“What’s this thing, Dad?” I asked, holding up an unfamiliar tool. I was helping my dad work on something or other and he’d asked me to get him the pliers from the toolbox.

“That’s called an Elastrator, son, it came from the old barn we tore down. Your granddad used to castrate the calves and turn them from bulls to steers. I guess it ended up in the toolbox.”

“Oh,” I replied, squeezing the handles of the thing to extend the four bent prongs on the end. “How’s it work?”

“A strong little rubber band fits over the prongs, then you squeeze the handles and put it around the calf’s nuts to cut off the circulation. They fall off after a few weeks. It would probably also work on kids that are too fruitful.” He tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t and cracked a grin after a few seconds. Two months ago Mom had cornered me and informed me that she was tired of the stains that kept showing up on my bedsheets and tee shirts, and that the Bible said be fruitful and multiply, and that at the rate I was using my ‘fruit’ up I wouldn’t have any left when I got ready to multiply. Dad overheard her tirade and took me aside after she was finished and gave me some helpful hints on concealing the activity from Mom.

I put the thing back in the toolbox and slipped my hands into my pockets to fondle my balls. Later that evening I took an ordinary rubber band from Mom’s stash in the kitchen drawer and wrapped it several times around the tool’s prongs then squeezed the handle and slipped the loop over my balls. I didn’t get the band all the way above my nutsack, and when I rolled it off of the prongs it compressed my nuts into a hard ball about the size of a doorknob and they hurt like a bitch. I quickly unwound the band to relieve the pressure and then flopped down on my bed and played with myself and thought about what had happened a month ago.

I had dropped the soap in the shower after PE and without thinking I bent over to pick it up. Kenny Thompson came up between my legs from behind and grabbed my nuts. I went to my knees and begged him to let go, but he just dug his fingers in harder and tightened his grasp until I thought I would pass out. Everyone else had already dressed by the time I was able to stumble out of the shower, and my balls still hurt a little a month later. Kenny was thirteen, same as me and we were about the same size but his nuts had dropped a year ago and he was not only a lot stronger than me but also about twice as hairy and there was no way that I could beat the shit out of him like I wanted to. I was looking for a way to get back at him, and as my cock got hard I formed an idea, and by the time I blew my wad I had worked it out. After I cleaned up the mess and flushed the Kleenex down the toilet I took a piece of paper and wrote ’Kenny Thompson’ on the upper left hand side, then wrote ‘Alastorater’ beside his name, thus starting my list. I never banded myself again, nor Kenny or anyone else for that matter, but just knowing that I could was enough to satisfy my need for revenge, and also provided practically unlimited masturbatory fuel.

The next name was added to the list two years later when I was a freshman in high school. There was usually a ball game or dance or some other school related activity on Friday night, but on Saturday evening a lot of the carless and dateless freshmen and sophomores hung out at Casey’s.

Casey’s Recreation Hall had four dime-eating pinball machines, which Mom and Dad hated, and eight pool tables that rented for a buck an hour. Groups of four would pool their resources and rent a table, then usually sneak in a couple of pinball rounds between games. The place easily accommodated fifty adolescents and was usually full. Old man Casey was strict about fighting, smoking, and foul language, so the rougher crowd either stayed away or made frequent trips to the parking lot.

The tables were close together and a degree of cooperation was required to keep from bumping asses and cue sticks with the neighboring table. Fourteen and fifteen year old kids are not noted for being overly considerate of each other, so there were occasional differences of opinion about who had the right of way and who should step back and let the adjacent table’s players shoot.

“Watch it, Asshole!” The sophomore I had bumped against kept his voice low enough to avoid Casey’s wrath.

“Bite me, Abbot,” I retorted. The guy talked tough and had an illicit pack of cigarettes clearly visible in his shirt pocket, but he was smaller than me and I wasn’t about to take any shit from him. He backed down and I made my shot, then turned to walk around the table for my next shot. He bent over to take his shot and then abruptly snapped his wrist backwards to ram the butt end of his stick right into my crotch. The tight corduroy jeans that were the fashion back then left no doubt as to where the target was located, and his aim was perfect. I went down in an instant, hands locked to my balls, and puked up the Casey’s Special hotdog that I’d just eaten.

Casey eighty-sixed the perpetrator, cleaned up my mess, and then called Mom to come and get me. She took one look at me and drove me straight to the hospital, certain that I’d never be able to provide her with grandchildren. The embarrassment of having my mother watch as a nurse gently palpated my testicles was even worse than the pain in my belly. Each nut was excruciatingly painful and would eventually swell to the size of a large hen’s egg, but the nurse determined that there was no permanent damage and suggested that I spend the next day copulating with an icepack. I got out of bed only long enough to piss and to add ‘Jeff Abbott-----Tie to post and crush balls with pool cue’ to my list.

My sophomore, junior, and senior years only added two more names to the list: The big macho football hero that gave the lowly sophomore a ride home after school and then demanded a blow job as payment richly deserved the knee to the balls he got instead. That should have been the end of it, but since he dropped hints around about how I’d actually blown him his punishment included me punting his nuts over the goal posts. The physics teacher that misgraded my midterm would need to work out the force exerted by a twenty-kilogram weight falling fourteen meters when arrested by a cord tied around his balls.

Two years of Army life produced two candidates for the list: a sadistic drill instructor hogtied with a grenade lodged between his thighs, and a thick fingered rough handed medic that would be ordered to turn his head and cough while his balls were being crushed.

After the Army there was the used car salesman that sold me a lemon, the loan shark that sold me an engagement ring, the guy that I discovered was porking my wife, her divorce lawyer, the accountant that squandered a large hunk of my IRA, and the neighbor kid that shot my dog in the balls, just to name just a few. As the list grew longer the various methods that I’d use to castrate the wrongdoers became more diverse. There were the various forms of cutting, crushing, and forcibly removing their balls, along with the prolonged agony of banding, twisting, or being hung by them. One of my favorites was for the little shithead that bounced a rock off of my new car: bucket tied to his nuts and slowly filled with rocks.

The list finally filled the page about the time I turned fifty-eight and decided to retire. I have the money and time now, and with life winding down I’m not afraid to take some risks, so wherever you assholes are now watch out: I’m done taking names, now I’m going to kick some butt.