The Blue Man, The King James, The Black Bull, The Bowling Club, The Ballot Hotel... even the Thai place let me post a picture of him after I paid off the assistant manager. When you terrorise a large portion of the community, and worse, if it's a generational problem stemming from the same family, people tend to be roundly accommodating to your retributory efforts. I mean, can you imagine if the people of North Korea obtained a candid of Kim Jong Un sporting pink satin panties? It's rather cathartic to picture all the different ways you could hold it against them—if you ever got chance.
I didn't really believe his death threat after our phone conversation. FYI, that was just my side of the recording—wasn't about to give that little fucker a voice on my platform. But I had to plan something big, just in case he was thinking about getting physical. And I was lucky in that respect; I had a good teacher. You remember my old pal, Richie Bond, the ‘master manipulator’? I think I called him that in a previous post. Like his head needs inflating any more, huh… Anyway, with that kind of mind in charge of the logistical contours, well, judge for yourself. If nothing can stand in the face of laughter, faces will melt under this kind of shame.
I didn't go out much over the next week or two after the phone call, not in the daytime anyway. There really isn't anywhere to hide in a town that size… Though it was pointed out to me, by who else but Richie, that that can work both ways. Yeah, there might not be many places to hide from a tormentor and his crew, but if you pull off a tanning on him, in public and for all to see, he won't have a hole to hide in either. As we had it, if this was a larger city, his humiliation would likely float off into the far larger smog of vice—unless the act of vengeance was biblically memorable. In one of the villages, they probably wouldn't care—and wouldn't be many to bother. But in a town of this size, get caught like this, and there'll be an abiding red light outside your door—permanently!
It almost took us longer to find a printing service online than it did to pin them up—all the pictures, I mean. Ten thousand Polaroid-style portraits of Jessie: dazzling in his little pink panties. I was mostly glad that the various pubs, clubs and takeaways hadn't yet done away with their physical notice boards—the joys of provincial life… I know what you're saying, I could've tried to keep all this strictly online. But bollocks to that, I needed to strike first. And let me tell you, every single picture I pinned up of Jessie made me feel like a glorious, shining agent of reprisal. I can still feel the sensation of each thumbtack penetrating the cork and various wooden surfaces; a joyously bloody thumb as my reward by the end of the day. A carnival I'll make of your shame, our Jess. Fit for Bacchus himself!
Stupid, really; it's like I told him, he could make most of this go away by owning the guilt, claiming the smut, taking pride in the taunts, and shrugging them off. Misdirection? A bit. But I knew that even if he did try to feign some kind of security in his masculinity by bravely donning such apparel, if it got out, he'd never be able to remain in that kind of spotlight—not for long anyway. Having said that, I never thought it'd go as well as it did...
'Who's that, then?' A pissed-up patron of the King James asked me as I pinned up Jessie's picture on the notice board between the toilets and kitchen. 'Ha, ha! He's a scrawny fucker in them things, i'nt he?
'Indeed he is.' I replied.
He didn't take much notice of who it was in the picture as he staggered back into the bar; he was pretty out of it. There were a whole bunch of other flyers and junk on that particular board. I was about halfway through the task.
Next, one of the Chinese takeaways; we have several, even in a town that size. I knew the daughter, a friend from school: Lucy. She said I could try to pin it up on their board, but her parents are a bit old school, so they'll probably just take it down. I tacked it up by the stainless counter near the till. To hell with it. Give it a go.
'Ooh, who's this, then?' Asked Lucy's mum, stepping through the beaded doorway from the back. She reached over the counter and snatched the diminutive portrait, 'OH MY GOD! Trudy, Trudy, you gotta come see this!
Far from her old world sensibilities being shaken, Lucy's mother took Jessie's snapshot in with great delight—even summoning one of her shop girls to come and have a look at the photo.
'What's this for, eh? And what's on the back?' She spoke quickly, without pause, "'Ten Men's Pink Panty Pride Day" ah, ha, ha, ha, haa! When's this, then?'
'There's a date at the bottom.' I said as I was leaving. My nostrils kicked with delicious accents of Chinese chicken curry; I was starved by this stage but had to press on.
Trudy looked embarrassed, you think she knows him? Lucy caught my eye as I was leaving with a smirk—we were all in the same form at school. As I passed back across the large, steamed window, Lucy's mum was sweetly re-pinning the picture up on the board.
That actually brought me onto Elm Street proper. Dangerous? Possibly. I didn't know the whereabouts of him or his cronies. But I needed a reaction from the whole town—counted on it, in fact! Just not yet… I needed to hit all the telephone poles, trees, benches, and anything that could be pinned on or tacked to. I was fast and exacting, and my fingertips were punctured and bloody from fishing out the countless tacks from my pockets. As I grafted along the street, my mind kept landing on something my aunt had told me: about her rapist, paedophile stepfather, and how she leafleted the streets by his funeral, pointing out the facts of her ruined childhood by his ugly, foetid hands to any of the congregation who might have been unaware or wilfully ignorant.
By the time I was done with Elm Street, it looked like a Jessie-themed confetti bomb had therein been detonated. Benches, fence posts and trees alike, festooned with his scratchy chicken-white figure in a caveman stance. Wide, dim-witted eyes looking straight into the lens as if they were frozen in their sockets, unblinking. His bollocks looked small in those pink panties—trying their level best to stay put. But clear for all of Marton, his cock was dwarfed and lost to the skimpy satin smalls. I headed up to the top of town as night was falling. Some of the working men's clubs and other venues were just opening up for the evening. I figured it wouldn't be long until Jessie, a brother or two, and perhaps one or two other members of his high IQ inner circle might be gutting the town for the perpetrator. Who knows what they already knew about him, or who even took that picture? Could've been a selfie, I suppose…
But as it turned out, he didn't round up a posse that night—not to my knowledge anyway. I mean, who would wanna share in the vendetta for a smear so shameful? Would the brown shirts have been so intimidating if they wore pink satin instead? Would the Führer have been equally able to rally in a hot pink thong?
It was thoroughly night by the time my task was done, with every picture posted. I sat and smoked for a while by the monument on the Mount, looking down on a town that was hopefully by now heaping their scorn and jeers down on Jessie. The yellowing provincial lights rolled, rippled and were lost as I gave up the high ground and headed back down into the streets. The nightlife was on an upswing; the sundry takeaways, pubs, and restaurants were going strong. Every time I stepped past a pub or restaurant window, or when the mirth spilled out into the streets, I wholeheartedly convinced myself that it was all for Jessie. I took a niggardly pace past the most promising gaggles of activity. I wanted them ALL well and truly imprinted in my mind.
At one stop, a big, fat, bald-headed guy in a white shirt with red face tumbled out through the pub door, doubled over with laughter, daintily holding one of my Polaroids aloft between thumb and finger. Three other lads fell after in kind. I was a bit ahead of them, on the other side, so I didn't hear exactly what was said. The big guy ended up just tossing the picture into the gutter, and the group moved off on their crawl. Onwards and joyfully downwards.
When the day of the date finally came—what a glorious day indeed! It was like a public holiday. You know, people will quite often flex their preconceptions a bit when you tell them something is in aid of a good cause. In fact, the whole event was met with a good deal of cheer! You see, we'd managed to spin the charade in the antecedent days and weeks as an act of charity—as a wholly benevolent, un-malevolent jaunt. Many folks even openly lauded our boy Jessie for his very brave and altruistic gesture - but nobody told him directly.
With the help of a small but driven mob, we successfully veiled the event solely as a money-making endeavour for cervical cancer, with Jessie in his special pair of pink panties forged as the totemic symbol of the cause—it was ‘win-win’, as they say. We successfully emasculated a degenerate thug whilst also raising money for a worthy cause… Probably not the wholly insidious arc you were expecting, but it's nice that our increasingly fanatic, virtue-signalling culture does at least have its uses.
The day of the parade: the inaugural ‘Ten Men's Pink Panties & Proud Day’. A powerful day, to be certain. The floats would be brushing around town, thematic and proud, of course, and we saw to it that they were all well equipped for the route. We rendezvoused at break of day in St James’ car park. There were trucks, tractors and HGVs towing various platforms and podiums, all in the name of our charitable cause. The bands struck up and were tuning, players practised skits; dancers were limbering, proudly. Then at ten on the dot, off they floated, out of the lot, with a noble charge indeed! We made sure the principal truck was the most representative of our cause, of course. It had a big, plain white cab. Plain until a few days prior, we commissioned a local signage company to superimpose Jessie's portrait from the Polaroid onto the front (the front of our UK trucks are generally flat.)
Each performer on every float was given strict instructions that morning as to where the climax of the carnival would be taking place: Elm Street. Who knows whether or not the big man himself would be in residence? It mattered not; the event would surely be immortalised by the local paper. And it was, of course, thanks to Richie. Though a very serious logistical and environmental discussion had to take place that morning amongst the councilmen and organisers regarding the finale! One councillor chap thought it best that we dispensed our charitable tokens intermittently around town to give everyone a chance to take home a souvenir and feel part of the event. But I suggested, however, that if the guys on the floats were given free rein with Ten Men's Pink Panty Cannons, that would be hazardous and detrimental to the local flora and fauna. Big fucking surprise, the environmental angle swung it.
And so it was that around midday of the first annual charitable outing of the Ten Men's Pink Panties and Proud Day Parade, the huge lead float made its final turn south onto Elm Street proper towards its final destination and zenith of the proceedings. A multitude of triumphant cheers met Jessie's ginormous, inflated face on the front of the lead truck as it slowly rounded the corner—his massive pendulous expression beautifully changeless for the waiting crowds; his lovely primitive stare hung giant atop the procession. And Elm Street was just the perfect location: long and straight, with terraced housing on each side. It had a stadium sort of feel to it that morning, if you get my meaning?
The floats gradually all slid in: singing, dancing, and beaming with pride. The lead truck came to a stop at the southernmost junction of the street, just a couple of feet from Jessie's place, happily. The entire caravan was just about long enough to fill Elm Street from top to bottom, just shy actually—might be room for another float or two next year.
The climactic moment had arrived! Giant quantities of pink panties, our talismanic token, were gleefully tossed to the buzzing crowd by performers, volunteers, and bucket-wielding collectors. They were fired manfully from makeshift catapults and adapted T-shirt cannons and ended up ornamenting houses, trees, cars, bushes, fences, and picnicking onlookers alike! All, obviously, biodegradable, recyclable, and donated in the good name of the cause, of course. Ecstatic donors, young and old, lining the streets, rapturous in their enthusiasm for the cause, all outnumbered a thousand to one by Ten Men's Pink Panties. They were on heads, wrists, arms and legs, being worn like jewellery and even fashioned into chains as daisies! Many kind donations were made, and where once buckets were filled with Jessie's panties, now lay coins and notes.
I had a stellar view, up on the roof of one of the houses; a secret smoking place I'd scouted between a couple of terraced houses being used by a group of teenagers. They graciously allowed me to climb through the skylight to record the event from on high. I actually got some decent photos from up there, and who would've thought one would actually be used by the local paper the next day? A wide-angled shot that captured the whole length of the street, with every last jubilant float—would've made a hell of a sight on Google Maps, all dressed up! Elm Street was a paradise of charitable revelry that day, pink panties raining like ticker-tape, Jessie's gormless face plastered enormous: a Titan of pretense delivered in satin. From my rooftop perch, I watched the town swallow him whole, his enormously tender ego cheaply traded for panties and laughter. You don't always need to draw blood.