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He had no idea who he was up against. And the Handler encouraged his totally false sense of superiority...”He’s old enough to be your father, strong but slow, and he hasn’t realised that he is fucked up and fucked out, a loser, a has-been. Just keep on your toes, and you’ll have him pinned before he can fart or belch.” The Handler was an arch manipulator, and the sexy young fucker hadn’t a clue. “Do I really have to bugger him, sir?” “It’s the tradition here, you wouldn’t want to disappoint the guys? Anyway, it isn’t sex, think of it as humiliation, part of the wrestling itself.” Ye gods, the Handler was pleased with himself The bout was, as the Handler had said, quite short, brisk in fact, he hardly had time to get in a few encouraging and vicious whacks with his whip on the naked backs of the ill-assorted opponents before, to loud cheers and ungenerous jeering, the bout was decided. As he knew it would be, the outcome was the exact opposite of what he had, so kindly, predicted to. It was as if his mind was going through a mental checklist of what felt okay and what didn’t. The list of what hurt was more than long enough to be worrisome. He was pretty sure that whoever put him in that state wasn’t concerned with his continued good health.His mouth was dry. He opened his eyes and looked around for something to drink. He was in a small room with concrete walls. There were pipes running along the ceiling. He had the feeling that he was in a basement somewhere. The oppressive quiet, an almost complete absence of noise, suggested that he was in an abandoned building.He tried to move and then realized he was tied to a chair with his arms handcuffed behind his back. His hands felt swollen and throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The cuffs were too tight. His ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. It was a metal office chair, the kind without arms that was in front of the desk rather than behind it.Of course, all of the Hollywood cliché moves on how to escape.
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