A Million Versions of Right (3 page)

* * * * *

The older you get, the more difficult it seems to repress your sexual urges. At least this was my experience. I had blossomed into a rather attractive young man. I was understandably attracted to women - and they me. I avoided relationships and situations that would provoke unwanted urges. The unpredictability of an urge-inducing situation was a constant problem. For instance, I might glance across and see a lady tying her shoe and nearly explode in my pants there and then. Life was a frustrating struggle and of course I eventually garnered a reputation for being either stuck up or of homosexual proclivity. To tell them the truth was not an option. Shortly after my twenty-fifth year another, wet dream struck.

* * * * *

I woke up completely draped in tiles, save for my face and genitals. There was another moustachioed little monster, sitting on my chin, blowing foul smoke into my face. I passed out

* * * * *

When I awoke the second time there was another tiler. They were fighting each other. Throwing tiles and kicking at shins. I watched the strange spectacle for some time completely enthralled. Unusual feelings began to well within me. Staring at these little men whom I was responsible for creating, I felt somewhat like a god. Even if their purpose in life was to cause me discomfort and frustration I was still their creator. Not even
they
could deny me that. I freed my right arm from its tile encrustation and began to masturbate ferociously. The ejaculation birthed forth yet another tiler from my weary penis. This tiler instantly joined the first two in their brawl. I kept masturbating, again and again. Each new ejaculation introduced new tilers into the fight. They were all identical with their moustaches and little white overalls. Hours passed. Days passed. I lost all track of time. When my body finally gave in, there must have been close to a hundred tilers. The ongoing fight was full of violence. There were bloody corpses strewn throughout my room. Those still alive wouldn't give up. They were each determined to be the only one.

* * * * *

Once again I awoke to the sight of my father standing over me. As my vision cleared, it became apparent he was holding my testicles in his hand. They were no longer attached to my body. I slowly scanned the bedroom. There were no more tilers. What I plainly saw was a large black garbage bag. Through a small hole in one side a miniature, lifeless arm poked free. My anal stapler was still on the desk. It hadn't been disposed of. As I stared once more at my severed testicles in my father's hand I pondered. My father had stopped being clockwork long ago. This further proved it. He carefully inserted my testicles into his anus and walked away, calling back, "This is just another version of right.

BRICOLAGE SCROTUM

“If my hair were a wave I’d ride it,” crowed Chip as he proudly popped Allen’s scrotum. The scrotal pulp swung from his clawed hand in strings of unpleasantness.

“You maggoty bitch!” screamed Allen, “You popped the wrong one!”

Allen’s hands clung desperately at his crotch as he surveyed the damage.

Chip flicked his hand free of as much scrotal pulp as possible and moved in for a closer look, eager to survey the damage he’d inflicted on his brother.

“Fucking heck! I really did a harper on yer ol’ nutsack, didn’t I?”

With a clenched fist, Allen swung aimlessly in the general direction of Chip’s face. The swift jets of fist breeze reminded Chip of his mother, which in turn, reminded him of nipples.

“What were you doing flopping out the wrong ballbag anyway?” he asked the increasingly agitated Allen.

“We already agreed on this, Chip! I flop out my real bag o’ man junk for the crowd to get a good peep. I swivel slightly to allow for the switch and BANG! You pop Mr Wilkens bag.”

“Seems like the sort of thing I should have remembered,” said Chip with a raised eyebrow. This was greeted with an emphatic nod from Allen.

“Can’t you just keep Mr Wilkens’ nutsack? We were going to pop it anyway.”

Allen looked stunned, “Keep Mr Wilkens’ sack? What the hell will we pop then, Chip?”

“Who says grade four students wanna see a man’s sack get popped anyway?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter what the grade four students want to see! This is something Mr Wilkens NEEDS them to see!”

* * * * *

Mr Wilkens was the principal at Yandish Muff Primary School. He’d worked his way up from a substitute position some 30 years ago. As a man of dignity, Mr Wilkens believed himself to be a role model to his increasingly unattractive body of students. It was a responsibility he carried around earnestly.

“I’m not a complicated man am I, Bernice?”

Bernice was Mr Wilkens assistant and comrade. Her advanced age instilled a simpleminded wisdom that she utilised with aplomb to get to the grit of a situation.

She stared back at Mr Wilkens with enormous compassion. From where she stood, Mr Wilkens looked frail and childlike. A cheap suit hung loosely from his limbs and his hair was frightfully unsound. As he coughed and stumbled over his words, moths spiralled from his mouth, seeking refuge near the lights on the ceiling.

“What makes you ask such a strange question, Mr W? Have you been eating the extra curricular activities again?”

“No, no, Bernice, nothing like that. I’m just starting to wonder if I’ve made the right decision regarding next week’s demonstration.”

Bernice fought her way through the swarm of moths and draped her thick arm over Mr Wilkens shoulder.

“Are you talking about the ball poppin’, sir?”

“Yes, you know I am!”

“Now, now, don’t go getting all worked up on me. A couple of days ago you thought this was the greatest idea in the entire history of education. What happened?”

“Well… it’s balls in general. They’re such unpleasant things. I’m not sure I want my students looking at them.”

Bernice erupted with burps of laughter, involuntarily urinating in the process.

“You silly goose, Mr Wilkens! Yes, balls are ugly as sin but the balls your kiddies’ll be looking at are getting well and truly popped. Don’t view it as your students looking at ugly balls, view it as your students watching something ugly gettin’ destroyed!”

Mr Wilkens slowed his breathing until it had reached a more relaxed pace. A smile began to form.

“You really are a gem, Bernice. What would I do without you?”

“You’d probably have to lick your own damn arsehole is what!”

The laughter erupted once more as Mr Wilkens loosened his belt and shimmied out of his pants. With his cheeks spread, Bernice drove her tongue in deep.

* * * * *

Chip sat across from Allen, who sat across from their mother, who sat under her husband. Mr Wilkens’ scrotum sat limply by Allen’s plate, making a whistling sound every so often. His mother couldn’t take her long eyes off it.

“Do we
really
need that dirty sack on the table? We’re eating for fucksake, Allen!”

Allen shifted awkwardly in his chair, the pain in his crotch burning hot and wet. Chip involuntarily rubbed his thighs in an masturbatory fashion, which caused his father to giggle and point.

“Don’t encourage them, Pat,” spat their mother.

“Sorry, Alice, it’s just that he was moving his hands like he was getting off and there’s a ball sack on the table. It’s just funny is all.”

An awkward silence engulfed the dinner table. The boys exchanged a furtive glance before Chip spoke up on Allen’s behalf.

“Mum, Allen’s got a problem... a problem with his junk.”

Allen’s face flushed red with embarrassment, slapping Chip with an attack of the giggles, which in turn started his father up again. Alice punched Pat in the chin, trying to get him to set a better example. The punch triggered a sneeze within Pat, which showered his poor wife with mucous. Alice reached for her cleavage hanky and began to wipe at the snotty film.

“What do you mean, Chip? What’s wrong with Allen’s junk?”

Using animated eyeballs, Allen tried in vain to end the current conversation but Chip didn’t pick up on the subtlety. Alice was staring intently, trying to drain more information from her sons.

“It was an accident mum… a rather unpleasant accident.”

“What was an accident? Why are you being so coy?”

“I popped Allen’s junk!” yelled Chip while averting his eyes from his mother’s scrutiny.

“You what?” said Alice, with mouth agape.

“Whose junk is that then?” said Pat, pointing to Mr Wilkens’ tabletop scrotum.

“That belongs to Mr Wilkens,” said Allen coyly.

“Who the hell’s Mr Wilkens?” asked the increasingly impatient Alice.

“He’s the principal at Yandish Muff,” said Chip, whimsically pondering nipples.

“Why do you have his fucking junk on our dinner table?” asked Alice with ever escalating levels of anger.

“He gave it to us!” said Chip proudly, “We’re performing a demonstration for his grade four students next week.”

“Involving the principal’s balls?” laughed Pat.

“Yes! He insisted we use his. He wants his kids to see a pair of hairy balls get well and truly popped,” continued Chip.

“Why?” implored Alice, “It sounds outlandish on every level.”

An uncomfortable silence descended on the table, interspersed with Pat stifling his giggles. Chip swept the sack off the table and shoved it in his pocket, employing the out of sight, out of mind method. Alice was staring into a great nothingness, lost in thought. Allen was fidgeting and uncontrollably moving his legs in a rhythmic fashion, sending slight vibrations throughout the room. As the hours dripped away, dinner grew decidedly cold.

* * * * *

Mr Wilkens sat in his office busily drafting the permission slips for the upcoming demonstration. Bernice entered and immediately caught sight of Mr. Wilkens.

“Please don’t tell me you haven’t sent those things out yet?” she asked with a tone of disbelief.

“I know, I should have sent these ruddy things out last week but it’s an extremely delicate subject. Thanks to you though, Bernice, I have my angle.”

“Thanks to me?” she asked, somewhat taken aback.

“Don’t you see? You really hit the nail on the head when you were talking about the destruction of ugly. The scrotum is an undeniably horrendous appendage. I can’t conceive of anyone
not
wanting to witness the destruction of such a vulgar manifestation of biology. Here,” Mr Wilkens handed Bernice the permission form, “read this; let me know what you think.”

With the eye of an Irish cock and loosening bowels, Bernice held up the permission form and began to read.

To the Guardian,

Yandish
Muff Primary School
has always prided itself on its attitude toward esoteric tomfoolery. As educators, we utilise such methods as a means of bolstering ego and self-satisfaction. As parents, your general apathy allows us to continue on our self-aggrandising path. For this we thank you.