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It took some time for Tintin to realize that he had been kidnapped.
In the first place, he'd been rather heavily drugged. It might seem to an outside observer that the opiate fog permeating his brain would make it easier for a man to determine that something about his situation was wrong, but a noted side-effect of ether sedation was that it made it very difficult to believe anything was wrong in the world at all. Thus, each time he awoke, he had only the will to look around himself in blurry wonderment before being put back under.
In the second place, he was actually treated very gently by his hosts until they arrived at their destination. They doused him strategically in cheap whiskey and dipped his hand in warm water, acted to any passers-by as though he was a close friend with a tendency to overindulge, and jovially ushered him into a decoy streetcar to take them all straight to their sinister lair, which, in the interests of stealth, was located in a nicely whitewashed suburban home whose owners were on holiday.
Once they reached their destination, he was very gently carried out of the car and into the house. Gently, he was carried down a set of stairs; gently, he was laid on the floor; gently, his wrists were cuffed tightly to a post, his soiled clothes were cut off his body, and two long, oil-slick fingers slipped into his drug-loosened rosebud and twisted themselves about until a quiet moan emanated from his lips.
"Here, Ash, he's got a stiffie!"
"I'm sure it's nothing to do with your depredations, Darrin. Just dreaming of tiny women."
"Nah, look!"
A curl of the fingers. Tintin's unconscious body twitched, leaving a shiny patch of slime under his crotch.
"Well, I'll be damned. The boy wonder's got a happy hole, doesn't he? Let's see what else it likes."
Buttons opened. His legs were spread wide, and the thin fingers were joined by a long, tapering shaft. Tintin whimpered through his dream-state, bucking sluggishly as half-numbed nerves sang to his sleeping mind.
"He's too goddam loose. This is why I don't fuck the boys while they've got the ether in them."
"Well, I confess I may have an idea on how to help with that, if you don't mind a bit of, ahem, cohabitation."
Another set of buttons, and the boy was lifted onto a thick, solid rod, shorter than the last but just as lovely. Slowly, the first slid into him again, and for the first time he felt overstretched, the faint burn of too much prodding at his conscious mind.
His face screwed up as his pulse rose, forcing his eyes to flutter open groggily. "Wh- wha's-"
Tintin looked into a long and sinister face, dotted with black stubble, and he realized quite suddenly that he was naked as a jaybird. "What on-"
A bony hand wrapped around his throat, and he found himself gasping for the smallest breath of air. "Chrissakes," the man grumbled, "can't you even dope a half-pint kid right?"
"He's not dead," drawled someone from just behind his right ear. "So as doping goes, I'd say I'm doing quite well, actually. Just keep holding onto that scrawny little neck, and he'll be out in a minute."
Tintin, his already hazy consciousness slipping away further with each withheld breath, couldn't help but feel a bit offended at this. His neck was not scrawny. He attempted to point this out, but for some reason he found it difficult to speak.
"His prick's jumping like a jackrabbit," leered the man in front of him. "He likes it a little rough, don't he?"
"Quite," said the man behind, his smirk fully audible. "You do know how to pick them."
As he dropped back into the blackness of sleep, Tintin felt his private parts go deliciously effervescent, and vaguely wondered why.
***
The brothers sniggered as the kid spewed his load all over himself. "I'd venture a guess we just popped him off, popped his cherry, and popped his cork at the same time," Asher said cheerfully.
The boy’s muscles relaxed further, and piss streamed out of his softening prick. Belatedly, Darrin let go of Tintin's reddened throat and checked his breathing. "He's not popped off, just dropped off."
“I knew that,” Asher said coolly, wrinkling his nose at the ammoniac smell. “I just wanted to make the pun."
"’scuse me, I'm sure."
With that, they went back to sawing in and out of Tintin's abused asshole. "God damn, he's good," Darrin grunted.
His brother tsked and flicked his ear. "Don't blaspheme, Dare."
"Sorry, Ash." He slammed himself in and drew out slowly, breathing heavily. "I'm close, though."
Asher sped up his own motions. "I'll try to keep up, then."
After a few more rounds in and out, Darrin growled and fired a massive load into their shared hole. A second later, Asher shot as well, more copious but less dramatic. They withdrew at the same time, leaving their captive lying on his side, spit drooling from his slack jaw and cum drooling from his lax hole. Asher wiped his cock fastidiously on the rags of Tintin's blue shirt and tucked himself back through his now-damp fly; Darrin shoved himself back into his trousers and buttoned up. For a moment, they stared together at the unconscious body before them.
"Don't he look pretty like that," Darrin murmured.
"Don't get too attached," Asher advised, taking his arm. "This one's a short-term investment."
"I know. He's got rich friends to pay the bill. Man can dream, though."
Asher clapped him on the back as they walked back up the stairs. "That he can, brother dear. That he most certainly can."
***
Tintin awoke again. This time, however, he was aware that he had been kidnapped more or less immediately. The pleasant buzz of ether had faded into a nauseating hangover; he was filthy and cold and aching as if he'd slept on concrete, which of course he had; and there was something sticky oozing from his sore posterior. (It was also all across his front, but this happened sometimes; it was one of those mysterious functions apparently possessed by his private parts. He hadn't investigated it too closely.) When he went to investigate, he found that his arms were bound to a support pillar, and competently, too.
Ah, yes, and there was the matter of his clothes, which he observed were nearby but clearly in no shape to be worn, or at least not in such a way as to protect any of his inappropriate areas from view. As he sat up, he wondered idly when and how Milou would come to his rescue this time, and how they might surmount the obstacle of basic decency.
"Halloa!" he shouted in the general direction of the stairs. "I'm afraid I seem to have been kidnapped! Is anyone here who might know something about that? A rescuer, if possible, but a kidnapper would do as well!"
Two sinister men came down the stairs, wearing matching suits and wicked grins. Nothing else about them matched, however: the first was long and sharp and dark-haired and ragged, whereas the second was short and bulky and blonde and impeccably starched. "You rang?" asked the first.
Tintin smiled at them, his legs positioned to hide his sensitive parts as best he could. "Yes, actually! You see, I seem to have been kidnapped."
"So I see," commented the second.
"You wouldn't happen to be interested in freeing me, would you?" Tintin asked hopefully.
"'Fraid not, gingersnap," the former confirmed. "It'd make an awful mess of all the hard work we did kidnapping you."
"Oh, dear," he sighed, crossing his legs tighter. "Well, what have I been kidnapped for? You see, generally if I’m captured like this I've begun to solve some mystery, generally one that someone in power doesn't want solved, but this week I confess I've been on something of a vacation, not investigating much of anything at all."
The short man looked at his brother. "We knew by reputation that you were a successful journalist," he said slowly. "But I must confess that you seem... disproportionately familiar with the kidnapping process. It's not one most people run into more than once."
Tintin chuckled genially. "Oh, I suppose not. But really, this sort of thing does happen to me rather a lot, so I have a bit of a hard time getting too worked up about it. Chalk it up to familiarity, I suppose. You fellows do show promise, though; hardly anyone takes away my clothes, and you wouldn't believe how many lockpicks you can hide in a decent cashmere jumper. Though I wish you could have left it intact. It cost me twenty dollars in New York, you know, and that was on sale."
"We're ransoming you," the tall man said slowly. "For ten thousand dollars. We do this a lot." After a moment, he added, "…thank you for the compliment."
"I'm sure your friend Haddock will spot you twenty dollars after parting with thousands," said the short man, regaining his equilibrium. "First, however, we will need to actually ransom you. And while you look very charming with those marks around your throat, I don't know that you currently have the right, ah... je ne sais quoi. I'm thinking of a word..."
The tall man retrieved a cosh from his pocket, and the short man smiled. "Ah, of course. Je sais exactement quoi. The word I'm looking for is brutalized."
Tintin's cheerful expression faded. "Ah."
***
Generally I’ve been rescued by now, Tintin thought dimly as Darrin wound up for another blow. He was no stranger to capture, or to pain, but his congenital good fortune had up to now always whisked him away from actual torture. He supposed, dizzily, that even the luckiest streak must someday end.
A fist slammed into his already purple jaw, and Tintin whimpered pitifully as his skull rattled. His nose had been broken, both eyes blacked, his lip was swollen and cut in a dozen places, and it was sheer dumb luck he hadn't lost a tooth.
Darrin’s blackjack struck him square in the mouth and Tintin felt a wave of blinding, white-hot pain. He spat out one premolar tooth along with a wad of thick blood, cursing himself for tempting fate, and the short man looked at it critically. "That will suffice, I suppose," he said. "My compliments to your dentist; your pearly whites are certainly screwed in tight."
"W-would you save that?" Tintin forced out. "They might... be able..." He trailed off as he was forced to clear out another mouthful of blood.
Darrin shrugged. "Don't see why not." He picked the tooth off the floor, wiped it on a rag, and placed it in his shirt pocket.
"Th-" Tintin coughed, spattering his chin with red dots. "Thanks. You're-" The coughing fit resumed.
Meanwhile, Asher set up a folding camera on a portable tripod. "Fiddly bastard... There. All right, Tintin, smile for the camera."
Tintin took him at his word, doing his level best to think positively about his situation and bring a cheery smile to his face.
Darrin turned away to cackle helplessly. Asher sighed. "I was being facetious. Look agonized for the camera, please."
This took a great deal less effort. Asher rearranged him to maximum artistic effect. "Your head at this angle, there's a darling... relax your shoulders, it looks unrealistic... oh, for God's sake, uncross your legs."
Tintin flushed, a lighter tomato-red spreading under the flecks of blood covering his face, and pressed his thighs together more firmly still. "Wh-what? No! I don’t- they’re called privates for a reason, you know!"
Asher sighed. "Darrin, will you help me out here?"
Darrin came over and crouched to speak more conversationally to the hostage. "See, we’ve got a system. We don’t want anybody getting too clever, hagglin’ or what have you. So we prove we’re not kidding around. So you’ve got to look broken. Like you don’t even care about decency anymore. So if you won't uncross your legs, we've gotta beat you up ‘til you do. Now, far as I see it, resisting here just isn't good odds, so why don't you just make it easier on everyone?"
His lip wobbling like a petulant child's, Tintin slowly spread his legs, revealing an angry red erection leaking a swinging thread of fluid onto his peach-fuzzed belly.
Asher snickered. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"
Darrin shot him a dirty look, then patted Tintin on the head and exited the frame. "Good boy, then. We'll be done in half a second, you'll see."
Asher moved to the camera and took a few photographs. "That'll do, I think. Thanks ever so for your cooperation, Monsieur Saint-Martin." He disassembled the camera setup back into its bag, then ambled on up the stairs.
Darrin returned to Tintin's side and scratched him fondly on the head. Tintin thought this thoroughly decent of him, all things considered, and leaned into his hand.
"There, now, you see? You're just fine. M'brother's just gettin' a washcloth so I can get you clean, then we'll leave you in peace."
Tintin looked almost offended. "Without a guard?"
Darrin chuckled. "A guard? You're shorter'n Ash, you've got the muscles of a toddler, and you're chained to a pole. What're you going to do if we leave you alone, yell naughty words at us?"
Tintin gasped, outraged. "I would never!"
"Then I don't see much of a problem."
"But-" Lacking a retort, Tintin huffed irritably. "Fine. Could I at least have a blanket, then? It's cold down here."
Darrin nodded indulgently. "Think that could be arranged."
Asher came down with a terrycloth rag and a bucket of water, and Darrin left to seek out a blanket. Asher crouched next to his captive, dabbing the blood off of his face with a surprisingly gentle touch. Still, Tintin grunted involuntarily whenever the cloth rubbed against a particularly bloody spot.
It was, mostly, a grunt of pain. Tintin was fully prepared to ignore the uncomfortable thread of sensation passing through the veins into his groin.
Asher was not so willing. Dipping the washcloth into the pinkish water in the bucket, he began to minister to the boy’s more sensitive regions, affecting a pious disinterest. First he scrubbed the white crust from Tintin’s rear end, lifting his legs like a baby in need of cleaning, and Tintin felt himself tremble with a kind of warm, infantile nostalgia. Then he set about Tintin’s still-hard penis, rubbing the cloth up and down in a smooth, repetitive motion.
“I- I feel quite clean by now,” Tintin stammered after a good few seconds’ rubbing. “There really can’t be anything more to clean off that particular spot.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Asher ran the damp cloth closely over Tintin’s length, drawing a substantial dribble of clear slime from its tip and a muffled groan from the boy himself. “But it just keeps getting sticky again.”
Tintin, a consummately good boy, had never intentionally explored the regions currently under assault by his captor. When his penis had first begun to stiffen, he had taken it as nothing more or less than a sign that he was becoming a man. He had certainly never indulged in the sin of Onan, which might have prepared him for the events currently taking place. As he writhed at the unfamiliar sensation, Asher quickened his pace, giving up the pretense and grasping him firmly through the terrycloth, pumping his hand up and down until a thin but forceful bolt of semen spattered across Tintin’s face, followed by another and another striping across his bony chest.
Tintin felt his muscles relax as he slumped back into his original position. Unthinking, he allowed a reedy stream of urine to escape his erection, hitting his belly just above the navel and running down to pool in his lap.
Asher snickered. “Happened last time too. Can’t even control your bladder, can you? What a kid.”
Tintin’s face heated. “I- I’m not a kid,” he mumbled.
With a few more swipes, Asher mopped up the mess on Tintin’s stomach, then raised the washcloth to his face. He looked appraisingly at the white splashes across his delicate features, then returned the cloth to the bucket.
“I’ll leave that on, I think.” He ruffled Tintin's hair with a falsely avuncular air. "It suits you."
***
Tintin woke up feeling cold, bruised, and unaccountably wet.
He soon accounted for it: he had wet himself during the night. The thin blanket Darrin had draped around him was soaked through, with enough left over to form a substantial puddle around his aching rear end. His face burned with shame. He hadn't wet the bed (or whatever one might call his current situation) in almost five years, and now his streak had been broken. And he’d been so proud of it, too. He felt an uncharacteristic urge to cry.
Darrin came down the stairs with a steaming bowl of oatmeal in his hands. "Morning, Tintin. Sleep well?"
"I- well, I, um." Tintin tried again. "N-not particularly, no. I seem to have... wet myself."
Darrin sniffed the air. "So you have. What'd you do that for?"
Tintin hung his head. "I don't know. It's probably because I'm under stress, but really I thought I'd gotten better at managing that sort of thing. And I used the chamberpot before I went to sleep."
"If you'd told me you had a problem," Darrin chided, "we'd've laid a tarp down. Well, nothing for it now; I'll get a towel."
He laid down the bowl, went back upstairs, and returned with another towel and a small bottle. "We're going through these like anything," he noted as he began to mop up the area around Tintin, who courteously raised his bottom from the floor so Darrin could clean under him. The motion exposed his penis to the cool basement air, and he inhaled sharply as the moisture on his skin drew in the chill. His testes receded, but his penis stiffened immediately.
Darrin grinned. "Looks like somebody likes it, at least."
Tintin felt a blush spread all the way down his chest. "Don't look," he whined.
"Well, look who's in charge now," Darrin teased. "I don't suppose you want me to touch, either?" He accompanied this by reaching out his hand and brushing one rough finger against the delicate skin of Tintin's cock. It strained at his touch.
"I- oh, oh, please," Tintin moaned.
"Please stop?" Darrin suggested, taking his hand away. "Alright, then."
"Please more," he corrected.
Darrin nodded. "That's more like it." His long-fingered hand wrapped around Tintin's slender but steel-hard prick and began to tug rhythmically. Tintin shivered with sensation. He began to drip more of the strange fluid from last night. Darrin swiped some of it onto his finger and brought it to Tintin's lips; he licked it off obediently.
"You leak like a faucet," Darrin observed. "Somebody ought to put a cap on you."
Tintin breathed out heavily, winded by arousal. "That doesn't sound healthy."
"Sounds funny, though," Darrin argued. He twisted his hand, and Tintin failed to respond coherently.
Tintin continued to drip. Darrin took the small bottle he had brought down with him and anointed his fingers with the oil inside. He then brought his fingers to Tintin's hole.
Tintin made a high-pitched noise. "That is an extremely private place!"
Darrin snickered. "You talk like such a little prince. It's cute." Then his fingers pushed past Tintin's ring and rotated around. Tintin felt his opening stretch out from its usual narrow rosebud, and he whined with discomfort.
Darrin unbuttoned his pants, then withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his cock. Tintin gasped at the difference in sensation - where Darrin's fingers had been rough and uncomfortably bony, his cock was silk-smooth and wonderfully pliant. Darrin began to thrust in and out, and Tintin felt him poking at a very sensitive spot, one that made him feel queerly like he was melting from the inside, but in a pleasant way. Tintin heard himself making some rather embarrassing noises as he spurted his seed across his torso. Darrin groaned deeply as he shot his own in the boy's pulsing hole.
Tintin felt that curious lightness across his body as he once again began to lose his hold on his bladder. "Oh," he said frantically, "pull out- you're going to get wet!"
Unfortunately, Darrin's reaction time was not at its best immediately post-orgasm. He tried to get away, but Tintin's stream soaked his trousers and the front of his shirt.
"My suit!" he growled.
Tintin cringed, his cock still dribbling, and wished his hands were free so he could cover his face. "I- I'm sorry- I'm so sorry."
Darrin glared. "Oh, you're gonna be sorry." He grabbed Tintin's ankles and lifted them into the air, exposing his dripping rear end to clear view. Then he slapped it firmly.
Tintin had not been spanked in a very long time. The nuns at the orphanage where he had been raised had been strict, but he had been a very good boy, and they had rarely seen fit to resort to corporal punishment. Still, it had happened every so often; his inquisitive nature had on occasion led him to ask impertinent questions or stay out late investigating some mystery, and Sister Charity was always quick with a switch. So Tintin was not quite a stranger to the stinging pain that erupted in his backside after a few hard swats from Darrin's hand. But it had been some time. And on top of the shame of having wet himself yet again, it was enough to send him over the edge.
Tintin began to cry.
Darrin grunted as he struck Tintin's behind again and again. "Yeah, keep crying, pretty boy. S'what you get for ruining my best suit. Only suit. Whatever."
As the abuse continued, the burning in Tintin's rear grew from embers into a blaze. His face was coated with tears and worse. And yet, somehow, as the pain and humiliation grew higher and higher, his dick twitched and began to grow hard again.
Darrin looked at him smugly. "Pervert. You're getting off on this, aren't you?"
Tintin's voice was hoarse from sobbing, but he attempted a retort. "I- n-no!"
"Don't lie to me, boyo." Darrin gave him a particularly ringing slap.
"F-fine! I l-like it!" Tintin choked back another sob.
Darrin abruptly stopped. "Ask me for another."
"W-what?"
"You heard me," Darrin leered. "If you like it so much, tell me to do it again."
Tintin's lip wobbled. There was a long pause.
"Please, sir," he finally whispered.
"Please what?" Darrin asked with a grin.
"Please spank me again."
Darrin gave him a smack on the rear. "Do you like that?"
"Yes, sir," Tintin moaned. "Please, spank me again."
Darrin continued. He had a strong arm, and soon Tintin's rear was blazing again. He begged for each stroke, even as his voice broke with sobs. "I'm-" Tintin eventually stammered out. "I'm going to- release-"
"Release," Darrin snickered. "Go ahead, kid."
With a cry, Tintin released a few small spurts of seed onto his belly, followed by a tiny dribble of urine.
"You really can't help it at all, can you," Darrin marveled, laying him back down.
Tintin's face burned under the tears. "No. It's- it's embarrassing. I f-feel like a child."
"I dunno," Darrin said thoughtfully as he cleaned Tintin's front with the towel. "If it hadn't ruined my suit I'd think it was kinda charming. Maybe we could put you in a diaper? With a hole cut in the back, for easy access."
"That wouldn't make me feel less like a child," Tintin objected.
Darrin shook his head. "Wouldn't, would it. Wonder if I care."
Tintin had to giggle, at that. Darrin grinned wolfishly. "Alright then, baby boy. Now, I brought you down some oatmeal, and it's getting cold since we spent so much time playing around. Open up and I'll give it to you."
Tintin opened his mouth dutifully. Darrin popped a spoonful of oatmeal into it, and he swallowed. Even though it was only lukewarm, Tintin was hungry enough that he was thankful for it.
Darrin had also added some brown sugar. Tintin appreciated it very much.
***
Tintin found himself alone again. This was in many ways the worst part; the pain was awful but he was finding that on some level he enjoyed it very much, and the rape was, if he was being honest, simply exhilarating. And Tintin tried his best to always be honest. Except when he was lying, which was admittedly quite often. But he was always honest with himself.
And, being honest with himself, he'd barely mind the rest if he didn't have to be alone. Back at Moulinsart there was always someone. Milou, usually. Or the Captain, or the Professor, or even Nestor, though Nestor was hardly an intimate. So through the more recent years of his life he hadn't often been alone. Ever since he found Milou, he'd had a constant companion. But now, he was all by himself, chained to a pole in a cold, dark cellar. He no longer even had a blanket.
Tintin sniffled, and felt paradoxically grateful no one was here to see it.
***
Asher came down the stairs, holding a piece of paper in his hands. "Your friend Mr. Haddock is a very... colorful man," he commented.
"Oh dear," Tintin said. His equilibrium had been thoroughly restored by the oatmeal and some time alone to quietly recite some affirmations. "He always has been. Does he intend to pay my ransom, or hunt you down to the ends of the earth?"
"Both, it seems," Asher said, squinting at the letter. "He has also called us 'a pack of pestilential prurient pillocks' and 'viciously venereal vituperable Visigoths'. Creative man, that Haddock. He's lucky we're not the spiteful sort of kidnappers, you know, or you'd be in for a beating."
Tintin nodded. "He's always had rather a temper. I'm very lucky to have you gentlemen, really; apart from the matter of my tooth and my jumper you've been awfully considerate."
Asher looked at him sidelong. "Once again, not the sort of review I expect from my victims, but it's appreciated. At any rate, you'll soon be out of here, and I just wanted to do something before you go."
"What is it?" Tintin asked.
Asher unbuttoned his trousers, pulled out his erection, and forced it into Tintin's mouth.
Tintin choked immediately, his throat desperately trying to reject the invading appendage. He coughed around the intrusion, spittle drooling down his chin. He just barely had the presence of mind to avoid scraping Asher's shaft with his teeth.
"Good boy," Asher panted. Through the stars bursting in his eyes, Tintin felt a certain amount of pride. He was a good boy. In response, he gamely attempted to move his tongue, suspecting this would feel nice for Asher; he was rewarded with a loud groan. He did it again a few more times, and this time he was rewarded with the feeling of fluid spurting into his mouth as Asher released his seed. It tasted salty and somewhat bitter. Tintin wondered faintly if his own would taste sweeter.
Asher withdrew himself slowly after he had finished. He wiped himself off on Tintin's hair.
"Hey!" Tintin objected, still coughing.
"That's the part you're angry about?" Asher asked.
"Yes! You could have just used one of the towels apparently strewn about this place, but instead you chose deliberately to wipe slime into my hair! That's just rude!"
Asher tucked his privates back into his pants and dropped into a crouch, putting himself on a level with Tintin. "I don't understand you, Monsieur Saint-Martin."
"What don't you understand?" Tintin asked politely.
"I have treated you, in a word, brutally," Asher says matter-of-factly. "Nothing that I have done has been for your sake. I could have refrained from beating you; I did not, because it would make the proceedings with your Mr. Haddock swifter. I could certainly have refrained from raping you; I did not, because I desired your body and did not care about the cost to you. I took your virginity out of the most petty greed, and you said nothing. Yet when I chose to defile your hair, you grew genuinely angry. What is in that fiery head of yours, Monsieur Saint-Martin?"
Tintin gave the matter some thought. "I suppose that I'm just a forgiving person. When you beat me, I understood that it was a standard procedure in your line of work, and I was unlikely to dissuade you from it. When you raped me the first time, I was out like a light, and after the fact, what good would it have done me to object? It's not as if I could somehow restore my purity. But when you chose to muck up my hair, that was sheer spite, and it reflected very poorly upon you. By pointing it out I stood a chance, however slim, of actually changing your mind and making you a better man, and if I passed up the opportunity I could hardly call myself a Christian."
Asher laughed in disbelief. "You fear for my soul, then?"
"Well, someone should," Tintin sniffed. "But no. I simply think you could be better. I think anyone can be a good person, if they really try. You're at a disadvantage, certainly, given your career choices, but there's nothing stopping you from releasing me and repenting at this very moment."
"I have no intention of doing so," Asher said flatly.
"I didn't exactly expect you to," Tintin clarified. "But you must admit that the possibility exists. You are free to do so, as you are free to do whatever you so choose."
Asher shrugged. "Perhaps. You French are always so particular about freedom."
"I am Belgian," Tintin snarled.
Asher grinned. "So you are. I apologize."
"There you go," Tintin said with sudden enthusiasm. "You're apologizing for things! Soon I'll have you sorry for even kidnapping me."
"I doubt it very much," Asher said, a smile tugging at his lips.
***
I'll meet you on the Brooklyn Bridge at 5:30PM, the letter stated. Money upon receipt of boy. Thus, Asher and Darrin loaded their charge into an honest-to-God burlap sack (with minimal objections from said charge, who seemed simply glad to be out of the basement and on his way to freedom) and thence into the back of a modest black automobile.
As Ash drove through the upstate, he whistled a tune. Mack the Knife.
"Always a favorite," Darrin grinned from the passenger seat. "Pull over, will ya? I've got to piss."
Ash rolled his eyes. "You're as bad as our captive." But he pulled over.
Darrin exited the car and unfastened his trousers. Meanwhile, in the car, Asher felt cold steel press up against his neck, and his eyes widened.
"Don't make any sudden movements," Tintin said, a bright smile audible in his voice. "I would truly hate to do anything unfortunate."
Asher swallowed, his forehead beading with sweat. "Where did you get that," he croaked.
"Your brother failed to notice me lifting it from his jacket when he was putting me in the sack," Tintin said cheerfully. "He may have been preoccupied with the concept of five thousand dollars. And the sound of a knife cutting burlap is difficult to perceive, especially over the sound of a running motor."
"What do you want, then?" Ash asked grimly.
"You're going to drive me to the Brooklyn Bridge, of course," Tintin said. "Your brother needn't join us. You will turn me over to Captain Haddock, and I will remand you into the safekeeping of the New York City police department."
"Or you'll cut my throat?" Ash said. "I doubt you've got the balls."
"Not at all. You won't taxi me, then?" Tintin asked.
"Doesn't seem to be much upside."
Maintaining the position of his knife, Tintin reached down and appropriated the key to the car. Then he opened the door. "I suppose I'll hitch, then."
Tintin slid out of the car and shut the door. Darrin looked over at the sound, and blinked at the sight of the boy-reporter standing, naked as a jaybird, in the middle of the road. "What the fuck d'you think you're doing?"
Tintin grinned at him. "Escaping."
"Get back in the car before I have to hurt you."
"Oh, make me," Tintin laughed.
Darrin turned, his cock still hanging out his fly, and lunged for Tintin, who danced out of his way and slugged him in the jaw. "Fuck!" he yowled.
Tintin shook out his hand. "Had enough?"
Another lunge. Tintin planted his foot squarely between Darrin's legs, and the big man crumpled with a noise of regret.
Asher unrolled the car window and stuck a snub-nosed revolver in Tintin's face. "This is less amusing than you seem to think," he snarled. "Get back in the car."
Tintin laughed aloud at this as he flung himself to the ground, a bullet missing him by inches.
"Son of a bitch!" Asher shouted, attempting to point his gun at a ninety-degree angle through the window with limited success. He opened the car door, intending to fire through this wider aperture.
It was at this point that Tintin stabbed him in the foot.
"Fuck!" Asher screamed, dropping the gun. Tintin caught it in his left hand as it fell.
"Thank you kindly," he said. "Now, if you gentlemen would oblige me by getting into the backseat, I have an appointment on the Brooklyn Bridge with my good friend Captain Haddock."
They did not oblige him. He was forced to tie their hands and feet with burlap strips and stack them in the backseat himself, but he didn't mind. The car drove well enough, even with his bare feet on the pedals. He turned on the radio, which was playing Ed Morton, and sang along.
He always did like a good denouement.