January 2005 / Volume VI / Issue I
Willie Smith

ZERO POP

    I’d had enough. Decided to chop the fuckers off. Smashed the fire alarm case. Yanked out ax. Sat on edge of chair. Kicked off shoes. Wiggled from pants, underpants. Moved aside penis. With right hand hefted ax above family jewels.
    But in creeped doubt. I might take a hunk of thigh along with the stones. Precision would be nice.
    Slammed ax into wall, so it hung like a mosquito biting a hippo. Raced in sockfeet into bathroom. Rummaged medicine chest for razors. Found a straight handed down from Grandpa, who lingered so long from cirrhosis of the bottle.
    Perched on toilet rim. Opened razor. Left hand tucked aside herby. And I lopped the filthy sperm and testosterone lousy sacks off. Made a sound like ripping baby booties.
    It hurt a lot less than I thought. Although, to confess, I thought then more pain than in all my life combined and compounded. To assuage the searing grief, popped razored nuts into yap. Tasted no worse than pulpy oysters.
    Both hands stanched wound with iodine-soaked gauze. The sting distinctly backgrounded the haunting agony the phantom nuts created as I chewed them mercilessly.
    When the firemen arrived, I was sitting there on the toilet, picking epididymis from between teeth.
    “Jesus Christ!” wailed one fireman. “Why’d’ja do it?”
    “Because,” I whispered, losing consciousness from morphine, watching them wrestle me onto a stretcher, “this kind of thing has got to stop.”
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