DEATHPANTS

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It was a cold November evening as Mike and Chester sat playing chess in their hotel room. They didn’t usually participate in such raucous activities but tonight was special; tonight was their first anniversary and they had wanted to do something to mark the occasion. So there they sat in silence, deep in concentration. They thought so hard that their brains started throbbing inside their skulls and the smell of brain-sweat wafted throughout the hotel corridor. Two doors down, something stirred in Joe’s suitcase. Aroused by the sweet aroma of hard-working brains, a fuchsia pink thong clawed its way out of the case. But this was no ordinary pair of underpants… these were deathpants.

Deathpants are a particularly nasty breed of underwear. To the untrained eye they look like any other pair of underpants… that is until they smell brain-sweat. Then they transform into the most savage killing-machine known to man. The thong scrambled along the ground, slid under the door and headed for Mike and Chester’s room. Slowly it squeezed itself under the door and into the room where Mike and Chester sat playing chess. The sweet smell of brain-sweat got stronger the minute it entered the room and it released a low growl as it spotted the pair of lovers getting wet over their chess game. The panties approached the table but Mike instantly spotted their extravagant pink glow.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, leaping onto the coffee table and attaching himself to Chester’s arm.

“What will I do?” asked Chester in the butchest voice he could muster.

“I have no idea but I recommend smacking them on the nose with a rolled up newspaper!” offered Mike.

“No good, I’ve seen these types of panties before. They like being spanked, so the newspaper would only give them the strength they need,” said Chester, standing up in front of Mike and swelling out his chest.

“Do something!” screamed Mike, panicked. Chester approached the thong confidently.

“Get out or I’ll bleach you till you’re white. Put that in your pipe and smoke it”, teased Chester, proud of his own bravery. The thong only laughed, because, what Chester didn’t know was that deathpants are impervious to beach and any other kind of abrasive cleaning agent.

“Alright you. You crawled into the wrong room, my friend.” he sneered. With that he lunged forward. But the thong was too quick for him. It darted to the side and leaped at Chester’s head.

“Oh.... god” he groaned, as it affixed itself to his head. Gently, with infinite care, the pant proboscis slid into his brain, until, with a squelchy noise, his brains were sucked tenderly from his head. With a sigh of happiness caused by no brains, he collapsed limply on the ground.

“No!!! Oh no, my baby!!” squealed Mike in hysterics, dropping to his knees beside his lifeless lover. He cradled Chester’s slight frame in his arms and sobbed.

The pants, not satisfied by their feast of human brain, let out a low-pitched growl and twitched in his general direction. Mike jumped up and clambered away from Chester’s body as the thong re-attached itself to his face and started gnawing at Chester’s face. Mike retched at the sight and whimpered softly. Chester had sacrificed his own life to protect him and now he was having his face chewed off by a murderous pink thong. The guilt in the pit of Mike’s stomach made him feel nauseous… or maybe it was the face masticating.

The thong moved away from Chester, attracted by the scent of Mike’s brain on overdrive. They turned towards him once again and released a bone-shattering screech that made every hair on Mike’s body stand on end.

“No, not me…” he gasped. He backed away cautiously from the rampant underpants, tripping over the table and chessboard as he moved away. He grabbed a lamp off the table and brandished it valiantly. The pants made their move, hurling themselves across the room at Mike’s head. He swung the lamp and knocked the thong to the other corner of the room. Disorientated from the blow, the thong lay motionless for a minute. Mike took this opportunity to run for the door, but in his haste he tripped over the six-foot Pooh Bear that Chester had bought him for their anniversary and crashed to the floor with a dull thud. He scrambled at the carpet in an effort to get back on is feet but within seconds the deathpants were in front of him wearing a mocking sneer. It licked its lips (for it had lips unlike other underpants) in anticipation of tasting Mike’s sweet brain.

Mike collapsed helplessly onto his ass, knowing that he could never escape the deathpants. They were too quick and too cunning. He closed his eyes and swallowed, preparing himself for what was to come. Finally the thong pounced, attaching itself securely to Mike’s skull and moving slowly inside towards its goal. Within moments he too was brainless, the thong lay in a contented doze on his ruined skull. The room once again descended into the calm silence that was before the deathpants made their entrance. The silence did not last for long though.

PC Christopher Walken, policeman on patrol had been tracking the band for over three months. He knew about the homicidal deathpants that Joe had unknowingly been wearing. PC Walken and deathpants had history; he didn’t want to talk about it. Suffice it to say that Walken’s wife didn’t take too kindly to his wearing of brightly coloured thongs at his age. The fact that they tried to suck her brain out while she was doing a crossword puzzle reinforced her discontentment. Damn her for not being more understanding.

He hurried along the corridor towards Mike and Chester’s room, pausing to bend down and inspect the carpet. Gently he ran his finger along it and frowned.

“Just as I suspected” he whispered to himself clenching his fist, “deathpants are on the move.” He followed the tracks that led into Mike’s room. He kicked the door down with surprising strength and burst into the room. The thong was ready for him, the instant he entered it flew across the room at him. This time it desired no brains, this time it went for the throat.

But it hadn't reckoned on what a crack addiction can do to a man. Without giving any conscious thought to it, PC Walken drew his weapon of choice; an antique revolver, from its leather holster, and emptied it into the nylon fabric of the pants, sending it flying across the room. The thong released a blood-curdling screech as the bullets penetrated it. Blood spurted everywhere, covering PC Walken from head to toe. He licked the blood off, enjoying the taste of victory; finally he had defeated them, the scourge that plagued his every waking hour. The pants fell in a limp pile on the floor, the last drops of life quickly flowing into the cheap carpet forming a round pool of crimson that clashed with the luminous pink material.

And once again, the day was saved. Never again would the world flee in terror from underwear. Or so PC Walken thought as he showered the pantguts off his head that evening, for unknown to him, a dark danger lurked in his sock drawer...

THE END | Short Fics

Part 1