briefsThe Jockey Fetish

by George Sparling

I paid a tailor to sew four pockets in my Jockey briefs. She was curious and asked why. I said I didn’t know what to do with my hands. She looked flabbergasted so I backtracked, and said, you never know.

I walked home, undressed, took off my underpants, and pulled on the new and improved Jockey briefs. I placed two miniature bottles of peppermint schnapps in the front left pocket, my wallet in a back pocket, the loaded .38 Derringer in the right front pocket, and four rounds of ammo in the other back pocket. I put on my Adidases

I left the house and walked unimpeded through the neighborhood. I enjoyed the new garb, how comfortable I felt as I drank the bottles. Finishing them, I put the empties back in the front left pocket. I pranced down one block, turned down another, and saw people seated in lawn chairs. Feeling unreasonably free after psychiatrists released me from the local mental hospital, I no longer took my medications. The hospital surveillance cameras angered me, how they scanned me day and night.

I swaggered close enough so they saw me, not letting bushes obscure my new duds. I snapped the elastic band, more at them than they realized, and pulled out my wallet. I flipped open the plastic holding my credit cards, threw that and bills and wallet at them. The dog barked and prowled toward me. I took out the loaded Derringer, aimed at the little beast, and squeezed the trigger once. The over-under barrel fired loudly, missing the cur, the shell smashing the porch window. I aimed at grandmother and shot, but hit her redwood chair.

Michelle flashed through my synapses. I was her rock until I told her about the Jockey briefs fixation. She packed her things and left.     I reloaded and fired a shot that cracked the windshield of the car parked in the driveway. The other hit the chimney. I wanted more liquor; I felt that good, and I saw a fifth on a wooden table. Swinging the empty gun from person to person, fear spread over their faces as if they’d just been told they had an incurable disease. I guzzled the scotch like an alcoholic; it spilled down both sides of my mouth.

I hoped to shoot the smartphone out of the man’s hand, like in those old-time Westerns, the Lone Ranger committed to catching rotten scoundrels unharmed rather than dead. I overstepped the good hero routine, and quickly tried to reload. My shaky hands caused the rounds to fall at my feet. If they saw me blush through their terrified eyes, the momentum of the Jockey fetish spent, who knew what they’d do to me.

 I stumbled away and wobbly ran home. I looked in the hall mirror at a man who’d love another crack at it.


George Sparling has been known to say to folks, “I came to Califronia and got old.” He seeks solace in the mounds of dirt in the crawlspace beneath the house.
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