Louis Fuoco was an obnoxious bully, braggart, and self-styled "God's gift to women". He was reasonably good-looking, though no matinée idol, built like a wrestler, and hung like a horse, as any man knew who happened to be in the men's room when Louis came in to take a piss. He always pulled his cock out of his fly well before he reached the urinal and turned around after flushing it before tucking his whang back into his pants, just to be sure everybody got a good look.

OK, we all knew it was as big as a [2 D-cell] flashlight. We all heard, at tedious length, about his exploits in bed. He bragged endlessly about his conquests. One girl he never got to first base with, however, was my girlfriend, Jeanie. Somebody mentioned this to Louis who snorted, "Are you kiddin' ? I had her years ago." I was so mad I could have exploded.

I suppose you'll say I should have challenged him to a fight then and there to defend her honor. If you do, you're crazy. Louis was six inches taller than me and 60 pounds heavier. I'm no 95 pound weakling like the twerp in the Charles Atlas ads. I'm 5' 9" and weigh 130. Louis stood 6' 3" tall and weighed 190, and not an ounce of it was fat. He'd have killed me.

We all worked together at the Halford Small Machinery Co. plant on the corner of Homestake Ave. and Woodlawn St. where Louis ran a turret lathe, I ran a Bridgeport, and Jeanie turned out amazingly tiny parts on a watchmaker's lathe. We saw each other every day. I had to do something short of getting myself beaten to a bloody pulp to defend or avenge Jeanie's honor. I had to get him where he lived.

One day, when Louis was bragging about his latest conquest. Walter Toczdylowski remarked to some of us, out of Louis' earshot, "Somebody ought to castrate that bastard." I replied that I'd gladly pay to have a medal struck for whoever did it. Walter was nearly as big as Louis but not half as aggressive.

After Louis insulted Jeanie's honor, I decided that I'd have to earn that medal even though I'd never dare to claim it. I began to plan my revenge on Louis. The first thing I did was to watch his comings and goings to/from the run-down single-family house that he'd inherited from his parents after his mother died. The old lady had tried to take care of the place, but Louis just let it go to hell.

The lot crossed the entire width of the narrow block between Woodlawn St. and Oakland Garden. I could park my Model A and watch what he did in his back yard from Oakland Garden. So, I learned that , every third night, he brought the garbage out to the garbage can. The back porch light didn't work, so he found the can in the dark and dumped the garbage. This was perfect for my plan.

I waited till garbage night was the night of the new moon. I had to knock him out but I didn't want to risk killing him, so I filled a sock part full with bird shot to use as a blackjack. The loose shot would spread out the force of the blow so it wouldn't fracture his skull. In my right back pocket, I carried a pair of slip-joint pliers. That was all I needed.

I parked on Oakland Garden, sneaked into Louis' back yard and hid in the darkness near the garbage can. I quietly slipped up behind him and, when Louis bent over to dump the garbage into the can, I slugged him on the top of the head with my bird-shot blackjack. He went down like a sack of potatoes, falling backward, face-up to the sky.

I unbuckled his belt and ripped open his fly. Buttons flew in all directions. I pulled down his undershorts and grabbed his balls. They were as big as plums.

I took the pliers out of my pocket and fitted his left nut between the jaws. Then I squeezed the handles together with one hand, holding his ball between the jaws with the other.

At first, there was a lot of resistance, but then there was a pop, and the jaws came right together. I put the pliers back in my pocket and grabbed his left nut with both hand. It was broken into two parts. I squeezed both of them hard, till they were empty and his left ball was just a mess of soft mushy stuff.

One down and one to go. I squeezed his right ball with the pliers until I heard that gratifying pop again. I squeezed the broken pieces of his right ball into mush.

When I realized that I'd actually castrated Louis and ruined him for life, I was so excited that I came in my pants. I slipped the pliers back in my pocket and left him there with his pants and undershorts down and his balls busted.

I was just about to start my engine when I heard his screams. They were music to my ears. As I drove away, with the window open, I could hear him puking too. I whistled a merry tune as I drove home. I had my revenge. I had gotten Louis where he lived and he'd never be good for anything again. There'd be no more conquests to brag about. All he could do in bed is sleep.

It was a Friday night when I destroyed Louis' balls. The police news in Saturday's paper mentioned a call to 360 Woodlawn St. about a man screaming in the back yard. It mentioned that one Louis Fuoco was taken to St. Justin's Hospital. Being a big frog in a little puddle, Louis didn't rate any more coverage than that. There was no mention in later papers about the attack on him.

Monday morning, surprise, surprise, Louis didn't come to work. In fact, he didn't come to work for two weeks. The police did come to Halford Small Machinery and ask a few questions. They soon found out that everyone in his department hated him and apparently decided that there were too many suspects to bother with questioning them.

Somebody started a rumor that Louis had been castrated, and I commented that that was probably too much to hope for. When he finally did come back to work, he was very quiet and kept to himself. He looked sick and haggard but didn't answer any polite inquiries about his health. The most unusual thing, though, was that he avoided the girls. He didn't hang around them, didn't make off-color remarks to them, didn't rub against than if he had a chance.

The whole thing came to a head in the cafeteria about three weeks after he returned to work. For some reason, he seemed to be in a hurry and he cut into the lunch line ahead of Walter Toczdylowski, the sort of thing he used to do regularly.

Walter grabbed him by the shoulder, shoved him out of the line, and shouted at him "Get back to the end of the line, Fuoco. You're nothing but a has-been." Louis looked furious for a second and clenched his fists, then he slunk away with a hang-dog expression and went the end of the line, right behind Marilyn Waters.

Marilyn had been one of his earliest conquests and Louis had bragged for weeks about what a good piece of ass she was. Now, she was very curious about Louis' strange behaviour, avoiding the girls the way he did. So, she reached back and copped a feel. Then she cried out, loud enough for everybody to hear, "Why Louis,

WHERE ARE YOUR BALLS ?"

Louis stepped back a pace, with a look of horror and dismay on his face. His secret was out ! Suddenly, he bursted into tears and ran out of the cafeteria. We never saw him again. If he'd been humiliated when Walter shoved him out of the line and told him off, he was shattered when Marilyn blabbed his secret to everyone. I was almost sorry for him, but not really. He deserved what he got.

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