Jenna Jameson's knickers REL2018

The big meathead turned the little cardboard box over in his hands while he fixed me with those sunken, piggy little eyes of his. “Look sir, the court has appointed us to recover the sum of one thousand and twenty four pounds. You aren't helping yourself you know.” His voice had that dead, monotonous sort of expression that people take on when they are saying the same thing for the hundredth time “Thank you for shopping at Tescos, Enjoy your meal and come again” all that kind of stuff. This guy was one of two bailiffs currently filling up my poky little bedsit and rifling through the junk that was all I had to show for thirty years of life.

“Look, it's all I have” I said again. “That guitar and the amplifier are tools of my trade, I am a musician, you aren't allowed by law to remove them.” I was getting sick of this. It's true, they were the only things that I possessed of any worth. Absolutely everything else I owned would probably add up to less than two hundred pounds. “You aren't taking them and that's that, call the cops if you want, but I will absolutely not allow you to leave with my guitar and my amp.” I was a musician, honestly, some might say busker, but it's all music, right?
Meathead number one called from the other side of the room “This telly might be worth fifty quid.”
Number two nodded, looking at me with contempt written all over his face as he opened the cardboard box, looking at the contents before closing it with a shake of his head and dropping it back onto the little camp bed that had been all I had to sleep in for the last three months since my crazy ex had poured lighter fluid on the bed (with me in it) and torched the thing before storming out with her clothes in a bin bag.

“I am taking the guitar and the amplifier. There is nothing else in this hovel that will come remotely close to settling the debt” Meathead two announced.
“Right, I am calling the cops” I said and my thumb was busy dialling the number on my cheap pay as you go phone. They weren't to know I had no credit...
“No need sir” Meathead one announced, “I already called them and they should be here directly.”
“You what?” I said, flabbergasted. “Why did you call them?”
“Because you are being difficult, sir and in my experience, when people are being difficult they tend to make up lots of lies and things about how we served the warrant, so it's always better to have a police officer on hand.”
I didn't know how to answer that and just stood there with my mouth opening and closing silently, like some stupid goldfish.

The double thunk of a car's doors slamming out in the street removed the need for me to say anything just then, all three of us edged to the window and peered down at the white top of a police car in the street and the sight of two PCSO's looking up at the window. I pressed the door release and yelped “Third floor” into the intercom before either had a chance to press the button for my flat and I turned to regard the Meathead brothers “You ain't taking a thing out of her, not without their say so” My words didn't really carry the conviction I had hoped, PCSO's aren't real coppers, they are part time, volunteers, so lack the understanding of the law necessary to really carry out their duties.

The door to my flat was already ajar and they pushed in with an introductory “Hi, we received a call, some issue with a warrant?” When did cops stop saying “Ello ello ello”?
“Yes!” I squeaked, anxious to get my side over first. “These two are trying to take my guitar and as it comes under “tools of the trade” I told them they can't have it. I am a musician, see?” and I pointed to the fading yellow certificates on the wall as proof of my status. “Can you please just tell them they can't have my tools?”

While Meathead one argued his case with the cops, his mate picked up the box he had tossed aside and began sifting through it. It was just some stuff my dad left me after he died. Pretty much all he left me actually. A fat finger poked into the box and came out dangling some lacy panties from it, well, a g string might be a better word.but anyway, all conversation stopped as he brought it up to his face and gave it a sniff.
“Oi, did you just sniff that?” I asked, incredulous.
“No.”
“Yes you bloody did, I saw you.” I looked at the others “He sniffed it, did you see that?”
“No I never” He persisted, dropping it back into the box and closing it up again. The blush on his face spreading to the rolled up folds of fat on the back of his shaved head.

The cops looked from one face to another and coughed, embarrassed by the whole scene and, thanks to good old British justice that has been handed down since the day bad king John was forced to sign Magna Carta, an hour later I was sat at the bar in the Imperial pub taking time over a pint of IPA and mourning the loss of my Ritchie Blackmore strat and attendant Marshall amp.

What a day. To top it off, the landlord, who had come up to collect the four weeks rent I owed, clocked the drama and ordered me out. So I left, clutching dad's cardboard box and went to the pub to get wasted. There was no point trying to take anything else, all the bailiffs left was just trash anyway. I had my certificates and my paternal legacy, such as it was.

“Ey laaa. Wos up?” Youze gorra face like a smacked arse.”

Scouse Terry's dulcet tones shook me from my reverie and I looked back, offering him a weak smile “Alright Tel, bad day is all. How's you?” I asked, hoping one of his funny stories might make the day feel less grim.

“Not bad laa” he replied. “Hey do you know what dogging is?” People at the far end of the bar immediately looked round, since the guy had no filter and had asked the question in the same manner a sergeant might tell a soldier a hundred yards away to stand still.

“Ummm...yeah, but it ain't my thing” I replied, caught between the absolute need to know and the certain knowledge I was gonna regret knowing what he was up to. Terry was a mate of my dad's about 50, though his face was like a little, leathery monkey, all wrinkles and dark, like tanned leather. He was a painter and decorator, if you didn't know, you could just look at him and see all the colours he had ever used on his formerly white bib and braces. There were even green splodges on the cuffs of his donkey jacket.
He ordered a pint and, proceeded to tell me all about it..the short version being he had just painted up one of the big posh places by the park, Jag in the driveway and all that stuff, when the lady of the house had slyly intimated she liked to take in the view at Kestrel park which, it turns out, is an infamous dogging site. Well, that was that and Terry duly obliged lady muck there and then on the dust sheets he had yet to clear up.

He smiled the smile of the lucky then and sipped his pint as he asked about my day. After I had told him, he reached out and patted me on the shoulder...I couldn't help but think where that grizzled old mitt had been before and sighed into my pint.

a reply to: SprocketUK



“That the box is it?” He asked poking at the cardboard box on the bar. Without waiting he grabbed it and opened it up. “Ooh, haha, oh yeah” He muttered while pawing through the contents.
“This is like the essence of your old man.” he murmured, pulling out a little leather necklace with a flattened Effes bottle cap hanging from it” Taksim square” he said quietly “That was a night, best of me life” There were a few other bits an pieces, he gave a chuckle as he lifted out the g string “Damn, you know who this belonged to, don't you kiddo?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at me.
“Umm one of his girlfriends?” I answered sarcastically.
He laughed then and shook his head “In his dreams. No, he won this in a game of cards, was doing security for some concert and the sound guy was all in, then he added this and told your dad he got it while working on a film as the sound man, Jenna bloody Jameson! Yeah, honest to god. He took a breath or maybe it was a sniff, before continuing “Your dad always said they was lucky. He left them in the hotel off Taksim and when we were 2 nil down, he got up and said “I gorra get me lucky kecks” and so me and him missed the whole of the rest of the game, but, soon as he had them back in his hands, Stevie G scored and..”He smiled, “You know the rest.”

I blinked in surprise. “He never said” I answered shaking my head in disbelief.
“Oh it's true as I am standing here, God's honest laa.” He pulled the g string fully out the box and gave it an experimental twang. That made him laugh in a Sid James kind of way. “Oh, whats that?” He mumbled, his thumb and finger rolling around over one tiny lacy triangle.
I leaned over and couldn't help myself, reaching for it I felt the hard plastic rectangular shape myself and took the thong off him. What we must have looked like, sitting at the bar playing with women's underwear is anyone's guess, but after a moment, I had managed to extract a tiny little memory card, one of those micro sd things.

Two hours later, we are back at Terry's place, leaning over his laptop trying to get the stupid thing to open up what was on the card.
“I don't think there is anything on it Terry.” I grumbled “That or whatever it is is corrupted.
“Eh, no way laa, yer ol' man wouldn't have hid it if it was useless.” He tapped a few keys and copied the folder name of the card and put it into Google, then his eyes widened “Eh, eh, I think you gorra bitcoin laa.” he said excitedly.

“What?” I asked, stupidly, I knew what a bitcoin was, but how did my alcoholic, womanising gambler of a dad who had been dead since 2013 know what one was? “You sure? How can we get it open?”
“Need wallet software and the password” He replied. All business now. His brow furrowed even more, as if that was possible, and he spent the next half an hour downloading and installing the software before getting up and saying “Gonna make a brew, you get thinking about his password laa.”

The next four hours were some of the most frustrating in my life as I tried everything I could think of, horses names, women's names, sexual positions, nothing seemed to work. I slumped back in the chair, puffing out my cheeks in frustration as Terry reached for the box and emptied the contents on the coffee table “Maybe he left a clue, eh?” he mumbled, still sounding hopeful. I wasn't.

It was the little glint off the bottle cap that did it. I leaned forward again and typed in “We won it 5 times we won it 5 times in Istanbul we won it 5 times”
The screen changed and it showed the bitcoin balance. “We're in!” I shouted, even though he was next to me. That brown, monkey face was a still mask of shock, the ever present roll up dangling uselessly from Terry's mouth as he sat there stunned.

“Ey laa, there's a thousand of them” he whispered. I quickly opened a tab in the browser and brought up the bitcoin rate. “Oh my god.” I said, my eyes staring fixedly at the ticker showing the current value at over six thousand dollars for each one.

I didnt notice the small piece of paper that had fluttered to the floor from the box until I got up to go put the kettle on. I bent and picked it up and all it said was “For you son, make good use of them and never ever gamble away the lucky pants.


Three months later I was sipping coffee on the terrace of the little Spanish villa I had bought in the Costa Del Sol. Reading the paper on my tablet when the e mail icon popped up. I opened it and saw it was from Scouse Terry. “Eh laa, just a quick note to say I'll be over later, I think I got the dishwasher fixed in my flat, coulda just paid some one but old habits die hard haha. Oh, you ever heard of rimming?”

I choked on the coffee then, but laughed, Terry was the closest thing I had to family now and with his share of the cash he decided to buy a place just up the road from me so he could have someone to bug.

The End

a reply to: SprocketUK

Great story S&F

a reply to: 727Sky

thanks

a reply to: SprocketUK

Really good time reading this. Good work. Of course, when it's what you like doing, its not work.

a reply to: tinymind

Yeah, never a truer word

And thank you

a reply to: SprocketUK

I love your creative take on the theme, SprocketUK. Very well written and amusing story.

I thoroughly enjoyed the read!

Knickers, please. I liked it.

a reply to: SprocketUK

Well written mate. Love the accents and the background.

Kind regards,

bally

a reply to: SprocketUK

You made me chuckle with the "stupid goldfish" comparison.

What was the nature of the debt being collected? Was it the father's?

What if the micro SD card were stolen by the Meatheads?

The Son would plot a way to get it back, naturally inviting the involvement of the Painter.

Lots of room to flesh it out, if that's your thing.

Another cool story. S+F

I liked it!

a reply to: zosimov

a reply to: AugustusMasonicus

a reply to: bally001

a reply to: DictionaryOfExcuses

a reply to: vonclod


thanks folks DOE all of those answers would probably make a novel rather than a short story.

Great story Sprocket and a strange coincidence as I was just watching me some Jenna this morning. I don't think she ever found a replacement for those pants as she was completely bollock naked say for fake eyelashes and high heeled shoes. Poor girl maybe fallen on hard times as opposed to hard cock. Oh well.

a reply to: Soloprotocol



Last I heard she was a director rather than a star...I am sure she has enough dough to spring for a new set of skimpies mate. and Thanks

Great, Now I have thoughts of starring in a film with JJ as a Robot and me as her creator, but instead of a Micro SD card to boot her up she takes a floppy disc, Guess where the slot is?. And Action!

a reply to: Soloprotocol


If this keeps up the mods will drop by.