"Let's hear it, Waste."
"Aw no, no -"
"Get your sorry ass in gear. Roar, now. Roar like a maniac."
Feathers attack, and he obliges. All afternoon.
"That's one helluva noise you make there, scumbag. Growling, sleazy as hell. Smutty. Sounds like you're needin' some relief." A few condoms, a box of rubber gloves and a big jug of oil settle on the mattress between his knees. "Meat... and feet."
Another pack of smokes, too, being tossed next to the ashtray, 'cause it'll be a while and he'll be needing something else to do.
A glove stretches up from the box, snapping dully, and then firms up. Three others follow it. The cap on the jug of oil is unscrewed...
He was spotted at the walk-up window of a gas station, buying smokes. Followed home. Traced... outstanding warrants. Parole violation, failure to appear. A history of sticky fingers.
In the dead of night, he was tested - distinctive response, a lot of potential.
That morning, he found a note on the windshield of his truck.
Ready to do five to ten more, J-93260?
Diamond Lake - north on Sand Bar Road to the end, east seven miles, left at the log pile, four miles to the big cabin. Let yourself in. Ten o'clock tonight, sharp.
You're going down if you don't show.Watching you. Punk.
He pulled up to the cabin five minutes early. Sat there, watching hard. Lit a cigarette, slammed the truck door, pulled the .45 from the waistband of his jeans and cruised right up. Turned the knob and shoved the door open.
Dark room, mildew smell.
He looked awhile, then stepped inside. Sucked in smoke -
A hand, between his shoulder blades, pushed him further inside. Others yanked the gun away from him.
The door slammed. A padlock rattled and snapped shut.
"House arrest, mutherfucker."
More hands - a lot of 'em - grabbed his arms. He stared at 'em, then glanced around wildly for the source of the voice. "Wait -"
"Laugh house."
"Huh?"
"You'll see." They pushed him forward, making him stumble. "Busted. Bounty hunter - gotcha. You're fucked. Back to Chino, if you're lucky. Soledad. No good time." He kept trying to shake the hands, see how many of'em there are in here... "Or... you work it off here. Down you go, criminal. Hard."
The hands shoved him across the room, through another doorway -
A light turned on overhead.
Racks. All kinds, ceiling, walls. A bed with leather cuffs at each corner. Thick wooden stocks with holes for hands and feet. Benches, exam tables -
The gloves holding him... weren't attached to anybody. Empty.
Behind him, the door closed. Another padlock was put to use.
"First you'll get checked - for lice. Then, a cavity search..."
He's been in custody for a little over six weeks.
Hunter won't give him any idea how long it'll take him to work off the bounty. But... four packs a day, and a lot of Jack Daniels, speed and vitamins, steak and pork roasts and premium ham - well, he's not making much headway.
And there's his history. Something to be said for keeping a violent felon under lock and key.
Another round begins when he comes around, coughing. In the stocks.
Hunter brings him water, a T-bone and scrambled eggs, a couple donuts. A cigarette.
After a couple more smokes, he's loose. Kicked back as much as he could be, head cocked back to keep the smoke out of his eyes...
"Lookin' natural as hell, Waste. Like you've been caught in those stocks a couple dozen times. Or is it closer to three dozen?"
"Fuck off." Flat, automatic.
"Real big man. Brave talk comin' from a piece of shit... with his hands and feet held way out there. Maybe you forget why you're here. You're staying just like that tonight."
Brushes crawl down his spine. He grimaces with recognition. Fur artists' brushes -
More start on his inner thighs. Armpits. Nipples.
He exhales smoke explosively and shakes the stocks.
"Liniment, for your feet. Then the itching cream. Not too strong of an itch, so you're not distracted from the brushes. Heat and itch, heat and itch. All night."
He grits his teeth and grunts erratically. He doesn't speak, 'cause if he did he'd start to laugh. Instead, he smokes. Hard drag, ragged exhale. His head rolls back slowly.
Week number thirteen.
Waste is easier to rouse. Really feverish, and in far better shape than the first night, despite all the cigarettes. There's no reason to hold back.
So Hunter hides dex in his food. Follows that with a few shots of bourbon and half a pack.
He's hanging from the ceiling rack. Limbs strapped into padded manacles, stretched out and rigged to eliminate discomfort. Several nights up here have led to adjustments - no pain now, and no diversions because of numb hands or knees. Beneath his crotch, a pan hangs in the air. Eventually, he uses it. Twice.
When Hunter decides the chemical mix is right - drunk enough, but hopelessly alert - it takes the shit-pan away.
His smoke is yanked, and a leather strap floats toward him. Stained, fuzzy edges, two round holes.
Waste sees it and groans. Apparently it's not his favorite gag. The holes are made for screwing a Camel into, just barely sitting on his lip. A new one worked into one of the other holes, lit off the last cigarette - times sixty. Fewer breaks, shorter breaks...
The strap is see-sawed between his jaws and buckled down against the back of his head. He hasn't been able to get out of it before, and he won't now. While it's made fast, his next Camel held against his last one until it's lit, and it comes up to him, twisting as it's worked into place. Waste sucks in mechanically, letting the smoke leak out.
Time for theatre. Captive audience, and all that.
The light is adjusted. A desk lamp, turned from the corner -
He looks around, then below, squinting to make it out. Something shiny, but not just the surface of the exam table. On top of it...
Liquid. A wide pan, at least a yard, centered under him. The surface is like a mirror -
"It's oil, Waste."
A shiver runs through him.
"Special oils. A blend. There's a legend, not widely known, about this combination of oils. If they're mixed just right, something weird happens. Amazing shit."
The oil ripples in the dark, thick and silent -
"Impossible shit." A slight wave sweeps across the pan... from under the surface.
"Like magic..."
Lumps appear - and get bigger.
Fingertips.
More are breaking the surface. He yells once, flopping around. Watching. Two dozen fingers, and still more.
"They come out of the oil, and hunt. They have one purpose. One goal. They're like simple animals with this... irresistible drive. Determined to find themselves a human - and their task, what they live for, it happens to be almost paralyzing. They find a victim, and go to town. That's what they do, Waste."
He's shaking his head slowly, a hollow protest.
Ten gloves. That's all, for starters. Huge, gleaming surgical gloves, dripping oil.
"They don't do it for enjoyment, or discipline, or revenge. They just rise out of the oil and go hunting. Compelled find a human and disarm him. Overwhelm him, no matter how hard he tries to pull himself together and crawl away. And what if the first person they came across was already immobilized? Staying put? Unable to squirm? How much more solidly could they do their thing?"
The gloves are closer, and closer. Targeting.
"What an opportunity for 'em. Let 'em get right... down... to business."
He struggles all over again, even as the first pair wraps around his armpits, and the next pair closes under his knees.
"They've driven. You know why, pus-bag? They only have three hours. That's all, and then they're gone."
Unable to hold it any longer, Waste snorts... and shifts into a hearty cackle.
"Back into the oil," Hunter shouts, "to reproduce. You get that, fucker? They make more of themselves. More and more."
The fingers slide across his ass, and around his neck. Wild, frantic, whooping his guts out, his eyes lock on the fifth pair of gloves. Dipping back into the oil - cupping their 'hands' together. Eerie. Magic. Bringing oil up...
"They need to take one thing with them, Waste. When they go back into the oil, to make new ones appear, just like these..."
Dribbling it where the other hands are playing. Going back, for more -
"All they need to multiply... is cum."
He throws his head around, hee-hawing. The palms press down, the fingers squeeze and trace, and he just roars and roars.
Winter comes and goes.
Waste has no way of knowing. He's been in his room since he arrived. Luckily he's no stranger to lockdown. Already institutionalized. Stuck indoors, without a window or an exercise yard - nothing new to him. Of course, in Chino he didn't get his four packs just handed to him, or booze by the case. Didn't eat nearly this well, either. And he's actually closer to five packs...
But he's hanging in there like a champ. More and more sensitive. He spent the last couple days on his stomach. Now, he's laid out on the angle rack. After the usual fueling up, the vibrating massagers started in. Keeping it light, just below the threshold. It's not easy, considering how... amped his reflexes are now.
He's stimulated, whacked out. Not quite enough to start laughing. Continuous sensation, roving all over him. Waste is still relaxing, despite the odd attempt to tug or roll his head around. He burns through a pack of Camels without opening his eyes, dragging on 'em hard, like he needs it bad.
Tips of the massagers wander around his armpits, humming more quietly when they're held against his skin. He makes soft guttural noises, thick and smoky.
"Waste."
No sign of recognition. More buzzing points crawl up and down his calves, circle his nipples. Hunter repeats his name louder.
His head jerks slightly, and stutters again, deep in his throat. After another long puff, it brings him some water, and then a new Camel.
"Talk. Or laugh some more." No answer. "Oh. Maybe you'd rather have that gag in place... the one with the vibrator, on your tongue? No smokes for awhile?"
His head moves drunkenly. The vibrators slide up to his elbows, over biceps that are much larger they were in October. His mouth starts working, but only smoke leaks out.
"One buzz-gag, coming up."
"Nnnth. N-no," he mumbles. Voice full of gravel, much lower than it used to be.
"Well, then, what the fuckin' problem?"
"Unh. I... you... I can't. This... Oh fuck, fuck. Can't you..." He trails off.
"Quit babbling and try to finish a sentence, shit-for-brains."
He smokes, and eventually tries to nod. Peeking - as vibrators wander over his breastbone, poke around his navel. He watches for a few seconds, and his eyes close tight.
"You're even stupider than you look."
"No..."
Points loop around his collarbones. He shifts a little, and makes the cigarette burn bright... Then:
"No more. No. Lemme... go."
"Hah. Forget it. Ain't gonna happen. 'No more' - don't you get it, asswipe? Much more. Hell of a lot more, and even more after that."
"Awwwwww..."
"You're gonna pay."
"Y - this is... th- th- whuh wh-"
"Shit."
"N-no. Pleeeeeze, ih- ih- it's... too much, I- I..."
Vibrators play across his hips, around his kneecaps.
"Alright, Waste, try to get this. You're a wanted man. The cops would love to catch up with you. You'd definitely go back to prison. Instead, you're here. "
"P-... prison."
"Yeah. You remember," Hunter sneers.
"Go. Let me. Let... turn me in. The joint."
"You'd rather be in Chino? Is that actually what you're tryin' to say?"
"Chino. Oh. Turn... turn me in, Chino -"
"You're drunk." And it's true, he is.
After the usual lag, he seems to comprehend, and his eyes open. "Take me... there. Or tell 'em. Cops. I'm here, dammit, fuck, tell... prison, yeah, t-tell 'em, do... do it..."
"That's the whiskey talkin'. You're shitfaced."
He blinks. "I... really -"
"You don't want to go back there. Five years, easy. Maybe ten. If you wanted that so bad, you woulda turned yourself in. Instead, you came here, remember? Gonna avoid gettin' popped. Yeah, you drove your truck up here and walked right in. Pretty slick. Thought you were gonna get away, didn'tcha, Waste? Dumbshit. You're being detained here instead. But get some JD in ya, and it's all about 'I wanna go back to the joint'?"
Humming, moving along his forearms, the very top of his thighs. His mouth opens, but he just stammers again.
"Get real. You're a repeat offender. Got no business roaming the streets. The world's better off with you locked away - hey, you gettin' any of this, thug? You sleazy son of a bitch..."
The points touch his ribs, and hold position. Even that's too much. He grins big, and sucks in a breath - but they lift off again. And touch down in another place...
"You wanna be out there, doin' more crimes. Hell no. You lost that right. You're doing time, and you're gonna do it right here. Saving some hard-earned tax dollars. Make the world a safer place. Lock you up, throw away the key. None of that rehabilitation bullshit, either. Your kind only understands one thing - punishment. That's all you got coming. Fucker. You gotta pay, and pay some more. Pay for what you've done."
The vibrators race up and down his sides. He gasps, and wails, and hoots like a madman. Twenty seconds, and they're gone again.
"None of that good behavior shit," Hunter says disgustedly. "Be glad you even get to smoke. It's more than you deserve. You're caught, tough guy. Stayin' caught. Here. Got it?"
Tips, twisting between his toes. He bays, dropping the cigarette. It's taken away, and the vibrators move faster, ride more heavily.
"So laugh it up. Harder. Fuckin' punk."
Four in the morning. Six or seven hours ago, the brushes came. Several of each foot, several on each side. All over his torso. A cluster of 'em polishing his crotch.
It took a long time to work him up to a raving, squealing puddle. Then the towels came and the brushes kept right on dusting. Sweeping across the shaved skin.
He couldn't manage to fidget, even. Flat on his back, held snug in the cuffs.
Water kept coming. Candy bars, vitamins, speed. Then the rum. Well into his fourth pack of the day...
The whispering starts.
"Waste. Listen... Listen good. You disappeared. Dropped out of sight. The cops would love to know where you are. They wanna find you and lock your ass away. Your friends... well, they all think you got popped. Or skipped out, maybe. Left the state. They don't know. They've forgotten about you, Waste. Nobody would've guessed you got in your truck and drove all the way out here. Walked your ass in. Got escorted to your cell. Nobody knows you're here. No way they're gonna guess. They aren't gonna come for you. You're staying put... and there's not a chance in hell anybody will find out."
Coming up on six months.
He's docile - until the tickling starts. Then he's real expressive. No pace is too much for him to handle. Even the lightest grazing of a fingertip gets him going.
He gets much more sleep than he did at first. Which means he's not get worked over as much. Fewer hours per day. But he's so wild, gets so fuckin' crazed, it's as if he's making up for the lost time.
Waking up in one vulnerable position after another, cleaned up, shaved... taking water and food, infinite cigarettes, dutifully chugging the whiskey when it approaches. He knows the routine. When the action starts, he's there. Loud and animated. Bed, stocks, rack, table, ceiling-rack, bench, angled chair. Shuffle the order, repeat.
He slumps back was far as the stocks will allow.
Big rubber gloves work oil into his pits, and belly, and fingers. He wore two condoms. Now and then, the fingers greased up his crotch. He'd come once, and had been stroked savagely...
His feet were lubed and waiting.
"Waste." Hunter's voice quiet and menacing, by his left ear. "Asshole. It's not looking good for you. Gonna do some real time. Hell, yeah.
"Locked up. In here. And in the stocks again, like so many other days. Wrists caught good and snug. Ankles held tight. You're wide open, aren'tcha? Heavy stocks. Two padlocks. Even if you could even kick your feet loose, your hands are still trapped. And the door's staying shut. Locked. You know it. If you could just break it down, huh? Get out the front door, jump in your truck... without the gloves taking you down, hauling your ass back in here. Flat on your back again, with the cuffs doubled up. And then you'd see how escape attempts are dealt with 'round here."
Rubber fingers start to slide up and down his encased meat. He moans out smoke.
"No getaway plan. You're staying, under close supervision. And there's nothing you can do about it, scumbag."
He quits giggling and takes a drag. Blindfolded, shitfaced, cuffed to the chair.
"You're two for five, moron. Miss another one, and you're gonna get nuked."
He scowls. "Go."
Two pattern wheels float to his soles. The dull sprockets are rolled quickly, randomly, while he squeals. Hunter races 'em up and diagonally and across for a minute, eventually making him bray.
It pulls off, and Waste winds back down, breathing hard. When he brings his head back up, the cigarette he dropped is shoved back between his teeth.
"Well?"
"Those... little wheels. Metal, Like cogs -"
"Aw, you heard 'em rolling. You cheat. Fuckin' con."
"No, no. I got it, I didn't hear. Shit, I was laughin' -"
"That deserves a penalty." The cigarette is taken away.
He swallows hard.
A pair of feathers zero in. "Hmmmm. Alright, last one -" And they land. Hunter makes 'em fly - between his toes, around his heels, scribbling and sweeping every which way. He goes berzerk, howling and screaming, flailing around.
A minute passes. Then five minutes, and ten...
When he starts to fade, it takes the feathers away. Lets him pant until he catches his breath. Gives him a pint of water, sticks another Camel in his mouth, gives him a light.
"Well?"
"Feathers... definitely."
"Aaawwww. Wrong answer. So sorry, thanks for playing. Now you're g-"
He perks up. "Those were so feathers. The last... thing. I know they were. What the fuck are you tr-"
"Nope. You lose. Again." Tools levitate a few inches above him, spreading out. The pattern wheels, knitting needles, pastry brushes, nail-brushes, toothbrushes, ivory toothpicks. A jug of oil, uncapped, taking position over his chest. Already starting to tilt.
"I was right! Dammit! You know it -"
"Big-time... loser." The oil crests the lip of the jug, landing high on his belly.
"Noooooo!"
The stream of oil travels up, across from armpit to armpit, down to his right foot. Across to his left, and up. "Fuck, yeah."
Eighteen implements start in at roughly the same time. He laughs out smoke, sucks in a huge breath, and yells - an outrageously happy noise. Then he howls. Barks insanely, howls some more...
Week thirty-three.
Waste is coming off of a hard day in the stocks. Three dozen rubber gloves were lubed up... blanketing his sides, caressing the small of his back, stimulating his own palms and fingers. The bandanna stayed in place between his teeth, so he didn't get a smoke all day.
When he comes around on the bed, he's only too happy to light up. The usual feeding and shitting is seen to, and another pack is history...
"The center of attention, tonight, is your favorite body part."
His eyes close. A look of pained despair takes over his face.
"Hours of excitement ahead." The light is adjusted so it aims at his crotch. When he peeks, there are hand-shapes beyond the bed, gliding in -
Satin. Red satin. Big gloves. The first one stops, a few inches above.
"Here it is. At ease. But it gets big, and red. Big, red rocket." The glove dips, and closes around his cock, gives it a squeeze. Waste grunts, and fidgets around.
"It needs a rocket crew. Big, red rocket crew." Three more gloves arrive. One lays its palm and fingers against the underside of his balls, another spreads out above his rod... and the last massages his glans with thumb and forefingers.
There are four more gloves hanging back. Waiting.
Waste squeals, long and low, wrestling with the cuffs. He sucks raggedly on the Camel...
Within a minute, the gloves lift off. The rhythmic teasing stops.
Intermittent stroking begins. Light, quick touches. No pattern to 'em. Just provocative play, cock and balls, all the shaved area within a six-inch radius. All of it.
He squirms for a while, snickering erratically. Smoking nonstop, sweating freely, grunting with pleasure and frustration.
They pause for water breaks, and start right back in.
Waste groans, moves his head now and then. The tension fades in his back and limbs. His fists unclench...
But his cock is like iron. Hunter keeps it that way. A fingertip pressing here, a light swipe there.
Grumbling sometimes, moaning feverishly... then begging, continuous and pathetic. When that doesn't work, he whimpers.
The water bottle returns. Cigarettes keep coming. The petting continues.
He winds back down into silence. A new pack is opened...
About halfway into it, Waste is barely responsive. The fingers hold just off his skin. Not even two minutes, and he begins to snore. His rod starts to shrink.
Hunter lets him sleep until he relaxes enough to piss. When that's done, the fingers rub and knead, getting him fully hard. An index finger traces around his belly button, and up -
He wakes up with a start. Looks...
All eight gloves on him. Releasing. The last of 'em drags across his shaft as it departs. He cries out, watching this.
The water bottle returns. A Camel immediately follows, lit from a kitchen match. He kicks out the third drag, and a satin fingertip makes a couple quick figure-eights on his ball-sack.
"You say something, scumbag?"
Waste giggles. He's very drunk. Strapped to the exam table on his belly. A toothbrush is scrubbing between his shoulder blades. It dips frequently into a tin cup. Rubbing alcohol. A smaller brush is at work a few inches higher on his spine, being dipped into a jar of moisturizer.
With a great effort, he composes himself. "Smoke."
"No. Maybe tomorrow."
"Aw, shit."
The alcohol-brush rides the edge of his armpit, and he snickers hard for a while.
"C'mon... I, uh..."
"Nothin' doin'."
"How long?," he begins, then lifts his head from the table. "What month is this?"
"August."
"August," he says wonderingly, letting his head fall. Wet slap of his cheek on sweat and drool. "August. When did y-"
"October."
He thinks about this a second, and his face falls. "No."
"Oh yeah."
From his expression, Hunter knows that tears are on the horizon, so it heads 'em off the same way it always
has - more stimulation. Another brush swishes around in the alcohol, and starts lightly scouring under his right shoulder blade, creeping closer and closer to that armpit. He busts out laughing and eases into hiccuped, goofy hoots. His face is back to its usual zoned, blissed, weary smirk. All concentration back on the brushes, no brain power left over to dwell on anything else.
"That's more like it," Hunter says loudly. "Hoot like that. A good soundtrack for tonight. It'll be a few hours before the brushes get all the way down. But hell, you know that, don'tcha?"
He shakes his head.
"Deep cleaning. Gotta keep your skin in top condition. More and more awake, huh? Feeling it all. Stronger than ever. You piece of shit, try thinking about your crimes. What you did wrong. Why you're here."
Waste hoots a little louder. The smaller brush scoops another glob of moisturizer and spreads it...
"Not that it matters. You're not here to be reformed. Not with your record. You're trash. Trash gets picked up and thrown away. Nobody cares what happens to it. Soledad, or Chino, they're full. Stupid fuckin' ideas about rehabilitation, correction - fuck! None of that bullshit here. Penalty, punishment - you've earned it, tough guy. No chance to bullshit a parole board with how sorry you are... changed your ways. Lies. Doesn't matter, Waste. This is the penalty you got coming. You're getting it all. All. Even if the cops never catch up with ya. So you take your punishment, work off that ol' bounty - it's still hanging over your thick head. A big one. Comin' down on your ass."
One night, he gets off easy - fifty feathers, two raging hours, on the angle rack. More sleep.
Tomorrow's a special day.
Waste groans, shifts around, coughs for almost a minute...
And notices his hand is... close to his mouth. He can move it. Both of his wrists are uncuffed. He looks around -
He's dressed. An amazed noise escapes from him as he looks himself over. Jacket, jeans, boots... and he's sitting in a chair. An easy chair, sorta moldy, in the other room of the cabin. To his left, the room where he's been locked up - he can see the stocks, a couple racks, the corner of the bed.
To his right, the front door, closed. The way out.
He's facing the window. Sunset is fading. Trees everywhere, getting darker. He cranes his neck, getting up -
His right hand is still gripping the armrest. He can't pull it free. He's got leather gloves on his hands. Can't pry the fingers loose. Stretching, he can see the tail end of his truck. He sighs, sounding relieved, and sits back down.
His left hand is doing what he tells it. There's a table next to the chair, with an ashtray and three packs of Camels. He gets himself one. On the table to the other side, there's water and a bottle of Glenfidditch. And a pizza box.
He smokes again, looking in the bedroom. Nothing is moving. He rolls his neck and groans. Moving experimentally in different directions, making little noises as he does.
Right after he snuffs the butt, his hand picks up the pack. He fights it, but another cigarette is headed his way. The gloves. He exhales hard out of his nose, a disgusted sound, and glares at his hand as it picks up a Zippo.
His other hand has relaxed some - until he starts to stand. Then it gets a death-grip on the chair again. He's not going to be allowed to get up.
He smokes, and looks at the pizza box. His right hand lifts up slowly, and opens it. Picks up a slice. It's cold...
After that slice, the water bottle. Four more slices - until one is picked up, but he grimaces and shakes his head.
His hand drops the pizza, and wanders over to the whiskey bottle...
He starts to get up - and right away, his left hand chucks the cigarette and grips the chair-arm.
Sighing again, he relaxes. The bottle is parked between his legs, and the glove goes for the cap. Reflexively, he holds it while it's opened, wincing. Sore there, too.
When he's been forced to down a few shots, the bottle is set alongside him, and his right hand lies flat on the armrest. His left gets him another smoke.
Waste stares out the window, as the night comes on. If he doesn't try to get up, he's allowed to smoke by himself.
After a while, the right glove reaches down and brings up a disposable urinal. Then it has him drink a little more water, a couple more belts of Glenfidditch...
Night falls. A few stars can be seen over the treetops. He opens a new pack.
When they're smoked up, and started a new bottle of water, his left hand creeps into his jacket. Inside pocket, closing on something there -
Pulling out a cigar. Fat, aromatic. He sniffs it, bites the end off, and clamps it between his teeth. His hand wanders off, and comes back with a match. Lights it off the zipper of his jeans...
He puffs it to life and takes it out of his mouth, looking idly at the coal. His right hand goes for the whiskey.
A few more minutes, and he's wobbly. Pretty unsteady when he's bringing the cigar back up, so it's parked between his teeth and left there. His hands curl loosely around the armrests. He puffs now and then...
"Waste."
Head snapping around. All tensed up. He starts to his feet, but the gloves latch on, make him stay put.
"Today is October 14."
He blinks fast, exhaling smoke.
"One year ago, you came here. Drove on up, walked in the door. Just like you were told. With warrants out on ya, and a stolen .44 in your hand. Felons aren't allowed to have guns, much less stolen ones - but you knew that, didn'tcha? Sure you did."
He sucks on the cigar. Glancing toward his room again, and back at the front door.
"You also had a bounty on your head."
His eyes quit roving around and get a little wider.
"So the trap was set... to make you pay." A long pause. Waste is all ears. "And a whole year later, here you are."
He waits, but nothing more is said.
"Aw, fuck," he wails, trying to get up. His hands don't let him. He slams back down. "Fuck..."
After the cigar's done, he gets more water, then more whiskey.
His hands open the last pack of Camels.
Passing out, eventually...
He coughs and coughs. Bouncing -
The bed. Flat on his back, limbs stretched tight in black leather. Naked. The gag with the cigarette-holes is laying on his chest.
"Dammit!"
Fingers -
Rubber gloves, dripping oil. Playing with his feet.
He snorts, and bellows, throwing his head around.
After a half-hour of tickling, and five more minutes to catch his breath, Hunter makes him drink a liter of water. Then it picks up the gag, and a pack of Camels.
The gloves are joined by six others. One of 'em carries a squeeze-bottle of oil.
"Hey. Greaseball. All there's gonna be left of you is a greasy spot."
The oil flows, the gag is buckled down, and the gloves get to it.
Waste manages to wail once, and buck. Hard, meaty roars...
07jan2001