LostSole
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- Aug 27, 2024
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At twenty-two, Bryce was the class clown who never quite grew up: tall and lanky, with a mop of messy blonde hair, amber-brown eyes, and a perpetual grin that rarely left his face. His wardrobe of faded band tees and worn-out jeans gave him the air of someone who never quite knew when to take things seriously, even when he probably should have.
Leaning casually against the wall of the elevator in his apartment building, with his headphones dangling halfway out, Bryce overheard two guys speaking rapid Spanish between bursts of laughter. He didn’t understand any of it, but one word stood out: “cracker.” The word was followed by more laughter, and Bryce, ever the jokester, saw his opening. With a wide grin, he chimed in.
“Hey, I’m a safe cracker!” he said, flashing his goofy smile, fully expecting them to get the joke.
The two men, who didn’t seem much older than Bryce, stopped and stared. The shorter of the two, stocky and built like a bulldog, with dark slicked-back hair, and sharp, calculating brown eyes, smiled slyly. “Oh, you are?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement and a faint accent. His friend, a taller man with a pitbull-like build, a shaved head, and a more serious expression, sized Bryce up with sudden interest.
“Yeah,” Bryce replied, still grinning, completely oblivious to the shift in tone.
The men exchanged glances, a flicker of curiosity sparking between them. The shorter man leaned in slightly, his voice taking on a more serious edge. “We could use a guy like you,” he said. “Think you can handle a job?”
Bryce blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question. Handle a job? His brow furrowed briefly before it hit him—they didn’t catch his joke. Do’h! he thought, they must think I’m talking about cracking safes… like GTA. Better roll with it.
“A heist?” he asked, trying to keep up the act, convinced now they were on the same page.
The men nodded, grins spreading across their faces. “Yeah,” the taller one said. “Big score.”
“Oh man, I’m in!” Bryce replied eagerly, having no idea what he had just signed up for.
Later that night, Bryce found himself driving through a shady part of town, following the address the men had given him. In his mind, he pictured pulling up to a building where everyone would be dressed like his GTA crew; matching outfits, ready to pull off a mock heist. It was going to be a laugh, maybe even a livestreamed prank. He couldn’t wait.
But when Bryce arrived, his excitement wavered. The place looked less like a gaming den and more like the set of a crime thriller. A dingy warehouse stood ahead, dim lights casting long shadows across the gravel lot. His heart began to race, but he pushed down the unease, reassuring himself that this was probably all part of the fun. Right?
As he walked through the door, he spotted the two guys from the elevator. But they weren’t wearing matching costumes or joking around as he had expected. Instead, they stood with several other men, all serious, their eyes locking onto Bryce the moment he stepped inside.
The room was thick with tension, making the hairs on the back of Bryce’s neck stand on end. There were no game controllers, no flashy monitors, no sign of a prank about to unfold. Instead, the cold, industrial smell of metal and oil filled the air, and Bryce’s confidence began to crumble.
“Uh, hey guys,” Bryce greeted nervously, trying to keep his tone light. “I’m here for the heist.”
The group stared at him blankly before glancing at each other. A few exchanged quiet looks, and then came the dark chuckles. It wasn’t the light, playful laughter Bryce was used to hearing after cracking a joke. This was something else; something far more dangerous.
The shorter man from the elevator, who Bryce now assumed was the leader, stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes gleamed with cold intensity. “So, you a safe cracker, huh?”
Bryce chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, well, about that…” he began sheepishly, realizing just how badly he’d misunderstood the situation. “At first, it was just a joke, you know, about being a... safe cracker. As in, like, being a safe white guy to be around. Then when you asked about handling a job, I thought you meant like in GTA—Grand Theft Auto, you know? Where you do heists…”
His voice trailed off as the confusion on the men’s faces twisted into something much darker. Bryce’s grin faded, an icy chill creeping up his spine as he realized the joke wasn’t landing. His fingers twitched nervously, still scratching the back of his head, as if the familiar gesture might somehow ease the growing tension. But the heavy silence that followed made his stomach drop like a stone. He had miscalculated. Badly.
The leader’s smile vanished in an instant, his jaw tightening as he muttered something rapid and angry in Spanish to the others. Bryce caught the word "idiota" a few times, and it didn’t take much to know that wasn’t a good sign.
Two of the larger men moved quickly to block the door, cutting off Bryce’s only exit. His heart sank, and a cold sweat formed on his brow. This was bad. This was really bad.
“I-I’m sorry,” Bryce stammered, backing up until he bumped into a couch in the corner. His palms were slick with sweat, and his legs felt weak. “It was a joke! I didn’t mean to… I thought we were talking about video games!”
The leader’s face twisted with irritation as he spat more curses in Spanish, gesturing angrily to the others. Bryce could only understand the tone, and it wasn’t good. He sank down onto the couch, his mind racing with every worst-case scenario. He was in way over his head. What had he gotten himself into? This was supposed to be a joke, a laugh. Now it felt like he was walking into something he couldn’t walk back from.
The group huddled together, speaking in hushed tones about what to do with him. Every now and then, Bryce caught the word “cracker” followed by a few dark chuckles. He strained to hear more, but his mind was too muddled with panic. A cold sweat prickled his brow, and his pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the murmurs. His legs felt like lead, sinking him deeper into the couch as the room seemed to close in around him. This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t a game. His mind scrambled for an escape, but the more he thought, the more the weight of the moment pressed down on him.
After what felt like an eternity, the leader stepped forward again, his cold eyes locking onto Bryce. “You find this funny?” he asked, his voice low and menacing. The leader’s gaze darkened, a flicker of amusement in his cold eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Funny?” he murmured, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “You have no idea how funny this will be.”
There was something chilling about the way he spoke; like a cat toying with a mouse, savoring the moment of control.
Bryce’s throat tightened, his words slipping out in a shaky breath. “N-no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it… Please, I’m not… I misread the situation… I-I…” His voice trailed off, panic surging inside him as the weight of the situation fully sank in. The men watched him like a mouse caught in a trap. His throat tightened, and a wave of nausea rose in his chest. Charm wasn’t going to get him out of this.
The leader stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke again, his voice cold and deliberate. “You right about one thing, you misread the situation. You are not what we were expecting.”
Bryce gulped, dread pooling in his stomach. “What... What does that mean?” he whispered, his voice trembling with fear.
The leader’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, lowering his voice to a menacing tone. “It means you made a big mistake, cracker.”
The leader snapped his fingers, and two men grabbed Bryce by the arms, dragging him toward a garage-like room in the back. The door creaked open, revealing an assortment of tools and equipment scattered along the walls—screwdrivers, wrenches, clamps—all things that made Bryce’s stomach churn with fear. His mind raced, conjuring up every horror story he’d ever heard about places like this.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” Bryce begged, his voice cracking with terror as they tied him to a high-backed metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. His arms were stretched taut above his head, wrists secured to the back of the chair, while his ankles were tightly bound to its legs. He tried to wriggle, to test the bindings, but they held firm. There was no escape. The dimly lit room felt suffocating, with only a faint flickering light overhead casting long shadows that danced ominously across the walls. Bryce’s pulse pounded loudly in his ears.
The leader stepped forward, his gaze piercing, a glint of sadistic amusement in his eyes. A look of absolute control. “You came here to joke,” he said slowly, his voice ice-cold, each word deliberate. “But now... you will understand why that was a mistake.”
Bryce’s heart raced; he could feel the pressure building in his chest as tears welled up in his eyes. He squeezed them shut, bracing himself for the worst. His thoughts spiraled, imagining the painful, violent fate that awaited him. But then the leader’s next words made him pause.
“We find this situation... amusing,” the leader said, his tone shifting from cold menace to something eerily playful. “We won’t hurt you. But you still need to learn a lesson. Tell me, 'safe cracker,' are you ticklish?”
Bryce’s eyes flew open in shock, confusion washing over him. His mind scrambled to comprehend the sudden change in tone. Before he could even begin to respond, the leader jabbed his fingers sharply into Bryce’s sides, pressing firmly into his ribs. Uncontrollable laughter exploded from Bryce, his eyes widening as the absurdity of the situation hit him.
“WHAHAHAT?!” Bryce tried to shout between gasps of laughter, but the leader’s fingers danced with precision, targeting his most sensitive spots. Bryce’s body jerked instinctively, but the bindings held him firmly in place, leaving him helpless to the attack. His laughter echoed through the room, frantic and desperate.
The rest of the men joined in, their fingers poking and prodding at Bryce’s ribs, sides, and stomach. One man stepped behind the chair and dug his fingers into Bryce’s underarms, causing him to jolt and squeal involuntarily. “EHEHEHEHEHE! NOHOHO! STAHAHAHAP!” Bryce cried out, his body thrashing as much as the restraints allowed. The laughter spilled from him in waves, his body betraying him at every turn.
The bindings gave him no room to escape, no way to squirm or protect himself. All he could do was thrash his head from side to side, tears of laughter streaming down his face as the men relentlessly tickled him. It was a bizarre form of torture; one that turned his own laughter into a weapon against him.
The men teased him in Spanish, their tones mocking but light, playful, as if this was all just a game to them. Every now and then, they would switch to broken English, their words cutting through the haze of Bryce’s laughter. “You want to be 'safe cracker,' yes?” one of them said, kneading his ribs with relentless pressure. “See? We have fun too,” another chimed in, squeezing just above his knees, sending Bryce into another fit of uncontrollable giggles. Bryce desperately wanted to stop laughing, but he couldn’t. His stomach ached; his chest burned from the effort of trying to catch his breath between bursts of hysterical laughter.
“NOHOHO! PLEAHEHEHESE! MERHEHEHECY! I CAHAHAN'T BREAHEHEHETHE!” Bryce gasped, but the words barely made it out before another wave of laughter overtook him. His body jerked against the chair as the men continued to probe every ticklish spot they could find. His sides were on fire, his muscles aching from the continuous forced laughter.
His laughter wasn’t his anymore. It belonged to them, a tool they wielded effortlessly to strip away any remaining sense of control.
The men didn’t stop. For what felt like an eternity, they tickled him mercilessly—his sides, ribs, stomach, underarms, thighs, knees. They poked, prodded, squeezed, and scratched at every sensitive spot, leaving Bryce breathless and desperate for relief.
At one point, one of the men leaned in close, whispering, “Still funny, safe cracker?” as he dug his fingers into Bryce’s underarms, sending another wave of laughter exploding from Bryce’s throat.
Bryce's mind was swimming, barely able to keep up with the relentless assault on his body. His laughter had turned into something frantic and panicked, a sound he no longer recognized as his own. It was as if the laughter had become a part of the torture itself; something twisted and cruel. His chest heaved, and his vision blurred as tears of exhaustion mixed with the sweat on his face.
Finally, when they decided he’d had enough, the men stepped back, leaving Bryce slumped in the chair, panting heavily. His face was red, his body trembling from the ordeal. Every muscle ached from the tension, and his sides still burned from the relentless tickling.
The leader stepped forward again, his smirk returning. He leaned in close to Bryce, his voice low and full of mockery. “Next time... keep your jokes to yourself, cracker.”
Bryce nodded vigorously, too winded to speak, his breath still coming in shallow, shaky gasps.
Without another word, the men untied him, laughing among themselves as Bryce stumbled out of the room, his legs weak beneath him. His entire body felt like jelly, and his breath was still ragged as he made his way toward the door.
Bryce staggered toward his car, unable to shake the echo of their laughter. It rang in his ears, twisted and cold. His own laughter had betrayed him, turned against him. He slipped into the driver’s seat and shut the door behind him, the unsettling weight of helplessness lingering. As he drove away, one thing became clear—this was a lesson he'd never laugh off.
THE END
Leaning casually against the wall of the elevator in his apartment building, with his headphones dangling halfway out, Bryce overheard two guys speaking rapid Spanish between bursts of laughter. He didn’t understand any of it, but one word stood out: “cracker.” The word was followed by more laughter, and Bryce, ever the jokester, saw his opening. With a wide grin, he chimed in.
“Hey, I’m a safe cracker!” he said, flashing his goofy smile, fully expecting them to get the joke.
The two men, who didn’t seem much older than Bryce, stopped and stared. The shorter of the two, stocky and built like a bulldog, with dark slicked-back hair, and sharp, calculating brown eyes, smiled slyly. “Oh, you are?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement and a faint accent. His friend, a taller man with a pitbull-like build, a shaved head, and a more serious expression, sized Bryce up with sudden interest.
“Yeah,” Bryce replied, still grinning, completely oblivious to the shift in tone.
The men exchanged glances, a flicker of curiosity sparking between them. The shorter man leaned in slightly, his voice taking on a more serious edge. “We could use a guy like you,” he said. “Think you can handle a job?”
Bryce blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question. Handle a job? His brow furrowed briefly before it hit him—they didn’t catch his joke. Do’h! he thought, they must think I’m talking about cracking safes… like GTA. Better roll with it.
“A heist?” he asked, trying to keep up the act, convinced now they were on the same page.
The men nodded, grins spreading across their faces. “Yeah,” the taller one said. “Big score.”
“Oh man, I’m in!” Bryce replied eagerly, having no idea what he had just signed up for.
Later that night, Bryce found himself driving through a shady part of town, following the address the men had given him. In his mind, he pictured pulling up to a building where everyone would be dressed like his GTA crew; matching outfits, ready to pull off a mock heist. It was going to be a laugh, maybe even a livestreamed prank. He couldn’t wait.
But when Bryce arrived, his excitement wavered. The place looked less like a gaming den and more like the set of a crime thriller. A dingy warehouse stood ahead, dim lights casting long shadows across the gravel lot. His heart began to race, but he pushed down the unease, reassuring himself that this was probably all part of the fun. Right?
As he walked through the door, he spotted the two guys from the elevator. But they weren’t wearing matching costumes or joking around as he had expected. Instead, they stood with several other men, all serious, their eyes locking onto Bryce the moment he stepped inside.
The room was thick with tension, making the hairs on the back of Bryce’s neck stand on end. There were no game controllers, no flashy monitors, no sign of a prank about to unfold. Instead, the cold, industrial smell of metal and oil filled the air, and Bryce’s confidence began to crumble.
“Uh, hey guys,” Bryce greeted nervously, trying to keep his tone light. “I’m here for the heist.”
The group stared at him blankly before glancing at each other. A few exchanged quiet looks, and then came the dark chuckles. It wasn’t the light, playful laughter Bryce was used to hearing after cracking a joke. This was something else; something far more dangerous.
The shorter man from the elevator, who Bryce now assumed was the leader, stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes gleamed with cold intensity. “So, you a safe cracker, huh?”
Bryce chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, well, about that…” he began sheepishly, realizing just how badly he’d misunderstood the situation. “At first, it was just a joke, you know, about being a... safe cracker. As in, like, being a safe white guy to be around. Then when you asked about handling a job, I thought you meant like in GTA—Grand Theft Auto, you know? Where you do heists…”
His voice trailed off as the confusion on the men’s faces twisted into something much darker. Bryce’s grin faded, an icy chill creeping up his spine as he realized the joke wasn’t landing. His fingers twitched nervously, still scratching the back of his head, as if the familiar gesture might somehow ease the growing tension. But the heavy silence that followed made his stomach drop like a stone. He had miscalculated. Badly.
The leader’s smile vanished in an instant, his jaw tightening as he muttered something rapid and angry in Spanish to the others. Bryce caught the word "idiota" a few times, and it didn’t take much to know that wasn’t a good sign.
Two of the larger men moved quickly to block the door, cutting off Bryce’s only exit. His heart sank, and a cold sweat formed on his brow. This was bad. This was really bad.
“I-I’m sorry,” Bryce stammered, backing up until he bumped into a couch in the corner. His palms were slick with sweat, and his legs felt weak. “It was a joke! I didn’t mean to… I thought we were talking about video games!”
The leader’s face twisted with irritation as he spat more curses in Spanish, gesturing angrily to the others. Bryce could only understand the tone, and it wasn’t good. He sank down onto the couch, his mind racing with every worst-case scenario. He was in way over his head. What had he gotten himself into? This was supposed to be a joke, a laugh. Now it felt like he was walking into something he couldn’t walk back from.
The group huddled together, speaking in hushed tones about what to do with him. Every now and then, Bryce caught the word “cracker” followed by a few dark chuckles. He strained to hear more, but his mind was too muddled with panic. A cold sweat prickled his brow, and his pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the murmurs. His legs felt like lead, sinking him deeper into the couch as the room seemed to close in around him. This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t a game. His mind scrambled for an escape, but the more he thought, the more the weight of the moment pressed down on him.
After what felt like an eternity, the leader stepped forward again, his cold eyes locking onto Bryce. “You find this funny?” he asked, his voice low and menacing. The leader’s gaze darkened, a flicker of amusement in his cold eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Funny?” he murmured, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “You have no idea how funny this will be.”
There was something chilling about the way he spoke; like a cat toying with a mouse, savoring the moment of control.
Bryce’s throat tightened, his words slipping out in a shaky breath. “N-no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it… Please, I’m not… I misread the situation… I-I…” His voice trailed off, panic surging inside him as the weight of the situation fully sank in. The men watched him like a mouse caught in a trap. His throat tightened, and a wave of nausea rose in his chest. Charm wasn’t going to get him out of this.
The leader stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke again, his voice cold and deliberate. “You right about one thing, you misread the situation. You are not what we were expecting.”
Bryce gulped, dread pooling in his stomach. “What... What does that mean?” he whispered, his voice trembling with fear.
The leader’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, lowering his voice to a menacing tone. “It means you made a big mistake, cracker.”
The leader snapped his fingers, and two men grabbed Bryce by the arms, dragging him toward a garage-like room in the back. The door creaked open, revealing an assortment of tools and equipment scattered along the walls—screwdrivers, wrenches, clamps—all things that made Bryce’s stomach churn with fear. His mind raced, conjuring up every horror story he’d ever heard about places like this.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” Bryce begged, his voice cracking with terror as they tied him to a high-backed metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. His arms were stretched taut above his head, wrists secured to the back of the chair, while his ankles were tightly bound to its legs. He tried to wriggle, to test the bindings, but they held firm. There was no escape. The dimly lit room felt suffocating, with only a faint flickering light overhead casting long shadows that danced ominously across the walls. Bryce’s pulse pounded loudly in his ears.
The leader stepped forward, his gaze piercing, a glint of sadistic amusement in his eyes. A look of absolute control. “You came here to joke,” he said slowly, his voice ice-cold, each word deliberate. “But now... you will understand why that was a mistake.”
Bryce’s heart raced; he could feel the pressure building in his chest as tears welled up in his eyes. He squeezed them shut, bracing himself for the worst. His thoughts spiraled, imagining the painful, violent fate that awaited him. But then the leader’s next words made him pause.
“We find this situation... amusing,” the leader said, his tone shifting from cold menace to something eerily playful. “We won’t hurt you. But you still need to learn a lesson. Tell me, 'safe cracker,' are you ticklish?”
Bryce’s eyes flew open in shock, confusion washing over him. His mind scrambled to comprehend the sudden change in tone. Before he could even begin to respond, the leader jabbed his fingers sharply into Bryce’s sides, pressing firmly into his ribs. Uncontrollable laughter exploded from Bryce, his eyes widening as the absurdity of the situation hit him.
“WHAHAHAT?!” Bryce tried to shout between gasps of laughter, but the leader’s fingers danced with precision, targeting his most sensitive spots. Bryce’s body jerked instinctively, but the bindings held him firmly in place, leaving him helpless to the attack. His laughter echoed through the room, frantic and desperate.
The rest of the men joined in, their fingers poking and prodding at Bryce’s ribs, sides, and stomach. One man stepped behind the chair and dug his fingers into Bryce’s underarms, causing him to jolt and squeal involuntarily. “EHEHEHEHEHE! NOHOHO! STAHAHAHAP!” Bryce cried out, his body thrashing as much as the restraints allowed. The laughter spilled from him in waves, his body betraying him at every turn.
The bindings gave him no room to escape, no way to squirm or protect himself. All he could do was thrash his head from side to side, tears of laughter streaming down his face as the men relentlessly tickled him. It was a bizarre form of torture; one that turned his own laughter into a weapon against him.
The men teased him in Spanish, their tones mocking but light, playful, as if this was all just a game to them. Every now and then, they would switch to broken English, their words cutting through the haze of Bryce’s laughter. “You want to be 'safe cracker,' yes?” one of them said, kneading his ribs with relentless pressure. “See? We have fun too,” another chimed in, squeezing just above his knees, sending Bryce into another fit of uncontrollable giggles. Bryce desperately wanted to stop laughing, but he couldn’t. His stomach ached; his chest burned from the effort of trying to catch his breath between bursts of hysterical laughter.
“NOHOHO! PLEAHEHEHESE! MERHEHEHECY! I CAHAHAN'T BREAHEHEHETHE!” Bryce gasped, but the words barely made it out before another wave of laughter overtook him. His body jerked against the chair as the men continued to probe every ticklish spot they could find. His sides were on fire, his muscles aching from the continuous forced laughter.
His laughter wasn’t his anymore. It belonged to them, a tool they wielded effortlessly to strip away any remaining sense of control.
The men didn’t stop. For what felt like an eternity, they tickled him mercilessly—his sides, ribs, stomach, underarms, thighs, knees. They poked, prodded, squeezed, and scratched at every sensitive spot, leaving Bryce breathless and desperate for relief.
At one point, one of the men leaned in close, whispering, “Still funny, safe cracker?” as he dug his fingers into Bryce’s underarms, sending another wave of laughter exploding from Bryce’s throat.
Bryce's mind was swimming, barely able to keep up with the relentless assault on his body. His laughter had turned into something frantic and panicked, a sound he no longer recognized as his own. It was as if the laughter had become a part of the torture itself; something twisted and cruel. His chest heaved, and his vision blurred as tears of exhaustion mixed with the sweat on his face.
Finally, when they decided he’d had enough, the men stepped back, leaving Bryce slumped in the chair, panting heavily. His face was red, his body trembling from the ordeal. Every muscle ached from the tension, and his sides still burned from the relentless tickling.
The leader stepped forward again, his smirk returning. He leaned in close to Bryce, his voice low and full of mockery. “Next time... keep your jokes to yourself, cracker.”
Bryce nodded vigorously, too winded to speak, his breath still coming in shallow, shaky gasps.
Without another word, the men untied him, laughing among themselves as Bryce stumbled out of the room, his legs weak beneath him. His entire body felt like jelly, and his breath was still ragged as he made his way toward the door.
Bryce staggered toward his car, unable to shake the echo of their laughter. It rang in his ears, twisted and cold. His own laughter had betrayed him, turned against him. He slipped into the driver’s seat and shut the door behind him, the unsettling weight of helplessness lingering. As he drove away, one thing became clear—this was a lesson he'd never laugh off.
THE END
