By Pete Roc
Vincent Alba was pressed in the corner of the ring, his thickly muscled back up against the cool vinyl padding of the ropes. He was dazed at being in this enormous stadium and fascinated by the television cameras between the ring and the arena’s capacity crowd. He began stretching and pumping his sculptured biceps, forcing any tightness from his highly trained muscles.
Vincent was worried that he hadn’t had enough time to prepare. Barely an hour ago he had received an urgent phone call from his manager. Another wrestler had dropped out of a bout scheduled for that very evening. Vince had the chance to replace him in a televised match if he could get to the arena right now.
Vince wasted no time. Years of effort had failed to get him established in the mainstream of professional wrestling. His superior physique, broad-shouldered with cut abdominals and tree-trunk legs had not been enough to get him top contracts with promoters.
And even Vince’s handsome face with its violet eyes and cleft chin did not persuade television producers to include him in their video match-ups.
So Vince jumped at the offer his manager made, no questions asked. He didn’t know who his opponent was or what the routine of the match was to be. He didn’t care. He was a professional who was able to handle himself. Of course, the other wrestler would win, at the cost of a few bruises to Vince. But he knew that once everyone got to see him, his career would take off. Vince was ready.
Vince snapped out of his remembering just as the referee, his crisp white shirt glowing beneath the harsh television lights, began to introduce Vince to the crowd.
“…And in this corner weighing 260 ponds, standing six feet six inches hailing from Bozeman Montana – Vince “Crusher” Alba!”
The members of the crowd who bothered to respond at all, booed.
Vince felt the blood rush to his face at the crowd’s indifference. Goddammit, they were all waiting for some overblown Superstar of Wrestling to come parading into the arena. Vince was embarrassed by his plain black briefs and that colorless nickname of his which changed everytime he wrestled. He would show them all this time. The day was not far off when he would be the glittering star who would be the crowd’s favorite.
The referee took a breath and launched into the introduction of Vince’s opponent.
“And his opponent, weight unknown, height approximately six and a half feet. His last known residence the State Asylum at Crescenttown – The Mad Tickler !!”
The shrieks of the crowd stunned Vince, but not as much as the name he just had heard. In shock, he watched the spotlights focus on the several men moving down the aisle toward the ring. In the center was a hulking figure in a straightjacket, his arms pinioned across his chest. On either side of the trussed prisoner was a man holding a long pole forked at the end. The crooks of the poles were pressed against the Mad Tickler’s neck to herd him into the ring.
Vince was in a panic, cold sweat exploding out of the skin on his forehead. He looked at the lunatic approaching the ring. Vince turned to flee. He had no intention of tangling with the Mad Tickler. He had one leg through the ropes when he saw his manager blocking the double-door exit to the locker room. His right hand was thrust into the jacket pocket where Vince knew he carried a gun. Everything became clear to the young wrestler.
Vince had heard how the Mad Tickler had to use tricks and bribery to set up matches. Since what happened at the big bout in Anaheim, nobody on the pro circuit wanted anything to do with the demented wrestler. Vince was sure his manager had sold him out for an under the table payoff. And if enough money were at stake that pistol would be used. If not here then outside.
Vince had no choice. He turned to face his opponent. Pinioned into the corner by the poles held at his neck, the Tickler growled and snarled as the buckles of his straightjacket were undone. Vince saw how the metal clasps were glittering with sequins.
The restraints were whisked off the wrestler. His arms freed, the Mad Tickler snatched at the poles clutching his neck. The two men released the poles and galloped out of the ring, dodging as the sticks came crashing after them.
Vince’s heart beat as it never had before in his career. He studied his opponent up close. He saw a muscular and powerful figure with a filthy beard and shaggy, matted hair that almost obscured the maniacal glint in his eyes.
The Mad Tickler’s gaze zeroed in on Vince. He grinned and let loose a low evil chuckle. His fingers twitched.
Vince backed away until he collided with the ropes. With nowhere to run, he prepared to fight.
We take you now to our broadcasters in the booth.
“Hello, wrestling fans! I’m George Lash and I’m here with Huge Joey Jones for another bone-splitting, blood-letting, presentation of Wrestling Tonight.”
“You got it George. And it looks like `Crusher’ Alba is getting too. He’s in the ring with one of the most mysterious and feared wrestlers in all the sport – The Mad Tickler, a wrestler who breaks all the rules to turn his opponents into sniveling sides of beef. “
“Joey, when you’re right you’re right. The Mad Tickler is certifiably crazy. Doctor Harold Greene, formerly with the Insane Asylum at Crescenttown is his manager and head shrink. The Doc sprung the Tickler from the loony bin to begin a career in professional wrestling.”
“I don’t know about you, George, but how the Wrestling Commission can let a mental case into the arena of professional sports is beyond me. He should be banned. He doesn’t wrestle fair. He gets a hold of his opponents and tickles them until they’re begging for mercy.”
“That’s only half of it, Joey. The Mad Tickler uses classic wrestling holds to immobilize his victims so his fast fingers can do their dirty job of tickling his opponents. And we know it works cause we’ve seen macho butt-kickers start blubbering in hysteria when he gives them the treatment.”
“Just the thought of sticking my fingers into the hairy armpits of some guy is enough to make me sick, but the Tickler does it all the time. He gets his opponents laughing so hard they can’t fight back. We’ve seen tough wrestlers flopping around on the canvas like fish in the bottom of a boat while the Mad Tickler works over their armpits with his fingers . And that’s not all. “
“If you’ve never seen it work, folks. Just take a look at poor `Crusher’ Alba right down there. He’ll tell you all about it if he can keep from laughing long enough.”
Let’s pick up the action in the ring.
The Mad Tickler has the upper hand. It is his right one and it is methodically stroking the velvety skin stretched over Vince’s toughened abdominals. But `Crusher’s muscles can’t fight the waves of tickling sensations sweeping through his nervous system. The Tickler’s hand is a maddening tool, teasing the young wrestler until he is howling with forced laughter. The hand snakes upward to a vulnerable armpit, triggering flurries of motion as Vince tries desperately to escape the tickling. But, disoriented and hysterical, he is too weak to fight against the powerful shocks he is being forced to endure.
Toying with his prey, the lunatic flips his opponent over. Now Vince is flat on his belly. The Mad Tickler swings around and seats himself in the small of Vince’s back. Vince is red-faced with laughter, catching his breath in gasps. The lunatic on top has no problem keeping Vince pressed to the canvas. Vince is powerful but cannot seem to budge the Mad Tickler. He remembers hearing that insanity can be a source of great strength.
But something shocks the fallen gladiator even more. He realizes he has a hard-on. There is a boner in his jockstrap pressing through the black briefs into the stinking, sweat soaked canvas floor.
Vince can’t help it. He is excited by the Mad Tickler’s hands on his skin. They are hot and feel like coiled springs covered in velvet. The tickling is intoxicating, dizzying. The sensations are taking over and making him feel like someone else.
The Mad Tickler, enjoying his mastery of the situation, flips Vince again. Vince slams against a corner of the ring. He is sitting up, his back against a post. The Tickler is a blur as he seizes Vince into a Figure Four Leg Lock. He grabs his opponent’s right foot and begins unlacing the boot.
The crowd goes wild. The chanting begins: “Tick-le ! Tick-le !” The Mad Tickler beams at his fans.
Meanwhile, back in the booth.
“Unbelievable! He’s doing it again! It’s Anaheim all over again, George. He just yanked `Crusher’ Alba’s boots right off his feet. And look, there go the socks too! The Mad Tickler has exposed both his opponent’s feet. And he has that look in his eyes that can only mean trouble. “
“You called it Joey. Look! Look! His manager Doctor Herb Greene is hurling his medical bag into the ring. It’s the little black leather case that holds all those nasty things the Mad Tickler uses to work over his vic ..er.. opponents. “
Vince heard the thump of the bag hitting the floor of the ring. His eyes were squeezed shut from the effort of trying to yank his legs from the Mad Tickler’s grip. The crowd of the Tickler’s fans let out another great cheer. Vince opened his eyes terrified of what he might see.
Oh God. From the leather medical bag the Tickler had plucked a curved black feather. The delicate fronds stirred as the psychopathic wrestler waved his weapon back and forth for the crowd to see. And in their frenzy, the crowd roared approval.
Vince was hypnotized by the sight of the feather approaching his bare feet. He tried once again to disentangle his legs with no success. Suddenly he understood those animals who would gnaw off a limb to escape a trap.
But there was no more time for such thoughts. A kiss of fire touched Vince. The soles of his feet were cruelly brushed by the tickling feather. Shocks more powerful than electricity lapped at Vince’s feet in waves. He cried out, delighting the Mad Tickler and his audience. The wrestler tightened his grip on Vince and quickened the stroking of the ticklish feet.
Back to you George Lash.
“No doubt about it, Joey, that’s one ticklish wrestler down there and his opponent is just the one to exploit that vulnerability. And if you fans aren’t convinced, let’s open the microphone right above the ring so you can hear what’s going on…”
Vince’s voice, pathetic and hoarse, reached out to the millions of television viewers.
“Oh, Jeez, HA HA HA please, mister you’re killing me! OH! OH! Cut it out please, c’mon not my feet… not my feet!…please HA HA I can’t stand it… Stop for just a second, I can’t HAHA catch my OH OH OH breath ! I’m going crazy! HO OHO HO HEE HEE!”
Under the bright light of the TV cameras, the Mad Tickler saw something hidden from the viewers at home. The big, juicy, erection that stretched the black cloth covering Vince’s crotch. The Mad Tickler knew he had latched on to a one-in-million find. Vince was being wracked by both agony and ecstasy from the handling he was getting…and the Tickler was going to push it.
Whispering so only Vince could hear he taunted, “What’s the matter baby, ticklish?” The Mad Tickler grabbed Vince. And tossing him as effortlessly as if he were a rag doll, flipped him over on to his stomach. Once again he set to work on Vince’s feet.
The Mad Tickler attacked the delicate skin between Vince’s pink toes. Drawing the feather through the flexing digits, he soon had Vince wriggling like a snake. Vince’s frantic motions sent his stiff cock grinding into the padded floor of the ring. The sweaty friction brought him closer and closer to shooting his load.
Reluctantly, the Mad Tickler decided to finish Vince off. In the blink of an eye, he turned the feather over and began scraping the pointed quill against Vince’s ticklish soles. To Vince it was like a whiplash. He ground his hips into the mat, setting off a bursting orgasm. His shrieks of release chimed in with the Tickler’s crow of victory when he felt his opponent’s resistance collapse.
The Mad Tickler leaped off Vince and mounted a corner post to beat his chest at the crowd. Following this pre-arranged signal, the referee slipped into the center of the ring to declare the winner. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the Mad Tickler leaped into the crowd grabbing spectators right and left.
Within moments his `handlers’ had subdued him and returned him to the confines of his glittering straightjacket. Pent in by the poles at his throat, the Mad Tickler was forced out of the arena. The spotlights followed him in his triumph. The ovation was tumultuous.
Humiliated and forgotten, Vince crawled out of the ring on his hands and knees. He hoped his position concealed the slime dripping down his thigh.
Outside of the ring, Vince staggered toward the lockers. He passed his treacherous manager. And with a speed which surprised them both, he pinned the man to the wall.
“Easy, Vince!”, the traitor begged, “It’s a big paycheck! You’re getting big bucks! “
“That guy…that guy…”
“Yeah, Vince, what? ” The manager was frightened by the look in his wrestler’s eyes.
“That guy – do you think he needs a training partner ? “