The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

Chapter 4

The Story The Authors

Matthew's last coherent thought before his adrenal glands went into preconscious overdrive was directed accusatorily at his own genitals: "Where's your wise-ass answer to this? thus separating himself mentally from the still, small voice at the precise moment that the miracle of his sentient testes were irreparably separated from him by the razor sharp teeth of the savage little Pomeramian. Philip

So alas, the poor testicles had not time to answer him (leaving in their wake a hollowness which was to stay with Matthew Hickey like a second shadow for the sterile remainder of his days) — he looked aghast at the jagged pool of red spreading in his crotch and then (at last) the pain hit. Philip

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggh he shrieked as his adrenal glands kicked into overdrive; and seconds after the great jagged elephants of pain had begun to thunder across the Serengheti of his body, they were followed by the hungry lions of adrenaline, and Matthew was become like unto the Incredible Hulk incarnate, seizing the stupid Pomerian and shaking it, inverted, screaming "Spit them out! Spit them out!" before braining the misfortunate dog against a conveniently nearby telephone pole. The the dog's owner looked on aghast, paralysed by fear and revulsion, in its dying gasps the dog yacked out Matthew's masticated testicles, which hit the curbside grass strip, bounced twice, rolled out into the middle of the street and were immediately run over and flattened by a passing milk truck. At this point, the pain (so, so, so many elephants) and blood loss became too much and unconsciousness sucked Matthew down into dark lamprey maw, and he knew no more until he awoke next morning in the hospital not knowing wny the faint strains of "On Top of Spaghetti" came so readily to his lips and memory until he remembered what happened and the full horror and irony of it overtook him and he shook with terror and shame and rage. And in walked his first visitor, the concerned look on his pimply countenance barely masking his perma-smirk: none other than Jeremy Crink, who'd happened to have been on-call in his afterschool job as an EMT when the 911 call came in. It was he who had ushered the unconscious Matthew Hickey to the ER, and though it was only his job (as he shruggingly told the bedridden Matt) there was a level of resentment in Matthew which was to grow and grow as he years passed: underneath it all, he owed Crink his life, and he knew it, and he knew Crink knew he knew it, and there would be a fiddler to pay, someday, maybe not for years to come, but certain as deals made with elves or fairies or mischevious dwarves in the old tales. Nobody got off for free. Nobody. Philip

"Well, Well. Well, Look who's waking up!"began Crink, "Hickey, my main...ahem...Man! Got you here in just the nick of time we did. Another quart lower on the ol' Type O and you'd a-been history. Yessiree Bobby McGee, we did too. Christ you were bleedin' so bad I had to clean out the rig with a hose, dude.
But you're back amongst the livin' again and for that you can be thankful. And Hey! look on the bright side of this learning curvature, you'll never have to worry about having to be clean shaven for work again. All taken care of for you already and ever and ever Amen. Probably do wonders for your singing career too. Son, you'll be the real deal man/boy soprano. Hell! you want me to give the Vatican a call? I got the number right here." Crink leaned in close to Hickey's cracked lips with the pitying grinning mix of sadism and repulsion.
"And I got something to show you. This indeed I do. I snagged'em from prosthetics special to give you the lowdown first thing myself, 'cuz that's what friends do in dark times like these." He gingerly picked up Hickey's limp arm and plunked down in the palm what appeared to be over sized polyethylene grapes. Sterile, white and slightly squishy. "Soon, my little friend, a nice fresh pair of nuggets like these'll be yours. Of course, not quite so very soon, some healing got to take place. Some blood needs to be replaced. And the Headshrink's got to get in a bit of face to face. But soon enough. They got a Thai Doc flying in special to do the purse building for the new family jewels. (Thailand being the sex change capitol of the world, so the doc's got some mean creds. Can swing you either direction. so get it straight before you go under.)
Says he's gonna have to build you a new scrotal sac from some loose ass skin. Lucky for you it'll be hairy enough no woman'll ever know the difference." Crink nudged Hickey and chuckled. "But I gotta go and hit the road again, dude. I just wanted to drop on over and offer my condolences on your dreadful loss, and do the one righteous thing I can do for you in times like these." And with that Crink turned to Hickey's IV and tapped him in for a couple of grains of morphine. The fog was already rolling over Matthew J Hickey before Crink had hit the door to leave. Lanark

The Story	The Authors
Matthew's last coherent thought before his adrenal glands went into preconscious overdrive was directed accusatorily at his own genitals: "Where's your wise-ass answer to this? thus separating himself mentally from the still, small voice at the precise moment that the miracle of his sentient testes were irreparably separated from him by the razor sharp teeth of the savage little Pomeramian.	Philip
So alas, the poor testicles had not time to answer him (leaving in their wake a hollowness which was to stay with Matthew Hickey like a second shadow for the sterile remainder of his days) — he looked aghast at the jagged pool of red spreading in his crotch and then (at last) the pain hit.	Philip
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggh he shrieked as his adrenal glands kicked into overdrive; and seconds after the great jagged elephants of pain had begun to thunder across the Serengheti of his body, they were followed by the hungry lions of adrenaline, and Matthew was become like unto the Incredible Hulk incarnate, seizing the stupid Pomerian and shaking it, inverted, screaming "Spit them out! Spit them out!" before braining the misfortunate dog against a conveniently nearby telephone pole. The the dog's owner looked on aghast, paralysed by fear and revulsion, in its dying gasps the dog yacked out Matthew's masticated testicles, which hit the curbside grass strip, bounced twice, rolled out into the middle of the street and were immediately run over and flattened by a passing milk truck. At this point, the pain (so, so, so many elephants) and blood loss became too much and unconsciousness sucked Matthew down into dark lamprey maw, and he knew no more until he awoke next morning in the hospital not knowing wny the faint strains of "On Top of Spaghetti" came so readily to his lips and memory until he remembered what happened and the full horror and irony of it overtook him and he shook with terror and shame and rage. And in walked his first visitor, the concerned look on his pimply countenance barely masking his perma-smirk: none other than Jeremy Crink, who'd happened to have been on-call in his afterschool job as an EMT when the 911 call came in. It was he who had ushered the unconscious Matthew Hickey to the ER, and though it was only his job (as he shruggingly told the bedridden Matt) there was a level of resentment in Matthew which was to grow and grow as he years passed: underneath it all, he owed Crink his life, and he knew it, and he knew Crink knew he knew it, and there would be a fiddler to pay, someday, maybe not for years to come, but certain as deals made with elves or fairies or mischevious dwarves in the old tales. Nobody got off for free. Nobody.	Philip
"Well, Well. Well, Look who's waking up!"began Crink, "Hickey, my main...ahem...Man! Got you here in just the nick of time we did. Another quart lower on the ol' Type O and you'd a-been history. Yessiree Bobby McGee, we did too. Christ you were bleedin' so bad I had to clean out the rig with a hose, dude. But you're back amongst the livin' again and for that you can be thankful. And Hey! look on the bright side of this learning curvature, you'll never have to worry about having to be clean shaven for work again. All taken care of for you already and ever and ever Amen. Probably do wonders for your singing career too. Son, you'll be the real deal man/boy soprano. Hell! you want me to give the Vatican a call? I got the number right here." Crink leaned in close to Hickey's cracked lips with the pitying grinning mix of sadism and repulsion. "And I got something to show you. This indeed I do. I snagged'em from prosthetics special to give you the lowdown first thing myself, 'cuz that's what friends do in dark times like these." He gingerly picked up Hickey's limp arm and plunked down in the palm what appeared to be over sized polyethylene grapes. Sterile, white and slightly squishy. "Soon, my little friend, a nice fresh pair of nuggets like these'll be yours. Of course, not quite so very soon, some healing got to take place. Some blood needs to be replaced. And the Headshrink's got to get in a bit of face to face. But soon enough. They got a Thai Doc flying in special to do the purse building for the new family jewels. (Thailand being the sex change capitol of the world, so the doc's got some mean creds. Can swing you either direction. so get it straight before you go under.) Says he's gonna have to build you a new scrotal sac from some loose ass skin. Lucky for you it'll be hairy enough no woman'll ever know the difference." Crink nudged Hickey and chuckled. "But I gotta go and hit the road again, dude. I just wanted to drop on over and offer my condolences on your dreadful loss, and do the one righteous thing I can do for you in times like these." And with that Crink turned to Hickey's IV and tapped him in for a couple of grains of morphine. The fog was already rolling over Matthew J Hickey before Crink had hit the door to leave.	Lanark

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