The Grotesque Pickles Masquerade: A Cause to Intervene Part 1

It's raining again tonight. An old Miles Davis record is playing in the livingroom. I savor every sporatic boom of Thunder. Ive come to appreciate thunder storms as mother natures own little cathartic outbursts to diffuse the unpleasant humidity. Thunder, pitter patters and dissonant horns. A veritable feast for the ears. This is my kind of night.

The house phone starts to ring. I pause the record and answer.

"Pickles residence."

A familiar voice answers back.

"It's Phil. We need to talk about some stuff. It's kind of heavy. Is it alright if I stop by?"

Phil has been my friend my whole life. The passing of time and the accrued responsibilities that come with it has limited the time we spend together. But Phil will always be like family to me.

"Of course Phil. You are always welcome. I hope everything is okay."

The call ends shortly after. I wonder what's on Phils mind.

The pitter patter feels naked without the accompaniment of miles. I place the needle back on the record but there is an issue. The smell of burning. reduced rpm. Then nothing but fractured ambiance.

This isn't the first time the record player has shit the bed. I need to get into the guts but there's a few clips I need to remove. Luckily I always keep a screwdriver handy. I learned at a young age that you can take a screwdriver with you anywhere if you keep it snugly tucked into your diaper, or "diapee" if you will. My soiled adult size diapee that im always wearing. I wipe the screwdriver clean on the crotch of my man-diaper, don't want to dirty up my record player. Thing is its a Philips head and these clips are pretty small. I think I'll need a flat head for this. I slip the screwdriver back into my disgusting shit and piss filled diaper and go to the garage where my toolbox is. The flat head is in there somewhere. Maybe I just gotta bend down and take a peak.

Something isn't right. I hear a hiss and my diaper feels like it's getting even wetter by the second but I'm not even peeing. I pull the diaper down to poke around inside and notice that my diapee is indeed soaked with blood. Oh my god. My scrote is punctured. The screwdriver in my diaper must have speared my scrote when I bent down. This is a disaster. The night was so promising just minutes ago.

It was this point where I heard a knock at the door. Phil is here. I don't want him to see this but I can't just leave him standing out in the rain.

I unlock the door and Phil walks in. He pauses and looks me up and down.

"You're bleeding. Did you do this to yourself?"

"No Phil it was a freak accident. I was trying to fix my record player. Its me Tommy Pickles. Same as always. Wearing my diapee and solving problems with my trusty screw driver."

Phil sighs and looks me in the eyes.

"Chuckie please. This is what I wanted to talk to you about."

Phil just crossed the line.

"MY NAME ISN'T CHUCKIE! THIS IS TOMMY PICKLES. I AM TOMMY. LOOK I'M WEARING A DIAPEE."

Phil puts his hand on my shoulder.

"PHIL DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME! I'M TOMMY PICKLES AND I DON'T LIKE TO BE TOUCHED"

Phil takes a deep breath.

"Chuckie. You need to change this. I love you chuckie and I want to help you. Chuckie. Tommy has been dead for eleven years. You are Chuckie."

I am so angry that I am shaking. My voice quivers as I try to supress my violent rage.

"You are a fucking liar Phil. I am Tommy god damn Pickles. My brother is Dill. My parents are Stu and Didi."

Phil walks to the bathroom and gets a first aid kit.

"Please Chuck. You are hurt. Let's get that punctured scrote of yours under control"

Oh god. I'm a mess in so many ways. Phil is just trying to help and I'm here cursing at him.

"Phil..."

"Yes Chuckie?"

"I need help."

I am breaking down. I have become so comfortable with my way of life that the idea of it being a problem scares me.

"Chuckie I know it hurts man. I know. Time is no one's friend. Change is scary. And sometimes it feels like the good times have gone forever. And i can not promise you that the good times will come again. But i can promise you that they will surely never come again if you do not start to help yourself."

"It just hurts so much. He was my best friend. And by doing this he's still here. He's here living through me."

Phil stops me.

"No. Chuckie. No. Tommy is gone. And now your scrote is gone. now we can clean you up and take you to the hospital, and maybe have enough time to get your scrote back. but you have to leave tommy behind. Tommy or the scrote, you need to choose "

This is too much to process.

"Phil I can't. I can't leave him behind. I'm not ready."

"DAMNIT CHUCK! Like everyone, Tommy was a dynamic, evolving person. Youve been portraying a small snapshot of who he was as a child. We will never know what tommy would have become and by behaving like this chuckie, we may never know who you were supposed to become. You need to let go. Let your popped scrote be the rope you use to climb out of the hole you have dug yourself into. You aren't doing right by yourself. And you aren't doing right by Tommy."

I start dabbing peroxide on the puncture wound on my scrote. A bloody foam mixture spills out. The pain is setting in and it is downright crippling. I have a severe injury to a very sensitive area.

Phil let's me slump over his shoulder and he helps me hobble out to the car

"Listen Chuck. It's okay if you keep the diaper on while we go the e.r. but when we leave you need to dress normal. No diaper. You are not incontinent. You are very depressed. Please let this be the catalyst. Do it for tommy. Do it for yourself. New scrote. New beginning."

I give Phil a hug.

"I just miss him so much."

"Me too Chuckie. Me too."