A Million Versions of Right Read Online Free PDF

filled the room and a half hearted version of the rumba spilled onto the floor. Mr Wilkens’ mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from Bernice. Come on back to the office, Mr W so I can give that arsehole of yours a good lickin’.
     
    * * * * *
     
    It didn’t even look slightly real. Chip had packed a pink stocking with grapes and cookie dough. It was hanging comically from his fly, slapping against his knees.
    “Fuck me with a pickle stick, Chip. That doesn’t look too good,” said Allen in disbelief.
    Chip sighed deeply and stroked his chin. “It’s not so much what it looks like, its how you use it. If we believe that this thing,” he thrust his hips, “is a dirty ol’ sack, we can make others believe it too.”
    “You think?” replied Allen, his doubt apparent.
    “Well what the fuck else are we gonna do, huh? I don’t see you offering any solutions. This way you get to keep Mr Wilkens’ sack and he still gets his demonstration.”
    “Yeah, well I wouldn’t have to keep his ballbag if you hadn’t popped mine!”
    Both Chip and Allen had entered into a defensive mode, their body language and intonation infused with distrust and caution. The bricolage scrotum hung limp and impassive, accentuating the unease between them. They were both aware of the effect the impending demonstration was having on them. They were brothers. They were the closest of friends. Now a popped nut sack threatened their bond. A bond that had previously withstood everything life had thrown at it. Allen felt an intensity of anger previously unimaginable. Chip was overcome by a powerful, unflappable guilt.
    “I’m sorry, Allen.”
    Tears began to form in Chip’s guilt-ridden eyes as the meagre apology dribbled off his lips. For Chip, there was no weight lifted. The act of apology only reinforced his self-loathing. Chip’s tears had a nauseating influence on Allen, who also began to feel guilt. It became apparent to Allen that he too was complicit in the death of his scrotum. Sure, Chip had acted with inappropriate haste and had popped the first thing he saw but it was Allen who had ensured there was something to pop in the first place . If anything, they were both at fault.
    Allen’s introspection was interrupted by an inhuman scream from Chip, who was now hunched over in what appeared to be agony. He lunged toward his brother with compassion and worry.
    “Chip! Are you alright? What’s happened?”
    He draped his arm over Chip’s shoulder, trying to deduce the cause of the scream.
    “Allen,” wheezed Chip, “I want you to have this.”
    Allen directed his gaze toward Chip’s extended, bloody hand. It was Chip’s scrotum. It seemed to breathe in his hand and leaked a substance similar to molasses.
     
    * * * * *
     
    In his position as testicular advocate, Hedging Littlepop was often approached by like minds: people who were fed up with scrotal discrimination. He decided to gather a group of scrotal enthusiasts and labelled them, the Scroats.
    Hedging had enlisted the help of his wife and son in order to convert their garage into a makeshift meeting hall. A podium, constructed of hardened wine, stood proudly in the centre of the converted garage. Alex had created a banner that bore the likeness of a jar stuffed to the brim with scrotums, which hung dramatically behind the podium. Loudspeakers filled the room with dismal vox pops, recorded on cylinders, covering a wide variety of scrotally slanted subject matter. The air in the garage carried a scent of pine.
    As a Scroat, there were only two rules. The first was to ensure the sanctity of the scrotum was tirelessly upheld and the second: during a meeting, the scrotum must always be on display, preferably without interference from the penile shaft. So there stood a group of twelve ideological men, each with their scrotums hanging from their jeans, each with a glint in their eye. Standing before the men with an air of distinct purpose was Hedging. He held