The tickling machine known as the man handler. A twin sized bed designed by some mad artist. The most comfortable, inescapable bed, and the darkest pit of hell. It's limbs brushed my sides, my armpits, my ribs, my stomach and my navel. Every touch tickled, every stroke a precise sensation like the tips of dry paint brushes. If I was a captured spy I would have told them everything. But all they wanted was a steady stream of hysterical laughter.