Marine Games

Private First Class Jamie "Scout" Miller stood in his battle-ready gear, sleeves folded up to his shoulders, revealing arms that were still more Boy Scout than Marine. The afternoon sun beat down on the off-base rental where five of his fellow Marines circled him like sharks.

"Twenty bucks says you can't get out in under five minutes," Hernandez said, dangling a roll of duct tape from his finger. "Unless you're scared?"

Scout snorted. "Make it thirty. And if I win, the pink belly punishment goes to each of you instead."

The group erupted in mock outrage.

"Big talk for a baby-faced boot," Rodriguez said, uncoiling a length of nylon rope. "But deal."

"Just remember," Scout said, extending his wrists. "You wanted this done properly."

Fifteen minutes later, Scout sat in the center of the living room, a masterpiece of restraint. His wrists were bound behind his back with intricate knots, ankles secured to the chair legs, chest wrapped in multiple layers of rope. Duct tape wound around his legs and torso, with additional strips securing his fingers together.

"You've got five minutes, Boy Scout," Jones said, starting the timer on his phone. "Let's see those merit badges in action."

Scout flexed against his bonds experimentally, mentally cataloging each restraint. As his buddies laughed and made bets among themselves, a slight smile formed beneath the final strip of tape across his mouth. They'd done exactly what he'd hoped—overbuilt their trap. The same mistake he'd seen countless times as a wilderness survival instructor back in Troop 237.

Time to show these jarheads what a real escape artist looks like.

Rodriguez worked methodically, his hands moving with practiced precision from years of training in knots and restraints.

"First the foundation," he explained to the others. "You start with the wrists—tight enough to hold, but not cut circulation."

Scout felt the rope cinch firmly around his crossed wrists, each loop precisely placed.

"Then you secure the arms," Rodriguez continued, wrapping rope above the elbows and pulling them closer together. The rope bit into Scout's biceps as it was wound around his upper arms, pinning them tightly to his torso. "This prevents any leverage."

Hernandez nodded appreciatively. "Corps taught you well."

"But the Corps doesn't teach you this," Rodriguez added, grabbing the duct tape from Jones. The metallic shriek of tape being yanked from the roll filled the room. "Tape reinforces everything. Rope can stretch and give you wiggle room. Tape doesn't."

Silver bands wrapped around Scout's already bound arms, the adhesive sticking to skin and rope alike. Each layer further immobilized him, sealing away any possible slack in the rope. Rodriguez circled him multiple times, methodically covering every potential weak point in their restraint system.

"Try getting out of that, Boy Scout," Rodriguez said, slapping a final piece across Scout's already tape-covered mouth. "Extra security."

Scout's eyes narrowed slightly above the gag. What his buddies didn't realize was that their thoroughness had given him exactly what he needed—information about their technique and, more importantly, their overconfidence.

"Wait," Chambers interrupted, pulling a dark bandana from his pocket. "We're forgetting something crucial."

Scout's eyes widened slightly as Chambers approached with the makeshift blindfold.

"Can't have our Boy Scout seeing what he's working with," Chambers said, stretching the fabric between his hands. "That's cheating."

The world went dark as the tight blindfold covered Scout's eyes. The knot dug into the back of his head as Chambers secured it with unnecessary force.

"How's that feel, Eagle Scout?" Hernandez taunted, his voice now coming from somewhere to Scout's left. "Still feeling confident about those thirty bucks?"

Someone flicked Scout's ear. From his right, Jones's voice: "I'm thinking what color pink his belly's gonna turn. Maybe we should do double punishment since he was stupid enough to take this bet."

"Remember in basic when he couldn't even get out of a simple arm hold?" Rodriguez circled around him, footsteps deliberately heavy. "I bet he pisses himself before the five minutes are up."

Scout felt a hand ruffle his hair condescendingly.

"Look at him," Chambers laughed. "All that Scout training, and here he is—helpless as a turtle on its back."

The timer beeped as it started. Their taunts continued, voices moving around him unpredictably. Scout remained still, focusing not on their words but on the sensations of his restraints. Without sight, his other senses heightened—he could feel the subtle differences between the rope fibers and tape adhesive, could hear the specific locations of his buddies as they moved around him.

What they didn't understand was that the blindfold wasn't a disadvantage at all. In the darkness behind the bandana, Scout's mouth curled slightly upward beneath the tape. In Scout survival training, they'd practiced escapes in complete darkness dozens of times. This was just another Tuesday night in Troop 237.

"Let's play POW interrogation," Martinez suggested, his voice taking on a theatrical grimness. He switched on a desk lamp and aimed the harsh light directly at Scout's blindfolded face. "Might as well give our Boy Scout the full experience."

Rodriguez chuckled. "I like it. SERE training lite."

Scout felt a shift in the room's energy. What had started as a simple escape challenge was evolving into something more elaborate. He'd heard stories about the Corps' Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training—brutal simulations designed to prepare Marines for the worst possible scenarios. This wasn't official training, but his buddies seemed eager to create their own amateur version.

"Prisoner," Martinez began, adopting an exaggerated foreign accent, "we know you have valuable intelligence. Tell us the location of your unit."

Scout remained silent beneath the gag, his breathing steady. Despite the absurdity of the situation, he felt a flutter of anxiety. This wasn't what he'd signed up for, but backing out now would mean instant defeat.

"Not talking?" Jones joined in, his voice unnervingly close to Scout's ear. "Perhaps we need to be more persuasive."

Scout flinched as ice-cold water splashed across his chest, soaking through his t-shirt. The shock of it sent a reflexive shiver through his body.

"Still nothing? Your loyalty is admirable, Marine, but foolish," Martinez continued, fully committed to his role. "Everyone breaks eventually."

Hernandez leaned in, whispering, "Clock's still ticking, Scout. Thirty bucks and five pink bellies waiting. Better start working those Boy Scout magic fingers."

Scout focused his mind, pushing aside the discomfort and theatrics. This new wrinkle actually gave him an advantage—with everyone distracted by their impromptu interrogation game, they'd be paying less attention to his subtle movements as he began working on his restraints.

Behind his back, his fingers started manipulating the tape around his wrists, searching for the one weakness he'd noticed during application: Rodriguez had been so focused on layering that he'd created small air pockets where the adhesive couldn't fully bond.

"This prisoner is being uncooperative," Martinez announced, dramatically pacing in front of Scout. "I think it's time we show him we mean business."

Scout heard the metallic snick of a pocket knife opening.

"Hold up," Rodriguez said. "His cammies are going to be a pain with those sleeves rolled up. That's some thick material."

"Not a problem," Martinez replied confidently. "My dad's a tailor. I know how to handle tough fabric."

Scout felt the knife carefully work its way beneath his collar, the cold metal barely touching his skin as Martinez began to cut down the back of his battle dress uniform. The tough material resisted, causing Martinez to saw at it with growing frustration.

"Damn, these things are built to last," Martinez grunted, working the knife through the reinforced seams. "No wonder they survive combat."

"Just rip it," Hernandez suggested impatiently.

"And risk cutting him for real? No thanks." Martinez continued his methodical approach, eventually splitting the back of Scout's top from collar to waist. "There we go."

They peeled the battle dress forward over his shoulders, leaving it hanging from his bound arms like a bizarre military straitjacket, his undershirt still intact beneath.

"One more layer," Jones announced, grabbing the scissors to make quick work of Scout's undershirt. The wet cotton gave way easily, finally exposing his torso to the room's cool air.

"Look at this baby skin," Hernandez taunted, poking Scout's bare stomach. "This is going to turn such a nice shade of pink. I'm thinking somewhere between cotton candy and lobster."

Jones laughed. "Better make it quick, Scout. Three minutes left."

Scout controlled his breathing, focusing past the discomfort of being half-naked and vulnerable. The partial removal of his battle dress actually created an unexpected advantage—the hanging fabric provided concealment for his fingers as they worked on the restraints.

"I vote we start the pink belly early," Chambers suggested, his voice carrying a hint of eagerness that made Scout redouble his efforts. "Just a preview of what's coming."

"Nah," Rodriguez replied. "A deal's a deal. But that doesn't mean we can't mess with his head a little more."

Someone snapped a photo—likely for future ammunition in the barracks. The flash penetrated even through Scout's blindfold, momentarily disorienting him. But beneath the bravado and taunts, Scout could sense something his buddies couldn't: the restraints were beginning to give.

Scout's fingers worked frantically behind his back, making progress inch by inch. The tape adhesive loosened with his sweat, and he'd managed to create enough slack in one of Rodriguez's knots to slip his right thumb free. But as he felt the timer on Jones's phone buzz loudly, he knew it was too late.

"Time's up, Scout!" Hernandez announced triumphantly. "That's thirty bucks, a case of beer, and one pink belly coming right up!"

The blindfold was yanked from his eyes, the sudden light momentarily blinding him. Scout blinked rapidly, coming face to face with five grinning Marines. Their expressions of victory told him everything he needed to know.

"Almost had it too," Rodriguez said, noticing Scout's partially freed hand as he began unwrapping the restraints. "Another minute and you might have made it."

Scout groaned beneath the tape still covering his mouth. When Chambers ripped it off with sadistic glee, Scout winced. "That was harder than I expected," he admitted, flexing his stiff wrists as the ropes fell away.

"Pay up, boot," Hernandez said, hand outstretched.

Scout reluctantly pulled three wrinkled ten-dollar bills from his wallet, slapping them into Hernandez's palm with as much dignity as he could muster while standing half-naked in a ruined uniform.

"Don't forget our beer," Martinez added. "Premium stuff too—none of that watered-down crap from the PX."

"You can pick it up on our way back to base," Jones said, patting Scout's bare shoulder condescendingly. "I'm thinking something local and expensive."

Scout nodded grimly. The thirty bucks was bad enough, but a case of good beer would clean out what little remained of his paycheck. "Fine. A deal's a deal."

"And now," Chambers announced, rubbing his hands together, "the moment we've all been waiting for."

The five Marines positioned themselves around Scout, who lay resigned on the floor, his hairy, sweat-slicked stomach exposed. The room felt uncomfortably warm now, the afternoon sun having turned the off-base rental into an oven.

"Let's see how Eagle Scout likes this merit badge," Martinez quipped as they all raised their hands.

The slaps came in rapid succession, five pairs of hands delivering stinging blows to Scout's abdomen. Each Marine took particular delight in making their contribution count, turning his skin progressively pinker with every smack.

Scout gritted his teeth, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing him complain. The sting built with each slap, his stomach muscles tensing reflexively against the assault.

"That's what happens when Boy Scouts try to play with Marines," Chambers taunted as they finally finished, admiring their handiwork—Scout's stomach now glowing an angry shade of pink.

Scout sat up slowly, wincing. "Well played," he conceded, looking down at his reddened abdomen. Then, despite everything, a slow grin spread across his face. "But next time, I'm bringing my own rope."

Rodriguez laughed, offering Scout a hand up. "There won't be a next time, boot. But if there is, make it two cases of beer. We're just getting started with your education."

As Scout gathered the tattered remains of his uniform, he made a mental note to practice his knot escapes before the next leave. These jarheads might have won this round, but the war was far from over.