Fighting Trousers (originally written for Wattpadpunkfiction's Song of the Punk contest)
Professor Beerthump's liver spotted hand ripped down a pair of paisley trousers from their hanger.
"No, damn it."
A pair of purple ones with silver stars landed on the floor next.
"Where the bloody hell are they?"
More trousers were pushed aside before the hand grabbed a light grey and teal pinstripe pair with a mumbled finally and de-hangered it with a flourish before slamming the wardrobe door shut.
"Oh, Reginald, must you really?"
The professor turned to find his wife standing in the doorway of his dressing room shaking her head. One hand caressed her velvet corset in dismay.
"Of course, I must. That scoundrel will rue the day he was born!" growled Beerthump. The fact that the professor was naked from the waist down, his knobby, hairy knees and slab-like feet on full display under his flapping shirt tail did nothing to diminish the picture of anger and defiance he presented. "Rue the day, Harriet!"
"I was referring to you throwing your trousers onto the floor as if you were five. You are not five, Reginald, you are sixty-two. Pick them up, please."
Professor Beerthump looked down at the chaotic clump of textiles as if it had materialised there without him noticing. "They were in my way. Baxter can do it."
"No, Baxter cannot do it. Baxter is engaged cleaning out your hookah pipe, then refitting the vacuum tubes in the radio and then he must fetch the flowers from Ringernathy's for the downstair parlour at three. Baxter doesn't have time for your silly moods."
The professor huffed and busied himself unfolding the trousers in his hand.
Harriet's gaze made a closer inspection of the trouser pile. "Are those your tea-drinking trousers? And...goodness, what are your seaweed-scrapbooking trousers doing on the floor. Oh, Reginald. What would Emily say if she knew. She sewed those herself"
The professor flapped the pair of trousers in his hand irritatedly at his wife in lieu of a petulant stomp.
"Emily will never know! Harriet, this is important. That insolent excuse for an academic is at it again. Well, no more! I shall not stand idly by and allow him to publicly sully my work and add a giggle to the honourable name of Beerthump! I'm going to put THESE on!"
He brandished the trousers triumphantly in the air like Perseus with the head of the Medusa.
"What are you talking about?"
"What do you mean, what am I talking about? Clankingbrain and his attacks on my latest diorama is what I'm talking about! His imbecilic response letter was in The Journal of Mouse Taxidermy that arrived with the first post this morning."
"Oh, has Mr Clankingworth not approved of your costuming choices again?"
"Clankingbrain! And what does he know about it? He's specialised in kitten taxidermy, of all the preposterous things to spend one's time on."
"Reginald, your blood pressure."
Professor Beerthump flapped his trousers again and shouted: "He won't get away with it! These are my FIGHTING TROUSERS, Harriet! It's serious business when a man puts on his fighting trousers."
"So they are. No wonder I didn't recognise them. You haven't had those on since that hoaxster down in Brighton claimed no one could eat more raw oysters in an hour than he could."
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Berengaria's Best: The Ultimate Short Story Collection
Short StoryA collection of my very best short stories out of the five short story collections I've written during my three years on Wattpad. For those looking for a short read, stories marked with a * are around 1k words or less.
