HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR: An Invitation To Disaster

by

Al Bruno III

Chester Bush sat on his front porch, waiting for the sunset and what the sunset would bring. It was a warm spring day, cloudy with a hint of rain. He had multiple windows open on his laptop; with each one, he checked for news in a city a time zone away.

Three days ago, at 7 a.m.o'clock, a tornado had come through the town of Drummond, Oregon, destroying everything in its path. Chester could read the incoming stories from his comfy chair and watch the video feeds from local and national news sources.

The body count kept rising. It seemed that for every miraculous survival, there were three lives cut short. The tornado had destroyed the firehouse but spared the police station. It had avoided the school but leveled an entire wing of the hospital.

There was booze in his free hand—expensive brandy in a cheap glass. His ex-wife Rosie would have said that was typical of him, and she would have been right. He had a lousy house full of expensive toys and a rusty car with a high-quality stereo system. That was just the way he liked it.

They used to sit on the porch of their home on Watkins Street—back when the house was theirs, not just hers. Back when their fights were still playful and their silences still comfortable. Rosie would stretch her legs across his lap, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and narrate the lives of their neighbors, one lit window at a time.

"See that one?" She nodded toward a glowing square of light. "He lives alone, but his 'best friend' visits every day. What do you think that means, huh?" She shot him a knowing grin. "And over there? Their daughter sneaks out her bedroom window every Sunday. And across the street—the ones who blast their music every night? They're falling out of love. Mark my words."
 
"Jesus, Rosie," Chester had laughed. "Maybe they just like music."  

Now, years later, he sat alone on his own porch listening. One of the browser windows Chester had open was streaming the feed from Drummond, Oregon's AM radio station. The traffic reports and right-wing pundits had been replaced with constant updates. They took calls and tried their best to help people track down loved ones who had gone missing in the disaster.

Chester was two years away from sixty and was proud of how well he handled the technology at his fingertips. Too many of his friends shied away from it all, intimidated by learning something new, afraid of looking foolish when they made a mistake. Chester had no fear of mistakes.

His cell phone rang, and he dropped his drink in his fumbling to get it to his ear. He hung up almost immediately—another one of those damn idiots looking for the previous owner of his cell number.

There had been a time when he would have cursed the person on the other end of the line out until they hung up, then called them back and cursed at them some more. All through his life, his temper had been a problem—but not anymore. Had he finally mellowed, or was it just that, at the age of fifty-eight, he didn't have the energy for feuds and fights? How many times should a man have to repair punched walls and replace thrown glasses?

Once, Rosie had thrown a glass. Not at him, but near enough. It had shattered against the kitchen tile, the sharp scent of whiskey filling the air.

"Goddamn it, Rosie!" he'd yelled. She was angry this time, and it was totally his fault. Over the years, it had become easier to antagonize her than to make her laugh—easier than trying to fix what was breaking. Chester didn't know when, but at some point, he'd started enjoying it. "You really are crazy."

"All I want is a little consideration." Her voice was raw, "I'm your wife."

"Then stop acting like you're my goddamn mother." He paused, "No. Stop acting like your mother."

She'd gone quiet then, breathing hard, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Then she left, she left, and he didn't see her for days.

When she returned, the broken glass was still waiting there for her to clean up.

Chester blinked, his focus snapping back to the puddle of spilled brandy spreading across the bare wood floor. He frowned at it for a moment, then closed his laptop. There wasn't anything new it could tell him anyway.

He already knew that the house on Watkins Street, the house belonging to Rosalie Price, formerly Rosalie Bush, had been flattened by the tornado. Just like every other house on that unlucky street.

Chester retrieved a towel from the kitchen, then got down on his knees and dabbed at the spilled brandy. The house he had shared with Rosie for seven years was gone. It seemed almost hard to believe. The last time he had seen the place was after the signing of the divorce papers.

Their last conversation had been in the driveway, a manila folder on the hood of his brand-new truck between them. It was drizzling, and Chester had watched raindrops bead on the windshield of his car while she signed her name—once, twice, three times.  

She clicked the pen shut, looked at him, and for a second, he thought she might say something. He braced himself, ready to fire back at whatever last shot she had left.

But she only exhaled, long and slow, before sliding the folder across the hood into his fingers.

"There," she said. "That's that."

He made a show of peeling out of the driveway in his truck, tires screeching, leaving behind rubber and smoke. It embarrassed him to think about it now. But back then? Back then, he'd told himself, Boy, I sure showed her.

He hadn't watched her walk away. At the time, he'd thought that was some kind of victory.

He brought the wet cloth and glass back into the kitchen, gave them both a quick rinse, and set them out to dry. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of getting another drink, but he decided he'd rather be sober.

For now, anyway.

The sun had fully set, the sky a darkening purple.

Thirty years. That was a long time to be angry, but it kept his other feelings a safe distance away. Better to be angry than to look back. Better to be angry than realize, after two more failed marriages and resignation to a quiet bachelor's life, that he had been most of the problem.

Three days ago, everything had changed. News of the disaster sent him scrambling to reach out to old friends any way he could—phone, email, text. Within hours, he had confirmed that all his old buddies and the family he'd left behind were safe—shaken but otherwise untouched.
Then they told him about Rosie's house.

At first, Chester just shrugged off the news, but as the day wore on, it tugged at him until it became a sickening worry. It robbed him of his appetite and the ability to sleep. In the silence of his house, all he heard were old conversations. When he closed his eyes, they filled with decades old memories.

The next morning, he started making calls. He reached out to old friends and family again—in his growing desperation, he even contacted a few enemies. He called civil authorities, searching for answers. Finally, he phoned the local radio station, pleading for anyone who might have information.

That did the trick.

Headlights in the driveway pulled Chester from his thoughts. He hurried to the porch steps, squinting at the woman stepping out of the taxi. At first, he barely recognized her—her hair was short and graying—but even in the fading light, her eyes were unmistakable.

"Do you have any bags?" he asked.

"I don't have anything," Rosie said. She moved slowly, cautiously, her arm held in a sling.

"Come inside." Chester paid the cabbie and guided her through the door. "I'll get you something to eat."  

She hesitated, studying him. "You've been drinking."  

"Nerves, I guess," he replied.  

She paused in the doorway. "Why are you doing this? You didn't have to—" 

"Yes, I did." Chester smiled. "Besides, it's too quiet around here."  

As Rosie stepped inside, she murmured, "I bet that changes fast."  

"I bet you're right," Chester said, following her in.  

Behind them, the porch door swung shut.

HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR: Waiting For Zachary

by

Al Bruno III

Ken Grady hated the drive to the Middleberg Assisted Living Facility. He hated the place itself even more. He hated the staff with their trained pleasantries, he hated the prefabricated buildings, and he hated the layout that made him feel like an unwanted guest at a second-rate country club.

Most of all, he hated the residents; so many of them had allowed age to turn them into the walking wounded. Some of them couldn’t even do that—they rolled to and fro in their wheelchairs and motorized carts. Ken was seventy-five years old, but he looked ten years younger. Plenty of folks asked him his secret—was it genetics or clean living? Was it diet or prayer?

His only answer was that staying young meant looking Father Time right in the eye and telling him to fuck off. That was something he did a lot these days.

The nurses heard him knock and buzzed him into building four, the tallest building at the facility. It looked half like a prison and half like a hospital, because that’s exactly what it was.

After another exchange of empty pleasantries with the staff, he made his way through the locked glass doors that served as checkpoints and entered room 814.

Jennifer was sitting in a chair by the window. The television blared nonsense, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

“How are you feeling today?” Ken asked as he took a seat beside her.

His wife didn’t look at him when he spoke; she just kept staring at nothing. Her hands were clasped together, and her fingers moved with mindless precision, a lingering memory of the rosary she had used to count on Sunday mornings.

On the TV, some poorly dressed fool was winning cash and prizes. Ken sighed heavily.

Friends and family had told him this daily ritual was no longer necessary, that Jennifer would have wanted him to move on. But how could they know that? How could they know that when Alzheimer's had robbed her of the ability to speak?

Besides, Ken couldn’t abandon her—not after almost forty years of marriage, not after all the laughter, love, and the occasional spectacular argument.

Jennifer paused in her finger-counting, then started again.

As they’d grown older, they had spoken frankly about deathbeds and do-not-resuscitate orders. Somehow, what was happening now had never come up. Was that foolishness? Or hope? Ken supposed it was a bit of both.

Her illness had begun with forgotten names but had quickly progressed to lost hours and terrifying confusion. Ken had tried to care for her himself, but as more and more of her memory eroded, he was left with no choice but to entrust her care to professionals.

The day he had left her at the Middleberg Assisted Living Facility had been a terrible one. Jennifer had been lucid and spiteful. She had cursed, spat, and, worst of all, told him he had never been her first choice—that she should have waited for Zachary.

The name haunted Ken. He had tried to dismiss it as rambling, but every night as he lay alone in his too-empty bed, he turned it over and over in his mind.

Jennifer had a younger sister in Calgary, and after some consideration, he called her. It took some prying, but eventually, he learned everything. For decades, it had been Ken and Jennifer against the world, but before that, there had been Zachary. Jennifer had been little more than a teenager then, but she had been so very much in love. He was three years older and already on his way to making a life and a career. They would have been married after she graduated from high school, but the draft had robbed them of that dream. He had been declared missing in action.

She had promised she would wait, and she had been waiting for almost four years when Ken met her and fell in love. He had worked tirelessly to win her heart, but he had just thought she was playing hard to get. He had never suspected he was trying to get her to break that promise.

It had hurt to know there had been someone else—someone his wife had loved enough to spend a lifetime keeping a secret. Ken wondered how often she had allowed herself to think of her first love, if, in the best moments of their marriage, there had been a part of her that secretly mourned what might have been.

Ken didn’t think so, because through the good times and bad, he had always been able to make her smile.

He could still do it, even now.

“Hey…” He leaned forward in his seat and took her twitching hand in his. “…It’s Zachary.”

Slowly, Jennifer’s eyes brightened, and she broke into a grin.

HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR: Panty Wraith

 BY
AL BRUNO III 

 

The woman lay on a hospital bed that was too large for her room, groaning and shifting in pain as her final moments approached. She glared desperately at the young man emptying her bedpan. Her grip was strong, and he nearly dropped it.

"Please..." she had said, her voice shrill yet weak, "Please be sure they bury me in my blue church dress... and my own clean underwear. Sometimes they forget the underwear. Don't let them leave me nude under my clothes. Please."

The young man turned away, trying to hide his smirk and eye roll. 

 

+++

 

Stark white, fringed with lace, and roughly the size of his head. Granny panties for a woman who had never been a granny. How had these panties gotten into the box reserved for photo albums, doilies, and Precious Moments figurines?

"They should have been in the laundry bag with..." Brett thought aloud, "...the blue dress."

Had there been a hole in the bag, or had he been careless? Or was it another similar-looking pair? He shrugged. It was too late to worry about it now. Great Aunt Jill was freshly buried under six feet of fresh dirt in Silent Memorial Cemetery.

Barely suppressing a mean-spirited chuckle, he tossed them into the kitchen trash as he went out onto the porch to grab a breath of fresh air.

No, he thought, Not THE porch. MY porch. I earned it.

And the old hag hadn't just left him the house; he'd gotten every penny of her money, which was a lot. Great Aunt Jill had been

rich, not super rich, but rich enough to never need anything- rich enough to have family members coming to her with their hands out morning, noon, and night. However, since she was stingy, Great Aunt Jill stayed rich and got richer.

"...Nude under my clothes." Brett took in the crisp fall air; that was just one of the many stupid and neurotic statements he'd heard from the woman over the last eight years. There was a big box out at the curb; it was brimming with her paintings and statuettes depicting the suffering of Christ. He thought of how they depicted Jesus in his oversized loincloth. Was it any wonder the woman thought that visible panty lines were a sign of virtue and modesty?

After a few more minutes, he headed inside; there was a lot more to pack up if he was going to transform what had once been his prison into a bachelor pad. He thought to himself that his life shouldn't have been this way, that at twenty-four, he should have been on his own and living a life of acceptable debauchery. All the people he had gone to high school with were out in the world; even if they were losers that were never going to leave town at least they were starting their lives.

And why? Brett thought. Because their parents had given them breathing space to make mistakes and be kids. But not me. Oh no, all I got was Great Aunt Jill.

He had been just sixteen years old when his parents gave up on him. Yes, he had gotten into trouble, but it was the standard teenager stuff- shoplifting, school fights, and marijuana possession. Unfortunately, it had been just enough shoplifting, school fights, and marijuana possession to leave him at serious risk of going to juvenile detention. Good luck and good lawyers had helped Brett avoid that fate, but when it had all blown over, his parents told him he would be sent to live in the bucolic wasteland of Elmira, NY. It was there, they were sure, that Great Aunt Jill would 'straighten him out.'

In retrospect, he wished he had taken his chances in juvie.

Brett remembered his parents dropping him off here to leave him in the care of a relative he had previously only seen at holidays and funerals. A relative he only remembered because of her bell- like shape and dry kisses. As soon as Brett finished waving goodbye to Mom and Dad, his new guardian laid down the house rules - no loud radios, no TV except for educational and religious programming, and no video games. It was lights out at 10 PM. There was no lock on the bathroom door, so if he dared to pleasure himself in a righteous household, she would catch him, and he would find himself doing Hail Marys while kneeling on pencils.

That was when Brett made the mistake of asking her what a Hail Mary was.

A dozen Hail Marys later, she took him to his new room up in the attic. It was just a bed, a lamp, and a chest of drawers. The wind whispered through the cracks in the windowsill, making him shiver as he imagined the cold drafts that would come with it.

It took Brett a little while longer to clear out her wardrobe. For a woman who had only seemed to wear six to seven outfits her whole life, Great Aunt Jill sure had a lot of clothes stuffed into bureaus, dressers, and closets. Once that was done, he started to break down the hospital bed she had used for the last few months of her life. He pushed the bed out onto the front porch; the Hospice service had promised to pick it up by sundown. That done, all Brett had left was clearing out the junk drawers. He tossed anything that might remind him of her.

He found a black and white photograph in the far drawer of the kitchen counter; it was mixed in amongst the pens, pencils, rubber bands, and broken rosaries. It was of his Great Uncle John, who died just a few years after his marriage to Great Aunt Jill. Everyone said it was a tragic boating accident, but sometimes Brett had to wonder if her nagging and lunacy had driven the man to suicide. Brett swept all of it into the trash.

By nightfall, he was surveying an empty house. On Monday, he would visit the lawyer regarding the disbursement of the

inheritance. Then he could put anything he wanted in the place- a giant television, a pool table, a fantastic sound system, anything at all. Brett decided to celebrate with a sandwich and one of the beers he had cooling in the fridge. It was probably the only beer that had ever rested in that refrigerator.

He made himself a sandwich to go along with it and ate blissfully, thinking that, at long last, the future was his.

 

+++

 

From the ages of sixteen to twenty-four, Brett had learned a great many things beyond the basic necessities of survival, like keeping the house neat, his manners perfect, and how to sneak down into the basement laundry room at one AM so he could masturbate. Brett also learned that his parents weren't coming back for him and that he'd been written off.

No, not written off... sold off. Brett thought.

He was sure that was why his parents had stranded him in Elmira, trying to win Great Aunt Jill's heart and a place in her will by giving her the one thing she never had.

A son of her own to care for, dote on, and emasculate.

It didn't matter how many times he begged to come home. It didn't matter that at every family gathering, he felt himself drifting further and further from the emotional orbit of his parents and siblings until they started to treat him with the same kind of cool affection they'd reserve for a third cousin.

He treasured the memory of his relatives at the reading of the will, their hopeful faces turning to shock when they realized they were getting the financial equivalent of a Walmart gift card.

Four months later, those same relatives were coming to see Brett, not that often, but often enough. They came with their hands out, and he slapped them away.

Not even when his parents came to him with a business plan for a cheese shop or when his uncle needed money to keep his house. Not even when his sister begged him to help her afford to care for her severely disabled child,

That was another thing he'd learned from her, "Never a borrower or a lender be."

There was a knock at the door. Brett paused to look at himself in the full-length mirror of his bedroom: dark sweater, skinny jeans, and a killer goatee. He was ready. Brett answered the door and found Melanie waiting for him. She was an assistant librarian at the college, which sounded dull, but he didn't care if she gelded horses for a living. What mattered was that she was sexy, easy to talk to, and she'd swiped in the right direction on the hookup app he'd been scrolling through non-stop for the past month.

Brett led her to the dining room; a spaghetti dinner was simmering on the stove. Since Great Aunt Jill had expected him to prepare dinner regularly, he'd had to quickly learn how to cook, and she was not one to give a culinary lesson more than once. He'd always resented being her personal chef, but now, basking in the compliments from Melanie, he was almost grateful.

There was wine; there was small talk, and there was a moment when she wiped a bit of tomato sauce from his chin with her fingers and then licked them clean. And with that small talk, his planned desert of homemade tiramisu went by the wayside. They kissed and wasted no time finding their way to Brett's bedroom. They kicked off their shoes and panted nonsense words to each other. Brett was so aroused he felt dizzy. It was finally going to happen. He was finally going to become a man. He was finally going to put into practice all the things he'd dreamed about for over twelve years.

Brett slowly peeled away Melanie's clothes, savoring every moment. Her blouse and bra fell to the floor as he nuzzled her neck and explored her smooth skin. Their bodies pressed together, the heat between them growing stronger by the second. Melanie removed his sweater and cooed at his freshly shaved

chest. Then her hands moved down, unbuckling his belt. She began to stroke him, and he felt his knees quiver.

Eagerly, he reached down and undid the zipper of Melanie's skirt. By the time he had it off her, she had begun to talk dirty. Really dirty. Her skirt pooled at her feet, revealing the stark white lace- trimmed panties she wore.

Brett felt his entire body go cold. He looked back up the length of her, hoping it was a trick of the light or one too many glasses of wine, but no. They were there, the waste band riding high up near her navel and the leg holes riding low. They might as well have been a pair of bleached bicycle shorts. He got them off her as fast as he could and threw them across the room.

But it was too late. The damage was done. Brett's arousal had quite literally dwindled away to nothing, and despite Melanie's considerable skills, there was no going back. She made excuses and quickly got dressed; she didn't stay to talk and give him time to recover. Soon enough, Brett was all alone, despising himself and gorging on tiramisu.

 

+++

 

Melanie never talked to him again, and it almost seemed like she'd put the word out. The app went silent. There were no pings of interest or responses to his direct messages. It was the end of his online journey, so Brett tried his luck with the bar scene, but he spent more time eating poorly made chicken wings and sipping watery drinks than he did making conversation. He worked hard to keep himself from glaring at the happy couples around him or the smooth talkers making the rounds.

He tried college bars; he tried sports bars and pubs. He even tried a gay bar, but that was by accident. Finally, he found his way to a dive called the Bunkhouse. It was tucked away on a side street, the building's neon sign hung crookedly, and its paint was

peeling. The pool tables were poorly maintained, and every employee from the bartenders to the house band was sullen and disinterested; it was there he got his second chance; her name was Olive, and she was middle-aged with a leathery tan and a tiger-striped skirt. She had frizzy hair and crooked teeth, but when he bought her a drink, she bluntly asked him if he wanted to get his dick wet.

He was too desperate to turn down the offer. Olive brought him to her car and ushered him into the back seat. She didn't care that they were right there on the street. She was rough when she pulled down his pants. He told her he didn't have a condom; she told him she'd had a hysterectomy. Then she stopped talking for a while and went to work. She was even rougher with her mouth, but it was enough. Brett wanted to complete this rite of passage. He wanted to graduate from being a boy to being a man. After a few minutes, Olive shifted around, accidentally elbowing him in the gut as she maneuvered her knees to either side of his head. Her nylons rasped against his ears. She told him that it was time to return the favor. Brett reached up, caressing her backside. He thought to himself that maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

A car drove past, headlights briefly illuminating the backseat to reveal her white, oversized panties. Instantly, Brett began to hyperventilate and thrash about. Olive took this as encouragement and began to grind harder against him, which only made him thrash harder, which only made her grind harder. This continued seemingly forever, only ending when Brett fainted.

One hour later, he was driving home, the stink of Olive's perfume on his clothes a constant reminder he had woken up to find an EMT kneeling over him, a crowd of onlookers surrounding him, and his pants around his ankles. Apparently, Olive had shoved him out of her car and fled the scene.

What the Hell is happening to me? He wondered. What more could possibly go wrong?

 

+++ 

 

Despite owning a perfectly good washing machine and dryer, Brett had begun taking his clothes to the Pristine Fold and Dry laundromat every week. Not because he didn't have time but because he was trying to get to know the assistant manager better. Her name was Emily, and over the last few weeks, he'd managed to learn about her pet bird, her useless college degree, and her passion for painting.

Every week, he learned something new. And today, he'd learned Emily was a lesbian.

With a disappointed and angry grumble, he carried his two bags of freshly washed clothes inside the house. It had been four weeks since the disaster with Olive. During that time, Brett had attempted to make connections naturally by striking up conversations with women he encountered at work, the coffee shop, or Walmart. Unfortunately, most of them brushed him off, but there were a few instances where he managed to go on first dates. However, those never led to second dates. Brett tore open the plastic bags and started sorting through his clothing.

He remembered the heated conversation with the last girl that had turned him down. He'd demanded to know where he went wrong, and she responded with a hint of pity, saying that he was a perfectly nice guy but was trying too hard.

That turn of phrase only frustrated him further. Trying too hard?

He only had what he had in this world because he had tried hard, tried hard to get a good education, tried hard to excel at work, and, of course, tried hard to keep Great Aunt Jill out of a nursing home where her estate would have been nickel and dimed away to nothing. He deserved that honors diploma; he deserved his promotion to manager in less than a year; he deserved Great Aunt Jill's fortune.

Didn't it stand to reason that he deserved some wild nights in the

sack? Hadn't he earned it?

She probably isn't really a lesbian. Brett thought to himself as he crammed the neatly folded shirts into the upper drawers of his bureau.

I bet she was just trying to scare me off. Brett tossed his socks into the drawer opposite and closed it again with a slam.

She's probably laughing about me to all her friends. He should have hung his pants up, but instead, he just threw them over a chair.

That’s the last time I ever take my clothes there. he vowed as he turned his attention to his underwear. He'd read numerous men's magazines on the subject of what women liked more, boxers or briefs. He'd gone with boxers in varying styles of plaid and stripes.

That was why one pale garment stood out from the rest. A pair of large, white panties. Brett reeled, stumbling backward until he struck the bureau, knocking the katana he had displayed there to the floor.

It was a coincidence. It had to be; nothing else made sense, but it took Brett a long time before he could approach the undergarment. But when he could, he tore it to pieces with his bare hands.

 

+++ 

 

There was a strip club almost an hour from Elmira called the Blue Bayou. Whispers and rumors circulated about rampant prostitution among the performers, and that was enough to make Brett think it might be worth the drive. It had been more than a year since Great Aunt Jill's death, and the pangs of loneliness and frustration were driving him to the brink.

And what's wrong with paying to get some? He told himself as he turned off the interstate and found his way to the bad section of Binghamton. Plenty of guys at work like to say that all men pay for it one way or another- single guys with dinner and drinks, husbands with jewelry and appliances.

What was wrong with getting some action with a little bit of cold, hard cash? Wasn’t that just cutting out the middleman?

As Brett's car neared the Blue Bayou, he conjured up images of what its interior might look like. He had never been to a gentlemen's club before, but from what he had seen in movies and TV shows, he pictured a dimly lit room filled with plush leather chairs and red velvet curtains. The air would be thick with the scent of perfume and whiskey, and rock music blaring over the sound system would play in the background.

He could see himself sitting at the bar, sipping on a whiskey while watching beautiful women dance on stage. He imagined their bodies glistening under the stage lights as they moved seductively to the music. He saw himself casually flashing some bills, catching a dancer's eye at the bar; she was a sultry brunette with deep brown eyes and a tiny dress. He would buy her a drink, and she would casually tell him all the things he could experience in a private room.

And oh yes. He would experience it all, and then when he was finished, he would have a drink and then repeat the process. He would do it again and again until he ran out of cash or stamina. Brett was so lost in this fantasy that he didn't realize there was a police raid going on until he had pulled into the parking lot.

Flashing blue and red lights dazzled him. By the time he recovered his wits and tried to leave, there was already a uniformed police officer blocking the path of his car. The officer was tall and imposing, and despite it being almost eleven o'clock at night, he was wearing sunglasses. The officer rapped on the driver's side window with a meaty fist. Brett rolled down his window. The officer didn't ask for a license and registration - he

demanded it.

The license was in his wallet, and the registration was in his glove compartment, but the glove compartment was brimming with fast food detritus and CDs. Brett pawed through them, tossing Night Ranger and Limp Bizkit's greatest hits onto the seat beside him. Then he grabbed hold of something soft to the touch.

And shapeless.

And stark white.

And trimmed with lace.

And roughly the size of his head. Brett screamed.

 

+++ 

 

A month later, Brett was jittery and teary-eyed. Whenever he went in his house, whatever he did, he found them. Searching for a bottle opener, Brett discovered one tucked away in the junk drawer. Investigating the clogged vacuum cleaner, he found one entangled in the drive belt. When he sat down to breakfast, a pair tumbled out of his box of cereal. Brett decided it must be all in his mind, so he made an appointment to visit a psychiatrist, only to flee the waiting room when a pair of panties, along with some subscription cards, fell out of the magazine he was flipping through.

Those damned panties hounded him at every turn.

No. He thought, It's her. She's haunting me. 

And Brett knew why. 

"Don't let them leave me nude under my clothes...” 

By now, the only women he saw were the ones on his computer.

Brett would stay up late at night, navigating from one website to the next until he found some explicit content that could temporarily distract him from his troubles. With just a VPN and solid antivirus protection, he could escape into his wildest fantasies: an endless supply of women in different apparel and settings

The final straw came after he finished satisfying himself with a video of a particularly nimble young woman. Overwhelmed with his normal surge of self-disgust, he scrambled to find something to clean himself up with, but the object his hand landed on wasn’t his box of tissues.

It was stark white, fringed with lace, and roughly the size of his head.

Brett went mad. He smashed his computer, ripped the television off its wall mounting, and threw it out the front window. Brett broke chairs and flipped tables. He pulled curtains from their fixtures and sent bookshelves toppling. Finally, he punched a hole in the wall.

And dozens of pairs of panties came spilling out. And everything went black.

Hours later, he found himself sobbing in the corner of the basement.

So. she wants her damn granny panties, does she?

He would see to it she got them. Brett had everything he needed in the basement: a flashlight, a collapsible camping shovel, kerosene, and a crowbar. He packed everything but the kerosene into a duffel bag. The kerosene was for the couch and coffee table.

His car peeled out of his driveway with a loud screech. The last thing he saw of Great Aunt Jill's house was the first thick plumes of smoke rising from the broken windows.

It was a dark and stormy night, which made breaking into the cemetery easy. He carefully parked his car out of sight and hoisted his equipment over the fence's low spot before awkwardly scrambling up after it, grunting with effort as he struggled to find footing on the slick surface. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils as he made his way through the rows of headstones, his heart beating faster with every step.

At around one AM, Brett discovered the tombstone shared by Great Aunt Jill and Great Uncle John. His heart raced, cold rain drenched him to the skin. He felt exhausted, alone, and cursed, but the storm had at least softened the ground for digging.

However, unearthing the grave proved to be a lengthy, backbreaking process. Each time Brett thought he was making progress, one side of the grave would collapse, forcing him to start again. Brett remained determined. He had come too far to turn back now.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the end of the shovel hit something hard. Moments later, the coffin was uncovered. Brett took a moment to catch his breath. Would it be enough to leave the forgotten undergarments here and fill in the grave again? Would that break the curse?

How far would he have to take this? Would he have to actually put them on her?

The thought made Brett shudder with revulsion, but there was no turning back now. Brett grabbed the crowbar and, working with a low growl, exerted all his remaining strength until he felt the wood start to give way with a loud cracking sound. The stench was worse than he could ever imagine, both rancid and sweet; bile filled his mouth, and his eyes watered.

Great Aunt Jill's one-year-old corpse looked far older. Her bloated body was covered in rotting skin, and her once elegant funeral dress had been stained with sporadic patches. The features of her face were twisted into a grimace.

I have to do this. Brett thought, I have to do this.
He reached down with trembling hands and pulled up the hem of

her skirt. Then he dug his hand into his jacket pocket.

The panties weren't there.

He tried the other pocket. Still nothing.

"No." Brett said as he checked each pocket a second and third time, "Oh no no no no.”

They were gone.

Where did they go?

Clawing his way out of the grave, Brett looked around frantically for that damned scrap of cloth. He tried to remember when he last had them, but his thoughts were hazy and jumbled.

Were they back at the car? Or perhaps amidst the burning remains of the house?

Brett retraced his steps through the rain-soaked cemetery. The storm intensified, lightning illuminating the gravestones. He stumbled through the muddy terrain, sopping and desperate.

Then Brett realized, and he started tearing at himself, the crack of thunder swallowing his choking cries.

 

+++

 

The lead caretaker walked through Silent Memorial Cemetery in the hazy dawn light. It was a quiet job he had taken on after selling his groundskeeping business years ago. He enjoyed being in nature with only birds and rabbits as his companions. Passing rows of headstones, old and new, he felt a sense of peace.

Then he saw something that sent him running back to the office;

he dialed 911 and started babbling the minute the operator answered. "I need the police down at Silent Memorial. Someone dug up one of the graves, and there's this young man lying dead just a few feet away. .. Yes, he's dead. I know a dead man when I see one! And... and you wouldn't believe what he's wearing...”

 

 

 

 

HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR: L'amour Looks Something Like You

 

by

Al Bruno III 

 

The bed was too small, the room was too warm and her clothes were too tight but in a matter of moments one of those problems would be solved for her. Kate felt his hands snake up along her back and take hold of the zipper on the back of her black dress.

She couldn’t believe she was doing this! He was half her age, half her age and beautiful. He still lived with his parents but he was undressing her like an old pro.

The dress fell away and Kate felt a flush of uncertainty, these weren’t the perky breasts of a college hottie, these weren’t the hips of a girl flush with the promise of youth. Her shape was still lovely enough to catch a man’s eye but she knew her body had been marked by the passage of time; there were stretch marks and a tattoo that had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

What would she do if he flinched away from the sight of her? She would die, she would just die.

He didn’t look away and a little smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, an appreciative smile. Then he was pulling her close and closer still.

There was stubble on his chin, his breath smelled like gum and his kisses were like candy. His name was Robbie. He was a valet and he had flirted with her as she dropped off her car and headed into the grand old hotel for the wedding reception. She was sure he gave the eye to all the middle aged broads that crossed his path, but he’d walked off the job to be with her hadn't he? Walked off the job with a breezy laugh of “They won't fire me.” 

What was it her old friend Debbie had said about cougars and cubs? Debbie was always one for smutty little remarks. She’d even made them when she was in hospice, trying to make the orderlies blush while she’s still had the strength to speak.

What would Debbie say if she could see her now?

Robbie had stripped Kate down to her plain cotton underwear. The panties of a woman with no expectations. His touch skirted the old scar that marked the place where the doctors had gone in to remove her cancerous womb. Did he know what that scar meant? Or was he too busy kissing just below her navel and working his way down?

In spite of everything Kate giggled when those kisses reached their goal and he made himself busy. No one had done that in a while!

Or with such thoroughness.

It had been the wedding of a daughter of an old acquaintance, someone she had lost touch with since college and then found again thanks to the dubious miracle of Facebook. Kate decided to go on a whim, thinking it might be fun to see her old home town again. To see what had changed and what hadn’t. Maybe she would even rekindle an old friendship or two.

She had avoided the actual ceremony however, wedding ceremonies left a bad taste in her mouth. She had been burned twice and that was enough, the only thing more expensive than her weddings had been her divorces.

Now it was her turn to undress him. The terrain of his body was familiar but there were surprises. A pierced nipple, washboard abs and he was more than a handful in all the right places; and he was ready to go! No purple pills and pregnant pauses here.

Pregnant.

There was a word she didn’t like crossing her mind. Especially considering what she had lost at such a young age, even more so when she realized who else was at the reception.

Of course she should have guessed. Hadn’t the invitation come from an old and mutual friend? Kate was civil enough when Scott her old fiancee called out her name and told her it was long time no see. He hugged her in a way that showed he still didn’t have the slightest idea how much he had hurt her way back when.

He had smiled and told her she hadn’t changed a bit. He bragged that he was the manager of this hotel and he had charged the bride’s family half price for the affair. Then he had introduced his wife and offered to show her his wallet full of kids. The need for those kids was the reason he had left her within months after the hysterectomy.

It was a clumsy move but she had excused herself by pretending her cell phone was on vibrate and there was an important call coming in. She made a show of talking to someone that wasn't there and made as dignified a run for the exit as she could.

She hadn’t even known that she was crying until the handsome valet had asked her if she was all right. This was not the distracted concern of a well- trained employee but the tentative reaching out of a would-be friend. Ordinarily she would never have gone off with some stranger but Kate already felt like she knew him.

It had been good to have someone to talk to, better than good, they found a booth in a little diner and talked for hours.

Then he brought her home sneaking her into the house like they were a pair of horny teenagers. With the door closed behind them there hadn’t been the need for small talk.

And now here she was holding him while he made love to her, running her nails along his wide back until he shivered. When she climaxed she cried out blissfully, carelessly.

That cry brought Robbie's parents running into the room. Covering herself quickly Kate said the only thing she could think of, “Hi Scott, long time no see!"

 

 

Bun Is Fum has adapted PANTY WRAITH!

 From her YouTube Channel

THE LOCAL HEROES

 

 

 INFANT TERRIBLE

When the Mad Chef of Schenectady takes the mayor, police chief, and a visiting celebrity hostage, it's up to the Maven to foil her plans and save the day.

 

CON!

ThrillCon 2011: When a crazed fan threatens to ruin the event, it's up to a real superhero and a dedicated fan to save the day!

 

THE WAY OF THE NINJA

Join the thrilling battle between ninja crimefighter the Psychotic Kid and the notorious Johnny Crawdad in a high-stakes battle for justice and control of River City.

 

HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR: Panty Wraith

 

 BY
AL BRUNO III 

 

The woman lay on a hospital bed that was too large for her room, groaning and shifting in pain as her final moments approached. She glared desperately at the young man emptying her bedpan. Her grip was strong, and he nearly dropped it.

"Please..." she had said, her voice shrill yet weak, "Please be sure they bury me in my blue church dress... and my own clean underwear. Sometimes they forget the underwear. Don't let them leave me nude under my clothes. Please."

The young man turned away, trying to hide his smirk and eye roll. 

 

+++

 

Stark white, fringed with lace, and roughly the size of his head. Granny panties for a woman who had never been a granny. How had these panties gotten into the box reserved for photo albums, doilies, and Precious Moments figurines?

"They should have been in the laundry bag with..." Brett thought aloud, "...the blue dress."

Had there been a hole in the bag, or had he been careless? Or was it another similar-looking pair? He shrugged. It was too late to worry about it now. Great Aunt Jill was freshly buried under six feet of fresh dirt in Silent Memorial Cemetery.

Barely suppressing a mean-spirited chuckle, he tossed them into the kitchen trash as he went out onto the porch to grab a breath of fresh air.

No, he thought, Not THE porch. MY porch. I earned it.

And the old hag hadn't just left him the house; he'd gotten every penny of her money, which was a lot. Great Aunt Jill had been rich, not super rich, but rich enough to never need anything- rich enough to have family members coming to her with their hands out morning, noon, and night. However, since she was stingy, Great Aunt Jill stayed rich and got richer.

"...Nude under my clothes." Brett took in the crisp fall air; that was just one of the many stupid and neurotic statements he'd heard from the woman over the last eight years. There was a big box out at the curb; it was brimming with her paintings and statuettes depicting the suffering of Christ. He thought of how they depicted Jesus in his oversized loincloth. Was it any wonder the woman thought that visible panty lines were a sign of virtue and modesty?

After a few more minutes, he headed inside; there was a lot more to pack up if he was going to transform what had once been his prison into a bachelor pad. He thought to himself that his life shouldn't have been this way, that at twenty-four, he should have been on his own and living a life of acceptable debauchery. All the people he had gone to high school with were out in the world; even if they were losers that were never going to leave town at least they were starting their lives.

And why? Brett thought. Because their parents had given them breathing space to make mistakes and be kids. But not me. Oh no, all I got was Great Aunt Jill.

He had been just sixteen years old when his parents gave up on him. Yes, he had gotten into trouble, but it was the standard teenager stuff- shoplifting, school fights, and marijuana possession. Unfortunately, it had been just enough shoplifting, school fights, and marijuana possession to leave him at serious risk of going to juvenile detention. Good luck and good lawyers had helped Brett avoid that fate, but when it had all blown over, his parents told him he would be sent to live in the bucolic wasteland of Elmira, NY. It was there, they were sure, that Great Aunt Jill would 'straighten him out.'

In retrospect, he wished he had taken his chances in juvie.

Brett remembered his parents dropping him off here to leave him in the care of a relative he had previously only seen at holidays and funerals. A relative he only remembered because of her bell- like shape and dry kisses. As soon as Brett finished waving goodbye to Mom and Dad, his new guardian laid down the house rules - no loud radios, no TV except for educational and religious programming, and no video games. It was lights out at 10 PM. There was no lock on the bathroom door, so if he dared to pleasure himself in a righteous household, she would catch him, and he would find himself doing Hail Marys while kneeling on pencils.

That was when Brett made the mistake of asking her what a Hail Mary was.

A dozen Hail Marys later, she took him to his new room up in the attic. It was just a bed, a lamp, and a chest of drawers. The wind whispered through the cracks in the windowsill, making him shiver as he imagined the cold drafts that would come with it.

It took Brett a little while longer to clear out her wardrobe. For a woman who had only seemed to wear six to seven outfits her whole life, Great Aunt Jill sure had a lot of clothes stuffed into bureaus, dressers, and closets. Once that was done, he started to break down the hospital bed she had used for the last few months of her life. He pushed the bed out onto the front porch; the Hospice service had promised to pick it up by sundown. That done, all Brett had left was clearing out the junk drawers. He tossed anything that might remind him of her.

He found a black and white photograph in the far drawer of the kitchen counter; it was mixed in amongst the pens, pencils, rubber bands, and broken rosaries. It was of his Great Uncle John, who died just a few years after his marriage to Great Aunt Jill. Everyone said it was a tragic boating accident, but sometimes Brett had to wonder if her nagging and lunacy had driven the man to suicide. Brett swept all of it into the trash.

By nightfall, he was surveying an empty house. On Monday, he would visit the lawyer regarding the disbursement of the inheritance. Then he could put anything he wanted in the place- a giant television, a pool table, a fantastic sound system, anything at all. Brett decided to celebrate with a sandwich and one of the beers he had cooling in the fridge. It was probably the only beer that had ever rested in that refrigerator.

He made himself a sandwich to go along with it and ate blissfully, thinking that, at long last, the future was his.

 

+++

 

From the ages of sixteen to twenty-four, Brett had learned a great many things beyond the basic necessities of survival, like keeping the house neat, his manners perfect, and how to sneak down into the basement laundry room at one AM so he could masturbate. Brett also learned that his parents weren't coming back for him and that he'd been written off.

No, not written off... sold off. Brett thought.

He was sure that was why his parents had stranded him in Elmira, trying to win Great Aunt Jill's heart and a place in her will by giving her the one thing she never had.

A son of her own to care for, dote on, and emasculate.

It didn't matter how many times he begged to come home. It didn't matter that at every family gathering, he felt himself drifting further and further from the emotional orbit of his parents and siblings until they started to treat him with the same kind of cool affection they'd reserve for a third cousin.

He treasured the memory of his relatives at the reading of the will, their hopeful faces turning to shock when they realized they were getting the financial equivalent of a Walmart gift card.

Four months later, those same relatives were coming to see Brett, not that often, but often enough. They came with their hands out, and he slapped them away.

Not even when his parents came to him with a business plan for a cheese shop or when his uncle needed money to keep his house. Not even when his sister begged him to help her afford to care for her severely disabled child,

That was another thing he'd learned from her, "Never a borrower or a lender be."

There was a knock at the door. Brett paused to look at himself in the full-length mirror of his bedroom: dark sweater, skinny jeans, and a killer goatee. He was ready. Brett answered the door and found Melanie waiting for him. She was an assistant librarian at the college, which sounded dull, but he didn't care if she gelded horses for a living. What mattered was that she was sexy, easy to talk to, and she'd swiped in the right direction on the hookup app he'd been scrolling through non-stop for the past month.

Brett led her to the dining room; a spaghetti dinner was simmering on the stove. Since Great Aunt Jill had expected him to prepare dinner regularly, he'd had to quickly learn how to cook, and she was not one to give a culinary lesson more than once. He'd always resented being her personal chef, but now, basking in the compliments from Melanie, he was almost grateful.

There was wine; there was small talk, and there was a moment when she wiped a bit of tomato sauce from his chin with her fingers and then licked them clean. And with that small talk, his planned desert of homemade tiramisu went by the wayside. They kissed and wasted no time finding their way to Brett's bedroom. They kicked off their shoes and panted nonsense words to each other. Brett was so aroused he felt dizzy. It was finally going to happen. He was finally going to become a man. He was finally going to put into practice all the things he'd dreamed about for over twelve years.

Brett slowly peeled away Melanie's clothes, savoring every moment. Her blouse and bra fell to the floor as he nuzzled her neck and explored her smooth skin. Their bodies pressed together, the heat between them growing stronger by the second. Melanie removed his sweater and cooed at his freshly shaved chest. Then her hands moved down, unbuckling his belt. She began to stroke him, and he felt his knees quiver.

Eagerly, he reached down and undid the zipper of Melanie's skirt. By the time he had it off her, she had begun to talk dirty. Really dirty. Her skirt pooled at her feet, revealing the stark white lace- trimmed panties she wore.

Brett felt his entire body go cold. He looked back up the length of her, hoping it was a trick of the light or one too many glasses of wine, but no. They were there, the waste band riding high up near her navel and the leg holes riding low. They might as well have been a pair of bleached bicycle shorts. He got them off her as fast as he could and threw them across the room.

But it was too late. The damage was done. Brett's arousal had quite literally dwindled away to nothing, and despite Melanie's considerable skills, there was no going back. She made excuses and quickly got dressed; she didn't stay to talk and give him time to recover. Soon enough, Brett was all alone, despising himself and gorging on tiramisu.

 

+++

 

Melanie never talked to him again, and it almost seemed like she'd put the word out. The app went silent. There were no pings of interest or responses to his direct messages. It was the end of his online journey, so Brett tried his luck with the bar scene, but he spent more time eating poorly made chicken wings and sipping watery drinks than he did making conversation. He worked hard to keep himself from glaring at the happy couples around him or the smooth talkers making the rounds.

He tried college bars; he tried sports bars and pubs. He even tried a gay bar, but that was by accident. Finally, he found his way to a dive called the Bunkhouse. It was tucked away on a side street, the building's neon sign hung crookedly, and its paint was peeling. The pool tables were poorly maintained, and every employee from the bartenders to the house band was sullen and disinterested; it was there he got his second chance; her name was Olive, and she was middle-aged with a leathery tan and a tiger-striped skirt. She had frizzy hair and crooked teeth, but when he bought her a drink, she bluntly asked him if he wanted to get his dick wet.

He was too desperate to turn down the offer. Olive brought him to her car and ushered him into the back seat. She didn't care that they were right there on the street. She was rough when she pulled down his pants. He told her he didn't have a condom; she told him she'd had a hysterectomy. Then she stopped talking for a while and went to work. She was even rougher with her mouth, but it was enough. Brett wanted to complete this rite of passage. He wanted to graduate from being a boy to being a man. After a few minutes, Olive shifted around, accidentally elbowing him in the gut as she maneuvered her knees to either side of his head. Her nylons rasped against his ears. She told him that it was time to return the favor. Brett reached up, caressing her backside. He thought to himself that maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

A car drove past, headlights briefly illuminating the backseat to reveal her white, oversized panties. Instantly, Brett began to hyperventilate and thrash about. Olive took this as encouragement and began to grind harder against him, which only made him thrash harder, which only made her grind harder. This continued seemingly forever, only ending when Brett fainted.

One hour later, he was driving home, the stink of Olive's perfume on his clothes a constant reminder he had woken up to find an EMT kneeling over him, a crowd of onlookers surrounding him, and his pants around his ankles. Apparently, Olive had shoved him out of her car and fled the scene.

What the Hell is happening to me? He wondered. What more could possibly go wrong?

 

+++ 

 

Despite owning a perfectly good washing machine and dryer, Brett had begun taking his clothes to the Pristine Fold and Dry laundromat every week. Not because he didn't have time but because he was trying to get to know the assistant manager better. Her name was Emily, and over the last few weeks, he'd managed to learn about her pet bird, her useless college degree, and her passion for painting.

Every week, he learned something new. And today, he'd learned Emily was a lesbian.

With a disappointed and angry grumble, he carried his two bags of freshly washed clothes inside the house. It had been four weeks since the disaster with Olive. During that time, Brett had attempted to make connections naturally by striking up conversations with women he encountered at work, the coffee shop, or Walmart. Unfortunately, most of them brushed him off, but there were a few instances where he managed to go on first dates. However, those never led to second dates. Brett tore open the plastic bags and started sorting through his clothing.

He remembered the heated conversation with the last girl that had turned him down. He'd demanded to know where he went wrong, and she responded with a hint of pity, saying that he was a perfectly nice guy but was trying too hard.

That turn of phrase only frustrated him further. Trying too hard?

He only had what he had in this world because he had tried hard, tried hard to get a good education, tried hard to excel at work, and, of course, tried hard to keep Great Aunt Jill out of a nursing home where her estate would have been nickel and dimed away to nothing. He deserved that honors diploma; he deserved his promotion to manager in less than a year; he deserved Great Aunt Jill's fortune.

Didn't it stand to reason that he deserved some wild nights in the sack? Hadn't he earned it?

She probably isn't really a lesbian. Brett thought to himself as he crammed the neatly folded shirts into the upper drawers of his bureau.

I bet she was just trying to scare me off. Brett tossed his socks into the drawer opposite and closed it again with a slam.

She's probably laughing about me to all her friends. He should have hung his pants up, but instead, he just threw them over a chair.

That’s the last time I ever take my clothes there. he vowed as he turned his attention to his underwear. He'd read numerous men's magazines on the subject of what women liked more, boxers or briefs. He'd gone with boxers in varying styles of plaid and stripes.

That was why one pale garment stood out from the rest. A pair of large, white panties. Brett reeled, stumbling backward until he struck the bureau, knocking the katana he had displayed there to the floor.

It was a coincidence. It had to be; nothing else made sense, but it took Brett a long time before he could approach the undergarment. But when he could, he tore it to pieces with his bare hands.

 

+++ 

 

There was a strip club almost an hour from Elmira called the Blue Bayou. Whispers and rumors circulated about rampant prostitution among the performers, and that was enough to make Brett think it might be worth the drive. It had been more than a year since Great Aunt Jill's death, and the pangs of loneliness and frustration were driving him to the brink.

And what's wrong with paying to get some? He told himself as he turned off the interstate and found his way to the bad section of Binghamton. Plenty of guys at work like to say that all men pay for it one way or another- single guys with dinner and drinks, husbands with jewelry and appliances.

What was wrong with getting some action with a little bit of cold, hard cash? Wasn’t that just cutting out the middleman?

As Brett's car neared the Blue Bayou, he conjured up images of what its interior might look like. He had never been to a gentlemen's club before, but from what he had seen in movies and TV shows, he pictured a dimly lit room filled with plush leather chairs and red velvet curtains. The air would be thick with the scent of perfume and whiskey, and rock music blaring over the sound system would play in the background.

He could see himself sitting at the bar, sipping on a whiskey while watching beautiful women dance on stage. He imagined their bodies glistening under the stage lights as they moved seductively to the music. He saw himself casually flashing some bills, catching a dancer's eye at the bar; she was a sultry brunette with deep brown eyes and a tiny dress. He would buy her a drink, and she would casually tell him all the things he could experience in a private room.

And oh yes. He would experience it all, and then when he was finished, he would have a drink and then repeat the process. He would do it again and again until he ran out of cash or stamina. Brett was so lost in this fantasy that he didn't realize there was a police raid going on until he had pulled into the parking lot.

Flashing blue and red lights dazzled him. By the time he recovered his wits and tried to leave, there was already a uniformed police officer blocking the path of his car. The officer was tall and imposing, and despite it being almost eleven o'clock at night, he was wearing sunglasses. The officer rapped on the driver's side window with a meaty fist. Brett rolled down his window. The officer didn't ask for a license and registration - he demanded it.

The license was in his wallet, and the registration was in his glove compartment, but the glove compartment was brimming with fast food detritus and CDs. Brett pawed through them, tossing Night Ranger and Limp Bizkit's greatest hits onto the seat beside him. Then he grabbed hold of something soft to the touch.

And shapeless.

And stark white.

And trimmed with lace.

And roughly the size of his head. Brett screamed.

 

+++ 

 

A month later, Brett was jittery and teary-eyed. Whenever he went in his house, whatever he did, he found them. Searching for a bottle opener, Brett discovered one tucked away in the junk drawer. Investigating the clogged vacuum cleaner, he found one entangled in the drive belt. When he sat down to breakfast, a pair tumbled out of his box of cereal. Brett decided it must be all in his mind, so he made an appointment to visit a psychiatrist, only to flee the waiting room when a pair of panties, along with some subscription cards, fell out of the magazine he was flipping through.

Those damned panties hounded him at every turn.

No. He thought, It's her. She's haunting me. 

And Brett knew why. 

"Don't let them leave me nude under my clothes...” 

By now, the only women he saw were the ones on his computer.

Brett would stay up late at night, navigating from one website to the next until he found some explicit content that could temporarily distract him from his troubles. With just a VPN and solid antivirus protection, he could escape into his wildest fantasies: an endless supply of women in different apparel and settings

The final straw came after he finished satisfying himself with a video of a particularly nimble young woman. Overwhelmed with his normal surge of self-disgust, he scrambled to find something to clean himself up with, but the object his hand landed on wasn’t his box of tissues.

It was stark white, fringed with lace, and roughly the size of his head.

Brett went mad. He smashed his computer, ripped the television off its wall mounting, and threw it out the front window. Brett broke chairs and flipped tables. He pulled curtains from their fixtures and sent bookshelves toppling. Finally, he punched a hole in the wall.

And dozens of pairs of panties came spilling out. And everything went black.

Hours later, he found himself sobbing in the corner of the basement.

So. she wants her damn granny panties, does she?

He would see to it she got them. Brett had everything he needed in the basement: a flashlight, a collapsible camping shovel, kerosene, and a crowbar. He packed everything but the kerosene into a duffel bag. The kerosene was for the couch and coffee table.

His car peeled out of his driveway with a loud screech. The last thing he saw of Great Aunt Jill's house was the first thick plumes of smoke rising from the broken windows.

It was a dark and stormy night, which made breaking into the cemetery easy. He carefully parked his car out of sight and hoisted his equipment over the fence's low spot before awkwardly scrambling up after it, grunting with effort as he struggled to find footing on the slick surface. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils as he made his way through the rows of headstones, his heart beating faster with every step.

At around one AM, Brett discovered the tombstone shared by Great Aunt Jill and Great Uncle John. His heart raced, cold rain drenched him to the skin. He felt exhausted, alone, and cursed, but the storm had at least softened the ground for digging.

However, unearthing the grave proved to be a lengthy, backbreaking process. Each time Brett thought he was making progress, one side of the grave would collapse, forcing him to start again. Brett remained determined. He had come too far to turn back now.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the end of the shovel hit something hard. Moments later, the coffin was uncovered. Brett took a moment to catch his breath. Would it be enough to leave the forgotten undergarments here and fill in the grave again? Would that break the curse?

How far would he have to take this? Would he have to actually put them on her?

The thought made Brett shudder with revulsion, but there was no turning back now. Brett grabbed the crowbar and, working with a low growl, exerted all his remaining strength until he felt the wood start to give way with a loud cracking sound. The stench was worse than he could ever imagine, both rancid and sweet; bile filled his mouth, and his eyes watered.

Great Aunt Jill's one-year-old corpse looked far older. Her bloated body was covered in rotting skin, and her once elegant funeral dress had been stained with sporadic patches. The features of her face were twisted into a grimace.

I have to do this. Brett thought, I have to do this.
 

He reached down with trembling hands and pulled up the hem of her skirt. Then he dug his hand into his jacket pocket.

The panties weren't there.

He tried the other pocket. Still nothing.

"No." Brett said as he checked each pocket a second and third time, "Oh no no no no.”

They were gone.

Where did they go?

Clawing his way out of the grave, Brett looked around frantically for that damned scrap of cloth. He tried to remember when he last had them, but his thoughts were hazy and jumbled.

Were they back at the car? Or perhaps amidst the burning remains of the house?

Brett retraced his steps through the rain-soaked cemetery. The storm intensified, lightning illuminating the gravestones. He stumbled through the muddy terrain, sopping and desperate.

Then Brett realized, and he started tearing at himself, the crack of thunder swallowing his choking cries.

 

+++

 

The lead caretaker walked through Silent Memorial Cemetery in the hazy dawn light. It was a quiet job he had taken on after selling his groundskeeping business years ago. He enjoyed being in nature with only birds and rabbits as his companions. Passing rows of headstones, old and new, he felt a sense of peace.

Then he saw something that sent him running back to the office; he dialed 911 and started babbling the minute the operator answered. "I need the police down at Silent Memorial. Someone dug up one of the graves, and there's this young man lying dead just a few feet away. .. Yes, he's dead. I know a dead man when I see one! And... and you wouldn't believe what he's wearing...”

 

 

 

 

 

(This is an adaption of the original version of the story.)