If you see Andersen Prunty on the side of the road, don’t stop.
I made that mistake. That’s how I got the black eye. And the bloody nose. And the missing testicles. If I could invent a time machine, I would use to go back and kill myself before I made the mistake of helping Andersen change his tire.
There he was on the side of the road, his beard blowing in the wind. He looked like some old wizard or one of the guys from ZZ Top. Being the nice guy I am, I pulled over and offered to help. It was pretty surprising that he didn’t know how to change a tire. I mean, what guy doesn’t know how to do that? Little did I know it was just a ploy to lur good Samaritans.
So I offered to help and Andersen nods his head really fast, so fast that his beard actually whacked me in the face, leaving hair-burns on my cheek. I ignored it and just went on with changing the tire. He stood over me, watching as if he had no idea as to what I was doing. He kept asking me questions.
“What’re you doing? Does that hurt the tire? Does the hurt the car? Is the car gonna bleed? What’s that black stuff on your fingers? Are you a vegetarian? Have you ever seen that show Life Goes On?”
I tried answering the best I could but it was becoming so goddamn annoying. I quickly finished helping and then I walked back to my car. He jogged after me. He didn’t run, didn’t walk, he actually jogged. When he caught up with me, he stopped and put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He had only jogged about fifteen feet but there he was hyperventilating as if he had just finished a marathon.
“You okay?” I asked.
He panted. “Yeah, just give me a second.”
“I really gotta go.”
“Just give me a second, will ya? I’m dyin’ here.”
So I waited for about ten minutes for Andersen Prunty to catch his breath. Once he did, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Thanks a lot, boss. You’re battleaxe.”
“No problem.” I took a step away.
“You have to stay, man,” he said, grabbing my shirt.
“Dude, what the hell’s your problem?” I said.
That’s when he took his shirt off, just pulled it off like it was made of tissue paper. It was like he was Hulk Hogan during his heyday in the 1980s. I was almost expecting Andersen to tell me to always remember to take my vitamins and say my prayers. But he did not such thing.
Instead, he took off his pants. He just ripped them off like male strippers do. Andersen was standing right in front of me in only his underwear that had the words “Entrance in Back” written on the crotch in bold purple letters.
“I gotta go,” I said, trying to inch my way closer to my car but he wouldn’t have any of it. The guy grabbed both my arms and took me to the ground. I spent the next forty five minutes wrestling around with him. He was sweaty as hell and his armpits smelt like apple pie which wasn’t totally unpleasant.
In between deep breaths he said, “I love you. I really never wanted to hurt you.”
Sure, the guy sounded sincere but I was hurt like hell and he was holding my detached balls in his fist.
“Shit, man, my balls, man, you got my balls,” I said, trying to appeal to his manliness. You gotta respect another man’s balls or else you’ve got chaos.
“Balls? I thought these were gumdrops,” Andersen said. Then he threw them into the woods. He got off of me and went back to his car and drove away. I watched as his taillights got dimmer and dimmer.
It took me a while but I found out where the fucker lived. In fact I found out more information than I had expected. Remember that whole “Satanic Panic” back in the ‘80s where parents were worried about heavy metal music, Dungeons & Dragons, and other evil things that were corrupting their children? It turns out that Andersen Prunty was behind all of that. He had been both a Satanist and a Christian Crusader. One day he’d be showing a thirteen-year old boy how to draw pentagrams on a school notebook and then the next day he’d be given lectures on how pretending they’re a wizard is the most satanic thing a child can do.
Shit, I thought. This man’s more dangerous than I expected.
But what the hell, I decided to drive to his house anyway. I didn’t have any balls left but I made up for it in pure dedication to my goal. What was my goal?
To eat that son of a bitch.
And I did. I ate him up like I was a starving child. You know what he tasted like? He tasted like panic and like pentagrams. He tasted like machismo and like car grease. He tasted like beard hair smothered in olive oil.
He tasted like awesomeness.
With each swallow, I felt myself getting more and more awesome. It almost made losing my balls worth it. I knew that the next time I went to a party, everyone would turn their heads to look at me because I was just that awesome. They’d probably say things like:
“Dude, look at him. He’s so awesome. It’s as if he ate Andersen Prunty.”
“Yeah, he must have had his two bowls of Prunty this morning!”
But even with that awesomeness, I’m still a eunuch, destined to be ostracized for lack of balls. And so that’s why I had to eat Andersen Prunty.