A Million Versions of Right (5 page)

“I’m sorry, Allen.”

Tears began to form in Chip’s guilt-ridden eyes as the meagre apology dribbled off his lips. For Chip, there was no weight lifted. The act of apology only reinforced his self-loathing. Chip’s tears had a nauseating influence on Allen, who also began to feel guilt. It became apparent to Allen that he too was complicit in the death of his scrotum.
Sure, Chip had acted with inappropriate haste and had popped the first thing he saw but it was Allen who had ensured there was something to pop in the first place
. If anything, they were both at fault.

Allen’s introspection was interrupted by an inhuman scream from Chip, who was now hunched over in what appeared to be agony. He lunged toward his brother with compassion and worry.

“Chip! Are you alright? What’s happened?”

He draped his arm over Chip’s shoulder, trying to deduce the cause of the scream.

“Allen,” wheezed Chip, “I want you to have this.”

Allen directed his gaze toward Chip’s extended, bloody hand. It was Chip’s scrotum. It seemed to breathe in his hand and leaked a substance similar to molasses.

* * * * *

In his position as testicular advocate, Hedging Littlepop was often approached by like minds: people who were fed up with scrotal discrimination. He decided to gather a group of scrotal enthusiasts and labelled them, the Scroats.

Hedging had enlisted the help of his wife and son in order to convert their garage into a makeshift meeting hall. A podium, constructed of hardened wine, stood proudly in the centre of the converted garage. Alex had created a banner that bore the likeness of a jar stuffed to the brim with scrotums, which hung dramatically behind the podium. Loudspeakers filled the room with dismal vox pops, recorded on cylinders, covering a wide variety of scrotally slanted subject matter. The air in the garage carried a scent of pine.

As a Scroat, there were only two rules. The first was to ensure the sanctity of the scrotum was tirelessly upheld and the second: during a meeting, the scrotum must always be on display, preferably without interference from the penile shaft. So there stood a group of twelve ideological men, each with their scrotums hanging from their jeans, each with a glint in their eye. Standing before the men with an air of distinct purpose was Hedging. He held the permission form sent home from Yandish Muff aloft.

“Men, today is one of tremendous import. The sickening spectacle of scrotal discrimination reached a grisly low earlier this week, when my precious Alex handed me this permission form.”

Hedging waved the form about hypnotically, eliciting a quiet awe from the group.

“Upon reading this form, what do you think I saw?”

The men shook their heads, wondering what the form could possibly contain.

“It was a blatant case of anti-scrotal advocacy, of course! It would appear that the principal of Yandish Muff feels it appropriate to subject his grade four students to an especially nasty demonstration, fuelled solely by his own prejudice and hate. That’s right, fellow Scroats, later this week, the students at Yandish Muff will be forced to witness the live popping of a human scrotum!”

The gasps of shock spiralled from the men in the room. One went as far as to tuck his scrotum back into his pants, presumedly as a misguided defensive measure. He was asked to leave the Scroats immediately, which he did without question.

When the unexpected ousting had finished and everyone’s nerves were a little calmer, Hedging continued.

“And so, what do we do about it? Do we sit here with our nads dangling while our children are turned into mindless haters by agenda-driven fundamentalists? Or do we pump our chests, storm the fort and proclaim the scrotum a prejudice-free zone?”

The men cheered, deeply swayed by Hedging’s strong, passionate words. They formed a tight circle and rubbed their scrotums together gently. This was conducted in a way that avoided homosexual overtones of any sort. It was a potentially sexual act devoid of sexuality, like a Moyle biting off a foreskin, like fellatio from your cousin, like an enema from your family doctor.

Hedging signalled for his wife and son to enter the garage. They were holding musical instruments. Tina held a banjo in one hand and a 12-string acoustic guitar in the other. Alex struggled with a double bass, double his size. The Scroats looked on in confusion.

“Gentlemen, my family and I would like to perform a song for you all, infused with an intoxicating blend of folk and country elements. I think you’ll find the harmonies rather delicate. For the sake of branding, we are known as Hedging Littlepop and the Family Littlepops.”

The Scroats cheered and danced as the Family Littlepops began to play.

* * * * *

Mr Wilkens sat in silence, guilt assailing him in violent waves. He had focused so intently on the principles surrounding the decision to remove his scrotum that it hadn’t occurred to him to tell his wife. It had become painfully obvious that she was concerned. It was written all over her face. Several years ago Tina Wilkens had adopted the habit of writing her current emotional situation on her face with an easily removable array of organic inks. It wasn’t unusual for the emotional scrawl to be updated over 30 times in one day. For the past week however, the words
gravely concerned
had remained. A quick glance at Tina’s chin revealed the cause of her concern:
no sexual activity
. Mr Wilkens regretted the lack of sexual tomfoolery but he didn’t know how Tina would respond to his de-balling. He had come so close to dropping his strides on several occasions, but just as the belt was loosening, he would quickly tighten it back up. It couldn’t remain unspoken for much longer and Mr Wilkens knew it. If he could just buy a little more time, perhaps after the demonstration, then it would all be okay.

But he wasn’t afforded this time. Tina had to speak up, “What’s going on, Spence? You’ve been so distant lately. I feel as if we’re drifting apart.”

Tina’s eyes welled with tears that slowly snaked down her cheeks, smudging the facial scrawl. Mr Wilkens bit his lower lip, attempting to find the right words. Tina lunged toward him, placing her hands firmly on either shoulder and began to shake her sorry husband. A monopoly board fell from his shirt, along with a large book devoted to monopoly strategy.

“Speak to me! Why won’t you fucking speak to me?” implored Tina as her quiet tears evolved into violent sobbing.

Mr Wilkens shrugged out of Tina’s grip and fell onto the bed in a ball of waste. He too began to cry in a piercing shriek that cracked all but four of Tina’s teeth. Tina began to intensify her wail, as if in competition with Mr Wilkens. The warbled, shrieks shattered mirrors and sternums as their tear ducts ran dry before pumping thick, black blood.

Before communication could commence, they were involuntarily thrust into a whirling vortex of despair. Duct blood coagulated into jellied stones on the bedspread. The crying had achieved a level of abstraction, divorced totally from the situation.

They were both at the mercy of momentum, which wouldn’t end until its course had been run. This took fifteen hours.

Slumped back upon the soiled bedspread, Tina and Mr Wilkens began the process of recovery. Their eyes stung with the ferocity of their tears and their stomachs had been heaved into a state of emptiness. Tina rolled into Mr Wilkens and draped her arm across him, accidentally poking him in the eye. They remained in solemn silence for an indeterminate time. Mr Wilkens utilized the silence to ponder the absence of his testicles; to ponder the right words; to ponder how dangerous ice hockey was as a sport. It was time for Tina to finally hear the truth… for better or worse.

“Tina, there is something that I must tell you.”

Finally
, she thought and scrawled it upon her brow.

* * * * *

Allen covered his shock pocked face with shaking hands. He couldn’t physically bring himself to accept Chip’s grisly offering, which looked for all intents and purposes, like a melting slab of disastrously unsound, meat ice cream.

“Chip, what have you done?”

“This whole fucking situation is my fault, Allen. I acted without thought. My eyes were on the prize most certainly but I never stopped to make sure it was the right prize. Here, take it… please.”

Chip forced his scrotum into Allen’s rigidly cupped hand before falling backward on a conveniently placed pile of soft.

“But what are you going do? You need balls too, Chip. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I have options. I have options bubbling from every orifice.”

Allen didn’t look convinced as he watched his brother writhe about in self-inflicted agony. Chip was biting chunks of bottom lip away and spitting them at the wall in tiny, red impact explosions, trying to reroute the pain from his crotch. All this achieved was dual locales of pain, both severe, neither capitulating to the other. Allen began absentmindedly squeezing the scrotum like a novelty stress ball, watching the horrible spectacle unfold before his eyes, repeating
this isn’t right
in an endless loop. Having already tried a multitude of pain lessening body contortions to no avail, Chip swung to his feet and begun an unsteady, Mick Jagger rooster walk around the room. He stumbled about, bumping into unfortunately positioned Jenga towers and hollow cubes of sugar glass covered in cancer cures, before finally toppling into Allen. Both began to fall in what appeared to be an easily avoidable slow motion. Upon impact Allen’s fist clenched tight, instantly mashing Chip’s dismembered scrotum, showering them both in red, snot-like goo.

“Ugh! I got some in my mouth!” choked Allen, as the goo drizzled down his throat.

“Oh, that’s just fucking wonderful!” replied Chip sarcastically as he stared at the smeared remains of his junk.

They both remained on the ground for quite some time. One was coughing up ball paste and the other attempting to cope with burning hot pain. As this unpleasant situation unfolded, Alice walked in and saw the predicament in which her sons were embroiled.

“My Jenga towers!” she screamed toward the ceiling.

* * * * *

Tina Wilkens sat alone in a barrel, quietly gathering her thoughts. She fingered the texture of the wood while running her tongue gently over her arms. Her husband had always been a deeply ideological man, which hadn’t bothered Tina in the slightest.

Up until now.

It was his ideological adherence that made him such a passionate man and it was this passion that Tina had fallen in love with. By no means did Tina agree with many of Spencer’s dogmatic beliefs but that had never been an issue. Their differences only served to strengthen the bond they shared. This was different. This went beyond the realm of intellectual curiosity and ventured into the physical world. Her husband had removed his scrotum, and for what? Simply to prove a hollow point? Was it really necessary to destroy a scrotum in order to convince the world they were wretched things? Besides, although she’d never dream of admitting it to his face, Tina was rather fond of Spencer’s cute, little scrotum. It had always reminded her of a crowning badger’s vagina and had a faint scent of pumice. Some nights while Spencer slept, she would nuzzle it with cat-like curiosity. Those days were now officially over and to Tina, this felt like the death of their meadowy frolics. How could she possibly look Spencer in the eye and tell him it was alright? She couldn’t. For the foreseeable future, she would remain curled up inside her barrel, watering the seeds of her resentment with tit juice and arse cream.

* * * * *

Mr Wilkens was acutely aware that he would find Tina inside her barrel of introspection. Given the number of hours she had already been in there, he knew it was rather serious this time.

Could it be possible that Tina was lamenting the removal of my junk?
he wondered.
Surely not, a woman that bemoans the loss of a scrotum is no woman of mine. It’s certainly not the fiery minxtits I married
.

It was at this point that Mr Wilkens arrived at the deluded opinion that Tina was only mad because he hadn’t informed her of his plan.
Yes, that must be it! No matter how cringe-worthy the appendage, if that appendage is getting removed, your significant other has a right to know
. It was with this self-assurance that Mr Wilkens approached the barrel. He was confident that the right words to alleviate the situation would be found. He peered inside and stared at his wife, in a foetal ball within her wooden womb. Feathers billowed from no discernable source, which Mr Wilkens batted away with a pogo stick.