Pants, the Silent Killer

The detective pulled up, skidding his car across 3 lanes of traffic and into the side of an old brick building. His engine sputtered a few last words of regret before giving up the ghost and bursting into flames. The detective slammed the door, bending over the more convenient of the two engine block halves and lighting his cigarette on the flames. After taking a long drag, he sighed.

"This city is a piece of shit, and so's everyone in it." He paused, enjoying a moment of clarity. "Myself included," he added. He stubbed out his cigarette in the eye of a nearby St. Bernard, and began warming up his voice. "But," he mused, for no other reason than he enjoyed the exposition of his own life, "if I can win that talent competition tonight, I can be rid of this sorry little shit hole forever."

There were some things he would miss though. The old barkeep with the moldy eye, the bimonthly grope fest down at Synecdoche Lane, and all the lunches at Merv's Burger Joint, where the smiles were always free. Maybe the city wasn't such a bad place after all, but time had not been kind to the old detective. The years had hit him like a station wagon full of underage Nicaraguan love slaves. He had grown to loathe the city, and it loathed him back. Besides, he had already quit the force, taken his badge and shoved it straight down the chief's throat. He could probably get his job back after the surgery, but that would require him to muster more humility than he had.

So, his last hope in front of him, he hitched up his lucky singing pants and tightened his belt. There wasn't a bum in this city with a better singing voice than him, and he knew it. What he would have to watch out for were those cocky stunt performers, but he could see to that.

The first thing he saw as he entered the dressing area was a sword swallower practicing his act. The detective knew that nobody gave a fuck about sword-swallowing, but just to be safe, he brought his knee straight up into the fucker's gut. The sword swallower lurched forward, the blade that previously had filled his esophagus now protruding out his back. He collapsed onto the floor, either dead, or dead tired. One down.

Next up was the young upstart martial artist, doing all kinds of standing flips and flinging around a metal chain in a most impressive manner. The detective had to stop and think about this one for a moment. He looked around the room, his eyes finally resting upon a gargantuan fellow, tearing phone books in half while chewing down a giant concrete block. He called out to the chain fighter, "Hey kid!"

"What do you want, old man?"

"See that big guy over there? He, uh, he said your mom is a fag."

This remark caused a massive fight between the martial artist and the strong man. Such fights usually bored the detective, so he sat down and read a novel while all around him the foundation of the building was nearly shook loose. Finally, he heard a massive ripping sound, and looked up to see that both fighters had torn out each other's spines. They stood there, dead, still standing and unblinkingly staring each other down. Now there was only one act remaining that posed any threat to the detective. The juggler.

He approached the juggler, who was juggling some chainsaws that happened to be on fire. "Nice day we're having," the detective said. The juggler nodded at him cordially. Suddenly, the detective sprung his cunning plan into action! He drew his service revolver, and shot the man in both his kneecaps.

Finally, it was time to go on stage. The old man was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He knew he had the talent, and with his lucky singing pants on, there was no way he could lose. As the opening strains of Strangers in the Night began to play, he ran out on stage, and at that one shining moment, everything was perfect. His singing was perfect, the crowd was swooning, and all eyes were on him and his stunning pants.

But as luck would have it, the detective's pants, like everyone else, hated him with a passion, and in the midst of his moment of pride, his pants betrayed him. As he hit the refrain, the detective could feel his pants noticeably tighten. At first he blamed it on the excitement, and the massive hard on he was getting from it, but the pants continued to tighten. He did his best to ignore it, but by "love was just a glance away," his voice had become a squeaky travesty. People in the audience began to boo, taking it as an insult against Frank Sinatra. Unable to continue singing, the old detective simply looked on in horror, finally collapsing on the stage. As the instrumental score blared on wordlessly from the loudspeakers behind him, his vision began to fade. He could no longer feel his pants tightening, the feeling had gone long ago. Defeated, he closed his eyes, leaned back, and with a slight whimper, died in a pool of his own shame.