"Oi, these players are wankers!" Giles shouted, slamming his mug of ale on the table. "Can't even fuckin' dribble down the field, for chrissake!"

The boys around the table muttered assent. "Yeah, can't even dribble," Rory muttered in agreement.

"They need some kinda good luck charm," Jerry said. "Like a horseshoe or somethin'."

"Or something. Bloody hell, the last time these losers won the Cup was what, four years ago?" Bill spat, and waved at the barkeep to get another round.

"Yeah," came the response from the table, and everyone briefly reminisced about better days.

Jerry snorted his ale at a funny thought. "Oi, wasn't that the year that one freak cut his dick off?"

The boys around the table laughed. "Maybe that's the good luck charm we need, eh?" Rory cracked a joke. Everybody laughed. He was the new guy of the group still, and tried hard to make the boys to all like him.

The round came and they downed it, and another. Bill sat pensively in the corner, then leaned in and slurred, "You know, maybe Rory is onto somethin' there," he took another drink. "Maybe if'n someone cut his dick off, these wankers would win a game."

"Yeah, huh huh," the boys laughed. All of them were pretty trashed at this point, especially Rory, who hadn't drank this much, well, ever.

"Heh, yeah," Rory's head rolled around back and forth. "Good luck and shit..."

"So c'mon, then," Bill slapped his boot knife down on the table, sharp as a razor. "Who's it gonna be?"

The boys all volunteered each other, laughing about it. Rory just shook his head, too drunk to laugh. "I gotta piss..." he mumbled, getting up from his stool.

"Oh, Rory! Rory's going to do it!" Jerry shouted. Everybody laughed. "C'mon! Rory! Rory!" the table all chanted his name, and somebody pressed the knife into his hand. Rory laughed, dizzy and a little confused, and wandered off the bathroom, out of it.

When he got inside, he whipped his dick out to piss, then had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself. Why was he in here? He was too drunk to remember. Why was the knife in his hand? Oh, right...good luck charm...

Rory held the knife up under his cock, between it and his testicles, and pulled it upward, in one quick motion.

All Rory remembered later was lots of blood, and a very blurry ride to the hospital. They'd knocked him out as soon as he'd gotten there and put him into immediate surgery. They couldn't find his cock, they said, so they'd had to just sew him up with a stump. But, they said, at least his team ended up winning the game in an amazing come from behind victory. It was little consolation.

Once they found out the story behind what had happed, everybody but him seemed to think it was all a laugh. The nurses and doctors had to suppress a snicker whenever they came to examine him, and Rory felt like he wanted to die. "How the hell do I fuck now?" he'd cried to himself as he tried to sleep.

None of the boys came to seem him while he was in the hospital, or healing. He got a phone call or two, but that was it. Next game Rory headed down to the usual pub to find them sitting around the same table. "Oi, dickless!" Bill called, and they all laughed. Rory's cheeks and ears burned as the whole bar turned to see who it was and snicker.

He walked up to the table and somebody slid him an ale. Rory took it, then his eyes widened as he saw his own cock, sealed inside a clear plastic shell, laying in the middle of the table. "You didn't," he said, his eyes locked on his missing organ. "They could have reattached it, but they said they couldn't find it..." he muttered.

"It's our good luck charm!" Bill smiled, holding it aloft. "Haven't lost a game since we got this thing. Good job on that, dickless boy!" Everybody laughed again, and Rory felt even lower.

He left early, and fumed the entire way home. They'd taken his dick and turned it into a good luck charm! How dare they...he could have had it reattached. If they hadn't taken it...hadn't stolen his cock, he might still have it now. A real dick, his dick, not this stump in his crotch.

And it's their fault it's gone, Rory thought.

Summer came, and the World Cup approached. Rory had formulated his plan that day they'd first shown him his cock, and it was only because of it that he found the strength to keep going to the pub on game days. They still brought his cock out for every game, and he'd gotten used to his nickname being "Dickless," but for the most part had stopped making fun of him.

"Howsabout you boys all come to my place Friday for the opening?" Rory suggested. "I'll get a keg."

"Get two!" Bill smiled, always ready to take advantage of someone else's buying the beer.

Friday rolled around, and everybody showed up. Rory waited until late evening, when they were all good and soused, but him. He'd been careful not to really drink much, pouring his out into the plant every chance he could get.

"You boys ready for another round?" he asked, rising from the couch. He grabbed everyone's mugs and headed into the kitchen to refill them, and drop in a little something extra. "Here you go," he handed them all back out to the their owner. "Cheers," he held up his mug.

"Cheers," the others all returned the toast, and drank deeply from their mugs. Five minutes later, the rohypnol had taken effect. Rory covertly checked each of them, seeing that their pupils were dilated.

"You know, it's too bad we don't have more real fans, like me, or we might actually win the Cup," Rory suggested.

"What? Real fans?" Bill started in, slurring from the drugs and alcohol.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I cut my dick off so we could win. That's a real fan," Rory asserted.

"Hey, I'm a real fan!" Bill jumped to his feet.

"Yeah, we all are," the other boys agreed.

Rory hoped these roofies worked. "Well, if you were real fans, you'd cut your dicks off, too," he suggested. "Unless you're just all bunch of poofters or something."

Sober, or even just drunk, not one of them would have fallen for that argument, but under the combination of alcohol and rohypnol, the boys were all highly suggestible.

"Fuck that!" Bill shouted, whipping his knife out. "I'll cut my dick off right here!" He dropped his pants and held the knife menacingly to his own penis.

"No, wait, you'll get blood all over the place!" Rory stopped him, glad that it was working. "Here, use this." He pulled a bander out from under the couch. "Just put one over here...and another..."

"Oi, that smarts," Bill muttered as the second band snapped on. His cock immediately got hard and started to turn purple. "Here goes," Bill said, and held the knife to his cock.

"Pull it," Rory ordered, and Bill's easily manipulated mind complied. He whipped the knife upward with his wrist, severing his cock between the two rubber bands.

"Yeah, see?!?" Bill held his cock up in one hand and the bloody knife in another. "I'm a real effin' fan, unlike you lot!" he shouted, hopping up and down.

"Yeah, Bill's a real fan," Rory agreed, taking the knife and his cock from Bill. He dropped the severed penis into a jar of plastic sealer.

"Hey, I'm a real fan, too!" Jerry shouted, dropping his pants. He paused a moment while Rory put the bands on, then slide the knife up through his dick. Rory dropped Jerry's cock into the jar next to Bill's, both still hard, what with the band trapping all the blood inside.

Soon enough, all the boys had shown their devotion. Rory took the jar of cocks into the kitchen and lay them out to dry on a wire rack, preserved forever, just like they'd done to his. His revenge complete, Rory finally got drunk for real himself, and soon passed out with the rest of them.

The next morning, they woke on the couch, sunlight streaming in the windows. "Uhhh..." Bill leaned forward, holding his head. "What did I drink last night? An' why does my co...oh my God!"

Rory heard, but pretended to be asleep still, the light sounds of Bill's sobbing putting just the hint of a smile on his lips.