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She rotated her head to find the source. ‘Rumanian gypsy music, from émigrés living in Paris,’ he said. ‘Everybody in my shop was born in Rumania. We all remember the place. You know, love-hate,’ he said. Sandra nodded sympathetically. ‘You can take the boy out of Rumania, but you can’t take Rumania out of the boy,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Something like that. We like to keep music going during the day. It’s our secret plot to expose Maple Centre visitors to music you don’t hear on FM radio.’ ‘Aren’t you crafty. You sell CDs here, too?’ ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ said Marshall. He steered her to a small display of CDs. Mendel’s got a cousin who’s a clarinetist in a klezmer band that’s constantly touring Europe. So we sell that, the gypsy band you’ve heard, other European and Israeli folk music, Django Rheinhardt. Some of it sounds almost like Brazilian bossa nova. When somebody hears something in the shop they like, we say it’s available. Our restoration customers get. I sobbed and begged, "Please don't dothat to me sir." He snarled, "Do as I told you sissy." He took hisrazor sharp knife and slit my scrotum open along the line of the twohooks embedded in my balls. My testicles fell from my body hanging bythe tubes attached to them. "Beg daddy sissy." He was very demandingbut he could easily castrate me and I was helpless to stop him. Isaid, "Please daddy fuck me with your big fist. I beg of you pleasefuck me hard now." He chuckled and said, "I know you want it girly."John began forcing his hand into me and shoved it roughly deeper untilhis whole hand was inside of my asshole. Then I felt him clench itinto a fist. He greased up his forearm and began pumping his fist backand forth inside of me. I felt like he was ruining my insides. Thepower of his pumping caused my whole body to rock back and forth and Icould feel my dangling testicles swinging wildly. I was terrified thatthey would fall off entirely. He kept ramming that fist up me.
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The smiles on the faces of his classmates seemed to him more like the twisted grins of demons than the jibes and smirks of schoolchildren. He hated Swaile and because of his sufferings had learned to hate the other children in his class. He had no friends, nobody wanted to associate with the class idiot, they felt uncomfortable in his presence. During the lessons Wellings’ mind would often wander, he would imagine he was somewhere else, anywhere else but in that dreadful classroom. He remembered the days before school and the hateful lessons, he remembered how free he had felt, then there had been no weight upon his soul, no worries or fears which gnawed at his mind during waking hours and asleep. It was a stifling feeling, almost of suffocation within that classroom, it was only his daydreams that stopped him breaking down during the lessons. Many times he had felt the impulse to breakdown and cry during one of Swaile’s onslaughts but so far he had succeeded in fighting this.

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