In February ’97, staff writer Otto Luck had a relapse of an ailment he suffered as a child. Much to his in-laws’ chagrin, it was not fatal and Otto duly recovered. In light of this fortuitous development, we decided to reprint Otto’s account of the childhood malady, originally published in Public Illumination, out of Spoleto, Italy, a couple of years back.

"Lay down, Sonny. It'll pass," she suggested.

Being the obedient and dutiful son I was, I lay down as instructed. Soon my balls grew the size of coconuts and went from pink to red to a shade of purplish-blue which glowed in the dark.

Mom made some calls and I was rushed to Our Sacred Sister of the Holy Divine Hospital in South Queens where I was examined by a Dr. Petrie Fitzmanning. I recall that the doctor wore a monocle and bore a striking resemblence to Colonel Klink of Hogan's Heroes. I seem to even remember him having a riding crop tucked under one arm.

"Vell, vott do we huv here," he said, removing a leather glove.

He knocked my testes about a bit to see if they would hurt even more after doing so. I yelped like a basset hound. Tears began streaming down my face and my lunch started working its way back out of my stomach. Schubert's Fifth Symphony played in my head backwards and I saw the entire constellation of Ursa Major spin before me like a Ferris wheel although my eyes were clenched shut.

When I was finally yanked down from the ceiling, the doctor gave me a very rosy and unanticipated prognosis. Fitzmanning explained that my torsion had reversed itself. I would need no further medical attention other than a week's bed-rest in the hospital. This, I imagine, to recover from the merciless abuse administered by his own hands.

A few days later, upon my release, I asked him if it could ever happen again.

He answered, yes, most likely when I was in my mid-twenties.

I'll be twenty-four this November. I can only hope that Fitzmanning has retired to quiet seclusion and my testicles are safe from the wrath of his deadly grip.

Note: Otto’s torsion recurred in February ’97. (You may have noticed a slightly embittered tone to his writing as of late.) As mentioned, however, he has since recovered and is spending his days healing and shooting pigeons with a BB gun from his apartment window.

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