I am Laughter – Part III
Month 7 – Week 1
I still haven’t begun to process the horror and rage that I feel for Sarah Packard, CEO of Pharmogenetica. Out of jealously, wrath and hurt, she transformed the beauty of the male-female relationship into a twisted dominating dance of endless tickling and torment. All so her unfaithful husband would never again know the fleeting touch of a lover in the cool of the evening or the randy, writhing pleasure of a simple coupling between two people overcome by lust. A misnomer, I suppose, is “simple coupling,” since this global epidemic has exposed the hidden complexity behind even the most innocent of actions.
I was forced to remain in that vent that night for more than six hours as the old family babysitter, transformed into goth-ticklefiend, systematically destroyed what was left of Ms. Packard’s ex-husband’s sanity. I cannot eliminate the memory of Dani asking with such sweet concern if Ms. Packard’s husband was really as ticklish on his feet as Ms. Packard had proclaimed. And when, between sobs, Robert nodded in fear and panic, Dani grinned with an evil delight and ever so slowly began to very lightly scratch along the softest part of his instep, cooing with pleasure. He never seemed to laugh as much as utter a single endless howl of madness. Generation 2, the next iteration of this plague, transformed somewhat passive, opportunistic tickling pleasure-seekers into those who hunted their prey and then feasted on their laughter with wicked joy, taking not only pleasure in the tickling response itself, but also in the tickling technique, and the degree of suffering they could inflict.
I heard it all that night, as Robert hung suspended in his frame and cackled wildly, his face contorting and shifting between frenzied laughter and screams of pain from cramping muscles. Sarah Packard laid out the whole plan, the entire blueprint of her revenge upon the male of the species, as Dani slowly and methodically introduced her “spider dance” into his armpits, her “lemmings off a cliff” as she scrabbled her long nails from the top of his toes all the way down the soles and off the heels, and her especially vicious “scurry ants” along his ribcage and belly down into his groin. Those fingers were remarkably gifted if one could refer to a tickling technique in that manner, and demonstrated an endless variety of pressure, movement and determination to wring every last laugh from his rapidly tiring lungs. Ms. Packard occasionally indulged in a bit of tickle sport at his expense, and eventually invited others in the office to participate as they desired. She told Robert his laughter was her “applause” received for a plan well executed.
When he finally had passed out, and the women began to disperse, I knew I would finally be able to stretch my cramped thighs and begin my way back to the tunnels. One odd thing occurred then, and I simply note it, not making a judgment on my perception. As Dani, the first recipient of Generation 2, turned to leave, she suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. She turned and looked upward along the cathedral-sized ceiling and followed the lines there until it appeared that her eyes rested squarely on me inside that vent, completely hidden by the grate. I know it is not possible that she saw me, or even heard me, but the slight wink she gave before turning around and sashaying out of the office, would have me believe otherwise. That is, if I knew that I wasn’t the victim of the mind playing tricks on itself after being stuck in a single cramped position for almost 7 hours. And yet, the horrifying possibility remains that Generation 2 really does heighten the senses, enabling the carriers to literally “sniff out” their prey. I will have to take this into account in any security modifications I decide to make. Maybe, though, I’m better off just getting out of town…….
I shouldn’t forget the other item of importance that I learned that night. There are indeed others like me “out there” hiding in the dark crevices of this city as well as others around the world. Ms. Packard allowed to her inner circle that the spread of the virus had not been perfect – that there were still wretched specimens of the weaker sex who had remained unaffected by the plague, and who were demonstrating surprising resourcefulness at remaining in hiding. In Europe, she said, there were even reports of groups of men fighting back and launching surprise attacks.
If there were a way we could locate each other, and communicate, perhaps in time we could organize and strike back. But it would be pointless to do that without a plan for the dissemination of an antidote. Still, one can dream, and hope, and yes, even pray.
I hope too that I remain out of harm’s way. I trust myself less and less to do that unless I am concentrating every moment. At night, my dreams are almost exclusively about being captured and tickled. Easily enough explained given my present circumstances. Until I mention that practically every moment I wake up in the morning and find myself with an erection as hard and as painful as any I had in my youth. I do nothing about for fear of releasing something that will cause the madness of the plague to spring forth, but there are times when the aching need is truly compelling.
I think I have learned most of what I needed to know about how this all came about and why. There is nothing more to gain by my skulking through the vents for the moment. I must plan anew now. I must discover enough information about the plague itself to design an antidote. And to do that, I must now devote my energy and my time to finding my brothers-in-arms, wherever they are hiding, until I have pieced together enough of an army that we can storm Pharmogenetica and hold it long enough for me to make use of my old lab space. I vow that one day, the laughter that is heard will not be the haggard, frantic torture howl of the ticklish, but the sweet, easy laughter of victory.
Month 7 – Week 1
I still haven’t begun to process the horror and rage that I feel for Sarah Packard, CEO of Pharmogenetica. Out of jealously, wrath and hurt, she transformed the beauty of the male-female relationship into a twisted dominating dance of endless tickling and torment. All so her unfaithful husband would never again know the fleeting touch of a lover in the cool of the evening or the randy, writhing pleasure of a simple coupling between two people overcome by lust. A misnomer, I suppose, is “simple coupling,” since this global epidemic has exposed the hidden complexity behind even the most innocent of actions.
I was forced to remain in that vent that night for more than six hours as the old family babysitter, transformed into goth-ticklefiend, systematically destroyed what was left of Ms. Packard’s ex-husband’s sanity. I cannot eliminate the memory of Dani asking with such sweet concern if Ms. Packard’s husband was really as ticklish on his feet as Ms. Packard had proclaimed. And when, between sobs, Robert nodded in fear and panic, Dani grinned with an evil delight and ever so slowly began to very lightly scratch along the softest part of his instep, cooing with pleasure. He never seemed to laugh as much as utter a single endless howl of madness. Generation 2, the next iteration of this plague, transformed somewhat passive, opportunistic tickling pleasure-seekers into those who hunted their prey and then feasted on their laughter with wicked joy, taking not only pleasure in the tickling response itself, but also in the tickling technique, and the degree of suffering they could inflict.
I heard it all that night, as Robert hung suspended in his frame and cackled wildly, his face contorting and shifting between frenzied laughter and screams of pain from cramping muscles. Sarah Packard laid out the whole plan, the entire blueprint of her revenge upon the male of the species, as Dani slowly and methodically introduced her “spider dance” into his armpits, her “lemmings off a cliff” as she scrabbled her long nails from the top of his toes all the way down the soles and off the heels, and her especially vicious “scurry ants” along his ribcage and belly down into his groin. Those fingers were remarkably gifted if one could refer to a tickling technique in that manner, and demonstrated an endless variety of pressure, movement and determination to wring every last laugh from his rapidly tiring lungs. Ms. Packard occasionally indulged in a bit of tickle sport at his expense, and eventually invited others in the office to participate as they desired. She told Robert his laughter was her “applause” received for a plan well executed.
When he finally had passed out, and the women began to disperse, I knew I would finally be able to stretch my cramped thighs and begin my way back to the tunnels. One odd thing occurred then, and I simply note it, not making a judgment on my perception. As Dani, the first recipient of Generation 2, turned to leave, she suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. She turned and looked upward along the cathedral-sized ceiling and followed the lines there until it appeared that her eyes rested squarely on me inside that vent, completely hidden by the grate. I know it is not possible that she saw me, or even heard me, but the slight wink she gave before turning around and sashaying out of the office, would have me believe otherwise. That is, if I knew that I wasn’t the victim of the mind playing tricks on itself after being stuck in a single cramped position for almost 7 hours. And yet, the horrifying possibility remains that Generation 2 really does heighten the senses, enabling the carriers to literally “sniff out” their prey. I will have to take this into account in any security modifications I decide to make. Maybe, though, I’m better off just getting out of town…….
I shouldn’t forget the other item of importance that I learned that night. There are indeed others like me “out there” hiding in the dark crevices of this city as well as others around the world. Ms. Packard allowed to her inner circle that the spread of the virus had not been perfect – that there were still wretched specimens of the weaker sex who had remained unaffected by the plague, and who were demonstrating surprising resourcefulness at remaining in hiding. In Europe, she said, there were even reports of groups of men fighting back and launching surprise attacks.
If there were a way we could locate each other, and communicate, perhaps in time we could organize and strike back. But it would be pointless to do that without a plan for the dissemination of an antidote. Still, one can dream, and hope, and yes, even pray.
I hope too that I remain out of harm’s way. I trust myself less and less to do that unless I am concentrating every moment. At night, my dreams are almost exclusively about being captured and tickled. Easily enough explained given my present circumstances. Until I mention that practically every moment I wake up in the morning and find myself with an erection as hard and as painful as any I had in my youth. I do nothing about for fear of releasing something that will cause the madness of the plague to spring forth, but there are times when the aching need is truly compelling.
I think I have learned most of what I needed to know about how this all came about and why. There is nothing more to gain by my skulking through the vents for the moment. I must plan anew now. I must discover enough information about the plague itself to design an antidote. And to do that, I must now devote my energy and my time to finding my brothers-in-arms, wherever they are hiding, until I have pieced together enough of an army that we can storm Pharmogenetica and hold it long enough for me to make use of my old lab space. I vow that one day, the laughter that is heard will not be the haggard, frantic torture howl of the ticklish, but the sweet, easy laughter of victory.
