“Eleven fifty-four,” the kid said, piling the bills and coins together and pushing them across the counter along with my bag of groceries. Although he wore the white shirt and tie required of all supermarket employees, his hair was a little too long and he sported an earring, neither of which were permitted for anyone but the nephew of the owner of the chain. The worst part was the little asshole’s attitude. I worked in a store as a youngster and we had to be polite, always thank the customer, and count the change back coin by coin. This little shithead acted like he was doing me a favor by taking my money.

“Thank me, you little dildo,” I said softly as I pocketed my change.

“Huh?” He sounded like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me correctly.

“I said thank me. Say something like maybe Thank you, sir. Have a nice day. Or something like that to at least acknowledge my presence. I only spend a couple of thousand dollars a year here but I still deserve a little respect.”

“Oh thank you so very much, Sir. Please come back real soon now. Whatever.” His voice dripped with sarcasm and he didn’t even bother trying to replace his Go Fuck Yourself look with a phony smile.

He’d been working in the store a couple of years and was probably seventeen or eighteen years old, still in or just barely out of high school. He wasn’t much different than a lot of the other kids around when it came to dealing with insignificant fifty-five year old fogies, but I’d had about all I could take of snots like him. I reached across the counter and grabbed him by the back of his scrawny neck. “Let’s go back to the stock room and have a little chat,” I said, dragging him out of the checkout stand.

“Let go of me, you old fart. Don’t make me have to hurt you,” he said indignantly. I wasn’t too worried about getting hurt. Although I’m three times his age I keep in good shape and work out regularly. I can press over four hundred pounds and am almost solid muscle. Besides, I also know Kung Fu and Karate. He was kicking and hollering as I dragged him down the aisle, but the only other person in the store was the manager, a decent guy that I’d known for years, and after a brief glance he went back to preparing the afternoon deposit.

A pallet of canned goods occupied the center of the stockroom floor, and I bent the little asshole over the top box and ripped his pants from his round little ass with one pull of my powerful arm, then reached up between his bony thighs to grab his fuzzy scrotum. I can easily crush walnuts in my bare hands so I was careful when I squeezed down to not injure him. Yet.

“Oh my god!” He practically screamed. “Let go! Don’t hurt me!” I didn’t respond in any manner, I just kept on pumping his balls, as if priming an outboard motor or inflating a blood pressure cuff. “Stop! He hollered. “Please! I’ll do anything.” His pleas continued to fall on deaf ears as I continued to rack his balls.

“Please stop! I’ll suck you!” He finally was starting to show me a little well deserved respect.

“What did you say?” I wasn’t quite done and I wanted him to suffer a little more. First.

“I’ll suck you off if only you’ll stop hurting me,” he begged. I released the grip on his neck and loosened my belt and pulled my trousers down, then sidled around the pallet to where I was right in front of him, leaning forward to retain my control grip on his gonads.

“Pull my skivvies down,” I ordered, knowing that his hands were free. He looked up at my bulge and his eyes grew wide. I have to special-order underwear with a pouch that is large enough to accommodate my oversized genitals. Each of my balls is the size of a large lemon and my dick in over six inches long soft. He seemed reluctant to make good his promise, so I increased the pressure of my grip gradually until he capitulated and pulled down my shorts.

I prefer women, but I’ll take anything I can get and if a guy insists on sucking me then I’ll let him do it. He finally took me into his mouth and my cock quickly doubled in length and expanded to its full two-and a half-inch thickness. Like all blowjobs it was over too quickly and he was soon choking and coughing on the half- pint of the semen that I’d injected into his throat. His balls seemed to be swelling in response to the trauma I’d inflicted, and they now comfortably filled my hand. I edged back around to the side of the pallet and suddenly bore down on them with all of my strength. I felt them compress gradually under my protruding fingers until first one and then the other flattened out and ruptured, leaving nothing in my grip but a semi liquid nothingness.

“Thanks Walt, he needed that.” The manager said as I picked up my grocery bag and left the store.

“Anytime Charlie, see you tomorrow.” I replied, climbing into my truck.

I pulled put onto the highway and headed towards home. A mile later the right hand lane was closed for construction, and there was a minor slow-down as all traffic shifted into the left lane. The construction had been going on for a while and the lane closure was well marked and most cars courteously shifted lanes, but there are always a few assholes.

I was only a few feet from the closure when some kind of little rice rocket sped by me on the right and pulled over in front of me, forcing me to hit the brakes really hard. I’m sure you know the type of car: Small Japanese sedan with a loud obnoxious oversized tailpipe and a ridiculous looking spoiler device bolted onto the rear deck lid. I gave my horn a quick tap to show my irritation and he responded by reaching up through the open sunroof to flip me the bird. I followed him the quarter mile through the construction zone and had decided to turn the other cheek, so as to speak, and ignore the little shithead, when the traffic ahead cleared and he sped off, again flipping me the bird. I ignored that insult too and was almost to my turn off when the asshole shot across from the left lane to narrowly miss me as he made a quick turn from the highway, once more flipping me off.

This kid clearly needed a lesson in manners so I followed him down the side road, motioning him to pull over so we could discuss his driving habits. Another birdie, then I could see the puff of smoke from his exhaust as he downshifted and accelerated, obviously intending to leave my decrepit old truck and me in the dust.

I pushed down on the gas pedal and the old Dodge sprang to life. It may not look like much from the outside, but under the hood lives one of the most powerful gasoline engines ever built. I rescued the WW II vintage Pratt & Whitney from an airplane scrap yard and spent over a year shoehorning it into the truck. It is an air-cooled radial engine 4360 cubic inches in displacement. It has twenty-eight cylinders and fifty-six spark plugs and when supplied with the proper 130-octane fuel it puts out about 4300 horsepower. The engine and special transmission installation cost me over eight hundred thousand dollars and it gulps expensive fuel at an obscene rate, but at times like this it’s worth it and besides that, it’s just a small fraction of the millions of dollars that I have won playing the lotteries.

I quickly caught the little car and bumped it with my armor plate reinforced bumper, crumpling the back of the car like an aluminum beer can. The kid’s head bounced off of the headrest and when he turned around his haughty expression had been replaced with a look of sheer terror. He suddenly made a skidding turn off onto a small side road, probably thinking that he could out-maneuver me in the tight corners. Dumb Move. The road went only a hundred yards before a large fallen tree blocked it. He stopped, but I kept coming, pausing only long enough to shift the truck into low range four-wheel drive. I pushed the car into the tree trunk, and as the body slowly crumpled the door flew open and the kid exited the doomed car and bolted in a dead run for the cover of the woods.

I jog every day and run several marathons a year, so I caught up with him after only a few hundred feet. He was on the ground clutching his belly, completely winded. “Get naked,” I ordered, stepping behind him.

“Huh?” He gasped. Are kids deaf these days or just plain stupid? I repeated the command. “What are you going to do to me?” He asked, rising to his knees and breathing a little easier.

“Nothing that you don’t deserve. Now get your clothes off or I’ll cut them off myself.” I extracted the pocketknife I always carry for situations like this and opened the blade.

“Okay, okay, just take it easy.” He slid out of his tee shit and kicked off his shoes, then stood up and slid his Levis down to his ankles, and then stepped out of them. He didn’t even look old enough to drive, much less tool around like a NASCAR racer. He was perhaps sixteen, still beardless. He had a smooth chest and thin hairless arms and only light fuzz adorned his slender legs.

“Them too,” I said, pointing at his baggy, flowered underpants. He blushed, and then slowly thumbed the waistband down and finally stepped free of his last remnants of dignity. His slender, teenage dick peered out of his crotch hair as if afraid to make an appearance, and his smallish balls, either out of fear or in response to the coolness of the air, were tucked tightly up against his crotch. He may have been quite the stud in the locker room when surrounded by naked youths his own age, but he was decidedly nervous about being naked around a real man.

“Bend over that log over there and spread your legs,” I commanded, still brandishing the knife. I wondered if he’s seen the movie Deliverance and what the hillbilly had done to Ned Beatty. Ten years ago I could have dropped my pants and reamed him out proper, but it had only been a few minutes since the kid in the supermarket had blown me, and I’ll have to admit that I’m not the man I used to be. Instead I strode over to where I was behind him and reached down and grabbed his balls.

“Hey!” He blurted out as I tugged downward on his most precious possessions. I didn’t even bother answering. Instead I made a quick slice with my knife and castrated the little shithead. Now maybe he’ll show his elders a little more respect.

I finally pulled the truck into my palatial manor. I stopped at the row of mailboxes and picked up the day’s accumulation. Past due notice on my credit card and a warning from the electric company saying they would disconnect me in one week.

“Hey, Wally,” the mobile park manager collared me as soon as I had parked. “Look, I know you haven’t been working much, but I’ve gotta have last month’s rent by the end of the week or you’ll have to move, Okay? Also, you gotta get a muffler on this truck and fix the oil leak or you’ll have to park out side. The neighbors are complaining.”

I just stood there and looked at him. He probably thought I was stoned or stupid or something, but instead I was lost in thought, planning on how to deal with this little nuisance.