Elliott's Revenge
Elliott had always been the easy target in his group of mates. At 18, fresh out of school and navigating the wild world of uni life in Manchester, he was the lanky, fair-haired lad with a perpetual grin and a wardrobe full of slim-fit jeans that seemed tailor-made for mischief. His best mate, Jackson, was the polar opposite—stocky, cheeky, and always up for a laugh at someone else's expense. Pantsing Elliott had become Jackson's signature move, especially on boozy nights out or casual hangouts. It started innocently enough, a quick tug here and there, but it escalated quicker than a pint at last orders.
One Friday night, the gang was out in the city center, hopping from pub to pub. Elliott was in high spirits, chatting up a group at the bar in his favorite blue jeans and a casual hoodie. That's when Jackson struck first—sidling up behind him, yanking Elliott's jeans down to his knees mid-sentence. The pub erupted in laughter as Elliott scrambled to pull them up, his pale cheeks flushing red under the neon lights. "Oi, Jacks! Not again!" Elliott yelped, but Jackson just slapped him on the back, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Lighten up, mate! It's tradition!"
They moved to a club next, the bass thumping through the crowded dance floor. Elliott was grooving, feeling the vibe, when—yank—attempt number two. This time, his boxers peeked out, earning whoops from the lads. Elliott laughed it off, but inside, a spark of annoyance flickered. "You're a right knob, you know that?" he muttered, hiking his jeans back up.
By the third pub crawl stop, the group was tipsy, spilling out onto the street for a smoke. Jackson, ever the opportunist, caught Elliott off guard while he was tying his shoelace. Down went the jeans again, this time tangling around his ankles and nearly tripping him. Passersby chuckled, and Elliott's mates howled. "Fourth time's the charm?" Jackson teased, but Elliott shot him a glare. "Piss off, yeah? These are me good jeans."
The night wore on, and at a late-night kebab shop, attempt four: Jackson snuck up as Elliott balanced his food tray, pulling the jeans down with a flourish. Elliott juggled his chips, barely avoiding a spill, while the queue behind him snickered. "Alright, that's it," Elliott grumbled, but Jackson was already doubling over in laughter.
It was on the walk home, cutting through a dimly lit park, that Jackson went for the fifth and final pull of the night. This time, he didn't stop at a yank—he shoved Elliott playfully but firmly, sending him tumbling onto the grass. Before Elliott could react, Jackson had wrestled the jeans clean off, waving them like a flag of victory. Elliott lay there in his boxers, the cool night air biting at his legs, as the group roared with amusement. "Give 'em back, you wanker!" Elliott shouted, scrambling to his feet, but Jackson danced away, tossing the jeans between mates like a game of keep-away. Humiliated but laughing through gritted teeth, Elliott finally snatched them back, vowing silently that payback was coming.
The next week, Elliott rallied the troops—his other mates, Tom, Liam, and Alex, who were all secretly tired of Jackson's one-note pranks. "We need to one-up him," Elliott whispered over pints at their local. "Bonfire Night's coming up. Massive crowd at the park fireworks. Let's strip the bastard bare and make him beg." The plan formed: lure Jackson to the event, wait for the perfect chaotic moment amid the bangs and sparks, then strike.
Bonfire Night arrived, the air thick with smoke and the scent of toffee apples. The park was packed—families, couples, groups of friends huddled around the massive bonfire, oohing and aahing at the fireworks exploding overhead. Jackson, oblivious, was in his element, cracking jokes and swigging from a flask. Elliott played it cool, biding his time.
As the finale lit up the sky, the crowd surged forward. That's when the lads pounced. Tom distracted Jackson with a fake argument about footy, Liam "accidentally" bumped him from behind, and Alex grabbed his arms in a mock hug. Elliott, heart pounding, went for the kill—yanking Jackson's joggers down first, then his shirt over his head in one swift motion. The others helped, and in seconds, Jackson was starkers, his clothes bundled in Elliott's arms. The shock on Jackson's face was priceless—mouth agape, hands flying to cover himself as nearby revelers gasped and giggled.
"Oi! What the—give 'em back!" Jackson bellowed, lunging at Elliott. But Elliott bolted, weaving through the crowd with Jackson in hot pursuit, bare-arsed and yelling. The chase was chaotic—Jackson dodging picnic blankets and sparklers, the lads cheering from afar as fireworks boomed like applause. Elliott led him on a merry loop around the park, taunting, "Catch me if you can, mate!"
Finally, cornered near the bonfire, Elliott feigned surrender. Jackson, panting and red-faced, reached out—only for Elliott to hurl the entire bundle of clothes into the roaring flames. They crackled and whooshed up in a burst of sparks, gone in an instant. The crowd around them erupted—some in shock, others in hysterics—as Jackson stood there, mortified, cupping himself while the heat from the fire warmed his exposed skin.
"You absolute legend!" Tom shouted, slapping Elliott on the back as they all piled on Jackson with spare coats and hoodies to cover him up. Jackson, defeated but chuckling through his embarrassment, admitted, "Alright, fair play. Truce?" Elliott grinned. "Truce. But next time, keep your hands to yourself."
From that night on, the pantsing pranks died out, replaced by tales of the legendary Bonfire Strip. And Elliott? He walked a bit taller, knowing revenge was as sweet as the smoke in the air.