Stephen Wolfe is dead. He spent his last day like he would any other, with the exception that it was spent in excruciating pain. The last two weeks leading up to his death were spent in excruciating pain. It started with tingles, then progressed to full fledged aches. When he died, he could hardly move or sit. The doctors said it was testicular torsion, that it would sort itself out in time, but Stephen didn’t buy it. This was too painful, too constant, too serious. It had to be cancer, or some other horrible disease. Night after night Stephen would lie sleepless because of pain, groping his balls, hoping for a bump or strange heaviness telling of testicular tumours. No luck. Didn’t feel any torsion or twisting either.

Work was hardest. He used to love work but holding sermon when your balls are aching proves challenging for any man or woman. Can’t focus, can’t take any of this seriously. Saying Shaw saves sounds rich when in so much pain. If only it was his left testicle. Then it could be interpreted as a message or gift from the Lord. But this was the right, which lacks any of the allure or power of the left. Boring right testicle, as mundane as the kidneys or pancreas.

Three days before his death, a young girl visited him in his home. She was looking for guidance, said that she bore troubling news. Well spit it out then, girl. I’m a testicaller, I know what to do. That’s what Stephen wanted to say, but he could hardly finish through the pain. When he finally came, it came spotted with blood. He managed to explain it away by saying he was undergoing spiritual training, which was known to cause testicular bruising. But secretly, worry consumed him. It barely registered when the girl said a fellow testicaller was planning to defect. Who cares about the Church. He could be dying here. He sent the girl away and stared at the sad pool of cum in the middle of his bed, thinking about his future.

The last day was the worst. The pain was visceral, it reached deep into his gut like rot or the roots of dandelions. And it kicked. The pain was constant, but it kicked, and by that, I mean it felt like something angry was kicking at the walls of his right ball. Almost like some creature was nesting deep inside that testicle, some creature with gangly limbs and red hands. But Stephen Wolfe couldn’t skip work. Testicallers don’t get sick leave. And today was too important to miss, he was to officiate the Orgy of St. Shaw after all. The kicking didn’t go away, it got worse. Thank Shaw he was only officiating and not forced to participate.

When he got home and rinsed the semen out of his hair, standing naked in the shower, he swore he saw his right ball twitch. Or maybe he did see, maybe he noticed it swaying to a heartbeat that was not his own, but chose not to recognize it. Another kick, another wave of pain. It was too much, ten thousand volts straight to the nutsack. He doubled over, fell onto his back, legs spread eagle on the linoleum floor. Whatever was happening would happen and he was helpless against it.

Stephen’s body was discovered after his neighbors reported seeing a strange creature leave his house the next morning. It was unlike anything they’d ever seen. A creature in the shape of a man, with gangly limbs and thick, black hair.

Stephen died naked and afraid in his bathroom, and that’s where his bloodied corpse was found, hanging from the light fixture in the ceiling. He was missing his right testicle.

This one was just like the others. Inspecting Inquisitor Max Quick was sick of seeing dead testicallers. The newest victim was Garfield Catworth. He knew Garfield. Their kids went to the same school. What’ll happen to his daughter now? Garfield was found naked and hanging, death by asphyxiation. He was missing his right ball. Max didn’t need to see him to know; as soon as the calls came in, he knew the Troll had struck again. That’s what the papers were calling it. For the last three months starting with the bizarre murder of Stephen Wolfe, the Troll of Fort Pants had the town paralysed with fear. Every victim had been a testicaller of some notoriety, and every victim had died naked and single-testicled. Yet despite the murders and outrage, there’d been little success in catching the culprit. All they had to go on was a surreal description of this monster, and the unique conditions of the murder itself. They were stuck.

Then his phone rang.

“Max, get your ass over to the King street office right now.”

“What’s up?”

“A kid said he’d just seen the Troll. Said he could lead us right to him.”

Maybe things were looking up after all.

Inquisitor Thom Lawless was terrified. He’d finally found his proof, but somehow, at the end of everything, everything had gone wrong. Thom had defected from the Church, an act punishable by death. He had defected, and nobody knows it yet. Nobody but Testicaller Thor Pugilens.

Thom hates his job, but Thor makes him stick with it. They need a man on the inside. For the last three months the two of them had worked to expose the true purpose of the Church. They were so close. Then that Troll ruined everything. Now Thom’s done thinking. It’s time to act. He will break the Troll out of Fort Pants Dungeon or die trying. Shaw help them all.