This weeks short story comes to us from. Karl Voorhees Aloysius Aabingdon XXXII. This adult humor, dark satire is full of twists and turns and one unlucky young man, and his group of friends. Warning to any of those put off by maiming, this might be one story you will want to skip.
A story confirming once again that ‘boys will be boys’. Of how one wrong choice can lead to an escalating bad day. Of how some times allowing your children to play might not be the best course of action. And how one misplaced word can lead to a life time of guilt.
I can’t believe he chopped my pecker off is a story that will make most men groan and women guffaw. No one ever wants to live through what this poor man will go through in this story. One cannot imagine the horror and trauma he and his friends George and Ralph must have gone through after this incident. While one turns the incident into a chance at fame, the other lives with guilt and remorse. While the third must live with the life long struggle of never quite being the same again.
I Can’t Believe He Chopped My Pecker Off.
By Karl Voorhees Aloysius Aabingdon XXXII
We were fooling around on the tenement roof where we all grew up; George, Crazy Ralph, and me. Hiding from our parents, who dutifully pretended not to know where we were and most assuredly pretended not to know that the three of us were up there sharing a Tarryton 100 George had filched from his old man’s pack and sharing a Miller High Life Crazy Ralph had lifted from the family’s beer fridge. Me? I brought the roof key and the matches.
Anyway, we were up there smoking (⅓ of a cigarette) and drinking (⅓ of a beer) and generally fooling around when Crazy Ralph decided he was one of the Three Musketeers – you know, the one that hates the Guitillermos up in 5B – and breaks one of the wires from their TV antenna. Only TV antenna on the block. Let’s them pull in all five local channels. Well, it used to. We could hear old man Guitillermo shouting and hollering from the fifth floor clear to the roof. Which was, technically, the sixth floor, the open-aire accommodations we called it back in the day. Fortunately the lock worked from the outside as well as the inside for some reason.
So, once we get bored with listenin’ to the old man going on about the tie score in the bottom of the ninth Crazy Ralph gets back on his Musketeers kick and is comin’ after me with his crazy sword, a rapier I think he called it. And he’s slashing and hacking and swinging all over, really going to town. He’s laughing and I’m laughing and dancing about trying not to get hit with the damned thing when I end up hopping up on the lip that goes around the edge of the rooftop.
We’ve all hopped on that before and, uh, whatcha call it, muscle memory takes over and I stop almost dead to keep my balance, shoulders back, hips out, balancing momentum and gravity and a deep desire to not fall six floors to the pavement below. Key phrase here is ‘hips out’.
The roof gravel slides a bit throwing Crazy Ralph just the tiniest bit off balance. Being a selfish bastard and not wanting to take the express elevator to the first floor himself he reacts by, among other things, flailing his arms.
Did I mention ‘hips out’ yet?
The antenna wire whips by so fast and so close that it slices a couple of buttons off my shirt and I can feel the damned thing shave my stomach. A look of shock, then horror passes over Crazy Ralph’s face, then he leans over the edge and upchucks while looking down over the side. I lean over, too, so I can see what’s so fascinating.
Apparently, we’re watching some piece of roof trash fall onto the street in front of a dump truck and a city bus. The truck straddles the trash but the bus immediately behind is pulling over for the 112th street stop there on the corner and flattens it with both front and rear wheels.
“Direct hit!” I yell joyously. Bomber pilot is a favorite game, especially during summer rush hours when the streets are full and drivers are too busy dodging pedestrians and each other to stop and try to see who’s dropping crap on them from the rooftops.
“Oh, God it hurts!”
Father Vido will get nothing from me for using the Lord’s name in vain. There was nothing vain about it. I hurt and I wanted some relief now, and I wasn’t above asking the Big Guy. Unfortunately it seems He was out golfing with some rich guys across the river because I hurt until the ambulance showed up and the boys knocked me out with some kind of a shot.
I woke in a haze in a hospital ward where a cute, fresh-faced nurse was ministering to me and blushing furiously. When she realized I had come to she turned beet red and practically ran out the door. Poor thing.
Have you ever had your pecker chopped off by a TV antenna wire? I don’t recommend it, really I don’t. They told me I was really lucky about the way it happened. I guess the veins and arteries got all stretched out and then knotted themselves back up when, well, you know, and that’s why I didn’t bleed to death up there on that stupid roof.
Then after a bunch of operations, including bringing in some new kind of plastic surgeon for some experimental surgery, they told me it was just bad luck the way it happened because the veins and arteries got all stretched out and then knotted themselves back up when, well, you know, and they couldn’t figure out how to keep anything down there alive without a proper blood supply. And wouldn’t you know I couldn’t get the original equipment reattached because guess what the “Direct hit!” was that the bus ran over…
So now and forever I sit for everything, facing the wall when I need to pee, facing away when, well, you know, and mopping up after when I need to do both. Trust me. Mopping is definitely the lesser evil.
Crazy Ralph has been on Broadway, off Broadway, and near Broadway for going on 8 years now playing Zorro. Rumor has it he had that antenna wire made into Zorro’s sword. He visits me often. I’ve never asked.
And George, poor George. George never fully recovered from the trauma of that summer evening. His sweet virgin sister is now my sweet virgin wife, and she talked about it one time. Only that once. It seems George felt incredibly guilty about the whole event. Seems he’d been in a fight with old man Guitillermo earlier that day and had put the TV antenna bit as a bug in Crazy Ralph’s ear. She said he blamed himself completely which I never believed until I heard the story of how he died.
He’d been depressed and nearly deranged for years, ever since that fateful night. One day ‘nearly’ took a left turn and become ‘completely’ and he stood at the kitchen table, placed his manhood squarely on a cutting board, and ruined a genuine Böker carving knife brought over by his great-great-great-etc-etc-grandfather from Germany back sometime in the 1800s by using said family heirloom to hack off his own pecker.
Because of the clean cut – would you believe that that thing was still sharp enough to shave with? – there was none of my vessel mangling and poor George bled out on the kitchen floor in about three minutes. Although some experts argue it was more like about seven or eight, after you factored in shock, the fact that blood pressure and volume outflow would drop while the bleedout occurred, and that since he ended up lying on his back on the floor gravity played no appreciable role.
George’s death by appen-dick-tomy still gets a group of coroners and police detectives goin’ at it when the subject comes up. I’ve been known to stroll by their tables at various events and just toss in George’s name and a random bleedout time and walk away. It’s always fun to watch, like chummin’ sharks.
And because no bus happened along through his kitchen before the ambulance boys got there, ol’ Deranged George got buried in one piece.
All rights reserved. Thanks to Karl Voorhees Aloysius Aabingdon XXXII for sharing their work with us. If you would like to read other Indie Author Short Story Reviews. Click Here.
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