THEY DON’T TELL YOU that you can feel the ice pick rooting around in your brain. In fairness, they don’t tell you much, just “You’ve been arrested for public lewdness with another man yet again,” and “Your options are indefinite institutionalization, chemical castration, or a lobotomy.” If you choose the latter, they strap you to a gurney and wheel you into a hospital room where a maniacally evil but stunningly handsome doctor sterilizes a six-inch metal ice pick, technically called an orbitoclast, and then shoves it into your eye socket, past your eye, and into your brain. You’re supposed to be unconscious for the procedure, but they don’t do a good job at making sure, so if you wake up during the procedure, you can feel the metal spike violently stabbing into flesh. It hurts like hell, but in a way, it almost feels good, like when someone massages a knot in your back. There’s pain, but it’s the pain that comes with something being set right. If you are very quiet, you can hear the squick of the ice pick moving through the inside of your head.

During my procedure, I woke up screaming, my eyes wide. I could see the long metal rod jutting out from above my eyeball, behind it, the doctor’s face, grinning like a pervert pleasuring himself while he looked through a lady’s window. The bastard was enjoying this. From start to finish, the procedure was quick. Half-conscious, I was wheeled out of the room, passing another poor, misguided homosexual on a gurney being wheeled toward the operating table.

Due to overcrowding, I returned to Father’s mansion that evening with the help of his chauffeur. At the house, father acted as if nothing had happened. Mother would not speak to me. This had been my fourth time caught with another man. My trysts had been many, dating back to my early youth at boarding school. Father would not use his lawyers to get me off this time. He told me I needed to face the consequences of my actions, and I had. The eye patch, an inability to think straight, and a lack of coherent speech proved it.

Over the coming weeks, my speech improved, and a tiny scar was the only physical evidence of my lobotomy. As soon as I was able to think again, I knew that this was the best thing to ever happen to me. I felt cured, not of my homosexual thoughts, those were still raging, but of every other affliction I had ever suffered. I used to lie in bed at night staring at the ceiling, my mind racing, full of worries and wonders about my future. Now, I sleep like a baby. I was prone to bursts of anger, but now I am docile. A few days ago, I burned my hand on the stove, and it did not hurt as much as before the procedure. Every moment brought more benefits from my lobotomy.

The day I saw my parents fighting was the day I found my calling. I watched, stone-faced, as my father called my mother a bitch. She responded by smashing a vase over his head. With blood running down his face, he grabbed my mother around the throat and squeezed until she turned blue in the face before finally letting her go. I watched the whole thing from the dining room table as I ate the roast that our chef prepared for dinner. Finishing, I wandered into the kitchen and rifled through the drawers until I found what I was looking for: an ice pick.

That night, after the staff went home, I lay awake, waiting until the sound of movement from the bedrooms where my parents stayed ceased. Then, I tiptoed through the hall. My dearest father was first. He was too angry and reacted too quickly. I wanted him to be at peace. I crept over to the bed where he lay spread and crawled onto it. I straddled him. His eyes shot open.

“What are you doing?” he asked frantically. I did not respond. “Couldn’t get enough of the men on the streets, huh? Had to go after the man who sired you?”

He kept screaming hateful words, now red in the face, but I wasn’t listening. I positioned the ice pick over his face and rammed it in. A spurt of liquid hit my face. The experience was not as pleasant as a man’s seed, but it made me smile. My father’s speech turned to pained shrieks. I realized I missed the eye socket by about an inch. The ice pick was lodged in my father’s eye. I yanked the tool out, his eyeball came with it. The nerve that attached it to his brain snapped as I pulled. I shook the eyeball off the pick. It rolled across the room.

I looked at the place where my father’s eye used to be, now an empty cavern with the nerve hanging out of it. I thought to myself, This would make the operation a lot easier. I clamped my father’s mouth shut, and, holding his head still, I inserted the pick into his eye socket, this time correctly. Mimicking the motions of the doctor who had operated on me, I swirled the pick around inside my father’s brain until his struggles ceased. I felt a warmth growing below me, and the acrid smell of urine and feces told me that my father had voided his waste. I swung my legs off the bed and walked out of his room, stripping my clothes off as I went.

I walked down the hall to my mother’s room, knowing, despite my father’s screams, that she would still be asleep. For as long as I could remember, a bottle of sleeping pills sat on her nightstand. She wouldn’t need them anymore after tonight. Her insomnia would be cured by a simple operation.

In her sleep, my mother had rolled to the side of the bed, and her head lolled off the edge of the mattress, her mouth open. It would make the operation easier to perform. I placed the ice pick about an inch above her eye socket. As I started to bring it down, her eyes opened. The pick went in about an inch before she pulled away, swatting the tool from my hand. It rolled across the floor. I scrambled for it but was unable to reach it before it slipped through the cracks of the heating vent.

“Timothy,” my mother said, her voice carrying an edge of madness. “What are you doing to me?” She held her hand to her eye, trying to stop the trickle of blood that dripped down her face.

I was so close to curing her. I couldn’t stop now. I lunged forward, grabbing her wrists and slamming her against the wall. She looked at me, her one undamaged eye wide with fright. She tried to pull away, but even without the sleeping pills, she would not be a match for my strength. I slowly pulled her wrists together above her head, pinning them against the wall with my left hand. I brought my other hand to her face and inserted my forefinger into the bloody hole I had created with the ice pick earlier. My finger went in smoothly, though a little force was necessary. Her eye socket made a squishing noise, and the whole ordeal reminded me of the many men in whose posteriors I had inserted this same finger. With the same gentle force I used to pleasure my lovers, I slid my finger in and out of the eye socket. My mother’s mouth fell open, and a trickle of saliva merged with the blood still pouring from her eye. She was cured, and I removed my finger from her face, letting her fall to the floor. With not a stitch of clothing on my body, I had nothing with which to wipe my hand, so I put my finger in my mouth and sucked the delicious, sticky fluid from it as if I were lapping up the liquid from a man’s spent cock.

With my parents cured, I returned to my room and dressed. There were so many more people to cure. On my way out the door, I found a suitable replacement for my ice pick: a long meat thermometer that the chef used to prepare our dinners. Pocketing the tool, I walked through the front door and into the night.

The first place that I went in my quest to cure the city of its illness was a place I had often frequented. The place where I had been arrested several times. It was an alleyway in the bad side of town where young homosexual men cruised. I had orally pleasured every confirmed bachelor in the city there twice over. Tonight was no different than any other night. I passed a dozen or more couples in every sexual position one could imagine, and some that would never cross the mind of any decent upstanding citizen. A solitary figure approached me, and I could tell by the way he walked that it was Barty, a frequent tryst of mine.

His voice confirmed it. “Timothy, old friend, I heard the pigs got you.”

I stepped closer to him, letting the moonlight illuminate my face. “They did, see my scar?”

Barty’s face fell. “Those quack doctors and their cures. Since you’re here, I take it the procedure didn’t work?”

“It didn’t cure me of my homosexual tendencies, but it did cure me of other things.”

“I’m more glad that you are still one of us degenerates. I have missed your tongue in places that no tongue should ever be.”

Barty unbuckled his pants, and I turned him to face the wall, getting on my knees. I pulled his pants to the ground and pressed my face into his backside, running my tongue around his circle and nipping at his plump buttocks with my teeth. He moaned as I repeated the ritual we had done so many times before until the brick wall in front of him was coated in his seed. I spun him around and met his lips with mine. The scruff of his 5 o’clock shadow scratched my face. As we kissed, I opened my eyes; his were closed. That was the opening I needed. I pulled the thermometer from my pocket and brought it to his eye socket, pushing it through the skin and into the flesh behind his skull. Barty’s eyes opened, but my lips pressing into his prevented anything more than a muffled moan from escaping his mouth. I dug my makeshift orbitoclast around until he too ceased to struggle, though by the looks of it, he was still conscious. My tongue slid from between his lips and up past his nose, finding its place in the bleeding wound. I felt his eyeball below my tongue and tasted the blood and other fluids that dripped from the hole. I moaned as my tongue repeated the motions it had made minutes before in Barty’s ass. I felt my pants tighten as I neared an orgasm. I moaned into the wound, feeling Barty’s skull reverberate with the noise. I finished moments later and helped Barty to the ground, pulling his pants up to his waist to prevent anything untoward happening while he recovered from the procedure. With Barty cured, I set off in search of my next patient.

I had cured three lost souls, but there were ten thousand people in this city. I had my work cut out for me.

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