The tickling machine known as The Man Handler, it massages then it tickles with ever increasing intensity. Mechanical yet human like hands stroke my sides, my armpits, my ribs, my stomach and my navel. Every touch tickled, every stroke a sharp precise sensation like the 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.