Panty Inspector #7
By Joshua Dobson
I could tell by the taste of the booger I licked from the tip of my finger there was a storm a’ comin’. Right before a thunderstorm, my boogers take on a salty, metallic flavor. The first rumble of approaching thunder came drifting across the desert as I stepped outside with the laundry basket clutched in my mitts.
As the screen door banged shut behind me, I noticed the stranger, a tall, skinny albino in a black suit, fedora, and dark sunglasses with gold frames that looked like something a TV preacher or third world dictator might wear. He was sniffing a pair of my panties he’d plucked from the clothesline with unwholesomely long fingers that terminated in long glossy nails filed to sharp points.
"Panty inspector," the albino in black droned monotonously when he saw me staring at my twin reflections in the lenses of his highfalutin sunglasses. One of his Nosferatu-fingered hands snaked into his dark nondescript suit jacket and extracted a wallet, which he whipped open, displaying a gleaming silver badge emblazoned with raised letters that read PI.
One second he was standing a few feet away from me, the next (without ever having been seen to move) he was so close that I could feel the febrile heat emanating from his pallid flesh. The smell of burning plastic exuded by the stranger momentarily overwhelmed the ozone-stink of the oncoming storm as he dropped the (suddenly inexplicably folded) panties into the laundry basket. He gently placed atop the panties a tiny slip of paper with “INSPECTED BY #7” printed on it in red ink.
"I'm gonna need to confiscate the panties you're wearing right now," Panty Inspector #7 droned.
"Do you have a warrant?" television had taught me to ask.
"Don't need one thanks to the Patriot Act," he said.
I slid my underwear down my goose-bumped legs, stepped out of them, and placed them in the outstretched hand of Panty Inspector #7.
He raised my white cotton panties to his cadaverous face and sniffed vociferously; a long slimy, pink tongue, forked at the tip like that of a serpent, slithered out of his mouth to brush against a splotch of pink menstrual blood staining the crotch. He produced a plastic sandwich bag from one of the pockets of his undertaker’s suit, fed my panties to it, and then stuffed it inside his jacket.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said, tipping his hat.
The mirror images of me reflected in his fancy sunglasses suddenly opened their mouths wide in silent screams as Panty Inspector #7 said, "If you ever tell anyone about this . . . “ A wave of ice cold dread washed over me, goosebumps bloomed up and down my arms, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, the contents of my bladder streamed down my bare legs, and an extremely vivid image coalesced before my mind’s eye – the flame of a candle slowly burning through a rope stretched taut; as the strands of the rope frayed apar) one by one, I knew with absolute certainty that the rope was the only thing that held back something too horrible for words. “. . . you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
I thought I saw something, some dark, nebulous shape slinking furtively along the edge of my field of vision. I turned my head in an effort to discern what the hell it was, but there was nothing there. When I turned my gaze back, Panty Inspector #7 had vanished.
- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.
By Joshua Dobson
I could tell by the taste of the booger I licked from the tip of my finger there was a storm a’ comin’. Right before a thunderstorm, my boogers take on a salty, metallic flavor. The first rumble of approaching thunder came drifting across the desert as I stepped outside with the laundry basket clutched in my mitts.
As the screen door banged shut behind me, I noticed the stranger, a tall, skinny albino in a black suit, fedora, and dark sunglasses with gold frames that looked like something a TV preacher or third world dictator might wear. He was sniffing a pair of my panties he’d plucked from the clothesline with unwholesomely long fingers that terminated in long glossy nails filed to sharp points.
"Panty inspector," the albino in black droned monotonously when he saw me staring at my twin reflections in the lenses of his highfalutin sunglasses. One of his Nosferatu-fingered hands snaked into his dark nondescript suit jacket and extracted a wallet, which he whipped open, displaying a gleaming silver badge emblazoned with raised letters that read PI.
One second he was standing a few feet away from me, the next (without ever having been seen to move) he was so close that I could feel the febrile heat emanating from his pallid flesh. The smell of burning plastic exuded by the stranger momentarily overwhelmed the ozone-stink of the oncoming storm as he dropped the (suddenly inexplicably folded) panties into the laundry basket. He gently placed atop the panties a tiny slip of paper with “INSPECTED BY #7” printed on it in red ink.
"I'm gonna need to confiscate the panties you're wearing right now," Panty Inspector #7 droned.
"Do you have a warrant?" television had taught me to ask.
"Don't need one thanks to the Patriot Act," he said.
I slid my underwear down my goose-bumped legs, stepped out of them, and placed them in the outstretched hand of Panty Inspector #7.
He raised my white cotton panties to his cadaverous face and sniffed vociferously; a long slimy, pink tongue, forked at the tip like that of a serpent, slithered out of his mouth to brush against a splotch of pink menstrual blood staining the crotch. He produced a plastic sandwich bag from one of the pockets of his undertaker’s suit, fed my panties to it, and then stuffed it inside his jacket.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said, tipping his hat.
The mirror images of me reflected in his fancy sunglasses suddenly opened their mouths wide in silent screams as Panty Inspector #7 said, "If you ever tell anyone about this . . . “ A wave of ice cold dread washed over me, goosebumps bloomed up and down my arms, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, the contents of my bladder streamed down my bare legs, and an extremely vivid image coalesced before my mind’s eye – the flame of a candle slowly burning through a rope stretched taut; as the strands of the rope frayed apar) one by one, I knew with absolute certainty that the rope was the only thing that held back something too horrible for words. “. . . you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
I thought I saw something, some dark, nebulous shape slinking furtively along the edge of my field of vision. I turned my head in an effort to discern what the hell it was, but there was nothing there. When I turned my gaze back, Panty Inspector #7 had vanished.
- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.
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