The 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 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 Adidas’s.
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, then gurred, 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 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.
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