Chapter 1 #2
Dried blue frosting caked near the base. Probably from one of our ragers that a chick brought cupcakes to. I grab it. Drop to the floor. Yank my waistband down like I’m about to perform a ritual.
I spread my knees wide to save my balls. My eyes are wide too. The worm is getting closer. I can feel it. But Massi doesn’t care, still talking to Holli like we’re not mid-kitchen surgery. Useless bastard.
I brace myself and then stab my pretty bald balls.
“MAS, I’M BLEEDING! THE WORM . . . IT’S EATING MY INSIDES!”
I pull the fork toward my face. The wiggly worm is not on it. But blood is. Rolling down the spears. Slow, thick, and very real. Way too fucking real. I blink down.
Where did that little bastard go?
My dick lies to the side. A useless blob of skin and veins. My balls are throbbing when I grab them. Rolling them around to see a bloody mess. No eyes melting into lines this time. Maybe I did get that little bastard. Maybe that’s his blood all over my balls and hands.
“I got the little fucker. See.”
I hold up the cocktail fork. Blood drips onto my finger.
Massimo exhales above me and hangs up and tosses his phone on the counter.
“You’re gonna be the death of me.”
He doesn’t look at my balls when I yank them up. He rips the fork from my hand and throws it in the sink.
“Mas, look.” I press my feet into the floor. Make a bridge of my body to show him my balls. “Look, I got him. Killed the worm. Got his blood and guts all over my junk.”
“C’mon, dumbass.” His voice drops, not annoyed, but tired.
“Do you have a worm too? Did you get yours out? I wanna see. Did it attack your junk like mine?”
He pulls me up from under the armpits. Blood smears across my thigh. My hands are sticky from my surgery.
“Fuck, you smell like shit.”
“I feel like shit.”
I groan. Head slumps toward his shoulder. He smells good. Fruity or flowers. Like a chick. Maybe there’s a chick here. Bro got laid and didn’t include me. That sucks.
“Sleep it off. 7 am is too fucking early.”
He drags me toward the bedroom, mumbling under his breath about needing a new fucking family. Each room spins faster than the next. I lean my head on his shoulder, whisper something about leaving my balls in his will. He grunts like he’s not listening, but he tucks me in anyway.
“Love you, bro,” I mumble as he’s about to walk out.
I flash him a peace sign with my two fingers. My face smashed into the sheets that smell like that same cheap perfume, tequila, and bad fucking breath.
“I know, Em. I know.”
I smile. Mas always has me. And the worm, that little bitch is gone. Until it jump-scares back into my body, twitching and wiggling through my guts again.
I jolt awake, gasping.
My hands scramble to my stomach. Finally, nothing.
No movement, just slick skin with dried sweat and blood.
My head is pounding like hell. Skull-splitting.
Temple-throbbing. A full-brain punishment.
It feels like someone used a sledgehammer on my skull.
The room’s spinning again. Somehow, the sheets I just laid down in are all twisted around my waist. Still naked, except for that one sock, making my foot sweat.
My balls are sore, but still there when I check, just to be sure. Caressing them like I usually do when I wake up, but they hurt too much now. I groan, roll to the side, and squint at the clock on the nightstand.
4:13 PM.
No fucking way. I blink at it.
I just laid down.
Just closed my eyes for like five minutes. Tops. What did Mas say? 7 or some shit like that? I’ve been out for nine hours? Nine hours since I stabbed myself in the nut sack. Nine hours since Massimo made burnt eggs and insulted my hygiene.
I slide out of bed. Everything hurts. My dick dangles lifeless.
My knees crack. I need aspirin. Or morphine.
Or maybe tequila. Tequila kills everything.
Even worms. I stumble into the hallway, tripping over my foot, then catch myself on the wall like I meant to do that.
The house is dark except for the flickering light from the TV in the living room.
When I reach the end of the hallway, I know why. My brother is asleep on the couch. Several beer bottles are on the coffee table. Next to it are smelly Chinese takeout containers. The Sox are on. Getting their asses handed to them, judging from the score at the bottom of the screen.
I shuffle into the kitchen. The scene of the crime.
Blood is smeared on the floor. From me or the worm.
Who knows. I hit the cabinet next to the fridge.
Searching for aspirin. Shoving the protein powder and supplements aside, I find my brother’s stash of Sour Patch Kids.
An unopened bottle of lube. Expired TUMS. I grab four, chew them up, and swallow them down.
No fucking aspirin.
I try under the sink. Nothing but empty liquor bottles and a box labeled “Party Shit” filled with glow sticks, empty shooters, a smashed disco ball, and a half-deflated blow-up doll with duct tape over her nipples.
No meds.
Just degeneracy.
The counter’s sticky. The eggs are sitting stale and stinky. Crusted food all over the stove. I gag. This place stinks. I stink. I need air and drugs. I creep toward the living room. Mas’s still passed out on the couch even with me banging all over the kitchen. One arm over his chest.
He’s in sweats. No shirt. Blanket twisted under one leg. He looks peaceful. I shouldn’t wake him. He took care of my ass, as always. I need drugs and possibly greasy Chinese food like him.
I’ll ride my bike, it will be okay.
Shit, I’ve ridden that thing drunk many times. Hungover is a fucking cake walk. Shuffling down the hall to my room, I dress as quickly as my fucking swelling brain lets me. But every time I move, a bolt of pain from my nut sack shoots into my body.
Each step sends a bolt of pain through my lower half. My balls are throbbing like I shoved a wasp nest in my briefs. My vision blurs. My head pounds, but the worm is gone. Drugs will make it better.
Finally, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, I grab my helmet and keys. The pharmacy is down the street.
What’s the worst that can happen?
Read the rest of Emilio, Massimo,
and Sofia’s story in Twisted Throttle.