and refused to believe the hands would do it. Actually do this. His feet. It just couldn't happen. Period. Someone would come, right now. The cops, even. Busting in. He'd be totally embarrassed, sitting here like this, shoes off, hands tied. Feet about to get it. A big guy like him - but hey, he'd escape the ti-

"They break 'em in..."

Fingers. Touched. His heels.

"They bought 'em. Hey, that would mean... They own 'em."

And moved up. Pressed into his soles.
 

Bob screamed. A weird, giggly scream. Oh no -

"Buy 'em, wrap 'em up... take 'em home. All theirs."

"No no no no no n-"

They started in. And they were... hauling ass.

Bob couldn't tear his legs away. He tried and tried.

What he could do was roar. And keep roaring.
 

Nobody had ever touched his feet. Not for more than a few seconds. Well, nobody except Earl.

And now... Big Earl. He couldn't get his legs away. The hands held on tight, so the other hands could keep tickling him.

They weren't fuckin' around. It was solid, hardcore rubbing. The only time it eased off at all was when he started to get dizzy. Laughing so much he couldn't breathe right...

But the hands pulled back until he was okay. If he squirmed a little - which he could only put off for so long - they took that as their cue to start back in. Begging and crying didn't work. No squeal, or wail, was pathetic enough to get him out of this. And he was sounding pretty damn pathetic.

The hands traveled, after a while. Played with his legs. That was bad, too - even through his jeans. The fingers tickled down the front of his feet, and poked under the cuffs of his pantlegs. That got him shaking again. The horrible thought of those fingers creeping under the denim, pressed in closer by his jeans, and sliding... slithering up...

They never let go of his ankles. Repositioning, sometimes, but they didn't let him kick his feet. Not done, down there. Hell, no.
 

After they kneaded their way up his thighs, the hands let go -

And took their places on his ribs.

Up, and back, and around. All around.
 

Holding him tight, as Bob caught his breath for about the twentieth time...

There were thumbs, dug in right where his neck met his shoulders, and fingers laying firmly over his collarbones. Just waiting.

That was another horrible surprise. The back of his neck. He'd never been ticklish there before. But the hands kept at it until they found a couple places that made him flop around. That worried him. Maybe because he was so worked up already... Or the combination of those hands with the others - right then, on his pecs. And his belly. Stuff was happening that topped every bad dream he'd ever had.
 

A longer break. Some water. Food - peanuts. More water...

Then a cigarette was stuck between his lips.

Bob hung there, kicking out smoke. His jeans were soaked. And squishy. He was too blown away to be embarrassed. Nobody'd know anyway. Except him. And the fuckin' ticklers.

His cock ached. At some point he'd been so worked up he'd been... thrusting. Hadn't he? But he didn't remember finishing up. A little raw, though.

He'd been sweating so much it felt like a shell, almost. A layer of film. His hair was wet...

Bob took a drag -

And felt a touch. Left foot. And right. He froze. Aw no. No.

More fingers, spreading out. They were going to start again. Back on his feet - no, he told himself wildly, chuckling out smoke. Get it right. They bought 'em. Their feet. Theirs.

They took his cigarette away, and gave "their" feet another devastating workout.
 

It went on for so long, he got past being amazed. Or afraid it would keep going on. It just did.

Bob ran out of ways to look forward to the end of this.
 

His dreams were all mixed up. Full of action, but nothing much seemed to happen.
 

When he yawned, and opened his eyes... he saw a pipe. Up near the ceiling.

Bob stared at it. He didn't want to look anywhere else. Eventually, he looked at the far end of the pipe, where it ran into the wall. Lavender wall. Cinderblock.

He sighed then, and closed his eyes. A slow, hard pull with both arms confirmed the obvious. Leather creaked, as he tried to move his hands. And - of course - his feet, too.

Something touched his lip. It startled him. Then he was mad, right away. At himself. Just a cigarette.

So that's how it is, he thought to himself, as he peeked. Yup. After a few seconds, he couldn't come up with another option, so he took the cigarette. Watched a lighter approach, and clink open. It was purple. Enameled. Darker than the color of the walls... but too close to be a coincidence. It fired him up, and he watched it close and go, struck by the thought that he'd be seeing that lighter for a long time. Definitely.

His kidnapper didn't say anything, so Bob pulled at the straps awhile. They were everything he'd come to expect. He was spread-eagled on a wide mattress, and he confirmed he was staying put. And he was.

Bad enough to be in here at all. Worse when there was a door in place. A closed door. But - strapped down. Naked...

And knowing why.

He struggled again, grunting out smoke.
 

After that cig, a water bottle ambled over. Then, an open pack.

Well into his third cigarette... he heard a quiet sound. Like someone clearing their throat. His head flew up, scanning all around. Then he was afraid to blink.

There was nothing to see. No empty hands, no feathers.

Not yet.

"The next morning," Big Earl said suggestively.

"Lemme go. Please," Bob said, wild and frantic.

"Sssssh. Really. You've got to hear this. The next morning, it doesn't take long for ol' Tough Bob to discover the awful truth."

"Pleeeez-"

"Shut up. Or else. The awful truth is... he's tied down, laid out on a bunch of cardboard."

Bob looked at the leather cuff around his left ankle, at the straps anchoring it, pulling that corner of that mattress down. A mattress, with a sheet. "I don't-"

"Last warning." Said calmly enough - but the tone was unmistakable.

Bob gulped... and took another drag.

"Good. Tied down, he is. Naked as the day is long. He's barely started to snap at the ropes when he sees... cigarettes. His own pack, maybe. Moving, all by itself."

And here came the pack again. One slid out.

"That pisses him off. He wrestles around and yells at it. But, don't you know it, his voice is just about shot. And he isn't getting anywhere." As the new cigarette approached, Bob's was pulled and tossed aside. "Maybe he realizes he wants a smoke. Needs one. Or he's sized up the situation, and it don't look good..."

The cigarette slid between his lips.

"So he stares at it a while longer. Eventually, he swears at it - 'Fuck!,' he says, in a real loud whisper - and then he up and grabs it. Gets it between his teeth."

The lid of the lighter sprang open as it honed in.

"A match scrapes across the floor, and by then he's not nearly as surprised. Not by that point."

As he sucked in, the lighter backed away and closed.

"So he takes a light, and watches the match get tossed aside, bouncing on the floor. Then... nothing. So he lays there, smokin' his cigarette, and thinks up some new ways to test the ropes. He looks himself over again - and something catches his eye."

In the silence that followed, Bob almost asked what caught his eye -

"There... past his right foot. A couple of boxes, on the floor." He looked. Saw 'em. "Cardboard boxes."

From where he laid, all Bob could see was a carton of smokes sticking out of the top of one box.

"Tough Bob looks at 'em awhile. As if... maybe they weren't there last night. The boxes look pretty full. All that stuff. Reasonable enough to figure if there's cigarettes in there, his Camels... then the rest of the stuff is probably for him. One way or another. And not just one case... but two."
 

Bob shot a glance behind him, where the shelves were still full of boxes.

"So - whatever's tied him up, also went out and got some supplies. What kind of supplies? How long are they good for? Only time will tell."

He pulled on his cigarette, watching it shake.

"When he stops staring at the provisions, Bob's eyes start to wander. They stop at his clothes, laying under the pipe. Left where they fell last night..."

Bob saw no clothes on the floor, but he didn't interrupt.

"And there's his jacket, which he stupidly took off himself. If only he had that leather on now, huh? Zipped up. Some protection... And right over here's the rag which used to be his t-shirt. And his jeans. Lying there, waiting. His boots are a little farther away. His socks..." Big Earl paused again, as Bob stared at the empty floor. "And past all that - the doorway."

He couldn't help but look, almost daring to hope. Knowing better. Yeah, there it was - dark wood, brown or black. Closed and barred. Locked.

"The free world. Sunlight, out there," Big Earl went on. "Freedom. Maybe ten feet away from where he lays. And in here... well, now he knows just what he's got coming to him, here in the toolshed. Same as last night, and more of it."

His arms started pulling at the straps again. Bob noticed, but didn't seem to be able to make 'em stop.

"He squints at the long grass, real inviting in the sunlight. And that gets him restless. Fighting with the ropes again. He's gotta get out there! Get away. If he can just get himself loose - stop and grab his jeans, his boots... and run for the door..."

The panic worked its way down into Bob's legs, too. Even though the door wasn't open, and he was certain he wouldn't be getting out of here... for a long time...

The image of an open exit, and the daytime sun beyond it, was almost real enough to see.

"After another good tussle, he catches his breath again. A water bottle's right there, waiting him out. Then the pack serves him up, and another match drags across the cement floor." The pack rose from the floor, and tilted a new cigarette out. "Then he just lays still, Tough Bob does. He just smokes. With his head turned to the side... looking at the weeds out the door. Wishing..."

Bob lit up again, and looked all around him. Ended up looking at the door.

"Yeah. Just like that. Except there's no door for him to look at, of course. Big ol' locked door." Big Earl sighed. Sounded happy. "Hey! You know what? Staring like that - like you're doing now - with that cigarette hanging there... Well, you're not a little kid any more, are ya? Little Bobby. Nope. You're all grown up." Another stomach-churning pause. Don't say it, he thought uselessly -

"You're Tough Bob now. Sure you are."
 

Suddenly his cigarette was yanked out of his mouth.

"And you know what he's in for. Every minute of it. Don't you? Why he's tied down..."

From the box - Bob's head swiveled to see - two... hands. Black leather gloves. Floating up.

Looking, as they cruised over Bob, just like they were being pulled on a pair of big, invisible hands.

"Sure you do," Big Earl said quietly, almost snickering.

"Please - no," Bob whispered, shaking his head.

The moving fingers dropped. To his gut.

"Tough Bob, caught in the toolshed," the calm voice said. "You know why."

The fingers squeezed - and moved.

"No no no noooooooooo," Bob wailed. Not so tough. But that was the point, wasn't it? Tough Bob was reduced to this, too. He was Tough Bob now.

That thought let loose a flood of noise he'd been forcing himself not to make. He snorted, long and noisy... and kept on laughing.

"Yup. That's it," Big Earl chuckled. "That's the deal, in this here toolshed... Tough Bob."

The hands sped up. Bob tried to rock and flail around, but the cuffs were impossibly taut. He crowed and snorted some more, and found a hard barking rhythm. Stuck to it, as the magic fingers dug into his ribs.
 

He fought waking up. Not that the dream was anything to hang onto - nasty things kept jumping off a TV screen, and really happening to him -

There was a washcloth, or something. Cool and moist. Maybe a disposable towelette. Rubbing his arm.

He tried to shake it off, but it kept washing. Lifted off, and landed around his tricep, wrapping around. Sliding -

"Hey, that tickles," Bob muttered. Then he woke up a little more, and realized... what he'd said.

He opened his eyes.

The ceiling. So they had him back on the mattress. He'd been on the rack for a couple days. In the stocks, before that. Hanging from the pipe every fuckin' night...

He saw the towelette, on his arm, a couple inches away from his armpit. It had stopped in mid-wipe...

"Good one, there. Priceless," Big Earl sighed, and continued washing his shackled arm.

A few tugs into his first cigarette of the "day", he saw motion, and let out an airy groan. A can was floating over, from the shelves behind. Being shaken vigorously as it came. It was a paint can, a small one. And, he noticed with a familiar jolt, there was a brush with it -

But they thumped down far enough away from his side, so he relaxed. A little.

The lid was pried off - as so many things happened here - in a smoothly invisible way. Can and brush went up to the ceiling. Bob was distracted by the use of a new towelette on his pecs... more "thorough" than was necessary, he thought.

When he'd stopped chuckling and had gotten a new cigarette, he looked up. The brush was painting on the ceiling.

HEY, in big red letters. As he watched, it added a comma...

"What's that for?," he croaked.

"You know what a 'mantra' is, tough guy? No? Well, never mind. You just stare at these words. A quote, straight from your lips. Read it a few hundred times a day, while we work you over."
 

A little while later, after they'd started teasing his legs in a way that was excruciating and obviously gonna go on that way for awhile, he sucked at a water bottle. Saw more words...

On the wall, over his feet, they'd painted  WE BROKE 'EM IN...

Closer, underlined, with a big arrow that ended just over his toes:  OURS
 
 
 

More phrases were added as the months crawled by.
 

THIS CAN'T GO ON

OH SHIT, IT'S GETTING WORSE

I'M SO SCREWED

ANYWHERE BUT MY PITS

and, in the biggest letters of all,
 

YOU CAN'T KEEP DOING THIS...