A Million Versions of Right (7 page)

“I knocked about eighty nurses out cold, each with bright red slap marks wrestling with the makeup caked on their faces. A doctor walked up to me looking as grave as you can possibly get. He told me that Pat’s scrotum couldn’t be located! I rushed past him and spilled into the room where Pat was getting treated. He looked up at me with the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen, seriously, these eyes could have killed God, and he tells me that his boys were gone and I just dove in and hugged him tighter than I’ve ever hugged anyone.

“They didn’t keep him in the hospital for long as they figured there wasn’t much point. I mean, if they’re gone they’re gone and it wasn’t as if a medical procedure existed that’d bring his boys back. You’re silly father asked to be dragged home, so I had to spend some time with your uncle Billy reinforcing a tricycle that your poor old mum had to peddle home. So there I was pumping my chicken legs as hard as I could, your father secured with some ties I had only just purchased. He was scraping along the road behind me, arms folded in front of him like Count Dracula. The silly bugger was still wearing his hospital robe and the asphalt was sanding his arse red raw. So when we finally got home (a feat that took me four bloody days!), not only did I have to tend to your father’s lack of scrotum but I was also rubbing implausible quantities of ointment into his body length scab. Each time I applied pressure of any kind, a jet of pus shot out accompanied by a farting noise. I was covered in strings of back juice. Your father had erected some creepy mausoleum-like structure on his crotch and was playing Gregorian chant LP’s on a depressing loop.

“This malarkey went on for nearly two months and I was starting to get sick of it. I’d already quit my job and the only money coming into the house were royalties from an STD I developed in conjunction with Blackmyer Ltd. They went belly up soon after when it was discovered their STDs weren’t actually contagious.

I remember slapping the needle off whatever depressing Gregorian chant LP was playing and kicking his memorial groin structure into a crumble. I sat at the end of his bed, much like I’m doing with you boys right now, and told him that we needed to move on. Until now he hadn’t let me look at his crotch once. He thought that the very notion of his wife seeing the mess down there would be an affront to his masculinity. But I got real close to his face, his heavy breath fogging up my eyeballs, and I told him that if he didn’t give me a good ol’ gander, I’d be out the door before he could slam the needle back down on his LP.

“He stared up at me with eyes so pathetic that they were nearly obnoxious. He tried in vain to have me capitulate but he knew the jig was up. He begrudgingly wiped away the mausoleum rubble and lifted the loin cloth slowly. Fists of stink flew from his revealed crotch and knocked me to the ground. I fought my way to my feet and got in as close as my nose would bear.

I tell you what boys, the light in the room may not have been great, but I saw them, clear as day! There, lying just below his withered, catheter-stuffed shaft were his testicles!

“I screamed in disbelief. All this shit for nothing. I fetched a body length mirror from the garage and rushed back to Pat. I flicked on the light and held the mirror up to him, imploring him to look. He saw the flippin’ things straight away. His hand darted down and cupped them like a thirsty man might cup water from a stream. I mean, to be completely fair, one ball had a clear shoulder-shaped dent and the other had split in two but they were still there godammit!      

“As you’d expect, we wanted answers. We marched on down to the hospital and demanded to see the doctor who treated your father. Turns out the fucking weasel had quit one week prior. He was one of those prejudiced scrotum haters. The bastard knew from the start that Pat’s balls were there but he was working on a theory of ignorance. He was convinced that by simply refusing to acknowledge the existence of your scrotum, it would eventually just vanish!

Who knows, he may have been right but luckily for us, and clearly luckily for you, my sons, we thought to have a look and validate for ourselves. It was the best damn decision we’ve ever made.”

* * * * *

Chip and Allen sat in silence for quite some time after Alice finished her story. It was a side of their father they didn’t know and in a way it made them lose respect for him. Allen eventually broke the silence.

“So you’re telling us that we’re the result of scrambled balls?”

Alice
smiled warmly, “In a manner of speaking, yes you are, my dears.”

“I can’t help thinking that explains a lot,” said Chip quietly.

Alice
chuckled and stood up, wiping her hands on her burlap dress.

“Now,” she said, “while you were sleeping, your father and I performed a little procedure that we’re hoping will help you both.”

Chip and Allen stared at each other in fear-laden wonder before unanimously asking, “Whatever did you two cads do to us?”

In one swift movement, Alice ripped the blankets off her pantless sons, whipping lashes into the surrounding walls. A few steps toward the light switch and the room became doused in an ungodly luminescence, which all but drowned out fine detail and dilated pupils in the surrounding suburbs. After a lengthy period of squint-filled adjustment, Allen and Chip glanced toward their crotches and squealed in delight. Secured tightly on each of them was a solitary, blackened ball.

“Your father and I were of the opinion that you both need
something
down there, even if it wasn’t much. We noticed that you’d attempted to attach Mr Wilkens’ sack to Allen, which was actually quite a good idea but the execution was poor. It was disastrously off-centre and you only used a staple to hold it on. I had your father pop it off with a staple remover and take it to the garage where he was able to jigsaw it in half and weld any splits shut. You’re going to notice flecks of swarf in your discharges but it shouldn’t result in too many aesthetic issues. After your father had finished the preparation I got down between your legs and stitched it on tight as you can get. Those babies aren’t dropping off in a hurry. What do you think?”

Both sons lunged toward their mother and embraced her, tears of joy streaming down their faces. Chip pulled away and wiped snotty strings from his nose and chin.

“They’re going to work like balls should, won’t they?” he asked.

Alice
guffawed powerfully, regained her composure and said, “Don’t be daft, of course they wont.”

* * * * *

The demonstration was little more than a day away but for Spencer Wilkens, it was flailing like a packet of seizures. All he could focus on was the image of Tina leaving, struggling with the barrel. He dwelled on every nuance of the confrontation, every word she had said, every word he had said. The look on Tina’s face had burnt itself into his mind, into his psyche. His scrotal stump had not stopped weeping a mucousy slime ever since, not even for a second. Bernice emerged from beneath Mr Wilkens legs and picked an arse hair from her tongue.

“What the hell’s wrong, Mr W? This isn’t like you one iddy bit. You’re normally hollering and air punching when I’m tongue deep up ya but I feel as if I’m chewing out cadaver arse.”

Mr Wilkens furrowed his brow and sighed loudly.

“It’s certainly not you, dear Bernice. I fear I’m headlong involved in a personal crisis, perhaps even a crisis of faith.”

Bernice fetched a chair and placed it adjacent to Mr Wilkens’ slumped body, sitting herself down with coccyx cracking force.

“Okay, spill it. What’s going on?” asked Bernice.

Mr Wilkens coughed up a ball of dead moths and continued.

“It’s Tina. She admitted a rather startling revelation to me yesterday. I finally plucked up the courage to tell her about my scrotum removal and she appeared to lose all signs of sanity. Turns out she loved the damn thing!”

Benice fanned at her flushed face, “I think I’m getting the vapours.”

“Tell me about it! How could anyone, let alone my own wife, like those things? It just isn’t natural. And how am I supposed to reconcile this?” He threw up his arms dramatically, “I kicked her out!”

The chair Bernice was on buckled and she fell flat on her back. When Mr Wilkens rushed to her aid he was greeted with a hefty slap across the face. Mr Wilkens walked away from Bernice and in a whining voice asked, “Why on earth did you do that?”

Bernice eased herself up and strode over toward the pathetically writhing Mr Wilkens and gave him a firm kick in the anti-nuts.

“What was that for?” he screamed desperately.

“You silly old fool, you go get your damn balls back and beg Tina for forgiveness!”

Her words stung Mr Wilkens as they coiled through his eardrums like an emptying drain.
No, not you too, Bernice; has the whole world gone insane?
To Mr Wilkens, the world suddenly appeared awash in anti-idealistic anathema. He watched Bernice’s mouth flapping wildly but his ears had already waxed over in self defence. It was as if he was caught behind a pane of glass and drowning. He felt like he was being attacked by spears of unreason. He thought of Tina and felt a surge of love so strong that his heart tore like trouser seams. He could feel fragments of heart floating inside his body like dead fish and wept.

Bernice was still screaming soundlessly when Mr Wilkens left to get his wife back.

* * * * *

The Scroats sat proudly in their matching protest suits watching Hedging stand before them. He projected a blueprint of Yandish Muff and its immediate surrounds onto the wall behind. The logistical phase was reaching full swing and final arrangements were being made for the protest. Hedging stood before his men to reiterate the plan they had so carefully concocted.

“The plan will be thus: five of you are to enter from the back of the auditorium as the demonstration begins. All lights in the building will be shot out and spotlights wheeled in by five more of you, who will approach from the front. With the spotlights in place, two more will enter from the roof and drop a large, white sheet across the back of the stage, while two more must set up a data projector in the designated area. A pre-prepared presentation of unsullied scrotums will be projected upon the sheet as I enter from stage left. As I begin unloading my pro-scrotum rhetoric throughout the auditorium, the rest of you are to run about the aisles in a frenzy, all the while, extolling god’s passion for balls. Any children rejecting the pro-scrotum message will be given a carefully practiced slap that is designed to alter ingrained synapse patterns without causing injury. Spencer Wilkens is to be killed, along with anyone else aiding in the demonstration. Any resultant corpses are to be displayed in a victory march down Main Street, where spectators will be encouraged to reveal their scrotums or embrace someone else’s. In the long term it is hoped that any momentum gained via this protest can be built upon in a global anti-discrimination effort.”

The plan flew by like verbal bullets, striking each Scroat, inflicting wounds of passion. They stood, they cheered and they embraced, strengthening their bond, furthering their cause, forming a unity and feeling deep togetherness.

“Men, you make me proud,” exclaimed Hedging as he clutched himself with conviction. “To anyone cowardly enough to proclaim this battle unworthy, I introduce you to the cold back of my hand.”

Hedging raising his hand toward the ceiling acted as a cue for Tina, who had spent the meeting crouched in the corner. She flicked a switch, triggering a dramatic laser show which Hedging, in partnership with his family, had spent some time developing. The Scroats sat transfixed, chewing on unpeeled carrots, watching the multi-coloured lasers dance above their heads.
This is going to be an important event
, thought Hedging as he basked in the adoration of his men.

* * * * *

“Has anyone seen Mr W?” enquired a panicked Bernice as she darted through the narrow corridors of Yandish Muff. Repetition of the question merely saw a multiplication of the deaf ears on which it fell.

“You apathetic pack of cunts!” she screamed toward the shrinking backs of the uninterested teachers and students as they walked away.

She began elbowing windows into glassy explosions as the panic increased. This was the day of the demonstration and she hadn’t heard a peep from Mr Wilkens. It worried her greatly. She could only assume that Mr Wilkens’ absence was her own fault.
Why the hell would I go telling Mr W to go and get his balls back? That’s gotta be the dumbest bit of advice I’ve given. He’s probably off trying to have ‘em reattached and meanwhile we’re gonna have ourselves an assembly full of children with no purpose. I always gotta be telling people to go chasin’ love and whatnot.