An entry into this writing challenge from Daniel O'Shea
Jason Isbell and the 400-Pound Eunuch
By Jake Cullen
He hadn’t seen his penis in years. A decade, maybe. Sure, he’d felt it when he pissed out all those caffeine drinks. Felt it at least once a day for his own pleasure. Apply the lotion for the cracks around the neck. But he hadn’t seen it. How could he have seen it? He hadn’t seen anything under gut in years.
But that was his penis. On the desk in front of him. He knew it. The look of it. The fleshiness. Even with all that blood. The little sliver of a scab along the tip that meant he had to use his other hand for a while.
A dream. This must be a dream, he thought between screams.
He managed a word. Over and over in his darkened basement. His mother’s basement, really. Nice place. Mostly finished, but with wooden beams in the ceiling, through which he’d strewn holiday lights and his Star Wars ornaments. The complete set. Even the alternate R2-D2.
He got the word out again. “Why? Why? Why?”
He shook until the big man slapped him one more time. “Why? You’re asking me why? I come into your piece of shit house and cut off your dick and you want to know why?” The big man leaned into his face. “Because you hit the ‘enter’ key.”
“What? What?” He managed to double his vocabulary.
“You typed all that shit about me on my blog. Don Draper of Little Rock? Shit, you fat fucking fucker. I had to fucking google that shit.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“My friends said not to worry about a dickless momma’s boy. Turns out you weren’t so dickless after all. I mean, you are now of course.”
The one with no penis repeated his apology.
“Look, fucker, you think posting as ‘anonymous’ means you’re anonymous? You think I can’t find out who you are and where you are?”
Dickless whimpered.
“Did I say ‘Jason Isbell and his 400 Pounds’? No. Because I’m nice. I might have typed that. Sure. I type all kinds of shit. But I didn’t press ‘enter.’ I pressed ‘backspace,’ because that’s what civilized people do, you dickless fuck.”
Dickless was beginning to lose consciousness in the dark basement. The loss of blood. The adrenaline. He hadn’t eaten in 20 minutes or more.
The big man reached up to the ceiling, pulled down a 12-inch Chewbacca from a nail, then shoved it into the underside of the bloody penis. The he checked the handcuffs. The leg ties.
“You wait here, dickless. I’m going upstairs to spread your mom’s ass apart and give her a tribal tattoo.”
