The pants were awfully moist today. It seemed that they were always moist. Come to think of it, there was no day in memory, recent or far off, when the pants had been completely dry. Endlessly he would sit on a wet rear end, hoping in vain that the heat of said bum would generate a drier state of the pants. The pants had been bought for Zed on his twelfth birthday.
“You'll never need another pair” declared the birthday wizard (the wizard was a birthday tradition in Zed's family. At least that's what he had been told as his mother waved strangely towards the wizard) “For in these undergarments lie immortal kindred spirits”
“So why aren't you making balloon items?” Zed had shook his fist threateningly.
“...Just take the magic pants, kid” at that point in time the pants had only been a tiny bit damp, as if they had been taken off the radiator too early. As the wizard took his mother into the house for some reason, he inspected his recent gift. These were boxer shorts, and coloured a garish orange colour. What was also strange was that the pants seemed to have emotion. Just by being near them he could hear a little disappointed sigh. Nothing too major, though.
“Wow” he admired, if he had been listening properly he would have been able to hear the spirits of the pants begin to rise “these pants are horrible” and thus the pants became damp thanks to the tears of the spirits expressing such woe that it actually turned to matter.
And so, to this day the pants remained wet. The real question in this situation is 'Why would he keep such wet pants?' and the answer to that is simple. They were the only pants around. Don't get me wrong, he had other pants but when it came down to it, I mean in the most desperate of times when he really needed pants, all his other pairs were being washed. Or were lost. Or stolen. The wet pants, however, always remained, like a cat, always finding their way back to his underwear draw.
The alternative was to not wear anything under his trousers at all, which was simply not an option. You never know what's going to happen, but whatever does, be it predictable, shocking or painful, it was always an imperative for Zed to keep his genitals covered.
He had learned this lesson second-hand, if you will, from his friend Kafka. One day he and Zed had been traversing ground in order to get to town, where they would spend time and money eating at buffet restaurants and looking at fish. Now at this point it is necessary to point out that Kafka was a recovering sex addict (the two friends had been ten years of age at the time, but he had been pre-emptively addicted to it, just like his father before him and Jack Nicholson before him) and at any given moment would have sporadic attacks of confusing feelings for the opposite gender, followed by sporadic confusing acts towards said opposite gender.
It was in a certain buffet restaurant by the name of El Bastardo that a fair haired, doughy-eyed waitress had approached the two pre-pubescent people that Kafka had an attack of confusing feelings and actions.
It started slowly, as it always did. Kafka always without a doubt would start with his sentences trailing off into nothingness. He went to order his drink and came up with the following:
“I'll have some Ta...”
“Do you mean Tango, Kafka?” Zed asked nervously, knowing generally what the following events would entail. The waitress waited patiently with her patient smile.
“Yes but on the...”
“I have no idea where that sentence could go, Kafka...on the rocks?”
“No, I mean...”
“Come on, move past it” then came the stage of strange, rapid-fire conversation with the soon-to-be victim of his.
“So, Jenny” he addressed the employee, studying her name tag “Where do you come from?”
“Well...” she decided to indulge the child, it would kill some of her shift time, at least “that is the question isn't it, I mean there's where I-”
“Where do you live?”
“I'm not sure telling you would be such a great-”
“Come on, what are you, a taxidermist, hang loose” there was the double-whammy out of place and therefore nonsensical terms. Next would be the magic trick.
“I don't-”
“Want to see a magic trick?” he grabbed five sets of knives and forks from the nearby cutlery dispenser with one hand and placed his other palm-down on the table.
“Kafka, you don't have telekinesis, this trick can't work” Zed pointed out, his words falling on deaf ears. And by ears I mean testicles. The cutlery was thrown into the air with dramatic nonchalance. The trick to the trick was luck. That and a good wrist action, which Kafka wouldn't have developed properly until a few more years passed. And as far as luck is concerned, it would turn out that he did not posses enough, since he'd pooled all his points into his charisma skill. It hadn't been worth it. The trick had been inspired by his father who, in his last moments, had thrown a fork into the air and made it pierce the centre of his forehead. Whereas this had been the incorrect form of the trick, it was still awesome and so Kafka swore that one day he would master it where his father had failed.
At the current attempt, the cutlery tumbled in their descent and landed on the tabletop with a clanging.
“I don't think you-” began the waitress
“I'm not done yet” he hushed, sweeping away the cutlery with his arm and causing a particularly well swept spoon hit an elderly man in the head, causing a concussion. The rest clattered to the floor. He smiled at the waitress.
“That was less charming” Zed butted in “and more horribly shameful”
“I could be more charmed if you had thrusted your crotch at me when you came in” she informed.
“Well I for one found it impressing far beyond anything I've seen recently, indeed keep sticking it to the machine of society, my chum” proclaimed a nearby rebel youth intent on showing that he didn't need to be part of a generation of dribbling morons who would pirouette onto the bandwagon at the first glimpse of any music that incorporated shaking women, fast words, flashy lights or bleepy sounds.
“Who are you?”
“The man who has been to the other side and returned. The single soul of the universe whose wisdom knows no limits, I am the-”
“Shut up and leave, we need to resolve the situation at hand” Zed motioned towards his friend who had stolen a banjo from somewhere. The conceited one of many words did not leave but did shut up.
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