Hour 4: Pants Like Butter

The pants fit like a dream.
Like butter.
Like velvet.
Smooth and sexy and every pants should be.

He found them at the corner thrift store.
Five dollars.

Five emeffin dollars.

They fit so good in the fitting room that he didn’t bother to take them off.
Leaving his old pants behind, he tore the tag off, paid, and walked to the party.
A party.
The perfect place to show the pants off.

His steps felt good. Confident.

He knew he looked good.

Brisk, shoulders back, he walked down the street.
He walked right passed the house the party was at.

Not by choice, mind you.

He just could stop.

He wasn’t walking in the pants anymore.

The pants were walking him.

Hours went by.
His legs were tired. His feet were sore. But he couldn’t stop.

He tried to sit down, but his legs were pulled forward and he fell to the ground. His feet dragging his torso, his skin ripping on the sidewalk under his shirt.

He tried to grab on to a telephone pole, hoping that if he couldn’t stop walking that he could at least rest for a few minutes.
His fingers ripped on the wood, his palms sliced and full of splinters as he’s pulled into walking again.

Each step became painful and wet, his feet bleeding leaving behind red footprints.

He began to wish for death.

He tried to take the pants off, multiple times, hundreds of time, but they were stuck. He tried to push them down, to shimmy out, but they had attached to his skin.

He could barely walk.
He could barely lift his feet.
Staggering, dragged, nearly dead – the pants finally stop.

He looked around, bleary eyed, starving, dehydrated.
He had no clue where he was. He didn’t even know what state he was in.
All he knew was that he had stopped.

He knocked on the door in front of him.
He could hear noises come from within.
Swearing, Clattering, Maybe a loud TV.

The door opened.
A gasp.
The man who opened the door is scared, angry, in a wheelchair.

He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know who the man in the wheel chair was.
He knocked again.
The man shouts.

“Get those damn pants away from me. I don’t want them.”

He couldn’t walk away from he tried.

The man in the wheel chair understood this, despite his yelling.

The door opened again.

“Those pants are straight from the devil itself. I had to cut my own legs off to get out of them.”

The man began to cry as the stranger in the wheel chair started covering his legs in gasoline.

He wanted to run. He wanted to run so badly as the gas soaked through the pants and dripped down his legs.

He stopped crying when the match was lit.

The man in the wheel chair through the match and slammed the door closed. He watched from the window as the man in the pants burst into flames.
Burning, burning, and screaming.

But only the man in the pants burned.
Not the pants.
They stood upright in front of the door while the man inside of them burned and flailed.

The pants removed themselves from the burnt man.

Pristine pants. Clean pants.

Using a leg, they knocked on the door.

The man in the wheel chair began to cry.

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