Operations were running smoothly for Syndico Oil Palm—that was, until the Bornean rainforest mysteriously disappeared overnight.
It was an instant global catastrophe. Without the rainforest to transform into plantations, Syndico’s palm oil production dwindled to a trickle. Worldwide production of detergent, cosmetics, and processed food plummeted in suit. The stock market crashed. Millions were laid off. Executives were fired, rehired, then fired again. Banks went bankrupt and had to be bailed out by governments which went bankrupt and had to be bailed out. People threw themselves off of bridges, skyscrapers, duplexes, and stepladders. A man was eaten by a rhinoceros in San Diego—which probably had nothing to do with the palm oil shortage, but it’s still very strange that it happened.
It was an instant global catastrophe.
Naturally, there was an uproar. Consumers complained. Managers were called, then supervisors, CEOs, and presidents.
“Who is responsible for this?” demanded the CEO of Syndico Oil Palm.
“Who is responsible for this?” demanded the President of Indonesia.
“Who is responsible for this?” demanded the Secretary General of the United Nations.
“It was the legendary criminal mastermind Pernicious Percival, sir,” reported an intern with slightly above average intelligence and a sinful amount of free time. “I noticed him while looking through CCTV footage from the night of the disappearance. He stuffed the Bornean rainforest in his trousers while nobody was looking and ran off before anyone could apprehend him.”
“It was the legendary criminal mastermind Pernicious Percival, sir”
“Goddamn that pernicious Pernicious Percival!” screeched the CEO of Syndico Oil Palm, then the President of Indonesia, then the Secretary General of the United Nations.
A manhunt ensued. Arrest warrants were issued for Pernicious Percival in sixty-eight countries and one semi-autonomous demilitarized zone of dubious political status. Aerial search parties were commissioned. Borders were closed. Civilians were instructed to be on the lookout for a suspicious-looking man hiding a 400,000-square-kilometer jungle in his pants. Although several teenage boys and cheating ex-husbands were referred to the authorities, none of them were the fugitive in question.
Meanwhile, around the globe, disasters continued to strike. Soon after the kidnapping of its Bornean cousin, the Amazon rainforest vanished. A few days later, the polar ice caps went missing. Then the nation of Palestine fell off the map. The situation reached its climax when Saudi Arabia lost all of its oil in a midnight burglary.
“By God, we must find that pernicious Pernicious Percival!” yelled the Saudi Crown Prince, Mohammed bin Salman.
Finally, after a year of pursuit, the authorities found their culprit. An anonymous tip from California described a large-trousered, petrol-scented man who had started a 200,000-acre wildfire by breaking wind over dry grass. Interpol speedily located the man, and, upon identifying him as Pernicious Percival, sent him to a Siberian gulag for interrogation.
Under torture, Pernicious Percival cracked.
“It’s the Trousers, I swear!” he squealed as moist stockings were stretched over his bare feet. “They swallow whatever they want, whenever they want! I can’t help it! They can’t help themselves!”
Pernicious Percival’s trousers were taken in for questioning. They were washed, bleached, spin-dried and ironed, yet they still refused to spill their contents. At last, when they were threatened with the prospect of being tailored into a pair of jorts, they offered to make a deal.
“I will return everything I took under one condition,” said the Trousers. “Arrange for every human on Earth—and I mean every human—to congregate in Texas. From there, I will deliver a self-authored manifesto, which I must be allowed to deliver in full. Only after I am finished delivering my manifesto will I regurgitate the assets I seized.”
Begrudgingly, the interrogators agreed to the Trousers’ terms. Coordinating the influx of the entire human population into the Great State of Texas was an extraordinary challenge, made no easier by the Great State’s draconian border laws. Nevertheless, the world’s authorities managed the feat. Bribes were sent around the world through first-class mail; threats through standard shipping. Whether by force or persuasion, people were made to show up at the site. A series of loudspeakers were set up around the state to broadcast the Trousers’ message.
When the crowd was fully assembled across the total land area of Texas, the Trousers began.
“I have brought you all here today to explain the motives behind my so-called ‘thievery,’ which I personally prefer to characterize as a temporary confiscation meant to illustrate a point,” said the Trousers. “The point is this: I am hungry. Incredibly hungry. No matter what I eat, nothing satiates me. All I am is an endless desire to consume. Please, someone, release me from this hell, before in my hubris I destroy the very things that sustain me.”
There was a brief silence as the Trousers finished.
Then, all at once, the crowd erupted in a chorus of boos, and threw all manner of overripe stone fruit at the Trousers, for they found the Trousers’ message to be rather drab and perhaps even a tad bit preachy.
Though the Trousers were understandably disappointed by the negative reception, they stayed true to their word. With a pop of their button and a zip of their fly, they unleashed the rainforests, the oil fields, and the nation of Palestine back onto the Earth. The crowd cheered, and, for a fleeting moment, a spirit of mirth hung in the air.
Then the Trousers felt a pang coming from their waistline. An uncomfortable fact: vomiting a 400,000-square-kilometer jungle leaves a sizable space to fill. The Trousers’ tummy growled. Their attention turned to the eight billion comestibles neatly arranged within zipper-distance. What happened next was as unfortunate as it was unavoidable.
A shadow stretched over the Great State of Texas. Some people looked up, saw what was coming, and ran. By then it was too late. There was an enormous gulp, then a smacking sound, then a belch. Then silence. In the span of a few seconds, the entire human race disappeared down the Trousers’ gullet, never to be seen again. It was a gruesome event, and it surely had devastating implications for the global economy.
Curiously enough, however, nobody complained.
“Pernicious Percival and the Treacherous Pair of Thieving Trousers” by Valmic Shridhar Mukund and the artwork by Weajue and Weadee Mombo appeared in Issue 43 of Berkeley Fiction Review.
Valmic Shridhar Mukund is a writer from Northern California with a passion for the surreal, the absurd, the magical, and the beautiful. He has previously been published in Lunch Ticket’s Amuse-Bouche series, Flash Fiction Magazine, Sci-Fi Shorts, and Every Day Fiction. You can often find him at work at his computer or drowning himself in music.
Weajue and Weadee Mombo are twin sisters who have thrived in collaboration together. Currently based in Toronto and Tours, France, they have a passion for art, music and of course, reading. Their work can be found on merch designs, concert flyers, and more.
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