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! Oh. 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, eays 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." What choices... 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. Coast's clear." The glove and feather are silhouetted in the entry now, 'cause it's less dark outside than in here. You start standing - no way.
"You're trashed, fucker. Can't hang out here, all the cops around, you could've been seen comin' in here as it is. Sorry, dude." Gloves pulling you up, or else you'd never be vertical - "So where's home?"
"Uh..." You're trying to get the street number right -
"Hey. 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. 's not a 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 empty gloves are rushing you the wrong way down the street. Sure.
They're lighting another cigarette. You're floating just over the railroad embankment, distantly aware these gloves must be strong to be carrying you by your arms without setting you down once. And you wonder why this house of theirs is farther than they said... How can gloves have a house? Is it like that store you were 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. Shirt's gone. Jacket and boots too. On your back on a mattress that... squeaks. The pad, or a liner under the sheet. Wh-
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 there, you're seeing they're 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... clicked through 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 throw another on the other end" - Gleaming, really thick links, at both cuffs now and stre-
"- and pop that on anything, and voila." Gloves rising up a couple inches, and you try to look toward your hands. Chained to the wall, a little higher than the mattress - hasps through steel U's sunk in the wall, thick as a pencil -
"Wha- what are y-," you're stuttering. Watching 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... a few seconds. Before you can finish your sentence.
"See? What'd we say? They look tough, and they hold like nobody's business. See? Try to turn, or do anything. These rings in the wall, they're like bolted into double studs and through. This kind of clip, they ain't never gonna open 'til ya press the cutaway piece down. Now you tell me how anybody's gonna be able to do that when the chains are so tight they can't get at the ring with their fingers. They can't. 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... Where'd your jeans go? And your underwear?
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. "That disappearing act... we pulled, we were just kiddin' around. No way we'd run out on a bro, leave him chained down 'til ya - well, couldn't be in better hands. And we mean it totally, bro." Jab. "No matter what, you better believe all your parts'll stay in good working order. So we're a little pushy." Jab. "But we ain't gonna break nuthin', no shit. No lie. We're careful. Straight up." A last jab - gloves pulling on the wrist-chains. Still taut.
You glance up - look again. Freeze, quit suckin in smoke. Maybe a yard over you, there's the glove with the feather. And it's... dropping -
You're darting - serious flinch -
"Dude! Whoa!" The feather stops coming. "Sheeit. Watch it." A glove pulls your cig and drops it into the bottle. "Don't be burnin' no more holes. Now wha-"
A few seconds... bad. This feels... scary -
"Oooohhhh." The feather spins between the glove's fingers... slowly. "Heh heh heh." Oh... fuck.
"This? Ain't nuthin'. Hoooo. You know what's reeeeeally bad?"
Wha- two gloves flying up, diving to your sides -
"This."
Shock. Slamming through you. Scream like a woman -
Gloves - kneading your ribs like... you'd set up and harden if they... quit...
You're out of it. Loud. Driving you nuts - oh, slowing. Not as fast, maybe not as hard - four gloves, there are four riding your si-
"Fuck, dude." You can barely hear this over your racking laughter. Even slow, this is fuckin'... bad - They're workin' you - oh - real thorough.
Spasming in slow waves...
"Those cuffs holdin' up just fine, aren't they? Sure they are. Chains still gotcha spread out... Stuck tight." A glove settles into your right armpit. Kneads - its open end an inch or two from your face. Satin, black, and now you're laughin' harder -
"Oh, and what do we have here? Betcha wish you c- hoo. Ha." Another glove - no! No! Gentle - curling around you. Wrap - you're already getting hard, looks like - up, solid - twist.. Down, around - teasing -
"Gotta be the biggest fuckin' rush you - hey, wait just a minute here." Gloves creeping under you head, holding it up - "You take a look. Clue us in, we're forgettin' something. What was that again?" You're hooting, and you squint - four gloves, five, six. Pairs hanging around, right over you. Two of them start 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 - man, what was that idea...?" Moving down now, the gloves slow down over your knees -
"Can't move, not even a twitch, this place we were thinkin'..." They've stopped in their tracks. Right over your feet. Squealing, trying to shake your head - "Aaahhh. Got it. Can't ignore these -"
Zip. Clamped on, playing - You howl, head falling back, flailing around - can't move your feet, your hands. Not at all -
"Yeah..." More! Other pairs, coming around - legs. Your tits. Creep under your neck - and your ass -
"How long ya good for?" Crowing, repeated about three times.
Rubbing and squeezing everywhere. Roars -
"Days? Heh heh! We'll check ya over, take a smoke break. Tomorrow. You're, like, a three-packer, right bro? Or four? Well... talk at ya later. Let 'er rip! Let's rock!"
Faster - full-on. Too heavy. You whoop... and you holler...
25apr97