He knew, before he even closed the door, that he wasn't alone.
The little kitchenette to his right was almost buried in boxes and bags. The bathroom door was gone.
The rest of the house was a single room maybe thirty by thirty. Eight or nine pieces of furniture were covered by silver tarps, but none had sufficient space hidden to conceal a baddie. Thankfully the fireplace was uninhabited.
Of course he was looking for another person. He drew his gun and ducked down - shots would be coming at center-mass level. Hustling forward, his eyes scanned the stockpile in the kitchen for anyone hiding within it. Canned food, whey protein supplement, various medical supplies, a straitjacket...
He stopped suddenly. The sleeves were the giveaway. True, the widest parts seemed to have replaced with mere straps, but the buckles on the end of each sleeve were accompanied by cuffs.
Obviously that had no business being here.
Silently, he opened an unmarked box nearby -
Feathers. A huge bag, all shapes and colors. Ten pounds of feathers, easily.
Images vaguely resembling the wildest dreams he'd ever had were crowding his thoughts. He was seeing objects that couldn't be here by accident. No coincidence. There was some physical threat indicated that was far worse - far more personal? - than an intruder. He didn't want to waste time analyzing what was unsettling him so much. Run away, he told himself, no kidding. Go. A customized straitjacket was right there -
Stop it, he told himself. Breathe. Secure the site.
Easing forward, he checked his balance and rushed the bathroom.
Empty.
Checking behind once again, he relaxed. Walked back out. The bed had a solid oak pedestal, and he checked around it just to make sure. No gap for a baddie to crawl through and hide in. His radar demanded that he check under the furniture covers, and then...
His sat on the bed. Black satin sheet. Odd. The texture underneath was unusual too. It had been two nonstop days of traveling, but he was sure no one had managed to follow him.
Habit made him check the ceiling for unexpected risks. There were about a dozen rings. Big O-bolts. He tried to figure out why they'd been put there. Most were over the bed. Corners, and sides -
The door slammed.
He jumped a mile...
And then saw the straitjacket. In mid-air.
His mind betrayed him, instantly visualizing the feathers again.
A frightening connection, unlikely as hell, suggested what was in store. He had to get out -
Fear drove him to his feet. Toward the only exit. Draw the straitjacket away from the door, just lure it away as if it was... a person.
Something clamped around his left ankle.
He kicked - and couldn't move it. Risking a glance, he expected to see big hands.
Nothing there.
Quick movement swung over, from the right. Hissing. Some gas -
A punch to the gut, from yet another invisible hand, made him gasp.
Immediately the room started to spin.
He was shoved backward...
It seemed like no time had passed when he opened his eyes.
The little window in the kitchen was dark... and there were thick slats bolted over it now.
The door had changed too. One feeble light was behind him, way up near the ceiling, but he made out chains pulled tight and bolted to the door frame.
He was - impossibly, yet almost predictably - caught in the straitjacket, wearing that and nothing else. Straps were buckled to him all along the sleeves and shoulders, with two counter-anchoring his wrists.
As he started pulling at the restraints, a flashlight clicked on.
No one was holding it.
He stopped flailing... and just stared. The trained, composed part of his brain started considering alt-science research and technologies that might be responsible. Nothing really fit.
A piece of paper floated to the flashlight, and they came to his face.
The safehouse had been deactivated... eight days ago.
He studied the letter again. The timing couldn't have been worse. A week and a half ago he'd checked the roster - hell, this house had been used for more than twenty years!'
Ever since he looked at the roster, he'd been busy with the assignment. To get to a line that was definitely secure would've required doubling back again. If only he'd just done that - or if the handoff hadn't been interrupted. He could've gone straight to the airport, and if his encrypted satellite phone hadn't fallen off his belt when he jumped onto the boxcar's ladder.
The sector code was legit. Instructions to the nearest safehouse, about forty miles away, were correct too - he'd used that one before. It smelled like mold, or else he would've been there right now, drinking beer, no damn straitjackets in sight...
The letter had no flaw, so far as he could see, to prove it was a forgery.
Letter and flashlight backed off, moving toward the mantel. He strained at the straps again.
There was a click -
The phone compartment opened.
That was every bit as amazing. The guys who set up these places took great pride in hiding the secure phones. Not a trace of the door could be seen - and the button was hidden just as well, probably in the bathroom. Behind the toilet.
It would take someone a long, long time to find -
A green light clicked on.
The bulb seemed too small... and dammit, it should've been red.
The flag to keep others away from the safehouse, for his protection and theirs too, was tied in to the sat-link. When he pressed the trigger button, it was like the "occupied" sign on an airplane lavatory. Everyone would stay clear - well, until the annual restocking.
But all of the circuits here were shut off. A decommissioned safehouse was left alone completely. And he'd never been told about any other lights...
"Green," he mumbled to himself. Go. Green light for - who? Or what? Not him, that was for sure. He looked around.
Something unbelievable was coming.
Six white gloves - with nobody wearing them!
Tickling hands, he thought.
Unbelievable, surrealistic...
His biggest personal secret. The hardest part of his pain endurance training - not that they'd tickled him much, and it was a good thing he was still aching all over and totally disoriented when they did. He ended up with some vivid nightmares, but nothing as intense as the tickle weekend.
That had been the fetish of a single crazy kinesthetics major, in a sorority house. Two frat brothers who'd never liked jocks had gotten him drunk and led him into the basement, dragging him to the bed and barely managing to get the gloves on him and epoxy them to the headboard before they fled. After she'd worn him out, the tie-downs were brought out...
Thirty-six hours, give or take.
He'd avoided that street for the rest of his time at school.
Now, though, empty fingers were coming for him.
Magic hands, to tickle long and hard. The straitjacket gave him a clue how intent they were. Crazy people needed straitjackets -
He started flailing and whimpering like crazy. All of the weightlifting and hand-to-hand combat didn't matter now. The baddies wanting to kill him when he snuck in here - well, shit. that was from another lifetime. The approaching fingers were the only thing that mattered.
Trapped in a remote house filled with tons of food, all those feathers, and who knew what else -
That triggered a new thought. He looked to his right.
That wasn't normal furniture.
Racks, benches, stocks.
The tarps covering the restraining devices had been silently pulled off.
He saw a stomach-churning variety of thick, sturdy equipment to keep him immobilized.
This setup resembled his nightmares in some unique, creepy ways. It was so much more real, though...
"Please," he gasped to the gloves. It sounded pathetic. He couldn't help whimpering again, though. Probably making the ghost - who gave itself a green light to tickle him, dammit! - real happy.
Freaking out wasn't affecting the straps at all. He looked around wildly. Do something, they're almost here. If they touch you, it's over. Just too ticklish. Exactly what they have in mind, and he had to think of something.
Chained door, barred window. Straitjacket. So many straps.
Deactivated safehouse, he thought wildly. How perfect. Miles off the road, phones turned off - and no one would be coming to do the restock and phone test, opening the door to see him strapped down. Laughing hysterically.
Unseen hands had stocked up. Brought the restraint systems in too. All set. Maybe the invisible bastard had been about to go hunting for a victim... and then he walked in. The tickler was ready with the knockout gas.
The situation was horrifying. Now it was about to find out just how pathetically ticklish he was.
No end in sight -
Slippery cloth touched his right foot. Then his left.
He tensed up, preparing to scream for help.
Nervous chuckles poured out of his mouth.
Exactly the wrong thing to do, there. Shit, the gloves hadn't even started yet. What he really needed was to get the asshole to pause... or something, so he could break a couple straps and twist the rest loose, leap up and kick his way through the damn door. He'd been in worse situations -
Gloves curled around his ribs.
"Whooooo!" he yelped. Shaking his head. Don't do this, please, don't tickle me...
No, actually, this was it. The worst. If he could move around some, maybe it wouldn't have been as bad as that bungled interrogation in Guayaquil. But he'd never dreamed somebody would do this to him. He'd never dared to think about what comprehensive tickling would feel like. He could take anything... except this.
Well, it had to stop right now. another second. Back to the plan. What was the plan, again? He had to get these gloves off him before they -
Too late.
Chuckling hopelessly, he yanked and jerked and kicked... but the fingers kept snaking into his armpits.
He roared. That's it, he thought, the bastard has to knock it off right this second. Nothing else paralyzed him like this, because he just couldn't handle the firestorm of sensation.
Absurd. Crackling. Ate him up.
Get loose, he thought wildly. Someone's tickling you, get your ass away from 'em.
He slammed up and down, giggling hysterically. The invisible bastard was in the mood to tickle somebody - for a long time - and he'd walked right in.
Fingers got a few tickles in on his soles again, and he just exploded with a raw howl. Kicking at 'em with all he had. Get away, let me go, I just can't take this.
That's why he was strapped down. The sadistic prick knew he couldn't stand to be tickled. Well, it knew he was a hot prospect within the first three seconds. That's how bad he had it... If only he'd found a way to keep his mouth shut.
He had to get away.
In the meantime, the self-distraction techniques for pain tolerance had to do the trick. It seemed impossible, since he was completely unable to stop writhing and hooting... but he tried to brace himself and concentrated on the anchor image he'd trained himself to use. It came to mind immediately - a big meadow with thick white snow - and it had never failed to calm him down, during training and afterward, letting him move on to the diversionary affirmations -
The gloves on his ribs started to squeeze as they moved.
Oh, he absolutely lost it.
Wailing, barking, pounding the mattress with his soles like a little kid. He threw his head around, laughing so hard the tears welled up in his eyes. He had to get away. They weren't going to stop. No one would come close enough to hear him howl and the bastard would tickle him as hard as it wanted, for as long as it wanted, and nothing was going to change that. This was the most overwhelming, crazy-making thing ever.
He rocked as much as he could. The gloves weren't blocked at all. Armpits, ribs - and he couldn't laugh hard enough. Not even close. Oh, shit, the tickler had really lucked out. Ready for a morbidly ticklish guy. Solid restraints, supplies, the perfect place.
Gloves clamped onto both feet - grinding against his soles.
Screaming hysterically, he threw his legs this way and that. One glove held on, still kneading his arch. The other one caught him again within a few seconds. He started kicking again -
His armpits... lit up.
Fingers were racing - heavily - and he forgot how to move. His laughter became gutsy, desperate, deranged. He looked around, imploring the tickler to stop.
He sounded happy... and tortured. That wasn't helping his case any. The bastard tickled as if it enjoyed making him suffer. No one knew he was here. No one would ever dream there were restraints and racks in the safehouse now, and straps preventing him from pulling the gloves away from his throbbing sides. That left the tickler. He had to get this son of a bitch to relent. Let him go.
He roared at the ceiling. See how intense this is, he thought dizzily. Never mind how happy I sound. You're doing that. I just can't stand this -
The gloves hovered over him. He whooped hard. Maybe it would be satisfied if he laughed harder.
It had to stop now. He was so damn ticklish and the gloves had blown the doors off already. He just couldn't deal with what the excitement was doing to him. No way to process that much fire. Ignoring it was completely out of the question, and stepping through the familiar process for pain tolerance was beyond him already. He just couldn't tear his attention away from these hands, those fingers...
The tickler would keep driving him nuts and there would be no rescue, no running away from the gloves, and sure as shit he wouldn't be pulling any other coping mechanisms out -
Over him? Wait. They were still tickling. It wasn't his imagination.
There were more gloves now. Ready to rock.
No, oh no, oh no. He tried to shake his head as he screamed.
Fingers slid under his knees.
The overall impact exploded! Every hand seemed to be filled with electricity. Even more impact he had no way at all to... feel -
His feet. No, no. Shit!
They dug in. More fingers than before.
Kicking didn't work anymore. The high-voltage current under his knees made it impossible. He tried and tried, roaring like a lunatic. This was very, very bad. The fingers had no right to tickle his feet.. They kept on digging into his armpits and massaging his ribs and he realized he had no chance whatsoever of getting away from hands that knew how to lock him up like that.
Impossibly, more hands slid up his thighs. Back down again.
Bouncing became the way out. He couldn't even manage that. Nothing he could do with his head or his fists was stopping the assault at all. He gulped air, whining, vaguely aware of sweat running down the side of his head...
With a shock, he realized he wasn't laughing. Couldn't laugh.
And that made it worse still.
Wow. He tried his best to reef on the straps, to pull his legs up - and keep laughing. It was beyond him. Power surged through him, head to toe, but it was coming from the gloves. Pleasure was turned up to a level that insisted he try and try to feel it all.
That was absolutely impossible.
If I don't laugh - hard - this jackass won't know how much this is killing me. Insane, I'm too far gone already, the gloves are making sure I can't space out and get a grip on myself.
They started scrabbling across his belly.
He convulsed a few times - erratic, distracted - and kept on panting. Too much, too much, I can't get away from 'em and the door is chained shut, it's going to keep on tickling and tickling and tickling and tickling...
And it did.
He drifted back from a long way off. All of that insanity must be... back there, still, 'cause he was moving back to reality now. So relieved...
Ceiling.
His arms were stuck but good.
I'm still pinned down, he thought, completely amazed. Didn't I just get away? Left it back there? The red-hot excitement...
This is where it happens.
He started to wrestle. The damn straitjacket was already soaked with sweat. His gut hurt from laughing, he just had to get out of here - right now, dammit, pull harder! This is where the shit happened that drove him way far... inside. He couldn't remember anything else, in the fever. Concentrating as hard as he could was nowhere near enough.
The gloves worked in more unthinkable stimulation than he could ever, ever keep track of. He had no idea how to stop trying...
A water bottle floated down. It had a rigid plastic straw.
After a hard coughing fit, he discovered that if he slowed down he could swallow the water, slowly, even in that position. It was so wonderful. He couldn't remember ever having worked so hard. Lying down, unable to tug anymore - hell, way past laughing at all...
He had a horrible thought. Like it or not, maybe he was unable to stop conserving his energy. Whether he wanted to wear himself out or not, the bastard was training his body to just lay there.
The impact of the tickling was gonna increase over and over again. He just knew it. And he would be unable to stop himself from focusing as hard as he could on a landslide that never stopped pounding down.
This just had to stop. He didn't care what the bastard wanted to do. Keep doing. There was no way he could stay in this converted torture chamber...
All he could do was keep trying the techniques he'd been taught. Let the sadistic magician grab somebody who wasn't trained in learning how to overcome pain. Well, alright, this was actually excitement, not pain like they gave him in training.
But he was gonna show the invisible sadist a thing or two. Shut right down, no more response - take that, you frickin' lunatic. No more howling and wrestling around. Get some otherson of a bitch in here who doesn't have any idea he's ticklish, show him the damn feathers coming down, chain his ass down right. Have your fun then.
Not me, he thought grimly. I'll show you...
He took a deep breath. One - nice, quiet meadow. All that snow. O-kay. He calmed right down. A few hours from now, the stupid prick would give up. Well, shit, I don't know how this guy shut off all that ticklishness so fast, guess I better throw this one back...
That was a soothing fantasy. He ran with it. Pictured literally running away from all of this. Gone. Sprinting further and further away from the smoothly moving fingers and straps, those scary rings in the ceiling, the stocks, that bag of feathers in the kitchen and whatever tickle-toys were filling all those boxes. Not me, bub.
Calm. Great. Almost out of here. He took a last look around his anchor image, that soothing place that was his ticket out. Okay. Two -
There were gloves coming toward him.
He jerked back. How did they get to his snow-covered meadow?
No, wait, they were coming at him. Really there, overhead, getting closer.
They hadn't crashed his inner safe place. So, on to step two -
Wait. They weren't part of his visualization. Real gloves were closing in, worn by magic hands that were eager to tickle him again.
"Nooooooooo!" he screeched, slamming back and forth. They tickled so much and he was stuck here. Try to kick - harder! - scoot around. Nothing worked.
Fingers were sliding over his ribs.
"No no no no haaaaaaaallllllp! Stop, staaaaaaaap!"
Oh, he was just completely desperate to get away. Before they really dug in again. So insane, so unbearable!
Thighs. Oh, hell no.
Chest, belly...
Shins. How could his legs be this frickin' sensitive?
Quick, he thought, do the thing. The mental trick has to work, now, right now, before they got busy. Tickling. Really, seriously tickling his ass.
He just whined like crazy, giggling already, slamming his head on the mattress over and over. No no no no no - stop - somebody help me, help meeeeee, they're starting to tickle again and it's the most intense thing ever, a thousand times too powerful to be enjoyable, all these fingers, ready to tear me to pieces and tickle all the pieces real hard...
Oh, shit. Step one. Didn't he do step one already? Why didn't it work? He was laughing and he couldn't stop. Inside, the shock was even worse than he remembered. The fingers tickled so damn much! Step one, step two. What was step two? Hell. C'mon, now, remember the training -
Gloves began playing with his nipples.
He jerked. How the hell could his chest be this ridiculously sensitive? They were just getting started, really. Boxes full of food in the kitchen. The phantom was gonna have so much fun torturing him. Strapped down ridiculously well. Insane, as the action kept on getting hotter, and hotter, wilder, unbelievably skilled fingers...
There was something he had to do.
It was so hard to think. The barks and cackles just boomed out. They wanted more. The gloves. Bastard wearing 'em. It wanted him laying nice and still, way too excited to move, 'cause he had a long, excruciating night ahead of him...
What could he do? Getting up was definitely out. Oh, hell, they were rubbing his calves again. So ridiculously intense.
Do something. Think, think - all that training. Not for this, that was all too obvious. But it had to work. He had no other hope. There was snow. Then what? Dammit!
His gut was just so ridiculously... Get off me, stop tickling, and right away he knew to his core that nothing of the kind was in store tonight. Just more and more and more tickling. Damn straps. Do something, before the fever makes it impossible to think of anything else. Pain tolerance. Go! Step... didn't he do step one? Why did the gloves make him just want to scream laughter?
Step one, two... What came after two? Stop laughing, you have to stop feeling the fingers right now. Sure. Okay. That was gonna happen. Help, somebody, this is the absolute worst nightmare tickling ever.
No one will find out. Gotta do this. You did step one, so now it's step two -
His lower sides lit up! Busy hands were kneading, petting, following the length of each rib.
He jerked once and howled.
Maybe that was step two. Feeling the blast of sensation.
"Please," he heard. Over and over. Hoarse.
He opened his eyes.
No one else was there. He was confused, for a second.
"Please... d-don't tickle meeeee. Pleeeeeeze."
Oh. He was the one talking.
Was that real? No dream could ever be that... consuming.
Maybe his old life had been the dream. This was way too vivid. It
couldn't go on...
How stupid. Of course it would.
The worst possible thing ever - he would rather go through anything else, now - but he couldn't deny what was obvious. So much more tickling, coming right up.
Before he came here, those old nightmares had nothing to do with genuine tickling. What a fool he'd been.
Magic hands didn't ever get tired, did they? When he was finally worn out, the sadist who wore 'em would get everything all ready, so when he woke up - a whole new day full of hardcore fever.
"You gotta understand," he begged, "this is... m-more than I can take..."
There had to be something he could say. Right? Wasn't that how it worked? People just didn't get locked in secret houses and tickled for hours and hours. Not fair. The thing he'd had those nightmares about - well, shit, here it was, with a lot more hands at once. Determined. Serious about it.
"Not tickling," he wailed.
Chasing baddies, taking care of business, doing whatever it took... that didn't help here at all. It drove him absolutely crazy to remember how far away this lonely little house was from the road. No sign it was here.
He'd worked hard to get here. Instead of relaxing, he walked into the asshole's magic hands. A tickler. No, a hardcore tickler. He should've been okay, finally, and instead it was gonna keep on tickling. There was nothing it could possibly do that would be worse.
From the instant he saw that first pair of gloves - floating there, empty, magic inexhaustible tickling hands - he knew his worst nightmares along that line were going to be kid stuff.
The house was safe, alright. Quiet and locked up. He and the tickler. No chance whatsoever of being pulled away from the stroking, roaming, petting, racing hands...
Like those gloves, floating closer.
He jumped. "No, no, no, NOOOOOOOO!"
They were coming back.
Time to wrestle around like a fool. Useless. They didn't have to change course at all. He was staying on the damn bed and they were going to drive him insane again.
More gloves this time. Worse than ever. Sixteen, eighteen tireless hands.
He wailed at them -
All stopped. Except... one. Going down.
"Oh no," he begged.
It wouldn't.
"Please. No more."
But the fingers curled slowly around his favorite body part.
The others began moving.
Dammit. Two pair pinned his legs.
"Not my feet," he rasped - and immediately he was laughing again. Out of my mind, or I'll wish I was really going out of my mind soon enough...
But the gloves kept moving into position.
He laughed even harder when they coasted to his armpits and neck and collarbones.
As soon as they got back to it, he couldn't laugh at all anymore.
Nonstop flood. Except heavier. Nothing else mattered.
The jackass wore the gloves, and had 'em tickle wherever it wanted.
Time just ground to a halt.
The fingers didn't miss a spot.
He just couldn't do a thing to stop 'em...
Panting.
It had to end... but the gloves would still be there when he opened his eyes. The house was just too perfect. A tickler had moved in, and it had a wildly ticklish guy to torture. Hidden as well as it could wish, and time to burn.
He tried to prepare himself - and looked.
"Oh, nooooo..."
Twenty-two gloves. Wow. Hell, was he gonna get it now, or what -
Something was different. He lifted his head, looking himself over. His legs were spread, with straps making sure he couldn't shift his legs at all.
The straitjacket was gone.
After thinking that over, he went berserk.
Grunting, squealing, he pulled at the restraints with all the strength he had.
His sides were wide open now. Chest, belly, arms - now every inch could be attacked, gripped, just drilled...
The invisible tickler let him freak out. Probably enjoying the show.
When his breathing leveled off, two bottles of water came - and some familiar packages. Energy bars. He was going to need every calorie before it was done.
Done for the night.
"Look, I can't... I just can't do this."
A wrapper tore open.
He resisted the food. It followed his head around -
But as soon as fingers laid down in his armpits, he hurried to take the first bite.
It was so macabre. Tickle him for hours, and make him eat. So he could be tickled for more hours! If he fought it, the bastard just had to tickle him until he went along. So the out-and-out tickling could continue...
There had to be a way out. Something he could do.
He took a breath, kept chewing, and focused on his pain tolerance anchor. Dammit, there was nothing else he could do. Nice, snowy, quiet, no gloves floating around...
As he swallowed, he took a deep breath. Okay. It was going to work. It just had to work -
FIngers attacked his feet.
Slinging around immediately, he threw his head back and laughed with abandon.
This was so much worse than he remembered. So intolerable! He couldn't get the ankle-cuffs to move at all.
The gloves were racing, digging, clamping on, raking the sides, sliding so heavily on his heels. He just went wild.
Arms spread. Plenty of straps. The other gloves would move in any second. Complete. unhindered access. They could tickle this hard all over his body and, dammit, he couldn't do a thing to dodge it.
It was over. His desperate snickering was finally easing up. Oh, yeah.
The fingers were gone. He knew there was so much more of that to come, though. Imagining the start of the next round made him laugh again - so hoarse he was almost silent, but still rowdy noise, forlorn.
The magical bastard had won. Pretending that wasn't true was just ludicrous.
Now it got to take what it wanted...
The energy bar was waiting. He ate immediately, not wanting to bring the gloves back down yet, so worried about the next bout that it was hard to swallow.
Keeping the prisoner nice and healthy, so he could be tickled again and again.
Perfectly, expertly screwed...
As he finished off the bar, he tried to figure out why he'd been punished. It wasn't like he refused to eat...
It didn't click until well into the second liter of water.
He'd been using his anchor to calm down. The son of a bitch had noticed something - calmer breathing, less tension in his body - and maybe it had noticed a pattern. Even if that wasn't true, and the change this last time had been noticeable enough... the gloves moved in, shattering his attempt to cope with the unimaginably maddening impact that the son of a bitch rubbed into him.
The gloves hung in the air already. The sadist wearing them now would work him over again, and again - so very easy to dig in and reduce him to a motionless, suffering bundle of provoked nerves. Hell, the energy needed to keep one glove tickling him would be enough to derail him. Roaring at the ceiling, writhing uselessly... just longing to be able to beg it to take the fingers away.
It always reined the gloves in when he was starting to faint.
This sorcerer - this master tickler - must be extraordinarily happy with its plaything. Something in the solid, crippling embrace of the gloves...
He'd been so relieved to get here. Thinking about a couple beers, and then bed, kept him moving as he came to the door.
The hunter took notice. He'd even closed the door himself! I'm in here with you... and I'm real ticklish. Was it stunned, for a moment? Ecstatic? The other guy that would've been in here, whether it had a specific target picked out or was just gonna go grab somebody... well, he caught the break of a lifetime.
Suspicious or not, he came right inside. Well, look what we got here. Talk about bad timing...
He was exactly what the bastard was looking for. A little knockout gas, and the fun didn't even have to wait until some dude was hauled out to the torture chamber. He was the one it would tickle and tickle in the former safehouse, absolutely free of concern. The place was written off, forgotten...
Just perfect.
He didn't even realize the water bottle was empty until the asshole's gloves came down again.
26-July-2010