Alex S. Johnson

by Horror Sleaze Trash on May 15, 2017

Alex S. Johnson is an author and editor living in Central California. His contributions to the greater social good include editing Chunks: A Barfzarro Anthology; Thee Order Ov Unholy Flesh–a crazed slab of nunsploitation–Bad Sunset, a weird western, and multitudinous other works published over the last two decades in the pages of Bloodsongs, Cthulhu Sex, James Ward Kirk anthologies, Rejected for Content volumes one and two, Tall Tales with Short Cocks; and collected in the volumes Fucked Up Shit (with Berti Walker), The Doom Hippies, Shattergirl and Other Stories, und so weiter. Johnson remains, surprisingly, single and hopes that should “Brass Ones” be chosen for publication it will draw the honeys they promised him. 





Brass Ones


            Josh Klapman awoke with an enormous problem. Two of them, in fact.

            His balls ached desperately. They felt like lead weights implanted in his scrotum and were hanging three feet lower than Nature intended. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he could feel and see his sack stretching like a slow taffy pull in Hell.

He thought back to the previous night: a sleazy bar in Pedro, the blue drinks tossed back over several haze-choked hours until memory simply slipped away in shame. But what he did recall chilled him to the bone. Returning to his place with the Russian acrobat in a lace-up leather bustier, a black PVC skirt, pink tights and fluorescent tennis shoes who babbled nonstop about nanomachines and the high-tech implants her team used for performance enhancement. She was nearly hysterical until they fucked, when she was quiet for about 15 minutes, then resumed her wailing, so loudly he begged her to leave. Natasha stayed put and regaled him with melancholy tales of vodka, sodomy and potato pancakes in the Ukraine. Josh finally called a taxi and bundled her into the back, giving the driver $300 to take her anywhere she needed to go besides his modest two bedroom pink stucco apartment in North Hollywood.

            Klapman was no stranger to wacky chicks and pick-up dates that concluded in awful scenes, some involving the police. But so far he’d avoided catching anything. He thought he’d been careful, used a wrap for his jimmy, alert to any obvious putrescence, leaking sores. But the promiscuity, it appeared, had finally caught up with him.

            He rolled his fingers across his face, then his shoulders. He was slick with sweat. His mop of dark, curly hair felt like each individual strand was locked to his scalp with pincers. His mouth tasted like a metric ton of ass. Grimacing with the pain, he tried to rise from his bed and returned with a groan. No can do. He just couldn’t manage. His hangover was monstrous, yes, but nothing compared to the pain shooting through his groin. The slightest movement began a razor blade dance down there among the jibbly bits.

            Yet oddly, the pain was limited to his balls themselves. There was virtually no sensation in his scrotum. Which was bizarre, because the stretching should hurt like a motherfucker.

            Klapman’s five-year-old marmalade tomcat Flurrby sauntered into the bedroom, took one look at his owner, froze and backed up against the wall, spitting.

            This was bad. The words to the Beatles song “Carry that Weight” popped into his head and slowly floated away. “Boy, you’ve got to carry that weight, carry that weight a long time…” Exactly how long was that to be? And what was he to do with himself in the meantime?

For a moment he considered his options should the ball-weight prove irremediable. Anything short of surgery; that would be drastic, and completely eclipse his chances of heterosexual action in the future. Passive butt-sex wasn’t his thing. So…a tray on wheels, something. Meanwhile, he needed to deal with the present situation. He thought about calling a doctor, but he couldn’t afford even a consultation, so that was out. He couldn’t think offhand of anybody he could trust with the information. Even—especially—his best friends would tease him. They’d think he was joking, and when he disabused them of the notion, coin some awful nickname. He’d be the laughing stock of the San Pedro bars until they found another hapless shmuck to abuse.

            That was L.A. Soulless, cold, every man for himself.

            As his anger rose, Klapman thought he detected a little relief in the weight. Having nothing to lose, he experimented, filling his mind with fantasies of violent retribution against those who thought it amusing to mock a man’s suffering.

His balls grew significantly lighter.

            Cool, he thought.

            Focusing his thoughts on the things he would do to those fuckwits who dared taunt him, he reached for the TV remote on his bedstand and clicked on the morning news. His balls hovered parallel to his thighs, supported by air alone. He watched the report from Channel 5, doing his best to breathe evenly, in and out, in and out…

            The current, unfolding story involved a violent altercation on the Pasadena Freeway in which a team of Russian acrobats plowed into a trailer ahead of them. Initial interviews with witnesses described a scene of road rage remarkable even for the Southland. Apparently, the bus driver became incensed at the trailer’s slow speed to the point that she completely lost her shit and began ramming the bus, repeatedly, into the trailer, forcing it off the road; then she emerged from the bus and threw a Molotov Cocktail into the driver’s side window of the trailer. In retaliation, the trailer’s driver pulled out a Kalashnikov and riddled the bus with bullets, whereupon it exploded in fire. There were no survivors among the acrobats, and the other driver fled on foot. His whereabouts were still unknown.

            As Klapman’s ire turned to pity for the lives lost, including, presumably, his date, his balls began to sink. They sat weightily, sloppily pasted across his thighs. He was puzzled by this development until he realized in a flash that anger was the key. He needed to maintain a steady level of hostility—otherwise, he’d spend the rest of his life dragging his balls behind him in a cart. Or resort to castration. Would he in an extremity of pain chew his own flesh off, like a trapped fox? Neither choice seemed reasonable. But then, how was he to keep his balls afloat indefinitely? And how could he ever appear in public again?

            As he was thinking through the labyrinth of weird the morning had placed in his lap, so to speak, he heard a heavy knocking at the front door.

            “Who is it?” he yelled.

            “It’s your neighbor in 214. Dude, you need to move your car. You’ve got me boxed in.”

            “Oh shit. Really? Hang on a second.”

            Cursing to himself, Klapman rose from his bed, his balls aloft at a 90-degree angle to his legs. The knocking grew louder, harder. Christ, what was wrong with this guy?

            “Fuck’s sakes, man, I’m coming…”

            Then a crunch. The wood panels in the door splintered and a meaty paw thrust itself through. The unsolicited hand popped the lock inside the apartment, then withdrew. The owner of the hand muttered something about “libtards.” Then the door opened.

            “What the shit, dude…what are you doing?”

Brad Ossifer, Klapman’s neighbor from next door, stood a foot shorter than Klapman. His round face was lobster-red, his bristly crew-cut stood rigid as a porcupine’s quills, his muscles bulged through a skin-tight piss-yellow T-shirt emblazoned with the words MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. Completing the ensemble were dingy red Capris and flip-flops. His tiny pig-like eyes glowed with wrath. He reeked of cheap beer. When he fully took in Klapman’s nudity and gravity free testicles, he stepped back against the stairway railing, swaying.  Then he tucked his head down and charged.

            Klapman, completely unprepared, took Ossifer’s collision with his gut with a gasp. The velocity of the charge slammed Klapman against the wall, cracking the plaster. Klapman began to pummel Ossifer’s dome with his fists. Roaring like a wolverine in rut, Ossifer unlocked his hold on Klapman and took a step back.

            “Dude, what the fuck?” gasped Klapman. “Are you on steroids or something? I’ll move the fucking car. Just give me a second to throw something on.”

            Ossifer slumped down into Klapman’s overstuffed comfy chair. “I’ve been watching you, man. Don’t think I don’t know about your secret gay life.” He pointed a stubby finger towards Klapman’s balls, which were independently moving in spirals. “That’s some gay shit right there.”

            Klapman took a few seconds to process this further insult to injury. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he finally said. “Let’s slow this down. First, you break my door, you assault me like a crazed baboon, you sit in my comfy chair and then you accuse me of ‘gay shit?’ What have I ever done to you? I should call the police right now. Get the hell out of my apartment.”

            Ossifer rose, his considerable belly-folds bouncing and rolling. Mockingly, he mouthed the words “my comfy chair.” He reared back. “You want a piece of this?”

            Klapman heard a roar in his ears like a train going through a tunnel. His vision blurred. Through a fog he saw two pink snakes with heads like lumpy meatballs rise up from his groin and circle Ossifer’s neck. Then they clamped on to his windpipe. Ossifer struggled with the strangling testicles, but they were wrapped tightly as cables around his neck and wouldn’t budge. His eyes started to bulge. “Jesus Fuck, get these things off of me!” he rasped.

            “Are you going to leave if I do?”

            “Yeah, whatever…” Ossifer gurgled.

            Without meaning to, Klapman pulled Ossifer closer to him, the sack drawing back its twin weapons like a Yo-Yo on its return trip. Now Klapman’s cock was within inches of Ossifer’s open mouth, while his balls had knotted themselves around the back of his neck. Klapman hadn’t intended to manifest his neighbor’s worst nightmare, but his balls were acting of their own volition.

            It was then the thundering of a police helicopter hovering right above the apartment building. They heard the squawk of a megaphone: “We have the complex surrounded. There is a male Russian on the premises who is wanted for terrorism and mass murder. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Vladimir, there’s nowhere for you to go. Come out with your hands up. Repeat, we have you surrounded.”

            Klapman’s balls retracted two inches further, and his cock plunged down Ossifer’s throat. He fought against the surge of pleasure, the urge to release—forget how gay that was, it felt so good. No…that was wrong. He forced himself to calm down. Slowly, miraculously, his balls unlocked themselves from Ossifer’s neck. He stepped back a few paces and his cock slipped from his neighbor’s mouth. A dollop of white foam remained on Ossifer’s lips.

            “Look, I’m sorry, man,” said Klapman. “I assure you I’m not gay.”

            Ossifer raised his hand. “I know. No worries. I’m a little gay, but not, you know, flaming.” His tongue flickered out like a lizard, removing the foam. He grinned sheepishly.

            “Okay, well, it sounds like that dude from the Pasadena Freeway massacre is in our building. I don’t know, man. What do you think? Should we hang tight until the police catch him? He sounds like a scary motherfucker.”

            “I need to tell you something now,” said Ossifer. “I’m with the FBI. And I need you to listen very carefully.” He reached into his Capris, withdrew a wallet and flashed his ID.

Klapman blinked. “Okay, I’m listening.”

            “Good. Now what I’m about to tell you will sound pretty crazy to you. I know how it sounded like to me when they put me on this assignment. But I assure you that every word of it is true. We’ve been cultivating you—and by we, I mean a top-secret task force involving the NSC, the Pentagon, the Boy Scouts and Uncle Charlie.”

            “Uncle Charlie?”

            “Long story for a later date. Anyway, you, my friend, are our only real chance to take down a notorious Russian terrorist who slipped into this country with a fake passport. We arranged for him to take out the acrobat team—again, long story, but let’s just say sometimes it takes a thief to catch a thief, and…”

            As Klapman listened, dumbfounded, he once again felt the pain in his balls. They were descending quickly towards his feet, and they hurt like a motherfucker. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, dude, but I got mad ball pain right now. What are you saying to me?”

            Ossifer paused reflectively, then suddenly backhanded Klapman across the face. “You don’t want ball ache, you’ve got to stay angry, you hear? It doesn’t matter who or what you’re angry at, just that you’re mad. Are you mad?”

            Klapman touched his cheek, wincing. “Yeah, I’m mad. Why’d you do that?”

            “How’s the pain?”

            Klapman realized that the ache had evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. Now his balls were flexing on their pink stalks, throwing air-punches like a boxer warming up. His cock was fully erect. “All right, Agent Ossifer, what do you need me to do?”

            “I want you to go out that door and find Vladimir. He’s probably headed up the stairway now. Remember, this is the guy who killed your date—thieving scum that she was. And besides, your country needs you now. You don’t like terror, right?”

            “I’m not a huge fan, if that’s what you’re driving at.”

            “Good. Well, Vladimir Nobisknikov isn’t just another terrorist—he is terror. He’s the dude behind the Orange Putsch of 2016. He’s a bad, bad man.”

            “Christ, that was a nightmare! All righty then.”

            Klapman eased open the door and took a look down the long, dark hallway. Then he saw a figure in the stairwell, coming closer.

            The round, full-bearded man bore a military assault rifle in his hands. Seeing Klapman—nude, fully erect and balls raised—he stopped in his tracks. Klapman heard footsteps behind him, someone barreling down the hall towards his back. Before he had time to register what was happening, he felt a long, thick intruder ram his tailpipe.

His whole body shuddered. He wept at the humiliating invasion and his body’s betrayal.  Then, he exploded—an arc of jissom that leapt ten feet through the air and splattered down on the Russian’s head .

Vladimir clawed at his eyes, dropping the weapon. Dripping cum and shit down his legs, Ossifer sprinted down the hallway past Klapman and smashed the base of his palm up Vladimir’s nose with a hideous crunching noise. The Russian fell to the floor, blood streaming from his nose.

            Ossifer rolled the Russian on his stomach and was about to handcuff him when something awful burst through Vladimir’s pants. Klapman recoiled in horror at the sight: a razor-toothed anal sphincter rising on an intestinal stalk; a gnashing sound; Ossifer sagging back, his face a flayed, shit-saturated ruin. With a pop, all sound was extinguished and all Klapman could hear was a high-pitched hum. It was like watching a silent movie.

            Then Vladimir stood. He turned, slowly, the anal cobra whipping back and forth between his legs.

            “I see you have shot your load,” said Vladimir in thickly-accented English. “Now try to fight the Brown Ring. I don’t think you have it in you. So to speak.”

            Klapman shook his head. His hearing was gone completely. All he caught was the words “Brown Ring.”

            He’d never been that much of a patriot. His encounter with the Russian acrobat was too brief and vexed for him to have formed any deep emotional connection. The FBI agent he felt a little bad for, but the guy had assaulted him, broken his door, slapped him, sat in his comfy chair, used him—apparently—as an asset against the terrorist by allowing him to be infected with a nanoparticle that turned his balls into lethal weapons—sodomized him and…ok, he was pissed now. Extremely pissed. The Brown Ring, whoever or whatever he might be, was about to go down.

            Klapman did a rapid mental rehearsal of everything he’d learned about his testicular powers in the previous fifteen minutes. It was all coming together. His balls stuck out at 45-degree angles from either side of his cock. He felt his blood thrum. His gaze was steady, his focus tight.

            Then he began to punch.

            The first few ball-socks smashed against both sides of the Russian’s asshole, stunning it. It shook on its stalk, spraying the air with a fine, brown, odorous mist. The jaws snapped. Then it lurched forward, grazing Klapman’s taint.

            Klapman howled in pain and fury. He drew his balls together and flung them out at the gnashing hole, hammering the beast. Before the asshole had a chance to recover, Klapman directed a blow straight to the teeth.

It worked.

The asshole spit bloody, shit-smeared pieces of ivory onto the carpet. Klapman caught the asshole where its throat might have been and choked it off. More teeth, blood and shit.

He looked up. The Russian was unsteady on his feet. With a colossal wrap, twist and tug move, Klapman’s balls jerked Vladimir’s asshole abruptly, holding it in a vise-like grip above his navel. The Russian fell backwards and lay on the floor, breathing heavily.

Klapman treated the intestinal rope like a chicken neck, shaking and twisting it until the flesh began to leak and tear. He forced the holes wider, rubbing them against each other, grinding them until with a loud PLOP the asshole, head and all, came off in his ball-grip. Vladimir screamed something in Russian. Disgusted, Klapman threw his balls in the air, whipped them around and around and then let go of the sphincter, which flew across the hall and hit the wall.

The asshole sprayed mixed fluids, leaving a smear on the yellow wallpaper, bounced off the wall and finally came to rest on the floor.

            Klapman rested his hands on his knees, leaned over and vomited. He was sick for a long time.

            When the police finally entered the premises, they discovered a tall, nude brunet man, testicles drooping at his feet, standing over a hirsute, round-bellied, vomited caked Russian who was missing an asshole. A rusty-brown stain led from the Russian to the body of FBI Agent Ossifer, whose face appeared to have been chewed off in a literal shit storm.

            Due to issues of National Security, the crime scene was closed off and the evidence packed away in a secret concrete vault 25 feet below the earth’s surface. Then the entire building was condemned and detonated. While Klapman was celebrated as a national hero in a highly fictionalized public version of the events, it took him years to recover. Over time he regained normal testicular functioning. He is now married to an Eskimo and living in Alaska.

            As of this writing, Vladimir’s asshole remains at large. It is rumored to have had extensive reconstructive surgery and tooth replacement.





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