WET RAGS

© Dana W. Paxson 2005

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WET RAGS

1540 4D

“Hey, Andrew, you up?” Nexi‘s voice; the ceiling of the dispensary glared white in Andrew‘s face.

“I’m — aah!” He tried to move; his pelvis blazed with pain.

Nexi put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Stay still. Tell you, brod, your eyes went pure white, you went down like wet rags. We got you in here to rest, and the cockbuster gave us the shift off to think about it.”

“You owe me one,” Andrew whispered.

“I tried to tell you,” Nexi said.

“Next time, throw something at me.”

With his scrotum swollen and tender, he could barely walk or urinate for a week. He fought his way through the rest of the training stint, stone-faced the whole time, hiding his pain in that dark and bitter place he would never let his father see.

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