An abandoned cellphone, seemingly tossed deep in the bushes, is all that remains of these three college seniors. From left to right: Harper, Melody, and Patricia, all just three months shy of their graduation. Despite the publicity and efforts organized by the general public, a lack of physical evidence, combined with an overburdened judicial system, means they were destined to be lost in the endless cycle of cold case files. But not on my watch. Tirelessly I worked, day and night, hunting down every clue, tracking every lead to their whereabouts. With every sliver of evidence revealed a thread of unbelievable conspiracy: a clandestine organization, specializing in human trafficking, with clientele perched at the highest echelons of society. I soon discovered how exactly they operate: a swift pickup team of half a dozen agents, knocking their âmerchandiseâ cold with a sleeper hold just before drugging them for transport. I learned of their complex networks of transportation, their safe houses for short and long term storage, their hearsay system of impromptu auctions and, most importantly, the whereabouts of these exact missing girls. So where exactly have they been?
Their captor, one Ronald P. Morgenson of Long Island, tells me: how they have been in the basement of his mansion, and how they are locked up daily in wooden stocks, mercilessly tickled for hours at a time on their freshly pedicured feet. How their only moments of repose occur when they demand specifically who other than they deserves to be punished the most, prompting him to tickle them unbridled a full hour before switching. How they are pit against each other, night after night in one-on-one tickle fights judged by their captor, pinning each other to the ground while mercilessly attacking their worst tickle spots. He goes into great detail regarding their most vulnerable spots: for Patricia, her underarms prove her ultimate downfall, even one brush prompting her to curl up in a defensive ball. For Melody, only one grope of her hips will disarm even the most structural of grapple holds. For Harper, his most favorite of the trio, her hyper ticklish feet, from the sides of her heels to the very tips of her toes, throw her into an absolute frenzy. There is nothing she wouldnât do to avoid such torments, even giving up her fellow captives to hours of endless torture just if the thought passes her mind.
He asks me just what exactly he can do to avoid conviction for his actions. Unfortunately for him, thatâs not how the justice system works. Someone has to be punished: maybe locked into a set of medieval stocks, wrists bound high above their head. Maybe they donât deserve the opportunity to confess, a large ring gag shoved in their mouth, allowing strands of drool down their bare chest. Maybe their big toes will be bound together, tied back to two posts leaving the tender soles of their feet taut. And maybe, as two large hairbrushes slowly make their way to their freshly hot oiled feet, being forced to witness the torture about to ensue, they will be able to reflect on their misdeeds. Yes, Harper must be punished, sir. Iâm sorry, but Iâm afraid I have to take her with meâŚ
