My Socks Rolled Down Read online

  My Socks Rolled Down

  Dean Wesley Smith

  My Socks Rolled Down

  Copyright © 2012 by Dean Wesley Smith

  Published by WMG Publishing

  Cover Design copyright © 2012 WMG Publishing

  Smashwords Edition

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  My Socks Rolled Down

  A person can only go so far in life with only one pair of magic socks. I know, I know, it’s tough to imagine anyone only having one pair of magic socks, but you can come and search the three drawers in my small bedroom of my trailer, or look under my old second-hand green couch, or even check the coin-op laundry where I do my clothes. You won’t find more than one pair. And I wear them every day and have for my entire life, all twenty-three years of it.

  Sad, huh?

  I’ve never had more than one pair. My mom gave them to me on her deathbed when I was born, rolling my little feet into the magic white cotton like putting little rubbers on two small penises. I don’t remember the act, of course, but for some reason, that pair of magic socks are the only pair I have ever had.

  As with all magic socks, they fit me perfectly and always have, growing perfectly with me right up until I stopped growing at five-four and a half.

  And they never wear out. I wash them once a week, never leaving the washer or dryer while they are in there. I’ve heard of people stealing magic socks. It’s bad enough only having one pair. I really can’t imagine those few poor souls who have none.

  What scares me is that I am only one pair of magic socks away from those poor, sockless souls. It would really be better if I could find a second pair. And three pair would be perfect. I might be able to do something with my life if I had three. That way I wouldn’t have to do laundry so often.

  Well, my dream to have enough money to buy more magic socks finally came true on January 13th at five in the evening. I was sitting there, watching my old television, hoping a truck didn’t go by outside on the gravel road and shake the rabbit ears I had made of tin foil.

  Every week I bought a lottery ticket, and every week I played the same numbers and watched the lottery drawing on television before turning the channel over to Wheel. Can’t let a night go by without staring at Vanna’s tits, you understand.

  If I just had more than one pair of magic socks, she might talk to me.

  I had my feet kicked up on the old pine coffee table while I sat on the couch drinking a Pabst, the best beer anywhere for the price. My boots were by the front door and my magic socks looked like it was time for another trip to the coin-op.

  The first number was six, and the magic socks on my feet tingled a little. The last time they tingled like that I found a five-dollar bill on the sidewalk.

  Six was the first number I always picked. It was how old I was when I shot my first rabbit with Grandad’s twenty-two.

  Next number was eight, and my old magic socks were giving me a real itchy feel. Last time they did that, when I was sixteen, I got laid for the first time by the mother of my best friend at the time.

  Eight was the age I was when Dad brought home my new stepmother who stayed for two years before she disappeared one night and Dad came back kind of muddy and smiling.

  I took a swallow of the Pabst and sat it down on the coffee table as the next number came up.

  Fourteen, and my magic socks were rubbing my feet so hard they were getting almost hot. In all my years I’d never had my magic socks get so excited.

  “Down, boys, down,” I said, reaching for the drawer and pulling out this week’s ticket to make sure I had the numbers right. I did. The first three were six, eight, fourteen. Fourteen was when they arrested Dad for killing stepmom number three, or maybe it was number four, I wasn’t sure.

  The police talked to me for a while, then said that I was going to a foster home, but I ran off, got my clothes and hunting equipment and Dad’s hidden rifle and ammunition and made it off into the mountains along the coast. I camped out until I turned eighteen, which was my next number.

  The guy on the television watched the old ping-pong ball slide up the tube and he said, “Eighteen.”

  My magic socks felt like dancing, so that was what I did, got up and danced around the living room for a moment, letting them celebrate. I really liked how they were hugging my feet like a woman hugging a long lost lover. That felt great to be honest.

  With four right numbers I had already won a few thousand. Just one more of the two and things would be really fine.

  My next number was twenty. That’s when I moved into this doublewide trailer up Jenson Creek.

  The old guy that lived here before me is buried out back, and so far no one has missed him at all. I told two neighbors he got sick and moved into Portland and I was renting the trailer. That seemed to keep them happy, and I buried the old man deep enough no coyotes were going to dig him up. Now after three years, a tree was growing on his grave. Nice little thing, too.

  The old guy had on his one pair of magic socks when I shot him, but weirdly enough, when I went to shoot him, my aim suddenly went bad and instead of hitting the old guy in the chest, I hit him in the foot, right through one magic sock, blowing it all apart.

  As the old guy jumped backwards, screaming and swearing and holding his torn-up foot, I shot again.

  And again the gun seemed to have a mind of its own and it shot the guy in the other foot. I gave up shooting him and tried to pound his head, but I just kept missing like he was moving around, even though he wasn’t. The old guy bled out after a few minutes and died anyway, and his magic socks were worthless and dead as well. A real bummer and to this day I have no idea why I couldn’t shoot straight that day.

  The announcer said, “Twenty.”

  My magic socks sort of flipped my feet up in the air so hard I went over backwards, smashed into the wall and hit the floor hard.

  Then, even though I was hurting something awful, the socks got me to my feet and ran around the small living room of the trailer, bouncing me off the walls like I was so much kindling.

  “Slow down!” I shouted at the white socks on my feet, but they didn’t.

  I heard a thought clear as a bell in my mind. You dumb idiot, don’t you realize you’ve just won enough money to buy a dozen more magic socks and I won’t have to put up with your smelly feet all the damned time.

  My magic socks could talk to me. Wow!

  “How come you’ve never said anything before now?”

  What for? Holding a conversation with you would be like talking to an outhouse wall, like you did for all those years we were camping.

  “Hey, nothing wrong with – ”

  Shut the hell up and let’s see if you’ve won the entire thing!

  The announcer said, “Twenty-three.”

  My final number, because that’s how old I am now.

  An instant later my magic socks had me walking on the ceiling, then doing a moon-walk backwards across my ceiling and down the wall.

  Now you can buy a thousand pairs of magic socks. And you can retire me.

  “What happens if I don’t want a thousand pair?”

  The magic socks stopped me cold in the middle of the floor. What did you mean by that?

  “I didn’t know socks could talk. I’m not so sure I want all them living here and talking to me.”

  There was a nice silence in my mind, like normal, then my magic socks sort of growled low and deep, lik
e a wild animal ready to attack.

  Then I decided something real clear like. “You know, I could buy a huge house and have rooms full of magic socks and tell them that none of them could ever talk to me. Only to each other.”

  I smiled for a moment before I realized that my magic socks had made me say all that.

  “I’m not going to do that and you can’t make me,” I said.

  Again there was a low growl, then the socks said inside my head. That’s it. I’m still young, I have a life to live, other socks to meet, baby magic socks to create. I don’t need to stay here with you anymore.

  “You’re my socks and I’m not taking you off,” I said.

  You are such an idiot. You think you are in control. All of you humans believe that, letting us live off your energy, giving us special places in your life. But we control you, every last one of you. And idiot boy, it’s time I moved on.

  Now I was getting mad. “And just how do you think you’re going to do that if I don’t take you off?”

  The voice of the socks sort of gave off a snorting sound, then I walked against my will over to the wall, up the wall, and out onto the middle of the ceiling, hanging upside down from my white socks.

  Oops, the voice inside my head said, and suddenly I was hurtling toward the green shag carpet. I tried to get my arms up to break my fall, but I couldn’t. I hit on the top of my head and flopped sideways.

  “That hurt!” I shouted.

  Damn it all, the voice said.

  My magic socks were trying to kill me!

  No, shit, Sherlock.

  With that my magic socks walked me to my phone and made me pick it up and dial 911.

  Then, when the operator asked what was my emergency, I said without wanting to, “I killed an old guy and he’s buried out under a small tree in my backyard. I can’t take the guilt. I’m going to kill myself.”

  Then I laid the phone down and walked down the hall to where I kept my rifles, all of them loaded.

  My magic socks weren’t allowing me to say anything, so instead I just thought at the socks really, really hard that they should stop.

  Wow, a thought, the socks said. From the idiot. Stunning.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked as at the same time I dug into the guns and pulled out my favorite without wanting to.

  Because I’m tired of your sweating feet, I want to meet other magic socks as you call them. Actually we are called Yekcoj, a race millions of years older than humans.

  I just didn’t believe that. My magic socks had lost it, gone off the deep end.

  You want to know what we really look like?

  Suddenly my white socks shifted around my feet and combined, with both of my legs fitting into the teeth-lined mouth of what looked like a nasty groundhog, only with scales and ten eyes and four arms.

  To be honest, I’m tired of you standing and walking around in my mouth. Why my people thought this was a good idea is beyond me.

  One long black eye blinked at me and then my magic socks were back, white as ever.

  The socks walked me back out to the living room. The operator on the phone was saying, “Sir! Sir! Help is on the way.”

  I sat down on the couch against my will, put the gun in my mouth against my will, and put my finger on the trigger against my will.

  Thanks for the worst twenty-three years any socks could ever dream of living. See ya.

  I pulled the trigger.

  The socks laughed and pulled themselves off of my body’s feet.

  I could see my body through the eyes of the magic socks, or weird groundhog or whatever it was. The gunshot had blown most of my brain against the front window and some part of my skull was hanging off the drapes.

  Now you’ve done it, I thought at the socks.

  What…? What…? What are you doing here? You can’t still be here, in my mind, you’re dead.

  Never heard of the Four Laws of Magic Socks, have you?

  I hadn’t known them either until I died. Now I knew them and a lot more stuff I had never known when alive. Weird how dying made me a lot smarter.

  What four laws? the magic socks asked.

  It was part of the treaty with humans when they allowed your people to come here to live.

  I hadn’t known that either until that gun blew my brains out.

  Law #1: You must always let humans wear you at any time.

  Yeah, yeah, the magic socks said.

  Law #2: You can’t speak to any humans or let them know of your presence. Broke that one, didn’t you?

  Just go on, my magic socks said.

  Law #3: You must always follow the orders of your human unless it conflicts with Law #4, which is that Magic Socks cannot allow harm to come to humans unless otherwise avoided.

  Oh, my magic socks said softly.

  Let’s get back into place on my feet, I thought at my not-so-faithful magic sock companion, so when the Magic Sock police get here, they’ll know what to do with you and with me.

  Together we moved over to my body and formed clean white socks around my now very dead feet.

  Outside, coming up the dirt road, the police sirens filled the narrow valley. Back when I was alive, that would have scared me enough to go get my gun. Now it just made me laugh.

  Too bad I’m never going to get to collect the winnings on that ticket. I might have bought a big place and lots of your friends for you to play with.

  Please, please, please would you just shut up for a few minutes? my magic socks said, clearly angry.

  Nah, I thought at my magic socks as together we rested around the feet of my dead body. I figure we can spend our last few hours together going over all the great years we had together.

  My magic socks made a groaning sound.

  Remember that day when I was four and had to take a crap really bad, and didn’t make it to the bathroom and crapped all over you? Wasn’t that a great time? I think that pulled us closer together, don’t you?

  My magic socks said nothing, once again following the Second Law of Magic Socks.

  The police knocked hard on the door, then shoved it open, covering their mouths when they saw the mess my brains left on the window and drapes.

  “He’s got magic socks on,” one cop said, pointing to my feet and me and my magic sock companion.

  “How could he do this, then? Magic socks won’t let you hurt yourself.”

  Both cops looked at each other, then one of them said, “Rogue Socks.”

  “Call the Magic Sock Police representative,” another cop said. “If his socks went rogue, it means this guy is still in there with the socks.”

  I made old magic socks move what used to be my big toe up and down like I was doing a mini-nod.

  “Shit,” one cop said and both backed up.

  So they call you rogues, huh? I thought at my magic socks.

  My socks said nothing.

  Remember that time I was all out of toilet paper and needed to use you to wipe my ass? Great fun, huh?

  Hey, idiot-boy, my magic socks thought at me, with all your new knowledge you should know what’s going to happen next, now that you told those cops I was a rogue and you were trapped in here with me.

  “We do it together,” one cop said.

  “Count of three,” the other cop said as they stepped closer to me and my magic socks.

  Suddenly I realized what the two cops planned to do. When magic socks went rogue and killed a human, they had to be killed at once, not only to stop the rogue socks, but to release the soul of the departed.

  Hey! I thought at my magic socks, suddenly very panicked. Get us out of here. Make a run for it!

  I’m not allowed to talk to you, remember?

  But you’re supposed to follow my instructions. Run!

  The two cops got closer and both aimed their pistols, one at my right foot, one at my left.

  I don’t have to, my magic socks said. I’m rogue, remember?

  “One,” a cop said, pointing a big gun at my old ri
ght foot while the other cop pointed at my left foot.

  Don’t you want to live?

  My magic socks laughed. With you? Not any more. Twenty-three years was more than enough.

  “Two,” the cop said.

  I should have used you for toilet paper more often, I thought at my magic socks.

  I should have killed you long before now, my magic socks thought back.

  Screw you, I thought at my magic socks.

  Another original thought, my magic socks thought back.

  “Three,” the cop said.

  There was a huge explosion and I could feel myself slipping away, fading into the darkness.

  And the last thing I heard before I vanished into the blackness was the last thought of my magic socks.

  Oh, thank the Great Sock this is over!

  About the Author

  Bestselling author Dean Wesley Smith has written more than one hundred popular novels and well over two hundred published short stories. His novels include the science fiction novel Laying the Music to Rest and the thriller The Hunted as D.W. Smith. With Kristine Kathryn Rusch, he is the coauthor of The Tenth Planet trilogy and The 10th Kingdom. He writes under many pen names and has also ghosted for a number of top bestselling writers.

  Dean has also written books and comics for all three major comic book companies, Marvel, DC, and Dark Horse, and has done scripts for Hollywood. One movie was actually made.

  Over his career he has also been an editor and publisher, first at Pulphouse Publishing, then for VB Tech Journal, then for Pocket Books. Soon he will be again editing for Fiction River.

  Currently, he is writing thrillers and mystery novels under another name and having great fun as an indie writer as well.

 

 

  Smith, Dean Wesley, My Socks Rolled Down

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