Mistaken Identity

I am about to be torturously tickled in front of a crowd of six thousand screaming fans. What the actual fuck? I have a ski mask over my head and I'm sprawled out on the floor of a wrestling ring where a professional and insane beast called The Torturous Tickler is about to have his way with me. Did I mention that I am not a wrestler? I am just a regular guy. A ridiculously ticklish regular guy who is about to be the next humiliated victim of a monster with a frightening fetish. Here's how I got here:

Thirty minutes ago I was at my desk minding my own business and doing my work. I am 24 and part of the management team at The Vegas Arena. We host boxing and wrestling matches that are just below the professional level. Our matches are never televised but we have a large fanbase because it's a great chance to see tomorrow's stars up close. And, on the wrestling side, we're known for matches that sometimes bend the rules, if not ignore them completely. Things that are not allowed on tv at the professional level happen here every night. Because of that, we get some professional wrestlers who have their agents book matches with us on their free nights to keep in the skills sharp and to blow off some steam by dominating lower-level competition in a setting that looks the other way when play gets dirty. Really dirty. And the crowd loves it.

My job is to manage the facility. I schedule and direct the cleaning crew, the concessions, the box office, I order supplies, negotiate with vendors... I'm a busy guy. I rarely have time to watch any of the matches but sometimes the crowd gets so loud that I can hear them from my office. It's just after 7:00 and my best friend Dwight is in the ring right now. His stage name is The Fair Fighter and his gimmick is that he always plays by the rules. Sounds boring, but when surrounded by rule breakers, it works. Every match is the same formula, his opponent cheats and plays dirty. Dwight is on the brink of a loss, then miraculously, things turn around for him and he wins. The crowd eats it all up.

Dwight will never be a professional wrestler and he never wanted to be. He just does this for the extra income. He and I met in college and we became roommates for our junior and senior years. We also became best friends. Dwight was on the wrestling team and I was not. Dwight actually rescued me from a few situations and became my protector. Why did a twenty-year-old college kid need protection? My childhood best friend is why.

Sean and I were best friends since the third grade, but by the seventh grade, he changed. When Sean and I turned twelve, puberty was just a suggestion to me. It came on slowly, like a soft whisper. Puberty hit Sean like a mac truck. My previously equally sized friend was now my physical superior and he took great advantage. He forced me to pretend we were still best friends, but he bullied and tormented me all the way until the day I left for college. He dominated me and forced me into doing his homework and writing his school papers... I could never have a girlfriend because he would humiliate me by telling them how I was his bitch and how his dick was two inches bigger than mine. How I had no choice but to do everything he ever told me to do. How I'd never be a real man.

Though he could have beaten me up on a daily basis if he wanted to, he never did. Something else was much more effective. Quite accidentally he discovered my greatest weakness when we were just kids. One day we were play fighting; rolling around like kids do and he inadvertently found a ticklish spot. Intrigued, he explored the situation only to discover that my whole body was a ticklish spot. From that moment on he made my life hell. And it left no bruises or broken bones. No evidence of the horror he constantly inflicted. If I ever told anyone, who'd believe me? Or even care? Tickling? BFD. So for six years, Sean owned me. All he'd have to do is threaten to tickle and I'd acquiesce to whatever he demanded.

And it wasn't just him. He recruited other kids from our class to join in. Hanging out with friends usually turned into hellacious torture sessions. Soon, the whole school knew. I was abused and humiliated every day of my life for years. Then I turned eighteen and left for college. A fresh start. A new chance. But Sean came with my parents to drop me off on that first day. My naïve parents invited him along, thinking two best friends would want a nice goodbye. I couldn't tell them that I didn't want Sean to come, not without explaining why. When it was time for them to leave, Sean told my parents he'd meet them at the car. He hung back a moment and said to my new roommate, "Don't tickle Hank. It's the one thing he can't stand. Especially his cute little belly button. That is totally off limits." Then he winked at me and left. So guess what happened. Every day for two years my roommate tickled me. And just like high school, somehow most of the campus found out about my weakness.

One day at the end of my second year, I was in the fitness center pretty late at night. I had started out alone. I'm not one for weightlifting, but I like to run on the indoor track. I had thought I was still alone when I was toweling off at the end of my 6-mile jog when two guys tackled me to the floor, pulled up my shirt and started going at me. That's when I met Dwight. He appeared out of nowhere and chased off my assailants. He helped me up and asked if I was okay. Like most everyone, he'd heard about the "ticklish guy", but we'd never met before. We ended up talking for a while and we bonded over our favorite video games. We became friends and decided to room together the following year. Dwight was a musclebound dude and the captain of the college wrestling team. He was also protective of his new friend -- me. By the start of junior year, I would not get tickled again. No one would dare risk the wrath of Dwight.

After college, we decided to continue to be roommates. Dwight and I moved to Las Vegas and found an apartment. I took the job I have today at The Vegas Arena and Dwight works from home in IT. It's flexible hours and he only wrestles at the arena once a week or so as a means of supplementary income. It's not his career.

So, I'm at my desk, minding my own business, doing my work when my co-worker Allison whips my office door open. She's red-cheeked and breathless, "Hank! Thank God! I need your help!"

I jump out of my seat, "What is it?"

"You know I went on one date with the Torturous Tickler, right?"

I in fact did not know that. The Torturous Tickler is a wrestler who actually gets booked professionally on a regular basis. Like his name would indicate, he likes to incorporate tickling into his attack against his opponents. He can only take that so far in his professional matches, but when he's booked at our arena, he gets to take it as far as he wants. And, again, I don't get to watch many of the matches myself, but the word is, he takes it to extreme levels. Even pornographic levels. And he loves it. That's why, despite wrestling at a professional tier, he books with us whenever he can. And, as you can imagine, he is a huge crowd favorite. Before he goes in for an attack, he holds up his wiggling fingers and the whole crowd of six thousand does too as they chant, "Kitchy kitchy koo!"

I've actually met The Torturous Tickler, outside of character. His name is John and I thought he seemed like a nice guy. He has a match tonight, right after Dwight's match with The Masked Murderer.

I ask Allison, "So?"

She gulps air, "Yeah. Just once. He wanted a second date, but I turned him down. He demanded an explanation and I told him I was seeing someone else. I didn't want to tell him who, but he somehow got it out of me. It's The Fair Fighter."

I had no idea that Dwight and Allison were a thing.

She continues, "He wants to kill him! You have to warn him!"

"Why haven't you warned him?"

"He's in the ring right now. It's not like I can shoot him a text. Plus, if The Torturous Tickler caught us together, that would only make things worse. The best thing I can do is leave. Hank! The Torturous Tickler could literally kill Dwight!"

I check my phone. It's only five minutes into Dwight's match. It could last ten minutes or it could last an hour. Who knows? But for all the times Dwight saved me in college, the least I could do is save him once. All I have to do is warn him. I ask Allison, "Should I go into the arena? What should I do?"

She considers this. "It's not like you can climb in the ring during his match. The first place he'll go when it's over is the locker room. That's where his clothes and his phone are. Just wait there for him. You tell him what's going on so he can grab his stuff and get out of there."

So, that's what I do. I head to the locker room and wait. While I'm waiting, I hear a lot of commotion in the hall. I crack the door to see what's going on. The Torturous Tickler is crashing his way down the hall towards the locker room flipping chairs and kicking garbage cans while yelling, "I'm gonna kill the Fair Fighter!"

I duck back inside and close the door. What do I do now? I don't want him to see me in here, but there's only one way out and I don't think I can sneak past him. But he'll probably recognize me if I stay put and I really have no reason to be where I am. I notice that one of The Masked Murderer's ski masks is on the table. I do the only thing I can do and I slip it on.

Just as I finish pulling the mask into place, the locker room door bursts open. The Torturous Tickler scans the room with wild eyes. "Where is he?" he growls.

"Who?" I growl back.

"The Fair Fighter. I'm gonna use my unfair advantage to rip him apart. Did you beat him?"

He thinks I'm The Masked Murderer and our match is over. I give my best snarl, "Yeah. I won. He grabbed his shit and ran out of here a few minutes ago."

And then I can see the realization cross his face. I made two strategic errors when I pulled on this mask and decided to pretend to be The Masked Murderer. First, while my nondescript plain black sweatshirt is passable, a wrestler minutes removed from a match would not be in blue jeans and Nike high tops. I am. Second, I'm impersonating a dude with 150 pounds more upper body muscle than I have, which is all of it because I have none. Busted. The Torturous Tickler knows I'm not who I'm masquerading to be.

I shove the table at him which slows him down enough for me to bolt out the door. The one advantage I do have over The Torturous Tickler is that I'm agile, limber and fast. I can outrun him. And I can escape. I can make it to my car and drive away or head to my office, discard the mask and never be caught. But what would that mean for Dwight who is still clueless to all of this? I owe him one. I probably owe him a hundred. I'm running down the concourse and I veer left through the double doors of the main arena where a capacity crowd of six thousand is watching the referee raise Dwight's right arm in decided victory. The real Masked Murderer has already left the ring. Fortunately, no one is clogging the aisle. I have a clear path as I run full speed ahead.

Dwight is just about to exit the ring when I make it to him, breathless. I pant out, "Allison told The Torturous Tickler that she was dumping him for you."

"Hank? Is that you? What are you doing in that mask? And what are you talking about?"

"He's out to kill you! Get out of here now! Skip the showers. Run!"

And that's what he does. He runs. The Torturous Tickler is too late. He's too late for my best friend The Fair Fighter, but he's not too late for me. As I contemplate my own next move, I feel two giant hands grab at me from behind. One scrunches my sweatshirt between my shoulder blades while the other snags the back of my jeans through a belt loop. Suddenly, my whole body is lifted of the ground and I'm being thrown between the ropes and onto the floor of the ring. I roll twice and come to stop, splayed on my back in the center of the ring. I open my eyes to find that The Torturous Tickler is standing over me, looking down at his awaiting prey.

And that's how the last thirty minutes of my life led me to this moment in time. What will he do to me? Will he wrestle me? He can see I'm weak and clueless. Would he really tickle me? In front of everyone? I feel the need to keep my mask on above all else. I don't want him or anyone else knowing who I actually am. My hands instinctively move to grip my mask to my neck. Now I might as well not even have arms at all. Not that my skinny arms would have done me much good anyway. Not against this guy. I'm 5' 9" and 140 pounds. The Torturous Tickler is 6' 4" and on the wrong side of 300 pounds.

The crowd is confused. Whatever they are about to witness is not on the scheduled program of the evening's events. I guess the ring mic is on because The Torturous Tickler addresses the crowd and his voice booms through the sound system. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have an imposter among us tonight. I caught this guy pretending to be The Masked Murderer."

He bends down and picks me up like a toy. He tuns me in a full 360-degree circle, showing me to all of the audience. Most of them start booing. They're booing me! Now I'm the bad guy here. The enemy. Whatever is about to happen, the crowd is with The Torturous Tickler and not with me.

He flings me to the side where I stumble into the padded, elastic ropes and spring back toward The Torturous Tickler at center stage. He catches me in one arm and whips me back down to the matt on my back. I land with a loud smack and I wait for the excruciating pain, but it never comes.

He leans over me and whispers for only my ears, "I'm not gonna hurt you but you have to play along."

He wrenches one of my arms away from my mask and twists and bends it in a way that looks like it would be on the brink of snapping like a twig, but again, the pain doesn't come. The Torturous Tickler gives me a small nod and I scream out in pain that I don't actually feel. The crowd hoots and hollers. The Torturous Tickler pretends to bend my leg the wrong way and I again pretend like he's killing me. But then the crowd begins a chant. Six thousand people in perfect unison are chanting: "TICKLE HIM! TICKLE HIM! TICKLE HIM! KITCHY KITCHY KOO! KITCHY KITCHY KOO!" They're all wiggling their fingers, urging him to do what we all know is coming.

I'm still sprawled on my back. I've given up on holding the mask. I've come to realize that nobody cares about my face. I'm the Imposter. They don't want to know who I am. It's now part of the show. The Torturous Tickler looks down at me and an evil smile plays at his lips. It's right then that I understand that this is going to happen. There is nothing I can do to stop it. Even if I somehow managed to escape the ring, he has six thousand allies willing to block my path. I have nowhere I can go. Nothing I can do. He kneels, straddling my legs, his back to me, facing my feet. Oh no. I squirm, but I can't move. I feel my left shoelace being untied. Oh shit! The laces loosen and my high-top slips right of my foot.

The Torturous Tickler looks inside my shoe then roars in laughter. He says to the crowd, "I haven't tickled a size 9 since I was in middle school! Who is this little guy? This is going to be more fun than I've had in years. And my job is fun every day!"

The crowd laughs and cheers and loves every word. The Torturous Tickler buries his face in my shoe and inhales deeply. I know this to be part of his act. Whenever he manages to get his opponent out of his shoes, he takes a big whiff. It's like Popeye eating his spinach. The foot funk gives him the strength he needs to do what needs to be done. And right now, I am what needs to be done. He takes another deep dive into my shoe and tells his admirers, "It's so small it's hard to find the funk." They all laugh again.

He throws my shoe into the crowd. A souvenir for some lucky fan. I'll never see that shoe again. Now my right laces are being untied. The anticipation is almost as bad as the tickling that hasn't yet started. My right shoe gets pulled off too and also thoroughly sniffed out before being flung in the opposite direction of the first. Another souvenir. Those are (were) my favorite shoes. If their new owners don't have foot fetishes, maybe they'll be auctioned off online tomorrow, on eBay or something. Maybe I can buy them back. Or maybe some creep will masturbate in them. These thoughts are mostly to distract myself from the inevitable. It doesn't work. The time has come. The Torturous Tickler raises his hands and gives his signature wiggle to the crowd. My feet are freshly out of their shoes and just by the feel of the cool air of the arena on my damp socks, I can tell they're ultra-sensitive right now.

I have not been tickled in four years. Not since I met Dwight. Maybe I'm not ticklish anymore. Yeah, right. He lowers his fingers and the cheers from the crowd are deafening. And then my poor little feet get attacked. Wrestling is fake. The whole world knows that. When The Torturous Tickler was throwing me around the ring like a ragdoll, slamming me down and bending my limbs in ways they were never meant to bend, it was all pretend. It was all an act. The Torturous Tickler told me to trust him, that I wouldn't get hurt but that I had to play along. The fighting was fake. The pain was an act. But the tickling... The tickling is real. As his fingers wiggle their magic on my socked feet, I flop around like a fish on the floor of a boat and laugh until I can hardly breathe.

"NOT MY FEEEEEEEEETTTT!!!" I scream. But my only effect is on the crowd who loves it even more. My socks are moist from the sweat of the day and snug to every contour of my feet. They are providing me with no protection at all. Then he hooks a finger under the lip of my left sock and peels it off slowly, like he's unwrapping an anticipated present on Christmas morning. He holds up my white Nike crew sock for all to see. More cheers. The Torturous Tickler shoves his nose into the toe end. Still damp and inside out, he breathes in again. His eyes roll back in his head in intoxicated delight. He tells the crowd, "That's more like it. There's the funk I've been hoping for!" He tosses and my sock becomes another gift for a another lucky audience member. What ever happened to t-shirt guns? He repeats the process with the right sock and says, "Wow! The little dude's a man after all. Whew! I wanted the stinky funk and he did not disappoint!" I'm the only one who knows how hard I'm blushing because of the stupid ski mask. He tosses again and the crowd gets its fourth souvenir.

For a moment, nothing is happening. Then I realize that he's planning his attack. He's contemplating my captive, naked feet. I look up at the jumbotron and the screen is filled with a closeup of my vulnerable soles. They don't look so small filling that giant screen. But they do look smooth and young and vulnerable. Suddenly I can't look anymore because the attack has resumed. He rakes his fingers up and down my soft soles and I'm shrieking like an infant. When he drags his fingernails up my arches, I have a sudden understanding for those trapped animals who decide to chew their own leg off to escape. Then he switches to the tops of my feet. No one has ever tickled the tops before. It's driving me absolutely insane. I yowl and howl and the crowd goes wild.

After several long minutes, he gives me a breather while he repositions himself. He lies down on his back and scissors me between his legs. He has his feet in my face and mine in his. The difference is that mine are naked and vulnerable while his are wrapped tightly in wrestling shoes. And I'd guess his to be at least a size 16. My pink soles are inches from his face. He bends back my toes and wiggles his fingers where the toes meet the balls of my feet. I want to die right now. I'm trapped between and under his heavy legs and I'm being tortured to within an inch of life. After repeating with the second foot, I feel a new sensation. My hands slap at the floor matt as his tongue bathes my left foot. He flosses my toes and nibbles my heel as tears stream down my face. Then those nibbling teeth work their way up the length of my sole before addressing each individual toe. How am I still conscious? I wonder if I'll pass out or have a heart attack first.