“The Hibbern study, conducted separately, reinforces these findings. That study involved forty Bolivian males who had all been castrated as teenagers, half of which were determined by lie detector tests to be virgins. The castrated adolescents who had not yet had sexual relations expressed less of a desire to commit suicide than the national average for teenage boys, while those boys who had been castrated after becoming sexually active were ten times more likely to attempt suicide. A random number of the survivors of the study were also forced into homosexual relationships with an older partner, and afterwards all expressed a desire to commit or attempted to commit suicide.”

“Motherfucker!” I screamed aloud, knowing full well that I had been fucked over. The bastard had tricked me! The Doctor had promised that I would receive full credit for my work in the study, and that all of my findings, including twenty pages of observations, detailed graphs, and even a few photographs would be presented in his detailed analysis of teenage suicide. Instead he had sold me down the river with a single vague paragraph buried in the middle of his study that only mentioned my name and work in passing.

I did all of the real work. I obtained the test subjects; I questioned them to determine their virginity, twisting their fuzzy little balls until they practically screamed out the truth, and then rewarding their honesty with the quick slice of the knife. I listened to them moan and whine and cry for their mothers, I fed them, changed their bandages, and wiped their hairless little butts before finally releasing them on the same streets from which I had abducted them. Later on I recaptured twelve of them and debased myself by fucking their tight little asses and beardless faces, taking no joy in the barbaric act but knowing that it was crucial to the study. My monetary rewards for two years of labor barely covered my expenses. I knew that going in, of course, but I had been promised a place on the lecture circuit with him defending his study, and I fully expected and deserved honorariums amounting to several hundred thousand dollars per year for at least ten years. As it was, The High Doctor received credit and I had nothing to look forward to except for dealing with the parents of forty dead or nutless Bolivian teenagers.

I uncorked a bottle of good Bordeaux, lit a sinfully good Cuban cigar, and finally set down at my computer and roughed out the outline for a new study. I would very carefully document the amount of pressure that was needed to completely flatten human testicles. Particularly the testicles of middle aged, stuffed shirt, PhDs. I had the first subject selected and I would start the tests immediately.