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But the culminating event that summer was Lacy's birthday. With full complicity (and with some slaps-to-the-balls as encouragement), William was strung up with ropes and winches until he was hanging from the ceiling, completely naked with his grotesquely swollen ball bag hanging there like a piñata and Lacy with her wooden baseball bat having a go at them. She smashed his ballbag with all her might, over and over again, until at last his left testicle, which was larger and juicier just exploded in its sack. It just detonated. SPLAT. Just a loud wet explosion, and not satisfied with that, Lacy kept hitting the thing until it had been reduced to jelly. His scrotum was now so puffy that should could barely see his still-intact right testicle, and her father, who had helped with stringing him up, let him down, and drove him to the hospital where the remains of his once-proud testicle was removed and he was stitched up and sent home.
When school started back up in the fall, William had assumed that his torture was over, but at the end of the first day of school, there was Lacy, locking the door, ready to make mince-meat out of his remaining nut. As always, it was embarrassing to know that the whole class could see he only had one ball left. But . . . it was also a little exciting.