A Million Versions of Right

by Matthew Revert

  “This Wilkens fellow better put on one hell of a display,” quipped a member of the board. “There’s a demonstration occurring at Bleeding Gash Primary today wherein students shall be taught the dangers of idle hands.”

  “Oh yes, I read about that in Educational Esoterics last week. They’ll be ripping into some delinquents, forcing the cads to repent or lose their hands in a bear trap. I’d wager quite strongly that repentance or not, these chaps will be losing their dirty masturbators.”

  Teachers and members of the board swelled with dry, self-satisfied laughter, instinctively patting each other on the back without even noticing.

  “Well if old Wilkens pulls this off, I dare say it will go down as an end of year highlight. He’ll be nosing a hefty bonus afterward, you just watch.”

  The laughter continued for quite some time before a teacher raised a rather valid question.

  “Speaking of Wilkens, where in the devil is he?”

  They all looked about before shrugging their shoulders in ignorance.

  “I dare say he’s backstage giving a last minute pep talk to the sorry nimrods who agreed to do this. I imagine he’ll be popping his head in to say hello afterward.”

  They all nodded in robotic agreement before averting their attention to the empty stage, making sure to avoid looking at the students, nine of whom had already died from blood loss. The school nurse was now huddled in a far corner, nervously chain smoking. She was already contemplating the word ‘truck’.

  A hush descended upon the auditorium, an unknown prompt signalling a beginning to the proceedings. All eyes were fixed upon the stage, where a lonely microphone stand resided. A slight movement of the stage curtain, unknowingly caused by a breeze, set the crowd off into a delirious applause in which many already wounded students broke their hands.

  * * * * *

  The sound of the rapturous applause sent the five Scroats at the back entrance into action. They flung themselves through the door and made their way toward the sound, firearms at the ready. Several immediate wrong turns resulted but were quickly forgotten when the light from the main hall came into view.

  The Scroat leading the approach signalled toward the others in a series of unrehearsed hand gestures that were ignored after mass confusion set in. Their heavy footsteps caught the attention of the audience and several dove for safety underneath their chairs when the firearms were noticed. Without a second thought, all five Scroats began firing haphazardly in the direction of the lights, tearing them apart in a cacophony of bullets and broken glass. As the lights were struck, the glass showered upon the cowering students, shredding many apart in red flashes. The Scroats continued to pump round after round into the ceiling, weakening its structure significantly, before destroying it altogether. Large portions of ceiling fell to the ground, crushing the vast majority of the surviving students to death. The school nurse stood up abruptly in an instinctual display of concern but quickly decided on a hasty exit when she began to understand the extent of the damage.

  The teachers and members of the board looked on in bemusement. They were cordoned off from the bedlam thanks to the position of their V.I.P area. If this is part of Wilkens’ demonstration I’m quite impressed, thought one, It’s just a shame about the evident loss of life.

  In a sudden burst of confusion, two large, Scroat-manned spotlights were wheeled in from the front entrance and directed toward the ravaged audience in blinding columns. This was followed by two Scroats on ropes falling from the stage ceiling. They fumbled about until they managed to secure a large white cloth made from several dozen sheets. It formed an impressively stark backdrop. Data projectors were immediately placed into position, filling the white backdrop with a strange presentation. There was a series of images, some containing prominent scrotums and some not. Each image containing a scrotum was branded with a large, green tick. Any image not containing a scrotum bore a red cross. These images were interspersed with blocks of bold text, which spoke of the propensity toward homosexuality experienced by eunuchs. Accompanying the text was a spurious statistic claiming that ninety percent of females desire a scrotum of their own. The remaining ten perecent were deemed Neo Nazi lesbians. The final love heart framed slide displayed a crudely drawn Esperanto flag shaking hands with a scrotum. This was punctuated with an orchestra hit that signalled the arrival of Hedging from stage left.

  Clutching at the microphone, sensing the importance of what he and his men were achieving, Hedging allowed himself a moment of reflection before diving headlong into his prepared diatribe.

  “Children of Yandish Muff’s grade four class, I stand before you today in deliverance of a message. A message that flies sharply in the face of what you were brought here to hear. Each of you are at a stage in your life where you’ve probably been mercifully removed from the debate surrounding the scrotal sanctity. Can I have a show of hands in order for me to gauge those of you who have been afflicted with damaging parental prose?”

  Hedging looked upon the gory slush of dead students, waiting for a response that showed no sign of arriving. Somewhat agitated, he continued.

  “I choose to take your silence as a positive sign. My assumption is that you have never been taught to hate your scrotum. I am here to tell you that you were within a hair’s breath of having this grisly message hammered into your poor, little skulls. I represent a group affectionately known as the ‘Scroats’. It is our goal to ensure that the negative attitudes toward the scrotum are abolished. You were brought here today in order to be infected with these attitudes. The Scroats will not let this happen. We implore you to look upon your scrotum for what it is: a god given appendage that is instrumental in the role of procreation. Without the scrotum, none of you would be here. Your dastardly Mr Wilkens wouldn’t be here. Distinguished members of the tangential board wouldn’t be here. NOTHING would be here! If he is man enough, I call for Mr Wilkens to meet me on stage and accept his penance.”

  Hedging went silent as he awaited the arrival of Mr Wilkens. After four hours it was apparent that this wasn’t going to happen. With a finger pointed toward the tangential board, he boomed the question, “WHERE IS MR WILKENS?”

  The stunned members of the board looked among themselves, nodding furiously like falling plates of jelly. The position of their V.I.P. area made a quick dash for escape impossible without an elaborate series of limbo-like manoeuvres. One member was begrudgingly nominated as a spokesperson.

  “We’re terribly sorry to you and your band of unusual men but Mr Wilkens is a no show. Nobody has seen him today. We assumed you were a planned part of the demonstration but we’re starting to believe that is not the case. It would be very much appreciated if you would leave. No one from the board will speak ill of this incident and you can go about your confusing protests freely.”

  Before Hedging had a chance to reply, five more Scroats burst into the room and began circling the corpse-strewn rubble chanting, “GOD ENJOYS THE SCROTUM! JESUS HAD A SCROTUM!”

  “Stop it!” Hedging yelled at his chanting men, who obeyed immediately. “This isn’t working at all. Let’s get out of here.”

  The teachers and board members watched in fascination as the strange group of forlorn men lumbered out of the auditorium in single file. When the coast was clear, the board members had their drivers come and physically pick them up and take them away.

  * * * * *

  Bernice was already waiting on the couch when Mr Wilkens stumbled through the door, bricolage scrotum in tow.

  “What in the heck is that, Mr W?” she asked in disbelief.

  Mr Wilkens look surprised but happy to see his assistant. It was a dash of normality in what had turned out to be a decidedly un-normal day. “Bernice, my dear, when did you get here?”

  “I’ve been waiting here for about five hours. I knew you’d show up sooner or later.”

  She became guarded before asking, “So, d’ya get Tina back?”

  Mr Wilkens fell onto the couch next to Bernice and al
lowed himself a hearty laugh, which released some of the negativity within him.

  “No, Bernice, it’s fair to say that I didn’t get Tina back. All I got was this thing.”

  He waved the bricolage scrotum about in her confused face.

  “And what exactly is that?” she asked, selfishly pleased that Tina was still gone.

  “This is my new scrotum. It would appear that my real one is indisposed right now and I shouldn’t expect to get it back anytime soon.”

  Mr Wilkens’ laughter was quickly replaced with pitiful sobbing and helplessness. Bernice wasn’t prepared to let her boss dwell.

  “Now let me get something straight, Mr W. You’re telling me that even without Tina, you want your balls back?”

  “I don’t know, Bernice.”

  “Well, do you hate balls or not?”

  “I really don’t know, Bernice.”

  She rolled her eyes and pressed on, “Okay then, are you so obsessed with balls that you’d be willing to keep that ridiculous thing?” She pointed toward the bricolage scrotum.

  Bernice snatched the scrotum from his hand and flung it into the fire, which resulted in an unexpected explosion that blackened the room.

  “Even if you did want your balls back, Mr W, you don’t wanna be worshiping some imitation. If there’s sanctity to be had, whichever side of the scrotum debate you’re on, you don’t wanna be shitting all over it with a crudely made recreation.”

  Mr Wilkens draped his arm over Bernice’s shoulders and nuzzled into her neck.

  “You know, I think you’re right,” he mumbled through mouthfuls of neck fat.

  Bernice grinned. She was comfortable in this position and she yearned to make it last.

  “You know something, Mr W?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I prefer you without balls. I don’t want them things getting in the way when I have my tongue up you.”

  Mr Wilkens laughed a little too hard, accidentally biting down on Bernice’s neck, taking a chunk of flesh with him as he pulled away.

  “Sorry about that,” he said as blood trickled down his chin.

  Bernice waved it off with a forgiving hand.

  “You know, Bernice, I also prefer myself without balls. I don’t want balls. I’ve never wanted balls. The fact that Tina managed to convince me otherwise is actually quite terrifying and that isn’t an influence I need in my life.”

  He kissed Bernice on the cheek and fell to the ground in a violent coughing fit. Hundreds of moths poured out of his mouth with every new heave. They died just as quickly as they were born. Bernice was instantly at his side, massaging his stomach and brushing the dead moths from his eyes. It took some time for Mr Wilkens to recover from the exertion.

  Bernice helped Mr Wilkens to his feet and gently guided him back toward the safety of the couch. As his backside made contact, one last cough birthed two perfectly formed butterflies, which danced about in rings together. The two sat in comfortable silence for some time as they watched the butterflies dance.

  “Bernice,” said Mr Wilkens, eventually breaking the silence.

  “Yes Mr W?”

  “Call me Spencer.”

  THE GREAT HEADPHONE WANK

  She tells me to shut the fuck up and that little nightly zone I so carefully create for myself vanishes, like it never existed. I muster up a huff and flick off the stereo. The sound cuts out immediately and I’m left in an uncomfortable silence. My ears begin to adjust and pick out night-time noises, usually ignored by those blessed with the ability to sleep. She has already drifted off. I stare into the back of her head through the darkness, resenting her completely.

  I admit I’m prone to melodrama but music is important to me and without it I just can’t sleep. Or, if I do manage to shut down, my sleep is infiltrated by damaging thoughts. There’s something magical about the sonorous ebbs and flows of a trusted CD. It lulls me into comfort; it massages my brain. I’m lost without it.

  Fucking Nadia! She’s snoring already. I have no doubt that she could sleep through my most ferocious death metal album at full blast. She could find warm slumber during the chilliest black metal. I try not to think the worst of people but she’s doing this solely to punish me, I’m sure of it. I clutch my music to me like a security blanket and it clutches me right back. Tonight my blanket has been shredded.

  I lie awake in bed with my wide eyes staring at the ceiling. Fearing the dancing shadows, I masturbate while thinking of limes.

  * * * * *

  Nadia counteracts my miserable, insomnia-ridden mood with sickening cheerfulness. She’s eating toast and passing comment about something on the television. I have no time for it.

  “You really pissed me off last night!” My words drip with involuntary venom. She stares at me with surprised eyes.

  “What are you on about?” she finally says.

  I enter damage control. “Shit, sorry babe. I didn’t mean to sound like such a fucking prick. I just had trouble sleeping ‘cause you made me turn off my music.” Fuck I sound pathetic! A smile crosses Nadia’s face as she comes to grips with the petty childishness I’m displaying.

  “You’re kidding me right? You haven’t been brooding all night have you?” Her lack of respect sends a spike of anger to my brain. I repress it admirably.

  “I’m having a shower,” I respond as a means of escape, knowing full well she will have left for work by the time I get out.

  I hear music in the stabbing shower water. It cleanses me metaphorically and physically.

  * * * * *

  I hate my job thoroughly. It’s so redundant that my not doing it would affect the world in no perceivable way. I work for a company called Astenburger Ltd. My job is to yell at walls in order to test their emotional fortitude. The company founder, Leonard Astenburger, claims that walls absorb the emotional state of anyone who comes into contact with them via a process similar to osmosis. Over time, the weight of a wall’s emotional burden can lead to degradation and instability. Unsubstantiated documentation presented by Astenburger himself, claims that many lives have been lost due to the collapse of emotion charged walls. This claim has been scientifically refuted ad nauseum but due to a core group of supporters and stakeholders the shady operation continues. This rakes in considerable money for the company and Astenburger personally. Of course this doesn’t translate into much money in my pocket.

  “You shit! You smell like old tits! Why don’t you give a fuck to your father?”

  The wall gives no indication that it has absorbed what I’m yelling. Company policy dictates that no less than 90% of what I yell must consist of inexplicable insults. I yell more in one week than most people probably yell in their whole lives. My throat is covered in a leathery callous. I have developed formidable vocal stamina.

  The various instruments used to measure the emotional fortitude of a wall before and after yelling, spit out esoteric data. I send this data to a department which specialises in the analysis. The results of the analysis are little known among those outside a key circle of managerial types. Annual reports are circulated under the guise of transparency but these reports are virtually impenetrable and go largely unread.

  I shout myself hoarse for eight hours. The day ambles along at a painfully slow pace. The thought of arriving home and soothing myself with music normally calms me enough to deal with my miserable days but Nadia fucked that up the arse with a knife.

  I’m tired and angry.

  * * * * *

  People have a way of surprising you and sometimes this surprise is even a good thing. I arrive home in woeful spirits having spent my nightly train ride rehearsing polite yet hateful things to say to Nadia. Before I have a chance to unburden myself I am confronted with a parcel placed atop the doormat. It’s lovingly gift wrapped and addressed to me. My inner child is excitingly clicking his heels. There’s a card attached that says:

  Dear Michael,

  Get a good night’s sleep, okay!

  You can be such a
baby sometimes.

  Don’t worry numb nuts, I still love you.

  This way we both win!

  Lots of love,

  Nadia

  I tear into the delicate package, unsympathetic to the time and care taken to wrap it. I’m dumbstruck. Entombed within is a simple set of headphones.

  “You like?”

  I look up. Nadia is leaning against the doorframe wearing nothing but one of my old, large t-shirts. A large smile beams from her face. She looks fucking good.

  “Now I can sleep in silence and you can sleep to your music.”

  The solution is so simple that I make a mental note to kick myself later for not having thought of it.

  “This is great! Thanks!” I can’t think of anything more appropriate to say. I feel light, as if a chronic constipation has been relieved. Nadia strides over with her arms spread wide, wordlessly imploring me for a hug. I fall into her arms and loose myself in her idiosyncratic odours, the odours that you only recognise and appreciate with time – individual like a fingerprint. We retreat to the bedroom and fuck painfully. Desperately.

  * * * * *

  After dinner we’re both relaxing on the couch; Nadia with her head on my shoulder watching television and me staring at the headphones, which I have now removed from the packaging. I try them on, prompting Nadia to reposition her head. Unconsciously, she doesn’t want to get in the way. The headphones feel incredibly comfortable. After a few seconds I barely know I’m wearing them. I can’t wait to lie back in bed and drift off, beautiful sounds feeding my starving ears.

  The late night news possesses a hypnotic monotony that has lulled Nadia to sleep. I roll with it by gently nudging her awake and suggesting that bed may be in order. I wave my new headphones at her in anticipation. Barely awake, she smiles at me with genuine warmth and love. The opposite of this smile would kill you dead.