I wrote this way back in 2010, and discovered it when I was migrating my old LJ posts. Polished it up, and here it is.
It was one of those Assholes In a Big Truck that finally did it for me. He’d cut me off, swerving into the Applebee’s parking lot (nearly smacking my poor little beater car in the process.), flipping me off when I honked. Jerk. And his truck sported a dangling rubber ballsack.
Bad enough these idiots were driving jacked up 4WD trucks in places where 4WD was never needed. Bad enough these trucks were always pristine and shiny, never having seen a day of real truck work in their lives… did they have to advertise “COMPENSATION FOR SMALL PENIS” so obviously? I mean, plastic testicles hanging off the hitch of your truck? Really?
The spirit of Eris Discordia, and every cheesy vigilante comic book I’d ever read, descended on me in that moment. I swear I heard a choir of decidedly demented angels singing, and I had an Idea.
I ducked into the Goodwill around the block and grabbed some dark clothes, a wig, and some platform shoes, cause I’m noticeably short. Purchased bright clothes and some useful knick-knacks, so as not to look suspicious. Went across the street to the Freddies, and got some garden shears and a few squeeze bottles of ketchup. Drove back around to the Applebee’s, parked in a corner, got dressed, and waited.
When the coast was clear, I walked over to the testicle-enhanced truck, and snipped the orangey-red (WTF orangey-red??) abominations off with the shears, and squirted ketchup on the severed ends, and dropped the balls in a pool of ketchup on the ground. Resisting the urge to wait and see what happened, I ducked back into my car and drove off.
Hoo, boy, what a rush. I fantasized the driver and male friends coming out and seeing the carnage. I could see them all clutching their crotches in sympathy.
“NOOOOOOO!” …he would wail in a bad Anakin Skywalker imitation, sinking to his knees with one fist raised to the sky and one hand tucked between his legs… “My truck has been unmanned!”.
I giggled helplessly for blocks. The lady at the drive-through looked at me funny when I couldn’t stop giggling while I ordered a celebratory milkshake. Had to park while I choked because giggling and milkshakes don’t mix well; whipped cream came out my nose, and that just made me laugh harder.
When I could breathe again I mentally patted myself on the back, and headed home.
And then, out of the darkness, another testiculated truck- parked on the far side of the Safeway parking lot. I swung in and parked in the open spot right next to them, pulled out slightly so his tail end was blocked from major view. My sense of mischief escalated, and I grabbed a pair of gloves from the first aid kit.
Again with the snip, and tomatoey gore dripping from the tailgate, but this time, I walked around the front, poured ketchup on the balls in my hand, and splatted them against the windshield. I had to keep from busting a gut as they slid down, leaving a trail of red slime.
The Gods were with me that night. Everywhere I went, there was another truck with balls. 26 of them in all, that I snipped with the precision and skill of a veterinarian. One set had a hole in them, so I hung the dripping carcass off the antenna. Another truck was so gaudily pimped out, that I wrote “SORRY ABOUT YOUR PENIS” in ketchup across the hood. Then there was the Jeep with a pair hanging under the back _and_ front plates. Dropped both of those on the windshield and wrote “CONFUSED MUCH?”
Never once did I get close to being caught, and there wasn’t a surveillance camera in sight. By the time midnight rolled around, I’d gone through 3 bottles of ketchup, and cut off 27 sets of balls. I went home feeling like I’d really accomplished something beautiful.
It was all over the news the next day; how truck owners in the area had come out to find their rubber balls ‘removed’ from their vehicles. The interviews with the victims were hilarious, because to a man, they all stumbled over the “Why did you have them on your truck anyhow?” question. A couple news stations even investigated the origin of the balls-on-truck product, and those were filled with thinly veiled mockery. Police had no evidence, no leads, and since there had been no actual property damage beyond the loss of balls, police weren’t inclined to spend much effort on it.
Now, on my bookshelf, is a small, nondescript scrapbook. The cover is decorated with cutesy little tomatoes and gardening implements. Inside are screencaps from news shows, quotes from ranting truck owners, and printouts of news stories with headlines like:
“AREA TRUCKS ‘NEUTERED’ IN THE NIGHT!”
“KETCHUP COVERED CASTRATION CAUSES CONFUSION!!”
“VIGILANTE TAKES ON TRUCK TESTICLES!”
The gear I keep in a box in my closet. Mostly for the amusing memory…maybe someday I’ll pull it out and tell my grand kids about being a masked crusader for justice, or at least against blatant dicksizing. Then again, some company just came out with a ‘heart shaped’ light for bikes…that hang upside down under the seat and…does not look like a heart.
The city might need me again, soon.