S O M E T I M E L A S T Y E A R . . .
The Cleaner dumped bleach, a cloth and a wet sponge into his basket, standing to look at himself in the bathroom mirror before turning away from his sad expression, where he walked out into one of the large marble halls that made up Justin Bieber’s mansion.
Giggling and playful laughter could be heard in the bedroom ten feet away.
The Cleaner headed towards the top of the spiral staircase, ready to head speedily down, when he suddenly heard the smash of china and the drop of a silver plate.
The Cleaner stepped back, peering past the hall’s wall where his eyes narrowed into Justin’s giant ensuite bedroom.
On a bed made up of expensive pillows and silk linen, he and Hayley sat in their underwear drinking champagne and smoking pot.
The Maid, a sixty year old Mexican woman, on her knees and now cleaning up a mess of mistakenly dropped fresh salmon and a broken coffee cup, burst into tears whilst cupping her mouth in despair.
She made sure to hide her moment from her employee’s.
Justin combed his wife’s hair with his fingertips, blissfully ignorant to his temper and the way he had spoken to his underpaid staff.
He whispered something into his wife’s ear.
The Cleaner looked on.
Hayley giggled, “Justin! So naughty…” She then sent her long fingernails into her husband’s armpit playfully, causing the pop star to crumple up into a ball as his wife fell over him in a joyful wrestle.
The Cleaner stepped back, keen to make themselves unseen during this moment.
As The Maid stood, with soggy fish, scrambled egg and broken china in hand, she lowered her head in apology toward the couple.
“I’m, I’m so sorry, I, I had to be at the hospital last night and my—“
Justin spun away from his wife and knelt on the mattress, his hands dangling by his side, his tattooed torso facing The Maid as he took his index finger and pointed at his own head.
“Look at me,” he spoke calmly, his expression blank, “This is me giving a shit.”
Hayley laughed into her pillow.
The Maid lowered her head.
“You’re fired,” Justin declared, “Now clean up before you get the fuck out.”
The Maid hurried past The Cleaner, wiping emotion from her cheeks.
The Cleaner felt The Maid brush past his shoulder, where she ran down the spiral staircase, waiting till she arrived at the bottom to further fall into more tears.
The Cleaner turned towards Justin and his beautiful wife…
He watched her tickle him …
Pin him down, go for his weak spots, kiss his lips as she did so…
He watched them drink and laugh and not care about anything …
Not recognising the hurt they had just caused.
The Cleaner didn’t intervene.
Or speak up.
Or scrunch their face in anger.
No.
Instead, The Cleaner grinned.
HA ... HA ... HA ...
Justin glared with bulging eyes and a beetroot face as he used every ounce of strength in his body to pull his hands through the tight leather cuffs binding his wrists.
The Clown watched quietly, smiling behind his mask at how desperate Justin’s eyes looked - as if the pop star was trying to free himself with the power of his mind.
The Clown began to approach his toy.
Justin straightened his back, pushed his legs forward, pressed his lips together.
He endured the pain around each of his toes as they pressed forcefully against the string pinning them back against the stocks.
He twisted his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut, pretending that the gag wasn’t nearing his face as slow and teasingly as it currently was.
“ … Come here, my talented little pretty boy …”
Justin shook his head from left to right in a manic turn, slumping back down into the chair, his tired muscles giving up at his attempt at escape.
The gag pressed against his lips.
Justin kept them clamped shut, but The Clown used his other hand to push Justin’s head against the leather board of the chair, fixing it still.
Justin felt the gag infiltrate his mouth, sliding between his teeth, stuffing itself in and around his tongue.
“Fuck, no, mother fu—Mmphhh! Mphhhh! Mphhhh!”
The Clown then clipped the gag together at the back of Justin’s head, running his palm over Justin’s smooth head of hair afterward.
Justin’s breathless panting caused the party horn attached to the front of the gag to wheeze forward and backward.
Wheeeeezzzze! Wheeeeezeeee! Wheeeezeeeeee!
Its long multicoloured paper tube deflated and then inflated, curling and then stretching out with each panicked inhale and exhale.
Wheeeeezzzze! Wheeeeezeeee! Wheeeezeeeeee!
The Clown clapped in jest, bouncing from one leather boot to the next, his mask still perfectly covering his head despite the layers of sweat suffocating him beneath the plastic.
He then dropped down to his knees with a sudden thud.
Justin’s left foot squirmed as hard as it could, as The Clown took a hold of his heel with one hand.
“This little piggy …” The Clown used his other hand to pinch Justin’s left big toe, “… This little piggy went to the market…”
Justin tired to curl his toes away, but the string pinned them back, meaning Justin’s toes could do nothing but flex and wiggle in their miniature bonds.
The Clown pinched Justin’s left index toe.
“… This little piggy stayed home …”
The Clown’s voice deepened as he pinched Justin’s middle toe.
“… This little piggy had roast beef …”
Justin began to threaten the clown behind his gag, shouting at how he’d kill him, ruin him, fuck him up, make him pay for this …
But all that came out of Justin’s gagged mouth were disgruntled muffles and,
Wheeeeezzzze! Wheeeeezeeee! Wheeeezeeeeee!
“… And this little piggy had none …” said The Clown, as he pinched Justin’s second to last toe, every touch on every toe tickling Justin in a teasing way, a way that made his frantic stare watch The Clown’s fingers get closer to his little toe and, the unavoidable act that would take place straight after that last pinch …
Justin bent his knees and screamed through his gag.
Wheeeezee-eeeee-eeeeee-eeeeee-zzzzzzzeeee!
“… And this little piggy cried wee wee wee …” The Clown pinched Justin’s little toe, “… All the way home!”
The Clown used one hand to scribble over the sole of Justin’s left foot whilst pressing his masked face against the sole of his right.
Justin howled out lunacy, the tickling so visceral and actioned with such passion, made even worse with the oil, the toe strings, the tightness of his bondage.
Wheeeeezzzze! Wheeeeezeeee! Wheeeezeeeeee!
There was no break, no let up, no ‘cootchie coo’, just invasive sharp nails over his left arch and the hot breath against the flesh of his toes to the right.
The party horn shot in and out, in and out, in and out with every insanity filled giggle and laugh that left Justin’s mouth.
Wheeze-wheeeze, wheeeeeze-wheeze! Wheeze-wheeeze, wheeeeeze-wheeze!
The tickling went on and on, on and on, leaving one foot only to go to the next, The Clown swapping his moment breathing in one sole only to jump to the other side of the stocks and do the same with the next.
Justin’s stomach burned, his lungs felt tight, his shoulders ached and his knees throbbed.
Wheeeeezzzze! Wheeeeezeeee! Wheeeezeeeeee!
He breathed in and out so hard during each struggled, painful giggle that he started to suck in the gag.
He started to cough and hack, his fingers stretching out in dire stress.
As The Clown continued his torture, allowing Justin to face the thought of passing out for just a few seconds, he turned to look at the pop star, acknowledging that pained look in his eye, that ‘please stop, I’ll do anything’ expression that flashes out momentarily, without the ticklee even wanting it to, a glimmer of complete lack of control …
So soon, thought The Clown.
I love how it happens so soon …
The Clown saw that moment and then decided to stop.
He stood, dusting off his knee caps, allowing Justin a moment to regain his sanity.
Justin had now reached high levels of exhaustion.
He’d lost track of time, had given up on if anyone would be coming to save him and, worst of all, he needed to pee.
He held his bladder in, focusing on not embarrassing himself any further.
His gag continued it’s party horn wheeze as he tried to fill his lungs with air, his watering eyes attached to The Clown as The Clown stepped back and placed their hands behind their back.
“I have a question, Justin …”
Wheeeeze, wheeeeeze.
“Will you let me ask you a question, Justin?” The Clown asked politely.
Justin nodded hard and fast.
Wheeeze, wheeeze, he breathed.
“Do you …” The Clown tapped their plastic lip with their index finger, “… Do you know why this is … Happening … To you, specifically, Justin…?” The Clown enquired, with another creepy tilt to the head.
Justin tried to speak through the gag, but all that came out were muffles and wheezing, the party horn stretching in and out, in and out.
“Mmph, ughphher, youphpphh ugh-ergh-ert—”
Wheeeeeze, wheeeeeeze ...
The Clown reached forward and caught the end of the party horn just as it wheezed outward.
This trapped the air between the tube of paper and Justin’s mouth, putting him in a position where he could no longer breathe.
Justin’s eyes widened.
He kicked his legs, his throat bulging, his heart rate increasing by the second.
“No,” The Clown scoffed, “It’s not because I’m a pervert, Justin …”
The Clown let go of the party horn, where it rolled back to Justin’s gag, only to roll back out again in a wheezed stretch.
Wheeeeeeeeeeee—eeeeeeezeeeee …
The Clown returned their hands behind their back.
They then danced around Justin’s chair, positioning themselves behind him once again.
Justin jolted and shifted, lifting his shoulders, readying himself for The Clown’s fingers to once again invade his underarms.
This is … Justin thought.
Please
Jesus, God, if you can hear me …
Just make it stop.
“ … You think …” The Clown wiggled his fingers either side of Justin’s head, “… That I’m the monster … Because I’ve captured you, tied you up, tickled you till you’re a shameful, soaked heap! Because … I’ve violated you, played with your feet, toyed with your limbs and gagged you like a spoiled over-fed, still hungry pig …”
The Clown’s hands disappeared behind Justin’s head and as if by magic, on their return, they produced a hairbrush.
Justin frowned at the tool, not aware of its use or effect, uneducated on the tickle fetish, the tools used, the power they hold …
“… Well, you’re mistaken!” The Clown growled, “You’re the one in the wrong! You’re the rude, arrogant, selfish time-waster that deserves everything I’ve fucking done to you…! Everything I will do to you …”
The Clown stepped casually around Justin, arriving back at his feet.
“… You’re the monster, Justin,” The Clown confirmed.
Justin shook his head, his eyes widening, his toes flexing within their string-like bonds as the hairbrush neared his left sole.
The plastic bristles, their quantity, their sharpness …
As they got closer to the bottom of his foot, their importance and threat started to settle in.
Justin’s dread, his thoughts on how this might feel, became a reality in three …
Two …
One …
Justin threw himself up in the chair as the hairbrush started its scrub against his sole.
The Clown cackled like a witch as he ran the brush over Justin’s arch, from left to right, up and down, side to side …
Justin’s eyes were shut so tightly they had now become tiny creased slits in his face, his skin boiling red, his cheeks swollen, his neck stiff with angst and lunacy.
Wheeze! Wheeze!
He thrashed around in his designer suit, sweat covering every inch of his body beneath the cotton material, the chair itself shifting a few inches to the right as his body weight squirmed in the seat.
He had never had his bare feet tickled by friends or family for more than a minute, let alone this sort of torture.
Wheeze! Wheeze!
The Clown giggled demonically as he watched Justin endure the biggest tickling of his entire life, the party horn rolling in and then stopping, as Justin took a breath, and then it would roll out in another squeaky, loud wheeze, remaining there for a few seconds as Justin expelled all hysteria through a cramped, strained and utterly dry throat.
Justin pushed out his left leg, a gargled whine and spluttered cry leaving his mouth as he scowled down at the brush, his mind unable to conceive just what was happening to him.
The Clown acknowledged such a look, but despite the fear and desperation in Justin’s expression, he decided to continue.
“The thing about tickle torture, Justin, is that … You don’t stop, even when you think you should!”
The Clown pushed Justin over his limit, scrubbing the brush over the fleshy lengths of his exposed, pinned back toes, the bristles working their way into the open in-betweens, sliding against the hyper ticklish expanse of each vulnerably exposed digit.
“Drives you crazy right, tickle toy?!”
Justin nodded in frantic agreeance, doing anything to get the torture to stop.
“Wouldn’t it be incredible if I had a second brush?” The Clown teased.
Justin’s eyes bulged open, sweat trickling down the sides of his neck, his pulsating lips consuming the gag almost entirely as the party horn continued its wheeze.
Wheeeeze! Wheeeeze! Wheeeeze!
He shook his head, already trying to yank his right foot through the right hole of the stock.
The string pulled at his toes, his ankle remained fixed, his hysteria stayed present and tormenting, the sting and burn in his bladder now more present than ever.
The Clown pulled a second brush out from behind his back.
“Oh look! Dreams do come true!” The Clown spat.
Justin wriggled with such strength that his body had started to bulge beneath his suit, his face now showcasing a fierce anger that gave up contemplating his dire situation.
He growled and glared at the second hairbrush now making its way toward his right foot.
Justin bucked and writhed as the bristles dragged along his heel and arch, his left foot abused the same way - two brushes, both feet, at the same time, sending the twenty eight year old into a spiral of unreserved, unconfined delirium.
Justin needed to make this stop, he had to verbalise the want to get this to be over.
He pushed his tongue against his gag, his focus ten percent on trying to remove the party horn from his mouth, ten percent on trying to keep his bladder in control, eighty percent trying to handle the feeling rubbing against each of his soles.
Wheeeeeeze! Wheeeeeze! Wheeeeeze!
With force, Justin heaved the gag out of his mouth, his tongue shoving it out from between his lips where dribble and mucus followed its exit.
Without hesitation, Justin began his beg.
“MAN, PLEASE, STOP--” cough, splutter, cough “I CAN’T TAKE IT, STOP WITH THE BRUSH FUCK, THIS ISN’T COOL MAN THIS ISN’T RIGHT COME ON I’M GONNA PISS MYSELF I SWEAR TO GOD I—”
The Clown grinned beneath his mask, enjoying Justin’s cries and pleas, revelling in their hoarse tone and ‘pulled from the pit of the stomach’ delivery.
“You’re going to piss yourself?” The Clown sounded excited by such a statement, “Oh how wonderful, it must’ve been that beer before I took you!”
The brush slid across and across,
Left to right, up and down, side to side …
“FUCK, DUDE NO, NO, NO — THIS ISN’T RIGHT, YOU CAN’T JUST FUCKING DO THIS— AH MAN, HELP, HELP SOMEBODY—”
Justin felt the snap.
His body couldn’t take it anymore.
“—HELP, SOMEONE HE … Hel … Uh, uhhh no, fuck,” Justin scrunched up his toes the best he could as the brushes continued their torment, a dull ache now leaving his body as his bladder burst, a large damp stain now presenting itself around the crotch of Justin’s suit trousers.
The Clown laughed into his mask, now just gently rubbing the brush along Justin’s twitching heels, allowing him to slump into the chair in a dishevelled heap, the dark stain now presenting the faint stench of urine.
The Clown lifted his shoulders, stepping up, using both brushes now on Justin’s left foot only.
“You’re right… ” The Clown confirmed, “… I can’t just do this … But we can…”
Justin arched his back and screamed into the ceiling as The Clown sent both brushes over his left sole only, the silky smooth flesh taking on hundreds of plastic bristles at once, the toe ties making it overwhelmingly frustrating in his attempt to twist his foot out of the way, the baby oil making the hyper sensitivity reach levels that almost made Justin’s mind explode, all whilst he acknowledged the piss soaking through his underwear.
Suddenly the room started to flash a vibrant green and white, flickering non stop as loud audio laughter began to play from the corners of the ceiling.
Justin thrashed from side to side as the door opposite burst open, his eye sight traumatised by the strobe lights now causing his movements and reactive writhing to appear as if they were glitching at each half a second.
Several Clowns, dressed just the same as the one Justin had reluctantly gotten used to, stampeded into the room followed by dozens of black balloons.
The balloons rolled over the floor, they bounced off Justin’s face and legs, they flooded the humid square box of torture as the door contained Justin, his clowns, the strobe lights, noise, laughter and party props.
Justin cried for help as one of The Clown’s produced a pair of scissors from its pocket.
“No … No, wait, fuck, please, d-don’t — JESUS, GOD HELP ME—”
Justin twisted his body away from the scissors as they neared his sides, the fear in him informing his ruined mind that this was it: this is when tickling turned to mur—
—The scissors sliced through Justin’s shirt, just as another Clown arrived at his side and used their own pair of scissors to cut off his tie.
Snip!
Snip!
“What — no, damn, damnit! Fuck! —“
The Clown continued to tickle Justin’s soles with each brush as a third Clown used another pair of scissors to cut at Justin’s trousers and suit jacket, just as the other two began to rip away Justin’s shirt from his body.
Three other Clowns, holding their own tickle toys, started to approach Justin in a playful dance as the strobe lighting flickered, as the audio laughter bellowed…
One Clown held a plastic gun with a long feather poking out of the barrel.
As The Clown pulled the trigger, the feather twirled around in a fast paced spin, nearing Justin’s left armpit, its soaked delve and hairy centre now fully exposed thanks to another Clown stripping his upper torso free of his shirt and suit jacket.
Justin sat in just his underwear as another Clown tore apart his trousers.
With his tattooed upper body revealed, Justin had now choice but to allow the Clowns to tickle him all over, some using their fingers, other using their tools, such as the feather gun now spinning into Justin’s sweat drenched underarms.
Just screamed and begged, swore and cussed, coughed and heaved, his feet also enduring the terror from the brushes over his soles.
A Clown to the right, with a flower pinned to its leather chest, tip-toed towards Justin’s chest where he pinched down on a plastic ball attached to the flower’s stem.
Baby oil squirted out of the flower in a playful squeak, landing all over Justin’s shoulders, nipples, stomach and navel.
“Ahhh God, God fuck, fuck, fu-UCK FUCK FUCK FU—“
The Clown tickled the baby oil into Justin’s sides and armpits, his collarbone and ribs, his hips and waist, all whilst the other Clowns worked over his toes and fingers, his neck and thighs, his knees and heels, the brushes still working over the centre of his soles.
“This is what you get!” Said the main Clown, passionately scrubbing the brush over Justin’s arches, “This is what happens when you treat people like shit, Justin! This is what happens …” The Clown cackled madly into the ceiling, “… WHEN YOU’RE A MONSTER!”
One Clown arrived by Justin’s left ear, shouting into him with anger and a vicious, commanding yell.
“This is for the times you were rude to Kenny, how you fired Glenda on the spot, this is for the times you embarrassed Michael or belittled the Gardener …!”
The Clown at Justin’s soles increased the pressure of the scrub, further sending Justin into dishevelled, uncontrollable madness.
“This is for the times you made so much mess, in the bathrooms, the kitchens, the toilet and the bedrooms, you fucking slob!” The Clown pushed harder than he had done all night, finding that sweet spot just below Justin’s arch where, when scrubbed from left to right, threw the twenty eight year old down a rabbit hole of ticklish, hyper sensitive oblivion.
“This is payback!” They all cried at once as balloons bounced around their presence, surrounding Justin’s bound and tickled body.
Justin, with gag still hanging around his neck, could no longer laugh or cry, he instead writhed and bucked, his face shimmering with droplets of body moisture, his lips pressing together in a manic scrunch as he tried to pull his hands through the restraints once again.
For Justin, this had gone past ‘too much’.
And it seemed to only get worse and worse and worse and …
He couldn’t take this a second longer.
The brushes over his feet, the tickling all over the rest of his body …
He flapped his fingers as The Clowns began to suck and bite on his thumb.
“NO, WHAT, THIS IS —FUCK, STOP THIS ISN’T COOL, MAN FUCK, THIS ISN’T, THIS ISN’T RI—“
To Justin’s surprise, he pulled his right hand down so hard that his leather cuff snapped away from its metal attachment.
Some of The Clowns jumped back in shock as Justin partly freed himself.
They tried to grab at his hand, several of them grabbing at his arm, but he pulled away, swinging a strong punch at two of them, one after the other.
As they stumbled back, one Clown stumbled away and ran towards the door.
They opened it up and staggered out for help as Justin used his free hand to unbuckle his left wrist.
The Clown at Justin’s feet dropped the brushes and ran towards him in an attempt to grab at his hands.
Justin waited until The Clown got closer and as soon as they moment felt right, with strobe lighting still making each moment appear as a flicker, Justin clenched his fist and punched The Clown directly in the middle of his mask, once, twice, three times —
THWACK, THWACK, THWACK!
Justin felt several leather fingers curl around his left wrist, pinning it back towards the cuff, but with the cuff fully broken away from the seat they struggled to re-tie Justin.
Their hesitation allowed Justin to not punch or fight them, but to instead reach across and flick up the steel latch connecting the stocks together.
Just as another Clown got to their feet after enduring a fist to the face, Justin pulled his left hand away from The Clowns and unhooked the strings to the toes of his left foot.
Still mostly trapped, Justin spent some time fighting off the four remaining Clowns as they overwhelmed him and began to take hold of his arms.
But Justin had a leg free now.
He kicked the left side of the stocks up until the hole opened wider, allowing Justin to slide his foot towards himself.
He then shuffled up, yanking his right arm free, punching the Clown to his left whilst kicking the two Clowns to his right.
His heel smashed into plastic masks and leather chests, his once tickled-to-oblivion sole sending two heavier kicks into one of The Clowns groin’s, where Justin felt a squashed crunch on impact.
Justin slid off the seat, his right ankle still in the stocks, mostly free after lifting the top half of the stocks up, however his toes still remained attached.
With a pained wince, Justin hopped on the spot, fighting back one Clown that tried to grab at his shoulders, whilst dealing with another Clown on the floor reaching out for his left foot.
Justin punched The Clown in the throat, sending it back in a startled stumble, whilst unhooking his toes from the strings pinning them to a now opened stock.
Justin fell to the floor, entirely free.
Breathless and drenched in sweat and baby oil, he stumbled out through the door and out of the room.
Unable to keep his footing due to knees throbbing so much in pain, he staggered across carpet, taking in beautifully decorated wallpaper covering tall hall walls leading up to ceilings displaying dozens of hung chandeliers.
Down one end of the hall, a Clown and several other men dressed in tuxedos began their chase after the pop star.
Justin spun on the spot and ran down the hall, passing doors that looked like hotel rooms, however he knew deep down they lead to rooms just like the one he sat tied in only minutes before.
As he began his escape, his lungs burning, his toes and soles numb from tickle torture, his blood shot eyes caught the glimpse of names on the door.
Tom Holland …
Henry Cavil ...
Johnny Orlando …
Timothée Chalamet …
Chris Evans …
Justin could hear senseless laughter, in different tones, volumes and kinds, through each individual door until he stumbled down some stairs, barging past a well dressed couple wearing clown masks and drinking champagne.
He burst past them, their glasses knocking away from their bodies, the contents spilling everywhere.
Justin barged past another group of people also dressed in the same attire; masks, tuxedo’s, ball gowns, eating canapés and making small talk.
The Clown and the men behind continued their chase as Justin threw himself through some double doors, where he arrived in a industrial kitchen where cooks worked over finely cut lamb, drizzling sauce over creamy mash potato whilst grills burst up in flames and the head Chef shouted orders, unaware of the young man speeding through his work place.
“STOP HIM, FUCK, STOP HIM!” Shouted The Clown.
Some of the cooks made a jump for Justin but he hopped over them effortlessly, kicking through a final steel door until he landed on dirt and concrete.
He sped past parked cars broken glass, cutting his feet as he did so, happy to feel the slice of sharpness during a successful break away from this hell, instead of the constant tickling over his soles.
He threw himself up onto a metal fence, climbing it quickly, his toes clawing painfully onto the wired structure until he reached the top.
He fell over the other side, landing on his back with a crunch, wincing as The Clown and security on the other side sped towards him.
Justin rolled to his feet, offering his chasers the middle finger as he turned around and ran into the Los Angeles nighttime.
A FEW DAYS LATER …
An L.A.P.D police car rolled to a halt outside Justin’s mansion.
Two cops exited the vehicle, hooking their thumbs over the waistband of their trousers as they walked towards the giant home.
Justin answered the door wearing a black oversized beanie, sunglasses, a fluffy dressing gown, white socks and slippers.
He waved them in quickly, pausing to stare outside over his front drive, past the police car, Porsche’s and bright green Jeep’s, where his eyes continued to expect for safety.
A few minutes later Justin sat in his living room, on the couch, opposite the two police officers.
“And … You said these uh, these clowns they … They tickled you?” Asked the first police officer.
The secondary officer blinked, maintaining a straight face as he watched the pop star squirm over the edge of his seat.
“Man, I, I know it sounds whack but, it happened. I was kidnapped, man, there were, there were seven, eight of them, well, one at first but then, then I got out and I was in this, this kinda hotel and—“
“—And you think other … Celebrities are there now, made to endure the same kinda stuff you went through?” The officer asked.
Justin raised his eyebrows, using his hands to explain the severity of his emotions.
“Ahh, ahh I don’t know, I, I didn’t hang around long enough ... But, it seemed like I wasn’t the only one there and, and, we’ve gotta do something abou—“
The secondary office leaned in, resting his elbows over his knees.
“You understand what you’re saying, right Mr. Bieber?”
Justin shifted uncomfortably, sinking into the depths of the couch.
“Yeah, I, I … I know this sounds insane b—“
“— Insane? Sir, it’s Halloween. And you’ve called us up to tell us you were kidnapped … By clowns and, and tickle tortured … With a gun full of feathers and, uh, …” the officer turned towards his note pad full of notes, “… And hairbrushes. I uh, I’m not sure what we can do with this ...”
Justin stood slowly.
He pointed down towards the notepad and with a stern, deep voice he demanded —
“— Do something.”
Despite months of controlling his mood, his temper, the part of him that got him into this mess in the first place …
Sometimes, that glimmer of privilege still revealed itself.
The police officers looked at each other blankly.
They stood, meeting Justin toe to toe, a little taller than his one hundred and seventy centimetres.
“We’ll be in touch,” said the first officer, as the secondary officer gave Justin a polite nod.
Justin took in a breath and shot his eyes at the ceiling, allowing the officers to brush past either of his shoulders.
They left his mansion with no intention to investigate the allegation further, leaving Justin in his socks and slippers, alone on the edge of his ten thousand dollar couch.
LATER THAT EVENING…
The Clown smothered baby oil over Justin’s soles, drenching them from toe to heel as Justin writhed in the strobe light, in his underwear, his hands bound above him, his waist and pits tickled by leather fingers.
The laughter - deafening.
The tickling - beyond intense.
Justin’s cries - unnoticed, unheard…
No matter how hard he screamed and laughed, the cops ignored him, his pleading echoing out down halls filled with laughter.
Justin felt suffocated by the hysteria.
Balloons rolled around him, feathers entered the muscular curves of his body in a frantic spin, brushes made their way over the silky smooth length of his toes.
Hands groped his thighs and calves and arms and neck until the laughter became too much, now no longer leaving his body but instead entering it--
--Justin gasped.
He sat up in bed, holding onto his throat, waking up from his nightmare.
He caught his breath, his wife beside him rolling over, resting closer into his body.
“Baby, it was just a bad dream … They’re gone, they’re not coming back …” she urged, kissing her husband’s back, “… There’s security everywhere. You’re, you're okay …”
Justin nodded, rubbing his lips, his anxiety decreasing the more Hayley soothed him back into a calmer state.
Justin swung his feet out of bed and ran a hand over his head.
He walked slowly downstairs, his bare feet making no noise over the marble steps.
He arrived at the refrigerator, pulling its doors open, taking a cold glass bottle of water from inside.
He unscrewed the cap and downed the contents.
Justin paused as a shadow passed by in a swoosh.
He turned, his eyes falling to the glass double doors looking out to his garden.
On the patio sat the same antique box that had been delivered by his captors only a few days ago.
Justin took careful steps towards the doors, spinning the now empty bottle of water in his hand so that he now held onto the neck, ready to smash the heavier end into any clown mask that presented itself.
Justin pulled the doors open.
He picked up the box, remaining outside.
With confidence, he opened up the box and looked down into it’s contents.
Justin picked up a black piece of paper.
On the front - a picture of a clown’s face with a hand and index finger pressed against it’s mouth.
The note read, in red font:
'Don't forget, we filmed everything. Keep talking about this, and we leak the video ...
... We'll be in touch.'
Underneath the clown was a ‘O’ shape scribbled in red ink.
Justin screwed up the note, placed it back inside the box and then held it towards his chest.
He wanted to take it in, to show his wife and the cops …
But a sting in his stomach told him the latter might even have something to do with these clowns, these abusers, these captors who seemed to get away with taking people in the night and tickling them till they couldn’t take it anymore …
So Justin put the box back down on the same spot on the patio as he’d collected it from.
He took a few gentle steps away.
Closed the double doors.
And went back upstairs…
Back to sleep …
Back to another ticklish nightmare that would now doubt haunt him for the rest of his life.
‘CLOWN’ CONTINUES IN CHAPTER THREE, ‘REC’