Rodney McKay inherited a practical joke. And if that wasn't weird enough, he inherited it when somebody else's father died - seven years after his own had.
Seven years after his father's death, Rodney McKay received a box by courier. It contained: one manila envelope, large; and one pair of green-striped polyester pants, size 40x32. The envelope held a letter; the pants were an enigma.
Dear son,Edgar "Mac" McKay, it seemed, could still annoy and amuse his only son from beyond the grave. Rodney finished reading the letter, then took it and the pants to his office. He placed the letter inside his fireproof safe, and placed the pants on his desk. He sat down and started at them thoughtfully.So, I've likely been taking a dirt nap for some time. Goddamn Shep always was a stubborn sonofabitch. I suspect he outlived me for the better part of a decade just out of spite. I hope every one of those years saw some new horrible thing happen to him, like toenail fungus or erectile dysfunction, the old bastard.
Seriously, though, kid - Shep was the best friend I ever had. We just had a way of picking at each other that made other people think we didn't like each other. But we did.
So, since you and Jeanne got all my money, and Jeanne got all her mom's jewelry, consider this to be my last bequest: you get the pants.
Shep started the whole thing. Somebody gave him those damn pants for Christmas one year. He always said it was his sister's uncle's third-grade teacher's brother who did it. It had to have been someone who didn't know him, because the pants were about two people too wide and a medium-sized dog too short. To my knowledge, he never wore them. What he did was to send them to me.Rodney remembered Shep vaguely. He'd been one of Mac's old buddies, he'd never said from where. Shep had come around three or four times when Rodney was a little kid, but then it had stopped, and Mac said he'd moved away but that they still kept in touch. Rodney never saw him again, and barely wasted a thought on it.
I laughed myself sick when he wrapped those things up and handed them over on Christmas morning. He told me where they'd come from, and I took them. Later on, I sent him a sarcastic thank-you note for them and stuck them in the back of my closet.Rodney looked at the pants some more, then pulled a notepad out of his desk and started sketching.
Well, I decided I'd give the pants back, but it seemed like a long time to wait to send them at Christmas. Instead, I sent them for his birthday. At first, it was just exchanging the pants, but it got bigger. And better. The fourth time around, I shipped them to Shep inside a strongbox with no key. I told him he could get them out any way he wanted, but the pants had to survive the process intact.Rodney started to smile.
We exchanged them forty three times over the years, and it made me laugh every time. I guess it kept our friendship going, even though we were living our own lives. Anyway, Shep has a son, and I instructed my lawyer to send you the box when Shep died. No doubt his kid is reading something similar right now.Shep was my best friend in the world and we had a lot of fun. I'd be honored if you and Shep's kid carried on the tradition at least once. If you decide to do it, send the pants to the address below. Shep will have left instructions with his kid to be on the lookout. When you send them, send a copy of this letter so Shep's son will know what to do. Who knows, you might find a good friend. And if not, you'll at least get rid of those damn ugly pants.
Rodney, make sure you keep one thing in mind, and it's very important: you have home-field advantage. You use every bit of your overdeveloped brain to make Shep's kid work for it. You hold in your hands this family's size 40 x 32 polyester legacy. Make me proud.
Love,
Dad
John Sheppard got called back from a posting in Guam for his father's funeral. He decided to take the month of leave he had coming to him to clean out the house and settle his dad's affairs.
When everything was settled, John got one more letter from his dad's lawyers.
Son,John had no idea what the letter was about, so he went ahead with packing and putting the house on the market. Twenty days after the funeral, he received an envelope addressed to "Shep." It held a photocopy of a letter, a key, and a short note. The note said, "Locker 68, Greyhound terminal on Stevens Street. Good luck!" It was signed "Mac."Be on the lookout for a delivery from Mac McKay. It won't be easy.
Dad
John went to the terminal and opened the locker. He found a medium-sized box. It was marked "Fragile" about ten times. Inside, encased in what appeared to be a custom-sculpted foam liner, he found something like a shoebox, except it was made of wood. The box appeared seamless. He had no idea what to do with it.
The box sat on his father's desk for almost a whole day before curiosity got the better of him. John got out a magnifying glass and went over every surface of the box. One side seemed to have the potential to come off. He got out a set of computer tools and gently pried at the side. He only got it open about a sixteenth of an inch when a small piece of paper fluttered out. He set the box aside and looked at the paper. It was a diagram of the inside of the box. It was strung with thin strands of wire. From the note, it was very sharp wire. Wire that would shred the pants if John opened the box any other way than from the top.
John picked up his magnifying glass and started studying the box again, squinting in concentration.
When a truck showed up at Rodney's house and unloaded a four-foot square block of concrete - COD - onto his driveway, it didn't take a genius to figure out that the pants were back. And, for those who weren't geniuses, the "Here are your pants. Have fun! Love, Shep" carved into the side of the block would just have to do.
Rodney had the block X-rayed at the teaching hospital associated with his university. Then, he bought a set of archaeological tools.
John received the pants in a three-foot dull-orange cube that, according to the note, had previously been a 1973 Gremlin. The pants are in the glove box - have fun! ~Mac
Rodney got them back in a 1/8-scale model of the lunar lander, which just happened to be constructed entirely of layers and layers of balsa wood, which he had to peel carefully away to find the pants. They were still pristine in their polyester glory.
He vowed to one-up Shep, and started scheming. He couldn't help patting himself on the back when he had the pants fixed inside a custom theft-deterrent bulletproof art frame. And then had the frame fixed inside three more frames of graduated sizes. He had the whole thing delivered via FedEx. Overnight. COD.
John was having a shitty month, but on the 27th, he managed to get the damn pants out of the frame. He went simple and twisted them tightly into a three-inch pipe and had it welded shut. It wouldn't be all that tough for Mac to get them out (nothing like the Gremlin), but John was shipping out.
This one's a softball, but we're going to have to scale back. I'll be traveling for a while. ~ShepHe included an APO address.
Rodney had the pants compressed into a square so tight that it was rock-hard, then had it sealed in polymer. He wondered if it would make it to Shep.
The pants came back inside the workings of an eighteen-inch tall toy camel that sang "Can't Touch This" every time Rodney got near it.
After a gap of more than six months, John got the pants back. They were folded neatly inside a flimsy plastic flying saucer emblazoned "Roswell, New Mexico." The saucer was wrapped in one thousand meters of copper wire in decreasing gauge.
The pants stayed gone for more than a year before Rodney got them back. They were packaged in a simple box along with a twisted piece of black metal and the scorched chain from a set of dog tags.
Rodney put them inside a Ziploc bag and shipped them to Shep from Siberia in a crate of pickled herring, hold the jars.
When Rodney got them back, they were inside a stuffed penguin surrounded by seventeen pounds of chewed bubble gum.
Rodney went to Antarctica. On a whim, he packed the pants.
John sat down in a weird chair and forgot all about the pants.
When Rodney got his hands on John after the idiotic suicide mission, he'd finally had enough.
"You don't get to do that," he said, and "You are fucking insane," and, later, "Please, just...don't."
And John said, "I had to," and "It's my job," and, later, "I...I won't."
And Rodney pulled him close and said, "you're a liar."
John stood and stretched. Pretty much every part of him was sore. The night before had just been a regular night - a night where he and Rodney had met up late and gone to Rodney's room. Once there, though, John had rolled over and asked Rodney to fuck him for the first time.
Rodney had hemmed and hawed and spluttered, but his eyes had gone soft when John said, "I trust you."
And John did. He was shocked to find that he did trust Rodney enough to let him - to want him - to pull their bodies tight together and touch him. He wanted Rodney to open him up with slick fingers, to kiss and bite the back of his neck while he did it. He wanted Rodney to stretch him wide before sliding in as slowly as he could. John wanted Rodney over him and in him, and Rodney gave him everything he wanted.
John retrieved a small package from his jacket before sneaking back to bed. But Rodney was awake and watching him. John flopped down onto the bed and grinned sheepishly. He handed over the box. He watched as Rodney opened it, and laughed at the way Rodney's eyes went wide when he saw the one-pound block of Belgian dark chocolate. He happily accepted Rodney's enthusiastic kisses in thanks.
"Wait," Rodney said, pulling away before things got really heated. He reached under the bed and pulled out a gaudily wrapped box. "Here."
John opened the box. His mouth fell open when he saw the pair of green-striped polyester pants, size 40 x 32.
Rodney licked chocolate off his lips and gave John a smug smile. "Merry Christmas, Shep," he said.