Hurt me, Suzanne, but be nice about it, please and thank you!

I found myself being strapped to a gurney and blindfolded, waiting for my friend's young wife to punch me as hard as she wanted. 

Apparently, I was only keeping up my end of a reciprocal arrangement, and I had already pummeled her in a like manner. Still, I was surprised by the intensity of her enthusiasm as she strapped me in. She had a score to settle with me, so perhaps some of my blows had been unexpectedly harsh.

"Go, easy on me, Sooz," I said, weakly protesting. "You know I love you, right?"

Maybe she did know it, but that didn't do much to lessen Suzanne's glee as she fastened my restrains. She was going to make me suffer, even if it was just the trauma of anticipatory dread.

There were accessories that had to be fiddled with, so the punching agenda kept getting delayed. There was an optional chest protector which I tried to get fitted for, but it kept sliding off, so we 86ed it. The blindfold was replaced with a pair of mirrored sunglasses, more for aesthetic than functionality, and I was now instructed to just keep my eyes closed throughout the process. 

Meanwhile, I practiced tensing my stomach muscles in preparation for the invisible assault. 

"You're too soft, my friend," said Martin, my ex cult-mate making an impromptu dream appearance in the role of coach. "Try raising your arms to protect your core." 

I did as he said, raising my arms in a defensive stance, and that did seem to offer a bit more protection for my soft belly. Now it was the inevitable blows to the side of the head that began to concern me. Just how much revenge did Suzanne plan to exact?

People were showing up for the spectacle, some wagering on various aspects of the outcome: blood or no blood, the volume and length of the screams that would be emitted by my me, while others just nodded silent approval with a look of smug satisfaction on their faces.

We had to move the venue (either to accommodate or restrict the growing crowd, not sure which) so we unlocked the gurney wheels and got our respective mobile torture devices rolling down a rather steep hill. Despite the gurneys having no included steering features, we were able to control them surprisingly well using just the wheel brakes, giving the whole thing a kind of fun soapbox derby vibe.

"This is no good," I said as we approached the bottom, noticing that there was a swollen river directly in our path, and our crossing would be impeded by the rising waters.

We were already quite a ways down the hill, and the gurneys were surprisingly heavy, so we had to conscript some of the bystanders who had doggedly trailed us on the descent, employing them as pallbearers in our uphill retreat. They did their jobs without complaint, as they were all completely invested in this event taking place. 

"OK, Suzanne," I said, almost giddy to get this thing underway. "Do your worst." By that, I meant: "Do a poor job of pounding me into a puddle, ie, leave some bits intact, please." 

I'm not sure if she understood the assignment, as she still had a fierce expression on her face, but her eyes held a glimmer of, "This is all for play, and probably, I'll mostly just scare you. Mostly." 

That's where we left it, and I woke up feeling a bit of adrenaline mixed with relief, like when you doze off while driving and catch yourself before you drift into oncoming traffic.