By Peter B. and Art Intelli

A Note from the Author:

This story was originally meant to be a “One Off”, but I received several messages encouraging me to continue this scenario, so here you go… (I hope you enjoy!)

The Walk Home

The city had never felt so loud.

Peter had managed to pull his trench coat up over his shoulders, so that he could wear it like a cape.  He would have been totally fucked if the damn Argento had actually cuffed his hand behind his back as he had said he would.  At the time, Peter was disaapointed.  Now he was elated. But even as it was, the manacles were not really covered beneath his coat when it flapped open, and they glistened like mirrored bracelets. He hid in the wings until it sounded like everyone had gone home, and then he left the theater under cover of night, the cool metal around his ankles clinked softly with each step, echoing off alley walls and empty sidewalks. A few passersby cast him strange looks, but no one stopped. In a city like this, you could walk down the street in chains and people would still pretend not to see.

He tried to hail a cab. His two hands cuffed together, in a double wave.  No one stopped. The one driver who rolled down a window took one look at his shuffled gait and the unmistakable sound of metal, then peeled off.

The subway was a nightmare. While he was able to pay the fare with his hands cuffed, the screech of brakes, the flickering lights — it all fed into his mounting anxiety. He kept to a corner of the train, praying no one would ask questions.

By the time Peter got off the train and hobbled to his apartment, his arms were aching, wrists bruised. He collapsed onto his bed, panting, furious. He so wanted to sleep, deal with this all in the morning.

And then, just as he was starting to drift off, the shackles tightened.

No warning. He wasn’t even fiddling with them.  Not maybe even admiring them.  Just suddenly – CLICK.  Both wrists, one ratchet each. They simply constricted, like an invisible hand had squeezed them one notch tighter.

Peter didn’t sleep at all after that.

He spent the night pacing in his apartment, the clinking of chains accompanying every frustrated movement. The handcuffs chafed his wrists; the leg irons rubbed raw against his ankles. He tried everything — pins, butter, paperclips, forks, a file from his toolbox.  He even snuck out to his building’s maintenance closet and lifted a set of bolt cutters. Useless.

Nothing worked. The cuffs might as well have been forged around him.

The night submerged into a Desperate Internet Search.  He would have to get over his embarrassment and shame and get a professional to get him out of this. Eventually he found: “Tony’s Lock & Key – No Lock Too Tough.”

First thing the next morning, wrapped again in his long trench coat to hide the metal restraints as best he could, Peter ventured back into the city. Every step echoed with the sound of steel. Every sideways glance from a stranger burned like a spotlight. He shuffled through subway cars, dodged stares on main streets, and finally, after hours of wrong turns and anguished searching, he found it: the dusty little locksmith shop tucked down a narrow alley between a Tattoo Parlor and a Barber Shop, the faded sign above the door read as promised: “Tony’s Lock & Key – No Lock Too Tough.”  None too tough?  Please, let it be true…

A bell jingled as he entered. The air smelled of oiled metal and cigarette smoke.

From the back emerged a hulking figure — shirtless beneath leather overalls, his muscles veined and massive. His head was clean-shaven, and he wore a colossal diver’s watch, massive steel band wrapped around his thick wrist, ticking with purpose.

Tattoos snaked across both arms, even up his neck. Peter had seen extreme tats before, of course, but these were startling.  But what shocked Peter the most was the mark on the man’s forehead – a one inch keyhole in black ink, dead center, where a “Third Eye” would be.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You lose the keys, Houdini?”

Peter hesitated. “Something like that…”

He extended his shackled wrists, coat falling open just enough to reveal the thick steel rings. Tony whistled low.

“Well, well. That’s no starter set. You got yourself in good.”

“Can you get them off? They’re on my ankles, too.”

“Oh, really?!” the Locksmith taunted, “I hadn’t noticed.” Tony stepped closer, inspecting the cuffs and shackles. “Modified triple-lock cores. Custom metal. This ain’t amateur work.”

“Please,” Peter said, voice cracking. “It’s urgent.”

“You got somewhere to go?” the Locksmith retorted.

“Please” on the verge of sobbing now, “I’m begging you”.

The locksmith’s lips curled into a grin. Without answering, he walked to the door and turned the lock with a heavy click. Then, he turned the sign in the window to read “Closed’, and pulled the window blinds shut.

“We’re gonna need privacy,” he said.

Peter swallowed hard. “Why?”

“Cause I don’t do this kind of job in front of an audience.” Tony circled him slowly. “And because you’re in no position to argue.”

Peter flinched as Tony’s massive hand gripped his shoulder.

“Look at you — all chained up, helpless. You’re lucky you found me instead of someone who’d take advantage.” he said with a smirk.

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but froze when Tony pulled a long utility knife from a sheath on his wide leather belt. With expert precision, he began slicing through Peter’s clothes — jacket, shirt, trousers — piece by piece, and then finally his briefs, until Peter stood in only the cold embrace of steel.

Still chained. Still trapped. And now naked and helpless.

Tony stepped back, arms folded, admiring his handiwork. “There. Now I can really see the locks properly.”

Peter, humiliated and trembling, tried to cover himself, but the chains made it awkward, impossible.

Tony raised one brow. “Now. Before I get to work… let’s talk payment.”

Peter’s heart pounded. “I… I don’t have cash. Not on me.”

“Not asking for money,” Tony said, slowly dragging his thick fingers across his chin in thought. “Something more personal, maybe. You got anything worth trading?”

Peter hesitated. He had nothing. No wallet. No phone. Just himself — exposed, restrained, and desperate.

Tony stepped forward, his diver’s watch catching the fluorescent light like a flashing signal. “Or maybe… you’re the kind of guy who pays with obedience.”

Peter looked up at him. The tension between them hung heavy, strange, electric.

He didn’t say yes.

But he didn’t say no either.

And Tony just smiled.