By Hunter Perez

Of course, it would be my rotten luck to be handcuffed behind my back to the cell door while Holmgren held out an envelope containing a letter from Nicky – the first direct contact from the 21st century since I arrived in the 19th century. I asked Holmgren to unlock me, but he responded he didn’t have the keys because the handcuffs belonged to Private Charleson.

“I can hold up the letter for you to read or I can read it to you,” he said while balancing his cigar on the edge of the box’s lid.

“You might as well read it to me,” I said, sourly.

Holmgren pulled a folded white sheet of paper from the envelope, cleared his throat and began to read aloud. “Dear Johnno, long time no see. Ha ha. How are things in your century? Ha ha. Are you registered to vote in the 1876 election? Ha ha.”

“Why does he keep saying ‘Ha ha’?” I interrupted. “He hasn’t said anything that is funny.”

“It’s like the laugh track they have on TV shows that aren’t funny,” Holmgren replied before squinting to pick up where he left off. “I wanted to drop you this note to thank you profusely for doing me the biggest favor in the world when you turned down my marriage proposal more than two years ago. I thought that you were going to be my forever match, but fortunately that did not happen. Instead, my forever match and I will be married over the Easter holiday weekend. I am enclosing a photo of us so you can see what people in love look like.”

Holmgren fished into the envelope and pulled out a snapshot. He stood up from the bed and walked over to me, holding the photo before my face. It appeared to be taken at a restaurant table where Nicky and his intended were wearing identical Hawaiian shirts while holding up daiquiris to the camera. Both had absurd smiles – Nicky seemed to have a deeper tan from when I last saw him while the object of his affection offered a shaved head, a slightly lopsided goatee and a military-straight posture while sporting a lobster-red skin that often bedevils extra-pale faces who spend too much time in the sun.

“Hideous taste in clothing,” I remarked. “I hate to imagine what their wedding is going to look like.”

Holmgren leaned on the cell bars next to me and continued to read from the letter. “His name is Joseph Johannsen Jr. – I call him Triple-J. He’s a defense contractor and ex-Army man – we only met two months ago and we’re rushing to get the preparations for the big day together. We did have our first disagreement over where to go on a honeymoon – I am eager to visit Bali but Triple-J wants to take me to Morocco. Most likely, we’ll end up in Las Vegas. Ha ha.”

“It’s not the most interesting letter, is it?” I asked.

“To be frank, he wasn’t the most interesting person,” Holmgren confided. “The sex was great, but I’ll be damned if I can remember one conversation we had. Okay, now this is where the letter gets weird.”

Holmgren scanned the page to reconnect with the text. “So, you see my dear Johnno, you did me a favor by turning me down and allowing me to hook up with the man of my dreams. I hope that you find the love of your life where you are. Of course, I did try to play Cupid with you by sending over my first ex and my last ex. If you were able to connect with them, then the three of you deserve a great life together. Ha ha. Love, Nicky.”

“What?” I shrieked. “Can you please hold that letter up for me to read?”

Holmgren placed the letter before my eyes and pointed to the final paragraph. I read, re-read, and re-re-read Nicky’s text and then looked at Holmgren with confusion.

“Yeah, I know,” he said glumly. “There’s a third guy from the 21st century running around here.”

“But where is he?” I sputtered. “Did you ever hear anything about someone claiming to be from the future?”

Holmgren sat back on the bed and picked up his cigar. “I never did,” he said, drawing a puff from his cigar. “Someone like that would have been the talk of Monroeville, but no one ever mentioned anything like that. There’s no obvious suspect in the town that comes to mind. The place has grown over the past two years and a lot of guys moved in who are possible suspects. There is the undertaker who is always telling dirty jokes, the Unitarian minister who wants me to attend service on Sunday, and a very attractive bank teller who always smiles when he sees me. But none of them seem like they come from another century. It’s possible the guy died while being transported back.”

“Maybe he’s a prisoner in here, like me,” I said.

Holmgren coughed on his inhale and flicked ashes on the floor. “I sort of doubt it, but I can look through the intake records of the past two years.”

I pointed my foot at the ashes that dropped from Holmgren’s cigar. “Do you mind not littering? After all, I am living in here and I am trying to keep this place clean.”

Holmgren looked at me with a pained expression. “Why did Nicky have to send you here? Why couldn’t he have sent you back to prehistoric times, so you could have annoyed the dinosaurs?”

I kicked my foot in the direction of the box on the bed. “And why did he need to send that little letter in such a big box?”

Holmgren chewed on his cigar as he picked up the box and examined it. “I thought of that, too. And it’s pretty heavy. He could have easily just gotten a small metal box at an office supply store instead of this clunker with the…”

Holmgren suddenly turned pale. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and threw it on the floor, and then he opened the box to reveal its interior covered in a dark red fabric. He tapped his fingers across the box’s interior before reaching into his jacket to pull out a pocket knife. Opening the blade, he ran the knife across the fabric and ripped it back.

“Bastard!” he cursed while holding the box’s interior up to show me a clunky circuit board. “This is a tracking device. I recognize this from the lab – this was one of the projects Nicky was involved with.”

I shook my head and winced. “But that doesn’t make sense. Johnno, how can someone in the 21st century track us here? There’s no Wi-Fi – I don’t think the telephone was invented yet. You can’t track a device across several hundred years.”

“You can, and it has been done – you can’t believe the tech we came up with,” he said, dropping the box on the bed while retrieving the cigar from the floor. Holmgren sniffed the cigar, looked about the cell for the waste bucket and sent it through the air. The cigar fell short of the bucket, forcing Holmgren to get up, grab it from the floor and drop it straight into the bucket.

“There was so much advanced technology being developed that the public never knew about,” he added. “That baby in the box is one of them. I’m sure that Nicky knows exactly where I am right now thanks to that box.”

“For what purpose?” I asked. “Do you think there will be a rescue?”

“No, not with that obnoxious letter,” he replied. “And it wouldn’t be idle curiosity – not after more than two years. That S.O.B. is going to be coming here, or sending someone here.”

Holmgren began to walk over to me when he stopped and looked past me to the vestibule behind the cell bars, changing his expression from chagrin to delight. “Oh, Private Charleson! You’re just the man I need to see. Can you please come in here?”

I was able to glance to over my shoulder to see Charleson enter in slow steps and a greatly disturbed expression.

“Private Charleson,” Holmgren said. “I believe you left your handcuffs here. You are here to retrieve them, yes?”

Charleson mumbled an answer that I could not decipher. As the embarrassed private came closer to the cell door, Holmgren stepped before me.

“Private Charleson,” Holmgren continued. “Believe me, I am greatly appreciative that you will go the extra mile to keep the prisoners in good spirits. Unfortunately, that extra mile is in the wrong direction. Perhaps you’ve misunderstood the concept of a hands-on approach to one’s job?”

“In fairness, Sir, I am not complaining,” I said to Holmgren. “Private Charleson has been very professional to me over the past two weeks.”

Holmgren looked at me askew. “Actually, I need to correct you – you did have a complaint regarding Private Charleson and your nipples. Perhaps we need to see just what the problem is and work to avoid a repeat.”

Holmgren rolled up my shirt, holding the garment with one hand while leaving my chest exposed. “Private Charleson,” he said. “Please show me exactly how you played with the prisoner’s nipples.”

Charleson’s eyes widened with disbelief. He looked at me, then to Holmgren, then back to me before stepping forward to placing his index fingers and thumbs over my nipples. He squeezed hard, and I let out a scream as my body convulsed against the cell door.

“My, my, that will not do,” Holmgren lamented. “No wonder the prisoner goes crazy. Private Charleson, those aren’t walnuts in need of cracking. Please hold his shirt while I show you how to handle this task.”

Charleson gingerly took hold of the shirt while Holmgren cracked his knuckles before putting his fingers before my chest.

“What you need to do is use all fingers in a slow, clockwise motion while applying only a slight pressure,” Holmgren said. His fingers gently rested on my nipples and he began to turn them with a gentle kneading motion. It was very relaxing and arousing, and I was surprised at how delicate I was being treated. Holmgren then took the shirt from Charleson and instructed him to repeat the lesson, which he did quite well.

“There is hope for you,” Holmgren said to Charleson as he dropped my shirt. Holmgren retrieved the box from the bed and directed Charleson out of the cell. “Let’s go back to my office and discuss this situation further. An enthusiastic young man like you can go far with the right guidance.”

Once out of the cell, Holmgren stepped behind me and pushed the door forward, forcing me to step quickly ahead. I heard the cell door’s lock click and Holmgren’s spurred footsteps walking away. I felt hands on my right wrist when Holmgren called out, “Private Charleson, please. You won’t need handcuffs in my office. You can come back for those later.”

Charleson dropped my wrist and whispered a barely audible “Sorry” before hurrying after Holmgren. The outer door was slammed and loudly locked, leaving me still handcuffed to the cell door. While I did not appreciate the continuation of my predicament, there was one consolation – my nipples felt great.

* * *

Perhaps an hour passed before the outer door opened again. To my bewilderment, I heard Holmgren singing softly as he entered. “If there’s a cure for this, I don’t want it. If there’s a cure for this, I don’t want it.”

“Hey, Miss Ross,” I called out. “Where’s Private Charleson?”

“When I last checked, he was washing his hands,” Holmgren said, standing directly behind me while tugging at my handcuffs. “And I owe you a big thanks for calling attention to his skills. I haven’t felt this good since I don’t know when – probably 2021.” Holmgren reached through the bars and placed his hands over my chest. “You’re not ticklish, are you? Private Charleson is.”

“You should give him a raise,” I said.

“I did, though next time we’ll talk about his salary,” Holmgren replied while running his hands down my torso and into my pants. His fingers tapped my cock and then began to slap at my balls. “I think it’s criminal for someone to have such large, squeezable balls like you.”

Holmgren wrapped his hand around my balls and pulled down, causing me to yell.

“Okay, enough depravity for today,” he said. “Besides, we have work to do. Between Nicky and Charleson, I almost forgot that I’m supposed to move you into Zeb’s cell.”

“Zeb?” I asked, confused at the name.

Holmgren withdrew his hands from my pants and unlocked the handcuffs. “The saloon keeper’s son. Why do you keep forgetting his name? It’s not like you are under a ton of stress.”

As Holmgren unlocked the cell door, I looked at him with indignation. “I’m not under a ton of stress? You canceled the commutation of my sentence to keep me in here for at least 12 more months, then you put me in solitary for two weeks, and now I have tag-team molestation between you and that perverted private. I can’t imagine what this Zeb character is going to contribute. I’m stressed to the gills.”

Holmgren fished into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask which he handed to me. I opened it and took a healthy swig of its bourbon contents before handing it back to him. Holmgren helped himself to a good swallow before closing it and dropping it back in his jacket pocket.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Come to think of it, I do,” I said. “What’s Charleson like when he’s ticklish?”

“Do you remember when Daffy Duck got silly and would bounce around going ‘Woo hoo’? That’s him,” Holmgren answered, flashing a quick grin. “I just hope that he doesn’t get drunk during the Christmas party. But back to business – you need to get your stuff together so I can take you to Zeb’s cell. I assume you will need a lot more paper and pencils so he can learn to write.”

I picked up the books from the table and placed them in the box that had most of my belongings. “Can you get me some children’s books? If he’s illiterate, I can’t start him with Dickens or any grown-up writing.”

Holmgren took the box and motioned with me to leave the cell. “Damn, that’s a good question. There are none here, of course, but I don’t remember seeing any children’s books being sold in town. There is a schoolhouse at the end of town – and that old bat who runs the general store told me there is a handsome Irishman from Boston who took over as the teacher. I was going to town tomorrow to have my picture taken at the photo portrait studio and then I was going to see about making an appointment with the dentist, so maybe after that I can stroll down to the schoolhouse and see what this hot teacher looks like – and pick up a few books for you, of course.”

We walked out of the space and Holmgren locked the outer door. I started walking down the hallway when Holmgren whistled and motioned with his head for me to turn around and head in the other direction.

“Why don’t you have the photographer come here to take my photo?” I asked. “This way, you’ll have a new photo of me to put on your refrigerator – once they invent the refrigerator, of course.”

“Actually, that is a good idea,” Holmgren replied. “We should have a photographic record of the inmates and the guards. I’ll ask what he charges for that kind of an assignment. Maybe I can get the dentist in here, as well. It’s been a while since he’s been here.”

We traveled through a labyrinth of dim hallways until we came to what appeared to be an empty cell. Upon closer examination, I realized that it was occupied, with its tenant mostly buried under a blanket on its bed. Holmgren fished out his keys and tapped on the cell’s bars.

“Hey Big Zeb, wakey wakey,” Holmgren sang out. “Your new pal is here to keep you company.”

A head slowly popped out from under the blanket – it had an unruly shock of dirty blond hair and a rough-featured face with squinty eyes and a flattened nose. Zeb blinked in our direction and gave out a huge smile.

“Hey, Mustache Man, I was sleeping,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice.

“Mustache Man?” I whispered to Holmgren, who chuckled while running his fingers across his handlebar mustache.

“That’s his nickname for me,” he said while slightly blushing. “He’s cute, isn’t he?”

“You get pissed if I don’t call you ‘Sir’ in front of others,” I complained.

“Well, you’re not as cute as he is,” Holmgren whispered back before turning his attention to the cell’s occupant. “Big Zeb, here is the guy I promised to bring over.”

“Wow,” my future cellmate exclaimed. “I get to share a cell with Jesse James.” Zeb stuck his hand out from under the blanket and pantomimed gunfire with his thumb and an extended index finger at me. “Bang, bang, Jesse James. Bang, bang.”

“Why is he calling me Jesse James?” I asked Holmgren as he opened the cell door.

“I told him you were a stagecoach robber,” he replied. “That’s what you’re supposed to be, after all.”

“He’s going to realize that I’m not Jesse James,” I protested.

“Please, you can tell him you’re Queen Victoria and he’d believe you,” Holmgren snapped back. “Besides, we don’t get any celebrities in here – he’s excited to have someone famous with him.”

Holmgren dropped my box of belongings on the floor and approached Zeb’s bed. “Big Zeb, show Jesse James your guns.”

Zeb sat up in bed and showed off a bare upper torso that looked as if it was created by the artist of a comic book superhero. I never saw such a muscular physique in my life, and he flexed his arms to reveal biceps of such overwhelming proportion that each was deserving of its own statehood status.

“Have steroids been invented yet?” I whispered to Holmgren.

“Not for another century,” he answered. “He’s completely natural. And that’s only the upper half.” Holmgren then waved for Zeb to come forward and Zeb threw off the blanket and came out of the bed – completely naked, with a lower torso that matched the musculature of the upper half and a cock whose length might have qualified for world record status. He repeated his gun pantomime with his hands, shooting at me while growling “Bang, bang, Jesse James.”

“Is this guy all upstairs?” I muttered to Holmgren.

“Well, the downstairs compensates for what’s lacking upstairs,” he confided. “And you’re also in luck – I hear he’s a top.”

Zeb reached out to shake hands with me. I extended my hand, which was promptly crushed in his grip. Holmgren stood between us and patted us both on our backs.

“You know, what?” he declared while looking at Zeb. “In order for you guys to get to know each other better, I’m going to have Jesse James work with you in the rock quarry.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I sputtered. “I thought you said the rock quarry was a punishment. What am I being punished for?”

“Don’t bother me with details,” Holmgren answered while keeping his gaze on Zeb. “How would you like that, Big Zeb?”

“Yeah, me and Jesse James breaking rocks,” Zeb cheered. “Thanks, Mustache Man.”

Holmgren turned to walk out of the cell, and I quickly tagged behind, only to have him turn and push me back in before locking the door.

“Yeah, thanks, Mustache Man,” I said angrily.

Holmgren pointed between my eyes and smirked. “There’s your punishment – being rude to a guard. And the lieutenant of the guards, no less. Keep it up and you won’t get any dessert with your dinner.”

I looked at him strangely. “I never get any dessert with my dinner.”

“It’s better that way – cut out the desserts,” he called out as he paced down the hall. “No one wants a fat Jesse James.”

I watched Holmgren disappear down the corridor before turning to find a joyful Zeb laying on his back on the bed, the blanket underneath his naked body. He patted the space next to him for me to sit down. I gingerly approach the bed and sat on the edge facing the cell’s bars, with the vague hope that I could capture some passing guard’s attention for a rescue.

“I’m glad you’re in here, Jesse James,” Zeb said in his growling voice. “Mustache Man usually sticks these smelly old men in here, and I always wind up having to throw them out of bed. It’s nice to have a good-looking young guy, for a change.”

Zeb sat up and started to pat my arms and chest. “Hey, and you’re also in good shape, Jesse James. You’re not big like me, but I feel some muscle in there.”

“Well, I do try to keep fit,” I said, stealing a quick glance at his mighty member before remembering that I should concentrate on eye contact.

“You ever do any boxing?” he said before lying down again. “I used to do prizefighting in Phoenix. Made a lot of money there. Got my nose busted a few times, but I broke more than enough heads to even the score. I was also in a circus for a while. I did the strong man stuff, and I also did wrestling challenges. We used to challenge guys in the crowd to wrestle me – they’d pay some money to see if they could take me down. No one ever did. I bet I can take you down, Jesse James.”

I was about to tell Zeb that I had no experience in wrestling when he quickly shifted in the bed towards where I was sitting. Before I could get a word out, his right leg plopped on my lap, his left leg snaked behind my lower bank and his ankles crossed – I was effectively trapped in a leg scissors above my groin.

“Yeah, Jesse James in Big Zeb’s leg prison,” he yelled, squeezing his legs so tightly that I thought he would break me in half.

“Get the hell off of me,” I screamed at him. “What are you doing?” That response provoked a tighter squeeze of such intensity that I was surprised there was any air in my lungs to generate an exhale.

“Try to get yourself out of that,” Zeb laughed, folding his hands being his head while flexing his biceps.

Realizing that protest would not free me, I tried to pry my hands between Zeb’s legs and my lower torso. After about 30 seconds of no progress, Zeb’s legs suddenly began to loosen – only to shoot up to my mid-torso and trap my arms along with the rest of my body. Zeb kept pantomiming gunfire with his hands and chanting “Bang, bang, Jesse James” while holding me immobile in his legs.

Could things possibly get worse? Of course, they could – Holmgren came back down the corridor and peeked into the cell. He stared at me with consternation and scolded, “Are you bothering Big Zeb, you awful bully?”

I looked at Holmgren with fury. “Someday, you are going to pay for this – with dividends.”

Holmgren laughed heartily and called out to my new captor, “Hey, Big Zeb, put this guy in a headlock – make him squirm and know who’s the boss in there.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” I cried back to Holmgren.

Zeb released his leg grip and took hold of my hair, spinning me around and dropping my face on his crotch while his legs tightened around my neck. I was pilloried again – this time by Zeb’s over-muscled thighs.

“Keep him like that for a while,” Holmgren ordered before walking off, the jingle of his spurs fading as his steps echoed down the corridor.

Zeb gently beat his hands across my head while he squeezed his grip on me in 10- and 15-second intervals – with each attempt I made to extract myself, he squeezed harder. His massive cock rested on my nose like a sleeping snake.

“Don’t panic,” I said to myself silently. “As long as he doesn’t start banging that thing on your face, you’ll be good.”

Within seconds, Zeb picked up his cock and started to bang it around my face.

“Okay,” I continued in my voiceless monologue. “He’s just playing. As long as he doesn’t expect anything else from you, it will be fine. Just don’t panic.”

Zeb then began to rub his cock across my mouth, knocking his index finger on my lips as if he was trying to gain entrance.

“Okay,” I announced to myself in my mind. “Panic. Panic. Panic.”

I pushed myself up from the bed, causing Zeb’s leg lock to break open. I forced my hands under his body and rolled him off the bed. He landed on the floor with a heavy thud. I didn’t hear anything after his descent, so I looked over the edge of the bed and saw Zeb lying on his back on the floor with a massive grin on his face. He pointed his hands at me and mimed gunfire.

“Bang, bang, Jesse James,” he stated. “You’re the first guy to bust out of Big Zeb’s leg prison. You’re the greatest, Jesse James.”

I sat up on the bed and shook my head. “Okay, so now I’m Jesse James.” I pointed my right index finger to forehead and fired off shots with my thumb. “Bang, bang, Jesse James. Bang, bang.”

To be continued…