Written by Charlie Van Horn

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Wednesday, 9 June 2004

image for The Devil With His Pants Down (A true short story) The author recounts a twisted drunk adventure

There is nothing more glorious than being drunk on a Tuesday night.

Actually, being drunk on a Tuesday night and in a 24 hour Super Wal-mart is more glorious. In the more glorious than the smell of perfume on your seat covers after spending an entire frigid prom night dry humping a fifteen year old in a training bra kind of way.

An esteemed colleague of mine had decided an appropriate thing to do was to meander drunk like a wild cold blooded reptile, fueled by Jack Daniels and flat Pepsi around the store until those evil horsemen of the devil in the blue smocks themselves pursued us and attempted to send us back to the fiery depths of hell. While he was doing that, I was practicing my golf swing on bobbers in the sporting goods department.


Such a funny word for such a useless invention. True, give a man a fish they say, but have they ever said 'Give a man a bobber?'. Why Hugh Grant was forced to appear on The Tonight Show after he got a bobber. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one against bobbers, but this night was becoming seemingly perplexing. Like what was I doing unrolling a bolt of leapord print material and singing the theme song to "The Littles". That was when I heard the struggle of my comrade in drunken arms getting shuffled to the door after half vomiting on himself.

Wait, check that, that was my vomit on his coat. How the bloody hell did it get on his coat if I'm here in a pile of artificial cat skin? Heroics be damned. I came to this Wal-Mart to purchase some fine women’s underwear and all the iodine I could lay my hands on. I'm not one to support the drug culture, but one of those two items is in high demand to make a product that is worth an awful lot of money. The other is for perverts. And Wal-mart wasn't going to let either of my devils on my shoulders have any fun tonight.

We were greeted by the cold Wednesday morning by the sound of crashing shopping carts as my cohort in this slowly spiralling drunken orgy began a game of tackle football with those steel and wire harbingers of Sam Walton’s army. Piling ourselves into a vehicle, it was determined that I should perhaps drive, mainly because when I'm drunk I'm stubborn and unlikely to change my mind, and also because I had not climbed into the trunk and locked myself in.

Having released my prisoner from his spare tire holding cell, we realized we had a serious issue ahead of us. Having no more money, no more beer, no more drugs, but alot more time on our hands, entertainment was in dire need. An agreement was made to go back to the flop house that was deemed an apartment, if only by the city zoning department, to further access the situation.

As we left the parking lot of Arkansas Disney, a gentleman sped up behind us and nearly clipped my rear bumper. Chevy...S-10....red....Not a cop.

No problem.

With a BAC in my body equivalent to what Ted Kennedy’s' mornings must feel like, I had determined the best course of action was to drive. Quickly.

I get paranoid when I'm drunk. Most people say weed is the drug of choice for those looking to hide under blankets and triple lock doors, but not me. Get a good fifth or seventh of a brandy in me, and I'll firmly believe that God herself is out to get me. I would say himself, but that’s just because they want me to say that. You don't need me to explain who 'they' are, do you?

For three straight minutes I did nothing but a tight oval around the parking lot of the Wal-Mart, attempting to lose that evil bastard in my rear view mirror. Actually, he wasn't in my rear view mirror, he was sitting, parked, staring at me and my now vomiting companion. For ##$#% sake this isn't a time for an emotional breakdown man, straighten up and fly right. I calmly brought the car down to navigational speed and gunned it for the nearest exit. Maybe I had imagined the man in the truck chasing me. Some neurons in my brain fired up as soon as the trucks headlights once again filled my rear view mirror.

We pulled up to the stop sign. Calmly. Like a 16 year old with an open container in the car and a cop behind us. You know the drill. The automotive version of being around a really pissed off bumblebee. No sudden movements, no change in the situation. We are all just happy campers.

The man behind us wasn't a pig. We could tell that much. He was staring though. With the beady eyes of a man who just watched two drunk men put thirteen miles on a car in a parking lot. What did he have on us? Was he a good Samaritan trying to prevent another drunk driving accident? Those evil civilians are the worst.

This man had sat idly by while I proceeded to make my travelling companion spill his entire stomach contents out the window. Which was just after I let him out of the trunk. All of that before we drove in a circle for ten minutes. This guy was trouble. I calmly put the turn signal on to say I was turning left. He did the same.

I turned right and floored it. Trickery.

Stoplight ahead....Yellow...Damn

The truck in my mirror turned to follow me. Not in the 'oh yeah I want to turn that way' method. In the "A-Team chasing down the bank robbers" kind of way. The headlights shook as the truck corrected from its oversteer, smoke blazing from its tires.

I pulled into the right turn lane at the stoplight. Truck pulled up behind.

Light. Green.

In chess, there comes a point in the game where, if you are waiting for your opponent to let their guard down, you begin moving pawns for the hell of it. If you could get away with just letting the other person move again, you would, because all you are waiting on is one bishop to move. So you bait it. You put a rook out for the bishop to take. You opponent thinks you are being careless and reckless. Instead you get checkmate in three. I hate having to lose anything to win. I decide the best move is to not move.

No horn, no nothing.

Light. Yellow.

I see the silhouette of the man in the truck. No head turn, no cell phone, nothing.

Just sitting there.

Light. Red.

Throttle, Floored, turning left.

With smoke blazing I run the red light and turn from the right turn lane and go left. AH HA. John Q Public safety won't break a law to pursue me.

Sadly, he does.

Fear raced across my mind like a deer across a four lane highway. I felt the tingle of the stare of the devil in the red S-10. He was in my blind spot.

My nervous partner in crime was fumbling with the glovebox in an effort to crawl inside.

"Look, but don't make eye contact, and tell me what in the f### is he doing" I shout.

"Hey I found a blank check of your sisters', we can score some beer now" he replied, ignoring my request.

"Look you stupid son of a..."

"You won't believe me when I tell you, so you better look"

"I'm not going to look" I plead.

"He's beating off"


"beating off"

"No, I heard you, I meant that like, What?, are you sure What?"

"Look and you'll see"

"I'm not going to look"

I looked.

The devil had his pants down. An image was set in my drunken mind that all the scotch in Scotland couldn't erase.

As my Tonto to my Lone Ranger exclaimed, "Chase him!, He's the Beat off bandit" I hit the brakes.

This pursuit of the pursuers was going no further.

Like setting the stage for an impromptu fire drill I bring the car to a screeching halt. The S-10 flies past, weaving a bit as the 'Bandit" adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, amongst other things.

That was one of the most disturbing nights of my life. The degree to which some people will go to find enjoyment is so upsetting to me it caused me to stop drinking for nearly two hours. My cohort wasn't nearly that emotionally scarred. We hit the Amoco on the way home for cigs and Miller High Life, and promised never to tell the sick twisted tale of the evening.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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