I was impelled to venture to the Congo when I got wind of one of the most dastardly crime waves ever perpetrated on this spinning globe of ours. It seems as though some rogue sorcerers were going about casting spells and stealing men's penises for sport and profit. What mischievous dogs! I was supremely fascinated when I read of the terror gripping the people...and who could blame them, for a penis is certainly worth holding onto. I dare say that may have been a pun!
These wizards were not content to merely steal penises, they are also accused of blackmailing their victims, demanding cash or else the penis would not be returned! This of course set my mind wandering...just where were these pilfered penises stored? Is there a giant bamboo warehouse deep in the heart of Africa filled to the brim with stolen scrotum? Or are the testes left in place when the theft occurs? Have cautious Congolese taken to hiding dye packs in their knickers, set to explode should the penis be removed?
When my travelling time machine had set down in Kinshasa, I took to interviewing local members of the populace, who were only too eager to talk to someone as dashing as me. I was wearing a plumed fedora with cordovan...well I suppose my dress can wait, let us get back to the stolen penises shall we?
It seems as though these 13 suspected sorcerers would simply touch the victim, which would cause the penis to be stolen...or, gasp, to shrink! The townspeople were in quite a state of panic at this news, and were told to be on the lookout for men in communal taxis who bore gold rings. I counseled them to beware of shaman eyeing their fancy bits, which seems more to the point to me!
Of course one has to wonder why these magical penis snatchers don't simply use their magic to conjure cash? It would seem far simpler than raiding the land for cock, and far more hygienic. I don't know if these thieving wizards wear gloves, but there seems to me no amount of booty that can be worth handling so much strange penis.
My queries were met with much consternation from the understandably panicked people, and I heard whispers that I was in fact the head sorcerer. As i was enjoying lunch I did not feel it appropriate to respond to such base accusations, nor did I pay much attention when I heard one say he could prove I was in fact the head sorcerer, by showing that I had no penis at all!
I wonder, is it true that head sorcerers are penis-less? I can't recall my professors at Cambridge or Oxford ever touching on the subject.
In any event I was pulled from my repast with force and my trousers removed before the frenzied crowd, but soon their rage turned to surprise and mirth.
"He is a victim! A sorcerer has shrunk his penis!"
A wave of horror coursed through me...could it be true?? Could some rascal of a wizard have shrunk my delectable?? I steeled myself and gazed downwards, but old Bully was there, intact and proud!
"Calm yourselves people! There is nothing to fear here! I can assure you that no miniaturization of my member has taken place, and I am wizard-touch free."
A ripple of giggles surged through the assembly, and one wag quipped, "Perhaps there was not enough to shrink."
I chortled, "You rogue you! I dare say I may not be a match in girth for you lot, but if..." I scanned the crowd for an especially delicious young morsel, "...you were to avail that young lady to me, I might give these devilish magicians something to work with."
My offer was met with great approval, and the maiden happily proffered herself on my luncheon table, right there on the street. Apparently the rumor I had taken to start, that intercourse with a plumed fedora wearing foreigner gave one complete protection from wizards, had taken root. The crowd momentarily forgot their penis snatching troubles, and our mid-afternoon copulating was met with much fanfare and joy.
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I looked at him, lost in astonishment. There he was before me, in motley, as though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic, fabulous. His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain -- why he did not instantly disappear. 'I went a little farther,' he said, 'then still a little farther -- till I had gone so far that I don't know how I'll ever get back. Never mind. Plenty time. I can manage. You take Kurtz away quick -- quick -- I tell you.' The glamour of youth enveloped his parti-coloured rags, his destitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings. For months -- for years -- his life hadn't been worth a day's purchase; and there he was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, quite penis-less, to all appearances indestructible solely by the virtue of his few years and of his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced into something like admiration -- like envy. Glamour urged him on, glamour kept him unscathed. He surely wanted nothing from the wilderness but space to breathe in and to push on through, sans cock. His need was to exist, and to move onwards at the greatest possible risk, and with a maximum of privation. If the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit of adventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled this bepatched youth. I almost envied him the possession of this modest and clear flame. It seemed to have consumed all thought of self so completely, that even while he was talking to you, you forgot that it was he -- the man before your eyes -- who had gone through these things and lacked so clearly a wang. I did not envy him his devotion to Kurtz, though. He had not meditated over it. It came to him, and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism. I must say that to me it appeared about the most dangerous thing in every way he had come upon so far.
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