(New 4/20/19) THE STRANGER (M/M) - Trouble at State

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jay_write
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Post by jay_write »

Whoa, the images in some of those clues are pretty brutal, almost like they were chosen to distract and/or mess with a person's head. I wonder if that was intentional, or if each one has a specific meaning that requires that image in particular to be used. Dylan seems pretty confident he can solve all the clues in time, and that he's come out ahead with the extra information.

The sceptic in my has to wonder if he was allowed to find that information; these people don't seem to be the sort to leave a trail like that. I'm really torn, because on the one hand, as the protagonist of this story I feel like I should want him to succeed - but on the other hand, I really want to find out what happens to him if he fails.

I have no doubt you'll make it good, regardless of how things turn out.
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Post by alkaid_ »

oh my god, the story is amazing....!
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Post by Deleted User 3263 »

Field Report — Back to School — Submitted by D. Tremont


The address for Purple Rain Prints is a vacant lot.
The building got torched in 2010.
Seems the owner was sharing albums of underage kids back in the day.
Community vigilantes wanted to cleanse the building of impurities.
They did a thorough job of it.

Martin Marks spent a little time behind bars for his pictorial predilections.
Now he’s registered and working for a salvage business in Denver.
At first he doesn’t want to talk.
But when I tell him I’m working on an article for “The Hunt” in praise of Mr. Lier, he agrees to meet.
His company is cleaning out a row house a few doors down from a park.
Kids are chasing on the brown grass nearby.

“I produced all kinds of kinky shit, that was my thing,” Marty tells me on a smoke break as he stares intently at the playing children, “but mess with kids and people lose it. Hypocritical fucks. No person’s a saint.”

He stubs out his cigarette and squints at me.

“You sure you're a player? Time was, you'd be just the type of boy they’d be all hot to catch.”

I tell him Mr. Lier is an inspiration.
I refer to Lier by the name Serge uncovered.
I ask what he remembers of the man.
Marty lights another cigarette.

“He was a young guy,” he tells me, “— not hurting for cash — had tie-ups on the brain. He wanted to start a revolution. I suppose he did.”

Does he know where Mr. Lier is today?

“I’m out of that world,” he says. “But his family had business in Denver. Don’t remember what.”

Does he have an old address for him — or any paperwork or printed material to help with the article?

“You sure you aren’t a scared rabbit?” Marty asks with a smirk. “A hunted animal sometimes runs toward its chaser — to make a final challenge and end it all.”

I reassure him I only want to praise the man and his vision.
He smokes and stares at the park children.
He thinks. Decides.

“Fuck it,” he says finally. “I got nothing left to lose.”

He gives me an address.
Tells me not to get caught.
Pulls on his gloves.
And returns to work.
Serge meets me outside the school.
He’s brought Ki along, too.
Ki’s a mutual college friend who’s volunteered to help.
Ki seems wide-eyed about the whole thing, not sure what he’s getting himself into.
Maybe that describes us all.

Marty Marks said he stashed files and print work that survived the print shop fire in the basement of McArthur Elementary school. (Irony duly noted, Marty.)
The school was vacated in 2009 over worries of toxicity levels created by an adjacent paint plant dumping waste in the ground since 1963.
A lawsuit is still pending, but Denver Schools all but abandoned the site…
…making it free to be investigated by three curious college kids.

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McArthur El is frozen in time.
Chairs and desks are still set-up in the classrooms.
Books and personal items poke out from open lockers and broken cubbies.
Papers scatter the halls.
Standing water floods most of the lower floors.
The walls peel paint like they’re desperately trying to shed to a second skin.

There is no basement.
Just a series of underground rooms servicing designated parts of the building.
We agree to split up and see what we can find.
We have mag lights to illuminate our way.
Ki and Serge head to the west side of the building.
I’m to the east.

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I stare at the banner on the gymnasium wall.
“Enjoy the game.”
Another bit of added irony.
Because that’s what we need right now.
More of the old ironic.

If you skirt the edge of the gym, there’s very little ankle-high wading to do.
In the side changing room, there's a spiral staircase leading underground.
It’s like going deep into the belly of a submarine.

Steel understructure.
Water beading down the walls.
Drenched insulation dripping fiberglass from the ceiling like heavy moss.

This basement section was used for athletic storage.
There is an equipment cage.
Wired baskets full of half-deflated dodge balls.
Jump ropes and p.e. equipment strewn about.

At the far end of the room, there is a sheet of OSB plywood leaning against the wall — a red message spray-painted on it: “Keep Out.”
Nice security system, Marty.

I carefully move the OSB aside, revealing an open doorway.

Plastic dolls are tied from the ceiling joists, strung up by their arms and feet, creating a staggered curtain effect.
The iconic Prince Love Symbol #2 is permanent-markered on a few of the naked dolls.
Nice touch.
I push through the dolls and enter the dark the room.

More water drips from the ceiling above.
The whole roof looks like it could cave-in any second.

My flashlight trains on the items in the room.
There are file cabinets and boxes staged on pallets.
The paperwork has miraculously survived the water-slogged room.

I pop the top on a few boxes and am immediately greeted with pictures I can’t unsee.
Not what I’m looking for.
I fold the lids back tight.
I open a drawer or two in a cabinet.
Files, papers — some proofs from jobs done.
Marty’s right.
He worked on some kinky shit.
I dig for the name Lier used in the late 2000s.
I find a file.
Inside are sketches for “The Kidnapper’s Bible.”
I take a snapshot with my phone.
I pocket it again to have a hand free.
I dig back into the paper work.
There is a page of instructions on printing the manual and its dissemination.
There is a signature with the name that Lier used.
An invoice…an address.
I reach for my phone, and that’s when I hear the rush of water behind me.

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I train the flashlight toward the doorway.
The curtain of dolls is swaying.
Someone just came through.
I spin at the next sound, but I’m too late.
An arm tightens around my neck and squeezes tight, blocking off air.
My flashlight drops into the standing water.
I struggle to get free, but the hold is too strong, the pressure too great.
I pass out.

The rest comes in flashes.
I am dragged to the equipment cage.
A rag is stuffed in my mouth.
Duct tape “skriiiitches” from the roll and seals in the rag.
My hands stretch to their sides.
Rope lashes me to the fence.
My feet cross and are tied in place.
I am crucified to the chain link fence.

I begin to lift from consciousness.
I peer at the end of the room.
The tall, imposing figure who imperiled me now destroys the small, secret room with a simple push on the convex ceiling.
Water, tile, insulation, sewage, and crumbling concrete rain down and create a deluge, engulfing the boxes, papers and cabinets.
The proof is washed away.

The figure stands in front of me.
Daylight streams down from the circular staircase, outlining his form.
I see a vampiric shape — bald, scabbed head — gleaming ratlike eyes.
My opponent — Amond Swofford.
He breathes heavily in the near-dark.
He begins to rub himself, watching as I struggle against my bonds, tied to the fence.
His breathing grows heavier.

Then there is a sound from upstairs.
Ki and Serge calling my name.
I begin to cry out from behind my rag and tape gag.
In a moment, Swofford is away, escaping with surprising fleetness up the spiral stairs.

In another minute, Ki and Serge follow my cries and discover me.
They release me from the fence.
We hurry from the school.

But not all is lost.
I remembered one bit of information from my brief look in Lier’s file…

…and I suddenly know the significance of the library image on the King of Hearts card.
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jay_write
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Post by jay_write »

Cover-ups and near-misses abound. I'm curious what Amond had planned for Dylan had the others not made their presence known at that precise moment. I also can't help but wonder if Dylan's putting a target on their back by including them in this investigation. I suppose the question is, how pretty are they?

I was pleasantly surprised to see Dylan isn't "off-limits", so-to-speak. A part of me is hoping for more near-misses like that before the end.
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jay_write
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Post by jay_write »

Not surprised the other two backed out, although given Mr. Lier's threat I have to wonder if it's already too late for them. On the subject of Mr. Lier, I'm really liking the way the you're writing him, considering so far he has only existed via text messages. It seems like a foregone conclusion that he had a hand in the death of Martin Marks, and yet, when he says he didn't I'm almost inclined to believe him.

That last message, with him saying, "I'll be seeing you soon"? I'm looking forward to that, probably far more than I should be. One way or another, I really hope we meet Mr. Lier in person at some point in the future.
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Post by Mummyboy »

I agree... it would be interesting in Mr Lier and Dylan were actually related. I think Dylan need to be wrapped up like a nice tight... very tight mummy. He would realize it’s to late as he feels he isn’t going to get free with alittle help from a friend.
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Post by Deleted User 3263 »

Hello all. I have more to convey about Dylan's challenge, but it will have to wait until next week when I return from vacation. In the meantime, say a prayer for Dylan...or for Mr. Lier...depending on your allegiances. We don't judge here. - boygagged
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Post by Deleted User 3263 »

JOE HARDY in THE MYSTERY OF CASTLE SEASIDE
Chapters 5-8

by Dylan Tremont
(a role play by Dylan and Chase)


Chapter 5
“Mr. Dyson Again”


The scaffolding ladder continues to lower into the well.

I pull against the ropes holding me to the scaffolding and cry out in futility behind my thoroughly efficient double cloth gag.

The metal structure sways as it drops, rattling against the stone walls of the well. But the ladder keeps descending…as the splashing beneath me grows louder…and closer!
I can feel the spray of water reach my securely tied hands. It’s only a matter of seconds before my roped feet touch the water. Before the sharks have at me.

Way to go, Joe. Maybe this is why you're not “Young Detective of the Year” material.

A door opens in the lighthouse above me. There is a pause. The drone of the motor ceases, and the ladder swings in the silent air for a few seconds. Then the motor powers up, and its direction reverses. I am miraculously raised back up to the main room of the lighthouse.

A figure is busy behind me, guiding the ladder to the side once it clears the well opening. The doors are lifted up and bolted back in place. The figure, wearing a dark coat, moves in front of me, reaches, and unwraps the white cloth from around my head and pulls the cleave gag down to my neck.

He pushes his cap back, revealing his fair hair and weathered face.

It’s Mr. Dyson!

Only, it’s not…at least not the Mr. Dyson from earlier.

“Young man, how did you get in this state?” he asks with surprise, starting to untie me.

“What? Who - who are you?” I counter.

“The name’s Dyson. I look after these buildings on this part of the beach.”

“I’m Joe Hardy,” I say. “I answered your text message.”

He stops undoing the ropes. “I sent that to Frank Hardy. He’s the one my employer asked for help.”

I nod impatiently. “You get me instead. Would you mind untying me, please?”

The other Mr. Dyson undoes the ropes, and I step free from the scaffolding, rubbing my wrists to smooth out the ligature marks.

“There’s another guy out here — pretending to be you,” I tell him. “He brought me to this lighthouse. When my back was turned, he knocked me out, tied me to that ladder and tried to turn me into shark bait.”

Mr. Dyson frowns. “Not very neighborly of him.”

“Tell me about it.”

He coils the rope and sets it aside. He pauses for a moment and turns to me.

“There are mysterious goings on in Victoria Beach, young Mr. Hardy,” he finally says. “Do you think you can get to the bottom of what’s going on?”



Chapter 6
“The Boat”


It’s a beautiful stretch of beach. Only one other neighbor home up the way, otherwise the lighthouse and castle are the lone structures here. Together, they stand like something out of a fairy tale. A creepy fairy tale. The whole beach feels isolated, cut off from time and the outside world.

The other Mr. Dyson has gone to get the keys to the main house — the one that looks like an Italian castle. He’s promised to take me on a tour. He frowned at my insistence to investigate alone. “I’m afraid it’s not allowed,” he said and then left me waiting at a low dock at the water's edge.

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The morning fog has dissipated, and the sun is heating up. I remove my shirt and hang it from one of the dock posts. I scan the horizon. A freighter is passing in the near distance, its markings almost clear enough to make out from where I stand on the beach. This must be a normal sailing route, I think to myself. You could keep close track of the comings and goings of all shipping vessels right from here.

I take out my phone and pull-up the picture of the map that was hanging in the lighthouse. I’ll have to take a closer look later at the markings on the map. And I'll need to get my phone charged soon. The battery is down by half. I shut it off and stow it away.

There’s a small boat lashed to the dock. I glance over and am reminded of the flooded cave entrance under the castle. It doesn’t take long to decide what to do next.

Climbing down a wooden ladder to the boat, I peel back the tarp cover. There are basic supplies in the hull, including an anchor, a flashlight, a petrol can and rope. (I’m beginning to sense a pattern.) I drop in, bunch up the tarp, unlash the cleat rope from the dock and start up the motor. The boat pulls forward smoothly, and I guide it toward the waiting mouth of the cave.


Chapter 7
“The Spy Hole”


Chugging closer to the cave entrance, I look up at the looming castle. In a high tower window, something glints from the sun and momentarily blinds me. And just like that, the image is gone as a rock roof extends above me and the boat enters the cave.

It’s a narrow path into the rocky opening. Fortunately, the sharks are playing elsewhere (still hoping for another bound morsel to drop from above?), so I have few distractions from carefully steering the boat between the stone sides of the entrance.

I pull back on the speed and drift forward toward a glimmering light ahead.

The tight rock tunnel opens into a large chamber, and I motor over to a dock where a similar sized boat is tethered. I pull alongside, kill the motor and tie-off. Before I step out of the boat, I think about my phone and decide to grab one of the flashlights I spotted earlier. I flick the button to be sure it has power and clip it to my belt loop.
I also tuck a coil of rope into my back pocket. You know. Just in case.

At the end of the dock, and under a small canopy of lights, is a medieval-looking door, appropriate for the basement entrance of a castle. I push against the door, but nothing moves. Then I notice the hanging chain to the side. I pull it, expecting the door to slide up or to the side…but nothing happens. Another pull. Another negative response.

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Suddenly, there is a squawking of voices from somewhere in the chamber. I step out from under the canopy and press myself against a rock wall in the shadows. Another burst of talking. It sounds like it’s being filtered through a speaker. It’s coming from the end of a dark walkway further south of the door.
I engage the flashlight and follow its beam to a fissure in the wall. Stone steps lead up. I slide between the crevice and climb.

At the top, I follow a narrow pathway to a carved-out room, big enough for two people. On the opposite wall, a hole looks out at the sea. I step to it and peer down, seeing the beachside dock, the lighthouse nearby, the ocean beyond. This must be a lookout post. A spy hole.

The voice sounds again, this time louder and right next to me. I look over to see an old style short wave radio atop a creaky wooden table. There is a walkie talkie next to it. And more of those same cigarette butts strewn about like they were in the lighthouse tower.

The radio bursts alive with broken sounds. I can make out a few words: “Tonight” and “shipment” and “intercept the boat” and “biggest score.” And then, chillingly: “Neutralize the Hardy Boy.”

The radio goes silent.

I dig through some papers on the table, but there are no additional clues here. Risking my phone battery, I take a few quick pictures of the radio, the walkie talkie, the spent cigarettes.

Then sounds come from outside. I look down from the spy hole to see Mr. Dyson standing at the dock, calling my name. He has my plaid shirt in his hand, and he’s looking about, baffled. He probably thinks I spontaneously combusted in the heat.

I wait until he leaves the dock, and then I use the flashlight to make my way back to the cave dock and my boat.



Chapter 8
“A Refreshing Drink”


I pull up to the beach and lash the boat to the dock.

When I climb the ladder, Mr. Dyson is nowhere to be seen. He must have gone back to the house. That’s where I’ll find him, then.

I go to grab my shirt from the post and see that he’s left a water bottle on top of it. The plastic bottle perspires, glistening cool and wet in the mid-day sun. A refreshing drink. That’s just what I need right now. I uncap the bottle and drink it empty.

“There you are!” Mr. Dyson says as he approaches. “I thought you’d escaped!” I give him a look. He smiles. “My tours are known to be a kind of torture. Sorry.”

I smile and nod.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the water,” he continues. “It gets quite warm out here on the beach. Mr. Hardy? Are you feeling all right?”

I glance over at him.

“You don’t look well, Joe. Your skin is clammy. And you seem unsteady on your feet.”

I begin to sway slightly. Swallow hard. Mr. Dyson’s eyebrows unknit.

“You probably drank too fast. Or… It’s the Rohypnol taking effect. A little sedation to make it easier to capture you.”

Ah, damn. It’s the evil Mr. Dyson!

I start to breathe quickly, fluttering my eyelids. I want to flee, but my feet are now lead. I try to run anyway. I totter and fall.

Dyson catches me and lays me down on my back on the sand. Everything is swirling around me. I close my eyes and try to center myself.

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Dyson slips behind me, and he raises my torso to sit up. He brushes sand from my back and jerks my hands behind me and crosses them. Conveniently, there’s a coil of rope hanging out of my back pocket, so that’s what he uses to bind my wrists together. (You know. Just in case.)

He rolls me over and uses another length of rope to roughly tie my ankles together.

My eyes slide open just in time to see a heavy bag pulled over my head, cutting out the sun. It doesn’t take long for the heat to increase in the bag, making me even more lightheaded.

He hoists me on his shoulder and carries me down into the boat. I sit slumped on the front bench. I feel more rope slipping between my wrists and ankles as he secures me to the bench. All belted in for the trip. The motor starts, and the boat lurches forward.

“This is how they brought the prisoners into the fort at San Marino,” evil Mr. Dyson yells over the motor as the boat cuts through the water. “Bound and blind and afraid for their lives. You feel that way, Mr. Hardy? You’d be right to. God only knows what’s in store for you in that castle.”

The boat slows — going through the cave opening — and it’s only a matter of moments until we’re pulled alongside the dock. I am released from the boat and lifted on Dyson’s shoulder once again. He trudges toward the door.

The door! It’s locked! He’s going to pull the chain, and nothing! I smirk.

Then I hear the high-pitched chirp-chirp of a car door opener.
And the sound of the door grating open.
A car door opener?
Are you kidding me right now???

A cold breeze wafts out from the open door as Dyson pauses on the threshold.

“The boss suggested a change in the tour, Mr. Hardy. He thinks you should experience the dungeon first.” I swear I can hear him smile. “I couldn’t agree more!”



…to be continued…


Who was on the other side of the spy hole radio transmission?
What is “the shipment” planned for “tonight”?
What’s up with the two Mr. Dysons?
And what tortures awaits Joe in the depths of the castle dungeon???
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Post by Viper7 »

This story is excellent! One of my faves I’ve seen on here. The email format is awesome and the taunting descriptions of bondage are very sexy. Love it! :)
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Post by Deleted User 3263 »

Viper7 wrote: 4 years ago This story is excellent! One of my faves I’ve seen on here. The email format is awesome and the taunting descriptions of bondage are very sexy. Love it! :)
I must admit I'm still reeling from the appearance of the Pretty Boy Mafia and the most recent discovery of Dylan's audio logs. I thought they were only boasts used as protection from Mr. Lier. They're being transcribed, and once completed, we can finally resume the remainder of this story.
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Post by MaxRoper »

That's very good news. Still waiting patiently (well, sorta).
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Post by nebular »

So excited that there is more to this tale... Can't wait!
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Post by NeedControl »

So sad that you're gone. ☹️

This was an incredibly engaging story.
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Post by Josh99 »

Wow. What a great story. Well done, can't wait to read more from you.
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Post by jackroper »

Too bad User has deleted himself from the board. This was a great, creative piece of writing. Bravo!
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Post by Gagfan »

I loved the original "the stranger" portion and liked the lore of the kidnapping group that had been building up but was always confused by the side stories that didnt seem particularly connected to the original set up
For my stories I haven't gotten around to posting here: https://gagfan.wordpress.com/
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Post by Tsuhaya »

If I'm not mistaken he still posts this story in his deviantart account
Yes, it's me in the picture. What are you waiting for to tie me up and gag me?
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