Pumping testicles

1 mo post op. Pump sits behind my testicles and often down by my taint. Like not in my sack or so ridden up somehow. I can pull it forward enough to manipulate between my testicles. Try to pull on it but doesn’t do much. Doc wasn’t concerned but this doesn’t feel right. To pump I’m literally pulling it down and forward and can only manipulate it from the back of my testicles. Any suggestions or is this normal?

Things have been busy here so I thought I would catch up on our two latest race adventures.
It's time for another race, so I hook up to the trailer and bring it to work. The Miata has been in the enclosed trailer since I ran it through the Christmas parade, but now it is time to wake it from it's winter slumber and start preparing it for Barber, our 10th 24 Hours of Lemons race.
The car should not need much as we ran nearly flawless at the last race at Road America. We had one spin and the wing mounts broke but that was about it.
I get it to the shop and we hurry up and start in. I already have one bay tied up with the next car we are building (more on that later, it is epic) and can't afford to tie up a second during business hours. Youngest jumps in and rebuilds the entire wing assembly. Manny comes by and drives the car to his place and keeps it there until a few more parts come in. It's a block or two away from the shop, we can nearly see it from the front sidewalk. No plates, no insurance, no problem.
Next we change out the brake pads, front rotors, front brake hoses and rear pads. We also change the timing belt after a debate on exactly how many race hours the old one has. Change the oil and the car is ready to load.
Racerguy comes down and we leave out Thursday night. I am driving a little fast as the website shows the gates close at 9 and our gps says we are expected to get there at 9.01. A quick fuel stop and a brisket sandwich at Buccees off I65 in Alabama and we are rolling on through the night.
Finally we get to Barber Motorsports park in Leeds Alabama. Just before 9pm we get in line and get signed in. The team ahead of us is just realizing they lost a wheel off their enclosed sometime on their tow in. The way I was driving before we stopped for fuel I could have lost the car out the back like in the movie Cars and not noticed. Luckily everything seems to be in one piece, we give everything a check over and drop the trailer and head off to the hotel which is thankfully just across the street from the entrance to the track.
The next morning we are up early. No Gill this race as he has had foot surgery and is out of commission, which means we are sorely missing his cooking skills. So we take advantage of the breakfast at the hotel and head over to the track. After we unload the car we have a discussion which ends with us moving across the paddock to the far side as the side we have had for the last few years is shorter and we can't park the trailer in that area as the new trailer is about ten foot longer than the old open trailer.
After the first of two drivers meetings of the weekend (many tracks do the practice day and hold their own drivers meeting to explain their own rules, then the next day Lemons runs the race and has their drivers meeting) we load a driver in the car and send him out to practice. Rinse and repeat until we have sent all the drivers out for a few laps.
By then it is time for inspections. First off all the tech inspection. They have a big crew this race but our favorite inspector Dale Strimple is there. He's knowledgeable, affable and very popular among all the racers. Every day is also his birthday, a story best told later. He and the other tech people soon pass our car then it's time for BS tech.
We have gone all out this race for our theme. This has been a long time thought of mine, it just took a while to get it enacted. So for context I am a cancer survivor and we are always doing crazy themes to try and draw attention to the importance of early detection in cancer improving your chances. In the past we have done free colonscopy tests with huge antique cameras and motor oil for props which thankfully no one took us up on. Later we have done dinosaurs with the inflatable dino costumes to bring home the point that that "dinosaurs never got checked and now they are extinct" which is also on the side of the car. It was popular, I mean who doesn't like to see a inflatable dinosaur walking around?
Today we have again upped our game. We are taking a scene from one of the funniest movies I have ever seen, Johnny Dangerously. There's a part where Micheal Keaton's character is counseling his younger brother not to have sex until he is married, which is funny in itself because Micheals character is always surrounded by a crowd of ladies who apparently are all competing for his affections. Anyhow he shows his brother this video of all these poor guys who are suffering from poor choices that have caused them to have severely enlarged testicles. Like basketball sized. Watch it sometime, it's hilarious. So we made up special pants to hold some dodgeballs and shirts that said: "mens health is no joke, get checked before you croak!" We got a lot of attention for that and even made the wrap video. Walking in those pants with the dodgeballs was not easy!
The next day it's race day. It could not be a nicer day in Alabama. Temps are great, sun is shining. We get through the drivers meeting and line up the cars. Racerguy is going first, we are trying to balance our drivers so that everyone gets one start or one finish for the weekend. It's fun to finish the race or the day and fun to start as well.
The flag drops and we are off. It was a complete fiasco at the start! Someone oiled down half the track on the pace laps and the track was not ready when they dropped the green. It was an immediate yellow but cars where stacking up and passing then realizing the yellow was out. Race control messed up that one pretty badly. It took another ten minutes to clean the track. Finally it really is time for a start and we go green for real. Racerguy is driving smooth as always and moving up. He brings the car from 87th out of 131 cars there to a respectable 39th when the first incident happens. A car spins and hits our rf wheel. Racerguy didn't think much of it but they flagged him in anyway. While in the penalty box we realize the rf is going flat. I did not see it then but by the time we get the car up to our spot in the paddock the wheel is destroyed. We slap another wheel on and send him back out. We lost nearly all the spots we gained, dropping to 78th on the board. Sucks but it happens.
The rest of his stint goes great and he brings the car back to pit road and we put in Youngest. He is running great and the car is showing no signs of any issues from the earlier contact. He starts making up ground and we get all the way up to 54th. Then I get a radio call. "The car is on fire and stopped running!"
What?!!! I radio back asking if he needs to get out of the car. "I'm trying to decide that" Ok, maybe not such a big fire then? We have to wait for more information and in a few minutes the rollback shows up with him in the car. We have had a wiring fire from the passenger side floorboard where the stock PCM harness is. I immediately think the car is done but after Youngest gets some fresh air he jumps in and cuts all the burnt wires out and patches it all up. Start to finish we are off the track an hour and a half and drop to 90th.
I suit up and take the car out to see if it will run or not. It struggles and will only get up to 45, so I bring it right back in. Youngest thinks he knows exactly what is wrong and jumps in again and patches one more wire. I go out and the car is spot on. I start clicking off laps and trying some things the guys said to do to improve on my lap times. There's a few parts where I just need to be more aggressive and roll through and trust the car more. I pick up about four seconds off my best time and am pretty pleased by that. The car runs flawless for the rest of my stint and I bring it back to pit road for the crew to fuel and driver change. We put Manny in the car and send him out. He's running some fast laps and really pushing the car. All the sudden we realize we do not see the car going by. One of the other teams say our car is in the wall on the front stretch. Manny comes over the radio "I FUBAR'ed it" Great, The front stretch at Barber is one of the places I have noted will bite you pretty hard. I have seen a few Lemons cars get really messed up there including a 63 Valiant last year. I am expecting the worst when the roll back comes by with the car for the second time this day.
It's pretty bad. The nose is knocked sideways, the steering is all out of sorts, a closer look reveals the lf tie rod is broken. The right rear is all messed up, the wheel is pushed so far forward it is into the quarter panel and won't even turn. We put the car up on jack stands and look it over. Not good. But there's glimmers of hope. The radiator is not broke. The engine is still fine. The core of the car seems square. And we have almost an entire Miata in parts in totes in our trailer. Maybe we can fix this. I start dragging out parts and we start changing them. The tie rod on the front is soon changed and we now have both wheels pointing the same direction. Youngest takes the nose off and straightens the brackets that hold it and the splitter in place and adds a whole lot of zip ties.
On the rear it just keeps going and going deeper. We change the knuckle, the lower control arm and the upper. We spend a long time saving the bolt that goes through the lower control arm and knuckle, we do not have another. This one is bent and has questionable threads too. In true lemons never say die fashion we beat it out of the bent parts, straighten it and when we cannot find the correct die to chase the threads we use one that is close and pray it works. It does, but then we get it all back together and realize even with all the parts replaced we still have two inches of rear toe. Just a wee more than the 1/16th we started with.
Turns out the rear subframe is bent, so we all go out and start walking the pits looking to borrow a port a power. This small hydraulic jack comes with rams and other attachments and has a pump attached to a hose so you can jack and bend parts that are bent like ours. We actually end up borrowing two after searching almost every team that is still around. It's getting dark, rain is moving in after midnight and the clock is ticking on the car being done. Is it fixable or is the damage terminal? There are three guys under the car jacking and measuring and I am handing them parts and tools and making a run for food.
In a dramatic fashion, they pull it out. I run for food and they finally announce the car is perfect. I think they worked until nearly midnight, but everything they measured was on the money. It was an amazing effort and a huge comeback. We all fall into an exhausted sleep wondering if the car will drive good tomorrow or did we miss something important.
The next morning dawns and as expected its raining. And colder. I cannot emphasize enough just how wet and cold it was. All day long it rained and I think the temps dropped. Made for a miserable day, pretty sure even a duck would have been unhappy.
I go out first, I had called this stint early on. Sometimes you have to pull the car owner card. It's a two hour stint then a quiet hour then the race resumes.
We gas up the car and I line up. The car seems to drive straight, but it is raining and the track is slippery so who really knows? The car stumbles a bit on accel and I wonder if we outsmarted ourselves with our home made ram air system that sucks air from right below where the left headlight was. It keeps on doing that for a few laps then finally gets better.
Driving in the rain is not without it's challenges. You have to drive very carefully and not push the car too hard. The fun part is the Miata goes straight when you floor it so anytime I get a chance I gas it up and go hard to the next corner where I slow down and ease through it. Soon enough another issue arises. The windshield starts fogging up. It gets real bad on yellow flags where we all slow down then gets better if I have a good run at speed, but there are times a smart person would have pulled off as you cannot see much at all. But most of us aren't real smart. I can't reach the windshield or I would try to wipe it. The temptation is there to loosen the belts and get enough room to reach but even I am not that crazy. I keep the belts tight but do take off one glove and give it a few swipes under a long yellow then hasten to put the gloves back on. There's probably not much chance of a fire in these conditions but no sense chancing it. I've seen pictures of burns from race car incidents and they aren't pretty.
On one corner I make a mistake, I get off line to let a really aggressive car go by. It's the Party Girl car and they are hyper aggressive. If you would think they would wait to pass until you get through a critical part you'd be wrong, they typically will jam their car in wherever they can and go on. Other fast cars are a bit more respectful and do a better job on the give and take. Not wanting to make an issue, I get over and promptly realize there is zero grip outside on this corner and slide through the grass. I go to penalty and explain what happened. The judge asks if I learned anything, I said "Yes, next time to be a jerk" I might not have used that exact wording but I meant it. The same car also was what indirectly caused the wreck the day before, their aggressive driving was what caused Manny to get the red mist when they did the same thing passing him. He over drove the car after that and lost it. Mental note to drive them the same way going forward, we both can be hyper aggressive and see where that leads. We have a few more cars to build in the driveway if need be.
After my two hours are up, I bring the car in and explain about the terrible fogging and vision issue. Manny goes out after the quiet hour and slides off the track for black flag number two. It's just very nasty out there and cars are going off all the time. We fix up a ice scraper with a rag tied to it to give the driver a method of clearing the fog. It's primative but way better than nothing. The drivers report they used it quite a bit the rest of the day. It's just gloomy and the race is going on, but cars are hydroplaning if they get into the water which is starting to pool on parts of the track. The rest of us are watching from inside Manny's car with the heat on, it's gotten that cold and wet.
We are so far behind now we aren't bothering to suit up and go to pit lane. Rather we bring the car up to the pumps, get the driver out and fuel and put the next driver in. It's still raining and not having to get anymore wet than necessary is a plus. Racerguy gets flagged in after he's run about half his stint and he has no idea why. Apparently the cameras show what they thought was contact in the corner, he says he got real close and braked hard to avoid it. The car shows no new signs of contact. The judge tells us one more flag and he's parking us for the rest of the day. Over contact that someone thought they saw on camera that apparently never happened. (I went to look this up on our go pro footage but the chip glitched and we had no footage)
Racerguy goes out and finishes. He reports the same as Manny, the track is getting increasingly treacherous. Very few cars are getting around good, if you have a front wheel drive with skinny tires, today was your day. I saw a escort wagon running laps as fast as us and later the Dodge Caravan passed us.
Youngest goes out and after about 15 minutes I notice the lap counter is not updating. I look outside the trailer and he is in the car, sitting there. We go out and he announces he cannot drive the car anymore, it's sideways all the time. I ask if he wants to load the car and he said yes. I don't object. We race for the fun of it, and at that point none of us were having fun. We loaded in the rain and left before the race was over. Many other teams had already done the same. Some were gone before the day ever started. We have raced in the rain before but this was the worst conditions I have ever seen on the track. Barber is a top notch facility, it was just such a lingering rain and the temps being below 40 made it miserable. The vision and grip levels seemingly got worse as the day went on and the water built up and the temps dropped. We saw a lot of big problems and overcame many. Probably if we were not so exhausted from fixing the car and were in the hunt for anything we might have stayed until the end. As it were, we dropped from 65th to 67th or so. Time to rebuild and get dried out and ready for the next race.

So I am AFAB and NB. I think I want to have bottom surgery but I’m not sure what exactly I want. I was looking at having a vaginal sparing phalloplasty but I want to be able to have an erection and STP. If I have that done what are my options for that. I know with just a phalloplasty they put a pump in the testicle sac but if I keep my vagina in tact I don’t know where they would put it. Would it even be possible to have an erection?

What started as a typical New Years Eve gig at a newly renovated hole-in-the-wall has become something far worse.
I’m the bass player (insert punch line here). I’m pretty good too, although I only play part-time. Back in the day, I played with Velvet on Fire. You won't remember us. We played one gig. For six people. Then our singer, Rod Brimstone, leapt onto someone's table, and urinated. Talk about Game Over. But I digress.
My latest group, a blues-rock cover band called Falling Forward, was hired to perform three sets of music. The trouble started when the redhead arrived. I was at the bar, minding my own business, when out of the blue, a radiant redhead, clad entirely in black leather, grabbed my ass.
“Whatcha drinking?” Her voice sounded like an ashtray. She was tall, with emerald eyes, and a sleeve of tattoos.
I did a double-take. “Um,” I gulped. “Whatever yer buying.”
She winked, twirled her lip ring, then slid her icy fingers between my legs. Subtlety was not her strength. The beer arrived and we cheersed. She said her name was Rosetta. I introduced myself as Derek the Bass Player, while forcing her hand further north. Then, after some throwaway small talk, I sauntered towards the stage, more-than-ready for the band’s third and final set.
Falling Forward played a raucous set. Mick, the lead singer and harmonica player, worked the audience into a frenzy. Leading the party was Rosetta, dancing sexily, swinging her hips too and fro, fist-pumping and cat-calling.
When the band finished its final set, I started loading the gear into Mick’s van. I was exhausted, with little patience for patronizing drunks, pestering me. Despite this, the redhead came strutting over. Next thing I know, I’m slow-dancing to Every Rose has its Thorn, via karaoke. Ugh. I didn’t know which was worse: the drunken, out-of-tune singing, or being forced to dance to it.
Her perfume smelled like sweet summer rain, but her exploring hands were icebergs. We wiggled and wormed along the crowded dance floor until finally (and thankfully), the song ended. Next came the tequila. Things get blurry by this point.
Somehow, despite the redhead’s relentless flirting, I finished loading the gear, and Mick drove me home. She must’ve gotten my phone number, because the following morning, I awoke to a flashing phone (and one helluva hangover).
HEY HANDSOME, the redhead texted, CUM OVER. Included was a video of her masturbating.
Not gonna lie, I was kinda turned on. Don’t judge. It had been a while since I’d had sex. My hormones got the best of me. Still, I had my reservations. Rosetta was a bit over-the-top for my tastes. And that’s putting it mildly. So, I reached out to Mick, asking for advice. His reply was instantaneous: “Strike while the kettle’s hot.”
And that’s exactly what I did.
Rosetta greeted me with opened arms and ruby lips. Her perfume was potent, her green eyes sparkling with bad intentions. She led me into her bedroom. To my dismay, Velvet on Fire's one-and-only event poster was pasted onto her her wall, below a giant Nine Inch Nails poster. I gulped. She was one of the six who saw my old band.
"I LOOOVE music," she said softly, in between kisses.
Then she got to work.
I left her apartment thinking I would never see her again. Unfortunately, this was not the case. The redhead was relentless, texting me day and night, sending naughty pics, insisting I ‘CUM OVER’. Finally, I caved. (Yes, I’m weak, spare me the lecture.)
This time was different. Rosetta was banged up, her face a barrage of bruises; her eyes were puffy and red, her bottom lip split open. “Bar fight,” she said, while sucking my earlobes. “Bitch got the worst of it.”
Bar fight??? Clearly, this redhead was bad news. I wanted to leave right then and there. Should have, too. Then none of this would’ve happened. But it was too late. I was trapped. She led me into her bedroom. We did The Dirty, then I left, having no intention of speaking to her again. This time I meant it.
The redhead kept sending naughty pics, but I ignored them. After a week or so, I thought she’d gotten the hint. Her messaging stopped. Then out of the blue….
DING.
My phone flew off the couch. Rosetta’s name splashed across the screen. I groaned. She sent me a song; a song which has haunted me ever since: I Put a Spell on You. Not the popular version, but a much darker and sinister-sounding one. I disliked it immediately.
I replied, saying I was super busy (which was true), and that we should ‘remain ‘friends’ (which was not true).
Her response gave me chills:
UR MINE ;)
Things escalated.
I work at a local music shop. The following day, my boss greeted me harshly. He seemed upset. “Look at this!” He handed me an old Velvet on Fire poster.
I gasped. Then I tripped and fell backwards, knocking over an entire row of guitars.
“YOU IDIOT!” my boss snapped. “That’s coming off your pay.”
Grudgingly, I gathered the guitars and checked for dings, but my mind remained on the poster; or more accurately, the note written on the back of it:
UR MINE!!!!
“The poster was nailed to the door,” my boss scoffed, shaking his head. “People these days….”
My mind went sideways. The note was written in Rosetta’s rosy lipstick. Was she stalking me? Who would do such a thing? Making matters worse, later that week, Mick messaged me with a song request: I Put a Spell on You. Coincidence, I told myself. But I didn’t believe it.
Sometime later, I met a lovely woman named Melanie, who was cute and timid and polite. She dressed modestly and wore little-to-no makeup. She was the antithesis of Rosetta. Since Falling Forward were due to perform that weekend, I invited her to the show. Melanie was delighted.
As the weekend grew nearer, so did my anxiety. This was a terrible idea. We were playing the same hole-in-the-wall as before. Rosetta would certainly be there. How would she react to seeing me with another woman? Maybe, I hoped, she would get the hint and leave me the hell alone.
Oh, how naïve I was.
Melanie sat up front. She seemed in good spirits. But I was nervous. I kept scanning the bar, looking for you-know-who. Then, as the band launched into I Put a Spell on You, a cold shiver slid down my spine. The barroom turned cold as ice.
The redhead.
She sat next to Melanie.
I nearly died.
During set break, I remained on stage, acting busy. Truth is, I was panicking. How could I be so stupid? The last thing I wanted was a confrontation. On cue, the redhead came rushing over. With beers. She offered me one. I said thank you, then awkwardly sat with Melanie, who kept asking if I was okay. I wasn’t. My pits were soaked with sweat. I was tripping over my words, barely able to speak. All I could do was sip my beer and pray something dreadful didn’t happen.
The redhead, meanwhile, was tapping the table with her razor-like nails, staring at me. Her cold and calculated glare gave me the creeps. Finally, under the weight of the world, I excused myself, and went to the bar. Before my drink arrived, a pair of icy fingers fondled my private parts.
“Hey handsome.”
Rosetta’s face was fiery-red. Her lips, like blackened cherries, pursed into a scowl. She cracked her knuckles, twice, then nodded towards Melanie.
“Who’s the bitch?” Her hand reached down, cupping my ever-shrinking testicles.
“Well, you see… I….”
She squeezed.
“Whoah!” I freed myself. Then I scooted off to the restroom, away from prying eyes.
‘This is nuts,’ I told myself, splashing cold water on my face. Obviously, the redhead wasn’t playing with a full deck. But what could I do about it? I certainly couldn’t ask her to leave. And I wasn’t about to ignore Melanie. I was exasperated. I took a deep breath, then returned to the table. Melanie was frantic, her eyes trembling with terror. Apparently, Rosetta paid her a visit. I could only assume it went poorly.
“How DARE you,” Melanie spat. She marched out of the bar, leaving me with the bill. And without a date.
“You don’t need that bitch,” Rosetta snickered. “You’re mine.” Her hands booped my buttocks.
Mick, sensing trouble, meandered over, “Time to play, bro,” he said.
The band opened with New Orleans is Sinking, a local bar-band favorite. Everyone was dancing and singing along, including Rosetta, who jumped on stage and started grinding against me, plunking the bass strings. Then she tried pouring a full beer down my throat. Instead, she soaked the stage (and my bass) with suds. Whooping and hollering, she slipped and stumbled off the stage, resulting in a fantastic face-plant, taking a few patrons with her. It was a total debacle. A fight broke out. Soon thereafter, she got ejected, and the band was barred from ever performing there again.
The following day, I received a long-winded text from Melanie. Apparently, Rosetta threatened to kill her if she ever spoke to me again. YIKES. Then the redhead went on to disparage my reputation. NOT GOOD. Melanie concluded by saying she was busy and that we should just be friends. Oh, bittersweet irony. I was heartbroken. And furious.
DING.
The redhead:
I PUT A SPELL ON YOU….
DING.
BCUZ UR MINE!!!
I responded hastily: WE ARE OVER. IN FACT, WE NEVER WERE!!!! To further drive home the point, I added: PLEASE STAY AWAY.
I blocked her.
Things settled for a while. Life went back to normal. Then my credit card bill arrived.
‘This must be a mistake!’ I cried.
Only, it wasn’t. After an arduous hour, chatting with the credit card company, their conclusion was concrete: someone was using my credit card to purchase pricey perfume, clothes, leather boots and accessories.
The Redhead.
I spent the day chatting with the cops, who offered little help. The damned redhead was ruining my life, and it was up to me to stop her.
But how?
She denied everything, of course, and scolded me for such ludicrous accusations. Then she invited me back to her place. The nerve of this woman….
The following week, the unthinkable happened:
I was heading to bed when Dexter, my adorable Dalmatian, started going berserk. He should’ve been sleeping, cuddled in his cozy kennel in the yard, not barking. Cursing the mangy mutt, I went out back to check on him.
The night was moonless and stark. A chill crept into my bones as I crunched along the yard. The gate was open, which was odd. It should’ve been locked. While locking the gate, I detected a smattering of sweet-smelling perfume.
The redhead.
Dexter calmed down after gobbling some tasty treats. Meanwhile, I scanned the yard, searching for intruders. Then I stormed inside, angry and confused. Sleep couldn’t come. How could it? My mind kept returning to the redhead, and what deplorable deeds she was doing.
The following morning, I went outside to feed the dog. My heart was pounding like a kick drum at a heavy metal concert. Quickly, I panicked. Something was wrong. First off, the gate was open. Again. Plus, Dexter was being quiet. Too quiet. Which is unlike him. As I inched cautiously towards the kennel, the sweet smell of perfume grew stronger.
When I reached the kennel, I gasped. My heart sank into my shoes. Before me was Dexter, stewing in a pool of blood and gore. His eyeballs were gouged and bloodied, his tongue lying limply next to his mutilated body. Stapled to his mangy, blood soaked fur, was a Velvet on Fire poster. Stunned and horrified, I seized the poster. On the back, scribbled in crimson-colored blood, was a note:
UR MINE!!!
I vomited.
Connor, my roommate, was glaring at me from the kitchen, his eyes searing with suspicion. When I told him what happened, he turned ghost-white. Then he called the cops, who again were of little help. I was unhinged. Terrible thoughts tore through my troubled mind. Why Dexter? What did he do to deserve such a fate? And why me, for that matter? I’m not a bad guy. Then, with a heavy heart, I buried my dead dog Dexter. The feeling of being watched was impossible to ignore. Somewhere close, was the redhead, taunting me. Proving this, a song wafted through the crisp, early morning air: I Put a Spell on You.
DING.
UNKNOWN SENDER.
With shaky movements, I found my phone, and shrieked. On my phone was a picture of me burying Dexter.
DING.
UR NEXT!!!
I raced into the house and locked all the doors. Grief held me in its terrible grip while I wept. This was all too much, too fast.
DING.
Sighing, I looked down and nearly died.
I PUT A SPELL ON YOU, my phone read. BCUZ UR MINE.

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Transcription Subject: Maarten de Groot, Human Refugee/Meat dealer
Date [standardized human time]: February 22, 2137
“♫Money, money, money. It must be funny in the rich man’s world. ♪”
I sang the classical song in old English as we entered Gilt’s house, having just made another delivery to HF. I had taken out the stack of bills that we had received for our delivery, and started to count them while walking towards the couch.
“Can you not sing that stupid song for once? We’re working for Humanity First. They tied us up, threatened us, double-crossed us, and you’re singing about their blood money.” I can’t blame Gilt for being angry, I am too, I just prefer to ignore it and focus on the good side -money.
Gilt angrily sat down at the combination kitchen table and lab and began analysing something under a microscope.
I had been working here nearly daily. Ever since we started to increase production, Gilt has been needing help. There is too much to do for one venlil, they tend to get tired a lot faster than a human does, and they can’t carry as much either. I had decided to clean some of his house as well, removing the stains from the floor and washing the remaining windows, allowing vastly more natural light in. Gilt said it was a waste of time, but I think he secretly likes it. The place looks a bit homey now, even with half the ground floor being taken up by an illegal lab. Our partnership has gotten better as well, but he’s still very distant with me, not wanting to show any more emotion then happiness or anger.
I sat down on my spot on the couch to start counting out the money so I could split it equally when I heard the crunching sound of paper. I stood up and sat down again and heard the same crunching sound. Is he hiding his money under the couch cushions? I expected better of him…Wait, why the fuck would I do that? Lifting up the cushion revealed a large pile of bills. The one on the top was placed sideways and had crumpled under my weight. I read one bill after another using my holopad’s visual translator. Electricity, water, health insurance, car insurance, the list went on and on, many demanding a fee for the late pay. How much money does he owe? “Gilt, what the fuck is this?” I said, waving one of the bills from across the room.
He looked up, still a bit agitated from the previous conversation. He squinted for a moment, trying to read the text from the distance before realizing what I was holding. “It’s none of your business!”
“Fuck you, it’s my business, this is literally our business. What the hell will happen if you continue not paying these bills? What if they cut the water or electricity, how are we then going to produce anything? I don’t think HF will be happy if we stop supplying. Or what if they kick down your door for repossession, they will see all of this,” I yelled, gesturing to all the barrels and vats full of nutrient paste and muscle stem cells.
“WELL I... didn’t tell you, because I don’t know how to fix it.” His shoulders, ears and tail slumped. He looked rather ashamed.
“What, why not? We make shit loads of cash everyday.”
“Yes, cash. You can’t pay the bills with cash, you need to make a bank transaction, I can’t just go to the electric company with a stack of money.”
“Can’t you just deposit into your bank account?”
“No you idio- no you can’t, how do you think it would look if I suddenly deposited thousands of credits? I go from someone who hasn’t worked for over a decade to suddenly having that amount of money, how am I going to explain that?” He seemed to actively try and calm himself down.
“How did you do it before then? Back when you were a drug cook.”
“I didn’t, I worked under a boss who took care of all of that.” He huffed. “It was quite clever, he started a company that delivered fresh fruit. But not all deliveries were fruit, some were drugs, and because the packages were sealed, not even the delivery boys were aware of what we sold.” He walked over to the couch, sat on his spot, and grabbed one of the bills. “Not smart enough though, we pretended to sell far more food then we actually bought. One smart inspector noticed this discrepancy between what came in and what went out, and before I knew it, I was arrested together with my lab crew, and one short trial later I ended up in you-know-where…” He just stared at the papers, lost in thought.
“So is that it, are you going to let everything go to ruin because of the past?”
He quickly sat upright and his sad look quickly disappeared, replaced with determination. “No, I simply don’t know how to do this, money laundering that is. There are too many problems to solve.”
“Alright, let’s do this one problem at the time, before you actually become a filthy homeless man.”
His ears folded back in anger. “I’m not…!” He took a deep breath and dragged his hands over his face. “They all revolve around the fact that we have to start a company. That way we can pretend we earned all of this black money legitimately and can turn it white.”
“Can’t we just open a store, buy a bunch of stuff, shelve some, label it all, perhaps have an employee…” This all requires a lot more work than I thought, if only we had some corrupt lawyer who could help us.
“No, no, that’s where it went wrong with my previous job, we can’t pretend to sell more stuff then we buy in, or they will notice the discrepancy.”
“How about a restaurant?”
“That’s a terrible idea, we would have to buy a ton of food, just so we can pretend we sold…all...of…that.” His words slowed down as I noticed his right eye focusing on the large pile of produce we had stacked up against a wall, ready to be turned into nutrient paste for the meat. “You’re a genius! We open a restaurant, and all we have to do is claim we sold all of this, we can even buy it in bulk.”
“And we can use it as a tax write off. Just because we’re going to be paying taxes doesn't mean we can’t try and lower it.”
“That does leave us with 2 problems however. We need someone stupid enough to not know that the company is there for money laundering, despite the business hardly pulling any customers yet staying open.”
“We could hire Earl.” He would probably love running a restaurant. I can already imagine him greeting a random customer in his terribly pronounced venlilian.
“What, no, we’re not going to hire a human, and especially not Earl. What idiot would hire a human to work in a restaurant? The place would instantly get shut down by the food inspectors, or perhaps even the exterminators.” Yeah, that was a dumb idea, even hiring a human as cook would be ridiculous and a recipe for a disaster.
“What about Havek?” He already knows Gilt and would be loyal, although he’s a nervous wreck.
“No, he can’t keep his mouth shut, and he thinks the exterminators are there to help him.”
“I’ll post something on a job searching site, I’m sure we’ll find someone. We both went to enough interviews to know how to do one. What’s the last problem?”
“This is the biggest one, we have to find someone willing to rent out a storefront to a human and an ex-PD patient.” I scratched behind my head, trying to come up with a plan. I took a good look at Gilt’s body; it was covered in scars, many so big that the fur doesn’t even cover them. The fur itself was visibly greasy and matted, and the once fully white fur was filled with stains of food and alcohol. “Hey, why are you looking at me like that?”
“I think I got an idea. I’ll find us a place to rent, and I’ll make sure the owner will surely want to rent it out to you.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
Transcription Subject: Maarten de Groot, Human Refugee/Meat dealer
Date [standardized human time]: February 23, 2137
I helped myself into Gilt’s house with the spare key he reluctantly had given to me, only to be met with an angry Gilt. “What is this?!” He threw an already opened package at me. I am pretty sure that he aimed for my head, but I had to lean and take a step forward to actually catch it.
“Oh good, my package arrived. They’re exterminator badges.” I’m used to Gilt’s anger by now and just let it happen.
“I know what they are. Why would you order such a thing?” His tail whipped left and right, agitated and letting me know that he was a lot more angry then he is normally. Alright, he means it, I have to explain this carefully.
“We’re going to need these for the interview tomorrow with the landlord, so we can get the lease.” I took one out of the box and inspected it; it was a shield shaped piece of metal with a symbol on the front and a magnet on the back, allowing it to be clipped onto a fireproof suit or fur.
“How are you planning on using that to convince the landlord to giving us a lease?” The tone he gave sounded almost like he felt betrayed. That can’t be, he doesn’t trust anyone.
“Because right now, you’re a filthy ex-PD patient.” Before he could get angry, I stepped towards him, and even though he leaned back, he allowed me to clip the badge onto a larger piece of matted fur on his chest. “But now, you’re a filthy exterminator veteran. He’ll surely like you more like this.”
“I’m not going to pretend to be an exterminator, they were the ones who locked me up!”
“It’s only for an hour or so, and after that you can be your crazy self again.”
“Okay…why did you let it get sent to my house anyway?”
“Because no one is going to send their dead grandpa’s exterminator medals to an address in the refugee housing for pred- humans. I bought 3 of them by the way, one for a thousand confirmed kills, another for 25 years of service, and the third badge of honour, because apparently you can burn animals honourably.” I laughed at my own morbid joke; Gilt, on the other hand, couldn’t find this situation any less amusing. He pulled the badge off the patch of matted fur, and winced from the tug. “This is part 1 of my plan to get us that lease, you’re not going to like part 2.”
“Just spit it out already.”
“You know how I said you looked like a filthy exterminator veteran? Well, perhaps we should drop the filthy part.”
“Oooh no, I’m not going to…You’re not…” His eyes went fully walleyed, and he fully blanked out.
“Hey, hey, snap out of it! Or don’t, then cleaning you will be much easier.” That last part did it, and his eyes focused once more on me. I grabbed the bag I had brought with me. “I have a few things that will make it all easier. 3 bottles of extra strong anti-tangle shampoo, 2 scrubbers, stain remover for fur, a whole bunch of different types of combs, a waterproof electric clipper just in case, and a rubber ducky to calm you down.” I loaded everything back into the bag and saw Gilt staring at me in disbelief. “Alright, I can’t believe I have to say this to an adult man, but please work with me, I have to put you in the bath.”
“Oh no, no, no, not you too.” He stood in the middle of the room, his body frozen in what in what I believed to be fear.
“Gilt, I am not going to hurt you, this is for your own good. Now if you don’t mind, I have to start disassembling your hydrogen production thingy you built into the bath tub.”
“Hydrogen is extremely flammable, you can’t disassemble that alone, it’s too dangerous!”
“Well, I guess I have to be careful then.” Please buy into my bullshit. He chased after me as I walked up the stairs. The upstairs was always a lot cleaner, albeit still very dusty though, or at least it was until I decided to do something about it on a slow day. There were 3 bedrooms, one for junk, another is permanently locked, and Gilt’s. Gilt’s bedroom mostly contained a bed and a closet. I wasn’t allowed to enter his room, but the one time I secretly did, I saw a couple of photos hanging on the wall. They were all of venlil I didn’t recognize, all except for one; a much younger and happier looking Gilt, completely clean and scarless. There was also an attic, but that was mostly filled with old junk that was never thrown away, like baby toys and old furniture.
The hydrogen production Gilt has to fuel is car is built into his bath tub, he had explained to me how it works. A couple of live electrical wires ran into the water and cause the water to split into oxygen and hydrogen. The 2 elements are then each pulled into a separate part of the tub. The 2 sides are separated almost completely by a sheet of metal that nearly reaches the bottom. The right side is that of the hydrogen, and is completely sealed off above the water, ending in a rusty pump that pumps the element into a gas tank. The left side is only covered by a sheet of wood, seemingly for no reason. Wait the left side is big enough for Gilt to fit into, we don’t even have to dissemble this whole mess, I just have to turn the power off.
“Good news, we don’t have to dissemble this, you can fit into the oxygen side.” His ears were down in sorrow and he took a step back. “Look, I know you’re scared of water, but you know it’s just a silly fear right?”
“I-I’m not scared.” He lifted his ears and tail, trying to make himself appear more confident.
“Last week you nearly crashed your car when it suddenly started to rain. That was also the only time you didn’t accompany me during a delivery, because you didn’t want to walk through the rain. You even came along every time we delivered to HF, yet you refused to when it rained.” I grabbed a cup of water and brought it to him. “Alright, let’s start off slow.”
He lowered his head and suddenly slammed it into me. A massive pang of pain rushed through me. I dropped the cup, fell onto my knees, and then onto my side, all the while covering the part he just rammed into. “Aaaagh, what the fuck was that for!?” I yelled in an octave higher then I want to admit.
“You were going to pour water onto me!” The cup of water had missed him by a hair, and he was now standing besides the puddle, still in front of me.
“I was going to let you put your hand into it, at your own pace. And why did you have to hit me there?”
“It’s only your crotch, I didn’t expect it to hurt so much.”
“’Not hurt so much?’ You headbutt me right into my bloody balls!”
“Your what?”
“My…” Still laying on the floor, I looked up at Gilt’s Ken-doll like crotch. Right… “My testicles, I thought you would know human anatomy considering the amount of time you spend on the human internet.”
“I’m not you, I don’t look that stuff up.”
“Half the internet is covered in it, you have to put in effort to never see a naked body.” I pushed myself up from the floor, and to my surprise Gilt aided me. “Ball pain or not, I still need to wash you.”
“I really don’t want to.” For once, he didn’t attempt to hide his fear or other vulnerable emotions. He looked scared and sad. Fuck, he’s really not ready, I can’t force this on him.
“You still need to look presentable though. I suppose we have to comb all those mats out and hope it looks good enough.”
The progress was slow and painstaking. This was literal for Gilt, more than once did he yelp as I tugged the comb too hard. I did his back and arms, as you mostly required 2 hands to do this right. I had to do the base of his tail and butt as well, it being too awkward of a location for him to properly comb it all out. It was mostly clean though. Mostly. The things you do for a friend…
As I worked away tufts of matted fur, some fell away revealing orange and white scars that beforehand had been completely covered up, and the bigger ones only became more prominent. Most of the scars were simply singular lines, but others branched out like the roots of a tree, starting big and branching out into smaller, thinner lines. Some pieces of fur were knotted so close to the skin that they had become impossible to comb out, and had to be shaved off. Something that must be a relief to Gilt, I had seen him often getting pains from these pieces tugging at his skin.
In the end, there was a large pile of fur, almost as much as he had still had on himself, and a now relatively clean-looking Gilt, his scars a lot more prominent.
“I look even worse,” he said, looking into the mirror and sorrowfully taking in his body.
“No, you look metal.” Gilt looked at me with confusion. “You look cool, wicked, rad…” Stupid translator, it doesn’t seem to translate slang. Earl might be onto something, with him actually learning their language. “You look tough.”
He perked up from that compliment. “Tough,” he repeated, and he turned around to fully take himself in. “You really think more people will accept me like this?”
“Well, that depends on your personality, but you look more welcoming for sure. You now at least appear to take care of yourself.” Why does he want people to accept him? He’s always so abrasive.
“I have plenty of personality.” He placed his hands in his side and looked with pride into the mirror. “Now, it is getting late, and I haven’t had my second meal yet. Are you hungry for bratwurst?”
A/N:
As always I really appreciate comments, it gives a lot more satisfaction than a few up arrows.
A special thanks to u/InstantSquirrelSoup for proofreading. Check out his fic: Arxur Hospitality
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What started as a typical New Years Eve gig at a newly renovated hole-in-the-wall has become something far worse.
I’m the bass player (insert punch line here). I’m pretty good too, although my heyday is certainly over. Back in the day, I played with Velvet on Fire. You may remember us. We had a hit song called Call Me a Liar. Then, under immense pressure for a follow-up, Rod Brimstone, the singer, committed suicide. On stage. Talk about Game Over.
But I digress.
My latest group, a blues-rock cover band called Falling Forward, was hired to perform three sets of music. The trouble started when the redhead arrived. I was at the bar, minding my own business, when out of the blue, a radiant redhead, clad entirely in black leather, grabbed my ass.
“Whatcha drinking?” Her voice sounded like an ashtray. She was tall, with emerald eyes, and a sleeve of tattoos.
I did a double-take. “Um,” I gulped. “Whatever yer buying.”
She winked, twirled her lip ring, then slid her icy fingers between my legs. Subtlety was not her strength.
The beer arrived and we cheersed. She said her name was Rosetta. I introduced myself as Derek the Bass Player, while forcing her hand further north. Then, after some throwaway small talk, I sauntered towards the stage, more-than-ready for the band’s third and final set.
Falling Forward played a raucous set. Mick, the lead singer and harmonica player, worked the audience into a frenzy. Leading the party was Rosetta, dancing sexily, swinging her hips too and fro, fist-pumping and cat-calling.
When the band finished its final set, I started loading the gear into Mick’s van. I was exhausted, with little patience for patronizing drunks, pestering me. Despite this, the redhead came strutting over. Next thing I know, I’m slow-dancing to Every Rose has its Thorn, via karaoke. Ugh. I didn’t know which was worse: the drunken, out-of-tune singing, or being forced to dance to it.
Her perfume smelled like sweet summer rain, but her exploring hands were icebergs. We wiggled and wormed along the crowded dance floor until finally (and thankfully), the song ended. Next came the tequila. Things get blurry by this point.
Somehow, despite the redhead’s relentless flirting, I finished loading the gear, and Mick drove me home. She must’ve gotten my phone number, because the following morning, I awoke to a flashing phone (and one helluva hangover).
HEY HANDSOME, the redhead texted, CUM OVER. Included was a video of her masturbating.
Not gonna lie, I was kinda turned on. Don’t judge. It had been a while since I’d had sex. My hormones got the best of me. Still, I had my reservations. Rosetta was a bit over-the-top for my tastes. And that’s putting it mildly. So, I reached out to Mick, asking for advice. His reply was instantaneous: “Strike while the kettle’s hot.”
And that’s exactly what I did.
Rosetta greeted me with opened arms and ruby lips. Her perfume was potent, her green eyes sparkling with bad intentions. She led me into her bedroom. To my dismay, Velvet on Fire posters pervaded her walls. I gulped.
"I LOOOVE your music," she said softly, in between kisses. Then she got to work.
I left her apartment thinking I would never see her again. Unfortunately, this was not the case. The redhead was relentless, texting me day and night, sending naughty pics, insisting I ‘CUM OVER’. Finally, I caved. (Yes, I’m weak, spare me the lecture.)
This time was different. Rosetta was banged up, her face a barrage of bruises; her eyes were puffy and red, her bottom lip split open. “Bar fight,” she said, while sucking my earlobes. “Bitch got the worst of it.”
Bar fight??? Clearly, this redhead was bad news. I wanted to leave right then and there. Should have, too. Then none of this would’ve happened. But it was too late. I was trapped. She led me into her bedroom. We did The Dirty, then I left, having no intention of speaking to her again. This time I meant it.
The redhead kept sending naughty pics, but I ignored them. After a week or so, I thought she’d gotten the hint. Her messaging stopped. Then out of the blue….
DING.
My phone flew off the couch. Rosetta’s name splashed across the screen. I groaned. She sent me a song; a song which has haunted me ever since: I Put a Spell on You. Not the popular version, but a much darker and sinister-sounding one. I disliked it immediately.
I replied, saying I was super busy (which was true), and that we should ‘remain ‘friends’ (which was not true).
Her response gave me chills:
UR MINE ;)
Things escalated.
I work at a local music shop. The following day, my boss greeted me harshly. He seemed upset. “Look at this!” He handed me an old Velvet on Fire poster.
I gasped. Then I tripped and fell backwards, knocking over an entire row of guitars.
“YOU IDIOT!” my boss snapped. “That’s coming off your pay.”
Grudgingly, I gathered the guitars and checked for dings, but my mind remained on the poster; or more accurately, the note written on the back of it:
UR MINE!!!!
“The poster was nailed to the door,” my boss scoffed, shaking his head. “People these days….”
My mind went sideways. The note was written in Rosetta’s rosy lipstick. Was she stalking me? Who would do such a thing? Making matters worse, later that week, Mick messaged me with a song request: I Put a Spell on You. Coincidence, I told myself. But I didn’t believe it.
Sometime later, I met a lovely woman named Melanie, who was cute and timid and polite. She dressed modestly and wore little-to-no makeup. She was the antithesis of Rosetta. Since Falling Forward were due to perform that weekend, I invited her to the show. Melanie was delighted.
As the weekend grew nearer, so did my anxiety. This was a terrible idea. We were playing the same hole-in-the-wall as before. Rosetta would certainly be there. How would she react to seeing me with another woman? Maybe, I hoped, she would get the hint and leave me the hell alone.
Oh, how naïve I was.
Melanie sat up front. She seemed in good spirits. But I was nervous. I kept scanning the bar, looking for you-know-who. Then, as the band launched into I Put a Spell on You, a cold shiver slid down my spine. The barroom turned cold as ice.
The redhead.
She sat next to Melanie.
I nearly died.
During set break, I remained on stage, acting busy. Truth is, I was panicking. How could I be so stupid? The last thing I wanted was a confrontation. On cue, the redhead came rushing over. With beers. She offered me one. I said thank you, then awkwardly sat with Melanie, who kept asking if I was okay. I wasn’t. My pits were soaked with sweat. I was tripping over my words, barely able to speak. All I could do was sip my beer and pray something dreadful didn’t happen.
The redhead, meanwhile, was tapping the table with her razor-like nails, staring at me. Her cold and calculated glare gave me the creeps. Finally, under the weight of the world, I excused myself, and went to the bar. Before my drink arrived, a pair of icy fingers fondled my private parts.
“Hey handsome.”
Rosetta’s face was fiery-red. Her lips, like blackened cherries, pursed into a scowl. She cracked her knuckles, twice, then nodded towards Melanie.
“Who’s the bitch?” Her hand reached down, cupping my ever-shrinking testicles.
“Well, you see… I….”
She squeezed.
“Woah!” I freed myself. Then I scooted off to the restroom, away from prying eyes.
‘This is nuts,’ I told myself, splashing cold water on my face. Obviously, the redhead wasn’t playing with a full deck. But what could I do about it? I certainly couldn’t ask her to leave. And I wasn’t about to ignore Melanie. I was exasperated. I took a deep breath, then returned to the table. Melanie was frantic, her eyes trembling with terror. Apparently, Rosetta paid her a visit. I could only assume it went poorly.
“How DARE you,” Melanie spat. She marched out of the bar, leaving me with the bill. And without a date.
“You don’t need that bitch,” Rosetta snickered. “You’re mine.” Her hands booped my buttocks.
Mick, sensing trouble, meandered over, “Time to play, bro,” he said.
The band opened with New Orleans is Sinking, a local bar-band favorite. Everyone was dancing and singing along, including Rosetta, who jumped on stage and started grinding against me, plunking the bass strings. Then she tried pouring a full beer down my throat. Instead, she soaked the stage (and my bass) with suds. Whooping and hollering, she slipped and stumbled off the stage, resulting in a fantastic face-plant, taking a few patrons with her. It was a total debacle. A fight broke out. Soon thereafter, she got ejected, and the band was barred from ever performing there again.
The following day, I received a long-winded text from Melanie. Apparently, Rosetta threatened to kill her if she ever spoke to me again. YIKES. Then the redhead went on to disparage my reputation. NOT GOOD. Melanie concluded by saying she was busy and that we should just be friends. Oh, bittersweet irony. I was heartbroken. And furious.
DING.
The redhead:
I PUT A SPELL ON YOU….
DING.
BCUZ UR MINE!!!
I responded hastily:
WE ARE OVER. IN FACT, WE NEVER WERE!!!! To further drive home the point, I added: PLEASE STAY AWAY.
I blocked her.
Things settled for a while. Life went back to normal. Then my credit card bill arrived.
‘This must be a mistake!’ I cried.
Only, it wasn’t. After an arduous hour, chatting with the credit card company, their conclusion was concrete: someone was using my credit card to purchase pricey perfume, clothes, leather boots and accessories.
The Redhead.
I spent the day chatting with the cops, who offered little help. The damned redhead was ruining my life, and it was up to me to stop her.
But how?
She denied everything, of course, and scolded me for such ludicrous accusations. Then she invited me back to her place. The nerve of this woman….
The following week, the unthinkable happened:
I was heading to bed when Dexter, my adorable Dalmatian, started going berserk. He should’ve been sleeping, cuddled in his cozy kennel in the yard, not barking. Cursing the mangy mutt, I went out back to check on him.
The night was moonless and stark. A chill crept into my bones as I crunched along the yard. The gate was open, which was odd. It should’ve been locked. While locking the gate, I detected a smattering of sweet-smelling perfume.
The redhead.
Dexter calmed down after gobbling some tasty treats. Meanwhile, I scanned the yard, searching for intruders. Then I stormed inside, angry and confused. Sleep couldn’t come. How could it? My mind kept returning to the redhead, and what deplorable deeds she was doing.
The following morning, I went outside to feed the dog. My heart was pounding like a kick drum at a heavy metal concert. Quickly, I panicked. Something was wrong. First off, the gate was open. Again. Plus, Dexter was being quiet. Too quiet. Which is unlike him. As I inched cautiously towards the kennel, the sweet smell of perfume grew stronger.
When I reached the kennel, I gasped. My heart sank into my shoes. Before me was Dexter, stewing in a pool of blood and gore. His eyeballs were gouged and bloodied, his tongue lying limply next to his mutilated body. Stapled to his mangy, blood-soaked fur, was a Velvet on Fire poster. Stunned and horrified, I seized the poster. On the back, scribbled in crimson-colored blood, was a note:
UR MINE!!!
I vomited.
Connor, my roommate, was glaring at me from the kitchen, his eyes searing with suspicion. When I told him what happened, he turned ghost-white. Then he called the cops, who again were of little help.
I was unhinged. Terrible thoughts tore through my troubled mind. Why Dexter? What did he do to deserve such a fate? And why me, for that matter? I’m not a bad guy. Then, with a heavy heart, I buried my dead dog Dexter. The feeling of being watched was impossible to ignore. Somewhere close, was the redhead, taunting me. Proving this, a song wafted through the crisp, early morning air: I Put a Spell on You.
DING.
UNKNOWN SENDER.
With shaky movements, I found my phone, and shrieked. On my phone was a picture of me burying Dexter.
DING.
UR NEXT!!!
I raced into the house and locked all the doors. Grief held me in its terrible grip while I wept. This was all too much, too fast.
DING.
Sighing, I looked down, and nearly died.
I PUT A SPELL ON YOU, my phone read. BCUZ UR [MINE!!!]( https://www.reddit.com/StoriesFromStar)

Thanks to the help of Dr. Goldstein for the Hard Flaccid paper and LiteratureGreedy for the idea of nerve blocks, we have a lot more knowledge on what is going on and we are currently experimenting with potential treatment options to solve HFS.
Disclaimer- I am not a doctor and this is not medical advice.
What is hard flaccid syndrome (HFS)
HFS is a condition in which there are many symptoms present. Syndrome is defined as "a group of signs and symptoms that occur together and characterize a particular abnormality or condition". The symptoms that are most common are semi-rigid flaccid penis, loss of sensation, and erectile dysfunction with loss of rigidity even when fully erect. There are many other symptoms such as testicular retraction/hyperactive cremasteric reflex, loss of libido, loss of sensation to testicles and perineum, difficulty starting urination, post-void dribbling, hypertonic pelvic floor, enlarged dorsal and circumflex veins while flaccid, changes in flaccid shape, curvature at base of penis, hourglass shape of flaccid penis, loss of morning/nocturnal erections, abnormal sustained morning/nocturnal erections, genital paresthesia (tingling, pins and needles), genital pain, and bowel movement issues. Some people may have only a couple symptoms while others have most of these symptoms. The severity of symptoms vary as well.
What causes HFS?
The most common cause of HFS is from some sort of minor traumatic injury to the penis and this can occur through rough masturbation, excessive masturbation, penile stretching, pumping, jelqing, etc. Other causes include SSRI and Finasteride use. Most people suffering are young with the age ranging from late teens to late 30's and the onset of HFS for most occurred almost overnight and some have had a gradual increase in symptom severity over the following few months.
Pathophysiology of HFS
HFS is believed to be dysfunctional nervous system signaling that is originating from the spinal cord. The spinal cord is apart of the central nervous system (CNS). The peripheral nervous system (PNS) is outside the CNS. The autonomic nervous system is a part of the PNS which is made up of the parasympathetic nervous system and sympathetic nervous system. The sympathetic nervous system is responsible for your "fight or flight" response. The parasympathetic nervous system is responsible for allowing erections while sympathetic nervous system causes the opposite. In HFS, there seems to be dysfunctional signaling starting from within the spinal cord to the sympathetic nervous system which is leading to hyperactive sympathetic signaling. Within Goldstein's paper, he proposes that Hard Flaccid Syndrome is due to increased sympathetic signaling through the hypogastric nerve. The hypogastric nerve arises from the ventral nerve roots of T12 to L3 and supplies sympathetic nerve innervation.
The exact mechanism by which this all starts is unknown but this is speculated to be due to central sensitization following a peripheral nerve injury where the bodies response to the minor peripheral nerve injury is disproportionate to the central sensitization that occurs. "Central sensitization corresponds to an enhancement in the functional status of neurons and circuits in nociceptive pathways throughout the neuroaxis caused by increases in membrane excitability, synaptic efficacy, or a reduced inhibition. The net effect is that previously subthreshold synaptic inputs are recruited to generate an increased or augmented action potential output, a state of facilitation, potentiation, or amplification." (Latremoliere A, Woolf CJ. Central sensitization: a generator of pain hypersensitivity by central neural plasticity. J Pain. 2009 Sep;10(9):895-926. doi: 10.1016/j.jpain.2009.06.012. PMID: 19712899; PMCID: PMC2750819.).
The cause of HFS seems to be similar to Complex Regional Pain Syndrome/Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy in which there is a minor traumatic injury leading to sensitization and increased sympathetic signaling.
Evidence for this Nervous System Theory
In this study, "Percutaneous lumbar sympathectomy in the treatment of erectile dysfunction secondary to cavernous adrenergic hypertone", patients had symptoms such as sensation of cold penis, penile retraction while flaccid, and erectile dysfunction with incomplete rigidity. 14 patients underwent a bilateral sympathetic nerve block at L3 and 9 of the 14 patients had significant improvement in symptoms following the temporary sympathetic nerve block. The patients later underwent a longer lasting procedure and the significant improvement in symptoms was sustained when following up on the patients post procedure. I encourage those interested to search up and read this study.
There have been a few members within the community who have recently done sympathetic nerve blocks and they temporarily had complete reversal of HFS. Symptoms returned once the effects of the anesthetic wore off. The temporary sympathetic nerve block is used as a diagnostic test. This may require some trial and error to find what level T12-L3 works best in reducing symptoms.
Join the new discord server
We have created a new discord server for those who are suffering from HFS and are looking to help out with finding the solution to HFS. Those of you who were skeptical of the other pelvic floor, fascia, muscle strain theories in the past should look to join the new server as we are science based. All of these other theories are easily debunked and misinformation has been spread for years on the cause of HFS and this has led to a lack of progress towards a solution for this condition. We are looking for motivated individuals to join and help us spread the information and work on building a community that can help guide those suffering from HFS. We want to put an end to the incorrect information that has been thrown around and misguided people for years.
Sympathetic nerve blocks are a useful diagnostic tool and we are looking to gather data on this within our discord server. If you already have a nerve block scheduled or looking to get one done and need guidance on the process and how to go about getting one done, join our server and we will be able to help.

Been going to Fitness centers (aka gymnasium) since i was 16 but took a long break after 21 and frequenting now
The differences i observed over this 10 year time difference-
Natural body building is a fallen art - previously Gym buddies who were on show biz (participating in tournaments) used to pump those steroids almost everyone else is a natural body builder
presently almost every tom, dick and harry is pumping those steroids…when i asked them em chesthunnav ra saami endhuku ante …”arey okka cycle em kadhu anna….chill, tren lekunda entha chesina 3 pound muscle kuda radhu anna”
the trends i observed-
these young steroids abusers are not hoping for what generally claimed as unnatural body they wan a body that is achievable by natural body building but with steroids….but why is the question…to begin with steroids make muscle mass grow with limited exercise…so these young guns want those muscles but what in general can be said as lazying around…
cost of steroids -
Wtf is that cost, they are dead cheap, they cost less than a heavy protein diet for a fucking day. Inkendhuku vadaru
Awareness-
These young shits who taking them don't seem to know 1 round fuck them up and rock their world…they are sacrificing for faster muscle growth (with minimal exercise) hair, skin and testicles not to mention the required surgeries if the shit goes south like in case of gyno….
Rationale -
i dont understand the reason for abuse…like why are u doing that,u r not earning money with those muscles, u r neither in show biz, not an influencer, neither participating in tournaments so why are u doing this other than getting peer pressured or having body dismorphia
Gyms as money milkers -
they who provide these brain fried idiots with oral or injectables have no qualms as long as they get money, i seriously doubt they tell to these idiots they need to be regularlh on look out for cholestrol, kidney, pitutory, gall, liver.
i honestly don’t believe they undergo mri or ct to check up their bone density and shit to check what anabolic they r more suited to….
To these ‘Gyms’ it doesnt matter whether u need to loose or gain weight or u want to ugly or neat bulk all they suggest is whey protien that they have on boxes on their counters.
My case -
I shifted few gyms in this time frame and i dont think i m comfortable anywhere so i brought myself a neat home gym set (fuck that dried up a sizable chunk of my emergency money) but still i m going to miss machines so i have to visit these ‘steroid abuse centres’ for machines twice a week
I would like to take this moment to thank the neighbor who introduced me to fitness and gave handholding when ever needed whether it be advice or mental or diet and ultimately adviced, nudged and warned what steroids can do to body.

D3CuresCancer.com
Nick's Theory of Everything right now is just my theory on many different things, and I am not even sure what to call it, so it just makes sense. I hate using my name, but most people do not believe me, so it fits. Every day I figure out something that is truly incredible. I spread the word to people around me and they think I am crazy. The evidence will prove itself over an extended time. It is all so simple.
I hope you believe everything you read below for 1 reason, and I hope it makes you change the way you view life in general because it should. I can tell you where your cancer originated. Most doctors cannot. I do not understand why the majority do not believe me when I say this.
The bumps in your body are growing on your skeleton. The cancer is the bumps (inside). The sun pushes back against these bumps. The sun forces those bumps back into your skeleton where they now will cease to exist if managed properly. Act as if the sun is trying to pull the vitamin D out of your bones, which is what creates the bump. The bump is pulling towards the sun and is asking for vitamin D. Supply it with enough vitamin D the right way and the bump resides.
We are cutting off the bumps that help us. These bumps act as a vessel to propel the cancer out of us. I do not advocate tanning beds, but their impact is MUCH different now. Those beds are significant. If you are in a part of the world lacking sunlight, those beds will SHOW you EXACTLY where the cancer is in/on your body (in the form of newly formed moles) and possibly supply you with just enough Vitamin D that is the type we need from the sun. It seems we do need both. A source of vitamin D from sunlight AND food/supplementing. If we disregard either, the vitamin D level will plummet.
Your body is not happy. It is giving you these bumps and things because you are not feeding it enough vitamin D. We are avoiding it for the wrong reasons. Supplement vitamin D properly and utilize the sun 30 minutes a day while using the right amount. The bumps inside will go down, and the brown spot/moles on the outside of your skin will go up. Let it. That is your body rejecting cancer utilizing the sun. Let the brown spots and moles do their thing. The more sun you get, the more some spots might lighten or go away, and the more the moles grow. The sun benefits skin cancer patients. We are doing the reverse, which is why they suffer. They need the sun, not to be pulled away from it. If the moles grow, that is GOOD. That is cancer EXITING your body.
Cancer is misunderstood. I am not smart enough to even comprehend very-complicated information true scientists put out, which I am guessing is how I ended up here. The solution is a lot simpler than we think. Cancer is quite literally the balance of our vitamin D levels.
My main theory I claim here is that we all live and die by our own Vitamin D “axis.” If our Vitamin D is 0, we die. If it is below 50, you are deficient. 70 is ideal, but it seems 100 may even be optimal.
Moles are misunderstood. What we know about moles and how we handle them is wrong. Moles are the sun sucking the cancer out of your body. They urge you not to go in the sun, but that is wrong. The sun is far more helpful than we realize. It is quite literally sucking the cancer out of you. That is what your moles or brown spots are. Those are spots of your body where inflammation was brewing, and the sun sucked the inflammation out like a spore, and it turned it into a mole which is now just a harmless physical reflection of our past. The browner spots you have accumulated across your body, the more spots on your body where the sun was sucking the cancer out.
The moles we have today played a crucial role in who we once were. At one point in our lifetime, we used the sun to suck the cancer out which created the brown spots/moles we have covering our bodies today. For me, I love this so much. I have a whole new outlook on brown spots and moles on skin. The people who have massive amounts of brown on their skin have suffered the most cancer, and those people used the sun throughout their life to rid their body of cancer, but they didn’t realize just how important it was. The sun is crucial. If the sun is giving you NEW moles, that is your sign that you are vitamin D deficient and the inflammation in your body is EXACTLY where the newly formed mole is. You need to raise your vitamin D levels. If your levels are optimal, you will not get moles in the sun. The people who have few moles are the people who have had higher levels of vitamin D circulating in their body throughout their life.
For moles, this is huge news. Why? Our moles are quite literally telling us EXACTLY where the inflammation/canceetc. is in our body. You do not need a CT scan. When you go out in the sun, the sun’s rays are pulling the cancer out of you in mole form. Those new moles forming are telling us EXACTLY where the cancer is. The moles are telling us not only where the cancer is, but that you are also deficient in vitamin D. It is my theory that we are not supposed to have moles. I am not saying it is bad to have them. They are beautiful and what make us unique. I’m just stating that they aren’t the cancer we think they are. They speak to us, like our bodies. They shouldn’t be there. They tell us where cancer has been in our body and also where the cancer is, in the form of new moles forming. This is major news because we can use our moles to revert cancer. We are avoiding the sun when we have skin cancer. But the sun is actually saving you from having cancer INSIDE your body. It’s pulling it out. If you have cancer, you should be spending as much time in the sun as possible. Quite literally, the more time spent outside in the sun, the more time the cancer is being pulled out. Obviously if you stay out for too long, you get sunburnt. Everything in life needs moderation. Cancer patients should be maximizing their time outside, and we have it the other way. Keeping these cancer patients inside is killing them and depriving them of the sun rays that are vitally needed. Outdoor patient treatment or indoor treatment with window paneling allowing sun rays are vital to life for those people most in need. The sun is desperately needed.
Moles and many things on your body that “pop up” out of your body shouldn’t be touched. These are points in your body that the cancer is trying to escape from. It will form a hard surface “mole.” If the mole gets bigger, we think it’s bad. This is wrong. The mole growing is good. The sun is working effectively to pull the cancer out and it's making your mole bigger. If you cut it off, what did you just do? Well, you cut off the hard point surface above your skin where the cancer was trying to escape. You just cut off the part of your body where the cancer was trying to get out of. Not a good move. The cancer will just go somewhere else to try and escape. If it’s on your face and you cut it off. You may have another brown spot or mole close to the spot you cut off. That is the sun trying to suck out your cancer via another point nearby, since you cut off the main point. You want to put your moles in the sun to stimulate them, so they absorb the cancer OUT of your body.
Chemo not only causes cancer but makes it worse. Look up the ingredients. Poison doesn’t have a brain to pick which cells. It destroys everything in its path, and comes back more aggressively every time. Most medications are this way. Just have some common sense about it. Less poison injected and more vitamins instead.
Pimples, pus, blackheads, and mucus are cancer. It’s simple. If it’s yellow and you cough it up or squeeze it out of your face, that is cancer. You should not have that. As I type this, I am only on day 4 of taking sufficient doses of D3. I can tell you, my skin and body feel completely different, and you can tell. Right now, I still have blackheads on my nose that I need to squeeze. Those blackheads are cancer. The pores of our nose are not supposed to fill up with those. Our bodies are working for us through our face, and they are telling us our vitamin D levels are low and that we have cancer in the body. The cancer comes out of us through coughing up and through nose/squeezing things out. Our blackheads are cancer. I believe we should leave all acne alone. Let the sun pull the yellow out of your body and do not touch them. They will go away when you raise your vitamin D levels. I believe you can pop the blackheads though. Those are a hardened version of the cancer coming out. You can pop blackheads out of your pores, but you need to be careful not to damage skin around that blackhead. I have pimples and blackheads right now. But I have full and 100% reason to believe, that if I raise my levels over the next few months, I will go out into the sun and I will not acquire more blackheads/acne in the sun once my levels of vitamin D are sufficient level above 70. If all black heads and acne are gone, and vitamin D levels are close to 100, I have reason to believe those black heads and acne will not return so long as vitamin D levels are maintained. Personally, I’ll wait to pop all of my blackheads until I work my vitamin D levels up and get all of the cancer out of my body.
There is no name for your cancer. I do understand that is hard to hear. Sure, there is a name. But point to where the mole is on your body and that’s the body part affected. This is unreal to me thinking about it. We call it breast cancer because the inflammation is there around your breast. But much like fat, a lack of vitamin D doesn’t get to decide where that inflammation goes in your body. Maybe it does to an extent. This theory does lean towards the belief that we would all be healthier if our entire naked body received sun every day. I don’t know how we would all walk around naked, but the sun wants to suck the cancer out via boob possibly. This can’t be done without boobs there, or if we cover them constantly. The cancer would then go somewhere else. I won’t get political, but let’s just say I’m not a women’s parade type of guy. I support women’s rights 100%, that is not what I’m getting at. I’m saying I would see these women marching in parades for breast cancer and it just never made sense to me, because it doesn't make sense. Open your shirts. Let the sun shine down on your tits as much as possible. It will suck the cancer out of you and prolong your life.
Circumcision. We cut off the flap. Does the flap absorb the sun's rays in a way that sucks the cancer out? I do not know. Again, I always thought cutting this stuff off made no sense. At this point in research, it would not take much for me to believe this flap plays a fundamental and crucial role in our well-being? Would the cancer in your body maybe flow away from your private parts (or the bones underneath?) Maybe it would absorb the cancer instead of the cancer coming out in form of the moles we know now. Makes sense. We got to stop cutting off the flap.
We got to just wise up and stop cutting body parts off for no reason. Every body part plays an important role and you are more than likely cutting off your superhero of a body part inside or outside of you. Inflammation builds and settles where you are strongest. It’s simpler than we think. We need to think in reverse (when I get high, I get high in reverse -999.) Stop cutting out the parts of your body absorbing the most work. Your breasts, your royal jewels, your stomach. These are your absolute best features, and you are ripping them out of you. You are superhuman for having lived through it.
Please tell me this does not lead to the hole on our backside. It would make sense. Let’s all put our butts in the air and suck the cancer out, right? It’d fit the trend. Maybe it’s too far. But, we sure do like to talk about our booty holes these days.
What’s next? Belly button? Melatonin obviously plays a role in where we might come from, but could it be our eyes too? I am curious and I’m sure you might be too. It is a puzzle we will continue to unlock together. I do not have all of the answers, but people that are suffering cannot wait for that answer. Information is power. I’ve armed you with a recipe to help you and your friends. You do not need to believe me now, but you cannot prove this wrong and that is why this must be the way.
Genetics, the weather and many things play a role. Having a lack of vitamin D affects everyone differently. But, I have reason to believe we don’t always have a choice. Maybe having a history of prostate cancer in your family leads to multiple family members having the same issue. Yes, it affects them in the same area. Another family may have breast cancer and multiple family members are affected. It seems like cutting out the body part is right, but we are wrong.
I have reason to think that you may be cutting out your most beneficial organ, when you opt for surgery. If the sun is pulling the cancer out of your body, where do you think the cancer came from? The cancer accumulated inside your body at the point where they felt most comfortable, which is also where most of the cancer is on the body... this means..
It’s possible our breasts need to be in the sun and it’s possible they are the key to raising your vitamin D levels. I don’t advocate for naked beaches or whatever. But if many women have breast cancer, that means that we are cutting out the body parts that help us. I have huge reason to believe that your boobs are the main place for inflammation because they are also your strongest organ to absorb vitamin D and get the cancer OUT of you. The cancer builds up around your body and goes to your boobs. Your boobs need the sunlight, so they can absorb the sun properly. This doesn’t work if you cut them out. I apologize if you have had your breast(s), testicle(s), or anything cut out of you. These things are terrible. But I do think that was 100% not the right move. That doesn’t mean you can’t live a long life full of joy. If you've had surgery, that does not change your situation, but your body is superhuman. Fight hard. Supplement vitamin D and you will be shocked at the outcomes.
None of us have really unlocked our true potential. We are just getting started on vitamin D and unlocking its’ true potential. If you are currently in a wheelchair, paralyzed, or anyone immobile, and you are unaware of how you got there, I would suggest you order a vitamin D test. You are deficient. Raise your levels.
Wait a sec. Boobs. Cancer coming up and out through them. What’s this mean? Does it hurt the person on the other end then? We think the baby is getting much needed milk from the mother. Is it possible the mother goes through the long journey of pregnancy, and they then give birth to a baby that helps suck the cancer out of them, taking the pressure off Mom?
Yes, I typed it how you see it. The baby doesn't need those nutrients. The baby is taking the hit for you, Mom. Is there a more powerful feeling within us than when we yearn for our Mom? There might be, but it’s the first thing we do when we arrive into this world, and evidence shows it could also be our last.
I would assume the baby will go to great lengths to ensure Mom is alive. The 9-month journey is over, and they are just freaking out trying to do everything just for Mom. This is where we got it wrong and everything in life needs to be taken in moderation. We need to let our babies and mothers rest and let our far more rested adult spouses/machines tend to the matter. I do not recommend swallowing this one.
Breast milk is misunderstood. Milk is cancer. I already knew cow’s milk was terrible, but I didn’t realize just how bad. I did not think the path would lead to cancer, but it did.
Or let’s imagine another take on this. What if the cow’s bellies and the mothers' bellies are really just pumped with cancer because it takes that much effort to have the baby and we are not supplementing correctly, which causes them to be bigger than they should be? I’m not sure. Extraordinarily big boobs during pregnancy could tell us we are lacking vitamin D, and that those boobs need to be partially emptied and/or more importantly, placed into the sun for extended periods of time if possible. I am confident that the mother’s milk is cancerous.
All infertility and all miscarriages stem from vitamin D deficiency. Raise your levels and you and your family will never have an issue building a family. I will make this one short, but the list of benefits for males and females in this category is quite long.
The baby goes for the milk right away because they want their mom to survive. The baby desperately sucks on the mother’s boobs in an attempt to stop her from dying. Let me repeat. We may have this backwards. We don’t need to breastfeed our kids or have the baby cows go to their mother. It’s an unnecessary process.
It is possible that if the mother goes unconscious, the baby frantically searching for mom could suck the bad out of Mom so she could survive. A reason babies yearn for their boobs is not just for nutrients, but to save Mom’s life. Just like dogs, the mommy pup did her job. It is the newborn’s turn now. They are ready to thrive in this world. They do not want nutrients in the sense we think. Those pups are ready to support Mom the best way they can which is by saving her life. They want to do exactly what they are born and ready to do, and that is to make their Mom as happy as she can be, by sucking the cancer out of her.
Of course they will get some nutrients their body does yearn for along the way, as is essential to sustaining life when born. A higher proportion of a pre-made drink devoid of the cancerous yellow would probably serve humans and animals a bit better. I do wonder if these babies would naturally seek an alternate method of nursing if (1) Mom is completely or mainly free of cancer and/or (2) there is a more nutrient-rich nipple or nursing option nearby for the baby, but (1) needs to be ensured first. Who knows?
But again, everything needs to be in moderation. If the mom breastfeeds for too long, she depletes herself and the baby. There is more than likely a more balanced ratio of breast milk that should be flowing between baby and mother. The baby is ready. They take on the ultimate sacrifice and go for Mom as soon as they are able. They are naturally ready to save Mom. Mom is always the best!
Those breast pumping machines. It is possible they are so much greater now. Did you say cancer sucking machines? I’m just trying to help us understand, so we can unlock the code to everything we know. But, there is so much we do not understand as a species.
We are hurting our babies with our breastmilk, when we think we are giving them the ultimate prize. Your baby is quite literally sucking the cancer out of you, and into themselves. You are giving your own baby cancer. Thinking about this, the job is better left in the hands of someone who could handle taking in more cancer. If you are a fit man and your wife is showing signs of newly formed moles after periods of sunlight, you might want to assist. This method may work for both men and women. It’s all in theory anyways, right?
Would someone breastfed a lot at birth have moles around their nose because they were such great breast-feeders? We will have to see.
Nose size? Genetics obviously play a role, but does the amount of breast milk we take in or how often we suck on mothers’ nipples affect how big our nose is? I feel confident about the breast milk leading to moles during birth and throughout childhood, and life. The nose size itself could just be genetic though.
Do you have a dark spot on your skin? That’s cancer. It’s trying to escape your body via the sun. Let it.
Bump on the inside of your body? Maybe it feels like it’s on your skeleton? It is. Cancer is growing on your insides and it’s trying to get out. Go in the sun. The more sun you get while supplementing your body with D3, the more it will go away. Don’t believe me? You will see for yourselves. It is magic. Supplement with D3 and go in the sun so that it absorbs while following things already in place like “COIMBRA PROTOCOL”, and you can watch your bump go away.
Breast cancer bump? Supplement D3, go in the sun every day for 30 mins and watch it go away.
Is a family member Autistic and you didn’t know why? I am sure a doctor could never give you a definitive reason. The reason is vitamin D deficiency.
Coma and brain death. I have major reason to believe these are wrong. My mother-in-law was brain dead 4 months ago. I dug into this extensively. These neurologists got it wrong. I don’t prefer proving them wrong, but I just wish they would understand much of what they know is way off. A lack of vitamin D creates all brain issues. Fix the vitamin D and their brain issues go away. If you know someone in a coma, try and get the doctor to be open to different methods. A dose of D3 injected into them may wake them up. I am not a doctor. I have not run clinical studies. But I have reason to believe high doses of D3 will wake up anyone from brain death. There is no such thing as brain death. You see, the body is still functioning and breathing on a breathing machine. The only reason they are unconscious is because (just like a video game) their level of Vitamin D is 0. Give an unconscious person a dose of D3, and I believe they will wake up.
Declared brain dead? Not so fast. Why don’t you pump em’ with 25,000 IU of D3 every day with the formula, and you tell me what happens.
Millions of people “swaying” on ventilators on Covid. It’s so simple. Their vitamin D levels are 0 or low. I have reason to think you would see a movie-like sweep through a hospital if they instituted high doses of D3 to every patient that is unconscious. If you are a doctor reading this, try me. I bet you have a patient that you just can’t figure out. Try supplementing them with Vitamin D and it’s not by mistake. DO IT. YOU WILL SAVE THEM. THEY WILL GET BETTER!
Yes, I am putting my own theory together of many things. But let me be perfectly clear, people like Dr. Coimbra and Dr. Berg are absolute superheroes of our Planet. Without their efforts to push mainstream, someone like me would not have been able to put the pieces together.
Wind Patterns are misunderstood. There is no such thing as being sick. We got this wrong. When you are sick, that means you are extremely lacking vitamin D. And when the world swings the coldest wind from glaciers into our warm wind, it will then "test" our vitamin D axis and we "sway" back-n-forth like zombies and get sick. The wind tests our vitamin D levels in a way from warm to cold. If your body goes from a hot climate to a cold climate, it "tests" your vitamin D levels the exact same way as if you went from a cold climate to a hot climate. Depending on how deficient in vitamin D you are, that is how sick you get. Extremely low vitamin D will get you extremely sick.
Birds. The birds may play a role in wind patterns. Birds are an early indicator of weather change because they ride the wave of the wind patterns to let us know. We could learn a lot from birds and wind rotations. Birds can tell us what the temperature is going to be.
The way we die is misunderstood. I believe after discovering vitamin D, that every person on planet Earth has their own unique place along with their ancestors where their vitamin D "axis" is optimal without too much supplementation. You can live anywhere, but your "axis" would be off a bit and supplementation would be needed. There is a Netflix series about Blue Zones, featuring Dan Buettner, who is an absolute Earth rock star by my own definition. These are the zones ideal for finding our axis. I am not sure if this axis is proven more optimal inserting the human into any of the many blue zones, or if there is “one specific” blue zone that works optimally for each person. From what I understand, I believe there is a chance each specific individual has their own specific blue zone where that specific individual will function optimally.
Do we all belong somewhere, even animals? Personally, my family has a golden retriever and dalmatian. We could not fix them during Covid because no appointments were available during that time. We messed up. Out came 7 puppies, but something unexpected happened. 4 were black and 3 were gold. We let this litter roam freely, but another unexpected thing happened. The 4 black pups always slept together, and so did the gold ones. This stunned me. What did we learn from this? Many of you might be looking at this in some racist way. That’s not what I’m onto here. You see, the black puppies just slept together. Yes, I watched them and yes, I could say the black puppies might’ve gotten along slightly better with each other. I would be in denial if I didn’t admit that fact, BUT the reality was much different than you think. When they weren’t sleeping together at night, they all played/fought/everything as a group. They were all unique, and had their own unique bonds with each other that we also share as humans of mixed races. They would defend different dogs sometimes on different days, just like we defend different siblings differently on different days. It was about the pack for most of the day. The pack as a whole, much like our planet, functions well if they work together. That is the lesson. Our lives and this planet are a mess. We either work together to make it better, or we don’t.
Life is not so simple and we do not get along that way. AI claims that it might not be possible for all of us to get along. The math and evidence didn’t quite work that for me, so I disagree. It takes a lot of time for things to come around. But like the wind, it circles the globe and it does come around. Anything is possible and nothing is impossible.
Dogs have their own vitamin D axis as well. So, does the blend of different dogs have any impact on which part of the planet each individual dog would function optimally on? Would black dogs function optimally on the opposite side of the planet that gold dogs would? Would humans work this same way? It will be up to us to unlock the rest of this puzzle. Something tells me this is just the very first block to figuring out wtf is going on here on Planet Earth.
If we got things this wrong, is it possible we do not truly know what the end of life is and when that comes? Does vitamin D play any role in the ending of our life? The afterlife? What happens if we have perfect vitamin levels, a perfect diet, and a perfect life? (If there is such thing.)
Animals are misunderstood. This is all in sync with animals too. Vitamin D deficiency has played a terrible role in the deaths of many animals, but we were not aware. I have 5 dogs with different issues, and I’ve never known about a deficiency that could make their life worse. Well, I am learning that even for our animals, a dose of Vitamin D would be more important for them than any of the shots/meds we give them today. It is crucial not only for human development, but for our dogs and cats too. Ever wonder why your dog's always eat grass? They are naturally sensing and looking for something that is nature related, in the form of vitamin D. This is why I’m assuming many domestic animals with no yard (apartments, etc.) lack the proper environment to live a long healthy life. We deprive the animals we have of their natural resources even though we love them. We will soon realize that a few vitamin drops (mainly D3) will be the reason for domestic animals to thrive without having nature around. These animals do not need both the sun and the vitamin D via food to survive, but they absolutely need both to live a full and extended life.
Vitamins are misunderstood. Just like a video game, all of the levels need to balanced or your character will not function properly. You will “sway” or “get sick.” The way we understand being sick is misguided. Here’s how I see it: The wind slaps us in the face from the opposite part of the planet. Cold air goes to warm air, and back and forth. This wind “tests” our vitamin D axis. If we handle it well, our levels are pretty good. If there is a strong cold front that sweeps through a town, that wind is essentially testing the vitamin, D levels and the people will start “swaying” or “getting sick.” The range of how sick you are is based mainly off of how low or high your vitamin D levels are. If we do something wrong on one side of the planet, it affects the other side. I would argue that this is dangerous. I am not quite onto it yet. But I do believe our Planet may struggle to balance itself without the cold glaciers. We can only get the food source vitamin D from so many places. If the glaciers are melted and there is no ocean to derive health vitamin D from, this could serve as an issue for all of mankind. We need to find ways to harvest and protect D3 so that we can use the vitamin to extend the duration of our species. I would argue most of our planetary funds should be used to explore exactly how we preserve this very vital vitamin.
Methane gas from cows. This uncovers a lot of possibilities. But maybe the wind circulating the methane from around the globe tilts people with a vitamin D axis level less if they are eating plant-based, compared to those eating the meat derived from the methane source.
D3 really is the cure for cancer. Yes, you need a bit of K and some magnesium and zinc. But D3 is the exact vitamin to zero in on. I tell people this and they think I’m crazy for thinking they are so sick due to a vitamin. It’s so much simpler than that. You CANNOT have even 1 vitamin be at 0 and live. You need them all, just like a video game. We get most vitamins through eating, but D3 is tricky. The dose of 500 that is recommended is not correct. Do your own research into the history of how we came up with vitamin D dosing, and you will find yourself at a point where the math doesn’t add up. And you will find that, compared to every other vitamin, vitamin D dosage isn’t quite right. I’ll leave that for you to debate. But, I believe the dosing for every human should be somewhere in the 7,000 – 10,000 IU range every day. If you are sick, 25,000 IU for 2 weeks and then it’s up to you. The dosage can very greatly and it should. You see, you can’t put a dose on vitamin D and that’s why it’s an issue. If you are suffering, taking daily doses of 25,000 to even 50,000 IU per day could have significant benefits. When your vitamin D reaches 100, I believe that’s optimal. And you could then probably reduce dosage to 10,000 – 15,000 IU a day depending on your levels.
Every single thing in life affects Vitamin D. Laughing, crying, moving, working out, doing nothing. Quite literally, every single thing we do during the day affects the axis of our vitamin D levels. The axis moves up with the vitamin D levels when we do positive things like laughing and dancing. Those levels move down when we do negative things like crying and fighting. It’s not by mistake that your head hurts because you are stressed or angry. That is you working your vitamin D level lower and it makes your brain hurt. The reason your brain hurts is because you had stress, and that stress moved down your vitamin D level which caused a headache/depression/any head pain at all. If you were to stop stressing out and supplement D3, you would notice your headache or depression will reside. You know what I think is odd? It’s so easy to attach a vitamin to an illness, but vitamin D is that vitamin. Vitamin D really does cure Depression, Disease, and I don’t know... I’ll leave it open to you and what you think it means. Is the 3rd one Death? I don’t know, but that’s D3 for ya.
D3 will help to revert nearly every disease on our globe. The more I look into D3, the more I find that it can cure anything. A dose of 10,000 for every single person on the globe, and the globe would see a health axis tilt we have never seen before. We always see stockpiled deaths on television. This quite literally would work in reverse. We could run it all the way up, but this time it will be people saved instead of deaths.
The main culprit is D3 dosing. 500 IU is like a speck of sugar. You need 20x that amount to function optimally for it to have affect. Around 10,000 IU a day is necessary.
Every single human has their own unique vitamin D level. It is possible to test that exact vitamin D level at the moment, and dose. But I would argue vitamin D levels can never be dosed exactly. Every single thing we do makes our vitamin D axis go up and down. If a loved one has passed, the surrounding family may suffer lower vitamin D levels which results in spousal death often later in life. It pushes their D levels lower in the months after loss pushing their levels lower and lower. Look out for people you care about during that time, because they really do need you. A show of support will raise vitamin D levels.
I hope this goes on to cure world-wide disease. Be yourself and listen to your body. You need more vitamins. Balance all of them and protect your micro-biome(gut) with nothing but 100% plant-based foods, and we can increase human life span by a number unknown, but massive in proportion. A tsunami of health spread like wealth around the world. Reject the meds and take vitamins instead. Reject chemo and take vitamins instead. Walk out into the sun with the “cancer” and “cure” yourself. Life is not what you think it is.
I struck much more gold than any lottery could provide me by accident. I am not quite sure what I did to be in charge of this information. This will be an ever-changing document because life never remains the same.
Written and distributed to family (Love you guys. Thanks for your patience.) on Saturday March 30, 2024. (around 4:00 a.m.)

I am a man born with normal xy chromosomes but my pituitary glands did not activate correctly and thus my body does not generate testosterone normally. I think normally a regular person’s testosterone is in the 200 range, well mine is in the 10s… my voice has been high and I have underdeveloped genitals. I have little to know facial hair either. My parents always thought I was a late bloomer so I didn’t know I had a hormone problem till after high school. When I was in my early 20s I grew tall but did not have any other puberty changes. In my early 20s I did hormone therapy for about 9 months and my voice got a little deeper but I really didn’t have any other changes. Since I had bad insurance and I was broke I stopped taking treatment and resumed it for about 6 months in my late 20s. Nothing really happened but I felt like I was horny all the time. Again I stopped because treatment was so expensive. I’m in my early 30s now and finally have a good job with good insurance. I only pay $10 bucks for a 3 month supply of testosterone gel and will probably have to take it the rest of my life. I hope this gel will trigger something in my and allows me to go through puberty. Wish me luck.
Edit: thanks for the upvotes and well wishes. My plan is to do the gel and then start on fertility drugs. My testicles swell when I’m on testosterone so maybe I can become fertile. It’s rare but not unheard of.
Edit: I’m on generic 1.62% testosterone gel and I take 3 pumps a day.

In the Land of Law, chaos reigned.
As we all stood (those of us who could stand) we had only six hours left until our last day, Recognition Day, ended. Once it was over, we would never be smacks (freshmen at The Citadel) again. The worst year of our life would be behind us. Forever.
It was also the last time the upperclassmen could get their licks in on my classmates. Seniors would be graduating and when they did they‟d never get to beat on a smack again.
I’d seen many unbelievable things in the last twenty-four hours since Recognition Day had begun. One of them was being dropped for push-ups in the hellhole, the small area at the base of the bottom of our spiral staircase. What we didn’t know was that someone had dropped light bulbs into the hellhole the night before so when we dropped to start cranking out the push-ups a few smacks cut their hands open.
Mr. Kenney, an upperclassman, heard someone gasp as his hand landed on glass and ordered us to stand up. He looked at smack Prindle’s hand and said, “We’ve got enough goddamn pussy smacks from this fucking company in the infirmary. Take care of it yourself.”
Fourteen years later Mr. Kenney’s head would be separated from his neck during a rocket attack on a mountaintop in Afghanistan.
Finding tape and gauze was not easy. Every smack’s room was a wreck. The night before upperclassmen herded us in packs from one smack’s room to another. As a result every smack room on all divisions was a shambles. In each room we did pushups, sit-ups, crunches, or simply hung by our exhausted arms from our full presses (the standalone steel closets we hung our clothes in) or the steam pipes that ran through each room until our arms gave out and we cried when we tried to make a fist.
Desks were upended, chairs knocked over, beds overturned. There was hardly any furniture in the rooms but they still looked like a disaster. The contents of half-presses(what silly-villains outside the gate call a chest of drawers) and desks mixed in with the gunk that had been yanked out from beneath the sink and dumped on us while we were grinding out pushups in the room. Some upperclassmen just went through rooms to wreck them for no other reason than getting one last dig at us before it was all over.
During the past twenty-four hours we‟d had two smacks wounded. The first was smack Everett who was hauled off on a stretcher in the middle of the night, his skull cracked into pieces (cracks from which would emerge an honor trial). The second one had been one of the ten of us packed into a room with two upperclassmen. One of the upperclassmen, a huge backwoods redneck country boy named Kinard ordered us to do sit-ups. So we all did sit-ups in that room. We would knock heads with each other and some even cried but all of us moaned.
Kinard said we weren’t “putting out” enough, weren’t sweating hard enough, weren‟t all crying. He reached under the room‟s sink for things to pour on us. Windex, 409, green scouring powder we used to scrub the toilets the upperclassmen puked in when their leave ended at midnight on weekends.
Everything and anything he could find under the sink he dumped on us as we writhed on the floor.
One of the things he did was pour brass cleaner onto smack Kim’s eyes. When Kim started screaming an upperclassman pulled him out by his legs while another shouted at us to work harder. But nighttime was now over and it was daylight. We were no longer half naked, screaming, sweating in a dark room with someone pouring Ajax on our faces.
Lunch at The Citadel was always terrible for smacks because of the abuse involved. The Lunch for Recognition Day, however, was a smorgasbord at a slaughterhouse. We had to eat whatever culinary catastrophes the upperclassmen fixed for us.
At lunch I’d watched in horror as an upperclassman poured two bottles of ketchup into a platter of squash and then dumped a jar of mustard into it. He ladled the resulting hazardous waste onto bread and made three sandwiches.
He told me to eat the first one while he found stuff to add to the other two. With every bite of that culinary abortion I gagged and felt something hard, warm, and round rise up to the back of my throat.
When I finished it, he handed me a glass of tea filled with pepper, ranch dressing, mustard, and grape jelly. I drank it and then had to eat the ice cubes dipped in salt and mustard and peanut butter – one by one.
When he handed me the second sandwich he said, “Here’s some peanut butter and ziti. Eat up.”
Whatever that hard round thing in the back of my throat was it leapt into my mouth the second bite.
The upperclassman stared at me calmly as my eyes popped open, my cheeks bulged out and I looked for something to vomit into. Every table has a steel bowl of ice on it and I yanked ours under my mouth just as I threw up the first sandwich and that glass of tea.
When the heaves stopped I looked down into the bowl of cold regurgitation looking so much like a cannibal‟s gazpacho. That‟s when the upperclassman handed me a spoon. I vomited again after the third spoonful.
Then the regimental adjutant called second rest which meant the meal was over.
The upperclassman got up and walked away from the table leaving me to get up from the table and stagger back to the barracks. As I did, upperclassmen from all around pointed at me.
“Look at that fucking smack! He’s walking like he’s got a load of Jell-O up his ass!”
“What’s the matter, smack? Didn’t you like lunch?”
“If you thought puking was bad wait till you have to take a shit!”
“You goddamn smacks have no fucking system! You don’t deserve a goddamn recognition day!”
“It’s not too late to quit, smack! It’s never too late!”
Now it was after lunch and we were sprinting around on the galleries and heading back to our company. The shouting was so loud in the battalion. There was music pumping from somewhere, Steely Dan’s “Back Jack, do it again.”
We were bracing so hard. All year we’d rolled our shoulders back farther and farther, pulled our chins in until our Adam’s apple dropped down into our crotch so that we had three testicles. Upperclassmen would come behind us and run the side of their palm between our shoulder blades. If there was room for their palm that meant we weren’t rolling back far enough. “Pull ‘em back!” they would shout. “Farther! Farther!”
I swear to God, when my smack year was over I was temporarily double-jointed.
Our only goal after lunch once we got back to our company from the mess hall was to stay on our feet long enough to hear the officer of the guard come on the Public Address system and say, “Class of 1994, the fourth class system is now over.”
We were all on the galleries now with only about five or six hours left until the end, until it was supposed to be all over for good. I was on the second division with my vomit-smeared shirt on when I heard the shouting. My pants sagged because moments earlier I’d had one of the most disgusting shitbag sophomores yank off my belt and then wrap it around one of the metal bars on the railing that ran along the gallery. The shitbag pulled back and forth on it, dragging it across the bars until smoke actually started to rise from the belt. I’d worked on that belt for months by rubbing heel & sole edge dressing across it until it was a fucking disco belt.
After the belt was smoldering and all the paint had been stripped off the bar on the railing he dropped it on the cement floor. At that moment I knew exactly what he was going to do and my shoulders slumped in expectation. I’d paid off one of my classmates, Ward, who was from Tallahassee, Florida, to get the buckle “blitzed” (lacquer removed and shined) like I wanted it after I’d destroyed two buckles (one I set on fire to try and get the lacquer off). I went to Ward because I realized that “blitzing” the buckle was something I could not do. And your belt buckle was the most noticeable part of your uniform.
How the fuck was I going to blitz another one? Ward, the guy who I’d finally gotten to blitz the thing wasn’t coming back next year. In the very beginning of Hell Week back in August Ward had been generous and glad to help. He’d come to us from a religious college that prepared students for the seminary. He later told us he considered the Catholic college he’d come from as a much more liberated place than The Citadel could ever be. But he was leaving at the end of our first year, proving that often the best of a group are the first ones to leave.
That shitbag upperclassman didn’t disappoint my expectations when he hauled his fat ass up into the air with a jump. With the grace of a leapt whale now falling back to water he landed the heels of his shoes on the buckle. Then he did it again.
Cracking a fellow smack’s head open I could understand and accept. Blood and guts were part of Lima Company and The Citadel. But destroying that buckle. That was too much.
Now I was watching something unbelievable happen in front of me in the no-man’s-land between Lima and Kilo Companies. In heading toward the source of the shouts I saw something that was horrifying but somehow made perfect sense. It involved my classmate Prindle who was a perennial problem.
Prindle’s hand was taped with athletic tape from the cuts that morning. And that hand was curled into a punch and taking a swing at the face of an upperclassman. Here, on the galleries of the Land of Law, the Citadel’s Third Battalion, Prindle was in a fistfight with an upperclassman! During my smack year I saw a lot of ridiculous things. But this was unbelievable.
A fistfight between a smack and an upperclassman was so bizarre I couldn’t believe my eyes. The most ridiculous part of the whole nightmare was that Prindle had picked a fight with Vipperman: a short, angry guy with a lump of red hair. Prindle couldn’t have beat Vipperman even if he’d been asleep. If there is reincarnation then I believe in a former life Vipperman had been a lion that ate Christians tossed into the Roman Coliseum.
Vipperman was the closest thing to a Nazi I will ever meet. A year after the fistfight Vipperman would be the one cadet a year who would undergo special forces training over the summer to qualify for the Green Berets. He would be one of the few who would complete the training and not quit. He was that tough.
Transfixed by the fight I did something just as unimaginable – I stood still on the galleries. That’s the one thing smacks are never to do. The rules are run here, run there, run in place, do push-ups, run some more, scream every now and then.
Prindle didn’t have a chance but he’d managed to pick a fight anyway, his foolhardiness being nothing new. Prindle had slowly made the transformation into something of a punk during smack year – a transformation that only hardened over the next three years. That transformation has been, to me, one of The Citadel’s great losses.
Despite his thuggish talk, Prindle was excellent at dodging punches and had a horrible swing. This made his transition to thug even sadder because if he was going to act like a thug you would hope he learned to be an effective one after throwing away such a fantastic future. But the guise and tongue of a thug was what he took on, not the fighting skills.
As I watched the fight somebody pushed past me and I saw it was Anderson. He was a Marine in the Reserves who’d arrived at Hell Week fresh from his boot camp at Parris Island. On our first day he didn’t really have any hair to shave off.
Sadly, Vipperman being the animal that he was saw Anderson coming and decided to aim for a target he could hit. And Anderson ran right into it. In rushing to aid a classmate Anderson was paid back with a punch square in the dead center of his chin, while Prindle had yet to take a single punch.
Anderson squinted his eyes shut, backed up a few feet, then fell back against the wall. The crowd around us went silent probably because they expected Anderson to fall down dead. But he didn’t. Instead Vipperman just sent him to limbo. Then to my horror I found myself running forward at Vipperman. Why I was doing it I don’t know. Prindle had treated me worse than the upperclassmen. Perhaps I was still caught up in the stupid belief that we were all in this together. That teamwork mattered, that I wasnt part of a company that inspired hatred and backstabbing, that encouraged betrayal and promoted hostility in the ranks.
When I slapped my hands down on Vipperman’s shoulders I had no fucking idea what the hell I was supposed to do. There was no doubt in my mind that from the moment I grabbed Vipperman to the second he easily stepped out of my grip, spun around, and swung at me that I was going to be hit. But instead, luckily, he missed.
“Your brother can’t save you!” Vipperman spat at Prindle, which hit the nail right on the head. Prindle‟s brother was a junior over in Golf Company, a dumpy potato of a guy whose one distinguishing characteristic was that he had been one of two cadets from the entire school to wear the medal of an air force flight officer. The air force during that time was very selective about pilots and only gave two guaranteed flight slots to the school. One of them had gone to Prindle‟s brother which led the rest of the school to wander around scratching their heads. He presented an especially bewildering image. Cadets thought pilots were dashing, masculine types who girls fought over. Prindle’s brother was as masculine as a set of pearl earrings.
It was a known fact that Prindle would get in trouble and then his brother would come along and get him out of it. It wasn’t that Prindle’s brother pulled a lot of weight, but that medal on his chest marked him as pretty special. (The entire Corps burst into laughter, though, when a year later the air force rescinded the medal meaning that the only thing Prindle‟s brother would fly in the air force was a desk.)
In response to having a brother who took care of him Prindle got more and more arrogant. I would have loved to see Vipperman clean his clock. Instead I was doing my best to keep that from happening.
Prindle’s swings were weak and wide while Vipperman’s were hard and sharp.
Unfortunately not one of Vipperman’s punches connected and if just one had Prindle would be the third smack carried out of my company to the infirmary on a stretcher in the past twenty-four hours. In the fight the only thing that Prindle had proved to everyone watching was that Vipperman was right – he was a stone cold pussy and that without his brother around he really was useless.
The funny thing about all the cadets on the division gathering around us was that no upperclassman tried to stop the fight. I think that was because everyone wanted to see Prindle get laid out. He and his brother had pretty much exhausted everybody in the corps. Everyone hated them both.
Then a hand landed on my shoulder and pushed me back against the gallery wall. I spun around, ready to take a swing at what I sure was Vipperman’s demonic and bloodthirsty roommate, Cadet Corporal Smith.
A lot of upperclassmen were certifiably insane, but Smith wasn’t. He was a sober-eyed sadist who would torment smacks for hours on end. Once when I was on guard Smith got chewed out by the sergeant of the guard because he had a smack in his room being tortured for hours while the smack’s family was waiting down in the sally port to take him to dinner.
Smith fed off the suffering of the smacks sweating it out underneath him. And what was so frightening was the cool, detached way he could observe what was going on right underneath his nose. He was a black badge, heading into the army after graduation.
Right after seeing him go to work on some smack I decided army life wasn’t for me.
Instead of Smith or some other sadistic upperclassmen standing in front of me there was only the bewildered and anxious face of my battalion commander, Cadet Lieutenant Colonel Clabby. I’d been on his mess before and he was something of a sarcastic smartass who was always asking questions about the mating habits of yaks and wildebeests that none of the smacks could answer. He played in a rock band in the school talent show that had sounded god awful.
Some looks can speak volumes but Clabby‟s only said one word – terror. Then he said the words. The words that I remember to this day, words that shook the very foundation of my being when he said them in a jittery tone of voice that frightened me because it was a glimpse at where The Citadel was headed.
“You’ve gone too far.”
Clabby looked around and then remembered that he was still the highest-ranking person in his battalion. Tired of looking ridiculous he grabbed Vipperman and pushed him back against the wall. True to form Vipperman (still in a blind rage) swung at Clabby and connected.
Clabby was then thrown back against the wall next to Anderson. Grabbing his jaw and pushing himself away from the wall, Clabby shouted, “Clear the goddamned galleries! Every single swinging dick in this company is confined to their rooms! Now!”
A few minutes later we heard the second battalion officer of the guard come over the public address system in the barracks and give an order that the galleries in Third Battalion were to be cleared immediately.
The damage, however, was done. For the next four years for those of us who saw that fight would never forget the chaos that unfolded around us so quickly. Order had broken down. Things had happened far too fast even for the system to catch it.
And we would have to live with that memory.
Forever.
The violence didn’t just “start” on Recognition Day. The day before we charged the stairs. That was when all of the upperclassmen in a company stood on the first flight of stairs leading from the shirt-tuck well/Hellhole to the second division. All of them stood packed onto the stairs, mashed between the peeling steel railing and the concrete walls.
Upperclassmen screamed at us and waved to us, daring us to come up the stairs as all the smacks in my company sprinted from lunch to Smack Burns‟s room in front of the stairs. All of us packed in there together were excited, frightened, and drenched with sweat. As soon as all of us were there we looked around the room for someone to say “go.”
Outside on the stairs the upperclassmen were each trying to make themselves more insulting than the others by throwing out profanity and insults. They screamed about pussies and faggots and pieces of shit.
“Brown, you fatty! Get out here so I can rip that belly off you and sell it by the pound!”
Or
“Grant, that cross-eyed mother of yours won’t know who you are after I cut that big nose off for a doorstop!”
Or
“‘‟m going to smash all the brains out that fat ass of yours, Gooding!”
Cadets who had attended airborne school in the army told me that you’re in a line that shuffles forward when the time to jump comes. You just shuffle forward, then – amazingly – you’re standing in an open door looking several thousand feet down at the ground. Then you jump. No thinking about it, no pausing, no stopping. You just shuffle forward by habit and then you’re falling so fast you can’t even scream. No thought or planning involved. It just sort of happens.
That’s what occurred in that room. The door opened onto the galleries. (Who did it I don’t know.) No one in the room had said anything. There was no signal. Simply put, the noise from the staircase exploded into the room louder than any artillery when the door opened. Then we smacks just started shuffling forward toward the door, the noise on the stairs getting louder and louder as we did.
When I got to the door I saw several of my classmates in front of me, wrestling and fighting with upperclassmen. One of my classmates was picking himself up off the ground, both lips split. Another was inside the Hellhole and had climbed up the side of the stairs and was punching two upperclassmen and trying to climb over the railing. Both of them were pushing and punching him back.
What I was supposed to do I had no idea. How does one enter a gangbang of pummeling? Running forward I felt my stomach punted through my back.
Falling down,I grabbed my stomach and fell to my knees. I tried not to vomit even though I wished I could. If I could maybe I could spit up the shoe that I felt was lodged in my stomach after the kick.
Picking myself up off the ground, I stood up and shuffled toward the stairs.
I couldn’t tell if my classmates had made any progress. There was just a mass of cadets in gray punching each other.
As I shuffled forward I looked around on the gallery and saw Edwards, a pot-bellied Neanderthal senior who rarely shaved, kneeling down on the galleries beside me, his face purple. His head was resting on the cement beneath his knees and he had both hands cradling his testicles.
A junior, Cobb, was standing on the galleries, one hand on the wall for support, another covered in bloody bile and shoved in his mouth, wiggling teeth.
Tantalo, a short and squat smack, had his arm around Haskett, another smack, and was helping him walk away. A bloody piece of Haskett’s cheek flapped back from his face like someone had shoved a nail in it and then ripped it back. Tantalo’s shirt was yanked out of his pants and someone had yanked down his shirt pocket, revealing his undershirt.
Still unsteady, I lurched forward and barreled past some cadets and made it up four whole steps. With every step came a punch but since I was bent over slightly, most of the blows landed on my sides and back. Everyone, however, has an Achilles Heel.
Somebody found mine with an uppercut. Immediately after a fist rocketed up under my chin I heard an “Ow! Fuck!”
Missing the first step entirely, I fell backwards from the second step to the gallery’s cement floor and landed on my back where the ceiling above me spun around a few times. Then several people walked on my legs and arms as they staggered backward or fell from the stairs. I shouted but in all that chaos who would hear me?
Getting up, I leaned against the wall for a second. Looking up, I could see that there were a lot less gray shirts on the stairs. The goal was for a smack to make it to the second division which would signal the end and stop the fighting.
Except no one cared that smacks had made it because I could see several of them running around on the second division. Upperclassmen and smacks were still whaling on each other, clubbing and scraping and kicking and biting. Who wanted to run up to the stairs and win when beating each other senseless was far more fun?
One more time I ran up the stairs. No one hit me, probably because they were too engaged in the dance partner they were going to wrap this all up with. I got to the second division and ran down the gallery to Smack Prieto’s room.
Slamming the door behind me with no one in it but me I tried to figure out what had just happened to me and why getting to this floor was worth major damage to my internal organs and teeth.
At that moment I heard the Second Battalion officer of the guard screaming into the PA system that Lima Company was to clear the galleries at once. The officer of the guard shouted once more then a gruffer voice seized the microphone.
“This is Captain Hilliker, United States Army. I order Lima Company cadets to report to their rooms this goddamned minute!” Hilliker was our company TAC Officer, an active duty officer who supervised Lima Company. He was a tough but decent guy I’d dealt with a few times.
He was an Army Ranger going back to grad school so he could be assured of clearing the long jump from lieutenant colonel to colonel. His degree would be in business and he didn’t understand any of it.
One night when I was serving as private of the guard on guard duty he ate at our mess while he read his textbooks. All he did the whole time we ate with him was swear, eat erasers, and break pencils. With a tone that didn’t match his usual dominant personality he asked if any of the cadets at the table were business majors. He sounded like he’d just given the order to retreat.
When all of us answered no he bit a pencil in half and shoved one half in his book then slammed it shut in the manner that only someone who knew how to kill with his bare hands could. Communists, terrorists - he could handle anyone with a gun but spreadsheets could crush him pretty easy. He spat the other half of the pencil out of his mouth onto the mess hall floor and smashed it with his boot heel while getting up to leave.
Back in Smack Prieto’s room I dropped down on my ass on the floor and leaned back against his steel half-press. As the adrenaline emptied from my veins my body grew sore and my jaw felt like it had been reset.
To understand one of the reasons why I went to The Citadel and ultimately why my life’s ambition was to be a Marine Officer, I have to look back to a day on the beach when I was in fifth grade. Like most days in Florida it was warm. What month it was I don’t know. What I remember is that it was warm enough for my father and me to sit out on the beach in folding chairs. He was living in a house on the beach, one of several residences he’d had since Mom ordered us all to pack up and she officially left him. The divorce had been going for several months, maybe longer.
Those days were my first combat experiences because what was being waged between my two parents was a guerilla war to end all wars. It had all the brutality of the Somme and a feeling of futility that only the doomed members of the charge of the Light Brigade could understand. Mom and her lawyer believed that nothing was off-limits during the trial and my father was still struggling to accept that Mom was playing the kind of hardball with him that she was playing.
It was a gray day and my father and I were sitting out on the beach on one of his visitation weekends. Like usual I was the only one who had volunteered to visit him, his increasing anger at Mom and his violent displays of temper were simply too much for my brother and sister so they declined to come.
But I wanted to go. I saw these visits as proof of my loyalty to my father. Proof that he could count on me as he always could before. When my father and Mom were married I was always cleaning up the messes he made when he staggered around the house, dead drunk. I was glad to do it because I wanted so badly to show him that I was loyal and faithful and all the things a good son could be.
I guess that’s why I didn’t see what was coming my way when my father and I unfolded those chairs on the beach. Up until that moment I was still in awe of him. All of that, however, was about to come to an end.
My father was known in our home and around town as a war hero. He had fought in every major battle in Vietnam from Khe Sanh to the Tet Offensive.
People knew him as an angry Vietnam Vet who had yet to get over all of the bodies and horrors he’d seen fighting in Vietnam. One time he told me, “You can’t imagine all of the people who have just died like that,” and snapped his finger, “right in front of me.”
A number of his bunkmates from Parris Island were killed in Vietnam. One of them was shot through the gut when they were in a bunker together at Khe Sanh. My father told me that at Khe Sanh there were huge waves of Vietcong rushing up the side of a hill toward the American base. He was desperately trying to hold back the horde but not making a dent.
“We could only kill so many of them. There were just too damn many,” he’d say in the story he repeated to numerous people hundreds of times.
I don’t remember what he said his bunkmate’s name was. I only remember that he died horribly.
Every time my father told the story he cried, regardless of who his audience was.
His bunkmate simultaneously tried to breathe and scream in agony. And my father couldn’t do anything for him because the Vietcong kept coming. They had to be stopped or at least my father had to try to stop them. So he cradled his dying friend with one arm and continued to shoot with the other.
He couldn’t hear his friend’s attempts to speak over the shooting and the shoutingand the carnage that was going on all around them in the bunker. It was only between bursts from his rifle that he could glance down and see that his friend was dying slowly and in sheer agony.
Listening to his stories was hard for me as I think it was for anyone who heard them. It was a rare moment that I could listen without crying. Most people in my hometown were the same way. Once my father got going on Vietnam the tears started.
“He tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t hear him,” my father would say as his voice quivered. “I was too busy firing with my other hand. There were so many of them. They just wouldn’t stop coming. A few minutes after I had pulled him to me so I could hold him he was dead.”
There were others my father saw die right in front of him – Marines killed by landmines, a poor private shot in the head by a sniper, a gunnery sergeant killed in an ambush, many others who were killed instantly and suddenly in a burst of machine gun fire or vaporized by an incoming mortar shell.
My father was a true warrior and I idolized him.
“Why did you lie to your head shrinker?” my father asked me after we’d sat down on the folding chairs in the sand. What a head shrinker was I didn’t know so I just stared back at my father. He had a look on his face that said he was struggling with something.
A pained look.
“You lied to your head shrinker – what’s his fucking name? Rick? You lied to him about me.”
Mom had put me in therapy with a psychologist named Rick a few months after she left him. I liked him but I think I would have liked any man she paired me up with. It was the first time in my life where I had contact with a man on a regular basis and there was something wonderful about it I didn’t dare admit to my father. Most of the time with Rick was spent talking about Mom and my father and the divorce. My father had violently objected to me being sent to see Rick. But his violently objecting to anything was nothing new.
“I didn’t lie to him,” I said, bewildered, not sure where this conversation was going.
“Yeah you did. You told him I told you I went to Vietnam. I never said I went to Vietnam.”
There are no words for what I felt at that moment besides emptiness. The man who I barely knew yet was fiercely proud of, the man who had defined patriotism and courage for me had disappeared as instantly as one of the poor Marines who were vaporized by an explosion in his stories. My whole life up until that point ended abruptly.
Rick had been asked to testify at one of the divorce hearings and he did so, gladly.
What he told the judge that day behind closed doors (which I’m sure my father was thankful for) was quite possibly the most startling piece of gossip ever unearthed in our small little town. Amazingly, it never left the judge’s chambers.
“You’ve failed me, Shane. You’ve failed me as a son,” my father then said.
That was it. He didn’t say anything else and only sat there until he went back inside for a beer and didn’t come back out. I sat on the beach in that chair for the rest of the day until the sun went down and the beach grew cold.
From that moment on I‟ve been trying to prove something to myself that I can’t quite understand. I only know it took root in me on that beach that day and would have enormous consequences in my life. Not only was my father a coward, I realized, but he was an enormous liar and a disgrace to the Marine Corps he was so proud of.
That day was also the day I vowed, secretly, to become a Marine – and not just a Marine but a Marine officer. In that single humiliating moment when I realized my father was a coward I vowed I could redeem myself with the same uniform that he’d sullied with his cowardice – that I could not just become a Marine but lead Marines. It was a secret I guarded closely for most of my life.
Sadly, when Dad liked about his actions in Vietnam it wasn’t just consequences with me that he faced. Once I was watching the show “Sixty Minutes” and there was a segment about a man who had received the Congressional Medal of Honor in World War II. On the show he talked about his new job – finding people who made false claims to have fought in wars and exposing them as cowards and frauds. When I was watching it I felt a touch of fear. How could I not feel that way? The man was hunting my father.

nerve damage? PLEASE TAKE TIME TO READ (DESPERATE!)
PLEASE TAKE THE TIME TO READ!
So I’d say about three months ago I used a pump for the first time. I had pushed down a little too hard into my pelvic floor and I had started feeling pain at the left side base of my penis sort of to the middle shaft. It’d be like a tingly/painful string. The pain would worsen when I masturbated. I went to a urologist and he felt around and said testicles were fine and everything else. When I was there though he felt and pushed around my pelvic floor and said it’s just a inflamed nerve you will be fine just rest . He sent me for a scrotum and testicles ultrasound (everything looked perfectly fine) . After my appointment I abstained for 3-4 weeks symptoms went away everything was gone no pain whatsoever . I masturbated and the pain in the penis came back. It wasn’t as bad as the first time but it was pretty irritating that I was still feeling some type of something. Now it’s been on and off with the pain . It only comes back if I masturbate or I have sex. But other then that I don’t feel anything at all. If I hold my pee or while i’m peeing I feel a little pinch in the left base but it’s not all the time. I really want this to go away though. I want to be able to masturbate and have sex without having to worry about expecting pain afterwards . It’s gotten better most definitely but how much longer am I going to have to deal with this? My erections are just fine as for ejaculating everything feels normal. Does anyone have any answers please? I also noticed one thing I wasn’t able to get it up right after finishing during sex like I would usually but I also had not had sex for a while so would it just be a decrease of endurance ?

Hi all,
I'm a tc survivor aged 40 and survived with 1 testicle. After my test was low i started with gels with 2 pumps a day.
Last few months i have switched to injections and taking 100mg x2 times for 7 days or 1 week.
I feel relatively better but still struggle with erections, libido, low energy etc. I don't take estrogen inhibitors frequently but if i feel I'm bloating then i take one per week.
I do take fish oil to regulate shbg, inspite of taking all these supplements I'm struggling.
Can everyone share your respective TRT protocol with dosage and supplements.

While holding my phone laying down my whole upper body pretty much is being moved by my heartbeat. I assume this is because the infection is in my chest neck arms head so it’s just pumping the blood hard through it all creating this literal motion of my body ????
Does anyone have any insights into this? I haven’t made a ton of progress on rifampin and minocycline. Diagnosed with the 3 Bs and mold/heavy metals. I can’t stop thinking about that damn Covid vaccine every single day of my life. I feel like that really set things off and caused my heart to start pounding throughout my chest and head. That damn vaccine haunts me every day and I just want to know what’s mainly causing my issues.. I’ve tried HBOT, ozone, antibiotics, antihistamines, diet changes, exercising, sauna, etc. nothing really helps i feel like I’m just healing very very slowly if at all. Did anyone else have their heart become this massive pressure creator in their body after the vax or something similar ? Or is this just Bartonella ? I defintiely get pain in my testicles and bottoms of feet palms of hands etc…

While holding my phone laying down my whole upper body pretty much is being moved by my heartbeat. I assume this is because the infection is in my chest neck arms head so it’s just pumping the blood hard through it all creating this literal motion of my body ????
Does anyone have any insights into this? I haven’t made a ton of progress on rifampin and minocycline. Diagnosed with the 3 Bs and mold/heavy metals. I can’t stop thinking about that damn Covid vaccine every single day of my life. I feel like that really set things off and caused my heart to start pounding throughout my chest and head. That damn vaccine haunts me every day and I just want to know what’s mainly causing my issues.. I’ve tried HBOT, ozone, antibiotics, antihistamines, diet changes, exercising, sauna, etc. nothing really helps i feel like I’m just healing very very slowly if at all. Did anyone else have their heart become this massive pressure creator in their body after the vax or something similar ? Or is this just Bartonella ? I defintiely get pain in my testicles and bottoms of feet palms of hands etc…

Hi Everyone,
I'm sharing my story thus far to hopefully get some advice on what I should do moving forward. There is a little bit of backstory just so everyone can understand where I'm coming from.
So, I had a vasectomy just under 3 weeks ago (Feb 27, 2024) and managed to get a hematoma right away in the Right side. I went back in to see the surgeon the next day with my scrotum the size of a large Grapefruit. Bruising was spreading into my Right upper thigh and lower abdomen.
The surgeon attempted to drain that day (Day 2) but was unsuccessful.
I went back in to see the surgeon on Day 7 Post Op because the swelling was not going down and the Pain was very uncomfortable - The Bruising spread considerably with the entire front side of the top of my right thigh completely covered in bruising. He indicated that there wasn't anything they could do at that time as the risk of going in was greater than the potential benefit (Risk of re-opening the artery or whatever). They scheduled an Ultrasound and a final follow-up the day before heading back down for work (I work in Nevada - Live in Western Canada).
The ultrasound and follow-up cleared and they said I was OK to go down, just be gentle and don't do any heavy lifting, keep compressed, etc. I also want to note that I had no discharge of any kind or infection coming from the incision site throughout all of this until Day 17 Post-Op. For clarification: I headed to work Day 10 Post-op with an OK from the Docs.
Now, I noticed that there was some slight dark red-to-black ,bloody discharge with what I assume is coagulated blood from the hematoma. It's not "pumping" out like arterial, it oozes. This began on Day 17, and seems to be increasing in volume slowly. Pain is definitely less in the R Testicle which I assume is from the slow draining of the Hematoma.
Over all, at day 20, I do not have any significant or "new" pain or additional swelling (swelling has gone down overall, but the right side is still the size of an elongate orange) and bruising is slowly fading. I also do not have a fever or any other signs of infection. I have covered the incision site with neosporin, sterile gauze, and some adhesive "Mefix" to keep things sterile. The oozing has not subsided since the evening of Day 17 and is continuing to soak the banadge I have on.
My main question is if it's worth it to go see a Dr. or will they just tell me to do the same thing: keep things secure, ice regularily, don't do any heavy lifting, etc.
I've read a lot of posts on here and hopefully someone has some advice, or has gone through a similar situation.
Thanks in Advance.

Has anyone had difficulty deflating? We understand the pump ball is hard in the beginning, and that’s getting a little better, but it’s high up behind the right testicle, and we have to blindly feel around for the release button. Sometimes it seems like we got it, but mostly not.
Last time we were in the Dr office, the Coloplast rep found it and partially deflated it.
Note: original surgery was in late November. Problems with inflation/deflation prompted a 2nd surgery in early February. He took out the pump, found it working fine, and re-inserted it.
Is it common to have to fish around for the release valve?

Seeking advice or just wanna know if anyone has the same issue. I don’t wanna sound like a loser but I’m addicted to porn in all seriousness. I bring this up because I had my implant (pump and testicle) surgery about 3 weeks ago. I’ve been jerking off since 1 week post op. Being as careful as possible of course but I still should not being doing anything of this till at least 6 weeks post op. I’m struggling so bad to not jerk off. I have some soreness coming back to my pubic area now and I think it’s from what I just mentioned. Has anyone experienced a bad outcome from doing this too soon? I know I need to stop but it’s always been an issue for me. Also any tips on helping with this addiction would be appreciated.

HolyJuan:
Jan 19, 2014
I had it done a few years ago. No issues with sex life, but... When I did my research on the procedure, I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. But after the surgery, I was having pain past the initial three days of expected pain. After about a week of quick, sharp, pulling pain, I did some additional research on post surgery pain. It turns out, there is a percentage of men who have pain for the rest of their lives. I about shit. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post-vasectomy_pain_syndrome
My pain lasted a few months and became more and more infrequent. Now, I probably have a sharp pain once every few months. I'm very glad I'm not one of the ones that live with it on a daily basis.
https://www.reddit.com/AskReddit/comments/1vm3uv/men_who_had_vasectomy_single_or_married_how_was/cetywsp/
Deleted-feec21b9:
Mar 02, 2023

Hi. Here almost 3 months post vasectomy. Since first sex after V, what we experienced was way less pleasurable sex during ejaculation. Like no pumping, no emptying sensation while ejaculation. And now sex drive is going down quickly as well. Everything works but less sex drive and less pleasure during orgasm. I heard reversal improves and helps regaining normal, pre vasectomy sex life. Did anyone had reversal due to this issues? Any complications from reversal? Did reversal help regaining your sex drive and orgasm? Please help Thank you.

I totally understand !!! I had my vasectomy close to 2 years ago and never been the same since , I also used to love prostate play big O’s every time but now nothing it’s depressing, looking into reversals asap in Brisbane
https://www.reddit.com/VasectomyReversal/comments/112l0dp/anyone_had_reversal_due_to_reduced_orgasm_and_sex/jap2wc
Grimlocklou:
Oct 28, 2018
My dad has pain for a year, he was one of the rare few but it can happen.
https://www.reddit.com/childfree/comments/9s15f1/post_vasectomy_problems_anyone_experienced_this/e8la9n9/
Snipsnipthrowaway:
Jan 19, 2014
Throwaway just to say this. I had it done just under 3 years ago and wish I could go back and stop myself. The swelling after the procedure was bad and my balls ached. Thought it'd be better after the swelling went away but it never has. Some days are better than others, but it is always there.
https://www.reddit.com/AskReddit/comments/1vm3uv/men_who_had_vasectomy_single_or_married_how_was/cetuis2/
94eb591a:
Sep 22, 2016
Please look up post vasectomy pain syndrome. It is very real. I wish I would have known about it before I went through with it.
Mar 5, 2024
To be honest, I don't remember the date of my vasectomy. Pain was specifically in my left testicle. There was always a low-level dull ache, maybe 1-2/10 on the pain scale. That lasted for a couple of years. Occasionally will experience the same thing. Still to this day, just bumping the testicle will make me feel as if I was just "kicked in the balls"(like I "racked myself") for better lack of terminology.
Redditor name withheld upon request
etf42:
Apr 28, 2019
Yes, I regret it daily. It ruined my hormone levels and sex drive.
https://www.reddit.com/AskReddit/comments/9yjyy5/men_of_reddit_do_you_regret_getting_a_vasectomy/em0zuhn/

Been in Fetch since ~2021. Liked the sub because project activities were being highlighted.
No longer interested in the cringe moon posts on my timeline. *Looking at you Warcraft.
No posts lately have been concerning the value of the project.
It’s just the incessant crypto stock analysts and the poor people, swarming on a coin that is being pumped still by speculation at this point.
I learned in 2020’s bull run not to make picks based off hype or embracing financial star charts. Don’t go on subs asking “When moon? When moon? Should I sell? Should I sell my testicle if Fetch reaches 4$, is there potential for a $100?”
There are no valuable answers to those questions. As good as asking me to predict when you might die and what you should do to maximize your time before that point.
Anyway, I could go on forever. Cheers on getting this out of my home feed, and thank you… the reader… for sharing in some frustration as well by reading this entire post.