“ … 20, 9, 3, 11, 12, 5 …”
Tom tossed and turned within his bedding, the numbers Hypno had given him in secret wedged within his mind, now whispering from his lips in the chill of the morning as his brain tormented him with the reminder of what Harrison had put him through …
“ … 20, 9, 3, 11, 12, 5 …”
Suddenly, the sound of buzzing snapped Tom out of his nightmare, where he hurtled up and away from the sheets as if he were on fire.
“—GUH!—”
Btzzzzzzzz …
After the events of Game Six, he found himself on high alert, and, with full on bed hair and sleepy eyes, he now found himself twisting his head frantically from side to side as the buzzing persisted …
“What’s the bloody hell is that noise?” He croaked.
The buzzing started to get closer …
By now, Tim, Ross and Kit had also lifted their heads from their pillow.
Btzzzzzzzz …
Tim ran a hand through his hair, unable to yet open his eyes, “Is someone mowing the lawn?” He mumbled.
Ross’s mouth stretched open into a wide yawn as he lay on his back and wrapped his arms around the back of his head.
“It’s an electric toothbrush, Chalamet …” as Ross always slept on the floor, he had the opportunity to sneak playful fingers up to Tim’s bed where they wiggled towards his left foot, “… And it’s coming for you!—”
Tim quickly planted the soles of his feet flat over the mattress, “—Come on, man!—”, as Tom peeped into the ensuite bathroom and raised both eyebrows.
“It’s Justin, he’s er …” he looked at the tiled bathroom floor, now decorated in blonde clumps of hair, “… He’s shaving his head …”
Btzzzzzzzzzzzzz …
Sebastian crawled out of bed and blinked away the early morning, squinting out of the cell window where he narrowed his eyes at something in the distance.
“Is it a wasp?” Logan started to flap his bedsheets, “I hate wasps!”
Joshua woke up with an unexpected sight beside him, even if the current panic surrounding him was enough to start the day …
Kit lay next to him, in Joshua’s bed, with his back facing Joshua.
Sebastian peered over his shoulder at the other contestants, “It’s a drone—”, he announced, “—It’s carrying something and …” he smirked, partly admiring The HOWF’s creative attempts, “… It’s coming our way …”
Btttttzzzzzzzzzzzz …
Joshua tapped Kit on the shoulder.
“Uh, Kit you uh, you’re in my bed …”
Kit rolled over slowly, in the midst of his own gradual wake up, “I know,” he said confidently, “You were having a nightmare,” he said, eyes still closed, “You seemed to quieten down when I got in.”
Logan looked over to Joshua, “Something about vines …?”
Joshua’s look of embarrassment softened into a comforting smile as everyone else within The Living Quarters rose from their bedding and into a fully woken stand, “Oh …” he smiled.
Btzzzzzzzz …
Justin returned from the bathroom with an electric razor in his right hand, his head now completely shaved, “You kept us up most of the night,” he scowled, “You’re such a damn baby, Bassett …”
Tom laughed nervously, “… Can we take a minute to talk about the fact Justin has shaved his — ”
—Suddenly, The Living Quarters cell door popped open and a drone flew inside, its entry slow, hovering, not fast, but speedy enough for everyone to leap back …
Attached to thin wires connected to the drones base was a red metal box with a clown printed on its front.
Justin half shrugged on his hoodie as his mouth fell open and he took one, two, three careful steps back …
The drone seemed to ignore everyone else, its whizzing propeller blades creating a swift gust of wind that blew everyone’s hair back and caused the likes of Logan to shield his face …
The drone dropped the red box to the floor, where it landed with a heavy clank.
The drone then politely turned away and hovered back out of The Living Quarters, leaving everyone in a startled and perplexed state.
Only breathing and the subtle sound of birdsong from outside of The Mansion could be heard as everyone surrounded The Box and gradually all took their concerned gaze to Justin, who, besides Logan’s brief encounter, was the only person in the room solely associated with a clown …
Footsteps from outside of the cell door announced another arrival.
Six Masked Henchmen, including a person who had yet to grace everyone with their presence within The Living Quarters, stepped into the contestants cell.
“Congratulations popstar,” Miller smirked at Justin, “They voted for you. Now, you gonna open it up?”
Miller wore a brown leather jacket, chinos, tightly laced chocolate coloured brogues and a pair of aviator shades that hid a surprisingly glum expression.
“I can practically smell your need to smack me again from here,” Miller sniffed towards Sebastian, “Haven’t you learned by now that you don’t call the shots?” He then glanced over at Tom and the others, each contestant wearing grey sweatpants and gathered around the red metal box, “—Haven’t you all learnt that by now?—”
Sebastian’s face, creased with desperation, aimed itself to the open cell door - he took a breath, went to run forwards, however a Masked Henchmen behind Miller raised a dart gun and aimed it directly at Sebastian’s balls.
Sebastian paused entirely.
Justin would usually of chuckled under his breath or mumbled an insult, instead, he found himself transfixed by the red metal box and the padlock sealing away its contents …
Miller held his hands behind his back and approached Sebastian.
“You know, the guys in the masks are calling you Mr. Zero …” Miller informed, “… Zero points, zero charisma, zero attention, and we’re this far in …” behind his sunglasses, Miller eyed Sebastian from his handsome head to his smooth toes, “… You gonna actually do anything? Show us your fucking worth? At least turn us on, even just a little fucking bit?” He circled Sebastian in a slow and gradual pace, “After Harry Styles fucking up, I’m kinda sick of looking at disappointments, do you understand?”
Sebastian swallowed down the urge to hit Miller for a second time, his teeth tightening into a patient clench, the dart gun still very much aimed at the betweens of his legs.
Miller then turned his attention to Joshua, who could not help but widen his eyes as soon as Joshua felt the assessing gaze land over the fact that Kit stood so closely next to him.
“Sharing beds, huh?” Miller twirled his index finger, “We see everything. We’re always watching you, even in the nighttime,” he stood opposite Kit and Joshua and tilted his head in admiration, “You’d make a cute couple. The only question I have is who would be the top, and who would be the bottom?—” he enquired blunty, “—Hopefully one day, we’ll find out …”
Joshua’s eyebrows flattened into a violated line as he watched Miller shuffle through The Living Quarters, calm, amused and somewhat bitchier than usual.
Kit whispered playfully into Joshua’s ear, in an attempt to lighten the mood, “I’m so the top,” he grinned.
Joshua kept his face forwards, his eyelashes fluttering so hard he almost took off, however, the need to contain a beaming smile overtook him and, even if Tim had noticed it from across the room, Joshua grinned also.
Miller opened his mouth, ready to address Ross, when someone in the crowd stood up and spoke instead.
“What’s in the box?” Asked Tom, who raised himself from the edge of his bed, adjusting the waist band of the sweatpants, “They key I was given yesterday, it’s for …” Tom nodded down at the red, steely square planted in the middle of the floor, “… It’s for that, right?”
Miller gasped overdramatically, “Oh! It’s good to see you, Tom! In one damn place, for a change …” he pointed at the open cell door, “… Look, it’s wide open, you know. Why don’t you run away, again … “ The Masked Henchmen even parted down the middle, offering Tom a smooth exit, “… That’s what you do, isn’t it? Run away from it all …” he took cautious steps towards Tom so that his breath could be felt against Tom’s mouth, “… Like a mother fucking pussy …” he picked some granola out from the back of his teeth, “… You ever tried focusing on winning this? Instead of hiding in the bushes? You win, everyone gets freed. You think they’re not aware of that?”
Tom’s eyebrows lifted to such a height they almost hit The Living Quarters ceiling, “Oh, believe me, I’m aware …”
Miller looked down at Tim, who had sat himself down on the floor.
“There’s my guy, the pretty boy who started it all …” he nudged his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose, “You’ve been busy, thinking you’re in charge, thinking you’re some kinda leader with your moody lips and your floppy hair. How’s that going?” He scoffed, “Not very well, I take it. After all, the last time I saw you, you didn’t even have control over your own damn memories …”
Tim casually leant back on his arms and crossed his legs at the ankle; his concerns over if The House of White Feathers knew anything about Maxwell’s plans had dimmed thanks to four days of no mention of Miller’s brother - instead, Tim found himself swapping his worry with a sincere slice of spikiness …
“You doing okay, Miller?” Tim kept his eyes on the man Armie had avoided for almost two decades, “Has your elderly fuck boy died yet?—”
Tim’s words landed like a plate smashing against the floor; almost everyone in the group jumped in shock, however there was nothing but silence after Tim’s sudden and unexpected venomous delivery.
Miller cackled and held his hand out to Tim, “Shake my hand, my man! Now that is the level of energy I’m looking for!” Miller only allowed his hand to be ignored for a few seconds before snatching it back, “Ooh, rejecting me as quickly as you rejected Hammer the other day, huh? You’re on a roll, Timmy …”
As Miller turned around, he found himself standing face to face with Kit.
“Listen,” Kit addressed Miller politely, “I think it’s time to let us go, alright? It’s … Getting a little bit silly, now …”
Miller stifled a giggle, “… ‘A little bit silly’ …?” He barged past Kit, “… Who the fuck do you think you are, Heartstopper! Mary Fucking Poppins?—”
Kit stumbled back as Miller’s temper increased; with every step, each ticklee turned either against or towards him, until his journey back to his Masked Henchmen was blocked by Ross.
“Is this what you get off on?” Ross shoved Miller back by slamming his palms into Miller’s chest, “Being a bitch to people? Keeping us fucking hostage?” Ross ignored the sound of dart guns loading into action by shoving Miller for a second time, “You think I’m scared of you, old man?” Ross teased.
Miller readjusted the collar of his jacket and made sure his sunglasses didn’t fall from his face as Ross offered him a testing yet playful smile.
“You’d know all about being a bitch, little piggy …” Miller, despite being slightly intimidated by Ross’s behavior and a little out of breath, was still keen to push buttons in an attempt to make himself feel better, “… You oinked so loud in Game Four I thought you were gonna sprout a damn pigtail outta your ass!—”
Ross clenched his fists and went to show Miller what he was really made of, however Sebastian and Tom grabbed hold of his arms and pulled him away.
Miller wiped some drool from his mouth, just in time to arrive opposite Logan.
Logan, blue eyed and mostly wrapped in his bedsheets, hugged his pillow and fluttered his eyelashes at Miller innocently.
“Hey. Uh, can we have something other than pizza, for dinner?” Logan enquired, “I uh, need a lot of greens if we’re gonna be staying here a little lo—”
—Miller, expecting more of a rebellious streak from Logan, huffed in disappointment, “Don’t tell me that all of this—” he spoke so loudly he spat, “—Is normalizing you!—”
Logan went to defend himself, however a the sound of metal screeching over tiles caused everyone to squeeze their eyes shut, including Miller.
Scccreeeeeetch …!
With the toes of his right foot, Justin pushed the red, metal box towards Miller’s feet.
“We had a deal, you snivelling jackass …” Justin’s foot lifted off of the edge of the box and then planted itself firmly beside the other, “… I don’t face a game, I make it to the end, tickle free, remember? …”
Miller’s eyes trailed over the detailed artwork that made up the dozens and dozens of tattoos littering Justin’s torso, his arms and his neck; in a crowd full of pasty or tanned clear upper bodys, Justin stood out above everyone else as a character defined by an extreme awareness of his individuality, as well as his purpose.
“And wouldn’t that be absolutely dull as shit?—”, Miller knelt down and took hold of the box, “—Look, I’m only here because we’re fine tuning T.K’s upgrades …”
Tom held his palms over his face, “Upgrades?—” he grumbled, “—Who the bloody hell looked at that nightmare and thought, ‘yep, needs to be more intense’ …” his hands hung at his chin.
Miller glanced at the black orb nailed to the wall, no longer lit up, no longer speaking, no longer alive, “I have to use my voice, physically describe things, oh you know, talk, like the good ol’ days …” he dropped the box onto Justin’s bed where it landed with a bounce, “… You two—” he then turned and aimed his index finger at Ross and then Kit, “—I could’ve made an example of you like I did with Tom. I could’ve sent you to The Hole, or I could’ve had you stripped and tickled till such a point where we wouldn’t of known if your tears were your sweat or your sweat were your tears!—” Miller, getting carried away with himself, calmly closed his eyes and smiled, “—Instead, I’ll simply say this …"
Miller turned to face the entire group, addressing them all at once, “If ANY of you try escaping again, I leak all the footage we have to the American press, the kind of shit that would ruin your careers …”
Even with how deep each contestant existed within this world, that simple threat still had so much power - the results were clear on each contestants face; worry, in its most dire form, saturated everyone as if the dubiety itself were a form of hypnosis …
… Everyone except Sebastian.
“We could just say the content’s produced by A.I …” Sebastian smirked, “… No one believes anything anymore.”
Miller reached inside his jacket pocket and picked out his iPhone, “Okay, stud …” he dialled The HOWF’s H.R Department number and then placed the phone by his ear, “… You asked for it …” the worry within everyone transformed into electricity; it caused the likes of Tim, Kit and Logan to jump up in alarm, “ … Hello, yes, it’s me …” Miller stroked the stubble across his chin, “… No, no. No one has escaped again, everyone’s fine. Now, listen! The footage of Ross at his photoshoot, Tim’s USB, hell, the videos we have on everyone, I’m gonna need you to upload them to—”
—Sebastian lowered his head, “—Alright!—” he yelled, his tone suddenly shifting from loud to barely there, “—Alright. You’ve made your point …”
Miller hung up the phone, “You know, I really do wish T.K was here …” he shoved it back inside his jacket pocket, “… Situations and conversations like this need to be less humane …”
Tom lifted up his pillow and retrieved the red key Hypno had given him at the end of Game Six.
Justin, now aware that getting what he wanted was not an option, leapt into defence mode.
“Give me the key, Spider-Man,” he growled, “Let me shove it up their ass!” He approached Tom and tried to snatch the key out of his hand …
Miller smiled in gleeful entertainment as he and The Masked Henchmen watched the contestants squabble.
Tom held the key tightly in his right fist and lifted his arm high above his head, “Justin, just get on with it! That’s what we’re bloody well here for!”
Justin had got the message loud and clear: out of all of them, Tom was the most ticklish. So, to get him to lower his hand, Justin wasted no time in fingering Tom’s exposed underarm, causing Tom to immediately fold into himself, a fierce and proudly british, “—OI!—” propelling from his mouth like it always did, however, with Tom’s hand now in Justin’s claws, it was still not enough to grab the key - suddenly, Kit’s firm grasp latched onto the waistband of Justin’s sweatpants and yanked him away, where he then shoved him towards the red metal box.
“It’s just tickling, Justin!” Kit huffed, “For gods sake!”
Justin rolled his eyes, “If I hear that phrase one more fucking time I swear to god I’m gonna—”
“—Do it,” Tim interrupted, his slim stand slow yet powerful, “Open it, for the team, because … That’s what we are, Justin, whether you like it or not …” he took a step forward, his presence now at the front of the other contestants as they all stood opposite Justin, “… A team.”
Miller pursed his lips in respect, “Green eyes speaks the truth,” he said.
Justin, outnumbered and unable to conceive being told ‘no’, turned to face Miller with a sparkle of charm glittering across his face, “Miller, old buddie, the wheelchair guy said if I do shit behind their backs, I get top spot on The Leaderboard, remember?”
He gestured to the TV screen wedged into the corner of the ceiling; Tom and Tim being the current leaders with three hundred thousand points each, Justin at second place with two hundred thousand, everyone else with their own decent amount besides Logan and Sebastian who each had zero, “So far,” Justin grinned, “Wheels isn’t keeping his side of the bargain and I’m gonna bet my lawyers are gonna have a shit tonne to say about th—”
—Logan stood quickly, “And you’re keeping your side of the fucking bargain?”
Miller sighed into his palms as everyone turned to face Logan, “This was easier in the nineties,” he huffed.
Logan refused to keep quiet, “Besides fucking around with me, who else have you bullied or, or fucking side eyed?” He shot out of his bedsheets and stood with the rest of the group, “You always dig at me, always pick on me, I didn’t even know you before any of this!”
Tom scratched the back of his head, “To be fair mate, you’ve got beef with Justin and Sebastian,” he looked as if he were walking on nails, “—Might wanna do yourself a favour and ask if you’re the—”
“—Damnit, Tom!—” Logan growled at Tom but kept his scowl aimed at Justin.
Justin avoided Logan’s glare as the circle of Masked Henchmen continued to close in on him and the red metal box at his feet.
Miller winced, “Percy’s got a point. You could’ve been faaaaaaar more devious, if you’d tried. You’ve clearly been too busy giving yourself a haircut. It looks good, by the way, suits you …” he then nodded at Tom, as a way to approve the start of the game, “… See this as a chance, ‘J.B’, to make up for your failed opportunities …”
Tom arrived beside Justin and carefully opened up his hands, the red key resting in the middle of his palm.
Justin glared into the ceiling and, despite a large level of reluctance, decide to lean into the fact that The Games and all they represented, as well as the people in charge, the people behind the scenes, hell, perhaps even the people surrounding him, were far more powerful than he realised.
He looked at Miller with a sneer that suggested he had ‘allowed’ Miller to dominate him, “This isn’t over, you dick,” yet his finishing words hinted that Miller’s behavior had created the need for something in Justin’s mind: payback.
Justin picked up the key as Miller began to leave The Living Quarters, The Masked Henchmen remaining on guard for now.
“Let this be a reminder, to all of you …” Miller focused his stare at Tom, who had tried to escape the most out of everyone “… No little shit in this room has any fucking idea of what to expect, even if you think you do. And the funnest thing about it?”
Justin knelt down beside the box and its padlock, the key sliding into the lock effortlessly.
Each ticklee remained in bewildered silence, waiting, watching, as Miller turned away and walked out of The Living Quarters.
“… The show has just begun …”
Click!
Justin pulled away the padlock and then opened the box.
As he lifted the lid, a rusty creak was the only sound that filled an otherwise completely quiet Living Quarters.
Ross tiptoed behind Kit, “Well? What’s inside, man?”
Justin picked out the first item from the box, his throat swelling with the need to not display the weight of unexpected emotion caught at the back of his neck.
“It’s a letter …” he announced, “… From Hailey.”
“Ah, mate,” Tom rested his hand on Justin’s shoulder, “I miss my girlfriend too …”
Justin shrugged his shoulder free and scrunched up the letter in his fist.
“She’s my wife, asshole …” he growled.
Tom held his hands up, “Alright, sorry, sorry …”
The group gathered around Justin as The Living Quarters cell door continued to be guarded by six Masked Henchmen.
Logan, on the outside of the circle, could not help but allow a burn of jealousy to flush over his cheeks.
Kit whispered to Joshua, “How comes he gets tools?”
Joshua shrugged as Justin reached back inside the box.
“Let’s see …” Joshua whispered back.
“Ooooh,” Sebastian’s tone was saturated in sarcasm, “Just what you need when fighting a tickle cult … A little red stick …”
Justin held the red stick in his hand and twisted it around, taking in its details; the smooth shine of its metal surface, its thin cylindrical shape, as well as the tiny clown button in the middle …
Ross began to chuckle, “If times get really tough he can just smack everyone over the head,” he started to thwack his own pretend stick towards Tom, who flinched and ducked away as the others, besides Logan, started to chortle.
However, the groups laughter was put on pause when Justin’s thumb pressed down over the clown button and the stick suddenly extended at each end …
CLACK!
Much to the surrounding contestants disbelief, Justin now stood with a large grin on his face and a six foot long red pole in his hands.
Tim smirked at Sebastian, “That ‘little red stick’ just became a weapon …”
Justin twirled the stick in his grasp as if it were a hunting spear; he then held it like a sword so that its length remained stiff and still, its end pointed directly at Logan …
Logan’s big blue eyes widened as the room fell silent.
Justin then nudged the stick forwards, gesturing for Logan to hold onto it, whilst Justin continued to go through the contents of the box.
Logan took the stick carefully away and held it at his chest as Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the developing friendship between the two …
Meanwhile, Justin picked out the next item from inside of the box …
“This shit is getting weirder by the minute,” Justin muttered.
Pinched between his index finger and thumb was a thick piece of string connected to a red velvet pouch.
Ross folded his arms across his chest, “A place to store all the fucks you give,” he then gasped, “Oh wait, I forgot, you don’t have any …”
Logan hid a smile.
Justin kept the pouch in a dangle but lifted his eyes so that they landed on Ross, “You mean, I don’t give a fuck about you …” he wagged his tongue, his head tilting …
Kit rubbed his hands together, “The power is going to his head!” He looked at the pouch, the long, red stick, the letter from someone close, “All these toys must mean you’re special, right?”
Tom winced, “Or that his game is going to be huge and he needs help …”
Sebastian flapped away the attention to Justin and his items, “It’s a damn stick and a purse, for crying out loud …” he then returned to his bed.
Tim offered Justin a testing glare, “You’ll only find out when the doors close.”
Logan peered inside the box, the red stick still in his grasp.
“Bieber,” he said, “There’s more stuff …”
Justin threw the pouch at Logan, using him as a servant for all of the items he had retrieved from inside the box.
Clumsily, Logan jolted into a reactive grab and snatched the pouch from the air, almost dropping the stick, his fumbled attempts causing Sebastian to roll his eyes.
Justin picked out his second to last item: a riddle.
The riddle was written in black pen over what looked like an advertisement flyer; Justin could feel his heartbeat pound in his ears as his brain theorised over who could have written the riddle - a nasty, sadistic character, one with a red nose and fuzzy hair, a cl—
“—What does it say?” Tom asked.
Justin cleared his throat and pushed down the climbing requirement to be a team player.
Instead, Ross snatched the flyer from his grasp, cleared his throat and red, “ … ‘What flies but has no wings?’ …”
The Living Quarters fell dimly quiet once again as the contestants bit their lips and searched above for an answer.
Sebastian sat up in his bed and offered a smug sniff.
“I know,” he said.
Tom turned to Sebastian, “Well, tell us, then. Don’t be a twat.”
Sebastian looked at Tom as if he were stupid, “You think I wanna make this easy for him?”
Tom tutted, “It’s like Tim said, we’re a team …” he thumbed his fist towards Justin, “… Tell us!”
Sebastian rose from his bed, his tall height overshadowing Tom as he provided a stern and deeply toned: “No.”
Tom looked up at Sebastian and placed his hands on his hips.
“Mate, I’m not scared of—”
“—Your feet a weak spot, Bieber?” Kit reached inside the box and picked out the next set of items …
Justin shoved the riddle into Logan’s chest, “—And you’re asking, why?—”
“Protection,” Tim smirked, as Justin took the items from Kit.
Bieber sneered as he took in the sight of, “—My lucky socks!—”, as well as a fresh new pair of basketball trainers - his sneer transformed into a grateful smile, his body dropping into a kneel as he started to dress his feet, or, protect them, as his wife had playfully written - so far, the group had not seen such a warm expression light up Justin’s face, however it became increasingly apparent that one person was guaranteed to light him up in such a way - his wife.
“I wonder why they let her do this …” Justin could not help but let the paranoia keep in, “… They better not have made her do this …” he sniffed the insides of the sneakers, checked the soles, made sure there were no hidden tricks inside …
Logan, struggling to hold the red stick, the pouch and the riddle, peered over the items held at his chest and provided Justin with a testing grin, “All the snide remarks have paid off, huh?”
Justin now stood in bubble gum pink socks, white basketball trainers, baggy shorts and his hoodie - he turned to Logan, aimed his index finger at his face and took a firm step forward, the rubber sole of his flashy footwear squeaking a she did so.
“Shutting the fuck up looks good on you—” before Justin could lunge into full attack, Joshua’s voice called from beside the box …
“… Oh, shoot,” Joshua’s flat tone shifted the sense of curiosity within The Living Quarters, “You’re not gonna like the final thing, man …”
Justin stepped forwards as Joshua reached inside the box and picked out the last item for him.
“What is it, Bassett?”
Tim placed his hands behind his back, “… It’s tickets …”
Justin narrowed his eyes as his hands dangled at his waist, his stance prepared, now fully ready.
“Tickets outta here?” He hated how hopeful he sounded.
“No, man …” Tim took the item from Joshua’s hand and then gave it to Justin, “… It’s tickets to the circus …”
“Do they have any idea?” John asked.
Miller perched beside John’s wheelchair and switched on the TV.
The screen flickered to life, presenting the inside of a circus tent, the audience made up of hundreds and hundreds of House of White Feathers members, all wearing clown masks …
“They’re clueless,” Miller confirmed, “And it’s absolutely fantastic to see them be so unaware …”
“Do you think letting it all out at an event is a …” John spluttered a cough soaked with illness into the back of his veiny, thin hand, “… A wise idea?”
Miller smirked as Game Seven began.
“I think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had,” he grinned.
The Room
The six Masked Henchmen shoved Justin to the floor, where he landed face first with a thud.
“Oof!”
They then stepped into darkness, allowing Justin to lift his head and clamber to a stand, his basketball trainer covered feet squeaking over marble flooring in a frantic scramble …
Tied to the waistband of his baggy blue shorts was the red velvet pouch.
Held firmly in his right hand was the long, red stick …
His wife’s letter had been neatly folded up and placed under his pillow, before The Masked Henchmen escorted Justin towards The Room.
The riddle note had been torn into pieces and thrown at Logan; the riddle itself brief enough for Justin to memorise …
‘What flies but has no wings?’, ‘What flies but has no wings?’,‘What flies but has no—
—The last words said to him, before leaving The Living Quarters, were from Tim.
“Good luck."
In front of him stood another two Masked Henchmen.
Like the previous Masked Henchmen that Justin had grown used to seeing within The Mansion, these two were dressed in a similar attire; black hoods, black trousers, black boots, a silver chain dangling around their necks with a feather attached to it …
… However, their masks were different.
These two Masked Henchmen wore clown masks that were just as realistic as the clown masks Justin had seen before, during his own moments of hysteria over the past two years …
Paint-like makeup had been smeared into crimson smiles, their noses had been dapped with red paint, their plastic faces soaked in a smudgy white …
They guarded The Room, which had up until now consisted of a black door and a steel handle shaped like a hand, a handle that Logan, Timothée and Harry had grasped onto since The Games began …
This time, the black door had been swapped for a antique wood; the surrounding walls were not black, instead they had been wallpapered into a circus aesthetic - and, above this newly decorated doorway, lightbulbs outlined a title display that read:
‘Tickle Tightrope’
Justin adjusted his hoodie and lifted the waistband of his baggy shorts above the Calvin Klein branding that made up his underwear.
Breathless and already a little tinged with sweat, he took in the details ahead of him as both Masked Henchmen stepped apart, allowing him access to the door …
He put on a british accent, mostly out of habit after mimicking Tom so much …
“I’m ready for you, boys!” He waved the stick at the door.
As Justin’s right foot took a step forward, circus music began to play around him at high volume …
Justin’s cockiness was eliminated as soon as the music began to grow louder; he placed his hands over his ears, the deafening sound of trumpets causing him to grimace and squeeze his eyes shut, whilst The Masked Men guarding the door barely flinched.
Suddenly, the music stopped and all that could be heard was Justin’s frantic breathing.
“What the fuck was that for!” He winced.
Then, some static …
Ktsshhh …
A high pitched, excited voice filled with glee and gut wrenching joy filled the space outside of The Room …
“… Weeeeeelcome to Game Seven, Ticklee 003! I am your host — The Ringmaster, that’s me! Prepare for a challenge, twisted and grand, here laughter erupts at the touch of a hand…”
Justin shot infuriated looks into the ceiling - the rhyming voice seemed to be coming from nothing, no individual presence introducing themselves …
“Oh, fuck off—!” Justin pointed his red stick upward, “—Pervert!—”
“Oh, there’s no need to be so mean, Ticklee 003! Now tell me — how are you? Feeling sprightly and free? I must say, that outfit? It’s quite the delight. Perfectly styled… for a long, giggly night …”
Justin tutted, “Oh, damn dandy, rhymey rhymerson!” He paced from left to right, the red stick always waving from side to side, “Eager to get this show on the road, you get me, perv?”
“Hm, it isn’t so nice to be calling us names,” The Ringmaster warned, “This is a game, not one of your shames! You’ll laugh and you’ll giggle, then shriek with delight, and laugh and laugh and laugh all night! Till laughter runs dry, and you're gasping for air… Doesn’t that sound thrilling, Ticklee 003? If you dare.”
Justin presented all of his pearly white teeth in the form of a vibrant grin, at The Masked Henchman to the right, “Yo, knucklehead. You like private jets? Super yachts …? I’ll give you two of each if you get me outta this …”
The Masked Henchman remained still and quiet as Justin’s offer was unapologetically declined by the bluntness of silence.
“There’s only one way out, Ticklee 003… Through that door, right there — your destiny! Do you want to know what waits inside? A test of nerves… and nowhere to hide …”
Justin cupped his mouth with his hands in an attempt to pretend to be shocked, “Uh! Whatever it is, it better include you not fucking rhyming every damn thing! …”
The Ringmaster giggled, “No, silly!—” His cheerful tone dropped to a menacing, deep snarl, “—We’re going to tickle the living fuck outta you …”
Justin’s hands slid away from his lips as his adam’s apple bobbed in the middle of his throat.
This time, The Masked Henchman to the left was on the receiving end to Justin’s desperation.
“Hey, champ, back home I gotta entire room full of diamonds, man …” Justin aimed his red stick at The Masked Henchman’s chest, “… You can have every single one if you just—”
—The door head clicked open and, with a creak, it slowly opened inward.
Crrrrrreeeeeeeaaaaak …
“—My circus is riddled with challenges,” The Ringmaster explained, his voice still deep, still threatening, still somewhat other-wordly, “If you fail a challenge, you lose fifty thousand points. If you succeed in a challenge, you receive fifty thousand points. It’s as simple as that …”
The Ringmaster’s chirpy tone returned as his voice transformed from demonic to dapper in a matter of seconds, “… Now! What do you say, Ticklee 003? Do you wanna play?”
Justin closed his eyes and licked his lips in focus.
If he nailed this, he could increase his current store by a giant amount …
… Then again, if he sucked, he could land himself at the bottom, next to Sebastian and, even worse … Logan.
Justin opened his eyes and walked forwards, his pristine white trainers squeaking over the tiles as he treated the door with the same level of respect he treated everything else that belonged to the cult.
He lifted his left leg and kicked the door open, the heel to his foot smashing against the wood, causing the door to explode inward in an eruption of splinters and dust …
Then, with his long red stick held firmly in both hands, he stepped inside.
As the now broken door wobbled to a crooked close, Justin had no choice but to allow the insides of The Room to overwhelm him …
Huff, huff, huff …
The sound of moaning, groaning and animalistic, borderline insane giggles was absolutely endless, and it seemed to come from the mouths of thousands …
“—Mnnn uuuhhhhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”
Justin stood on a wobbly, wooden platform that was no larger than the size of a desk.
Around him existed the inside of a circus big top, made up of red and white cotton roofing that was dimly lit by yellow lighting in each corner …
At the edge of Justin’s platform was a narrow wooden beam that stretched out around thirty feet to the other side of the room …
“—Mnnn uuuhhhhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”
Carefully, Justin stepped towards the front of the wooden platform so that the tips of his tightly laced trainers barely grazed the edge.
His mouth fell open and his heart hammered within the base of his throat as his eyes widened at the sight of two, possibly three hundred Clowns in torn, multicoloured ruffles, all gathered in a hysterical crowd, no, fuck that, a MASS, around seven feet below …
“—Mother fucker!—” Justin hopped back and began to bounce on the platform, “—Shit fuck, shitty fuck fuck!—” he expelled his anxiety in the form of an excited frenzy, equally entertained by the bombastic nature of events whilst also feeling genuinely, in his words, “—I’m shitting my pants, man!—” …
The Clowns wore masks that were stained with grease and grime, their mouths always stretched apart in a distorted, gleeful smile that promised nothing but mind numbing lunacy and showed every single one of their sharp, yellow teeth …
Fuzzy and frayed orange wigs made up their heads of hair; they energetically jumped up, they leaped as if their life depended on it, they reached their red rubber gloved hands towards Justin as if to touch him would not only be the thing that would save them, it would be a damn fucking honour …
At the other side of The Room, and at the end of the wooden beam, was another platform and a doorway leading out.
Beside the doorway was a pink flashing button.
Ping … Ping … Ping …
Justin waited for instructions from speaks above, he assumed The Ringmaster would return and start to direct Justin into what he needed to do …
All that remained were the endless moans, the eternal cackling, the hungry shouts from the zombie-esque Clown performers below and an expectation for Justin to figure it out for himself …
Justin started to turn his head around in a frantic twist.
“—Okay, alright, holy shit, holy … Holy shit!—” he pinched his right arm in an attempt to wake himself up, once, twice, three times, yet here he remained, within this unbelievable chaos, “—Fuck, alright, calm down, keep it cool, J.B—,” he felt dizzy, the panic now getting the better of him, until his eyes landed on the long, red stick in his hands …
A long red stick that, despite Tim’s theories, was not a weapon at all …
It would instead help him balance …
“Fuck yeah!” He cheered, as he aimed the long red stick at the Clowns below, “Don’t you worry, you sick fucks! I’ll still use it to poke your eyes out if you try your tickle crap!—” Justin warned.
“—Mnnn uuuhhhhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”
The Clowns continued to reach towards him, their red, rubber gloved fingertips combing at nothing but air.
Justin latched onto the stick with both hands; his grip, tight and firm, readied the tool as a useful mode of keeping him evenly poised.
“Thank you, baby …” Justin kissed the ceiling, aiming his gratitude to Hailey, who he still believed packed the box that was delivered his bedside, “… I love you, I love you …”
Justin would need to make it across the beam without falling into the crowd …
If he fell into the crowd …
“—Stop!—” Justin shook the potential outcome away from his mind, “—You’ve got this, you’re a fucking beast …” he whispered, his right foot lifting to take its place on the smooth surface of the narrow, wooden beam …
For the hundreds of Clowns below, their point of view only increased their appetite; looking upward, they could see the soft rubber of Justin’s trainer covered soles as his feet walked the wooden beam - their manic imaginations ran wild as they pictured what Justin’s feet would look like without the trainers, an enticing image that flooded each and every one of their minds at once …
Only three steps in and Justin felt the need to stop …
The height he stood at, with nothing around him but humid air, as well as the frenzy under the beam he stood on began to nip at him as the seconds went by …
He could feel the sweat beneath the thickness of his hoodie; suddenly, the stick felt heavy, his throat felt sight, his feet felt hot …
Am I having a panic attack?
Such a pause only made The Clown’s screech louder, it only made them reach upward with more eager intensity, their vicious attempts at grabbing hold of Justin’s ankles becoming more rampant by each brief, passing moment …
“—Mnnn uuuhhhhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”
Justin sniffed up the sawdust scented air as he concentrated, forcing the alarm back down his throat, past his chest and into his stomach, where he imagined a vibrant fire burning away at the worry …
“I’m suing them for millions,” Justin reassured himself, “No, billions—”, he corrected with a grin, the wooden beam wobbling gently the further he made his way towards its middle …
“—Mnnn uuuhhhhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”
Each step Justin took sent a shiver of vulnerability up his tattooed legs - he tried to keep his mind on not falling, he tried to keep his feet moving, but The Clowns below were utterly relentless - they began to swirl and lunge, their fingers flicking and wiggling, just brushing the underside of the beam - Justin quickly lifted his left foot, but that only made him balance on one leg, his entire body threatening to fall to the side …
“—Fuck this! Fuck you!—” He shouted down at the snarling crowd, both feet returning to the beam, his legs now shaking as the beam continued to wobble, “—You want me, huh! You can’t have me, you dumb fucks!—” the stick in his hands lifted high to the right, then high to the left …
“—Tee-hee, tickle feet!—” One Clown below began to sing, “—Wriggle, squirm, don’t you cheat! One wrong step, and down you’ll drop, and then we’ll tickle, we’ll never stop!—”
Justin picked up his pace, perspiration now beading over his eyebrows, blurring his vision, the beam feeling impossibly long, the stick feeling unexpectedly heavy, The Clown’s teasing growing more insistent, “—Fucking freaks!—” Justin spat down at The Clowns, “—Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!—”, each step over the beam sending a jolt of terror through his body as the long red stick, his only lifeline, wobbled under his sweaty grip …
Below, the hordes of Clowns, some now with Justin’s dribble staining their masks, only grew more eager - their laughter rose to a fever pitch, high-pitched and chaotic, echoing like a demented symphony through the circus tent, “—Mnnn uuuhhhhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”, their fingers stretching toward Justin with the threat of touch as a few Clowns managed to jump high enough to graze the beneath of the beam …
Suddenly, Justin’s foot slipped on a worn patch of wood.
“—Ah!—”
The strong grip of his rubber trainers found no purchase - with a gasp, he fell forwards and landed on the surface of the beam with a bounce, his upper body leaping off the wood and out into the air, the red stick now only held by his right hand …
Justin did whatever he could to stop himself from falling into The Clowns; he crossed his thighs and legs around the wooden beam, his torso now dangling upside down, his hands hanging below his head, his body from the waist up suspended and exposed …
Gravity continued to work as Justin’s enemy; as he dangled upside down, his hoodie abided by only natures rules and began to fall away from him, exposing his entire tattooed torso from his pecs to his waist, the cotton now gathering around his head and face, partially blinding him, still snug around each shoulder, refusing to entirely drop …
The red pouch tied to his waist also dangled in the air, just above his navel; thankfully he had knotted it, otherwise it may of slipped free and fallen into the crowd below, its use to then be always unknown …
“—Gah! Guuh, fffffuck!—” Justin, unable to see, thwacked the red stick in whichever direction he thought best, — thwack! thwack! thwack! —, he felt it make impact with heads and hands as The Clown’s cackling continued, until suddenly, the stick felt stiff, unmoveable, un-tuggable …
“—Mnnn uuuhhhhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”
The Clowns hand their hands on the stick and were using it to pull Justin towards them …
He grimaced so hard that his entire face scrunched into the top of his nose,”—Grraaaah! Grrrraaaah!—” what he tried to pull back wasn’t just a stick - it was salvation on a handle - a last line of defense between him and a swarm of grinning, grease-painted nightmares; it became a sword, a scepter, a holy relic - Justin hadn’t just swung it, he had wielded it, like a knight fending off a circus from hell …
When suddenly, the stick was pulled from his grasp and snapped in two, three, four, — crack! crack! crack! crack! —, by ravenous, rubber gloved hands, its broken remains now sinking into the crowd of madness where it disappeared, as if it never existed at all …
“No!—” for the first time, Justin sounded genuinely upset, “—My stick!—” he whined, one hand reaching out, the other trying to (unsuccessfully) tuck his hoodie into his shorts …
“—Mnnn uuuhhhhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”
The Clowns wasted no time whatsoever in reaching up to snatch hold of Justin’s hands, his wrists or his arms, arms that were now punching through the humid expanse of air, trying their best to reach back up to the beam …
“—Tickle, tickle, can’t escape!—”, another Clown sang, “—Armpits so hairy, we’ll never wait! Wiggle, squirm, you’re ours to tease, we’ll tickle ‘til you beg us, please!—”
Justin’s weight made things so much worse, “—Shut the fuck up!—” he hissed, his punching and twisting doing no good in making holding onto the beam with just his legs an easy job - for a split second, he actually considered unwrapping his legs and letting go, but falling into the crowd of Clowns would only lead to a gang tickling of truly epic proportions …
Unable to swing his arms upward again, mostly due to the strain taking place in his hips and the pang of cramp in his stomach, his arms dropped only momentarily, but a brief chance was all it took for red, rubber gloved hands to grab hold of Justin’s wrists where The Clown’s decided to do only two things; one, attempt to yank him down where he could join them and two, to explore him whilst they could …
Shrieks of the many Clowns and their delight began to fill the inside of the circus - fingers darted up to dig into the depths of Justin’s hairy, now unapologetically wet underarms, to claw into his sides, to snatch onto the hoodie protecting his face, the hands now stretching his torso into a taunt line as his legs wrapped tighter around the beam above …
“—Grah! Ah! Oh, oh god! Mnn, no!—”, Justin’s calves slid a little, he almost lost grip of the beam, the sensation of sharp teeth nibbling at his fingers now taking dominance within his mind, “—Ow, damnit, ow, fuck!—” he could feel saliva soaking his hands, the warmth of tongues invading the betweens of each finger, the sharp yellow teeth nibbling at his thumbs, his stomach muscles twinging as more hands latched onto his sides, his hips, his waist, in an attempt to pull him away from the beam …
“—Grah! Get, the FUCK—” Justin punched and punched and punched, “—OFFA ME!—”, he punched some more, his fists and wrists slipping free from the many Clowns’ grasp, his arms gaining enough strength and momentum to thwack down at The Clowns where his knuckles would mack into red noses, — smack!—, his palms pressing down into eyes and mouths where he successfully transformed The Clowns gleeful squeals into groans of despair, — smack! smack! smack! — …
“—Mnnn uuuhhhhh owwww ohhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh owwww ohhh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”
For what felt like an eternity, he hung there in fight mode, helpless, arms dangling, determination in the form of vibrant cussing burning his lungs, and though his legs stung with strain, he knew he had to hold on, or he would fall completely into The Clown’s ravenous jaws …
Such knowledge fuelled Justin to swing his hands and arms upward one last time, “—Mnn!—”, where he hooked his grip around the beam and then lifted himself up and away from The Clowns, where he managed to hug the beam as if it were Hailey herself …
Huff! Huff! Huff!
He then pulled himself onto the beams surface where he continued to embrace its shape, shuffling and wiggling forwards like a monkey as The Clowns below snarled, cackled and attempted to take hold of the body they had just had the pleasure of touching …
Finally, with a burst of determination, he lunged forward, nearly falling again as he made it to the platform, breathless giggles trickling past his lips as he collapsed onto his back and lay on the wooden surface, with only the tent top as his view and The Clowns moans below as his surrounding noise …
“—Fucking freaks, I fucking did it, fuck …” he peered over the edge of the platform, where he offered the hundreds of Clowns an excited and thrilled cheer, “… Fuck you, dick heads! I fucking did it!—”
Justin quickly got to his feet and faced the pink flashing button.
With no hesitation in the slightest, he slammed his right palm over the button, igniting an explosion of glitter and confetti to tumble around his shoulders.
🎉 BOOM! 🎉
The door popped open …
Justin jumped into the next room, the sparkle of glitter following him …
And then he closed the door, slamming away the hundreds of Clowns, their hysterical groans and their clawings hands once and for all …
… Or, so he thought.
Justin was now faced with another door, this one exactly the same as he had stepped through to start the game, however it’s title was different.
Above the door, surrounded by flashing bulbs, were the words ‘Tickle Tunnel’ …
Justin rubbed his palms together and paced from left to right, a stern frown causing his eyebrows to burrow tightly at the top of his nose; so far he had been successful, which only charged him with an overwhelming sense of self belief - if he could practically trapeze over a hoard of clowns, surely he could make it through a tunnel?
He held onto his kneecaps and bent over for a second, catching his breath, allowing the sweat shimmering across his face to melt into the moistness of his skin, the sound of The Clown’s endless cackling in the previous room just about audible …
“—Mnnn uuuhhhhh owwww ohhh aaaahaaaahhhhh aaaaaahh owwww ohhh mnnnnn uhhhhhhh!—”
Justin pulled his socks up and shrugged confetti and glitter away from his shoulders.
He bounced on his toes and punched the air, as if in a boxer ring, his imagination creating the shape and visual of a clown opposite him, “—Pow! Pow! Pow!—”, his fists knocking into The Clown’s masked face as he swiped into nothing …
He then took a breath and turned to face the door, where he grabbed hold of the handle and opened it inward …
Justin stood at the entrance of the ‘Tickle Tunnel’, his astonishment caught in his throat at what he saw before him …
The tunnel’s floor and walls were alive with hundreds of Clown arms that reached, beckoned, and clawed the air …
Red velvet gloves clawed under the flickering lights, each hand either holding a red foam nose, or reaching and grabbing the air, or just still and splayed open, palm up, as if inviting him in …
Justin wagged his tongue and grabbed hold of the top of his head, “You gotta be fucking kidding me …”
The Ringmaster’s voice echoed through the air, disembodied and warm with sinister cheer:
"Steal just three red noses, Ticklee 003. But beware! … Some hands crave more than your prize …"
At the other end of the tunnel was door outlined in a bright white light, and beside the door were three open box compartments where Justin assumed he would have to deliver the red noses into …
He sneered in complete startlement and shook his head, “This is fucing whack …” he muttered.
Despite questioning if this were even real, if he were drugged, or how much money it cost to build what was practically a real-life movie, he slipped into the best way to handle what to do next far quicker than he thought he would - a sure fire sign that he was now one hundred percent committed to winning this because he wanted to, not just because he had to …
He pictured the scenario before him; some of the red noses were higher up - he would have to climb onto the hands not moving to reach them …
Even if he did collect them - you can hold two red noses but three might be too much? You’re gonna need your own hands, you’re gonna need a—
—Justin snatched the red pouch at his waist and pointed towards the ceiling where he thanked Hailey once again, “CEO of my life, I motherfucking adore you …”
As his left foot pressed down over the red, velvety floor, the Tickle Tunnel seemed to exhale—the Clown’s hands twisted and flexed, some clenching tightly around the red noses, the leather of each glove vibrating as if aroused …
Other hands rested, statuesque, waiting for his approach …
The first few steps were—
“—Easy …” Justin boasted, “… Fuckin’ easy peasy …”
The stagnant hands were squishy yet unyielding, they allowed him to climb steadily - he snatched a red nose from one of them, feeling its light, spongy texture in his trembling fingers …
However, once deeper into the tunnel, the hands began to shift …
They wriggled and reached, one glove curling around his socked ankle, another glove attempting to reach up the gap of his right short, into his thigh …
Justin stifled a yelp, his teeth gritting as he kicked free, but another gloved hand slipped under the hem of his hoodie to stroke his belly button - an electric jolt of huffs he couldn’t contain jumped out of his mouth, causing him to squirm and twist like a fish caught on a line, however he was still able to snatch at another red nose just within reach …
Justin leapt away and landed in the middle of the tunnel, spinning in a circle, on the spot, to try and locate hands that were more platforms instead of those that were moving …
“How was your weekend, Justin?” Breathless, Justin spoke to himself as he shoved the red noses into the pouch, “Oh, not too bad,” he pursed his lips and shrugged, “Didn’t get up to much, everything was normal and sane and fucking ordinary …”
A gloved hand from the side pinched the plump centre of his left ass cheek, causing him to jump forwards.
“Hey!”
Another hand pinched his right ass cheek, causing him to curl into himself with a hiss.
“—That’s not for you!—” he smacked the hand away.
Another grabbed the hem of his hoodie and tried to pull him towards the wall, but Justin twirled away; amidst his writhe, he could see a third nose, held by a gloved hand at the top row of arms, towards the ceiling of the tunnel …
“—Gotcha …” he grinned.
The hands that were once attempting to pinch his buttocks now remained still, whilst the hands that were once looking trustworthy were now wiggling their fingers towards Justin.
Justin pressed his lips together and climbed onto a palm by chance, the rubber sole of his left running trainer resting down over red leather.
The hand remained stiff, sturdy and motionless; it gave Justin enough willpower to lift his right foot onto another palm, as if he were climbing a staircase, the second hand also remaining fixed into position.
The Tickle Tunnel pulsed with gleeful menace, crimson velvet gloves around Justin shivering in the flickering lights - Justin reached up and stretched his fingers towards the third red nose, sweat dripping down the side of his face - he balanced carefully on the warm, soft palms, wary of the snatching hands that writhed around his ankles and calves …
Without him knowing, silently and ever so delicately, one of the hands began to untie the laces to Justin’s trainers …
Justin reached for the final red nose, his fingertips brushing the foam, “—Mnn, mnn, come on!—”, but before he could grab it, two gloved hands clamped around his wrists, their grip vice-like - with a sudden jerk, they hoisted him up, his feet and legs now twirling through the air, his now unlaced trainers thrown away from his feet unintentionally, “—Oh what!—” …
The trainers were snatched mid flight by random hands, hands that began to feel up each trainers shape, the fingers fluttering within the damp inside of each trainer, as if they were tasting, sniffing, feasting on Justin’s footwear …
Justin’s breath caught at the back of his throat—he was suspended, legs dangling uselessly in a rampact kick, his arms stretched high above him, “—Alright! You, you got me!—”, he twisted and twirled, trying to find a solid rest against the red-gloved walls with the now just socked toes of his feet, “—Lemme down!—”, but the hands around his wrists only tightened, holding him steady, purposefully allowing him to feel a thrill of horror and anticipation as he realized he was completely vulnerable, the two squishy red noses still safely contained within the pouch tied to his waist …
The Tickle Tunnel seemed to sense his vulnerability as it closed in around him - frantic fingers crept up them hem of his hoodie and journeyed over the smoothness of his tattooed sides, tracing teasing patterns along his ribs and slipping into the depths of his belly button …
Justin jerked violently as the hands danced and skittered, “—Go fuck yourself!—”, he refused to give in, he refused to laugh, to break, to allow whatever monstrous freak show this was to feel any sense of satisfaction by hearing his reaction, “—Mnn, grr! Grah! Damn! Oh, oh damn!—”, the fingertips caressed the depths of his hairy underarms and poked at the sensitive hollow of his waist as other hands lifted his hoodie over his face, covering his sight once again and muffling his yelps, whilst completely revealing his toned upper body, “—Mmmph! Mmnn, mnn! I’m gonna mmphh fucking kill you!—” …
He squirmed, legs flailing helplessly, as the corridor’s hands orchestrated a cruel symphony of violating touch - the air was filled with his breathless panting and the movement of velvet gloves - from behind the covering of his hoodie, his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, as the fingers found every spot that made him huff and writhe, “—Mmphh! Mnnphh! C’mere so I can fff, fuck you umphh!—”
"Three noses…” The Ringmaster reminded gleefully from speakers hidden in the tunnel, “You must claim three!"
Justin barked and yapped into the material of his hoodie as he felt the hands grab at his shorts - all too suddenly, they pulled them away from his legs, revealing his surprisingly large bulge and peachy buttocks all compactly contained within a tight pair of black Calvin Klein briefs, “—Mmphh! Mmphh give those back, you mnnphh fucking faggots!—” Justin’s muffled cursing slammed to a stop as soon as he felt fingers pinch hold over the toe sections of his socks; with little to no care, they began to pull the socks down past his ankles, intending to rip them away from his feet, however Justin would not allow such an event to take place …
He pulled upward, using the hands holding onto his wrists as stability, “—Grrr, grrr!—”, his mouth reached the velvety surface of the first hand and, as his left sock found the base of his toes, he bit into the hand as if hungrily chewing a french fry, “—Grah! Jackass!—”, immediately, the hand shook and flapped, letting his wrist go, “—Ah ha!—”, now held dangling with one hand and with both socks almost being pulled from each foot, Justin used his free hand to hold onto the fingers grasped around his other wrist and bit down on those also …
The hand’s fingers flexed in a reactive jolt, accidentally freeing Justin where he landed on his ass with a bounce …
Justin pulled up both of his bubblegum pink socks, all the way to the middle of his shins as he breathlessly watched the hands that had torn away his shorts rip them to shreds before fingering almost every fibre stitched within its cotton material - tongue practically wagging and now minus his shorts, he took a moment to regain his breath as the hands continued to flicker towards him.
“I gotta get the hell outta here …” he wheezed.
He returned to climbing the hands in keen lunges, bending his knees to hurtle himself upward where he successfully grabbed hold of the final red nose.
He landed on the ground like a cat, the soles of his socked feet slipping against the red flooring, a tiny smirk lifting his lips as he placed the last red nose into the pouch around his waist.
With all three prizes now belonging to him, he turned towards the light at the end of the Tickle Tunnel and decided to make a run for it.
He sprinted in a speedy dash, hopping over hands, darting between them, the pouch at his waist smacking against him as both of his legs propelled him towards the exit … Success seemed in reach, but the corridor had one last trick …
Hands from below tripped him up, taking Justin off of his feet and onto the floor in a tumbled roll where the prying fingers from the walls tried to snatch hold of his underwear, attempting to tear away his briefs …
Justin felt the elastic of his underwears waistband slip past his hips, “Oh, man! You’ve got hands—” with cheeks flushing pink he pulled his briefs back up, always kicking into the floor in an attempt to escape the stripping, “—But I’ve got moves! Let’s dance! …”
Socked toes and socked heels smacked into other clawing hands, just as Justin’s underwear slid towards the base of his cock and the opening of his buttocks, “—Grraaagh! Back it up, klepto!—”, for a moment, much to his distress, he was almost naked, “—This isn’t a damn giveaway!—”, however thanks to how much he wanted to remain with some kind of protection covering him, he was able to break away from the hands and pull his briefs back up, wrenching himself free …
The final stretch lay open before him - he sprinted the last few steps, each hand either side of him a blur of red leather, until he arrived at the three open compartments …
From behind, the Tickle Tunnel began to fold in on itself; Justin swung his head over his shoulder and took in the sight of hundreds of red leather hands clawing, snapping, fingering their way towards him, like a wave of molestation …
With shaking fingers, he dropped the first red nose into the first compartment, — plop! — …
Then the second, — plop! — , followed by the third …
Justin took hold of the door handle and shoved it inward …
… But the door remained shut, the bright lights surrounding it blinding, glowing, causing him to squint.
“What the FUCK!—” he snarled, “—Open the fuck up!—”
He shook the door repeatedly yet all it did was rattle in place, refusing to budge …
“I gave you the damn noses!—”, Justin roared, “You got the damn noses!—”
And then, just when he thought the hands behind would take him, each red nose within each compartment exploded into tufts of thick, yellow smoke …
✨ POOF! POOF! POOF! ✨
The smoke infiltrated Justin’s flared nostrils, it caused his eyes to water and his vision to blur …
He felt dizzy, the hands catching his fall, just in time for everything to go black.
Justin woke with a start, blinking away the fog of unconsciousness from behind what felt like a cotton blindfold that had been tightly wrapped around his face …
Whilst most ticklee’s would have began to scream into the sudden darkness, to whine out the need for escape or the want to be let out, Justin remained sweaty, stubbornly quiet and anxiously still; behaviour he only inflicted in an attempt to punish his captor, who he knew by now would want nothing but than to see him in distress.
Justin couldn’t see a thing, but he could feel almost everything, “Hope you brought snacks—”, his head twisted from side to side, “—I could do this all day, fuck head …”
“Such a potty mouth, Bieber, oh, what a sight …” The Ringmaster’s voice teased from an unknown location, “… Best keep it clean, now you’re locked up tight …” The Ringmaster giggled, “… All that running, that bold little dash, and here you are, caught in a flash …” The Ringmaster sounded like he could be behind Justin, maybe above, perhaps to the side …
The Ringmaster was right: so far, Justin had successfully completed two of the challenges within this seventh game, but the cold, rigid edge of the opening around his neck and the snug, claustrophobic feeling of metal pressing against his sides told him victory was actually further away than he had anticipated - only his head and his pink socked feet, sticking out of the front of the tight, steel box he sat in, were free to move - he tried to shift, to wriggle his shoulders, but the box held him fast …
Above him, with flashing bulbs surrounding the third challenge board was a title that read ‘sock it to the clown’ …
“… Pretty in pink, and twice as weak—those feet will sing before you speak …”
Justin’s socked feet stiffened into a fixed scrunch; all ten toes fiercely clenching with such strength that they caught some of the sock material beneath them, “Touch me, and I’ll bury you,” Justin warned …
” … They’re so trapped, so vulnerable, a sight that brings me glee … Their helpless squirming just adds to the fun for me! …”
Justin’s heart was now pounding, at full force, in the depths of his ears, “Back off—!”, he could feel his breath quickening, he tried to twist his torso, but there was no give - his head was so fixed into place, his chin rubbing on the cold edge of the box’s opening, the steel feeling smooth yet unforgiving against the stubble of his jaw, “—You have no idea what you’re starting, man!—”
“…Time for you to entertain a favourite trial of my own, a simple game to test your will, to see if your pride can stay so still …”
Justin’s feet thrashed into an X shape as soon as he felt fingertips ever so gently pinch the tips of his socked, big toes …
“—You’re on borrowed time, bro!—”
“…You have to try and stop your socks from leaving your feet, a test of wits and pride,” The Ringmaster enquired, “Will you admit defeat?”
Justin’s face was hot with a flush of humiliation, “This is what makes you feel big, huh, tough guy?—”, this was beyond anything he’d ever imagined, “Stripping my feet?” He glared straight ahead behind the blindfold, refusing to let the small sounds that threatened to bubble up escape his lips, his chest heaved with restrained breaths, he could feel sweat prickling at the nape of his neck, but he would not laugh, he would not give them that satisfaction, “—You fucking pervert …”
“… Will you admit defeat! …” The Ringmaster repeated.
Justin gritted his teeth, every muscle in his jaw flexing, a fierce, “—Fuck no!—” pummelling the darkness surrounding him - he couldn’t see what The Ringmaster was doing - he could only feel the stroke, the gentle fingers at the edges of his socks, “—You think I’m scared of you? This sickens me, man—”, despite how hard Justin tried to catch his socks with his toes or the determined strength of each foot, each touch was slow and deliberate, peeling the thick pink cotton upward, inch by inch …
The Ringmaster’s voice purred in the darkness, “… So stubborn, Ticklee 003! So sure of yourself! But even the proudest man has to admit—this little game is delicious, isn’t it?”
Justin’s shuddering breath heated up the expanse of black, his eyes wide and glinting with frustrated pride behind the sweat stained material, a growl-esque, “—One more inch and I’ll fucking end you!—”, yelled into nothing …
The Ringmaster’s fingers tugged at the socks again, inching them higher until they hovered around the balls of Justin’s feet, the exposed, milky skin below now cool in the air, every inch of it tingling with vulnerability, “—You’re really milking the moment, freak!—”, he flexed his toes, desperate to keep his ‘lucky socks’ in place, to prove he was still in control, “—Dang!—” he groaned behind the bandana, his voice low and furious - he wouldn’t let them win - his feet stretched inward, his toes curled, and still he fought to keep those socks in place - his body tensed, every muscle straining with the effort to resist …
But the slow, deliberate removal was a dance he was losing - his breath came in ragged gasps, his nostrils flaring as the socks finally slipped free, the cool air now greeting the bottoms of both of his bare feet, “—Aw, fuck …You happy, freak? That was fucking impossible, anyway …”
“Socks removed, and what a sweetness … Bare beauty bound to bloom in weakness …”
Justin’s jaw clenched as his eyes glared confidently behind the bandana, “—It’s not a weakness bro, it’s off limits …” however, deep inside, his arrogance was cracking, every inch of silky smooth sole revealed was another blow to his stubborn pride and with both of his feet completely bare, he felt a shiver of something new - an intimidating knowledge, a knowledge that even the most determined ticklee might break when there was nowhere left to hide …
“A little drip, a golden stream, across his soles — a slick daydream …”
Before he could make sense of his reluctant mental and physical tear down, dozens and dozens of cold, oily lashings landed over the tops of his toes, causing him to suddenly roar, widen his eyes behind the bandana and completely disregard his stubborn attitude, “—Yo! What the hell! Are you serious right now!—”
“… His twitches epic, he can’t take the heat … Oh, how it glides down Ticklee 003’s feet …”
The thick, oozy liquid rolled down the bareness of his soles, “—You don’t have permission, bro!—”, soles that were once protected by a generous layer of pink cotton and even a pair of basketball running trainers till only recently, soles that were now soaked by a generous lashing of slick, slippery slop …
Justin’s thrashing feet were then snatched still by the firm tightness of what felt like thin string looping around each of his big toes, “—You tie my toes, and I swear to god I’ll break your fucking jaw, man!—”, bubbles of saliva began to boil at each corner of his lips, “—You’re crossing a line!—” despite his threats and his shouts, his feet were gradually fixed still, his soles shifting as the tension pulled tight, the string tying itself with infuriating precision …
“… Big toes all tied and shining bright, not much room to run or fight …”
Suddenly, the blindfold began to unwrap from Justin’s head in a non stop twist; layer upon layer, the blindfold twirled away from his head and landed on the surface of the box, behind his neck, just in time for Justin to scowl forwards, his vision blurred, where he huffed out the words:
“—They’re not yours to touch …”
The Ringmaster, still nowhere to be seen and only heard, whispered his next set of words as something Justin understood to be a warning …
“ … In this game, Justin… Everything bare belongs to me …”
Quickly, Justin took in his surroundings …
He sat, within the red metal box, inside a bright yellow room made of concrete …
Hisss … Hisss … Hisss
Oblivious to him, hidden panels around the room hissed open, revealing gloved hands, similar the ones he had dealt with in the previous room …
The hands slowly rose - silent, calculated, their palms coated in fine, sharp-tipped plastic spikes unlike the red velvet that made up the far softer hands in the previous room - no, to any normal, suburban tickler, these gloves looked like the kind used for grooming animals, textured just enough to tease, to scratch, to stimulate … But oh, they were so much more than that …
One slithered up the back of the box, the other reached up from the left side, a third appeared as a reflection in his glistening, helpless, lotion soaked heels, its index finger dealing with the temptation to touch, just for a second, the arch of his right foot …
Against the wall, the words ‘Crying Clown’ were displayed, the presentation lit up by flashing bulbs.
Justin kept his jaw locked, his brown eyes forward, his breath steady - with his long red stick gone, his pride was his last defense and thankfully, it was just about still intact, polished and ready to deflect whatever twisted theatre this circus had planned …
Then came the hand from above …
Hisss …
A panel no bigger than a book opened in the ceiling - an extending arm dressed in a polka dot sleeve slid out from inside and stretched towards Justin, the spiky rubber gloved index finger pointing at the bridge of his nose …
“… Next challenge …” The Ringmaster declared, “… Guess how long you can last without shedding a tear …” he explained, “… If a tear sheds after the time you suggest, you win. If a tear sheds during the time you suggest, you lose …”
Justin blinked and then smirked - barely - his mouth twisting into a testing sneer, “You think I’m scared of some fucking gloves?” He blew air out of his lips and rolled his eyes, “Pfft, please, this is messed up…”
The index finger wagged slowly, as if amused, and then it pointed down towards his feet, as if drawing a silent line from his ego to his vulnerability, “… Guess, Ticklee 003, otherwise the blindfold goes back around your face …”
The hand trailed a spiky finger, ever so slowly, barely there, across the soft pad that made up the bottom of Justin’s right big toe - the reaction? Instant. A twitch from both feet, a violent rattle from inside the box and then a hearty grunt, from the depths of Justin’s stomach, followed by a half choked snort, “—Snnk!—” he turned his head away, his eye lashes fluttering shut - he clearly didn’t want to let that out, “Don’t— Don’t do that,” he tried to peer over the edge of the box again, “I swear—”
The yellow string, knotted into a tight bow around both big toes, kept his feet snugly together - there was no escaping the sensitivity, nor the taunting voice of The Ringmaster.
“So defiant, so ravenously keen to remain intact … When I am already breaking you, second by second …” The Ringmaster practically shuddered in excitement, “… Guess, guess, guesssssssss,” he hissed like a snake …
The spiky finger barely grazed Justin’s big toe; it lifted away and then trailed beneath the lengthy, fleshy pillars of the rest of the toes that made up his left foot, the rubber spikes hardly making impact, the toying journey enough to make Justin gasp a flustered, “—Oh my god—”, he was getting impatient, “—Whoever the fuck you are, you’re fucking insane …”
Justin couldn’t move his feet even if he tried, but he willed them still - he couldn’t stop the sweat blooming across his brow, but he narrowed his eyes in defiance - he wasn’t going to break, not yet, not for them …
“—Never—,” Justin declared boldly, “—Like fuck you’re gonna make me cry! It’s just …” he blinked, flashing back momentarily to his interaction with Kit in The Living Quarters just hours ago where he had told Kit, ‘If I hear that phrase one more fucking time I swear to god I’m gonna—’, and here he was, using that phrase, one more time to reassure himself, “—It’s just tickling …” he huffed.
Four red, spiky gloves descended like vultures - no sudden movements, just a calculated slink downward until they hovered just millimeters above his feet - not touching - not yet - but all just so very much fucking there - so close he could feel the cool breath of air displaced by the motion - the oil on his smooth, shimmering soles gleamed under the light, catching every glisten of movement from the hovering palms …
“To confirm, Ticklee 003, you’re claiming you will not shed one tear during this challenge? That means, if you do shed a tear, you lose fifty thousand points …” The gloves and their individual fingers flexed - slow and deliberate - plastic nibs glinting under The Room’s bright light …
Justin’s toes stretched before he could stop them - he clenched his jaw tighter, tried to play it off with a scoff, “—Consider it a fucking deal—”, he quipped, another wriggle inside the box causing the metal to rattle, “I just won the last two bat-shit challenges, if my sums are correct, I’m now joint first with Chalamet …” he sounded smug, “… I can afford to lose …”
The gloves paused, almost as if… Aroused by Justin’s cockiness and his ability to face a realistic outcome.
“Oh, is that true?” The Ringmaster giggled, “I just challenged you to try and keep your socks on your feet - you failed. That means so far, you have only gained fifty thousand points … If you lose this, thats another fifty thousand gone, which would mean everything you’ve done so far when entering my circus has led to …” he gulped, “… Nothing …”
One hand tilted slightly, its fingers poised just above the arch of his right foot, dancing in slow circles … The other gloved hand mirrored it on the left, creating a hovering rhythm that didn’t need contact to sting … Justin could feel the anticipation like static …
Justin hooked his teeth over his upper lip and rattled within the box, “Stop confusing me!” His eyebrows turned into worms of perplexity across his forehead, “I, I can do it! I’m fucking winning this!—” he hissed.
“Then it is done,” The Ringmaster announced, “Not one single tear … From those pretty brown eyes …” The spiky fingers continued to draw circles over Justin’s arches, never making impact, always floating, an act that made Justin’s oiled soles flex and writhe as he tried his best to look over the edge of the box, “How the hell did you end up here? Huh?” The Ringmaster teased, “You’ve filled stadiums. You’ve stood in front of millions. You’ve dodged rumors, cameras, scandals… You’ve broken hearts, but this?” He no longer spoke in rhyme, “Locked up in a damn box, feet oiled and shaking while clown gloves taunt you like you’re a pathetic loser?” If anything, suddenly sounding so human, so real - it just felt creepier …
“Take a picture,” Justin winked with a smile, “It’ll last longer, jerk …”
The gloves drifted lower, now hovering just a breath above his heels - those soft, rounded edges of skin where nerves gathered like coiled wires - still, the gloves didn’t touch - oh no - but they moved with theatrical care, two gloved hands, just above his oiled heels, began to mimic the motion of scratching - slow, gentle curves in the air, as if tracing invisible spirals right where his skin was most sensitive.
The Ringmaster spoke from above yet again, “My masked friends tell me, Justin…” he purred, “That beneath all that attitude… Are two very, very ticklish heels …”
Justin’s head jerked up slightly as The Ringmaster addressed him by name, his smirk faltered - not gone, but strained now …
“Who the fuck are you!” He snapped, his voice slightly cracking at the word ‘you’.
Two index fingers tilted inward and with precise synchronicity, they drifted forward until they gently brushed the very centers of Justin’s heels in a barely there graze …
Justin jerked instinctively, his feet bucking against the outside of the box, the yellow string knotted around his big toes yanked taut again, forcing his arches to flex, making his feet even more vulnerable, “—Mnf—”, he grunted through his nostrils, his breath hitched - a sound - somewhere between a laugh and a curse - escaped through gritted teeth, “You bitch—” he hissed.
Another stroke, this time slower, over both heels at once, “So… They were right … Very ticklish heels …” The Ringmaster chuckled …
Justin found himself grunting again, “—Mnf—”, his knees weren’t allowed to jerk up, his back couldn’t arch, every inch of resistance was trapped inside the box, leaking out only through the twitch of his face, the shake of his head, the wild flinching of his glistening, toe tied feet - the index fingers petted both heels in a faint rub, the plastic spikes gently dragging over the fleshy chunks of each heel - Justin barked out a startled laugh before clamping his mouth shut again, biting the inside of his cheek, “This is humiliating …” he muttered to himself.
“You’ve performed for millions, Justin,” The Ringmaster drooled, “But right now? This is the show …”
Justin bucked again, shoulders rattling the inside of the box - his feet twisted as far as the toe-ties would allow - which wasn’t far - and then snapped back into place like a reflex - the oil made his skin hypersensitive, every touch felt sharper, wetter, more intimate, the fingers remaining on each heel, working their magic on producing that tear, causing Justin to spit a uncontrolled, “—Not there—”, he kicked himself mentally, he was doing so well, but his voice broke into a sharp laugh, cut off halfway as he gasped for composure - he shook his head, he squeezed his eyes shut and then he opened them again - defiant, even through the twitching corners of his mouth …
The gloves responded by adding fingers — now it was an index finger and a middle finger on each heel, dragging ever so gently up the outer edges of his the soft, round, bulbous chunks, grazing the boundaries of one of his most vulnerable spots …
Justin’s mouth fell open, no words came out, just an odd, breathy noise - they’re going slow on purpose, he thought, they’re mapping me out like I’m theirs - he swallowed hard - inside the box, his abs tensed, his fists clenched somewhere out of view - but his feet, those tanned size eight and halves kept flinching, twitching, squirming, the tied big toes twisted in sync like they were pleading for mercy on his behalf …
From inside The Room’s ceiling, Justin could hear a grainy cackle …
“… Ha, ha, haaaa …”
Justin barked a short, breathless laugh that ended in a helpless grunt, “You, you think this is funny?—” He growled.
“Yes,” said The Ringmaster simply, “But not as funny as watching you pretend you can handle it,” The Ringmaster whispered, “I will get that tear, Justin, I will get many of them, and you’re theory that I will not is just down to pure arrogance …”
All five fingers on two rubber gloved hands aligned with surgical precision - palms arched, nibbed tips glinting in the The Room’s bright light - they hovered just above the pads of his Justin’s long, oil soaked toes, beneath them, between them - and then they touched down, all ten fingers - the plastic nibs made contact in unison, gliding across each toe, curling slightly to catch every crease, every nerve ending, every soft, now flexing edge …
Justin jerked so violently that the box almost tipped forward, “—UFF! —”, his head snapped backward as if punched by Superman, his mouth falling open as a strangled sound escaped, “—Ghh— nnghh— no—”, both of his feet spasmed wildly, their wet, fleshy, oiled up shapes glistening in a rampant twitch, but the yellow string knotted into a pretty bow around both big toes kept them still, abhorrently in place …
The spiked gloves began to stroke, not harsh, not fast, but with unbearable precision - they slid up the hairless tops of his toes, down the silky smooth centers, around the plump, juicy bases - they slid into the delicate gaps between each digit like they were reading him like braille.
And still, somehow, Justin didn’t laugh, nor did he cry - unlike the Tom Hollands of this world, The Room did not become suffocated with high pitched, endless laughter - not yet, anyway - instead, Justin seized as if being shocked by a CPR machine, he gritted his teeth so hard that he bared the moistness of his gums, his brown eyes bulged with such pressure that they began to shimmer, his whole body shook inside the box, with such strength that the box rattled constantly, as if ready to implode - this was a contestant that was almost just as ticklish as Tom, but his reactions were different, they were contained, they were agonisingly vain …
“Ten famous toes, toes we can all find on wikifeet, I wonder how many times people have downloaded images of them, zoomed in, grabbed a bottle of lube and masturbated endlessly at the sight of your feet … And now I have them, and neither of them can escape,” The Ringmaster teased, “You’re far more sensitive than you realise, both inside and out, doesn’t that make you want to cry, Justin?—”
Justin didn’t verbally respond, he couldn’t, every muscle in his body was burning, holding tension like a dam under pressure - the rubber spiky gloves, unbothered by how pink Justin’s cheeks had boiled, continued their tormenting choreography, sliding in gentle figure-eights across the oil-slicked tips of his toes, circling the base of each ultra ticklish digit with maddening care - they even paused occasionally, as if listening to the way his toes curled and scrunched beneath the rubber spikes of each finger …
His body was screaming but his mouth was silent - little did he know that forcing himself to not give the cult what they wanted, leaning into his pride more than he should have done, it had all distracted him from the main goal - not to cry …
Without even meaning it to, a singular, natural tear of exhaustion silently peeped out of the corner of his right eye and presented itself in the form of a shining, watery blob no bigger than a bead and no different that a drop of sweat …
It rolled out of his eye, cutting down his cheek like it had been waiting in the wings all along …
The Ringmaster didn’t gloat, he just whispered, warm and victorious, “Told you so …”
The spiked, rubber gloves paused for a breath - just hovering, letting the moment stretch like the taut string knotted around each of Justin’s big toes - Justin’s head hung forward, his teeth gritted, his jaw aching from tension, “—That doesn’t count. I’m not upset. I’m not a pussy—”, was all Justin could say, the need to make himself appear superior far stronger than the need to escape as the tear dried up somewhere near the stubble of his chin and sank into his neck …
“You aren’t?” Justin could more or less hear and feel The Ringmaster tilt his head, “Let’s make you one, then …”
Without warning, the gloves struck - both hands launching into a full-force scrubbing motion, their plastic-nibbed palms grinding across both of Justin’s slick, lotion drenched soles at the same time, the speed fast, focused, merciless - the change in intensity was immediate - the friction, the heat, the overload of sensation, it was like being scrubbed with a thousand bristles at once, each one targeting a nerve ending that had only been teased up until now …
Justin exploded with chaotic motion - again, manic laughter did not spill from his throat, instead he thrashed and rattled inside the box, the metal echoing with every jerk of his shoulders, every twist of his spine - his newly shaved head flung back, his mouth opened wide in a silent scream, “—Ah! Gu-huh! Stop!—” there it was, his first call for an end, but there was no stop, the gloves scrubbed in wide, vicious circles - heels to arches, edges to center - like they were trying to sand down his resistance …
His oil soaked toes curled and uncurled in panic, the yellow string held his big toes tightly together, his pride strained, he spluttered, wet eyes wild, lips quivering, breath coming in fast, chaotic bursts, “—Nnnghh I cried, okay! You won, fuck you!—” he admitted, another tear forming in the corner of his left eye until the two rubber gloves and their spiked ten fingers decided to change tactics again …
With terrifying precision, the gloves zeroed in on the creamy white, shimmering pads of Justin’s feet - that soft, tender spot just beneath the toes, where there skin was too delicate, the nerves were too dense, and resistance had no hope - the fingers did not scrub here, they wiggled, they raked, each individual finger had its own maddening method, swirling in satanic spirals, pressing down with just enough pressure to set off a shockwave of unbearable sensitivity …
That was it, that was the line, Justin’s face cracked like glass, “—NO, YOU FUCK, FUCK YOU! FUCK THAT!—”, the rage tore out of him like an apocalyptic flood, violent and raw, years of pride collapsing into one manic, uncontrollable outburst - heeeave! -, his head jerked back and forth, his shoulders jolted, his feet kicked and writhed as much as the box allowed — rattle rattle rattle! —, “—ALRIGHT! How is this e, even legal, MAN, COME ON!—”
The spiked rubber gloves didn’t stop, they swirled, pressed, scratching, doubling down on the buttery soft pads whilst Justin’s bound, big toes wriggled uselessly in their binds - his voice cracked, “—NO HO!—” his mind spiraled, ‘I’m gonna kill you I’m gonna kill you I’m gonna kill you!’ - he was grunting so hard he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak - it was pure reflex, pure surrender, he wasn’t meant to end up like this …
“No more clever comebacks,” The Ringmaster admired, “No more stone-faced silence, just helpless, messy, glorious hysteria …”
Suddenly, all ten fingers jumped away from Justin’s glistening soles and both hands retreated away, if only be an inch.
“Do you see what I’m capable of? You think I’ve been chipping away at you since you woke up in that box. I’ve been chipping away at you since you wielded that god damn stupid red stick …”
Justin’s head fell back, his cheeks hollow and pulsating with the need to catch his breath, his eyes shimmering with an emotion he thought he had felt before, yet he had no idea even existed … Much to his embarrassment, as The Room fell silent and Justin lost fifty thousand points, a third tear peeped out of his left eye and trickled down his face.
“Aw, there it is, poor baby,” The Ringmaster mused, “After your mocking, your bullying, your belittling of your team, we catch a sight we’ve all been waiting for: Bieber, tickled to tears …”
“… And now, the final challenge …”
Shawn barely got the veggie burger to his lips before the air shifted.
A shadow cut across the neon glare - the bell above the door hadn’t rung, but somehow, they were already there …
Peter moved first - he didn’t ask to sit, he just slid into the booth across from Shawn with a languid familiarity, as if they’d done this dance before despite them never meeting.
Miller followed, older, darker, silent - he stood behind Peter’s shoulder, one hand in his chino pockets, the other hand holding onto a yellow briefcase, his charming eyes flickering over Shawn like a butcher sizing up a lamb.
“Barcelona’s got a rhythm,” Miller said, his voice low and sing-song, like the beginning of a riddle. “But it’s not the kind that gets under your skin… not like how Justin did.”
Shawn didn’t speak - his jaw tightened - the veggie burger hovered in his hand, suddenly weightless, suddenly useless …
Peter leaned in, voice dropping.
“We never apologised. Not properly. And we won’t. What happened…” he shrugged and flicked his finger at the nearby waitress, “Well, it was entertainment. It always is. But we believe in balance, Shawn. And we’ve been thinking…”
Miller stepped forward and placed the yellow briefcase onto the surface of the table.
On the top of the suitcase, a symbol that Shawn recognised had been stamped to the top corner: a small house surrounded by white feathers …
Peter continued, “Justin tricked you. Lied to you. Held you down and tested you. But what if you could… reverse the game …?” The waitress arrived at Peters side with a notepad and pen, “What if we gave you something even he didn’t get?” He glanced at the waitress and smiled, “Three Americano’s, please, and the cheque, for Mr. Mendes’ meal …”
Miller said one word, cold and absolute:
“Control.”
Peter clicked open the briefcases latches as the waitress walked back to the kitchen, “We have him cornered. He, along with others like him, have no choice. They’re going to take part in something that has never happened before. Something that’ll never happen again. And you get to be one of the stars of the show.”
Shawn blinked - the booth felt too small, the burger was now cold and damp in his palm, his mouth dry.
“Why?” he asked, using barely more than a breath.
Miller tilted his head, “Because the world doesn’t run on justice, Shawn. It runs on symmetry …”
They didn’t push, they didn’t demand, they let the silence build like pressure in a vault …
Peter sat back, eyes glittering as he opened up the briefcase, “Take your bite, Shawn,” he gestured at the veggie burger, “Or take your shot.”
As the briefcases lid opened, a ferocious clown mask made up of mirrored, glass fragments stared back at Shawn.
He looked at it, then at them.
And then his hand twitched.
The Room went black …
Huff, huff, huff …
Justin twirled his head frantically from side to side, “Yo! Did someone cut the lights!—”, he tutted again, another unintentional slip of his fragility, but the simple fact that he sat in a tight, locked box with his bare feet open and exposed - vulnerable to four spiky, gloved hands that he could sense and feel beneath his heels - it felt worse than when he stood on the middle of the wooden beam …
His breathing quickened, his lungs felt like they had decreased in size, his upper lip began to moisten …
Huffhuffhuffhuffhuffhuffhuffhuffhuffhuffhuffhuffhuff—
He could see nothing, only darkness …
“You’ve been delightful, Ticklee 003—”, The Ringmaster’s voice sounded different, no longer external, more internal … “—But the fun is only just beginning …”
Suddenly, the lights switched back on—
Standing before Justin and surrounded by stretching, red rubber gloved hands was The Ringmaster …
The mask on his face was a twisted blend of hysterical horror - a clown’s expression made up entirely of broken mirror shards, his lips a glittery crimson - the cracked pieces reflected Justin’s desperate eyes a dozen ways at once …
The Ringmasters black top hat sat crooked, its dusty material ancient, torn, antique …
A long velvet coat dragged behind him as he took a step forwards, Justin’s feet flexing inward as The Ringmaster pointed his own version of a ‘red pointy stick’ at Justin’s feet: a metal staff with a sharp, white feather attached to its end …
All ten of Justin’s oil soaked toes curled into a tight scrunch as The Ringmaster aimed his staff and the feather at the middle of Justin’s soles.
“Congratulations,” Justin panted, still catching his breath, ambitious to shed his fear and dress himself back up in the smartness of cock-sure confidence, “You’re officially the biggest fucking freak I’ve ever met …”, he grinned sweat-dripping, twitching, but grinning still …
“Ticklee 003, you're no stranger to trials, from laughter to squirming, across countless miles,” The Ringmaster began to dance around Justin in a playful twirl, “But now comes a test for your wits, not your squeals,” he arrived at Justin’s side and wiggled the feather staff at Justin’s face, “A game of sharp guessing, not ticklish heels …”
Justin scrunched up his nose and shook his head, “Fuck you, man!” He sniffed and squeezed his eyes shut, “The rhymes are worse than the tickling!” He spat.
“This game is a favorite, a circus of clues, both twisted and true, where those you thought were friends return to haunt you, guess right and we pause, guess wrong, and alas…” The Ringmaster’s voice suddenly deepend into a grainy, humane and threatening growl, “… The gloves come to visit your slippery … feet.”
Justin rattled in the box once again as the red spiky gloves arrived at his right side, his left, from above; they combed through his head of hair, they toyingly stroked each heel, they walked fingers up the metal surface of the box and toyed with the idea of fingering his mouth; all whilst his cheeks inhaled with air and his eyes widened, another red glove introducing itself with a flyer in its grasp, a flyer that Justin recognised from earlier …
‘What flies but has no wings?’
Justin was entirely oblivious to the fact that the answer had been stickered on the box he sat trapped in; two stickers, in fact, were planted at the front of the box and at the side - ‘Dumbo’, the answer to the riddle, was easily viewable by The Ringmaster, but for Justin, to see the stickers was borderline impossible, something that made The Ringmaster wet with glee …
“So here comes the first,” the Ringmaster declared with flair, “A familiar face with a toothy glare, you’ll know them by voice, not by the mask, guess the right movie, that is your task …”
All four spiked rubber gloves slithered into position; two hovered either side of his shining soles, another two hovered around all five toes of each toe-tied foot; such preparation, such readiness, it informed Justin that if he guessed wrong, the consequences would be beyond dire …
Still, with all the anxiety he felt caught at the very tip of his throat, he still forced a sneer towards The Ringmaster and grinned, “Bring it on,” he hissed, “Let’s see who you chose to act like a dickhead …”
The lights went out once again, in the click of a finger.
The sound of tickling arrived somewhere in the ceiling …
Tick, tock, tick, tock …
Opposite Justin, dressed as a clown and lit up by the dim gleam of yellow, was Ross.
Justin pursed his lips as The Room went quiet - Ross looked to be smiling in silence, although his ‘happy’ look began to break and soon, his eyes began to water.
Ross started to cry; he clenched his fists and stomped his feet, acting like a toddler refused a toy; the tantrum was out of control, it was bizarre, and it all had something to do with guessing the answer to a riddle …
“What flys but has no wings,” Justin repeated to himself quickly, “What flies and has no fucking wings …” he watched Ross sniff and babble, whine and whimper, “… Fuck, Lynch! Say something! You suck!—”
The lights flicked back on …
… Ross was gone.
Justin’s head tilted up from the box, his face flushed with genuine perplexity, a damp curl of hair clung to his temple - his eyes darted toward The Ringmaster in front of him, as well as the rubber, spiky gloves still gathered around his feet.
He grinned in relief, his arrogance now on full display - he could hear the box unlocking already as he confidently answered, “… Pinocchio,” his grin now relaxing into a satisfied smirk, the gloves remaining still, hovering over and around his feet, “That’s the answer,” he smugly informed …
The Ringmaster held the feathered staff like a cane and walked around it quietly, his twisted sneer and sparkling expression causing Justin to squint.
“Wrong!” The Ringmaster cheered.
The box creaked as Justin’s shoulders rattled inside, his strength once again struggling against the locked frame, “—No—”, Justin barked, “—No, screw that. That wasn’t a real clue! He didn’t say anything—he just cried!” He became oh so conscious of how bare his soles were once again, of how tightly his big toes had been bound, “—What the fuck am I supposed to do with that!—”
"Incorrect from you!" The Ringmaster giggled, "Pooh, pooh, pooh… Just as I feared,” he stood over the metal box and shook his head, his mirrored mask glistening at Justin, “Then punishment shall fall in the old wicked way …” his giggles turned to cackles, “… Upon your heels, where the tickles will stay …"
A hot breath of fury left Justin’s lips, not caused by defeat, but by rage, “This is a joke to you fucks, right!—” he growled, “No, listen to me, you dumb fuck! I ain’t playing no more! I’m not the one!—”
The Ringmaster stepped away from the box and nodded down at the red rubber gloves, approving them to move into action …
“Oh…” the Ringmaster purred, “… But we are playing, Justin …”
All four gloves moved down to Justin’s heels where they began to scribble their fingertips over each heel at the same time, spiked, methodical, merciless …
“—Try it!—” Justin lunged forwards, his body still contained within its tiny square encasing, “—I fucking dare you!—”, as soon as the fingers made impact with each chunky, soft heel, a high pitched and surprisingly girl-like scream ripped out of Justin’s mouth instantly, —”Aaaaaaaaagh! Fuck you!—”, this wasn’t theatrical, it was seething - he thrashed inside the box as hard as he could, but the steel structure only shifted an inch to the left as the gloves scraped, scratched and searched around the landscape of his heels, the spikes sending wild, crawling jolts up his legs and deep into his core, “—I hate this! Stop! This is fucking SICK! You, you know! You KNOW!—”, he was shouting through his own laughter, enraged, embarrassed, all forty of the spiky fingers devouring his heels as if they were feeding off their extreme level of sensitivity …
Justin’s voice cracked into shrill, unwilling laughter - the worst kind - the kind pulled straight from the gut while your mind screams NO! NO! NO! but the gloves didn’t care - two of them moved in circular patterns, tracing wide, slow spirals that danced right across the most sensitive tissue near his Achilles, the other two raked directly across the center ridge of his heels, like they were trying to claw something out of him.
“— Don’t! Don’t try to pr, PROVOKE ME, bro!” Justin shouted, his voice tearing between a gasp and a laugh, “—I know what you’re doing, bro!—”, he slammed his fists inside the box, pounding with raw fury as his legs twitched uselessly, the string holding his big toes yanked taut again, keeping his feet immobile and fully exposed, every time he flexed or flinched, it only stretched him tighter, “—I’m not the one, alright! We’re DONE!—”
The Ringmaster’s voice echoed calmly in response, “Correct again,” he confirmed, “But rage won’t say you, dear boy!”
The gloves zeroed in even tighter - one spiky glove began scraping in slow zig zags, tracing the edge of Justin’s right heel over and over again, finding that exact point just above the sole where the nerves were most dense — that hot spot he couldn’t hide if he wanted to, “—NO! NO! Get off my mother FUCKING HEELS!—”, his laugh burst into a howl — pure, raw, throat-burning, his head slammed back against the metal surface of the box, his eyes clenched shut, jaw locked tight, cheeks flushed red with the heat of humiliation, “—They don’t BELONG to you!—” he gasped, voice trembling, “—They’re not yours to fucking, mnn! MOLEST—!—”
—The gloves dug in harder, one finger began to vibrate, targeting just under the heel’s outer edge, causing Justin’s foot to convulse like it had a mind of its own - the rest moved in tandem, stroking, poking, raking, “—Alright! You wanna hear Bieber beg? Fine, fuck!—”, his laughter was full-body now, shaking, ragged oh, he was furious - not just at the gloves, not just at The Ringmaster, but at himself for being so damn ticklish - his heels specifically! - for being this easy to break, for not being able to cope, “—Alrightalrightalright! STOP, PLEASE, FOR REAL!—”
I want to hear it …
No, man, come on!
I want to hear it …
Alright! Stop, please stop tickling me!
I want to hear it …
PLEASE STOP TICKLING MY HEELS!
From behind his mirror shard covered mask, The Ringmaster stood still as stone, watching the way Justin’s body writhed, his fists slammed, his fury boiling within the tiny red metal box - it’s working, Shawn smirked, this isn’t just punishment, its exposure, and we’re still not fucking done …
Once again, the lights switched off.
Justin’s heels were left alone, The Room landed in a realm of familiar darkness with only the sound of Justin’s panting to greet it.
In the corner, under an eery spotlight, stood Timothée.
Just like Ross, he too wore stained frills and baggy circus clothing; his make up greasy and smeared, his face expressionless, hinging on haunting …
Justin’s voice was torn, raspy, “—Chalamet,” he whined, “Get me outta here, man,” he had no interest in playing whatever this was, he just wanted, “—Out, I, I wanna get out …”
Suddenly, Tim lifted off his feet.
A faint squeaking from above suggested Tim was connected to some kind of rope work; like a child on a high school show, Tim dangled in the air and began to flap his arms, gently kicking his legs as he soared above Justin and then away again, into the black of The Room where the squeaking faded away …
“He’s flying …” Justin thought back to Ross, who was, “—he was crying …” his eyes widened, “—They rhyme! It’s some kinda rhyme, mother fucker!—”
As soon as the lights switched back on, Justin realised the red rubber gloves did not leave his feet …
… They coordinated.
Two slithered beneath Justin’s soles - spiked red rubber fingers twitching like they could taste the leftover oil still glistening on his delicate, silky soft heels …
A third glove rose higher, slowly, deliberately - it then snatched hold of both of his big toes, which were already pulled together by the tightness of yellow string - however, this additional grip only tightened the hold …
Justin’s reaction was instant, “—Back the hell off, man!” He spat, voice riddled with unhinged hatred - he kicked, hard, or at least he tried to, but the glove was already squeezing around the base of both of his big toes, locking them in place, spreading them just a little wider … “—Don’t you fucking touch me! Stop touching my DAMN FEET!—”
The Ringmaster continued to twirl on the spot, dancing to his own gleeful sight: Bieber, tickle tortured beyond comprehension, “La dee dah dee dah! Wrong, wrong, wrong again!—” he sang …
When the fourth glove came into play, it didn’t come alone - held tightly in its spiky palm was a red plastic hairbrush - wide, rubber-bristled, wickedly flexible - it’s texture almost shimmered in The Room’s spotlight as the fingers gripped it tighter …
Justin saw it and snapped, “—What! Your fingers aren’t freaky enough?—”, the gloves struck, the two beneath Justin’s feet digging their spiked fingers into the soft flesh of his heels, raking in long vertical scrapes, crisscrossing just where the nerves were most sensitive - the other glove held his toes perfectly still, while the brush came down …
It scrubbed at the pads of his big toes, hard and fast, with such speedy motion that Justin had no choice but to physically and mentally erupt, “—NO! NO! NO! YOU FUCKING FILTH!—”, he convulsed violently, the metal box clanging beneath him - sweat poured down his neck, his chest, soaking into the waistband of his underwear, soaking the cotton of his hoodie, the heat contained within the metal now cooking him as if he were beef in an oven - his mouth was a wide, screaming laugh, but his face, his face was a portrait of raw, volcanic rage, “—I GOTTA PISS! YOU WANT THAT HUH!—”
His heels jolted under the assault, his toes flexed against the brush, his voice broke from laughing, but it boiled with hatred, “—YOU DON’T DESERVE TO DO THIS TO ME!—” he screamed, “—THIS KINDA SHITS WORTH MONEY!—”
The brush grinded into the toe pads, switching from wide scrubs to sharp, vicious zigzags across each sensitive crease whilst the spikes at his heels matched pace, circling, vibrating, buzzing with torment, “—FUCK YOU!—”, Justin’s head twirled and spun as tears bobbed out of the sides of his eyes and trickled down cheeks so hot that they devoured the emotion in an instant - Justin didn’t cry from emotion, he cried from pure and simple overload, “—I HATE THIS—” Justin had no hesitance in admitting that, “—I’M NOT YOUR TOY! I’M NOT, AHA! AHAHA! YOUR DAMN PLAYTHING!—”
But the gloves didn’t stop, they knew, every inch, every crack, every vulnerable little patch of skin that Justin couldn’t protect, and still the brush scrubbed, “—I’M A DAD!—”, still his toes couldn’t move, “—I’M A HUMAN, A HUSBAND!—”, his laughter became something inhuman - desperate, all consuming, full-body spasms and breathless gasps, snarling between the bursts of shrieking mirth, “—I’M NOT TO BE FUCKED WITH, BRO!—”
He screamed it, pleading, as if his own nervous system had betrayed him, and only a few steps away, behind the jagged mirror-clown mask, The Ringmaster stood still, not mocking, not grinning, just watching …
You’re none of those things now, Justin, Shawn thought,
You’re not in charge, you’re not in control, damn, boy, you’re not even a contestant in this …
You’re my little bitch.
The gloves retreated - no gleeful cackle, no hissing smoke, no theatrical exit …
Just backing away into the darkness like they’d never been there before …
Pitch black, yet again … Silence …
Justin sat there motionless, barely breathing, drenched in sweat, his bare feet flexed subtly in the dark, the yellow string still biting around his big toes, — huff, huff, huff —, his chest rose and fell like a machine struggling to reset, a low, uneven breath rattled in his throat …
They got me, Justin thought, they got all the way in.
And I let them.
“I’m not the one…” he whispered in a repeated mumble, “… I’m not the one, “ his own voice sounded foreign, shredded by laughter and fury - he wanted to scream, he wanted to hit something, he wanted to explode out of this fucking box and tear The Ringmaster apart with his own hands …
But something inside him held still.
Her face.
For a split second, in the silence, it flickered behind his eyes.
Hailey.
Another dim light shone down in the corner of The Room, highlighting Sebastian.
Sebastian wore the same as Timothée previous to him, and Ross before that …
“—SPEAK!—” Justin yelled, “—Say something, you dumb fuck!—”
Sebastian bowed low with theatrical flair, then mimed a dramatic sob, his fists rubbing at invisible tears.
Then he perked up, wiggled his fingers like feathers, and shook in a silent fit of exaggerated laughter — thud!
He “collapsed” to the floor in mock defeat, arms flopped wide and tongue wagging, the spotlight flickering out, leaving Justin within his box and, much to his dismay, a mask of his own still fastened around his face …
The mask of confusion.
The lights returned to their full, cruel brightness as The Ringmaster held his feather-tipped staff under Justin’s chin.
“Well, little bitch?”
Justin, expressionless and blinking quietly, had no suggestion; he felt stupid, he felt overwhelmed with a numb tiredness, it all felt like a nightmare, a soaking wet, trembling nightmare …
The mirror-faced figure knelt beside the metal box, twirling the feather at the end of his staff like a maestro conducting Justin’s downfall, “Three impressions. Three disasters. Maybe guessing just isn’t your thing …” his sinister smile was always there, always taunting Justin with its horrific appearance, “No shame in that… Unless, of course, you enjoy having your ticklish feet violated beyond comprehension …”
Justin’s face was beetroot red, nearly purple, from a storm of rage he couldn’t voice - he strained against the metal box, toes curling in anticipation, scrunching into a tight defence, his bare soles glistening, still so tender, still so vulnerable - he went to speak, to attempt to negotiate his way out of this, but The Ringmaster, no longer rhyming at all, got there first …
“We’ll molest your feet until you get it,” the Ringmaster whispered like a threat, “We’ll molest them until there’s nothing left but begging …”
Before Justin had met ‘The Clown’, before he was aware of The House of White Feathers, or even tickling as a fetish, he spent years of his career hounded by a different form of stalking: the press.
Everytime he had slid out of a giant black Range Rover, everytime he had shielded his face with oversized sunglasses, everytime he had tried to grab some cola from the local store, or take his wife for dinner, he faced an onslaught of flashing bulbs, hounding men with cameras, motorbikes and cars that would chase him down the freeway, wanting just one thing: a picture of him provoked.
He had remained calm, tried to speak with them, politely yet sternly requested they backed off; some of his run ins had gone viral on social media, the comments calling him spoilt - ‘he wanted fame, this is what it comes with’ - yet, despite the stampede of unhealthy obsession, he had never snapped, not once …
Until now.
“—I’M GONNA RIP YOUR FACE OFF!—” Justin roared, “—I’M GONNA BURN THIS WHOLE DAMN PLACE DOWN! GET ME OUT OF THIS FREAKSHOW, YOU FUCKS!—” he cooked as if the metal box were a microwave, his eyes brimming with a moisture that didn’t suggest emotive upset, but acidic chaos instead, “—MILLER! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, BRO!—”
The Ringmaster placed the feathered end of his staff over Justin’s mouth, causing his lips to press tightly shut and the shouts to stop, “No,” The Ringmaster purred quietly, “You stay,” he whispered, “And you mother fucking squeal …“
The gloves returned, all four, and they didn’t wait …
One pressed the hairbrush flat against the center of Justin’s soles and began to scrub in hard, rhythmic strokes, “—WHAT! WHAT KINDA FREAK GETS OFF ON THIS!—”, the second raked fast, vibrating fingers over his right arch, “—Touching my damn feet whilst I scream!—”, the third dug into the left, switching between tapping and dragging motions along the ball of the foot, “—YOU NEED HELP, BRO!—”, and the fourth moved slowly, deliberately, holding a thread of red silk, borrowed from Tom’s challenge with T.K and The Machine, and began threading it between the curling toes of Justin’s left foot …
Back and forth, up and down, slithering, caressing, teasing …
“—Not with the string, BRO!—” Justin barked as his body leapt and jumped within the tiny steel container, “—What’s WRONG with you, bro!—”, his eyes brimming with tears, sweat soaking his flesh beneath the intense heat of his hoodie, “—Your mommy not hug you enough!—”, his legs kicked, the box rattled, but the string binding his big toes kept his feet totally exposed …
The Ringmaster stepped forward, “So much noise …” one hand guiding the feathered end of his silver staff - he leaned in and dragged the feather across Justin’s lips - a slow, gentle, unbearable pass from one side of his now tightly closed lips to the other, then again, then faster, “… From such a pretty mouth …”
With his whole body trapped, the suffering caused by having the tip of a feather constantly brush against his lips had no choice but to exist behind his face, “—MNN! MNN!—” the feather danced across his mouth, slow, flickering, unbearable strokes, “—MNN! MNN!—”, the sensation trapped him from the neck up, static building in his skull like a scream with nowhere to go - he clenched his lips, jaw trembling, but the giggles pushed through in pitiful, gasping bursts, “—I-hah!-I can’t even-talk!-you ff, freak!—”, his face was flushed purple, spit gathering at the corners of his mouth, head twisting left and right in a desperate, useless search for escape - it was sensory violation distilled—delicate, precise, and devastating …
This is when Shawn could have removed his Ringmaster’s mask, this is where, like Harrison only a day previously, could have exposed himself and given the reasons as to why he inflicted torment like this - but Justin did not deserve that …
“—I-hah!-I can’t pfft, pfftt even-tal, tal — I’m losing my mi, mind you ff, fuck!—”
As the feather continued to flicker against Justin’s lips, as Justin’s tightly closed eyes and quivering mouth endured sweat, tears and a boiling of flesh unlike anything he had felt before, Shawn decided to keep his identity as his own form of power…
I want him to not know, Shawn thought
The only person who needs to know that I got to do this, is me …
Justin was lunacy, personified - his body jerked with every touch, head locked in a purple blur of staggered, breathless laughter - his vision swam, his mouth was a strained mix of pleasure and anguish - the feather fluttering at his lips suddenly causing his expression to shift …
“—I-hah!-I can’t pfft, pfftt I’m fucking pissingmyselfohmygod—”
“Wiggle, giggle, shake and hiss—guess what part can’t handle this?”
It started as pressure, an internal spasm - then there was an intense, moist heat, then an unbearable realization - he froze for just a second, eyes wide, laughter cut short by horror, “—I’mpissingmyselfpleaseohmygod—”, his strained, dribbling hysteria left his tickled lips all at once, “—ohmygodwhatthefuckbrowhatareyoudoing!—”
“First the laughs, and now the leak, poor boy’s bladder sprung a squeak—!”
Warmth spread between his legs in a pulse, soaking beneath him, forming a growing puddle within the metal box, “—fuckstopspeaking!—”, it wasn’t just a trickle, it was a complete loss of control, acute, involuntary, “—ohmygodwhatthefuckbrowhatareyoudoing!—” he repeated as his stomach clenched, his breath hitched and his face contorted in a wild, stammering, humiliated and non stop laugh as the feather continued to violate his lips, the brushes rubbed across his soles and the red thread entwined around each toe ….
“Tee-hee, he cried, then soaked the floor, ticklish boys can’t win the war …”
“—You made me do this!—” Justin heaved, “—Youmademedothisyoudumbfuck!—” his head never stopped twirling, his eyes so tightly shut they were slits within his face as the feather continued at his lips, “—I’veneverpissedmyselfbeforeyoushitfuck!—”
Despite Justin’s ultimate display of complete and utter ruin, the kind where the likes of his arrogant self would be ashamed at how far he had fallen, the gloves didn’t stop …
The red thread wiggled deeper between his toes, the brush scrubbed harder and the feather danced along his lips until - there it was - in the mirrored surface of The Ringmaster’s mask … Justin saw it.
That peeling sticker, faded, bent at the edges, stained by time - a wide-eyed elephant, ears outstretched, “—DUMBO!—” he screamed so loud that he blew the feather away, “—DUMBO! THE ANSWERS DUMBO!—”
Silence.
The gloves froze, the brush stilled, the feather lifted and then—
🎉 BANG! 🎉
Confetti exploded from the ceiling in the same dramatic, eruptive scatter as it had done when Justin had successfully completed The Tickle Tightrope; Justin’s head jolted within the opening of the box, his always defiant personality now unapologetically showcasing those cracks once again as he squeezed his eyes shut in what looked like a glimmer of fright, thousands of clusters of gold glitter and paper twirls landing over the surface of the box, “—Jesus fucking christ!—” he huffed, his thighs, crotch and butt soaked with a now stale and chilly dampness of release …
The Ringmaster stepped back, his fists clenched tightly, as all gloves hovered away from Justin’s size eight and a halves, “Correct,” he hissed, almost disappointed, “Challenge complete. The tickle torment is over …”
Justin’s fury returned as his eyes went from tired looking, glazed over and bloodshot to beaming white, his pupils little black dots fulled by rage, all aimed directly at The Ringmaster, who began to step back, slowly, carefully …
“—Wasn’t enough just tickling me, huh!—” the box rattled again, his body inside erupting in disgust, “—Had to make me piss myself too! You fucking fuck! You into that shit huh! You freak!—”, rattle, rattle, rattle, the box continued to contain Justin’s leaps, “—Come back here, take off your mask and face me like a damn man, bro!—”
Suddenly, the lights switched off and the hands inside the rubber gloves slid away, causing the spiked rubber, the string and the brush to tumble to the floor.
Huff, huff, huff …
All that Justin could hear was his own strained, dry breath, and then one final set of words from The Ringmaster, a conclusion in the form of a faint, quiet whisper …
“… No mask could make me more monstrous than what you just became …”
Timothée, Ross, Tom, Sebastian, Joshua Logan and Kit all sat in The Living Quarters with their eyes glued to The Leaderboard screen …
Displayed before them were recorded recaps of Justin facing each challenge, followed by either a ding if he were successful or a dong if he failed.
The footage was grainy, filmed by hidden cameras within each room Justin travelled through.
“He’s doing …” Ross raised his eyebrows, “… Surprisingly well?”
All of the contestants watched Justin balance over a beam with his long, red stick, only to slip and lose it, be grabbed by a sea of clowns and then regain his strength where he shuffled safely to the other side … Ding!
“Heights freak me out,” Logan hugged his knees.
Sebastian rolled his eyes, “Again, I ask, is there anything that doesn’t freak you out?”
Joshua narrowed his eyes at both Logan and Sebastian, “… Boys …”
They then watched Justin leap, climb and bolt through a tunnel made up of thousands of red, rubber hands, each one desperate to toy with him or remove a piece of clothing, “He’s fast,” Timothée observed, “Shit, they’ve stolen his sneakers …” still, a ding sounded within The Living Quarters as Justin retrieved all three clown noses …
After that, only dongs were heard as Justin failed to keep his socks on when locked in a box and then failed to not cry as his feet were tickled by The Ringmasters devilish, spiky gloves …
Kit winced, “They look painful …”
A final ding sounded throughout the contestants as, after three failed attempts at realising what Ross, Sebastian and Timothée were trying to act out, Justin eventually saw the sticker on his box, in the reflection of The Ringmaster’s mirrored mask.
“… DUMBO, THE ANSWERS DUMBO! …” he cried, despite pissing himself only minutes before.
Tom carefully rubbed his thumb across Ross’s jaw, “You’ve still got a bit of clown makeup on your chin, mate …”
Logan grinned, “You gotta be hella ticklish to piss, man …” he shrugged, “… Pfft. He deserves it.”
Kit shook his head, “No, no one deserves that,” he glanced around the group, “Wait, no one else here has ever …”
Tim folded his arms and looked down at his feet, “Nope, not me, never …”
As the cell door creaked open, The Leaderboard TV screen flickered and then showed the results of Justin’s challenge:
Challenge One, Tickle Tightrope: succeeded, won 50k
Challenge Two, Tickle Tunnel: succeeded, won 50k
Challenge Three, Sock it to The Clown: failed, lost 50k
Challenge Four, Crying Clown: failed, lost 50k
Challenge Five: Clown’s Clue: succeeded, won 50k
Justin walked into The Living Quarters barefoot, with his pink socks slung over his shoulder, his hoodie damp with sweat and his underwear tinged with his own urine.
The final sum of his current score displayed itself in bright lights above him, as he stood behind the group and watched on in silence, his cheeks tear stained, a faint red mark around his neck …
Tom turned around to face him; he parted his lips, ready to ask ‘are you alright?’ but Justin clearly wasn’t alright at all, causing Tom to walk away from The Leaderboard and stand beside Justin, where he offered him company, even if it felt like it wasn’t enough.
Ticklee 003 leaves Game Seven with two hundred and fifty thousand points!
Tom smiled and turned towards Justin as the cell door clanked shut behind, “I’m sorry, mate, for calling you a prick and picking you to, to come through … That …” his attempt at an apology seemed to actually work, when Justin turned to look Tom directly in the eye and extended his right hand out towards him.
Tom could barely blink as he took hold of Justin’s hand and shook it.
“Cheers, mate … Glad you unders—”
—Justin pulled Tom close and then whispered quietly into the depths of his neck, “I’m watching you, Peter Parker …”
Justin then let go of Tom’s hand and walked away from him, where he began to charge through the group, his destination: Logan.
Logan, now leaning against a wall, saw Justin’s determined approach and looked from side to side, “Uh, is everything o—”
Justin straightened his right hand into a flat flex and smacked Logan around the face.
SMACK!
The impact of Justin’s palm against Logan’s cheek was so strong that it sent Logan in a spin, where he landed on the floor as if knocked off his feet by the impact of a large explosion.
Before he could scramble to a stand, Justin jumped down over Logan’s hips and straddled his waist - he grabbed the scruff of his t-shirt with one hand and then, with his other hand, he smacked his face again.
SMACK!
… And again,
SMACK!
Logan’s head twisted to side, his eyes wide open, glazed in surprise, the corner of his mouth shedding blood.
“—Whoa, whoa, whoa!—” Joshua and Kit tried to grab Justin’s arms, they tried to pull him off of Logan, but Justin remained determined.
“—You enjoy all that, you ringmaster fucking asswipe!—” Justin growled, his fists clenched, his lips soaked with dribble, “—You have fun, watching me piss my pants, you fucking dick!—” he was animalistic, rage bubbling beneath his skin, his actions so ferocious and blunt that they rendered Ross speechless as Tim watched on quietly and Logan struggled to defend himself …
“—It wasn’t me!—” Logan whined, “—I was here! Fuck! Help!—”
Tom went to leap in, however blocking his way was Sebastian, who, much to Logan’s surprise, grabbed hold of Justin’s hoodie and yanked him effortlessly away from Logan, thanks to his muscular strength.
“Take a moment, Bieber,” Sebastian snarled, throwing Justin onto his bed, where the shamed popstar landed with a bounce.
Justin’s piss stained shorts only met the bed for a second before he was jumping to his feet again, ready to throw himself at Logan, before Tim grabbed both of Justin’s wrists and ran, at full speed, towards the nearest wall, where he slammed Justin’s hands above his head and kept him there.
THUD!
Ross pursed his lips, “That was kinda hot!”
Justin huffed and wheezed, his eyes brimming with tears once again as Sebastian ran a piece of tissue under the sink for Logan’s nose.
“Breathe,” Tim advised, his face inches away from Justin, “Just breathe …”
Justin arched his back and stood on tiptoes, aiming his venom towards Logan, “—You’re a liar, Lerman! Of course it was fucking you! After I—” he clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, unable to say out loud what he did to Logan at the end of Game Two …
Tim tightened his hold on Justin’s wrists, “It wasn’t him, alright?” He spoke quietly yet sternly, “He was right here with us …”
Slowly, Justin turned his face around so that it looked Tim directly in the eye.
“Then he watched …” Justin hissed, “… You all watched and did nothing …”
Tim blinked and let go of Justin’s wrists as Justin tore himself away, yanked off his hoodie and walked into the ensuite bathroom.
“I don’t know which is worse,” Justin muttered, slamming the door behind him.
Outside of The Mansion and waiting in a large black SUV sat Shawn.
He wore a denim jacket, t-shirt, camel coloured boots and black jeans.
He looked up to The Living Quarters barred window; from inside the car he could hear Justin shouting, Logan whining, the overall ruckas from above … Hell, he could even smell Justin’s piss from where he sat …
As the engine started, ready to take Shawn to the outskirts of The Forest where he would make his way back to Los Angeles, he could not help but smile.
“Now we’re even,” he said, as the SUV pulled away.
“One last rhyme, my darlings—don’t look away…
Tim and Tom are dancing, leading the play.
Justin creeps close with a breath on their necks,
While Logan and Seb? Just trembling wrecks.
Zero points. No pride. No claim.
Now… who’ll be chosen to play in the next wicked game?"
Game Eight - ‘Divide & Conquer, Part One’ available on the 8th of October!