Chapter 1
Verily, I awaken from mine slumber, only to be met with a most grievous affliction. Hark! A torment most unrelenting doth plague me. Aye, ’tis true—mine balls doth itch.
Lo, I beseech thee, good sirs and madams, what cruel jest of fate hath befallen me? What unseen specter doth vex my netherly sanctum? Forsooth! Mine loins doth tingle with an unrest most foul.
A pox upon the wretched forces that doth conspire against mine peace! I shan’t suffer in silence! Mine balls dost itch, and no balm nor unguent may bring solace. Woe unto me!
Madam, might thou lend thine ear to mine plight? Or shall I perish ere my torment be heard? Verily, mine balls, with a fury most relentless, continue to itch! I am beset on all sides!
A great pondering seizeth mine soul. Art there cosmic forces which weave mine doom? Art the gods themselves jesters at mine expense? Mine affliction knoweth no end—mine balls still doth itch.
By Saint Timothy’s left sandal, I swear upon the heavens, ne’er have I known an agony so cruel. Lo, I wouldst trade mine kingdom for a mere moment of relief! But alas, mine balls itch still.
Hark! The itching knoweth no bounds, and mine mind doth unravel like a tapestry pecked at by drunken crows. If this be mine fate, then let it be writ in stone—mine balls have itched eternal.
Would that I might lay hands upon a cure most divine, but nay! No mortal remedy may banish this most malevolent scourge! ’Tis a malady beyond reason—mine balls dost itch, still!
Perchance, in the abyss of time, this lament shall be heard by scholars yet unborn. Mayhap they shall know of my suffering and weep for mine plight. And yet, the truth remains: mine balls itch.
Thus I pen my final words, lest madness claim me whole. The itching, dear reader, hath conquered me. Lo, mine flesh is naught but a vessel for torment. Fare thee well, and know this—mine balls didst itch.
