At first I was worried that Dolphintail Espinoza would not be masculine enough to gain entry, but apparently the doorman was a brony, for he tipped his fedora to me when I told him my name. Upon entry, I was led into a basement, in which I could make out several men, swathed in flickering shadows. The air hung heavy, heavy like an untapped keg. A voice came from beyond an altar at the far end of the room.
“Welcome… to Bro Club.”
The man stepped into the light. He was young, muscular, with blonde hair and blue eyes. The others addressed him as “The Patriarch” but I heard one whisper the name “Chet”. He looked kind of like an actor. “The first rule of Bro Club is: Do not talk about Bro Club.” I heard some of the men chortle and stifle laughs. Some of them had visible erections. Actually, all of them did.
“The second rule of Bro Club is…” he paused for dramatic effect. All the other men were now grinning like wolves, some even licking their lips in anticipation. “…do NOT talk about Bro Club!” Suddenly the basement erupted with cackling laughter, the men sneering and slobbering all over themselves, tugging at their obvious erections. “SILENCE!” Chet commanded, and they obeyed. “My mom’s trying to sleep upstairs.”
The rest of the rules then followed in a more or less orderly fashion—Rule #5: No shirts, no shoes, no jewelry within Bro Club—Rule #34: If it exists, there is porn of it. No exceptions—Rule #50: [incomprehensible chanting]—etc. This part took quite a while, and most of the other men looked quite bored. I was too busy trying to parse Rule #96—Don’t cash a check that your butt can’t bounce—to notice when he had stopped speaking.
“Now my brothers, the time has come.” He stared out at us, a wicked grin on his face. “Are your nutbladders prepared?” The men began to hoot and holler, grabbing their crotches and pounding their chest. At this point, confusion overwhelmed my judgment, and I had to ask,
“What the fuck is a nutbladder?”
Immediately all eyes were on me. Hungry eyes. Accusing eyes. Most intense of all was Chet, wreathed in the glow of the many dying candles upon the altar. “Ah, the new blood does not yet know. That is alright. He shall soon learn. The nutbladder,” he bellowed, gripping his crotch like a vice, “is the bladder which holds the Man Essence. It is the source of life, and the seat of the soul. It is the seed which we sow throughout the land, so we may rape the fruits of our labor.”
“You mean ‘reap’?” I interjected. Chet just grinned at me. He grinned for an uncomfortably long time, unblinking. Then he continued.
“It is said, that when a man dies, the gods bring before him a scale, upon which he places his nutbladder, and the sum total of his life is judged. If the weight of his Man Essence is greater than the weight of his crimes, then he may ascend the 10,000 steps to Nirvana. But if not, then he is deemed unworthy. His nutbladder is removed, and his body is cast into The Lake of the Dead, where he will churn until the day that he is reborn.”
“But what about women?” I muttered. Every man in the room erupted with genuine laughter. This time, the man next to me spoke.
“Brother, the wom-kin do not have souls.”
“Yes brother. Woms are just animals, except like… they have tits, and it’s okay to want to have sex with them without being a weird pervert.”
“I say, sir! I take offense to that!” said the fedora-wearing brony.
“Quiet, brothers. The hour draws near. Let us begin the ritual. Gather around the slab and remove your pants. No homo.”
“No homo,” repeated each man, as they dropped trousers and circled around a large stone table in the center of the room, just around waist height. Not knowing what else to do, I joined them.
“Men, seize your nutbladders.” We all grabbed our crotches. “Now… begin!”
Suddenly, chaos erupted around me as they began slamming their nutbladders—their testicles—against the stone table. Caught up in mania, soon I did too. The pain was… excruciating. Waves of nausea flowed through me as I slapped my balls against the cold surface. Through tears of pain, I could see many other men collapsing onto the ground, their mouths foaming in shock. My vision went white, and I feared I was gone too, but then, something incredible happened. I was filled with visions—phantoms of great men passed through my mind, my body. Teddy Roosevelt, James Bond, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Captain Kirk. Their masculine energy entered my soul. My mouth tasted like beef jerky. Hollering like an ape, I kept pounding my balls against that slab, until I noticed that everyone else had gone silent. I opened my eyes, and saw all the other men had stopped, some unconscious, some curled up into a ball and crying. Chet had collapsed onto the table, breathing heavily, but still conscious.
“Brother, I have never seen such a powerful display of manhood before. It is my honor, no… my privilege to bestow upon you the title of Patriarch.” An air of reverence washed through the room. The men who could began to sit up, and chant.
“All hail Dolphintail, ruler of men, master of beasts. All hail the Patriarch!”
I stood there, shivering with pain and pride, and said the first things that came to my mind, “Th-thanks, you too.”
Goddamnit.
