The Prank

 

Nineteen-year-old Ryan had planned to hang out with his friends. He had just signed up for the Marines and indicated he would want special forces training. His cut-off t-shirt reflected his wish: "SPECIAL FORCES" with a tough bulldog wearing dog tags—sleeveless, showing off his powerful arms from years of football training.

But his head was pounding where he had been hit from behind and knocked out. His arms burned from the ropes that lashed them to the metal chair he was bound to. Blindfolded, he could only feel the ropes that constricted his whole body, the cold metal against his back, and the throbbing pain behind his eyes.

"What the fuck is going on?" Ryan shouted, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar to his own ears. His consciousness cleared as he realized somebody had tied him up. "Who's there? Is anybody there?" The silence that followed was almost worse than any answer. He strained to hear movement, breathing, anything that might identify his captors.

"Please," Ryan's voice cracked, betraying the tough Marine image he'd cultivated. "I don't know what you want. My parents don't have money if that's—" His words dissolved into rapid breathing.

"Look, whoever you are, this is a mistake." His attempt at sounding authoritative failed as his voice pitched higher with each word. "I haven't seen your faces. Just let me go and we forget this happened."

Silence answered him, feeding his panic.

"ANSWER ME!" he roared suddenly, his football captain voice returning briefly before trembling again. "What do you want? Why are you doing this?" The chair rattled as he strained against the ropes.

"I'm joining the Marines," he bargained, desperation creeping in. "They'll look for me. They track recruits." A lie, but maybe it would work. "People know where I am." Another lie.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "Please. Just tell me what's happening." A sob threatened to break through, but he swallowed it back. Future Marines didn't cry, even when blindfolded and bound by unknown captors.

The gag turned Ryan's shouts into pathetic whimpers that humiliated him further. Sweat soaked the blindfold as he strained to make sense of his surroundings. The sharp crack of a beer can opening somewhere nearby barely registered before a hand connected with his cheek—hard enough to snap his head sideways.

"MMMPHH!" The impact shocked more than hurt, the violation worse than the sting.

Another slap from a different direction. Then another. His head rocked back and forth as blows came unpredictably. Not hard enough to truly injure, but each one stripped away another layer of dignity. Another piece of his self-image as someone strong, capable, Marine material.

The beer smell grew stronger. Whoever held the can was close now, breathing heavily with excitement or exertion. Liquid splashed against his face, soaking through his blindfold. Was it beer or water? He couldn't tell anymore.

"Think you're tough shit?" a voice whispered, deliberately distorted, unrecognizable.

Ryan's mind raced through possibilities. A rival team? Someone jealous of his scholarship? Foreign enemies who'd discovered his military enlistment? Each scenario seemed as implausible as the next, yet someone had him bound to a chair, was hitting him, taunting him.

The not knowing was worse than the pain. The helplessness worse than both.

Behind the blindfold, Ryan's thoughts spiraled from confusion to terror to rage and back again. This wasn't supposed to happen to guys like him. He was Ryan Michaels, team captain, future Marine. The guy who protected others, not the one who needed protection.

Stay calm. Assess the situation. Find a way out. The words from the military prep book he'd been studying echoed in his mind, but they felt hollow now, theoretical advice for theoretical situations.

They want something. Everyone wants something. Money? His family was solidly middle-class—no ransom potential there. Information? He knew nothing valuable. Revenge? He mentally scrolled through enemies—the defensive lineman from Central High he'd tackled too hard, the girlfriend he'd dumped before prom, the teacher he'd argued with over a grade.

No one who would do this.

A trickle of something worse than fear crept in: the possibility that this was random. Senseless. That he'd been chosen for no reason at all, which meant there was no logical way to talk himself out of it.

Don't cry. Marines don't cry. He bit down on the gag, using the pain to focus. If they wanted you dead, you'd be dead already. This is something else.

The slaps continued, and with each one, a piece of his carefully constructed identity—tough guy, leader, future warrior—cracked and fell away, revealing something he hadn't felt since he was a small child: pure, unadulterated helplessness.

Dad always said you were all talk. The thought ambushed him, shameful and unwelcome. Prove him wrong. Survive this. Whatever this is.

Time became meaningless. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as the slaps continued intermittently. The sounds of drinking grew louder, sloppier. More beer cans cracked open. Laughter became more raucous, less controlled.

"Not so tough now," someone slurred from behind him. Hands grabbed at his shirt, yanking and tearing the fabric. The "SPECIAL FORCES" logo ripped down the middle as they pulled it from his body, leaving him exposed to the cool air.

"This is how we—" a hiccup interrupted the voice, "—this is how we break the tough guys in training." The words were thick with intoxication but sent ice through Ryan's veins.

Break the Marine.

The words echoed in his mind as someone wadded up what felt like his own shirt and doused it with liquid. The smell hit him first—not just beer. Something stronger. Vodka maybe.

"Let's see if future soldier boy can handle enhanced interrogation." The voice was trying to sound official but kept dissolving into drunk snickering.

When the soaked fabric covered his face, Ryan's entire body convulsed. He couldn't see it coming, could only feel the sudden weight of the cloth pressing against his nose and mouth. Then the water—or alcohol, or both—poured slowly, deliberately.

It didn't matter how many pull-ups he could do or how fast he could run the mile. His muscled body betrayed him as survival instinct took over. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His lungs seized as liquid trickled into his airway.

"Break the Marine! Break the Marine!" The chant started low but grew louder, multiple voices joining in rhythm with the liquid being poured over his covered face.

For the first time, Ryan wondered if he might actually die here, at the hands of people who seemed to know exactly what would terrify a military recruit the most.

Ryan's survival instinct took over. His biceps bulged against the rope, fibers snapping one by one as he thrashed with primal desperation. The chair creaked under his convulsions. Each strain against his bonds tore deeper into his flesh, but he couldn't feel the pain—only the overwhelming need for air.

His lungs burned. Stars exploded behind his blindfold. His head thrashed side to side, trying to escape the saturated cloth that clung to his face like a suffocating mask. The water kept coming. His chest spasmed, desperate to inhale but finding only liquid.

His wrists twisted raw against the restraints, blood making his skin slick. For a heartbeat, he thought his right hand might slip free—then someone cranked the rope tighter, grinding bone against bone.

Just when the edges of consciousness began to blur, the cloth lifted. Ryan gasped violently, choking and retching against the gag. Water and spittle dribbled down his chin as he heaved in precious oxygen.

The sudden silence told him something had changed. The chanting stopped. The pouring stopped.

"Dude, he's bleeding," someone whispered, voice suddenly sober.

"Shit, man. Shit."

"Is he okay?"

The panic in their voices was different now—not excitement but fear.

Ryan hung limply in his restraints, consciousness flickering, aware only that for this moment, he could breathe again.

The blindfold came off with a violent yank. Light stabbed Ryan's dilated pupils, blinding him momentarily before five faces swam into focus. Faces he knew. Faces he trusted.

Mike. Trent. Jason. Cole. Derek. His football team. His friends.

"Surprise, Marine!" Trent's attempt at jovial camaraderie died in the silence that followed.

Someone cut through the gag with a pocket knife, the blade coming dangerously close to Ryan's cheek. As the soaked cloth fell away, Ryan worked his jaw, tasting blood where he'd bitten the inside of his mouth.

Five pairs of eyes stared back at him—bloodshot, drunk, and now flickering with the dawning comprehension of what they'd actually done.

"Untie me." Ryan's voice was barely recognizable, a rasping whisper scraped raw from screaming against the gag. When no one moved, something snapped behind his eyes. "UNTIE ME NOW!" The roar made all five flinch backward.

Fumbling hands worked at the ropes, cursing at the tight knots they themselves had tied. Nobody spoke. The only sounds were Ryan's ragged breathing and the shuffle of feet as they all tried to avoid his burning gaze.

When the last restraint fell away, Ryan stood slowly. His wrists were ringed with raw, weeping flesh. Rope burns striped his torso. His face was mottled with red marks that would become bruises by morning.

"Get me home." Each word came like a separate sentence, clipped and dangerous.

The drive back was silent as a funeral procession. Ryan stared straight ahead from the passenger seat, his mind meticulously cataloging every moment of his ordeal, every face, every voice. Every action.

In the darkness of the car, his swollen fingers curled into fists, then uncurled, over and over. Planning. Calculating. Waiting.

Five days later

The warehouse door slid open with a metallic groan. Ryan stepped inside, followed by his father—a retired Force Recon Marine—and his two older brothers, both active-duty military. The four men moved with quiet efficiency, checking their watches in synchronized precision.

"Three hours until the security patrol comes through," his father confirmed. "Plenty of time."

In the center of the concrete floor, five figures sat bound to metal chairs arranged in a circle, each facing outward. Black hoods covered their heads. Their muffled protests grew louder as footsteps approached.

"Positioning is important," Ryan's oldest brother explained, voice clinical. "This way, they can hear each other but can't see who's next. Psychological warfare 101."

Ryan circled the chairs slowly, studying his handiwork. The ropes were tied exactly as he had been restrained—tight enough to burn, impossible to escape, but not tight enough to cause permanent damage. His father had been explicit about that line.

"I trained in stress resistance techniques for two years before experiencing what you put me through for fun," Ryan said, voice carrying in the empty space. "Let's see how you handle five minutes of what I endured for hours."

He pulled off the first hood. Mike blinked rapidly in the harsh light, relief washing over his face when he recognized Ryan.

"Thank God, Ryan, someone jumped us in the parking lot—" His relief vanished as comprehension dawned. "Wait, what are you—"

"You're first," Ryan interrupted, nodding to his brothers. One held a plastic gallon jug of water while the other produced five t-shirts—the same "SPECIAL FORCES" shirts Ryan's friends had worn the night of the "prank." Each had been cut into squares.

Ryan's father stood back, arms crossed, face impassive as he watched.

One by one, Ryan removed the remaining hoods. The expressions that greeted him cycled through the same emotions: confusion, recognition, fear, understanding.

"Ryan, man, we said we were sorry," Derek pleaded, straining against the ropes.

"Actually, you didn't," Ryan replied evenly. "None of you did."

He placed a square of t-shirt fabric over Mike's face, smoothing it down carefully. "This is waterboarding. It simulates drowning." His voice became instructional, detached. "The water triggers an involuntary gag reflex. Your body will fight against invisible hands choking you. You'll experience the physiological effects of drowning without actually dying."

His brother tilted the jug.

The first splash sent Mike into immediate convulsions. His feet drummed against the concrete floor, the metal chair legs clattering as he fought frantically against the restraints. The other four watched in horror as their friend experienced what they had so casually inflicted.

Ryan counted to thirty before removing the cloth.

Mike gasped and sobbed, water and mucus streaming down his face. "Please," he choked. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Ryan moved to the next chair. And the next. Each friend experienced thirty seconds of controlled terror. Each emerged broken, gasping apologies between sobs.

When the fifth cloth was removed from Trent's face, Ryan's father finally stepped forward.

"That was thirty seconds each," he said, voice hard. "My son endured this for minutes at a time, repeatedly, at your hands. Remember that."

Ryan placed a phone on the ground between the chairs, screen showing a timer. "This will ring in two hours. Someone will hear it and find you. Until then, you can sit with what you've learned about yourselves."

He turned to leave, then paused. "The ropes won't give. Trust me, I tested the limits. But unlike you, I made sure they won't cause permanent damage."

His brothers checked each binding one last time before following Ryan and their father toward the exit.

"They were your friends," his father said quietly as they stepped outside.

"Were," Ryan agreed, voice empty of emotion. The raw wounds on his wrists had begun to scab over, but the memory of helplessness was still fresh. "Now they're just people who learned actions have consequences."

Behind them, in the warehouse, five young men strained futilely against expertly tied ropes, each alone with the realization of what they had truly done, and what it felt like to be on the receiving end. Their muffled sounds faded as the metal door slid closed.

Ryan didn't look back as they walked to the car. In three days, he would report for basic training. The physical scars would heal by then. The others would take longer.

Some lessons couldn't be taught with words.