A Million Versions of Right

by Matthew Revert

  “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 the
y 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.

  Bernice was an apologetic romantic. She was always proclaiming the virtues of love, yet had never experienced it herself. The possibility of courtship was rendered impotent on account of two vaginally lodged irons, inserted as part of a failed government initiative. So, although the feeling of love was possible, the impossibility of sexual relations ensured that Bernice stymied the notion well before it had a chance to flower into something painful. The sad truth was that the closest thing to love she’d ever allowed herself to feel involved her tongue probing the depths of Mr Wilkens’ arse. Although she wouldn’t admit it out loud, the thought of Mr Wilkens not having his testicles instilled within her a vague hope that a relationship with him was possible, even if it was based on mutual genital mutilation. Because of this, Bernice supported the demonstration one-hundred percent. As an appendage, she bore no ill will toward the scrotum but as a romantic she believed that if there was a possibility of reciprocated love, it should be embraced by all means necessary. Anything for love.

  She continued to prowl the corridors of Yandish Muff, confronting teacher after teacher, student after student but to no avail. The demonstration was mere hours away and Mr Wilkens was nowhere to be found.

  * * * * *

  Mr Wilkens’ bony fists pounded against the door for what felt like hours before it opened. Alice stood before him in a state of confusion, trying to retrieve his face from within her memory banks. Out of breath and bloody knuckled, Mr Wilkens fell to his knees and clutched at Alice’s leg, pleading to speak to Allen and Chip.

  “They’re both resting,” she said with a suspicious glare.

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand. They have something very important of mine. I must retrieve it as a matter of urgency”.

  There was an unsual lilt contained within the intonation of his wretched sobbing that triggered something within Alice and, although she’d never met the man, she instantly knew it was Mr Wilkens. Furthermore, she knew exactly why he was here. She always knew her international directory of idiosyncratic intonation would come in handy.

  “You’re here for your balls aren’t you?”

  Mr Wilkens nodded desperately, letting go of Alice’s leg and pulling the front of his pants down with one pathetic hand, exposing his orphaned shaft.

  “Just look at me!” he cried, “I’m an incomplete monster!”

  This ignited a wave of anger in Alice, who couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that both her sons were now disfigured as a result of this stupid man.

  “Who do you think you are, coming to my house and begging my sons for your balls back? Do you have any idea of the hell you’ve put my beautiful boys through?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked with trepidation.

  “They’re not very intelligent boys and you lump them with the responsibility of minding your sack? I’m sorry, Mr Wilkens, but you won’t be getting it back. Your scrotum is currently in use and I don’t foresee that use expiring anytime soon.”

  Alice’s arms were crossed tight as Mr Wilkens eyes widened in fright. He stammered for over an hour before the words began to swirl into sense.

  “What do you mean they’re in use? What possible use could there be for such a thing? What have you done with my boys?”

  “What have I done with your boys? What did you do to mine? Both my sons lost their scrotums, thanks to your fucking demonstration! As a result, the only fucking ballbag they have between them is yours! My husband and I did the only thing anyone who cares for their children would do. We split yours up and gave them half each.”

  It was too much to bear. Tears leapt out of Mr Wilkens in thick, salty jets, triggering accelerated salinity throughout Alice’s prize-winning garden.

  “You venomous bitch! You had no right!” he yelled through the increasing torrent of tears.

  Throughout this encounter, Chip stood at his bedroom window, watching it all unfold like a poorly made origami crane. He ran his fingers over the new half-scrotum, wondering if it was all worth it. He glanced toward the bookcase, where the bricolage scrotum he’d created for Allen now sat. There was no way Mr Wilkens was getting Chip’s half of his balls back but if he was willing to accept it, he’d gladly gift the fake one. From the window it was apparent that Alice was winning the argument because Mr Wilkens was dusting himself off and readying to leave. Chip felt compelled to open the window and yell, “Mr Wilkens, take this!”

  The bricolage scrotum flew through the air, relinquishing several grapes from within. Mr Wilkens made an effort to catch it but grossly over estimated the force of the throw and wound up backing through a window across the road. The bricolage scrotum landed several hundred feet short of this mark, right next to Alice, who picked it up and moved toward Mr Wilkens. He was quite badly cut up. She thrust the scrotum toward him.

  “Just take this and leave.” Mr Wilkens struggled up and clutched at the bricolage scrotum.

  “What do you expect me to do with this?” With a weary hand he brushed glass from his heavily punctured face. “It’s not even real.”

  “It’s real enoug
h for you, Mr Wilkens. Now I’d like to ask you to leave my family alone,” said Alice solemnly, not giving an inch of ground.

  He massaged his temples, coughed up a few more dead moths and gave in. He feebly stuffed the bricolage scrotum down his slacks and began to limp home. This thing doesn’t even look slightly real, he thought to himself, utterly dejected and spent.

  * * * * *

  The children of Yandish Muff poured into the auditorium, taking their seats and chewing on strips of carpet. The resultant hubbub was understandable. Few children in the room knew what they were about to see. They’d only been told it was important. The weight of expectation, mixed with the rush of missing class, filled them with bowel releasing levels of nervous excitement. Several dozen children had already broken their feet after an impromptu game of ‘kick the wall’ broke out. It took the school nurse a good half hour to reinflate the pulped toes. When the children had grown weary of the carpet, they began chewing on each other in an impressive display of childhood savagery. Ears were torn off, skin stripped and in general, a right old mess was made. The school nurse rolled her eyes, hitched up her sleeves and began the thankless task of bodily reattachment.

  Throughout the gory display, members of the tangential education board mingled with teachers in a V.I.P. area of sorts. They were all gloriously oblivious to the violent acts committed by their students. They snacked on crackers dipped in mashed gibbon and sipped from jam lids full of diluted bleach. All in all they possessed a general merriment bolstered by a sense of anticipation. The demonstration excited them like little else in recent memory.