A dog named Irving nipped off the tip of the Potentate's prick and made burnch of his balls. The Pekinese must have been an insane criminal, a terrorist! It lunged from the fat woman's grasp, snapping furiously at Jeffrey Bleary's crotch. He was too drunk to recoil in time. The beast snapped off more peter than Jeff could afford to lose. It jerked back with such ferocity that, like plucking plums, Irving came away with a mouthful of Bleary nuts. It took Jeff a few seconds to appreciate what had happened. He was none too pleased. It wasn't that he had much use for a testis. Long since his wife had stopped sharing his bed, preferring the ardent services of a trustee from the nearby Damp Jill prison. But, useful or not, Jeffrey Bleary had gotten protective to his gonads. He'd even named them; "Moe" and "Curly," two of the three stooges. "Larry" is what he named his now diminished dork. If he'd been sober (but he so seldom was), Jeff would have known to be careful with the woman occupying the next bar stool. When she started complaining about her son, Abu, being abused in prison, Jeffrey couldn't help bragging. He was the Potentate of Prisons, Prince of Punishment, Purveyor of Pain, boss of the whole imprisonment industry. He proudly told the distraught mother that her brat got no more than he deserved! Usually when citizens started to whine about savage abuses inflicted upon friends or relatives in one of the state's many prisons, Jeffrey Bleary had the presence of mind to flee for cover. This time the hard liquor had gotten to him. When the black woman was saying how her boy had been beaten and starved in the infamous Jackville prison, smirking, Jeffrey remarked that Jackville was an ideal prison, a resort. He should know since he was the Potentate of Prisons. The anguished woman, herself a little tipsy, shrieked, "sic!" Next things Jeff knew, Moe was dogfood and Curly was hanging by a thread. When he shifted on the vinyl seat, it tumbled to the floor like a miniature football trailing a tendril of vas diferens, a yapping little mutt dashing in pursuit. This all happened at the Damp Jill Tavern not far from the Potentate's palace and office. Jeffrey Bleary was a regular patron, but everyone detested him, especially the bartender. Amos Reagan was an alumnus of one of the Potentate's dungons. When Amos saw what had happened, he couldn't restrain a titter. He gave the unhappy mother a beer and put a mug on the floor to reward Irving. It went undrunk. The dog was still busily munching Bleary balls as if they were doggy-treats. Only then, still smiling, did the bartender phone for an ambulance. It took it's time coming from Holy Spirit Hospital. They didn't like Bleary any better than Amos did. The paramedic was a MADD mother whose daughter had been run down not once, but twice by the drunken Potentate. When an unruly pup has made a chewy toy of your balls, you'd be expected to faint. The Potentate of Prisons was made of sterner stuff. Of course, he was also anesthetized on whiskey. He repeatedly asked the dog and the woman, "why did you bite off my balls?"
Living without balls made Jeffrey Bleary cranky. He called a meeting of all the superintendents of all the state's dozens of prisons. "I've got no balls," he told then frankly. Give me yours." They wouldn't, but the warden of the Jackville prison proposed a solution; take a prisoner's nuts. The Potentate of Prisons liked the suggestion and gave the warden a kiss on the cheek. Being nutless seemed to be having an effect on his libido. The warden, Robert Cannon, swelled wtth pride, but he could have done without the oyster on his cheek. So started the search. The project was called Balls for Bleary! Superintendent Cannon was in charge. He promised to secure nuts for the boss no matter the obstacles. Superintendent Cannon's first effort was a sad disappointment. The purloined stones ended up bobbing like fishing lures in a leaky baggy of melted ice. They were useless except as putrid office decorations. His boss, the nutless Potentate, was miffed. Mr. Cannon was not a good manager. In fact, he was a very bad manager with emphases on "VERY!" That's not to say that he wasn't an ideal prison administrator. A good prison master need only be a vindictive thug, a liar and a heartless sadist. Bobby Cannon had a sterling record in all those categories. His boss, Potentate Bleary, actually had a PhD in torment. That and having once kicked to death a paralyzed homeless woman is what qualified him to be Potentate of all the Quacker prisons. (Quacker was the once great state where Bleary bought his booze.) It was management where Robert Cannon was a flop. The Jackville prison was a travesty, the worst managed in Quacker. It didn't matter much, Cannon just lied about it. Lying was his prize trait. He lied about anything, everything. Lying was fun. At first, getting a few balls for his boss had seemed easy. Just kill a prisoner and take them. Warden Cannon held the lives of 1062 men in his hands. Killing or torturing a few for the sake of his boss's gonads seemed easy as lying on his taxes. In fact, a "donor" immediately came to mind. Mr. Cannon hated all prisoners, but one in particular stuck out, Michael Budwiser. The warden figured that his balls should be ideal. He was a strong young prisoner with no family who cared about him. His nuts should be peak product. Budwiser was easy to get to. He'd been isolated in the prison hole for many months. His resistance was already overcome by having been starved and tortured. Best of all, Cannon hated him! Cutting off his danglies would be a joy. One of the most remote dungeons in the Jackville prison was the psychiatric "ward." After driving prisoners insane, they were locked up in the "Mental Health Unit" where, unseen and unheard, they could be "treated" at leisure. When a guard got mad at Michael Eudwiser, for complaining about starvation and abuse, he was tossed into the Mental Health Unit for dedicated torture. Only crazy prisoners complained. Bright and early on Monday the fourth, Bobby Cannon strutted into the Mental Heath Unit. Brucie Chaser, the guard on duty, was delighted to help with testicle harvesting. He'd been in a dark humor ever since his wife threw him over for her highschool girlfriend. Brucie loved the idea of taking a prisoner's manhood so long as it was safe and the guy couldn't retaliate. Brucie got some cronies together. In a mob, they rushed into Michael Budwiser's cell, beat him with clubs and shocked him repeatedly with stun guns. Twitching, the young man was helpless, but not dead. To Superintendent Cannon's glee, the victim seemed to have nice nuts, ample and healthy. Potentate Bleary would be pleased! The first problem was how to get them off. Yanking didn't seem to work and it might damage the organs. Nobody had thought to fetch along a knife, but Brucie had a pair of fingernail clippers. While the lad writhed in stunned agony, Brucie and Swab, his best buddy, used the fingernail clippers to make a hundred minute snips around the neck of the sack. It took quite a while and there was a lot of blood, but they finally succeeded in cutting into the meat. Using their fingers, they tore the bag open and snip, snip, the balls were in Superintendent Cannon's joyous palm. "If anyone says anything, just say he fell. It doesn't matter what he says. Remind people that prisoners lie." Mr. Cannon rushed his treasures to the kitchen wrapped in his slightly used pocket handkerchief. He didn't want anyone to see what he had. Disembodied balls might evoke comment even at Jackville. It took a while, but he got a plastic baggy and some ice in which he dropped the nuts. He personally drove them the hundred fifty miles to the Potentate's office. Jeffrey Bleary wasn't there. He was home "sick." That meant hungover. It hadn't been a good time for him since he lost Moe and Curly and whiskey prices had risen. To make a long story short, by the time Bleary got together with his replacement testicles, the balls, floating unhappily in bloody water, had turned a greenish hue and acquired an unpleasant aroma. It hadn't occurred to Mr. Cannon (remember, he was a VERY bad manager) that someone would have to install the replacement nuts. A transplant probably meant a doctor. No problem; the Quacker Department of Imprisonment had dozens of doctors. How hard could it be to splice in a couple balls? A plumber could do it. Robert Cannon resolved that his second attempt would be a triumph. He'd put the prison doctor in charge of testis harvesting and installation. The doctor was no great straights, but he flatly refused to castrate a prisoner. It made him squirm uneasily just to think about it. That's okay, Cannon turned to the prison's chief nurse, Barbara Bawl. Barbara was a submissive, obedient type without the least scruples. Authority figures like Superintendent Cannon terrified her. She was easy to scare into cutting off a man's nuts. Unlike Cannon, Barbara was a careful manager. She decided that the thing to do was to use two "donors." That way there was less chance that one of the pesky prisoners would die. Murders are always such a nuisance to cover up. She reasoned that if a man lost only one of his balls, there was less chance of him missing it. If he did miss it; there was less chance he'd complain. Does anyone really need two testicles? Half the population has none at all. The real problem was whose balls to take? Sure, there were almost 1100 candidates, but who had the best material? She couldn't use Superintendent Cannon's method of castrating a guy just because she disliked him. Barbara thought that if she was going to harvest a nut, it should be a good one. Barbara Bawl needed a nut expert, someone familiar with the gonads in Jackville prison. A fairy was the obvious choice. Heavens knows, there was no shortage of homosexual guards. Some of them kept close eye on the men's balls. She knew just the guard to ask. His name is being kept secret because he's been spreading AIDS inside the prison and out. The law assures him confidentiality. He was certainly an expert in his vice. He was the kind of guy who'd carefully calculated that if all the prisoner boners at Jackville prison were laid end-to-end, they would reach two and a half football fields, almost three quarters of a mile! The thought made his mouth water. Once the "donors" had been selected and dragged kicking and screaming to the Mental Health Unit, Brucie Chaser got busy with his stun gun. His buddy Swab got busy with a nightstick. Barbara used scissors to cut out a testicle from each of the unconscious victims. She did her best to sew things up with some lengths of brown thread she'd picked up at the prison tailor shop. The men seemed to be ideal choices, young, very virile; remarkably well endowed. One was a Hispanic fellow named Sergio Santoz. the other was a black man, Omar Johnson. What she didn't notice at the time was that the nuts were quite different is size and even in shape.
It turns out that not all balls are created equal. Installing new ones meant fancy retrofitting. It wouldn't be an easy plumbing job like gluing up some PVC in the basement ceiling. Putting in replacement testicles would be like an organ transplant, tissue matches, rejection, all sorts of complicated micro-surgery. Potentate Jeffrey Bleary didn't know any of that. He kept himself busy devising a new administrative directive aimed at taking pennies away from elderly prisoners. He wanted to punish them for not promptly dying. Why were they still consuming the state's assets when he and other executives wanted raises? Still, he realized that he had to find somebody who would be willing (and able) to do the repairs to his virility using boosted-balls. He hoped it would be very soon. He found that he'd started to sit down to pee. That can't be a good sign. The doctor who performed the executions at Stony Vista prison seemed like an ideal choice. He'd do just about anything for a buck. Once he'd scooped out a criminal's eyes before executing him. He offered the eyes on an Internet auction site and got eleven hundred dollars even though one was slightly damaged. Then there was the Arab doctor at the Hunter prison. He'd been arrested as a terrorist so he became a snitch for the FBI. He just made stuff up. The Arab might do the nut retrofitting if he could be made to understand what was wanted. Jeff Bleary's Arabic was none too good. And, he didn't know if he should trust what was left of his wiener to a guy who'd once circumcised a prisoner with a can opener. The Potentate of Prisons checked with an old political crony, State Senator Stuart Brownleaf. They were both Republicans and had several times joined forces to exploit the poor and downtrodden. They shared the conviction that the weak should be used to benefit the rich. While only a minor politician, Senator Brownleaf knew all the Republican crooks and knaves. The Senator suggested little Tommy "the Slip" Dross. Tommy wasn't really a doctor anymore. In fact, he'd been a prisoner in a Quacker minimum security lock-up. He'd slaughtered a helpless black man who had nerve enough to get into his way. But he was an ideal Republican so he spent only a short time in prison. Now he was doing questionable medical procedures for the Republican underworld, stuff like removing bullets, changing appearances and killing unwanted bastards. Chances were that he knew how to install balls. That's how it happened that it was Tommy the Slip who received the mismatched testicles from Jackville prison. He promptly fed them to his cat. Tommy knew that nuts couldn't be transplanted, at least they never have been. When he saw the ovoids delivered to him (one the size of a goose egg, the other one almost like a miniature brick, one with a long tidy vas, the other hacked with a traumatized epididymis) Tommy realized that faking it was the best option. With his workshop utility knife, he roughed-out two egg shapes from old foam rubber. Those were what he sewed into the remnant of Jeffrey Bleary's scrotum: recycled packaging. It was a kind of pay-back. Sure, Tommy the Slip Dross was a slimeball, but how much worse was a guy like Bleary who made his living locking people up! With his new balls, Jeffrey Bleary felt like a new man. He thought he had the real thing. A few ounces of testosterone (he took it intravenously), a couple hits of Cialia and Jeff was ready to be a very bad boy! Tommy the Slip prescribed all the best drugs and, balls or not, Jeff would feel like a he-man again. The Potentate phoned his accomplice, Barbara Bawl, complementing her on the fine job she'd done in testicle selection. He wanted to know all about the donors. The chief nurse assured her boss that they were strong, virile young men, unusually well endowed. Both were murderers and hot blooded. Their "glands" as she called them, would surely provide good service. Believing himself re-invented with killer gonads, Jeffrey, set out for conquest. He made circuits of the taverns, getting drunker as he went. He couldn't get any women interested in him. It wasn't unusual. Most knew what he was, a glorified prison guard. They wanted nothing to do with him. The Potentate turned to his usual sexual outlet, the ghetto whores. For enough money, they would screw anything even Jeffrey Bleary. The girl he picked up outside the projects had seen better times. She was rough and about 40. She smelled like a lobster in cheap perfume. When she saw who it was, she tried to get out of his car. Both her husband and her son were in Bleary's prisons along with 42,000 other hapless victims. After much haggling and bargaining, she reluctantly agreed to give him a quick blow job for three times her usual fee. Gleefully, Jeff crammed it in her mouth. She spit it out. "What's wrong with this thing?" the prostitute wanted to know. The Cialis gave him a wonderful erection, but where there should have been a dick-head, there was only a stub, a mushroom chomped through the button. "It was just a Pekingese," Jeff explained, jabbing the disfigured member back toward her lips. Ulissia-Marie, the prostitute, didn't know what sort of disease Pekingese was, but she could see the mess it had made of that dude's dark. She'd have none of it! She hadn't survived to 45 in her business letting just anything slither down her gullet. Bolting upright, she scowling at the deformed jonny. "You got the hot stuff!" she declared. Jeff lost all his drunken reserve. The whore had taken a fistful of his money. Now she wouldn't swallow the meat. Grabbing her by the hair, he forced her face into his lap. It wasn't hair. It was a wig which came off his grasp. The car rocked and shook as he used the strength of both hands to force her head into his groin while she shrieked. Avoiding the offending prick, Ulissia-Marie squirmed, trying to jerk free. The rapist was too strong. She hit down ferociously on his nuts. To her astonishment, he acted as if he didn't even feel it. Gnawing and thrashing her head, her teeth came away with rubber! The scene after that defies description. For the second time, the poor Potentate of prisons had lost his nuts to hungry fangs. When the woman spit out the wad of foam, it bounced around the dashboard. She though she'd bitten the car seat, but she could see the bleeding sack. Fleeing from the sedan, the hysterical whore waved down a city cop. The cop found Jeffrey Bleary still sitting in his car trying to figure out what had happened to his nice new balls. His little drug-induced boner still bobbed from its nest. He was babbling incoherently. The cop recognized Jeff. He'd been arrested many times for drunk driving and disorderly conduct. They always just drove him home. All the judges in the area were Republicans. Nobody was going to convict the Potentate of Prisons. Over the protests of Ulissia-Marie, that's what the cop did. He made him tuck away his unsatisfied, but still randy peanut and guided him into the cruiser. Jeffrey Bleary never recovered. He was quite mad after that. He went on to be elected a Quacker state judge and woe to the whore or dog owner who comes before him. "It seems like the less a statesman amounts
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