Barefoot Guy

A Night at the Races

There he was, I'd been watching most of the day. He'd practice some soccer moves on the beach. Then strip off his soccer shorts to his swim suit and jump in the ocean waves only to come out and sun himself dry and return to another round of soccer. Sometimes he'd play soccer with a few others that happened to visit this stretch of Outer Banks beach or he'd practice some moves by himself. He seemed to have great speed on his feet and his legs looked strong.

He was a cute kid, early to mid-teens would be my guess, straight black hair that hung just below the shoulders and down into his face. Looked like the front was cut to hang as low as his button nose, he was constantly brushing it to the side; wet or dry; with his hands.

For those of you not familiar with the Outer Banks of North Carolina its miles and miles of miles and miles. Vast stretches of beach where one can be alone or hang out in the touristy spots. This boy must have been a local, he knew where he wanted to be and that was alone with the sand and the sea and his towel and soccer ball.

It was late afternoon; he seemed to be getting ready to leave. He was wrapping up his belongings and heading back to his bike, which was chained to a near by telephone pole. That timing worked perfectly for me. This was going to be easy. I pulled my van up to the siding along the road near his bike, popped open the side door and sat down drinking a soda.

"Hey there, you'd like a soda?" I asked him.

"Na, no thanks. I gotta get going." He said as he loaded up his bike and got ready to unlock it.

"Ah come on, take a minute. It's hot and you've probably got a ways to ride home. One for the road!" and I hand him an open can of soda.

He takes the soda but seeing its open he doesn't take a swig. I haven't drugged it but this was given me the chance to get close enough with grab him from behind around his chest and pull out a pair of cuffs and get his hands locked behind him. He lets out a scream and his legs are kicking wildly. Wearing only flip-flops his feet don't pack much of a punch, one of his flips falls off during his struggles. He's easily dragged into the open door of my van, which gets slammed shut behind him. The miles and miles of miles out here have heard his cries for help, but other then me, no body else has.

I have this gag I made myself; it's great for small size mouths like his. It's made from a practice golf ball; it's got holes in it to allow air through. It looks like a small wiffle baseball. Through the holes at either end I have secured, with the addition of a couple of knots either side, a leather shoe lace. A quick stop at a local mega-mart and you've got yourself an effective gag. It fits behind the front teeth into the mouth. Keeps his tongue pressed down and his mouth open.

It takes me a bit of pressure, but the gag pops into place inside his mouth and the lace is tied tightly behind his head. I grab and tie off his still kicking feet, removing the other flip-flop, and tie them with rope and do the same with his knees after the feet are tight. Then I push him inside a large doggie cage at the back of the van.

"Relax and you'll be alright. Do as your told, do a good job, and you'll be home before sunrise!" I inform him. He's seriously peeved right now and kicking at the cage walls. He's not going anywhere; this cage is designed to hold a pit bull! After I pick up his towel, soccer ball, and the flippy he lost outside, we drive off.

It's about an hour before I pull the van to our destination. It's a large, old barn out in the North Carolina countryside. Tall weeds boarder the parking area, which is already loaded with cars, trucks and vans. I can see that already several of the owners and racers are entering the bar. All the racers have their hands tied or cuffed behind them, a rule, and most have collars around their necks. I like this touch, and my cargo will be getting his as soon as I get him out of his cage. It makes the newbie racers so much easier to control, I think. In addition to the leather collar I add a chain dog leash and retie his knees together. He'll be able to walk but not run away. I hold onto the leash and his shoulder and guide him into the wide open door of the bar.

At the administration desk, a table really, we get my paperwork and they snap a quick instant picture of my new racer. His shirt is cut off and with a grease pen the 'official' writes the number 503 on his chest, back and on each of his arms. This will identify him while he's racing and the picture is for the betting board. He's then led away by the 'official' and put in the holding pen with other racers. We're in the fifth race out of ten tonight and he'll be in lane three. I head for the 'owners' section; I can't be seen with ordinary spectators if I'm fielding a racer after all.

Inside the holding pen my racer is pushed in so quickly he bumps into another racer tied the same was he is, but not gagged. Being gagged isn't a requirement, but I find with newbies- it's essential.

"Whoa there, dude, calm down sparky. Oh man you're gagged. Sorry dude, those oxen can be rough sometimes. If my hands where free I'd ungag you. But anyway, my name's Brad, good to meet ya."

My racer nods and mumbles as best he can with the ball in his mouth, "chavvfith".

"Okay let me guess, your name is 3; David?

David nods vigorously, the look in his eyes must express some amazement to Brad and he smiles and replies, "I've gotten pretty good a understanding gagged boys. I've been racin' for two years now!"

Race number five is ready to begin. My racer has been in holding for about three hours. Yeah, they're not fast here. You've got races, then race-offs of the two winners and then the first couple of race winners race each other, it's all very complicated. But my boy is up and he's placed in stall number 3, his knees are untied and the door he entered is locked tight. I decide to leave him gagged. Since he's a new racer an official from above the stall gives him instructions.

"You'll notice there, boy, that you're standing on a metal plate, that will give you a shock if you stay on it, so once this door here opens," he pats the door with an open hand," you take off a'runnin' and don't stop until you get to the end. If you win your owner wins the pot and you advance. I'd advise you to run to win, the more you win the happier your owner will be and the easier it will be for you. Got it, boy?"

He nods.

The usual race announcements are going over the loud speaker. They really do it up right here, y'all might think we were racing cars here instead of boys. Now let me tell you about the rules: All boys must have their hands secured behind them. They can be willing racers or not so willing, like my boy is. There's no rule against having a 'kidnappee' in the race, you just gotta let 'em go after the race night. They can be gagged if the owner wants. They all must race shirtless and barefoot. The boys race in slots, once the door opens they see a long corridor lined on each side with chain link fence, it's 50 yards long and runs out the back of the barn to the end where another stall is waiting to 're-capture' the boy once he enters it. The first one there wins, second place and so on. Just like the horseys!

Bang, all ten slot doors open and out run 10 fit and bound boys. They are tearing across the soft dirt of the track at top speed. My black-haired boy is out in front. I knew I was right about his legs! They can pump!

I don't believe it, he wins. The first race with a newbie and I win. Cool! That means he immediately races the number two winner of this race and the winner of that last race; after a reset of the boys and a brief rest and some cold water. He done so darn good I inform the official to ungag him. I visit him in his stall before the next race starts. "Hey dude, that was awesome! You were a long shot and you won. I just won like $500. There's $100 for you. Wanna earn s'more?"

He nods, I guess that much money is a fortune to a kid like him. "All you gotta do is keep winning. Got it?"

"Yeah." He says.

"What's your name, kid?" I ask.

"David."

"Well David, you keep up the good work and as I promised you'll be home before sun up."

To make a log story short, he won the next race too, but came in second in his heat after that one, which got him advanced anyway. The next one he lost. But with the wins he got I won a total of $927 and I decided to give David $200 of it. After all he wasn't a willing racer at the beginning and he did well. He earned it.

He's sweaty and dirty and his feet are raw and sore, but he's generally okay. He's in the holding pen. I'm forbidden from removing him until after the championship race- like all the owners are. But they feed and water 'em and he seems to have made a couple friends inside as he was chatting and laughing away with the other racers, winners and losers.

After the final race, in which I won another $300 betting on the winner we head home. I rebind him the same way, feet, knees and toss him in the cage. After all he's still a kidnappee, until we get back to his bike by the side of the road anyway! But I leave the gag out. Poor little guy is so tired out from running and having a good ol' time in the holding pen that he falls asleep about five minutes into the trip back. Once there I get him up and out and untie his knees and ankles. I put all his stuff on the ground next to his bike. I unlock one wrist but attach that open cuff to the chain securing his bike. I tie a string snug around his neck with the key hanging around the back of his head. He can free himself but it will take a few minutes. Just to make it fun I blindfold him with an old bandana. Then I slip the money he earned into the waistband of his swimsuit. That startles him a little.

Then I whisper in is ear. "There's your money David, if you want to try to make more be here next Friday night at 5pm."

I hop in my van and drive off. It's 5:30am. In my rear view I see him working with his free hand for the key. He's all right.

The End