A Million Versions of Right Read online

  The bowel movement was dramatic in the worst possible way. Based on the sensation of my anal stretch and tear, I was sure the tiler had grown in size. Sprays of gassy blood painted the toilet bowl murky red. Tiny tiles shattered upon impact with the porcelain. Stools of the most improbable shapes, colours and consistencies rocketed from my tiny hell hole. Then there was the smell! The fetid, miasmic stench engulfed the toilet room. I felt as if caught in a death tempest.

  Eventually, with much pain and applied pressure, the object of my woe slowly began to slide out of me. Bloody flatulence and splatterings of faecal inhumanities accompanied its exit from my worn and torn body. When I thought the pain could get no more severe I finally felt the tiler exit me completely and drop into the toilet stew with a mighty splash. I sat upon the toilet for upwards of an hour as I tried to assimilate the intense pain and fatigue I was feeling.

  When I had sufficiently recovered, it dawned on me that I could hear no sound whatsoever coming from the toilet bowl. I expected to hear the angry tiler splashing around, fighting for breath and swearing emphatically in my general direction. I tuned in closely to the minutiae of sound within the room. I concentrated so deeply that I heard the blood rushing through my veins but still, no thrashing, splashing tiler. Could it be true? Was the tiler dead? I was almost too scared to look. I had to psyche myself into it. I slowly stood up with my pants still around my ankles and stared hard into the revolting bowl. Nestled within the grisly muck, exactly where I would have expected to find the tiler, I found something else; something that filled me with immense concern. If my eyes weren't deceiving me, instead of the tiler’s body, all I could see was a rather large black stapler!

  * * * * *

  My mind was in cartwheels of wretched confusion. I immediately picked up the stapler, completely unaware I was subjecting my hand to pure filth. I held the stapler up, studying it. Toilet juice ran down my arm. I was far too preoccupied with the reality of the stapler to be overly concerned. Before I knew it, I had entered into tiny mental spasms. I ran from the toilet room, stapler in hand, arms flailing, pants still at my ankles. A wall, which I swear should not have been there, eventually cut short my little episode by knocking me out cold.

  I awoke to my father standing over me, staring down, face full of concern. I was covered in blood, tiles, faecal matter and cigarette butts. The stapler was still firmly in my grip. Once again my father had found me in an unfortunate situation with my genitals exposed. Through a daze of concussion, I relayed the events which had just occurred. He nodded, as if completely unsurprised by my experience. He helped me up into a chair, looked hard at me and simply said, "Have you tried the stapler yet?"

  I watched him walk away, taking his position back in front of the television. I sat for a while, once again contemplating my father's words. Everything appeared so simple to him. Perhaps the truth really was that simple. Perhaps I had let this whole situation work me up into a ball of neurosis for nothing.

  I showered thoroughly, scouring every speck of my body several times over until I felt sufficiently clean. The stapler had been soaking in a cleaning solution that I’d purchased from a discount balm outlet. By the time I was dried off and changed, it too was sufficiently clean. I took it with me into my bedroom and sat it on the desk. I ruminated for a while before I worked up the gumption to test its functionality. I squared a short stack of loose paper and readied the stapler for work. The result was an utter failure. There were roughly ten sheets in the paper stack and the staple barely penetrated the first couple. I kept subtracting sheets, seeking the threshold. As it turned out, the threshold was only three and even this appeared a struggle for the bowel stapler. This was the tiler all over again, I could sense it. He had seen fit to make my life unpleasant from the first moment I ejaculated him all those years ago. I didn't know if he had turned himself into the stapler, or whether it was a naturally occurring phenomenon but it fit his modus operandi to a tee. I cursed his wretched name. I picked up the wretched stapler and motioned to hurl it against a wall. I stopped. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I placed it back on the desk, glared at it, cursed the tiler once more and finally sought refuge in my bed. I fell asleep almost instantly with a conviction to never have an orgasm again.

  * * * * *

  The older you get, the more difficult it seems to repress your sexual urges. At least this was my experience. I had blossomed into a rather attractive young man. I was understandably attracted to women - and they me. I avoided relationships and situations that would provoke unwanted urges. The unpredictability of an urge-inducing situation was a constant problem. For instance, I might glance across and see a lady tying her shoe and nearly explode in my pants there and then. Life was a frustrating struggle and of course I eventually garnered a reputation for being either stuck up or of homosexual proclivity. To tell them the truth was not an option. Shortly after my twenty-fifth year another, wet dream struck.

  * * * * *

  I woke up completely draped in tiles, save for my face and genitals. There was another moustachioed little monster, sitting on my chin, blowing foul smoke into my face. I passed out

  * * * * *

  When I awoke the second time there was another tiler. They were fighting each other. Throwing tiles and kicking at shins. I watched the strange spectacle for some time completely enthralled. Unusual feelings began to well within me. Staring at these little men whom I was responsible for creating, I felt somewhat like a god. Even if their purpose in life was to cause me discomfort and frustration I was still their creator. Not even they could deny me that. I freed my right arm from its tile encrustation and began to masturbate ferociously. The ejaculation birthed forth yet another tiler from my weary penis. This tiler instantly joined the first two in their brawl. I kept masturbating, again and again. Each new ejaculation introduced new tilers into the fight. They were all identical with their moustaches and little white overalls. Hours passed. Days passed. I lost all track of time. When my body finally gave in, there must have been close to a hundred tilers. The ongoing fight was full of violence. There were bloody corpses strewn throughout my room. Those still alive wouldn't give up. They were each determined to be the only one.

  * * * * *

  Once again I awoke to the sight of my father standing over me. As my vision cleared, it became apparent he was holding my testicles in his hand. They were no longer attached to my body. I slowly scanned the bedroom. There were no more tilers. What I plainly saw was a large black garbage bag. Through a small hole in one side a miniature, lifeless arm poked free. My anal stapler was still on the desk. It hadn't been disposed of. As I stared once more at my severed testicles in my father's hand I pondered. My father had stopped being clockwork long ago. This further proved it. He carefully inserted my testicles into his anus and walked away, calling back, "This is just another version of right.

  BRICOLAGE SCROTUM

  “If my hair were a wave I’d ride it,” crowed Chip as he proudly popped Allen’s scrotum. The scrotal pulp swung from his clawed hand in strings of unpleasantness.

  “You maggoty bitch!” screamed Allen, “You popped the wrong one!”

  Allen’s hands clung desperately at his crotch as he surveyed the damage.

  Chip flicked his hand free of as much scrotal pulp as possible and moved in for a closer look, eager to survey the damage he’d inflicted on his brother.

  “Fucking heck! I really did a harper on yer ol’ nutsack, didn’t I?”

  With a clenched fist, Allen swung aimlessly in the general direction of Chip’s face. The swift jets of fist breeze reminded Chip of his mother, which in turn, reminded him of nipples.

  “What were you doing flopping out the wrong ballbag anyway?” he asked the increasingly agitated Allen.

  “We already agreed on this, Chip! I flop out my real bag o’ man junk for the crowd to get a good peep. I swivel slightly to allow for the switch and BANG! You pop Mr Wilkens bag.”

  “Seems like the sort of thing I should hav
e remembered,” said Chip with a raised eyebrow. This was greeted with an emphatic nod from Allen.

  “Can’t you just keep Mr Wilkens’ nutsack? We were going to pop it anyway.”

  Allen looked stunned, “Keep Mr Wilkens’ sack? What the hell will we pop then, Chip?”

  “Who says grade four students wanna see a man’s sack get popped anyway?”

  “It doesn’t fucking matter what the grade four students want to see! This is something Mr Wilkens NEEDS them to see!”

  * * * * *

  Mr Wilkens was the principal at Yandish Muff Primary School. He’d worked his way up from a substitute position some 30 years ago. As a man of dignity, Mr Wilkens believed himself to be a role model to his increasingly unattractive body of students. It was a responsibility he carried around earnestly.

  “I’m not a complicated man am I, Bernice?”

  Bernice was Mr Wilkens assistant and comrade. Her advanced age instilled a simpleminded wisdom that she utilised with aplomb to get to the grit of a situation.

  She stared back at Mr Wilkens with enormous compassion. From where she stood, Mr Wilkens looked frail and childlike. A cheap suit hung loosely from his limbs and his hair was frightfully unsound. As he coughed and stumbled over his words, moths spiralled from his mouth, seeking refuge near the lights on the ceiling.

  “What makes you ask such a strange question, Mr W? Have you been eating the extra curricular activities again?”

  “No, no, Bernice, nothing like that. I’m just starting to wonder if I’ve made the right decision regarding next week’s demonstration.”

  Bernice fought her way through the swarm of moths and draped her thick arm over Mr Wilkens shoulder.

  “Are you talking about the ball poppin’, sir?”

  “Yes, you know I am!”

  “Now, now, don’t go getting all worked up on me. A couple of days ago you thought this was the greatest idea in the entire history of education. What happened?”

  “Well… it’s balls in general. They’re such unpleasant things. I’m not sure I want my students looking at them.”

  Bernice erupted with burps of laughter, involuntarily urinating in the process.

  “You silly goose, Mr Wilkens! Yes, balls are ugly as sin but the balls your kiddies’ll be looking at are getting well and truly popped. Don’t view it as your students looking at ugly balls, view it as your students watching something ugly gettin’ destroyed!”

  Mr Wilkens slowed his breathing until it had reached a more relaxed pace. A smile began to form.

  “You really are a gem, Bernice. What would I do without you?”

  “You’d probably have to lick your own damn arsehole is what!”

  The laughter erupted once more as Mr Wilkens loosened his belt and shimmied out of his pants. With his cheeks spread, Bernice drove her tongue in deep.

  * * * * *

  Chip sat across from Allen, who sat across from their mother, who sat under her husband. Mr Wilkens’ scrotum sat limply by Allen’s plate, making a whistling sound every so often. His mother couldn’t take her long eyes off it.

  “Do we really need that dirty sack on the table? We’re eating for fucksake, Allen!”

  Allen shifted awkwardly in his chair, the pain in his crotch burning hot and wet. Chip involuntarily rubbed his thighs in an masturbatory fashion, which caused his father to giggle and point.

  “Don’t encourage them, Pat,” spat their mother.

  “Sorry, Alice, it’s just that he was moving his hands like he was getting off and there’s a ball sack on the table. It’s just funny is all.”

  An awkward silence engulfed the dinner table. The boys exchanged a furtive glance before Chip spoke up on Allen’s behalf.

  “Mum, Allen’s got a problem... a problem with his junk.”

  Allen’s face flushed red with embarrassment, slapping Chip with an attack of the giggles, which in turn started his father up again. Alice punched Pat in the chin, trying to get him to set a better example. The punch triggered a sneeze within Pat, which showered his poor wife with mucous. Alice reached for her cleavage hanky and began to wipe at the snotty film.

  “What do you mean, Chip? What’s wrong with Allen’s junk?”

  Using animated eyeballs, Allen tried in vain to end the current conversation but Chip didn’t pick up on the subtlety. Alice was staring intently, trying to drain more information from her sons.

  “It was an accident mum… a rather unpleasant accident.”

  “What was an accident? Why are you being so coy?”

  “I popped Allen’s junk!” yelled Chip while averting his eyes from his mother’s scrutiny.

  “You what?” said Alice, with mouth agape.

  “Whose junk is that then?” said Pat, pointing to Mr Wilkens’ tabletop scrotum.

  “That belongs to Mr Wilkens,” said Allen coyly.

  “Who the hell’s Mr Wilkens?” asked the increasingly impatient Alice.

  “He’s the principal at Yandish Muff,” said Chip, whimsically pondering nipples.

  “Why do you have his fucking junk on our dinner table?” asked Alice with ever escalating levels of anger.

  “He gave it to us!” said Chip proudly, “We’re performing a demonstration for his grade four students next week.”

  “Involving the principal’s balls?” laughed Pat.

  “Yes! He insisted we use his. He wants his kids to see a pair of hairy balls get well and truly popped,” continued Chip.

  “Why?” implored Alice, “It sounds outlandish on every level.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended on the table, interspersed with Pat stifling his giggles. Chip swept the sack off the table and shoved it in his pocket, employing the out of sight, out of mind method. Alice was staring into a great nothingness, lost in thought. Allen was fidgeting and uncontrollably moving his legs in a rhythmic fashion, sending slight vibrations throughout the room. As the hours dripped away, dinner grew decidedly cold.

  * * * * *

  Mr Wilkens sat in his office busily drafting the permission slips for the upcoming demonstration. Bernice entered and immediately caught sight of Mr. Wilkens.

  “Please don’t tell me you haven’t sent those things out yet?” she asked with a tone of disbelief.

  “I know, I should have sent these ruddy things out last week but it’s an extremely delicate subject. Thanks to you though, Bernice, I have my angle.”

  “Thanks to me?” she asked, somewhat taken aback.

  “Don’t you see? You really hit the nail on the head when you were talking about the destruction of ugly. The scrotum is an undeniably horrendous appendage. I can’t conceive of anyone not wanting to witness the destruction of such a vulgar manifestation of biology. Here,” Mr Wilkens handed Bernice the permission form, “read this; let me know what you think.”

  With the eye of an Irish cock and loosening bowels, Bernice held up the permission form and began to read.

  To the Guardian,

  Yandish Muff Primary School has always prided itself on its attitude toward esoteric tomfoolery. As educators, we utilise such methods as a means of bolstering ego and self-satisfaction. As parents, your general apathy allows us to continue on our self-aggrandising path. For this we thank you.

  Shortly I will be conducting a demonstration that I believe is vitally important for your children to see. The demonstration in question will include the destruction of a standard male scrotum. Due to the unattractive nature of a scrotum, it is strongly believed that your children would benefit from witnessing its destruction.

  We live in a world dominated by certain aesthetics. Aesthetics that the scrotum only detract from. In order to maintain a strong stance in support of beauty, we will embark upon the symbolic gesture of dismissing the opposite.

  Please grant us your blessing and sign this permission form with pride.

  Sincerely,

  Mr Spencer Wilkens,

  Principal

  Mr Wilkens was biting his bottom lip and crossin
g his legs into a knot as he anxiously watched Bernice read the form. When she finished, she placed it to one side and stared intently into Mr Wilkens’ eyes.

  “Well… what did you think?” he asked impatiently.

  Bernice was trying not to give anything away but despite every effort, a large smile broke its way through her exterior shell of cool.

  “You drop those strides, Mr Wilkens. I think somebody’s arsehole needs a lickin’.”

  Mr Wilkens beamed, “You like it! you really like it!”

  * * * * *

  “I don’t know what to do, Chip. I really need some balls.”

  Allen was crying quite uncontrollably as Chip, with a face full of concern, looked on.

  “I’m thinking, Allen. Let me think. This hollering ain’t gonna bring ‘em back.”

  Chip turned to face the mirror and carefully touched up his quiff. This activity helped stimulate his brain juice, which he hoped would lead to an adequate solution to Allen’s scrotal dilemma. An idea began to twist and form in Chip’s mind as his quiff stretched like arms in the morning.

  “I’ve got it!” he shouted, knocking Allen from his brittle sitting chain.

  “What?” moaned Allen from the cold floor.

  “Well, you’ve lost your balls, right?”

  “Somebody, who shall remain nameless, popped ‘em for me!” he spat back.

  “Okay, okay, that’s by the by. Point is, we still have a perfectly good set of balls right here.” Chip reached into his pocket and retrieved Mr Wilkins scrotum, which he waved about like a dainty glove smeared in cream.