The afternoon rays of an unforgiving sun cut through the half closed curtains of the bedroom and poked Ray Holt right in his bleary, bloodshot eyes.
Ray groaned loudly and threw off his sweat-ridden sheets. Slurping out of the bed like a big blob of prehistoric mucus, Ray crawled over to the pile of clothing he had carelessly discarded after the previous night�s merry making and rummaged through it with tingling, alcohol poisoned fingers.
�What the heck are these?� Ray said as he picked up a pair of pants that he was sure had not been there the night before.
The pants were purple with gold stitching and silky smooth to the touch. Ray held them against his stubbly face and gasped at their softness. The hungover soul tried to recall events of the previous night but nowhere in his patchy thoughts could he recall purchasing such a fine pair of pants. He looked at the label, it read Calvin Europa.
Ray shrugged. His other pants were still in the washing machine, had been for some time. Gently he pulled the pants over his legs and around his waist.
All at once the pants tightened. Ray gasped as he felt the silky garment begin to meld with his skin. Before Ray had a chance to pull the pants off, his feet began tapping the cold, laminate flooring.
�What?� grunted Ray, staring down at his dancing feet.
Ray sat on the edge of his bed and pulled his feet off the floor. Even in mid air, the feet continued bopping away to some silent tune. Ray had suffered from the shakes before but never had it affected him this strangely.
It�ll pass, thought Ray. I�ll just stay here and wait�
Ray felt a sudden clenching of the buttocks and he leapt off the bed with a yelp. Once again standing upright, Ray�s hips began to sway in time with the tapping of his feet. Ray clamped his hands upon his hips to try and stop them from moving but the moment he touched them, his hands became locked there and his legs kicked out. One then the other, Riverdance style.
Ray couldn�t stop his legs from dancing. They seemed to have a mind of their own. Ray screamed as he Riverdanced over to the bedroom door. Images of himself smashing into it flashed through his mind. To his great relief, and utter bewilderment, the door swung open of its own accord and Ray was propelled down the stairs, still high-kicking.
Out into the street, Ray danced. His neighbours, some mowing their lawns, others washing their cars stared in disbelief as Ray danced by.
�Help!� cried Ray but to no avail. Those that didn�t turn away from their mad neighbour simply applauded him for his dancing prowess.
�He�s a regular Michael Flatley!� crowed Mrs Green, pruning her begonias.
�No!� yelled Ray as he left the quiet cul-de-sac and headed into town. �It�s the pants! THE PANTS!�
All through the streets of the tiny town, Ray danced. The word spread quickly and all along his route people ventured out to see him. Most applauded, others simply howled in laughter.
�It�s the pants, not me!� Ray exclaimed.
�And what a fine pair of pants they are too,� came the reply from many a bystander.
Outside the Moon Diner, located in the center of town, many locals had gathered to watch Ray�s passing. Gloria Moon, the owner and never one to miss a marketing scam, was making a quick buck on the impending dancing Raymond. She had renamed all her drinks in honor of this special moment in their small town�s history. Many of her regulars were now drinking Dancing Ray smoothies and commenting how much nicer they tasted than those plain vanilla smoothies that the drinks had been called only ten minutes before.
Ray appeared outside Moon�s at just past two in the afternoon. Behind him a huge crowd had gathered, cheering the poor fellow on. Now music had been added to his merry jig with the arrival of the town�s Irish band, playing in the bandstand outside Moon�s.
Ray stopped outside the diner and began dancing on the spot. The crowd applauded loudly. Ray shook his head in anguish.
�Stop that!� he cried. �You�re only encouraging the pants!�
But the applause escalated, the music piped on and the pants kept dancing.
The conductor of the town�s Irish band decided to change tune every now and again to see if Raymond, who showed no signs of tiring, knew other forms of dance.
Ray yelped as the pants forced him into the Foxtrot, the Tango, the Lambada, the Rhumba and even a spot of breakdancing.
As the sun began to set and the people began to disperse, Ray felt his legs swivel towards home. To the delight of homeward bound townsfolk, Raymond Cha Cha Cha�d all the way home.
Once home, the pants� magic seemed to wear off. Ray felt his feet stop tapping and then his hips gently ceased their swaying. Breathing a sigh of relief, Ray began to pull the pants off only to find that they flatly refused to budge.
�Do not try to remove us, Earthling!� a voice from the zipper warned.
In drunken states Ray had often heard inanimate objects speak but this was the first time his pants had ever spoken to him when he was completely sober.
�What are you?� demanded Ray of his pants.
The zipper moved up and down as it spoke. The pants� voice was warbled and it struggled with pronunciation but its words were still chilling to the bone.
�We have come to take over your planet,� the pants declared. �We have chosen you as our vessel. Through the medium of dance we will entrance the Earth and make its inhabitants our willing slaves.�
This was all too much for Raymond. The whole thing felt like a rejected 50�s sci-fi script. Even Ed Wood would have balked at this!
�I will not allow this!� screamed Ray, tugging at the pants. �I will not be used for your evil, twisted plans of world domination and I shall not dance again for love nor money!�
Ray screamed in agony as the pants tightened, specifically around his particulars.
�You will do as we say, Earthling!� commanded the pants. �When the sun comes out again, we shall return to the bandstand. The Charleston and the Twist have yet to be performed. Once we entrance this small town we can move onto your cities and your capitals. Within a few months all mankind will be dancing to our tune!�
Ray thought fast. He seemed to have control over his legs once more and the pants had mentioned the sun. Could it be that the pants could only operate fully in sunlight? Ray put this to the pants.
The pants were quiet for a moment. �You are correct, Earthling,� replied the pants. �But even out of direct sunlight we have still enough power to stay upon your body.� The pants squeezed Ray�s delicates once more to emphasise the point.
Ray limped into the kitchen, opened a drawer and pulled out a long carving knife. �Squeeze all you want pants!� he cried. �You�ll be off soon and then I�ll burn you!�
Ray took the knife and attempted to cut the silky pants but the blade just slipped against their smoothness and the knife fell to the floor. The pants attacked once more. Ray fell to the ground in twisted agony.
�Foolish human!� laughed the pants, tightening their grip upon his valuables.
Ray crawled towards the woodpile that lay at the end of the kitchen next to the old coal stove. Grabbing a stick, Ray attempted to jam it down the pants to prise them off his body but the stick simply snapped in two and gave Ray quite a few nasty splinters around the midriff.
�Once we have taken over the Earth we shall strip it of its assets and leave you here alone on a dead planet,� the pants cackled. �The rest of your pitiful race will be sold at the Andromeda Slave Markets.�
Ray snarled under the pain inflicted by the pants. Slowly he pulled himself up from the floor and limped over to the pantry. He quickly selected a bottle of vegetable oil, pulled the pants open as far as he could, an inch at the most, and poured the contents in.
�Your puny attempts at lubrication will not work, Earthling!� the pants announced.
Ray grimaced as the vegetable oil sloshed around his nethers but, however hard he pulled, the pants still adamantly clung on. Within five minutes anything in the pantry that could possibly be used as a lubricant found its way down Ray�s pants. Lard, jam, marmalade, ketchup and even some of Granny Holt�s chocolate fudge but all to no avail.
The pants cackled maniacally as they spoke of the cruel torments that they intended to inflict upon Mankind before eliminating Humanity and leaving Raymond lone ruler of a dead world. Ray tried to think. What else in the house could possibly remove the pants from his body? What could�There was only one thing left in the whole house that he hadn�t tried. It was risky and he knew that he would likely die but better to die and take the pants with him than face the terrifying future that the pants had revealed to him.
In the cubby-hole underneath the stairs Ray�s father, a staunch anti-government militia man, had hidden a stash of TNT for the fateful day when the government finally attacked their small town. That day had never come (Old Man Holt declared this to be another conspiracy) and the TNT had lain forgotten at the back of the cubby-hole after Ray Snr. had passed away.
The pants sensed something was occurring and intensified their onslaught against Ray�s whatnots. Ray bore it all with servitude as he limped out to the shed to fetch the detonator. Mother Holt had thought it safer to separate the TNT from the detonator whilst Ray had been a little boy with toddler curiosity.
�What are you doing?� screamed the pants as Raymond attached the detonator wire to the TNT and the detonator.
Ray whistled tunelessly and stuck the TNT between his legs. The pants realised what was happening and tried to force Ray�s legs to run but the sun had gone down an hour before and the pants could not muster enough energy to command Ray�s limbs to do more than itch a little.
�You�ll kill us both!� the pants cried.
Ray sneered as he pushed down the plunger. �For the Earth!� he yelled.
The explosion ripped apart the shed. Fragments of it were found days later in the fields surrounding the town. Yet, surprisingly, except for a little singeing around the swingables, Ray was relatively unharmed. The pants slithered off him and lay on the floor, blackened and burnt around the stitching, crumpled but still very much twitching.
Maddened and crazed, Ray grabbed his old baseball bat from the charred remains of the shed, screamed murderously and began mercilessly whacking the pants with all his might.
The wanton pummelling continued for long moments until the red rage dissipated from Raymond�s eyes. The pants lay still upon the burnt lawn, their extraterrestrial life beaten out of them. Ray let the baseball bat slip out of his hands as held his head up to the sky and let out a victory yell.
Lost in the moment, and filled with primeval rage, Ray began performing the haka right there upon his frazzled lawn. He slapped his arms, he stamped his feet and pulled very peculiar faces. �KA MATE! KA MATE! KA ORA! KA ORA!� Ray chanted. �KA MATE! KA MATE! KA ORA! KA ORA! TENEI TE TANGATA PUHURUHURU NANA I TIKI MAI WHAKAWHITI TE RA HAUPANE! HAUPANE! HAUPANE! HAUPANE! WHITI TE RA!�
Once the adrenaline rush had subsided, Ray looked down at the pants. He would burn them and send a message to all alien clothing anywhere not to mess with Earth. But the pants had gone. In the midst of his momentary Maoriness, the pants had chosen their moment to retreat. They had been bluffing all along! Ray fell to the ground and wept.
On the outskirts of town in the barn on old Phillips� farm, tucked safely behind a few bails of hay that were steadily being devoured by a lonesome heifer, an alien spacecraft of the classic saucer variety, buzzed with activity.
The Alien Dancing Pants recuperated in the vessel�s sick bay, cursing the name of Ray Holt. The Jovian Jockstrap that tended to its wounds sung soothing songs as it operated, applying the denim patches to the charred and battered remains of the pants.
�We underestimated the humans,� snarled the pants. �We must rethink our plans. Revenge will be ours!�
�These patches will protect you against trinitrotoluene,� the Jovian Jockstrap informed the pants. �When you are fully recovered the Earth will be ours.�
The Alien Dancing Pants and the Jovian Jockstrap began to laugh insanely. The heifer decided to move on to another load of hay.
�Subject Ray Holt, age 45, admitted a month ago with possible paranoid schizophrenia,� Doctor Burns read aloud. The medical students nodded and looked through the two-way mirror into the padded cell.
�The subject was found wandering the streets of his town warning people about a pair of Alien Dancing Pants that were trying to take over the world,� continued Doctor Burns. A few students sniggered. Doctor Burns looked up from his notes and fixed them with a glare and the students fell silent.
�Interviews with the inhabitants of the small town claim that the patient performed a non-stop dance routine in the center of town for almost five hours. Most of the people interviewed do recall Mr Holt wearing a very fetching pair of purple silk pants during the performance.�
The students yelped and jumped back as Ray�s face hit the two-way mirror and snarled.
�You don�t believe me, any of you!� Ray screamed. �But you�ll regret it. The pants are just biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike. They�re off and they�re coming for YOU!�