Ballsack Billy Sullivan was a legend in this town. As notorious for his nickname as he was for the crime that he had committed. A crime, that lit this shithole of a town on fire, for a month or so, securing his place and mine, in local lore for years to come.
The story of the nickname goes like this. One day Billy Sullivan emerged from the funk of the high school locker-room shower, gym class, 1994, displaying for the first time publicly, at age 14, the largest scrotum anyone had ever scene.
We’re talking mutant big. We’re talking, how does he not walk bow legged big, extra large jock strap big, looking like a water balloon… big. You get it.
Why someone hadn’t dubbed him “Super Scrotum” or some other alliterative is not known. My guess is that if you had polled anyone in that locker-room, they would have said that a scrotum was, a plant or some new kind of exotic food. Used in context it would go like this; “The place is littered with Scrotum.” Or, “If you go to that new place, try the Scrotum.” So, it ended up being a case of “go with what you know.”
Of course, it could all be bullshit. I wasn’t there to witness it. I know I didn’t believe it. I mean a kid with a world record set of balls would be in the Guinness Book of World Records, right? Of course, this was all pre- Internet. If it had happened today Billy would have his own reality TV show, a movie contract, maybe a shot on Dancing with the Stars. To me Billy was a punk with a head shaped like a pie plate and a pimpled face you just wanted to smack. I didn’t give a crap about his balls, except wanting to give him a swift kick in them given the chance.
Well, the moniker must have bugged Billy, because after that, he pretty much kept to himself. He did manage to graduate with us, in 1998. Over the next ten years, you might hear the occasional barroom tale of Billy drowning some gal in his juices or floating out to sea to save someone from drowning. But for all intents, Billy was disappeared.
I grew up to be Officer Leon Savage and I patrolled this sleepy seaside jerk water town by the name of Chapman. A community that always carried the down wind stink of the algae from the ocean. Chapman had been immune, for a while, to any type of crime except for the occasional drunken argument or break in. I used to spend a lot of time napping behind the donut shop, directing traffic and keeping an eye on the stores on Main Street until Billy showed up. From then on we had to triple our staff and budget because of scumbags trying to do what Ballsack Billy failed to do.
I’ll never forget the day I saw the legend himself return in a crappy Ford Windstar mini van.
For lack of anything else to do I put the car in gear and, keeping within a safe distance, followed Billy down Main Street to the Fish House, where he pulled the car into the parking lot, next to the boats that were up on trailers for the season. He sat and lit a cigarette as I watched him from the curb across the street. If he noticed me he didn’t acknowledge it. I watched him, finally realizing that he was watching the bank on the opposite corner.
We each sat there for better part of an hour. Me watching him, watch the bank. Him throwing butt after butt out of the window, the interior of the car a haze of grey smoke.
He finally put the car in gear and I let him drive off, thinking that it may be best to keep an eye on the bank for the next few days. If he made a move I was going to be there to take him down.
Sure enough, it happened a week before Thanksgiving. Timed before the locals emptied their accounts for the holidays. Billy drove from the Fish House parking lot to the front of the Essex Bank, got out of the car with something clearly stuck in the back of his dirty blue jeans.
He wasted no time, going up to the teller wearing one of those clear plastic masks over his face and fake rubber dick attached to the outside of his pants looking like a character from A Clockwork Orange. It appeared he had embraced his moniker after all.
I followed him in, dropped to my knees and shouted, “Billy!” He turned, showing what was clear to me to be a toy gun, his toy dick flapping in all directions. I took aim and put one in his head, chest and one right in that famous ballsack of his.
He fell on his knees and then flat on what was left of his face, bleeding, to the screams of the teller, the bank manager and Old Man Tyler the security cop.
For show, I kicked away Billy’s toy pistol, pulled his wallet, rolled him over on his back and took down his mask.
“Do you know him, Leon?” Old Man Tyler asked me as I handed him the wallet.
“You mean you don’t?”
To each his own legend, I supposed. Ballsack Billy Sullivan was dead.
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