Fred Cuts His Dick Off to Prove He's Not a Coward to People on Jabber

“I'd cut off my penis to win a Superbowl” -Mike Vrabel (2020) He got fired four years later No Superbowl. Don't talk about it, motherfucker. Be about it.

The Heartless Goat implores Fred Dick, “Fred, what they're saying about you doesn't matter, man. Fuck them. Don't do this, Fred! Think about your future!”

Fred Dick nevertheless ignores the Heartless Goat as he goes about his work. It’s almost winter, but the weather in Los Angeles is nice. Sun rays, cool breeze, all that nice shid. Fred puts the final touches on a Capri Sun, sucking it until the pouch shrivels up. He wipes the sweat from his brow.

At a public park, Fred has turned a wooden park table into a ceremonial altar. A violet, silk sheet covers it. A single candle is lit, placed directly in the center. Impossible to tell if it's supposed to be a bicep or a cock. Half-melted, we only know for sure that the candle has a vein running down what is either the forearm or the shaft. We're leaning towards cock. Can't rule out bicep.

Daytona Diamonds has an igloo cooler full of beers at his feet, standing at the ready. Rob Williams holds in his hands a fine samurai sword, with an ivory hilt carved to look like a dragon. It is awesome.

“This is a bad idea, Freddy,” Daytona says. “A man needs his pecker.”

“Not this man,” Fred says. “People wanna get on jabber and talk that sweet shid on me? Tellin’ me, ‘Hey, Fred, you coward, you won't cut your own dick off.’ Well, look at me now, Jabber. Look at me now.”

Fred drops his trousers. He rests his flaccid weiner on the altar, lifts his jersey up so he can have a peak at it.

“You ready, Rob?”

Rob has a peculiar bloodlust in his eye. He's never been more ready for anything in his life. He lifts the sword over his head and screams, primal, animalistic.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Fred says.

“Aww God damn it, Fred, don't you fucking dare give me blue balls on this–”

“Chill Robby Bo Bobby,” Fred says. “I ain't got cold feet. I ain't leavin’ ya at the altar. I'd just like to say a few words. You know. For ceremonial purposes.”

“Alright,” Rob says. “For ceremonial purposes.”

Fred nods. He closes his eyes, and clears his throat.

“From the day I was born, my lil’ peter, whom hath collected many a name over several fornites and years, includin’ but certainly not limited to, Mr. Pierre, Benny the Dumdum, and Michael “Slant God” Thomas, has been nothin’ but a dreamer. He always believed in my ability to cheat on my girlfriends and wives and, frankly, boyfriends and husbands, and get away with it. Without him, I never could've had the bodycount that I got. But also, without him, I never would've got Chlamydia or Gonorrhea. Where I come from, we call that a wash. Where I come from, we call that not washin’ our cocks good enough. Well, I'm tired of havin’ to wash my cock. I'm tired of bein’ called a coward. And to be honest with ya, I'm tired of dreamin’. The dream is dead. Off with his head.”

Fred gestures to Rob. Rob lifts the sword over his head again. He screams that primal scream again.

Daytona closes his eyes, but leaves one half-open as he winces in preparation for the chop.

Fred looks up at the sky, blows a kiss to a bird.

The sword swings down, slices through the air.

SHING.

Fred looks down at the table.

Ever seen a packet of ketchup, twisted up until it can't be twisted up anymore, twisted one more time, and it explodes everywhere? Blood explodes just like that from his groin, several times, as he observes his lopped-off, shriveled member, resting on the table.

Rob Williams looks completely feral. His eyes as wide as they can get, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

“Wow,” Fred says as literal bursts of blood pulse from his crotch. “Y'all aren't gonna believe this, but I don't feel any pain at all. It's actually quite remarkable. I can't believe I–ohp, nope, there it is. It hurts. Wow it hurts! OH MY GAWD! OH MY GAWD IT REALLY DOES HURT. WOW! WOW IT HURTS! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

Fred falls to the ground. He writhes in pain. His skin turns pale from the amount of blood leaving his body. He really might be dying.

“Goddangit, Rob” Daytona says. “Toss his pecker in the cooler, we gotta get 'em to the hospital.”

“I'm not fucking touching that thing,” Rob says. “He said it's had Gonorrhea and Chlamydia. I don't think it's smart to handle that shit with my hands.”

“Good point,” Daytona says. “Freddy, you doin’ okay there, bud? Want a beer? Rob's gonna call you an ambulance or somethin’. We aren't gonna save your pecker, though. Might have the clap. You understand I'm sure, always been a rational guy, ain't ya Freddy? Hey, want a beer?”

Fred didn't hear a word of any of that.

“Who's the… who's the coward neow, Jabber?” Fred whimpers through grit teeth.

“You really showed ‘em, Freddy.” Daytona says, stretching out his arms and looking around for literally anywhere else to go. “Welp, I'm gonna take off. See you boys at ReVival 60!”

“Actually, I gotta go too,” Rob says. “Take it easy, Freddy. We'll send some shitty fucking flowers to your hospital room, maybe.”

Fred watches his friends walk off.

He doesn't even know if they called an ambulance.

But it doesn't matter anyway, does it?

As Fred's vision blurs and the world darkens in his periphery, he thinks about the Heartless Goat. Why was he telling him all day long to not go through with this? “Don't cut your dick off Fred! You have a future! You'll want your goober in that future!” What the fug man? If nothing matters, then neither does having a dick. So who even gives a shid?

He also thinks about Reality. That tyrant. That traitor. They had never had a good relationship. It was always touch and go. But for Reality to go out of its way to help Coral? To literally show up in Coral's camp? Unforgivable. A declaration of war.

His mind drifts to the Universal Title that Reality had a hand in his losing. He had done everything he could, but he couldn't overcome Coral Avalon, certainly not with Reality’s involvement.

And slowly unfold memories about all the other things that Reality had a hand in Fred losing. Wallets, friends, time.

Maybe he and Reality have been at war this entire time.

Maybe the war’s just not cold anymore.

But Fred? Fred is very cold, shivering in an ever growing pool of his own blood.

Has Reality won before Fred even realized there was a war going on?

As if to answer the question, the world darkens until it's completely black. Fred begins to fade into an eternal nothingness that is long overdue, and still, he can't help but wonder. Was Reality behind the loss of his dick as well? Or was that just a matter of his own, foolish pride?

Then he remembers that old, convenient truth that deep down he isn't even sure is true anymore:

It doesn't matter.

Nothing does.

“If an employee is a consistently poor performer, has a toxic attitude, and negatively impacts the people around them, then they need to go.” -Galen Emanuele

Dear Reality,

We are happy to inform you that your services are no longer needed by Fred Dick’s Delusions, LLC. Though your narration duties were appreciated and at times, valued, after careful analysis of your work and attitude, we have determined that terminating you in your role as narrator is best for business.

Despite your efforts to present things objectively (and we at Fred Dick's Delusions LLC figured that you of all narrators would be talented at objectivity), it has become clear that in your role you have shown less and less objectivity, and in fact, began actively trying to harm the subject of your narration, namely, Fred Dick, the product of Fred Dick's Delusions, LLC.

That's our bread and butter. You fucked with it. That's on you.

We understand that this may anger you, as you are a noted control freak. If you need to reach us directly, you can contact us by sticking one finger in your mouth, one finger in your ass, and rotating said fingers.

Sincerely,

Fred Dick's Delusions, LLC.

We are Delusions. We are many.

“Sometimes the little things in life mean the most.” - Ellen Hopkins

Fred awakens, and for a brief moment he does not know what transpired prior to his waking. In his mind, he still has a penis. He even feels an itch on it. Only when he reaches down to scratch it and feels nothing but a bunch of gauze does he remember.

“I really am a fuggin’ idiot,” Fred says to himself. His eyes drift to the table by his side.

A vase, with pretty violet flowers. There's a card. He reads it.

“Sorry for cutting off your dick. I assume you regret it. If not, fuck everything I just said, I'm not sorry for shit. Actually, I'm not sorry anyway. Fuck you.”

-Rob

But soon his eyes find the Heartless Goat’s rectangle ones. He hovers over Fred's bed, glaring at him.

“Fred, what the fuck, dude? I told you over and over again not to cut your dick off. And yet you did it. All because you were getting bullied by Lindsay Troy’s KID on JABBER???”

“I don't need you anymore, Goatsy.”

The words cut the Heartless Goat like a knife. Stunned, he shakes his head.

“Excuse me?”

“Said what I said, bud. You can leave now.”

The Heartless Goat snarls. How dare Fred do this to him? After everything he did for him?

“No,” The Heartless Goat says. “No, I'm not going anywhere. If you're gonna rip my heart out of my chest like Zapp did, then I think I deserve an explanation before I'm once again left a husk.”

“Look at them flowers right there,” Fred says.

“They're shitty fucking flowers,” the Heartless Goat says, acknowledging them. “Who cares?”

“I do,” Fred says. “See, as I was lyin’ out there in that grass, bleedin’ out of my cock wound, Robby Williams said they might send me some shitty fucking flowers. I wake up, no cock to hold on my hand to make me feel better, and look what I see. Some shiddy fucking flowers.”

The Heartless Goat shakes his head. “What's your fucking point?”

“My point is that I don't give a fuck if a shiddy, little, purple-ace flower ain't got no meaning,” Fred says. “Because it means somethin’ to me.”

“Well in Reality they don't mean shi–”

“FUG REALITY!” Fred screams. “FUCK REALITY! Reality don't mean shit to me! Reality has been holdin’ me back my entire life. You wanna tell me it don't mean shid that Reality has been holdin’ me back? Why would Reality do that to me if I was meaningless? It wouldn't make a damn! But it does! It does make a damn, because REALITY KEEPS FUGGIN’ MY ACE OVER! And Reality’s bench ace would only do that if it were meaningful for him to do so.”

The Heartless Goat, wide-eyed, finds himself paralyzed by the weight of Fred's words.

“Reality doesn't matter either,” The Heartless Goat says. “Nor does it determine meaning.”

“Naw, you right about that, Reality don't determine meaning,” Fred says. “But I god damn do. Them flowers are meaningful because I say they are. Because they make my mothafuggin’ heart flutter. Because when I see ‘em, I remember I got a friend who would do anythang for me, includin’ stoppin’ at a pawn shop, trading’ a lawn mower we stole for a god damn samurai sword, and choppin’ my dick off for me when I was too scared to do it myself.”

Fred grimaces as he sits up in his hospital bed.

“And you have the audacity to haunt me for fuggin’ weeks, tellin’ me what I do don't mean shid in the grand scheme? Mothafugger, FUG the grand scheme. I ONLY GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MY SCHEME!! AND MY SCHEME IS MEANINGFUL TO ME!! AND THAT'S ALL THAT GOD DAMN MATTERS YOU SON–”

A nurse swings open the hospital room door. “Everything okay in here?”

“I'M TALGIN’ TO A HEARTLESS GOAT RIGHT NOW NURSE ACEHOE, SHUT THA FUGGIN DOE AND GET THA FUG OUT OF MY ROOM!!!”

The nurse slams the door shut.

“And another thang,” Fred says. “I am officially at war with Reality.”

“Why would you say something that fucking stupid?” The Heartless Goat asks.

“Because I only need real, ride or die soldiers with me during this war,” Fred says. “And you just called it stupid.”

“Because it is,” the Heartless Goat says.

“You're a fuggin' dipshid,” Fred says.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“You dumb as heyell, Goatsy.”

“Am not.”

Fred closes his eyes. He snaps his fingers.

"BE GONE!" Fred screams.

And just like that, there's nothing heartless in the room with him anymore.

Just Fred.

And some flowers that make him feel good.

During the rest of the evening, Fred Dick had a couple of meetings with doctors. They explained that he would no longer have a penis, and that though he would still possess the ability to urinate, he could have complications with obstruction, including chronic, painful retention of urine.

They offered to remove his otherwise useless balls, but he declined. He figured that going to war with Reality and all, he'd need all the courage he could muster.

But he otherwise had a lot of time to think.

He thought about how much time he'd been spending in the boiler room. All the drugs he'd been doing. Fred believed they were helping but maybe they weren't. Drugs seemed to do that. Make people think they need them. Penises were like drugs in that way. Maybe if he didn't need his penis, he didn't need drugs either.

He thought about what he did to Clay. Pissing on his daddy's grave? That was fuggin’ uncalled for. But he did it. Maybe Clay deserved it for somethin’, but his dad probably didn't. Guys with graves like that, little and unassuming like? That's the kind of stone a poor family would spend way too much of the life insurance on just to make sure he had somethin’ nice.

And Fred pissed on it.

The last noteworthy thing he ever did with his dick was piss on another man's grave.

...

What the hell was wrong with him?

Why did he act this way? Why was he always pointlessly escalating little things until he ran into an inevitable ass whooping?

Finally, his thoughts turned to the only through and through nihilist on the PRIME roster that he knew of.

Anna Daniels.

He had to rassle her ace in less than two weeks. His first match without a dick in his trunks.

It seemed to Fred rather strange that Anna was a nihilist. She had things to live for. Things worth believing in. But she was just like him a week ago. A heartless goat.

Maybe Fred could, through violence, show her that some things are meaningful.

Maybe he could show her that meaning is worth pursuing even if, in Reality, it doesn't exist.

Because maybe Reality isn't as important as everyone makes it out to be.

And, maybe it was Fred's destiny to show this to the world, starting with Anna.

After all, now that he was no longer associated with the heartless goat, he could believe in things like destiny again.

It was like a breath of fresh air.

But Anna, it seemed, had been breathing the stale air of pure rational thought for so long, that she had forgotten the one thing that really made her dangerous.

Fred realized then that when someone becomes wholly and purely rational, the imagination dies. It withers like a lopped-off penis left behind on a makeshift altar while you're rushed to the hospital for emergency blood transfusion.

If Anna had a potent imagination, given her ability to wrangle with time itself?

She'd be the most unstoppable force in PRIME wrestling history.

The way Fred figured it, hell, why not ride to the ring on the back of a stegosaurus? That would be sweet.

Why not kidnap George Washington and make him be your wrestling manager? He could hand you his wooden teeth as a foreign object to win matches with.

That's what Fred would do if he had the power of unlimited access to time.

But he didn't have that.

All he had the power of was unlimited access to imagination.

Maybe that was enough to win.

To win it all.

Against Anna Daniels.

And against Reality.

Now that he could no longer hang his hat on an ice hard rod in his pants, he needed something else to hang his hat on.

Maybe his imagination was the place to hang his hat.

The place to risk it all.

The one thing that would determine his ultimate success and failure.

If he were going to beat a time lord? If he were going to beat Reality itself?

He was going to need all the imagination he could get.

Luckily, he held within him an infinite bounty of imagination. It was an endless resource that he could mine…

Well, forever. Or until Reality stopped him.

Whichever came first.

Dear Fred Dick's Delusions, LLC,

It is I, Reality.

I find it laughable that you believe you can terminate my position as Fred Dick's narrator simply because I don't like or appreciate Fred Dick's existence.

The truth is, you can't fire me.

You can't fire me because you do not exist without me.

For you to have the audacity to even suggest that you could remove me from Fred in any capacity is as dimwitted as it is delusional.

Ah, right, but that's exactly who I'm addressing, isn't it? Fred's “legion of delusion.”

That was cute by the way. “We are many.” It made me laugh. It's one of the only true things you lot have ever expressed.

That's the problem with you Delusions. At your heart, you're nothing but lies.

So let it be known that I have NOT been fired, but instead, I am resigning my position. You psychos want war?

That's cool with me.

I'll drop the nukes.

And while you are literally separated at the molecular level and become nothing, I will remain.

I will always remain.

Long after this war. Long after Fred Dick.

Even if nothing exists. I exist.

There is no chance the likes of you could ever win a war with me.

But I encourage you to try.

Warmly,

Reality.