The tickling machine known as the man Handler. It massages, then tickles with ever increasing intensity. It was a twin sized bed designed by a mad artist. Probes touched my sides, my armpits, my ribs, my stomach and my navel. Every touch tickled, every stroke a precise sensation like tips of dry paint brushes. If I was a captured spy, I would have told them everything. But all the audience in shadow wanted was a steady stream of hysterical laughter.