If I had a nickel for each time I get bagged and kidnapped, I would be able to buy a can of coke. I know it's not much, but at least I won't be thirsty. Weird thing that it seems to happen often enough to buy something, but such is the life of a bad boy.

It happens so much that I have a few pointers to give you, were you ever to be kidnapped by a shadowy organization:

First, go limp. It's harder to move dead weight than to drag a wiggling body. If you can shit yourself, the better. Nobody wants to drag a human-sized diaper around. Do beware that some sick people are into that, and you're just making yourself more attractive to them. 

Second, do not yell. You need to cordially say, and with your best commanding voice, that they — the kidnappers — are giving you an erection, and that any further manhandling will only make you hornier. They will immediately drop you to the floor and wash away their sins in a shower while crying. 

If none of that works, kneel down and make a silent prayer, loud enough for your captors to listen to it, to Lord Nosferatu and thank him for the meal you are about to eat. Nobody has both a poop fetish and a vampire fetish. You are covering all your bases. 

Unfortunately for me, I'm not halfway through expressing the hard, throbbing erection this is giving me when I'm tossed on a chair. Roughly. Did you know underwear is the only thing preventing you from sitting on your giblets by making everything stay in place? Because I learned that just now. 

I open my eyes, but I see nothing, for the bag is still over my head. I dunno why I thought it was going to be different. 

"Fellas," I say, getting my bearings, "I keep telling you that blindfolding makes me wanna pre." 

Immediately after that, I feel the bag being pulled out of my head. And yet, I remain in darkness. Maybe I can open my eyes and let the light in. Much better. 

Or maybe not.

I'm in a warehouse of some sort. Big, tall, and empty. The only thing in the warehouse is one single dangling lamp over me — you know, mafia shit. 

What is not normal is the two beasts with human clothes standing in front of me. They have to be at least 6'9 on a bad day. They are all neck, no head, built like a bridge, and probably eat one every day. They look like Goombas from the failed Mario Bros Movie, and I'm sorry to have to remind you of that trash, but that's the only way to visualize it. 

One is clearly Asian, with porcelain white skin and thin lips, with a chunk of his upper lip cut off, and the other has Mediterranean skin, and a huge scar running from his balding head to the base of his chin, passing through his left eye. 

"What was that about an erection?" says the Asian fridge-man, with a voice that makes even the light tremble. 

"He said we make him horny," says the Mediterranean anvil made of other harder anvils. 

The Asian Hulk grabs me by both shoulders with one hand, pulling me closer to him. He smells of kimchi and mint. "That true, hotshot? I make your prick stiff?"

"Sir, no sir," I say. "No boners here."

The Mediterranean man grabs me by my other shoulder. He smells like cheap beer and soccer. "I thought I heard that you were gonna pre. I hate it when they tease me and don't deliver." 

I took a calculated risk, knowing full well I suck at math. 

"Come on and pre, pre-boy," says the Asian yokozuna. "You promised a pre."

"Yeah, pre-boy," says the Mediterranean beefcake. "Show us a good time. Doesn't my friend make you hard? Wanna give him a sucky-sucky?"

When everything else fails, go to the path of least resistance. 

"No, thank you," I say. Just try and keep your answers short. The most complicated an answer you give, the more they can use to mess with you.

"Oh. Oh!" says the Asian landwhale on steroids. "So I'm not hot enough for you? Is that it? I'm not a catch for mister leatherdick?"

"Fuck you, Vanilla Ice," says the Mediterranean bruschetta. "My man here is a cutie. Ain't no two-bit wannabe fuckboy biker-looking motherfucker gonna crush his heart. Tell him he's a cutie."

That last part takes me a bit away. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I said," says the man, squeezing me to the point of some bone doing the funny bone dance that shouldn't be dancing around, "tell my man here he's a cutie."

Forget what I said. Silence is the best policy. 

To my surprise, the big Asian kimbap starts to weep like a little girl while his face constrains in a flash of red. "You see? I'm an ugly fuck! Nobody's gonna love a bit-lipped freak like me!"

He hugs his Mediterranean companion, bawling his eyes out. Or at least that's what I think is happening. They are so close and are so tall that I literally can't see that far up.

"You done it now," says the Mediterranean Cyclops, looking down on me with his one good eye. You would be surprised which one is that. "You made my friend cry. And now I'm gonna make your knees cry."

"How are you going to make my knees-" I begin to say, but my question is answered by the Mediterranean truck-person taking a police baton out of nowhere. 

Honestly, I don't think these guys are cops. 

Just as he is about to bring down his big hurt stick on my poor knees, a voice, almost whispering, soft and mellow, and in lowercase, breaks through the pair.

"knock it off, jungkook, harry," says the voice, someone standing behind the two goons. "you know you're a cutie pie. someday, someone will realize what a hot piece of ass you are."

"You mean it, boss?" says Jungkook the meatman. "Am I a cutie?"

"a cutie patootie," says the voice. "now, move that moneymaker and let me look at this greaser wannabe fuckwad." 

Both men move out of the way, almost displacing the air itself in a cacophony of silence, as if the world itself is holding its breath for the reveal of the bearer of the voice who can control such beasts. And what the world reveals is a boy so small that even the most avid foot fetish enthusiast would bat an eye at hi 5'5"at best. 

The boy is both tanned and incredibly fair, with soft black eyes, thin hair, parted in a stylish way, with soft accents, and full, luscious lips that give him a resting duck face. A baggy red sweater reading "PainHub" drapes his small frame, with waist-high jeans, high socks, and checkerboard Vans. 

This guy is not a mafioso — he's a soft boy!

"so, you're the poser hayden has been texting me about," he says in whispers. "he says you're good at solving shit. i got shit that i need solving." 

"Oh yeah?" I say. If it's tweedle dee and tweedle chunk, I wouldn't even dare to speak up. But I can take a soft boy. I've taken plenty before. Wait, that sounded wrong. "Yeah, I solve shit. What's it to you?"

Jungkook the rolling stone grabs me by the shoulder and shakes me like a meat maraca, with my organs as the filling. "You little, tasteless greaser! You're speaking to the boss of the Kimchi-Cannoli family! You better show some respect."

The boy puts his hand over Jungkook's hand, and ever so delicately slapped him across the face. 

"we don't use violence here, capiche?" says the boy. "he asked a perfectly valid question."

"Sorry, boss," says the food truck.

"So," I say. "You are? And why are you speaking in lower case?" 

"i do it ironically, duh," he says. "it's because i don't care. as for who i am, my name is brayden. brayden messina-park, the interim head of the kimchi-cannoli fami — i mean, toilet paper conglomerate."

"Toilet paper conglomerate?" I ask. Wasn't he a mafioso? 

"everybody gotta poop at some point, don't they?" he says. "it's the biggest racket there is. legitimate, of course."

"Well, pleased to make your acquaintance," I say. "Now, could you please untie me? Or do you tie all your friends down?"

This might be pushing it, but I don't think he will do anything about it. Can't know if the bear is sleeping unless you poke it, right?

Right?

He closes his eyes, smiling at me while squatting down. 

"bold of you to assume you're a friend of mine," he says. "jungkook, harry, you know what to do."

One of the human walls places himself in front of me, with the other taking my back. It is here in this moment that I realized that I fucked up. 

"Hey, hey!" I say. "You said no violence, right?"

"that, i did," says Brayden. "but there are many ways to make you fall into place. guys, why don't you show him?"

Send help, please.