His belt was caught on something. Right there on the sidewalk, lunchtime crowd - he stutter-stepped toward the abandoned building, with his hands jerking at the buckle. At that point it was more annoying than mysterious. He couldn't fuckin' see what had hooked him, but it made him drop his cigarette. That sorta pissed him off -
And then his shoulder glanced off the doorframe.
Wha -
The door hadn't been open before.
Well, what the fuck was this?
He planted his heels, and nearly tripped. By the time he regained his balance, there was a last tug - as his belt whisked off.
For a second or two he just stared at it, hanging in midair. Then he looked around.
Empty room, dusty. The door had swung shut most of the way, but he was only about a yard from it. No more than five feet anyway.
He was worried - no, immediately that was blocked out and he was juat angry. Dammit! Both worried and pissed off, then. He spun around.
Still nobody.
Huh.
He looked at his belt again. Ten bucks...
Nah, screw it. Getting out as soon as possible was bet-
Up came a white glove.
His eyes got even bigger.
Blocking my way, he thought. No arm. No wires. And the thing flew at him -
It slammed into his stomach...
No. That wasn't what it was doing. He'd never been more shocked in his life.
It was tickling him.
Purely on autopilot, he lunged toward the door -
More gloves zipped up. Six, eight, twelve. Pausing for just a second, maybe showing off, they raced over. Got his arms and legs.
One curled tightly over his mouth.
He was grunting into soft material... that had the strength of a powerlifter.
And they even let him get a foot or two closer to the door, leaning as hard as he could - and now chuckling, dammit, because the fingers were sliding right around the seam of his jeans - laughing and yet wailing in fear. Allowed to reach for the exit, he yearned to get closer. Longed for it. To the door, grabbing on, and pulling free -
Fingers clamped tight.
One of them was floating a few inches from his face...
It went to the exact place he was dying to be, waved at the outside world - and slammed the door.
The gloves dragged him backward, having no trouble despite all of his yelping, terrorstricken fear.
A loud metal sound, and a blast of air -
The back door just opened. Metal carport, over his head... shielding the view of what was happening to him.
There was a van waiting. The side door was already open.
With mystifying ease the gloves slung him inside, and pounced on his limbs. Like granite shackles. He could bounce, and arch -
The door, of course, rolled shut. Then the engine turned over.
A slight lurch told him the van had been shifted into gear -
Fingers slipped under his shirt.
The glove gagging him jumped off. He sucked in a huge breath.
"Hellllllnnaaaah-ffff!"
Two seconds, maybe three - and they had a kerchief in place. Fingers were so nimble, behind his head, as they tied the ends really tight.
Soft fingers skipped around, from belly to side to nipples to side. He went absolutely wild, trying to shake off the grips which pinned him, screaming and laughing into the gag.
The van accelerated quickly.
So many gloves just hung there, biding their time.

As the van rolled along, he... caved in, sorta. The shock being sent through him, by the fingers - the fuckin' inability to yank the hand off, much less cover or roll - had them on top. Not the other way around. His priority was feeling the blaze of fire that the glove laid down.
Another part of his brain realized that his shoes were being removed.
And worse - so horrible - another glove was sliding under his shirt collar.
Oh, fuck! The tickling doubled. One plus one. Except the effect was much worse than that. He squealed and arched, hooting insanely, pulling and kicking with all he h-
Feet.
No, no, no...

Awake.
That had been awful. Draining. So many fingers got into the act. At least half an hour, too - there was no way it could've been any less.
It was quiet. The van had stopped.
He finally dared to open his eyes.
Gloves were scattered all around. Dead. He hoped, anyway.
His arms lifted off the carpet. The relief nearly made him pass out. At least it felt that way.
Shaky, whacked out, he sat up. At some point they'd stripped him. The tickling was so hitting him so hard - uh, deep - that he hadn't even noticed. The fire just kept stepping up, breathtaking each time.
Just soaked with sweat. And he smelled like piss now, too. Worn out. He tugged his jeans up anyway, and crawled back inside to get his shoes. The impact had made him so scattered that he totally forgot about his socks - until he'd tied one shoe. Well, fuck 'em. He had to get out of here.
Standing up, there was one more thing. Then he'd be up for the walk, because all he saw was cow pastures. Maybe the van's engine had blown up or something.
He could worry about that later. It just seemed to risky to get all the way back in, even to drive somewhere. Not after what he'd been through...
With more relief than he thought was possible, he lit a cigarette.
Leaning against the passenger-side door, he took one slow drag after another. Maybe it was worth seeing if the van would start, at least. Hell of a long walk.
He glanced to his right.
A bunch of gloves were floating. All set to grab him.
Shit, he didn't have time to jump away, much less scream.

Tickling, grips like iron on his arms - then his legs -
He was being hauled back inside. Kicking wildly, he caught the edge under the doorframe with his right toes. A-ha, he thought happily, choking with laughter. Damn fingers...
Another glove clamped on his knee.
And he just went nuts.

Flopping, double-time, didn't keep the fire from increasing.
Pinned again. Oh, shit. Gagged.
The van was rolling along.

He woke up with a firm sense of being stuck in a rut. Broken record.
There was a futility in him. A pointlessness. They'd faked him out before, playing possum - acting like they were just ordinary gloves. Locking them in the glovebox - now that would be ironic - sounded good, but he totally doubted they'd stay... un-alive long enough. And he, for one, didn't wanna be the one to try burning 'em - in case they woke up right before. They'd kill him.
But finally he got dressed. Pausing, at each step. Just in case.
Maybe the right move was to drive the van back to town. But he couldn't find the keys.
Screwing with me, he thought. And it was working too fuckin' well.
This time he stood a little further off and had a smoke.
Well, about halfway through, he couldn't resist looking over his shoulder.
There they were.

It was almost dark when he came around the next time.
They were getting him further and further away from civilization... and apparently there was no rush at all.
Digging around, he found some water bottles.
For a good half-hour he sat there, in his underwear, with his legs hanging out the side door. The sons of bitches. Messing with his head like this.
Maybe an hour and a half altogether, and the suspense was killing him. So he got dressed - totally pissed off at first, then just following through with a hollow anger inside. Still nothing.
Sitting there again, like he was gonna bolt or something, he lit his second-to-last cigarette and waited...
Stood up. Dammit, he thought, just do it if you're gonna do it. No sign of 'em.
One step away. Still nothing. Another.
Maybe, he thought stupidly. Oh, please.
With a big sigh, he took another step away from the van - and before he could stop himself, he looked over his shoulder.
Here they come!

Oh, shit, the tickling was getting more intense each time.
It went on and on. Barely aware the van was rolling. Taking him...

Darkness.
He rolled open the van. A small cabin was there. Front door open.
There was no point in trying to run. Hell, he didn't see the point of bothering to get dressed. If he didn't do the most obvious thing, the response was, well, obvious enough.
Pulling on only his socks, he fired up his last smoke and slowly walked to the door.

12july2006
 

copyright inquiries only to smoker at rocketmail dot com