Payback for Cowboy Ed

by

Scooter McGraw

sjz7@airmail.net


Ed moved in with me shortly after he broke up with his wife. He's straight as an arrow, so I never hit on him. But, man, was he a hunk. Five foot nine, 180 pounds, most of it in his upper body. Big ol' walrus type moustache. Hairy all over. He was a mason by trade, and had the blue collar muscles to prove it. Always walked around in western wear, and sported a very well-worn pair of size 10 EEE cowboy boots.

I used to get him out of bed in the morning by pulling the covers up, and tickling the bottoms of those big, wide feet until he woke. It became a morning ritual, and although he couldn't stand it, put up with it. He WAS living in my house for free at the time.

To make a long story short, he stole my checkbook while I was out of town one weekend, and helped himself to $700 of my hard-earned money. I didn't know he'd done it until a month later, after he'd moved out. The police wouldn't do much to help me, and he was punished by spending exactly ONE night in jail.

Well, Scooter's got a vigilante mentality, and decided to take matters into his own hands. Finding a willing friend, I'd pay him to meet Ed at the local bar, and buy him drinks until Ed passed out, dead drunk. Ed would be dumped into my car, and we'd head to a buddy's camp that's well hidden in the woods in the remotest section of the nearby Adirondack Mountains.

Upon awakening, he'd find himself in the following predicament:

He's lying on his back with his arms pressed firmly at his sides, coil after coil of rope circling his torso and arms. Another rope would run across his chest, under his armpits, each end securely fastened to the legs at the head of the bed. A third rope would circle his waist, then run under the bed, fastened to the legs at the center. A fourth rope is tightly looped around one cowboy-booted ankle, stretched taut, and tied to a leg at the foot of the bed.

His other foot is bare, its cowboy boot and boot sock casually tossed to the side. A rope is tied around this ankle, similar to his booted foot, but there appears to be some kind of slip knot tied in the middle, that only needs a free hand to pull on it and loose the leg. A string is tied around his big toe, which is very taut and goes from his foot through an eyebolt in the wall, to a hat rack standing in the corner, where the other end passes through, around, and against...the trigger of his favorite six-shooter that's securely fastened to the rack.

I show him that the safety of the gun is engaged, as I hold up one bullet, a blank (but he knows not), placing it in the chamber, then spinning the cartridge so he doesn't know which round will have the bullet. I tell him, "Don't you dare move your foot, or you'll blow your head off. Maybe not the first time ya move, but soon", as I theatrically flip the safety off. I tug on the slip knot of the rope holding his bare foot in place, and the rope falls to the floor, completely freeing his leg. I croon, "There, now...ya ain't even got the rope to help ya stay still, anymore. Suffer."

I leave the room, sit, and wait. Maybe he'll twitch his toes a little too much, and we'll hear a "CLICK!", as the empty chamber advances. Eventually, I'll come back, to find him sweatin'...uh...bullets.

That's when I'll pull a chair up to the foot of the bed, and taunt him about learning his lesson. Of course, he'll readily admit his guilt, and beg forgiveness. But I won't be impressed. I'll reply, "I don't think you've REALLY learned not to screw your friends."

I'll pull a long seagull feather from my pocket, white with an evil-looking black tip, stroke it through my fingers, and pull my chair right up to his bare foot. Then the s-l-o-w stroking of the feather begins, up and down and across the soles. Into the toes. Across the ball of the foot. He starts to laugh, but bites his lips. No good.

The torture becomes more directed, more intense. Eventually, his butch attitude dissolves in a bellow of laughter, as he pulls his tormented tenderfoot away from the maddening tickle of the feather. We hear "CLICK!", as I exclaim, "Only four left. Maybe less. Better not move that foot again."

I tickle even more cruelly, until it's impossible for him to remain still at all. A third, a fourth, a fifth "CLICK!" ensue from the gun. I have a wicked grin on my face. "This is it, Cowboy. Got any last words?"

I put the feather down, and pull "The Widowmaker" out of my back pocket. This face of this brush measures 3 1/2 by 5 inches, and has over two hundred blunted metal bristles on it. I smile, and slowly drag it once up and down his sole. No man has ever lived through a session with "The Widowmaker" and remained unchanged.

I stroke faster and faster. He struggles to remain motionless, but the thing tickles more than a man can bear. Finally, exhausted, all will destroyed, tortured beyond his ability to remain sane, he roars with laughter and yanks his foot one last time, causing the blank to fire and my dear cowboy buddy to pass out from fright.

Scooter McGraw
sjz7@airmail.net


www.ropejock.com