CoffeeEmporer
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Apr 19, 2007
- Messages
- 78
- Points
- 6
My latest creation, cobbled together from that strange and wonderful place that all tickle fiction comes from. Enjoy! 
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Rain splattered along the cracking stone sidewalks that made up Terrance Street in a hurried, frantic manner. It ushered the people who found themselves outside under cover as quickly as possible, lest they face the unrelenting deluge. If one were the sort to assign qualities to such things, than one might say that the rain had places to be, and was more than happy to push people to the side that got out in its way. It was a busy rain, one that suited the city of New York just fine. The sound of honking horns blended in with the frenzied pitter-patter of the 5’oclock storm. It sounded almost like an ocean in rage, the waves bellowing fiercely among thunder claps and terrifying winds. It reminded Mo of the old sea by her home when she was younger. It was one of the few things she missed from those times.
The dinner shift was just beginning when Mo made it to the employee entrance of the Brass Lantern. She was soaked, something she wouldn’t have minded so much if she didn’t have to go on stage in nearly 20 minutes. She would have to rush if she was going to be ready in time, a little fact that her manager Charlie wouldn’t stop screaming in her ear.
“Late! Late! I can’t believe you’re late again!” A small man with a large paunch yelled. He was bald for the most part, save for the black hair lining his head from ear to ear. A pair of small spectacles dangled precariously from his ears, as if one odd turn or twist would send them flying. His giant nose, however, seemed to account for this possibility. It would seem to grow larger and larger with every angry outburst, pushing into the frames. “Do you understand how much grief you give me Mo?”
“Is it about as much as I bring in every night Charlie?” The brunette woman retorted as she ducked behind a paper screen, quickly stripping off layers of wet clothing and tossing them aside. A small curse came from her lips when she found her nylons to have a long rut up the side of the left leg. The shadow of her lithe frame could be seen through the oriental divider, as well as her frown.
“Only barely sweetheart, and watch those wet clothes! You’ll ruin that little antique I picked up from China!”
“You mean that Jewish scrap merchant who hunts down anything that looks like it’s remotely tied to the East and passable? Who sold this screen to you for about the price of a cup of coffee?”
“Don’t get mouthy with me! I still pay your rent doll, now stop wasting time and get ready. You’re on in 10.”
With that, Charlie slammed the door as he left, causing a few more odd cracks to appear in the already well worn paint. Mo let out a small sigh as she rolled her gray eyes, the thought of walking out the back door and leaving crossing her mind for the third time this week. She walked out from behind the folding screen and quickly reviewed herself in the partially broken wall mirror. The pale blue dress clung to her curves like a hand in a glove, though Mo thought the pink splotches that were supposed to be cherry blossoms made it hard to notice anything else. She didn’t have time to complain too much, however. Her make-up still needed to be done and she only had 5 minutes before show time.
********************
She sang like an angel, that’s what they all said. Not all that worked with her or even all in attendance, but every single person that ever heard her sing. The Brass Lantern was by no means the most ritzy or entertaining club in Manhattan. One step inside and one could tell by the faux Chinese decorations and the cheap samurai swords that it was probably the cheapest, most tacky place in all of New York.
But the one thing it did have was Mo.
The cigarette girls learned quickly never to try and sell anything to the customers during Mo’s songs. You’d more than likely get shooed away or even paid to leave in all likelihood if you tried. Food was only served in between sets as well, giving the impression that the entire place revolved around the little starlet. Charlie hated it to some extent, but he could never deny the money he made from her performances. Add that to the fact that she refused to leave the club or even seek out an agent, and the Brass Lantern’s owner had a guaranteed meal ticket.
And he did love his money.
In many ways, you could say that money was Charlie’s biggest weakness. Which is probably why when the man dressed in the rumpled vest and grease smudged coat came to speak to him about a business proposition, he was all ears.
********************
The hours had grown long in the city that never sleeps when Mo made her way back to her apartment. It had been what some might have called a “night”. Her set had run two hours longer than she wanted, after which Charlie had the nerve to come to her dressing room and try to talk to her about some sort of business venture. It had the usual grab for cash that marked his schemes. That didn’t so much rattle her cage since he usual came to try and flirt with her anyway. It was when he mentioned the radio that she well and good lost her temper. A couple of quick stings to his ego and a threat to quit were enough to put him in his place as she left for the night. Add that onto the two goons that had been eyeing her as she left the club, and it was enough to treat herself to a cab home. At least that part had been pleasant.
The soft thuds of high-heels being dropped onto a carpeted entryway announced Mo’s return to her small two bedroom apartment nestled in the corner of the fifth floor of Palmcroft Lodgings. Her nylon covered feet padded across the cheap, almost threadbare carpet as she made her way over to the kitchen nook. She needed a drink in the worst way, but only as soon as she lost her semi-damp dress.
She entered her bedroom, losing the cotton garment in one smooth motion. Clad in nothing but her brassiere, underwear, and stockings, Mo took a moment to stare at herself in the mirror. The reflection of the woman was beautiful, despite the wear and tear the evening had bestowed upon her. The hair was a mess and her make-up had definitely gone from seductive to scandalous, yet she none the less remained gorgeous. She met her reflections gaze, and for a moment allowed herself to remember. It was then that Mo felt old. So very, very old.
It was then that the sound of her front door opening that broke her from her musings. It seemed as if her night was not quiet over yet.
********************
The gag didn’t bite into the woman’s lips too much. Tie it just tight enough to keep her from calling out for help. Keep her limbs tied in a similar manner to the chair. Above all else, make sure that you keep an eye on her. Any movement to get free and she is to be stopped. Those were Professor Germaine’s orders, and he was very pleased to see that they had been followed to his exact specifications. His eyes nervously glared at his captive, hungrily drinking in the sight of her bound form. He could hardly wait.
“Wakey wakey Miss Rivers, you have an audience waiting for you,” Germaine’s voice said softly.
A low murmur passed Mo’s lips, before her head snapped up to meet the gaze of her captors. Three men stood before her, one of which was wearing a very large smile. The two that stood on either side of smiley were not impressive in any manner what so ever, a trait that along with their pulled down hats and high jacket collars marked them as thugs. Hired help for whoever the man in the middle was. He, in turn, was much more memorable. His jacket was smudged by what looked to be grease, while his vest and shirt were rumpled with creases so worked into the fabric that they almost seemed to be moving back and forth. His hair rivaled his clothes in terms of unkemptness. The only thing about him that wasn’t dirty or disheveled was his eyes. They shone bright and hard like a surgeon’s scalpel, as if they were dissecting everything they observed. Those, above everything else, made Mo feel uncomfortable.
Mo tried to scream immediately. The gag, however, made that almost impossible. She tried to struggle free of her binds, but the men were at her side within an instant, holding her fast. With every action, the captive woman began to feel more and more scared. With her final effort she tried to demand to know what these men were doing her, the gag muffling both her words and the seriousness of her tone.
“There is something I’m very, very curious about Miss Rivers. Do you know what that is?” Germaine asked as he slowly walked over and kneeled beside his captive, carrying what looked to be a large briefcase beside him.
Mo struggled in response and spat out something that sounded like a curse.
“It’s not why a singer of your caliber is working at a gin mill like the Brass Lantern,” he said, slowly setting down the briefcase as well.
Mo looked on curiously at the strange case beside her, a lump of dread growing in the pit of her stomach.
“It’s not even why a dame like you is living in such a rough part of town when she has the good looks to be a moll or even some fifth avenue socialite’s main gal,” he continued, popping the locks and lifting the lid on the case.
“My biggest question is this my dear Miss Rivers: How are you not dead yet?”
At this point, Mo finally saw what was inside the case of Professor Germaine.
It was a Dictaphone.
A sudden nod of Professor Germaine’s head caused his two lackey’s to tilt the chair back and lay it on the floor, leaving Mo’s feet flopping in the air aimlessly. A few mores suppressed screams and cries emanated from her gagged mouth as her smiling captor brought the recording device’s microphone closer to her head. The two non-descript men then moved towards the feet of the poor bound woman. A look of boredom seemed to pass over their faces as they grasped her ankles, bringing her already limited thrashing to a complete stop. Mo Rivers was still attempting to knock her gag loose when Germaine began to speak again.
“I mean, you probably won’t tell me. I wouldn’t trust you to tell me either way, given your track record. I really should have learned to read lips,” Germaine said aloud, his thoughts and voice trailing off for a few moments. “Oh well, we all have our little disappointments… Don’t we Molpe?”
At the mention of that name, Mo froze. She stared at the man beside her with his microphone in hand with eyes wide in shock.
“Now then, onto tonight’s business.”
It was at this point that the men who were holding their captive’s ankles brought their other hands to Mo’s arches. In a sudden and clumsy flurry of motion, their fingers began to tickle her feet.
“MMMMMMMPH! MMMMMMMMMMMM!” Two loud screams came from Mo’s mouth, followed by a series of grunts and choking noises. Her renewed efforts to escape her binds were adamant, but the ropes held her fast to the old wooden chair. When efforts of escape proved worthless, she then attempted to suppress the mounting laughter that was building up in her chest. The nylons that clad her dainty size six feet intensified her already sensitive flesh. Add that on top of the strenuous workout her feet had received that night performing, and it all added up to a pair of extremely ticklish tootsies. Despite all that, however, Mo resisted the terrible tickling that was being bestowed upon her.
“MMMM! MMMM! MMMM!”
The thugs continued to tickle her feet. One of the men pursed his lips in the same manner someone does when counting down the moments until it’s time to punch out. Tickling some dame was by no means his usual means of employment. This was easily the oddest job he had ever worked. At least it would make for a hell of a story at the pub tomorrow night. The other simply shrugged his shoulders every once in a while, still glad to not be busting rocks as he had done for the past six months.
Mo was struggling to maintain the remaining composure she had, the effort to do so quickly becoming more and more difficult. The men, while obviously not practiced ticklers, were none the less unrelenting in their torment of her feet. If the gag had not prevented her from doing so, Mo might have drawn blood from biting her lip. For now, however, all she could do was struggle and scream out in frustration.
The time passed in this manner for nearly five minutes. Mo’s strong will was to be admired. However, the prize that the eager professor sought was right before him. He would not let anything stand in his way, and so he soon turned his own hands to coax Mo’s sides into joining in the fun her feet were having.
What came next was to be expected.
A flood of laughter broke free from the gagged mouth of the brunette captive. Her muscles went ridged as she pulled against her binds once again. It was the act of a desperate woman who knowing what lay in store for her and seeking to escape her own encroaching fate. The ropes and wood strained, but did not yield to the fury of the bound woman. The laughter continued unopposed. The thugs had picked up their pace once again, their clumsy fingers scrapping the nylon covered soles that fought frantically against their terrible ministrations. Germaine’s hands were much worse by leaps and bounds, however. Nimble and clawing, almost like a pair of talons, his hands tormented the nude sides and belly of poor Mo. They darted back and forth in terrible purpose, extracting excruciating laughs from the soft flesh beneath them. Every once in awhile a small squeal would break through the cloth barrier. A large smile, so much so that it took up half of the professor’s face, slowly spread across his lips.
He quickly ceased his tickling and drew a small wade of cotton out of his pocket. He then took the fluffy, white material and crammed it into his ears. The two men, already instructed to do so, watched silently as the professor grabbed the nearby microphone and switched the attached dictaphone on with lightning speed. An instant later the gag was torn out of Mo’s mouth.
“GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAH! EHEHEEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HAAHAHAHAHHEHEHEEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHHIHIHIHIHIHHEHEHEHEHEHAAHAHAHAHAHHAA!”
Mo struggled desperately to reign in her laughter. She thrashed her head back and forth, trying to drown out the sensations that coursed throughout her feet. But the barrier was broken; the dam in pieces. There was no stopping the laughter now, and the terror of this realization like every other sense was submerged in the giggles and cackles that echoed from Mo’s mouth.
“AHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAH! HEHEHEHEEHEHEH AHAHAHAH HIHIHIHIHHIHIHIH OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOH EHEEHEHEHEHEHEH AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHEHEHEHEHE AHAHAHAHOHOHOHOHOHHOHOHOH HHEHEEHEHEHEHEHEEHEH HAHAAHHAHAHAAHA HOHOHOHOHOH HEHEEHEH HAHAAHA HHAAHAH GAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH!”
If Mo could scream or shout, she would have. But the laughter that poured from her mouth and the tickles that elicited the forced mirth did not allow even the slightest breath or moment of pause. Already her cheeks had begun to turn crimson as her lungs desperately tried to keep up to the demands of her cackles and chortles.
“HAHAHAHHAHA HEHEHEHEHEHEH AHAHA AHAHOHOHOHOH OHAHOAHAHAHAH HOHEOEHEHEHEH AHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAHA HHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH HOHOHOHOHOHOH GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA HEHEHEHEHEHEH HAHAHAHAHAHAHA HOHOHOHOOHOHOH HEHEEHEHEHEHEHEH AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAH HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIH HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOH HEHEHHAHAHAHAH HEHEHEHEHE AHAHAHAHHAHA EHHEHEHEHE AHAHHAHAH EHEHE!”
This continued for nearly 20 minutes, until the smug smile upon Professor Germaine’s face was wide enough that it threatened to envelope his entire face. He took the gag into his hands and once again muffled Mo’s cries and laughs. Only after the strip of cloth had been replaced did the tickle attack cease. Professor Germaine removed the cotton that he had stuffed into his ears prior, motioning for his hired goons to do the same.
“Well well boys, looks like we have everything we needed. We can leave Miss Rivers alone now to enjoy the rest of her evening in peace,” the professor said, carefully packing up the recoding unit back into the briefcase. He stood up slowly, the spoils from the night’s activities held firmly in his hand. “You better enjoy it dear, for it will probably be the last one you’ll have in a while.”
“Uh, boss?” One of the man said, raising his hand. “Why did we go through the trouble of tying up and tickling this dame?” One of the men asked.
“A good question! I’m afraid knowledge is pricy though. Are you willing to forgo your payment for the evening just to find out?” Germaine retorted, his arms motioning about wildly for dramatic effect.
“Uhh… no. Not really boss,” the other responded.
“There’s some good lads. You know what they say about curiosity and the cat eh?”
It was then the sound of a gunshot rang out, striking Professor Germaine square in the back of the head. His body quickly crumpled to the floor, a small pool of blood starting to flow from his wound while the ghost of his devious grin still haunted his face.
“Too bad for you then, huh kitty?”
The two thugs turned to see what look to be Bogart himself having stepped off the silver screen. A trench coat that swept the floor, a fedora with a menacing brim, and a steely, smoking gun pointed at the men. The hair almost looked the same raven colored shade as Bogart’s, save that all these thing belonged to a woman. Unmoved by the life that she had just taken, she regarded the two coolly for a moment, before finally speaking.
“Take your pay from his body and get out of here before the cops show up.”
The two men did exactly that, leaving the mysterious woman and Mo alone. The raven-haired woman moved quickly ran to Mo’s side and began untying her binds. Once her hands were free, Mo ripped the gag from her mouth.
“What the hell are you doing here Arachne?” She asked.
“A little spider told me you were in some danger. I decided to swing on by and check it out. When I overheard mister chatty-kathy over there mention your real name, I figured I better listen in. Glad I did, or he would have gotten away with that,” the woman said, motioning over to the briefcase with her head.
“Wait, you were outside the entire time and you LET me go through all of that?”
“Lighten up toots, if they tried anything fresh I would have stepped in. I needed to find out the extant of what they knew. Now I do, and you’re safe.”
“You stupid little…”
“Now now Molpe, don’t flip your wig. He knew how special your laugh was and he was trying to record it. Those are two very, very bad signs.”
“I can’t help that my laughter is actually infectious. It a part of who I am!”
“I’m not here to blame you or put you on the spot sweetie. I’m here to tell you that we need to get moving. The police will be on their way any minute now. Grab something to wear and any cash you need. This place isn’t safe anymore.”
“Yeah, because you thought it would be a good idea to kill this fat-head on my gods damned doorstep!”
“Mo… You know it’s not because of that. You know that we are in danger.”
A moment of frustrated silence passed between.
“Yeah, I know. Alright, let’s get going.”
A few moments later Mo’s legs were free from the chair. She stood up slowly, her muscles sore from the ordeal.
“Anything else you need to take care of?” Arachne asked.
“Yeah, just one. I think I know how these lowlifes found my apartment. We need to make a trip once were done here to pay my boss a visit.”
“You want me to rough him up for you?”
“No, I have something far worse in mind,” Mo said as she stood up, rubbing her wrists while a rising anger painted her features with a look of grim determination.
“I’m going to sing him a song.”
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Excerpt from the obituaries section of the New York Times.
Thursday, April 15th 1943
Local Manhattan club owner Charlie Baker was found dead by government employees in the early hours of the morning. In what police are ruling an accidental death, the body was found expired on a section of rocky shoreline along the Hudson River. A funeral will be held for him at St. Gregory the Great Church located at 144 West 90th Street.
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Rain splattered along the cracking stone sidewalks that made up Terrance Street in a hurried, frantic manner. It ushered the people who found themselves outside under cover as quickly as possible, lest they face the unrelenting deluge. If one were the sort to assign qualities to such things, than one might say that the rain had places to be, and was more than happy to push people to the side that got out in its way. It was a busy rain, one that suited the city of New York just fine. The sound of honking horns blended in with the frenzied pitter-patter of the 5’oclock storm. It sounded almost like an ocean in rage, the waves bellowing fiercely among thunder claps and terrifying winds. It reminded Mo of the old sea by her home when she was younger. It was one of the few things she missed from those times.
The dinner shift was just beginning when Mo made it to the employee entrance of the Brass Lantern. She was soaked, something she wouldn’t have minded so much if she didn’t have to go on stage in nearly 20 minutes. She would have to rush if she was going to be ready in time, a little fact that her manager Charlie wouldn’t stop screaming in her ear.
“Late! Late! I can’t believe you’re late again!” A small man with a large paunch yelled. He was bald for the most part, save for the black hair lining his head from ear to ear. A pair of small spectacles dangled precariously from his ears, as if one odd turn or twist would send them flying. His giant nose, however, seemed to account for this possibility. It would seem to grow larger and larger with every angry outburst, pushing into the frames. “Do you understand how much grief you give me Mo?”
“Is it about as much as I bring in every night Charlie?” The brunette woman retorted as she ducked behind a paper screen, quickly stripping off layers of wet clothing and tossing them aside. A small curse came from her lips when she found her nylons to have a long rut up the side of the left leg. The shadow of her lithe frame could be seen through the oriental divider, as well as her frown.
“Only barely sweetheart, and watch those wet clothes! You’ll ruin that little antique I picked up from China!”
“You mean that Jewish scrap merchant who hunts down anything that looks like it’s remotely tied to the East and passable? Who sold this screen to you for about the price of a cup of coffee?”
“Don’t get mouthy with me! I still pay your rent doll, now stop wasting time and get ready. You’re on in 10.”
With that, Charlie slammed the door as he left, causing a few more odd cracks to appear in the already well worn paint. Mo let out a small sigh as she rolled her gray eyes, the thought of walking out the back door and leaving crossing her mind for the third time this week. She walked out from behind the folding screen and quickly reviewed herself in the partially broken wall mirror. The pale blue dress clung to her curves like a hand in a glove, though Mo thought the pink splotches that were supposed to be cherry blossoms made it hard to notice anything else. She didn’t have time to complain too much, however. Her make-up still needed to be done and she only had 5 minutes before show time.
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She sang like an angel, that’s what they all said. Not all that worked with her or even all in attendance, but every single person that ever heard her sing. The Brass Lantern was by no means the most ritzy or entertaining club in Manhattan. One step inside and one could tell by the faux Chinese decorations and the cheap samurai swords that it was probably the cheapest, most tacky place in all of New York.
But the one thing it did have was Mo.
The cigarette girls learned quickly never to try and sell anything to the customers during Mo’s songs. You’d more than likely get shooed away or even paid to leave in all likelihood if you tried. Food was only served in between sets as well, giving the impression that the entire place revolved around the little starlet. Charlie hated it to some extent, but he could never deny the money he made from her performances. Add that to the fact that she refused to leave the club or even seek out an agent, and the Brass Lantern’s owner had a guaranteed meal ticket.
And he did love his money.
In many ways, you could say that money was Charlie’s biggest weakness. Which is probably why when the man dressed in the rumpled vest and grease smudged coat came to speak to him about a business proposition, he was all ears.
********************
The hours had grown long in the city that never sleeps when Mo made her way back to her apartment. It had been what some might have called a “night”. Her set had run two hours longer than she wanted, after which Charlie had the nerve to come to her dressing room and try to talk to her about some sort of business venture. It had the usual grab for cash that marked his schemes. That didn’t so much rattle her cage since he usual came to try and flirt with her anyway. It was when he mentioned the radio that she well and good lost her temper. A couple of quick stings to his ego and a threat to quit were enough to put him in his place as she left for the night. Add that onto the two goons that had been eyeing her as she left the club, and it was enough to treat herself to a cab home. At least that part had been pleasant.
The soft thuds of high-heels being dropped onto a carpeted entryway announced Mo’s return to her small two bedroom apartment nestled in the corner of the fifth floor of Palmcroft Lodgings. Her nylon covered feet padded across the cheap, almost threadbare carpet as she made her way over to the kitchen nook. She needed a drink in the worst way, but only as soon as she lost her semi-damp dress.
She entered her bedroom, losing the cotton garment in one smooth motion. Clad in nothing but her brassiere, underwear, and stockings, Mo took a moment to stare at herself in the mirror. The reflection of the woman was beautiful, despite the wear and tear the evening had bestowed upon her. The hair was a mess and her make-up had definitely gone from seductive to scandalous, yet she none the less remained gorgeous. She met her reflections gaze, and for a moment allowed herself to remember. It was then that Mo felt old. So very, very old.
It was then that the sound of her front door opening that broke her from her musings. It seemed as if her night was not quiet over yet.
********************
The gag didn’t bite into the woman’s lips too much. Tie it just tight enough to keep her from calling out for help. Keep her limbs tied in a similar manner to the chair. Above all else, make sure that you keep an eye on her. Any movement to get free and she is to be stopped. Those were Professor Germaine’s orders, and he was very pleased to see that they had been followed to his exact specifications. His eyes nervously glared at his captive, hungrily drinking in the sight of her bound form. He could hardly wait.
“Wakey wakey Miss Rivers, you have an audience waiting for you,” Germaine’s voice said softly.
A low murmur passed Mo’s lips, before her head snapped up to meet the gaze of her captors. Three men stood before her, one of which was wearing a very large smile. The two that stood on either side of smiley were not impressive in any manner what so ever, a trait that along with their pulled down hats and high jacket collars marked them as thugs. Hired help for whoever the man in the middle was. He, in turn, was much more memorable. His jacket was smudged by what looked to be grease, while his vest and shirt were rumpled with creases so worked into the fabric that they almost seemed to be moving back and forth. His hair rivaled his clothes in terms of unkemptness. The only thing about him that wasn’t dirty or disheveled was his eyes. They shone bright and hard like a surgeon’s scalpel, as if they were dissecting everything they observed. Those, above everything else, made Mo feel uncomfortable.
Mo tried to scream immediately. The gag, however, made that almost impossible. She tried to struggle free of her binds, but the men were at her side within an instant, holding her fast. With every action, the captive woman began to feel more and more scared. With her final effort she tried to demand to know what these men were doing her, the gag muffling both her words and the seriousness of her tone.
“There is something I’m very, very curious about Miss Rivers. Do you know what that is?” Germaine asked as he slowly walked over and kneeled beside his captive, carrying what looked to be a large briefcase beside him.
Mo struggled in response and spat out something that sounded like a curse.
“It’s not why a singer of your caliber is working at a gin mill like the Brass Lantern,” he said, slowly setting down the briefcase as well.
Mo looked on curiously at the strange case beside her, a lump of dread growing in the pit of her stomach.
“It’s not even why a dame like you is living in such a rough part of town when she has the good looks to be a moll or even some fifth avenue socialite’s main gal,” he continued, popping the locks and lifting the lid on the case.
“My biggest question is this my dear Miss Rivers: How are you not dead yet?”
At this point, Mo finally saw what was inside the case of Professor Germaine.
It was a Dictaphone.
A sudden nod of Professor Germaine’s head caused his two lackey’s to tilt the chair back and lay it on the floor, leaving Mo’s feet flopping in the air aimlessly. A few mores suppressed screams and cries emanated from her gagged mouth as her smiling captor brought the recording device’s microphone closer to her head. The two non-descript men then moved towards the feet of the poor bound woman. A look of boredom seemed to pass over their faces as they grasped her ankles, bringing her already limited thrashing to a complete stop. Mo Rivers was still attempting to knock her gag loose when Germaine began to speak again.
“I mean, you probably won’t tell me. I wouldn’t trust you to tell me either way, given your track record. I really should have learned to read lips,” Germaine said aloud, his thoughts and voice trailing off for a few moments. “Oh well, we all have our little disappointments… Don’t we Molpe?”
At the mention of that name, Mo froze. She stared at the man beside her with his microphone in hand with eyes wide in shock.
“Now then, onto tonight’s business.”
It was at this point that the men who were holding their captive’s ankles brought their other hands to Mo’s arches. In a sudden and clumsy flurry of motion, their fingers began to tickle her feet.
“MMMMMMMPH! MMMMMMMMMMMM!” Two loud screams came from Mo’s mouth, followed by a series of grunts and choking noises. Her renewed efforts to escape her binds were adamant, but the ropes held her fast to the old wooden chair. When efforts of escape proved worthless, she then attempted to suppress the mounting laughter that was building up in her chest. The nylons that clad her dainty size six feet intensified her already sensitive flesh. Add that on top of the strenuous workout her feet had received that night performing, and it all added up to a pair of extremely ticklish tootsies. Despite all that, however, Mo resisted the terrible tickling that was being bestowed upon her.
“MMMM! MMMM! MMMM!”
The thugs continued to tickle her feet. One of the men pursed his lips in the same manner someone does when counting down the moments until it’s time to punch out. Tickling some dame was by no means his usual means of employment. This was easily the oddest job he had ever worked. At least it would make for a hell of a story at the pub tomorrow night. The other simply shrugged his shoulders every once in a while, still glad to not be busting rocks as he had done for the past six months.
Mo was struggling to maintain the remaining composure she had, the effort to do so quickly becoming more and more difficult. The men, while obviously not practiced ticklers, were none the less unrelenting in their torment of her feet. If the gag had not prevented her from doing so, Mo might have drawn blood from biting her lip. For now, however, all she could do was struggle and scream out in frustration.
The time passed in this manner for nearly five minutes. Mo’s strong will was to be admired. However, the prize that the eager professor sought was right before him. He would not let anything stand in his way, and so he soon turned his own hands to coax Mo’s sides into joining in the fun her feet were having.
What came next was to be expected.
A flood of laughter broke free from the gagged mouth of the brunette captive. Her muscles went ridged as she pulled against her binds once again. It was the act of a desperate woman who knowing what lay in store for her and seeking to escape her own encroaching fate. The ropes and wood strained, but did not yield to the fury of the bound woman. The laughter continued unopposed. The thugs had picked up their pace once again, their clumsy fingers scrapping the nylon covered soles that fought frantically against their terrible ministrations. Germaine’s hands were much worse by leaps and bounds, however. Nimble and clawing, almost like a pair of talons, his hands tormented the nude sides and belly of poor Mo. They darted back and forth in terrible purpose, extracting excruciating laughs from the soft flesh beneath them. Every once in awhile a small squeal would break through the cloth barrier. A large smile, so much so that it took up half of the professor’s face, slowly spread across his lips.
He quickly ceased his tickling and drew a small wade of cotton out of his pocket. He then took the fluffy, white material and crammed it into his ears. The two men, already instructed to do so, watched silently as the professor grabbed the nearby microphone and switched the attached dictaphone on with lightning speed. An instant later the gag was torn out of Mo’s mouth.
“GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAH! EHEHEEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HAAHAHAHAHHEHEHEEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHHIHIHIHIHIHHEHEHEHEHEHAAHAHAHAHAHHAA!”
Mo struggled desperately to reign in her laughter. She thrashed her head back and forth, trying to drown out the sensations that coursed throughout her feet. But the barrier was broken; the dam in pieces. There was no stopping the laughter now, and the terror of this realization like every other sense was submerged in the giggles and cackles that echoed from Mo’s mouth.
“AHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAH! HEHEHEHEEHEHEH AHAHAHAH HIHIHIHIHHIHIHIH OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOH EHEEHEHEHEHEHEH AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHEHEHEHEHE AHAHAHAHOHOHOHOHOHHOHOHOH HHEHEEHEHEHEHEHEEHEH HAHAAHHAHAHAAHA HOHOHOHOHOH HEHEEHEH HAHAAHA HHAAHAH GAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH!”
If Mo could scream or shout, she would have. But the laughter that poured from her mouth and the tickles that elicited the forced mirth did not allow even the slightest breath or moment of pause. Already her cheeks had begun to turn crimson as her lungs desperately tried to keep up to the demands of her cackles and chortles.
“HAHAHAHHAHA HEHEHEHEHEHEH AHAHA AHAHOHOHOHOH OHAHOAHAHAHAH HOHEOEHEHEHEH AHAHAHAHAHHAHAAHAHA HHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH HOHOHOHOHOHOH GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA HEHEHEHEHEHEH HAHAHAHAHAHAHA HOHOHOHOOHOHOH HEHEEHEHEHEHEHEH AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAH HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIH HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOH HEHEHHAHAHAHAH HEHEHEHEHE AHAHAHAHHAHA EHHEHEHEHE AHAHHAHAH EHEHE!”
This continued for nearly 20 minutes, until the smug smile upon Professor Germaine’s face was wide enough that it threatened to envelope his entire face. He took the gag into his hands and once again muffled Mo’s cries and laughs. Only after the strip of cloth had been replaced did the tickle attack cease. Professor Germaine removed the cotton that he had stuffed into his ears prior, motioning for his hired goons to do the same.
“Well well boys, looks like we have everything we needed. We can leave Miss Rivers alone now to enjoy the rest of her evening in peace,” the professor said, carefully packing up the recoding unit back into the briefcase. He stood up slowly, the spoils from the night’s activities held firmly in his hand. “You better enjoy it dear, for it will probably be the last one you’ll have in a while.”
“Uh, boss?” One of the man said, raising his hand. “Why did we go through the trouble of tying up and tickling this dame?” One of the men asked.
“A good question! I’m afraid knowledge is pricy though. Are you willing to forgo your payment for the evening just to find out?” Germaine retorted, his arms motioning about wildly for dramatic effect.
“Uhh… no. Not really boss,” the other responded.
“There’s some good lads. You know what they say about curiosity and the cat eh?”
It was then the sound of a gunshot rang out, striking Professor Germaine square in the back of the head. His body quickly crumpled to the floor, a small pool of blood starting to flow from his wound while the ghost of his devious grin still haunted his face.
“Too bad for you then, huh kitty?”
The two thugs turned to see what look to be Bogart himself having stepped off the silver screen. A trench coat that swept the floor, a fedora with a menacing brim, and a steely, smoking gun pointed at the men. The hair almost looked the same raven colored shade as Bogart’s, save that all these thing belonged to a woman. Unmoved by the life that she had just taken, she regarded the two coolly for a moment, before finally speaking.
“Take your pay from his body and get out of here before the cops show up.”
The two men did exactly that, leaving the mysterious woman and Mo alone. The raven-haired woman moved quickly ran to Mo’s side and began untying her binds. Once her hands were free, Mo ripped the gag from her mouth.
“What the hell are you doing here Arachne?” She asked.
“A little spider told me you were in some danger. I decided to swing on by and check it out. When I overheard mister chatty-kathy over there mention your real name, I figured I better listen in. Glad I did, or he would have gotten away with that,” the woman said, motioning over to the briefcase with her head.
“Wait, you were outside the entire time and you LET me go through all of that?”
“Lighten up toots, if they tried anything fresh I would have stepped in. I needed to find out the extant of what they knew. Now I do, and you’re safe.”
“You stupid little…”
“Now now Molpe, don’t flip your wig. He knew how special your laugh was and he was trying to record it. Those are two very, very bad signs.”
“I can’t help that my laughter is actually infectious. It a part of who I am!”
“I’m not here to blame you or put you on the spot sweetie. I’m here to tell you that we need to get moving. The police will be on their way any minute now. Grab something to wear and any cash you need. This place isn’t safe anymore.”
“Yeah, because you thought it would be a good idea to kill this fat-head on my gods damned doorstep!”
“Mo… You know it’s not because of that. You know that we are in danger.”
A moment of frustrated silence passed between.
“Yeah, I know. Alright, let’s get going.”
A few moments later Mo’s legs were free from the chair. She stood up slowly, her muscles sore from the ordeal.
“Anything else you need to take care of?” Arachne asked.
“Yeah, just one. I think I know how these lowlifes found my apartment. We need to make a trip once were done here to pay my boss a visit.”
“You want me to rough him up for you?”
“No, I have something far worse in mind,” Mo said as she stood up, rubbing her wrists while a rising anger painted her features with a look of grim determination.
“I’m going to sing him a song.”
********************
Excerpt from the obituaries section of the New York Times.
Thursday, April 15th 1943
Local Manhattan club owner Charlie Baker was found dead by government employees in the early hours of the morning. In what police are ruling an accidental death, the body was found expired on a section of rocky shoreline along the Hudson River. A funeral will be held for him at St. Gregory the Great Church located at 144 West 90th Street.
