Tommy Gets What He Deserves

by

Scooter McGraw

sjz7@airmail.net


Tommy and I met during my volunteer days at the local ambulance squad. I wanted to practice my skills as an emergency medical technician, and invited him to be my "victim", under the guise of having him help me with my training.

The fundamentals of pre-hospital care are remembered by the mnemonic "A-B-C-D-E": establish Airway; check Breathing; check Circulation; check for Disabilities; Expose where necessary. When you get to the "D" part, you're supposed to perform a short neurological exam to establish "mobility and sensitivity" of the extremities. While one is SUPPOSED to check for sensitivity by asking, "which toe am I holding?", I preferred a slightly more effective method, lightly stroking the tender soles of my "victim". Amazing how many men had perfectly functioning nerve endings down there.

And so I found out Tommy was ticklish. Insanely so. One little stroke on the bottoms of his size 7 1/2 D's, and he nearly jumped off my examining table, letting go a whoop of laughter.

Over time, we became friends, and eventually, he allowed me to explore my newly discovered sexuality with him. I often asked if I could tie him down and tickle his feet, but he vehemently refused, stating, "You can beat the crap outta me...that I can take. But I can't STAND to be tickled, especially on my feet."

I didn't know Tommy had a drug problem when I spent that month in the hospital, asking him to stay at my place and take care of my cats. He found my wallet, my checkbook, my credit cards [does this sound familiar to any of you?], and went on a four-week spending spree. I didn't know what had happened until the first checks were returned ISF.

The police wouldn't help me. "You let him in your home, so you gave him the right to your possessions", they told me. They refused to let me press charges. Stupid small town mentality.

I'll be back in that one-horse town, someday. And Tenderfoot Tommy will PAY for his crime...with his laughter, and maybe his sanity.

Payback starts by bribing someone to get Tommy drunk enough to make him pass out. My little buddy gets carted to my friend's camp I used in my last adventure. Tommy wakes up, finds himself securely roped to the bed.

Wrists are lashed to the posts at the head of the bed. Several dozen feet of rope circle his lower legs, from above the knees to the ankles, which are tied close together and latched to the cross post at the foot of the bed. I enter, asking the little SOB if he's got my money. Worthless drunk that he is, he won't. I reply, "Too bad...I'm gonna have to take it outta your hide."

I won't kill a man over a few hundred dollars, but I WILL make him suffer enough so that he'll think twice about ever stealing from a friend again. I'll just torture him for a few days, until he's broken and susceptible to some reprogramming.

We'll skip the part where I subject him to a half day of water hitting his forehead, drop by agonizing drop. We'll also skip the part where he spends another half day being electrotortured by a hand-crank generator, only cranked maybe 1/8 of a turn (and with almost NO voltage); touching him over and over again, everywhere on the upper 90% of his body, using the bare end of a wire attached to the generator's positive terminal.

No, we'll skip to day two, when the REAL fun starts. Twenty-four hours after a major drunkenness, a man absolutely HAS to take a piss. So will Tommy. Pity he's all tied down and can't get to the bathroom. When he asks me to let him up so he can urinate, I'll take the wires from the generator, firmly tape an end from each one to either side of his groin, and then plug the other ends into a nearby (dead, but he knows not) wall socket. I'll let him know to no uncertain terms: "Go ahead and piss. You'll complete the circuit...and electrocute yourself." I then go to the sink, turn on the tap slightly, and leave the room for an hour or more.

Upon returning, the little dude's eyes will be YELLOW from holdin' back all that piss. Of course, he'll beg me to let him go, apologizing profusely. His pleading falls on deaf ears. But I do reply, with an almost sincere look of forgiveness on my face, "Okay, so you need to piss. Lemme help ya."

At this point, I yank the little bastard's cowboy boots off, and pull his socks firmly, but slowly, until his tender little feet are exposed. I'll take my trusty feather and slowly tickle his soles, his toes, all of his feet until he laughs so hard, so long, that he can no longer contain himself or his bladder, and he lets out a terrific scream as he simultaneously lets loose a stream of backed-up beer piss, passing out from fright, thinking he just killed himself.

Scooter McGraw
sjz7@airmail.net


www.ropejock.com