WARNING: THIS STORY OF PURE FICTION CONTAINS EXTEMELY ADULT THEMES 
OF VIOLENCE, GORE, REJECTION OF AUTHORITY, SACRILEGE AND BLASPHEMY, 
AND INTIMATIONS THAT VERGE ON PEDOPHILIA.  ANY RESEMBLANCE OF ANY 
CHARACTER TO REAL PERSONS LIVING OR DEAD IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.  
FURTHER, I DO NOT ENCOURAGE OR SANCTION EITHER VIOLENCE, 
DESTRUCTION, ABUSE OF AUTHORITY OR OF AUTHORITY FIGURES, OR THE 
SEXUAL USE AND ABUSE OF CHILDREN IN ANY FORM WHATSOEVER.  THESE ARE 
FANTASY FIGURES WHO COULD NOT EXIST IN OUR REAL WORLD.  IF ANY OF 
THIS OFFENDS YOU OR IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE IN YOUR LOCALITY, OR BELONG 
TO ANY HOTHEADED RELIGION THAT INDUCES YOU TO COMMIT VIOLENCE AT 
TO DEFEND IT, THEN DON’T READ THE FUCKING STORY.  THE REST OF US, ENJOY.


PLANET JASON

By Chip Masterson


The president paced the mock oval office and tried to pop his ears.  Over a mile of solid granite 
rose above him and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t equalize the pressure.  It made him 
surly.

“I can’t shake this feeling of cowardice,” he told his aide, “hiding down here while people are 
left up there to fend for themselves against that sadist.”  A four-star general, the country’s first 
commander-in-chief since Eisenhower flexed his fists and wished there was something to punch 
that wouldn’t cry like a baby.

“Sir,” his nervous little aide said, “your daily broadcasts of strength and hope do more for the 
people than going up and being killed would.  People are banding together and keeping the faith 
because you’re still alive, every day.”

Of course, Jason hadn’t visited the US since his demolition of the former NORAD facility in 
Colorado.  Traveling south to Antarctica at mind-boggling speed, he stopped to shove a few 
glaciers into the ocean and fuck with sea levels before swimming to Africa and working his way 
north.  From there he branched east, hungrier to destroy the intense religious devotion of the 
Muslim world than by the feeble resistance slack Europeans offered.  

And the havoc Jason’s irresistible domination caused, from village to city, was more gruesome 
than anything the world had ever seen, from suicide bombers driving into him, only to come and 
praise his name in the instant before death, to others diving before the suicide trucks to protect 
him as if he needed it.  Immolations and honor killings, mass suicides and equally mass 
desecrations of the Quran and various holy sites by naked, cock-stroking mobs stunned and 
shattered every social bond.  When Jason destroyed the Dome of the Rock and grinding the 
rocky outcrop to dust with his flexing butt cheeks, live on Al Jazeera, the city went up in flames 
– but not before he pulverized the Wailing Wall to dust with one fist, and filled the Holy 
Sepulcher with jizz, drowning an entire convent of nuns driven to masturbatory death frenzy in 
the act.  

Iran and India both responded with nuclear blasts on Jerusalem, but Jason was not a casualty; by 
then, he was at Mecca, where crushed the holy meteorite by flexing it bits between his forearm 
and biceps and slaughtered many of the pilgrims by crushing them to death, hundreds at a time, 
in various crowded places.  But then he disappeared, and seemed to be spotted everywhere at 
once.  It made the president anxious.

“Are you certain those broadcasts cannot possibly be traced to us?’ the president asked, lighting 
a cigar.

“Impossible,” the aide assured him, almost cockily.   “Even we don’t know where we are.  
Twenty-five facilities, each with eight identical bunkers radiating a mile off a central mine shaft 
a mile deep, each bunker fully stocked for five years.  Broadcasts radiate by means of long wave 
radio that bounces off the earth’s core – same as the warning system should any facility be 
breached – so the signal is too big to pinpoint by the time it surfaces.  The entire world’s linked 
supercomputers could spend a year working full bore and never find us.  We’re as safe here as on 
the dark side of the moon.”

The president chewed his stogie and wondered how good Jason’s hook shot was.  Could Jason 
hit a target on the far side of the moon?  Did he like risking it?  

“Let me see that report again,” he barked, jutting out a thick hand from the end of a thick 
forearm blurred with tattoos and veins.  “I don’t understand a goddam word of it.  Can you give 
it to me in English?”

“It’s an statistical analysis we’ve pieced together out of the last data to come out of the … Black 
Hole Monitoring Facility,” the aide said, paling at the memory of what had happened there, 
“collated with reports from the Black Hole itself.  Our teams are all over it - turns out there’s no 
other defense than Jason himself, and no one offered any resistance.”

“What is it, some kind of bug, a virus, that infects these people?” 

The aide gulped.  “No evidence of pathogens was found – even ordinary illnesses seem to be 
rare.  After being … Jasoned, those who survive never get sick.  They may starve to death 
because call they want to eat is his cum, but…”  The aide shuffled his papers and added, “As a 
side note, nothing extraordinary was found, no elements that might suggest any sort of 
exogenous origin for Jason.”

“I said English.”

“From outer space, or the future, or any of those theories.  The only odd thing.…”   He gulped 
again, but didn’t want the president to bark at him any more, so he forged ahead.  “Everything 
was coated in a thick layer of semen.  Some of it still tacky, even weeks later.”

“Then it IS a disease.  Some kind of AIDS.”  The president got that confused-and-angry look that 
made most of his staff wear Depends as a matter of policy.

“No sir.  It’s a matter of will.  Jason’s will is simply stronger than anyone els—I mean, anyone 
he’s ever met yet,” the aide stuttered, not wanting to offend.  “They say – the ones still capable 
of thought and speech, that is – they say his mere presence forces you to doubt everything you’ve 
ever believed, even who you are, and when he turns his attention to you, you cannot resist him.  
His will dominates yours, more than humbles it – erases it, replaces it.  Most of the time by his 
mere presence.  The stink of his semen bears the memory of his will like ‘a voice in your blood’ 
– that’s how everyone describes the smell.  It commands them to obey.”

The president glowered, not liking his use of the second person, but not wanting the kid to waste 
any more time crapping himself.  “So can these people be – reprogrammed?”

“We’re not sure.  The compulsion is stronger than heroin.  The damage done depends on how 
strong your will is to begin with,” the aide explained.  “The weakest people turn into a kind of 
drone, a zombie fit for manual labor – farming, factory work, trash collection.  They don’t seem 
capable of independent thought but are able to function enough to keep things going, milk cows 
milked and harvest crops.  The most strongly-willed he corrupts before he kills them outright.  
Those in-between become a kind of sexual harem, personal slaves and overseers of the drones, 
some incapable of doing anything but weep without him.  But they can talk at least.”

The president nodded; this was the case with the few survivors in Colorado.  “What are all those 
charts about?” he asked, waving at the report.

“Extrapolating from what we’ve seen, the Jason-dominated area functions like a hive.  Only 
instead of a queen, Jason is the regenerative force – the only procreator.  All other males within 
the zone ceased mating – they masturbate and either eat their come or offer it to Jason by 
smearing it with his.  No known woman has survived the mating experience – either killed by the 
act, process, mortally sickened by the sperm or drained of life by the embryo before it’s viable.  

“So that’s what he came out to look for,” the president realized.  “Someone strong enough to 
bear his children.”

“And force everyone else to stop,” the aide concluded.  “We’re looking at an extinction event the 
human race hasn’t seen since before the last ice age.  A new Super-Adam and his world of 
supermen.”

Both men shuddered involuntarily and sat silently a moment.  “What about the children already 
there?  What has happened to them?”

The aide flipped a page to jog his memory.  “Jason doesn’t seem to care one way or another 
about children.  Some got collected into camps by the drones, others wander in feral packs.  He’s 
not interested in them until sexual maturity is fairly advanced.”

Of all things, that seemed to be a kind of relief, at least.  “So this Son of Hercules theory, we 
think there’s meat to it?” the president asked.

The aide nodded, “It’s the only theory that meets all the facts so far.  A random, centuries-later 
coupling recreates the original genes of some prehistoric superhuman hero-warrior, mutated by 
20th century radiation and other chemicals, resulting in rampant hyperplasia of muscle tissue with 
no upper limit on the accumulation of strength and mass – not gigantism, but via super-saturated 
density, from muscles down to blood vessels, membranes, even cell walls – denser, heavier, 
stronger, yet still capable of normal, even superior, functioning.  No limit,” the aide repeated, 
absently rubbing the nub in his pants, oblivious to the drool dropping onto his shirt, “until he 
becomes a kind of mini-planet, or living black hole.  Spitting out the occasional violent energy 
squib – or child….”

The president was barely listening, his mind drifting into visions of a world with no future, 
humanity replaced in one generation by a new breed of man.  Like the Neanderthals.  There had 
to be some way to stop him, some weakness … his pride?  So far he’s been able to back up all 
his boasts, and had no known sentimental attachments.  Maybe if he looked at that footage 
again…

THUMP THUMP THUMP.  

Three short quakes rattled the facility and the president’s first thought was, ‘At least I know 
we’re on the west coast.’  But nothing more happened – that’s when the sirens went off.

“He’s here!  He’s here!” voices screeched and men panicked everywhere.

“How did he find us?!” someone screamed.  “We thought he was in Kashmir!” 

The president’s next bark died in his throat as his chief of staff broke in his office, a look of stark 
fear on his face.  “We have to get to the vault, sir.  Now.”

“How the fuck did we not know this?” the president bellowed.  “We can sense him coming a 
hundred miles away!”

“Somehow he crept up on us – the satellites show nothing, we had no readings of any sort.  He 
was just suddenly here!  And it sounds like … he’s knocking.”

THUMP THUMP THUMP.  

As if on cue, the quakes came harder, knocking things off shelves.  The president turned on the 
aide and snarled, “You said all the world’s supercomputers would take a years to locate us!”

The aide’s face drained of blood and his mouth hung open and the president felt a brief flush of 
prided that he could still do that to men – until he realized the aide wasn’t looking at him, but 
staring into the distance.  Shaking him harshly, the president yelled into his face, “How could he 
find us?  Who’s leaking information?”

“He must’ve – I don’t – I can’t – Ooohhhhh!”  The aide pissed himself blubbering.

“Air cover!  We need air cover!”  The president ordered.

“Already done, sir,” the chief reported, “666th Fighter Wing out of Waco is closest – we’re in 
Texas, sir – and they aren’t called the Old Reliables for nothing.  Rendezvous in three minutes.”

“What about the other facilities?  Has he already hit them and we don’t know?” 

The aide snapped out of his fear again, clinging to the flotsam of his expertise.  “No reports, sir, 
the longwave’s silent.”

“Then how did he even know where to find this facility, and to pick this satellite bunker, out of 
all the eight?” the president marveled.  “How did he come down right on top of us?”

“What’s he waiting for?” the chief asked.

‘The bombers,’ the president thought.  “Get satellite coverage of this area and the CAG on the 
line,” he ordered.

Tension built as they waited for the fighters to arrive and the president realized the satellite 
photographs would come too late – all they’d show is aftermath.  The loudspeakers crackled and 
everyone heard:

“This is Champ, CAG of the 666th ORs and were are T-minus—HOLY CRAP!”  An explosion 
obliterated his voice for a moment and the CAG came back on the line.  “Something just shot 
from the surface straight through the body of the bomber carrying the nuke and kept going.  The 
bomber’s breaking in half and falling, and – what’s that?  Sir, we cannot find the target, repeat, 
we cannot find – JESUS CHRIST!” 

Gunfire erupted over the speakers, spurting epileptically.  Another explosion, and then another 
brought frantic voices until finally the CAG’s voice broke through, thick with emotion:  “Bogie 
IS the target, repeat, Bogie IS the target, this is confirmed.  Target is reported to have snagged 
the nuke from the bomber when he tore through the fuselage and then hocked the bomb into 
space.  Kermit, what you smoking?  Could you confirm – wait, shut up!  Target touched down to 
earth and relaunched, fuck he’s fast – faster than we are!  He hit Springer, landing on the cockpit 
and crunching it in a bearhug, shattered glass and blood before the plane blew up – the explosion 
flung him high and he caught hold of Mike the Spike’s wing, which he wrenched off in mid-air –
then kicked off the cockpit, crushing Mike in his seat, and shot straight at Kermit.  Kermit tried 
pull up but he was too fuckin’ fast, man, target clamped onto the underside like a starfish.  He’s 
too fuckin’ heavy, Kermit can’t handle the load.  He’s punching holes in the body and ripped 
wiring and oil lines out.  He’s – oh my God, he’s grabbed Kermit through the underside, and – 
oh, fuck, he ripped off a leg and pulled it through the hole – he’s reaching in again – an arm – the 
other leg – the plane’s spiraling but he’s kicked off again!  He can’t fly but he’s sure making 
hash out of my squadron.”

Another blast drowned out everything else and the president looked at the monitors, which 
showed a scene out of the London blitz, with fireballs in the sky and planes in chaotic positions, 
half of them shooting at the other half.  The CAG’s choked voice resumed: 

“Gentleman Dan fired off two missiles but Jason caught them under his arms and rode them – 
pulled them, somehow – into a loop and – Good Christ, Dan is down, Dan is down.  The 
explosion propelled Jason – unharmed, again! – straight into a hail of gunfire which has no 
effect, repeat no effect.  He’s back down on the surface but off again like a goddam flea!  
Evasive maneuvers, evasive – Christ!  He’s chasing us, hunting us - he’s so fuckin’ fast – 
CHRIST he’s got Iceman by the nose – FUCK HE JUST PUNCHED INTO THE COCKPIT – 
I’m gonna vomit – it’s like it’s in slo-mo, Jason reached in and tore Iceman out of the seat by 
palming his helmet, then he squeezed the helmet like styrofoam, his arm rippling and the helmet 
collapsing around Iceman’s head – he spasmed as brains and gore shot out of the cracks - and 
now – OH SHIT PLEASE GOD NO NO HE’S COM—”

Silence.

“Champ!  Champ!”  

Silence.  

They only had satellite images of Jason flashing by, now riding a fighter and bending it 
backwards, now preventing missiles from launching off a wing and exploding in place, now 
deflecting bullets off his chest back at the pilot.  Some of the fighters broke off to flee – 
expanded satellite coverage showed them exploding one by one, Jason obviously hurling 
missiles or bombs from mid-air at speeds faster than sound.  The dry scrub of the plateau soon 
was littered with the flaming wrecks of the entire 666th Wing.  

THUMP.

And Jason, bloodied and unbowed in the crater he formed with his own weight and power.  
Blackened by the soot of the explosions, the baked-on blood flaked off as he flexed and balled 
his fists together.

The president’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth and suddenly he barked, “Nearest silo?  How 
fast can we get a payload here?”

The silence deepened and people realized what he was willing to do.  “W-we have no warheads 
trained on this facility, sir,” the aide said.  The nearest silo … fifteen minutes to reprogram, five 
to launch and,” he muttered, punched numbers into a hand calculator, then looking at the ceiling 
and counting, “six minutes to get here.”

“Half an hour.  Get it started.  He can’t possibly get down here in half an hour,” he president 
said, “unless he finds the main access shaft.” 

“As soon as the air rout began,” the aide said, “I implemented the failsafe:  all access shafts have 
filled with fast-drying concrete - solid.”

“Failsafe?” the president glowered.  “How are we supposed to get out?”

“We have enough food and water to last five years – well, if there were only fifty of us.”  The 
aide looked sideways cagily.  “We may have to make some hard choices.”

A blast that felt like an H-bomb’s little brother rocked the facility and knocked everyone on his 
ass.  A new voice crackled over the speakers.  “Th-this is Whorly McBeater, SkyCopter 1 for 
local WHAK-TV.  The smoke’s pretty bad up here but it looks like this Jason feller just punched 
a hole in the ground.  Not much topsoil here, ground sorta cracked open like a spoiled egg.”

“McBeater, this is the President of the United States.”

“Holy hat fulla crap!” the crackling voice came.  “Honor to meet ya, sir!”

“How did you get this frequency?”

“Piggy-backed off the air traffic, Mr. President sir.  Didn’t know it was you.”

“Listen friend, McBeater, if that’s really your name, you are in serious danger.  Leave our 
airspace immediately,” the president ordered.

“Sir, with all due respect and freedom of the press and egg cetera,” McBeater said, “This is the 
hottest story in the world right now and we have an exclusive.  I’m not about to – what the – 
what’s he doing?  Gimme that!”

A crack-clap sound that made you want to run and hide filled the bunker.  Like lightning 
cackling when the storm center was overhead.  But of course that was impossible.  They were 
under solid rock.

“What do you see, McBeater?” the president ordered.

“Holy Jesus, I ain’t never seen muscle like that on man nor beast ‘n I been on safari in Africa.  
He reached into the crack he made like he’s lookin’ for something – God, look at the way the 
muscles ripple and flow, bunch and grow, then grow again – back, arms, shoulders - then BAM 
the crack actually LENGTHENED ten, fifteen feet in either direction.  Like he pulled it open 
with only his muscle.  Straddling it on his knees, and appears to be doing something to it again--”  
KKKKURRRACCKKKK!  “Holy cow!  It just split open again, wider and longer and--” 
KKKEEEERUUUCK!  “God almighty, three times!  It must be a foot wide now, and a hundred 
feet long, or more!  He musta slid some kind of bomb or device down there – Jed, see if you can 
get a close-up of that--” KKKKAAAAARRRRAXXXKKK!  “Jesus God in Heaven, we can 
right down and there’s nothing in there!  He’s ripping solid rock apart with his bare hands!  Look 
at those muscles bulge and gleam with sweat!”  

Every time that gut-wrenching sound happened, the facility shook like a dog’s toy.  Dust 
sprinkled down from the swinging lights and everyone stared at the ceiling with green, queasy 
faces.  The president could imagine those big, thick arms, veins pumping over knots of animal 
brawn, jerking the earth open and cramming tons of solid rock sideways.  But he knew where 
they were now, this was one of the largest expanses of granite in the state – no oil wells, little 
vegetation – just hard rock for hundreds of miles.  They were literally land-locked – how much 
damage could he really do?  

Could he … could be break that lock?  With his muscle?

“Every time his back expands, so does the crack in the earth,” McBeater said shakily when he 
came back on the com, dropping the hick act.  “A vast plain of muscle ripples and humps and 
widens, and the vast plain around him rips open, forming humps and bumps farther along, rock 
forcing up through the surface like bone splinters where the building pressure fractures the 
schist.   It’s wide enough now that he can fit in sideways – he drops down but the recoil clamps 
the rock back against his chest – oughta pop him like a cherry but instead his thickness stops it – 
oh no, his arms, he’s using his arms! – he’s bench-pressing the rock away from him, forcing the 
crack to lengthen, rock to tear – it’s impossible!

“The surface all around explodes with rock strata driven to the surface by Jason’s super-tectonic 
power.  Now he’s bracing the crevasse open with his legs and turning sideways, one hand on 
each wall, like Hercules – and oh shit, that’s what he’s gonna do, I don’t believe it!  Oh, heaven 
help you all, heaven help you all!”  

“What is it, man?” the president shouted hoarsely into the mike.

“He’s working his way down!  Like some kind of unstoppable spider!  His head’s disappeared 
and the crack’s wider than ever – the deeper he gets, the heavier the rock, the greater the spring-
back pressure – the earth doesn’t want to obey him, it wants to close back up - watch it tremble 
with the strain of fighting him, the entire surface in both directions popping with unrelieved 
tension!  It’s rumbling now, marshalling more force as he wedges himself deeper, doubling its 
compression stress – but Jason, my God!  Jason commands it, look how he fucking commands it!  
He demands the earth open for him and it can fight, it can buck but it cannot resist his authority!  
It has to give in, knuckle under his insistent dominance.  It has to break itself apart, and look at 
the quakes registering!  They’re racing out like waves, tremblors of frustration and fury radiating 
out in every direction!”

‘Like he’s fucking the planet with his whole body and Earth is helpless to resist,’ the president 
thought. ‘Its asshole just gets split open wide and wider, agonizing to take all of him but helpless 
to push him back out.”

Half a dozen aides rushed in with long printouts.  “Sir, I’m getting a report of an earthquake in 
Dallas--”

“Dallas?  No, Houston--”

“El Paso--”

“Corpus Christi--”

The president looked around in growing alarm.  “How big?”

“Don’t know, sir, they’re--”

“Ongoing, sir--”

“They haven’t stopped yet, sir--”

“They’re not stopping!  They’re not stopping!”  They just keep shaking harder and harder and 
longer and longer!”  

The staticky voice of the reporter drowns out the chorus:  “The horizon is one big scrim of dust 
everywhere – below, he just be a hundred feet down, the crack is easily that wide and more – and 
he just keeps penetrating deeper and deeper – Look at that!  His arms broke something loose and 
the ground slid ten feet – set off a quake that’s knocking down everything far as we can see….”

“Sir, we’re getting reports from Albuquerque--”

“Sir, a tsunami was sighted bearing towards the panhandle at 40 knots--”

“Sir, Mexico City is reporting--”

“Kansas City--”

“Chicago registering a 3.4 no, 3.6, no 3.9 --”

More static, more McBeater:  “I can barely describe what I’m seeing – we are right over this 
Jason’s canyon – it must be a quarter mile deep and miles long - the earth trembles before his 
might and cowers from his arms – over there – in the distance, huge acre-sized portions of rock 
are starting to island off as deeper fissures meet – a dozen sinkholes and twice as many new hills 
have been born – the sound is so horrible, it sickens your soul – it grows and grows, the pressure 
down there must be intense but Jason shoulders it back with manly brawn, meeting and doubling 
it back…”

“Sir, five oil rigs in the gulf have foundered, spilling--”

“New Orleans has disappeared – swallowed up by liquefaction!” 

“The Mississippi is flowing BACKWARDS from St. Louis on--”

“He’s churning the Gulf like it’s a goddam kettle of clams!” the president moaned.  A screeching 
sound razored through their ears as the reinforced steel walls began buckling.  Concrete failed as 
some unseen hand unzipped cracks in it while they gaped.  Looking around in alarm, the 
president watched the steel bulkheads warp like softening rubber, the pressure groan reminding 
him of a sub sinking to the bottom.  His security detail arrived – last chance to get to the Vault.  
He saluted grimly and staggered across the bobbing floor behind them.  

Abandoning his staff with a sick heart, the president ran crouching as the ceiling crushed lower 
and lower – machines began to spark and die as the collapsing structure squashed them.  The 
earth staggered out of control around them, roaring like freight trains colliding and exploding all 
around them, but still the president’s fine ear could pick up the news copter narrating their doom.

“It’s so wide now the sun is actually shining down into it – yes, get that shot, with the telephoto 
we can pick him out, he’s over half a mile down but crack is almost that wide – which means if 
he succeeds in breaking his way all the way down, the rocks at the depth of the current crack will 
have been shoved nearly half a mile away from each other – Godlike power – Huge masses of 
granite break free and shake into boulders that rain down upon him but they don’t affect him any 
more than the air strike did, shattering against his shoulders and then crushed to gravel by the 
shivering recoil when slides farther down.  But he – he cannot be crushed, he cannot be stopped, 
the weight of the earth itself cannot smash him, he proudly holds it back with hands strong 
enough to make Atlas weep with envy.  The arrogance of his muscle, shoving a whole planet 
around at will!  Who could stand up to him?  Whose God would dare cross him?  He’d make 
God his punk, his fuckin’ punk, he’d fuck God in half and--”

A new voice broke in:  “Gimme that camera, yer comin’ all over it--” 

They reached most hard-core vault within the complex, the ultimate in presidential security:  
steel walls eighteen feet thick on every side and a door more like a plug or cork of Swiss cheese 
than anything else – it had to slide down and then in, and was secured by staggered rows of bolts 
four feet in diameter – and the president wondered if even that could withstand what was coming 
for him.  Powerful stabilizers studded every side along with bores and shovels designed to 
survive the most violent natural or surface atomic strikes, then work its way inexorably back up 
to the surface through the rubble.  It looked like a giant squat robot.  “Or a really pimped-out 
coffin,” the President muttered as he was sealed inside.

Except the soldiers had trouble securing the vault – the constant shaking had thrown the narrow 
door, out of whack and it took fifty men heaving as hard as they could to realign it enough to 
slide in.  Once it caught, tractors pulled it home and the bolts shot through.  Even with the 
stabilizers going full throttle it was hard to stand up inside.  Jason’s violent manhandling of the 
Texas bedrock had continued for so long the damage couldn’t be calculated.  Data feeding into 
the vault made him sit hard into the chair bolted to the floor.  He didn’t need a news copter to 
narrate for him how Jason was fucking up the entire continent.

Having splayed open over three-quarters of a mile of solid granite, Jason tirelessly kept 
penetrating the earth open like an back-alley trick.  A Hercules reborn and on steroids, his 
sneering muscles were rearranging whole eras of geological history with merciless brutality, at 
levels so deep new faults formed where the earth’s asteroid-hardened crust couldn’t take it 
anymore.  These triggered older faults in violent chain-reactions as the continent struggled to 
release the crippling pressure his pecs and shoulders heaped against it, rendering the Richter 
scale incapable of measuring these ferocious tectonic convulsions.  

Already Jason’s bulging triceps had obliterated the record for the world’s fiercest quake, 1994’s 
ten-minute Sumatra quake, by doubling it and continuing unabated.  With pure will and the beef 
to back it up, Jason bulldozed hundreds of cubic miles of earth inch by inch and foot by foot with 
distressing thrusts, then flexed his abs and lats and insisted on more room, compelled it to 
compress if it had to, shatter if it had to, so long as it got out of his way.  With his pitiless legs 
securing every inch, he lubricated the newly parted crack beneath him with a steady flood of 
cocksnot.  Even as the door was being set into place, the smell had crept through the hairline 
cracks and begun corrupting the will of the soldiers with an unslakeable, vampiric hunger for it 
and only it.  The president saw their reddening eyes, clenching abs and burgeoning loads.  He 
imagined Jason’s smirk as he felt the earth’s puny revolts batter themselves against his 
implacable hands, then quiver and slink away from him.  

The president heard the structure outside the vault crunching around him like a cracker box.  
Steel designed to withstand the pressure of a mile of granite buckled and creased under the 
relentless punishment Jason dished out, cubic miles of displaced rock desperate to escape into 
any cavity.  He couldn’t hear the cries of all the brave, orgasmic soldiers and scientists being 
crushed to death like ants beneath Jason’s boot, but he imagined it anyway, to honor them:  the 
ceiling and walls bending into them like some Hercules movie, but without Hercules to rescue 
them: quite the opposite.  He tried not to imagine how they’d rub their cocks against the ceiling 
and walls that squeezed them as if they were Jason’s killing arms and pecs and abs, their bursting 
organs and veins as orgasmic as their spewing dicks.  But he couldn’t resist picturing it – 
somehow the smell, THAT smell of Jason’s macho and ass-sweat, defeated the vault’s filters and 
invaded his sanctuary.  And somehow, the thought of the men embracing death with orgiastic 
ecstasy rather than terror, somehow it made it … 

Better?  No. Impossible.  It isn’t better to die in the grip of self-pleasuring abandon, your mind 
and soul full of nothing but thoughts of His majesty.  It was the worst self-betrayal imaginable.  
The president tossed his head back and forth, struggling to resist the insistence of that taint-scent.  
He had to face Him in full possession of his own mind and soul, and not enslaved with longing to 
curl up inside His armpit and be crushed to blissful oblivion by Jason’s careless stink.

The smell of burning silicone followed an eerie sound through the vents as the stabilizers failed 
against Jason-generated pressures and concussions.  The groaning turned deeper, grinding 
horribly and the vault shivered - something shifted, eighteen feet of steel seeming to flatten 
incredibly, impossibly – and the ping of stress fractures deep within the steel walls.  For the first 
time claustrophobic terror gripped the president’s heart.  He might survive long enough to stare 
down this muscle terrorist face to face.

The entire vault crimped down half a foot, the steel rippling inward, yet everything shaking so 
violently the president would get battered to death leaving the chair.  He fired all the excavation 
pistons and drills at once, trying to break up the rock before he got squashed, but Jason’s power 
flattened the bores and shovels before they could do any damage, his exertions beyond the 
capacity of any element to withstand.  All the president heard was the fizzling grind of engines 
burning out.  He was totally trapped.  He looked down at his sidearm, and felt the call of the 
semen anchor his hand, preventing him from robbing the Master of his due.  His lip curled as he 
mustered the will to fight that all-pervading scrotal stench.  His gnarled arm trembled.  Then his 
ears popped.

‘Huh,’ he thought, looking up.  Like the pressure was … lessening.  How could that be?

The whine of succumbing steel ceased – and the rattling changed as well, carrying an echo as if 
the cavern had actually gotten bigger.  A few of the stabilizers still worked and with the relief, 
were able to bring the vault to the gentle bob of a commuter train. But the black-hole roar of 
seismic calamity grew louder, meaning Jason was now manhandling a linear mile of rock in each 
hand, his arms of power wrenching the planet wide like ripe fruit.  But somehow, something was 
holding it away from him.  For a brief moment, he considered perhaps the real God did exist, and 
would save him, before realizing it was just a fluke of the disintegration that could not last.

Then the heavy vault door began to creak.  The entire area had been compromised so he had no 
hope it could be opened – except he didn’t hear the motors trying to open it either.  Huh.  The 
creak warbled into straight-out moan of torture, as if something had hold of it and was trying to 
rip it out with main force.  Despite bolts four-feet thick running through and through.

It had to be Jason – he had to be here.  That the quakes continued meant he’d overloaded the 
rock strata with so much voltage it would take hours to shake itself out.  Hours?  Days, weeks 
even.  The earth might seize and spasm for months from Jason’s cruel strength.  The president 
wondered what the death toll on the surface was – whether any structure at all was left standing 
from Mexico City to Juneau, or whether, like tornados, the quakes had been only localized.  
Then he remembered the tsunamis rushing out to overwhelm Florida and Cuba.  Jason, this 
living man, this macho God, had done more damage than the biggest comet ever to hit the earth 
from outer space.  And he wasn’t done yet.

So the President gripped the arms of the chair and winced as the power trying to dislodge the 
bent and bolted vault door turned into fierce tugs that challenged the stabilizers anew.  The entire 
vault lurched as Jason dragged it across the floor.  The ceiling began to change – to tent upward 
near the door, as if Jason’s mighty hands were deforming it to get a better grip.  Just as the 
president was about to stand up, the vault began shaking more violently than it ever had during 
the worst of the quake, shaking and slamming up and down, it’s fifty tons like a dog toy in the 
muscle beasts’ grip.  Chunks of steel ripped out from around the bolts, and remorseless hands 
yanked the four-foot-thick bolts out through the opening, bent and twisted with savage fury.  
More chunks tore out from around the bolts and sparks sputtered and flared.  Finally, with a 
deafening, indescribable metallic howl, a series of harsh jerks wrenched out the last of the bolts 
and with it the final chunk of steel.  It blasted free and careened against the boulders and rubble 
on the far side of the cavern, a pile of torn metal boulders and eerily coiled pieces like robots 
frozen in agony.  

The president’s belly lurched as he stood to face his enemy.  He braced himself and dashed on 
jittery legs past the jetting steam and sprays of oil and water, practically collapsing when he was 
free.  And there, before him, stood – someone else.

Someone not Jason.

Someone smaller, almost … child-like.  Like a perfect child, a pint-sized bodybuilder of heroic 
proportions yet impossibly young.  Just standing there, barefoot, in cut-off jeans.  ‘Or ripped-
out,’ he thought.

“Who the hell are you?” the president barked.  

“Name’s Aaron,” the kid said.  “I’m Jason’s son.  Mr. President.”  As if to prove it, he pointed 
sideways at the pile of steel chunks in a way that made his biceps ripple with tiny veins.  He 
clocked a look to make sure the president noticed, and added, “I’ve been told I have 
abandonment issues.”

The president gaped – gaped at his audacious statement, gaped at a child’s arm that suddenly 
exploded with titanic muscle, gaped at the complex density of muscle fibers covering this man-
boy’s body like webbing.  Every muscle gathered and flared as if some huge 400-lb 
bodybuilder’s musculature had been reupholstered onto the frame of a 15 year old boy by some 
mad scientist.  Yet the muscles worked together so smoothly they couldn’t be the result of 
engineering.  They gave no impression other than being utterly natural.  As of that’s what we all 
were meant to be, all along, and had somehow fallen short.

Shaking his foggy head, the President said, “But Jason claims – all our intel shows he’s at most 
nineteen years old.  How could he have a fifteen--”

“I’m eleven,” Aaron said with a smirk, enjoying the look of awed stupefaction he caused.  
“Look, Dad’ll be home in no time – good thing you never launched that tactical nuke, you’d only 
toast yourself and he’d be long gone.”

“How did you know--?”

“For now,” Aaron said authoritatively, “tell my Dad you did that.”  He jutted his arm at the 
balled-up door and took a moment to admire the way his biceps popped up from his extended 
arm; he rotated it around so it looked like a zeppelin docking in a high wind.  “I’m gonna duck 
into your closet here and take back the element of surprise.”

The president heard himself say spontaneously, “Yes, sir,” before the kid’s arrogant smile jolted 
him back to himself.  “Sure, kid, I’m game,” he added, thinking, ‘I’ve always been king of my 
world but I am out of my depth here.’

The ceiling cracked, gravel raining down and bouncing on the vibrating floor.  The sound of 
deep rock exploding under pressure yielded the bright, vibrant splitting of granite made and the 
president’s short hairs rise.  Immediately, a sticky drizzle of briny cockjuice matted them back 
down and gooped into his hair, falling in greasy blobs onto his uniform.  The smell overpowered 
him at first and he swayed with vertigo as his pants sprouted a 4x4 load-bearing beam of 
hardwood and his asshole puckered, wet and slimy, like some autonomic self-lube response.  The 
president hated his body’s betrayal and the deeper core of longing the odor of that essence 
aroused in him.  

The ceiling split open, fissuring along the tops of the chamber’s walls and grinding back across 
them.  The president expected a blinding light but something huge blocked it.  He stepped away 
in case that boulder fell through – except it wasn’t a boulder.  It was Jason, pumped and 
pumping, inserting his hugeness where granite used to sleep.   It took a moment to register but 
then the president could make out the gargantuan thighs and high-standing calves bracing and 
bursting dense strata, arms like John Deere tractors bullying it back while it rioted impotently 
against hard hands, pecs like world-record pumpkins growing before your eyes as his arms 
spread wide, and lats flaring like a wedge to crack the world in half.  He watched in awe how the 
massive walls of granite rebelled like the clamping jaws of a dying beast, and how Jason’s 
blood-engorged, sweat-drenched muscles broke their power and forced obedience to his will.  

And riding before everything like a conquering tank rose the arrogant arch of his manliness, his 
bottomless cumsac fueling its constant gush and drool.  He’d never imagined that organ could be 
so majestic, so terrifying, so fucking BIG – like a medieval weapon or war, or torture.  A 
battering ram to shatter actual fortress walls.  ‘Not to mention my ass cherry,’ he thought, feeling 
something run down his leg.

The valley of bedrock cowered away from its master in a V as high as the sky.  Nearly a mile 
wide at the top, it stretched from horizon to horizon, as vast and deep as the Grand Canyon.  And 
dwarfing that perspective rose Jason himself, twisting and wreaking his will and leaving a scar 
that will never heal.  Then, finally, with a grin of hard-won triumph, Jason roared with victory 
and gave a final goodbye shove that sent each side accelerating away with such force the 
implosions deeper in the earth sounded like war.   He dropped down to the floor of the cavern, 
crushing a crater that opened a split that ran through the president’s legs.  He rose to his full 
height to display himself to his prey. 

The president’s guts twisted to be in such proximity to Jason.  He could feel the singing power 
radiating off the muscleteen’s body, his muscles still flexing and twitching as they cooled down 
from their miraculous feat of brawn.  Working his pecs and rolling his shoulders, his virility 
flooded the president’s mouth with drool and fired every synapse of submission and desire, 
awaking in the mere normal man urges he’d never dreamed were there.  But when Jason cracked 
his neck and turned his handsome, unforgiving face to the president, his full lips curled in a 
smirk that said, ‘I know the effect I’m having on you, man, and you’re powerless to resist it  
Give in to my excellence and worship this.’  He popped his pecs rapidly, eyes gleaming with 
cruel delight as he watched the president of the United States press his fish into his groin, knees 
quivering, spittle overflowing his jaw.  He worked his muscles a few more times so the president 
could try to grasp how supple they were, how ready.  He scratched his head so his biceps would 
crowd his arm and the president whimpered in envy and yearning.

For a moment, rational thought left the president and, like a puppet, he felt his body fire and 
twitch in response to Jason’s hypnotic movements, as if his nerves had been hotwired directly to 
individual parts of Jason’s physique.  For the first time ever in his life, he knew what it was to 
want another man more than his own life.  And wondered how he had lived his hollow life until 
this blessed moment.

It was like he could feel his soul bending towards Jason, striving to leave his body and merge 
with Jason’s shadow, wanting to devote itself completely and eternally to following such 
masculine perfection.  But something else inside him struggled to pull it back, to keep it, to 
remember who he was.  The tug-of-war continued with wrenching agony as the president felt his 
strength fading against the unyielding demands of Jason’s birthright.  He realized how so many 
people gave in to him.  He was too much, on every lever, to resist.  He could turn your mind to 
mush if he wanted to by just standing there, glaring into your eyes, daring you to maintain your 
identity.  You’d have to let it go because he claimed everything as his due, everywhere around 
him.  Either you give your self to him, or he takes it.  And you don’t want him to do that.  Oh 
Christ on the cross, no.

Slowly, the resistance of the entire continent ground Jason’s last punitive thrust to halt.  Yet 
motion didn’t cease – the canyon walls continued to twitch and convulse epileptically, throwing 
down little avalanches of stone.  Sunlight blazing into the cavern gleamed off Jason’s sweat-
drenched musculature.  It took everything the president had to puff out his chest, point to the 
chunked door without letting his hand tremble and say, calmly and evenly, “I did that.”

Jason laughed, a huge booming sound that filled the cavern as if it too could burst the walls 
apart.  “Did you now?” Jason asked.  Pointing non-chalantly up with this thumb, he said, “I did 
THAT.  You’re a hard man to reach, Mr. President.  Fortunately,” he added, tapping a finger 
against his obdurate, distended biceps, “I’m a harder man.”  Following the president’s gaze, his 
fingers felt the underside of the muscle belly, letting his thumb run over the peak.

The president shook his head like he had water in his ears and tried to fix his gaze on Jason’s 
nose, to avoid those eyes and that body of literal death.  “I wasn’t about to let myself be trapped 
by you,” he said.  “I’ve never hidden from an enemy in my life and I’m not about--”

“Tsk tsk tsk.”  Jason shook his head disappointedly, and the president felt a gulf of desperation 
open inside him.  He marveled at how many levels Jason’s dominance operated at once.  Jason 
looked at him coldly and said, “If you massed every computer ever invented together, I’d beat it, 
outsmart it, just like I did today in finding you.  So don’t think I’m stupid enough to buy a sack 
of shit and call it a man.  You’re a sack of shit, and you didn’t do that.  So what did?  You have 
some secret weapon, some robo-soldier for me to master and kill?”  

Jason didn’t look around; he crossed his arms in front of his chest and cocked his head to the 
side, drilling his eyes into the president and forcing him to look into them, his overwhelming 
magnificence stubbing out every instinct toward self-preservation.  He smiled, relishing the sport 
of humbling a strong man’s confidence and pride by simply standing there.  He liked it as much 
as he enjoyed physical slaughter.  Maybe more.

‘Because the death of the soul is the only true death,’ the president remember his father saying 
one bright summer evening after a smashing Little League defeat.  ‘The body will rise again on 
the last day, unless there’s no soul to inhabit it; then its dust will be forgotten.  It’s the soul that 
matters.’

Feeling his soul getting lost in those deep, limpid eyes, he knew Jason wanted to kill his soul 
before he destroyed his body.  The only victory he could hope for would be to deny Jason that.  
And sweat broke down his spine at the mere thought of denying Jason anything.

 “What, you don’t know about our secret weapon?” the president asked, feeling heady with 
rebellion.  “I thought you had us all figured out.”

Jason made a throat-clearing noise, the same one he himself used to instill fear in underlings; it 
really worked, he realized with prickly dread.  “I don’t crack every secret in your little insect 
world,” Jason said in a weary tone.  “I don’t need to.  But if I have to go searching for whatever 
did that, it’ll just piss me off.  More.  And even though smearing the desert with your air 
squadron and then body-fucking the planet to get to you, the country’s prostate-in-chief, took 
some effort--” (he smirked to show his contempt for the damage he’d caused) “—I’m still man 
enough to best whatever your scientists could make with their erector sets.”   He cracked his 
knuckles expectantly; it echoed like rifle shots.

“They didn’t make me,” the kid called out from inside the ruined chamber.  He walked out and 
popped his pecs, adding, “You did.  Pops.”

The president felt Jason’s attention leave him – completely.  A icy sense of isolation enveloped 
him, like lost in a dark place.  That too explained so much about the Black Hole.

Jason scoped out his adversary with an electric, predatory lust.  He sized up Aaron’s dangerous 
strength with jubilant expectation – finally! a half-decent challenge.  His hands hung open at his 
sides as his body swelled and relaxed.

“Nice try,” Jason said dismissively.  “You’re too old, number one; and number two, no one’s 
ever survived, not mother or brat.”

“Clear the cobwebs from your Alzheimer’s old man,” Aaron answered.  “Once upon a time there 
was a babysitter.  She’d seen you at her high school, a third grader smarter than their top students 
or teachers, who also broke every athletic record in the course of a single day – all those records 
still standing, of course.  She’d heard the horror stories – expelled, home-schooled, parents 
unable to find anyone willing to baby-sit.  They were your first prisoners.  But she wanted you.  
She wanted you bad.”

Jason’s face darkened terribly.  “I raped that bitch.”

“She saw how important that was to you, so she let you believe it.  But that’s why she was there.  
To get you inside her, feel your strength, and make another one just like you.”  Aaron took the 
offensive now, smiling and inching around to Jason while staying just out of reach.   “At eight,” 
he continued, “you weren’t at peak maturity.  Your sperm made her deathly sick, but she 
survived.  The family moved away, and I nearly sucked the life out of her but she held on at least 
until I was tired of being cooped up and ripped my way out of her belly, crawled across the room 
and ate the first thing I could catch, bones, fur and all, dragging her corpse behind me by the 
umbilicus.  I think it was a cat.  She left a journal that told me a lot, once I taught myself to read 
at eight months.  I’ve had what they call socialization difficulties.  You could imagine.”

If Jason had any feeling other than rage, it couldn’t break through to the surface.  His rage held 
him and the president thought, ‘I wonder how old Jason was when he learned to read?’

“Where?  Where did this happen?” Jason asked.  That he didn’t know seemed the biggest insult 
of all.

“Nova Scotia,” Aaron said.  “Her parents took care of me for the first few years but they were 
terrified of me.  As was only right.  I destroyed their house in a tantrum when I was two.  Brick, 
fieldstone – leveled it.  Police said they died in a gas explosion but really - I was ready to cut out 
on my own and I couldn’t leave them behind as witnesses.  Now could I?”

“How did you live?”  Jason was enraptured by the story, even though his face twitched with each 
new detail.  

“Elk, caribou.  Not raw.  I could tear apart a tree and make a fire in no time.  I loved bringing 
down my first thousand-pound elk.  Since I was only two, I don’t think it even noticed me.  Until 
suddenly I held it kicking over my head and pulled its spine apart with my bare hands.  That first 
winter I went north and lived off polar bears.  Terrified the Inuit to see a naked toddler chasing 
down a fleeing bear and choke it to death, then proceed to flay and butcher it with my fingers.  I 
would’ve shared but they stayed away and really, I needed the meat.  I knew if I was going to 
find you and win your approval, I’d have to be a lot bigger, and stronger.”

“Not there yet, kid,” Jason growled.  

Ignoring him with a smile, Aaron continued.  “When I did come down to see what you’d become 
– a voice in my head held me back.  Said it wouldn’t be a hugs moment.  So I watched.  Watched 
from the edges and filled my gut with bear meat.  My body was spreading out too – I could eat a 
juvie grizzly in one meal.  I loved crushing their ribs with my thighs while my thumbs pressed 
down into their skulls.  I loved the way they fought and screamed.  I imagined it was you.  Every 
time.”

The president smelled the testosterone arcing between them like Tesla coils.  They began to 
circle each other, still at the greatest distance the ruined cavern would allow.  Jason’s jaw worked 
and the president wondered if maybe, just maybe, this kid was stronger at a younger age than 
Jason had been.  Was that what kept Jason from attacking?  “You got off that bus a few stops 
early, sport,” Jason said threateningly.  

The kid laughed, raising the temperature in the room near to boiling.  “I coulda whupped you a 
year ago, but not in that hick queendom of yours.  I wanted to do it in public.  That news copter 
up there will do.  Not to diss the president.”

“Why, kid?” the president asked.  “Why was your first thought to kill your father?”

“Because even if she wanted it, that doesn’t change the fact that he raped my mother.  She gave 
her life protecting me, but what I inherited from you couldn’t protect her from me.  I didn’t want 
to kill her – I just wanted to stretch out and eat something.  When I realized she was dead, it was 
too late.  So now it’s payback time.  And believe me, the genes I got from here combined with 
yours?  I’m like you squared.  And I’m only getting started.”

You’re getting ended, pipsqueak,” Jason said through gritted teeth.  He grabbed his balls and 
squeezed, and heavy cum oozed out of his cock’s hungry mouth.  “Believe me, there’s plenty 
more where you came from, and I’m not sentimental.”

“Mental, maybe,” Aaron replied.  Without another word, Aaron ripped open his jeans, exposing 
a stained jockstrap straining to contain his pendulous junk.  “I keep mine on a tighter leash,” the 
kid added.   “But believe me, in this cock fight?  All bets are off.”

The president felt dirty staring at him.  After all, despite the physical maturity, muscle power and 
the murderous nature of his father, he was only eleven years old.  Except he wasn’t a kid – he 
wasn’t at all like any other kid in the world.  He was a new thing, in his own league and master 
of it.  Super genius smart but thinking like a kid – a wild child who lived by his own strong arms 
alone.  The worst of combinations.

Jason’s face didn’t betray anything but his breathing sped up.  He jerked his thumb at the sky and 
said, “So far, just a lotta talk out of you.  I just did that.  What did you do, that?”  He sneered at 
the door.  “I was breaking safes when I was seven and vaults when I was nine.  Kids’ stuff.”

“You’re right about that,” Aaron said.  “Except these arms burst their first safe when I was five, 
and I blew my first vault at seven.  In winter.  From the inside.  After tunneling up through the 
permafrost and concrete so quietly I never set off a single alarm.  At least not until I pounded that 
big vault door outa the wall and  took most of the wall with it.”

“Sounds like you could use some discipline,” Jason said, eyes glinting.  “Daddy’s gonna take 
you behind the woodshed for a word of prayer.”

“You ain’t taking me nowhere, old man,” Aaron said, rearing back cockily and pointing at the 
top of the vault.  “If you’ll notice, the rock was bearing down and crushing that tin can there.  I 
stopped that – stopped YOU – and shoved the rock back up ten feet.  Which is where it stayed.  
You moved it down and out, but I moved it back up against you and there wasn’t nothing you 
could do about it.  Bow to your new master.  Pops.”

Aaron made his pecs danced behind crossed arms and despite being half Jason’s size, radiated 
such power and authority that even Jason checked his impulse to spring on him – the president 
could see his tense muscles twitching for release.  Despite his threats, Jason didn’t move.  Aaron 
rolled his tongue against his cheek, and said, “Like that?  I know you--”  But Jason was gone.

So was Aaron.  When the president could focus, Jason’s fist careened into the wall of the vault, 
where Aaron should have been.  The eighteen-foot-thick steel dimpled nearly two feet from the 
blow and the vault skidding back into the wall.  Aaron was behind him and, wrapping his arms 
around Jason’s sinewy waist, crushed in and heaved Jason into the air as if to slam him 
backwards against the floor.

Except Aaron miscalculated Jason’s mass and staggered under the unexpected weight.  Before he 
could regain control, Jason’s feet came down in a crippling strike that ought to have shattered 
Aaron’s legs.  Instead, Aaron grimaced and, holding tight, used that momentum to slam Jason’s 
handsome face into the cavern floor.  

Jason kicked again and propelled Aaron hundreds of yards up the side of the new valley.  Aaron 
twisted and used the rock to propel himself back down like a bullet, only Jason moved away in 
time and Aaron crashed into the floor, his fist blasting granite dust in a cloud.  Jason dropped 
into the crater and when the dust cleared, the president saw he had the boy in a scissors hold 
around the chest.  Those thighs were almost as thick as the boy himself was at their widest – and 
Jason squeezed them with cold-blooded cruelty.  

Aaron coughed and gagged and flailed his arms in a way that seemed almost comic.  Blood 
gushed over his chin and air wheezed into his mouth.  Then he started laughing, unable to 
maintain the straight face – he’d bit his tongue on purpose, for the effect.  Jason sneered and 
flared his quads, bringing continent-cracking power to bear on the boy’s pecs.  But Aaron kept 
giggling, and then grabbed the upper thigh with his hands – and pushed.

His triceps bloomed and Jason grinned, grinding his thighs together.  Then Jason’s grin hardened 
into a frown of effort – and it was Aaron who was grinning.  Aaron’s arms rose, pressing that 
powerful thigh up off his chest and filling the space with diamond-hard boypecs.  With a look of 
rage, Jason braced his arms and squashed his quads together until it was stopped by those pecs.  
Jason mashed muscles, the strain thickening his neck, quads grinding – but they didn’t give.  
Then Aaron pressed the leg back up again and said, “Two.”

Like he was counting reps.

Jason tried to lock his ankles but Aaron wouldn’t let him:  he let them almost touch, then pressed 
them away.  Toying with the bigger man.  Jason reared up against his arms and Aaron exploded 
up, smacking that huge quad into Jason’s face.  Slinging Jason into the air with fingers that 
pinched deep into muscle, Aaron began spinning him like an airplane.  Faster and faster until he 
approached cyclotronic speeds, when Aaron let go Jason hit the granite at three Gs, plowing a 
shaft that blasted dust and rock back into the chamber.  A concussive crack snapped through the 
facility – Jason, bracing against the rock to stop his trajectory.  After a tense few seconds, a blur 
shot out of the hole like a rogue planet.

A blur that Aaron stopped cold:  taking no more than two steps backward, Aaron held Jason at 
arm’s length, his two smaller hands grappling with his father’s fist.  The president gasped at such 
power.  Aaron’s pecs striated and his arms twisted as he grinned with malice up into Jason’s 
stunned face.  And the president heard something unbelievable:  Jason’s impregnable bones 
cracking.  

For the first time in possibly ever, Jason’s face registered surprise and the first hint of fear.  
Triumph spread over Aaron’s face, his shoulders bunched and back humped, and grinning 
widely, he crushed Jason’s hand, broken bones gouging into his flesh.  Sucking air, Jason’s arm 
bulged to yank it away but Aaron laughed and doubled the pressure.  The air filled with the 
sound of obdurate bones snapping like rifle shots and Jason’s massive lungs struggling to inhale 
through his confusion and shock.  Panic and terror broke across Jason’s face as he desperately 
struggled to pull away.  

Aaron savagely tugged him forward so hard Jason stumbled.  Now utterly in control, Aaron 
sneered and bent the broken hand back so hard the wrist fractured through the skin, jetting blood.  
Holding in back in one hand, Aaron brought his elbow down on Jason’s forearm with a 
nauseating SNICK, driving the big man to his knees.  

Jason screamed.  Utterly ignorant of pain until that moment, his body filled with wildly spinning 
terror, inflamed by being trapped by this boy, this man, this creature of unknown and – can it be 
possible? – superior strength and ability!

Howling through the agony, Jason flailed his broken arm but Aaron prevented it moving.  His 
free fist impacted the side of Aaron’s face with dynamite force and the boy was knocked off 
balance a moment – but recovered faster and snatched at that fist.  Jason pulled it away, 
frightened  of its power, and tried to bat or push Aaron off his shattered arm without getting 
caught.  But Aaron was always slightly quicker and blocked every attempt, giggling again like he 
was playing with a puppy.  Finally he caught Jason’s hand and their fingers interlaced, Jason 
using his superior size to overwhelm the boy and try for a crushing first squeeze.  Aaron winced 
and struggled, losing precious inches as Jason bore down on him with desperate strength.  But 
the cords stood out in Aaron’s arm as his grip tightened, Jason realized he was completely 
trapped.  

Helpless.

At the mercy of a kid half his age and size.  A kid with no mercy for him.

Aaron savored his victory, moving Jason’s massive arms in circles.  Tauntingly, he said, “Clap if 
Aaron is stronger.”  Then he forced Jason to clap with shuddering pressure, driving his hands 
together.  “That’s two for Aaron.  Now, clap if you think Jason is stronger.”  And he spread both 
their arms apart, the one dripping blood and the other spasming to contract against the might that 
held it splayed wide and vulnerable.

“Once again, clap for Aaron?”  

Clap.

“And for Jason?”

Stretch.  

“Looks like all the votes are in, old man.  Two for Aaron,” and here he crushed harder into 
Jason’s hands, “and none for you.  With one abstaining.”  Aaron looked at the president, and 
said, “I promise to get your vote before the campaign’s over.”

Jason roared in pain and humiliation and struggled to stand.  Aaron controlled him, pressuring 
him back into place.  But Aaron enjoyed himself too much and discounted Jason’s recuperative 
powers, now fueled by torment and rage.  Jason shot to his feet and lifted Aaron clean off the 
ground.  He swung around and slammed Aaron into vault, creasing the dense steel.  Then he 
twisted and spun and slammed him into the other side, collapsing it further.  A vault built to 
withstand a mile of rock was being battered flat by these two muscle men.  A third strike made 
Aaron let go. 

But not give up.

Aaron ricocheted off the ground and leapt onto Jason’s back, encircling his waist with his long 
wrestler’s thighs and linking his arms around Jason’s throat in a full nelson – they’d never fit 
around his lats and chest.  Aaron clinched his legs against those abs and tried to force Jason’s 
head forward.  

Jason’s neck and traps bulged to stop those arms, giving way slowly to their incredible strength.  
His good hand, sore and swelling but unbroken, scrabbled at Aaron but his own bulk got in the 
way.  Aaron whispered into his ear, “Weaker than your own sixth-grader son.  That’s gotta kill 
ya.  I’m not even a teen yet – just wait ‘til those hormones kick in.”  He clamped his body 
tighter, making vertebrae and ribs creak.  “Maybe I won’t kill you,” he whispered.  “Maybe I’ll 
let you be my slave bitch.”

Jason struggled, nearing exhaustion from his exertions, but Aaron held him in his crushing 
embrace with merciless boy power.  He kept taunting in his ear.  “Bet by the time I’m thirteen I 
won’t even have to make you lick my feet.  Coupla years, you’ll be so intimidated by me coming 
home you’ll squirm on your belly across the yard – in front of everyone – to see to my needs and 
make sure I’m happy.  I won’t even need to beat your ass around the town when I’m not.  All I’ll 
have to do is look at you cross and twitch my pec and you’ll piss and shit yourself and roll in it, 
weeping with fear.”  

His arms shook as they pressed Jason’s chin down into pecs and slide higher for more crippling 
leverage.  “By the time I’m fourteen – Christ, imagine me at fourteen!”  His quads peaked and 
fractured a rib and then pressed harder into it.  “All I’ll have to do is look at you hard to make 
your heart beat so fast it’ll pop.  ‘Course, by then, I should have to power to bring you back.  
Imagine that – you won’t even be able to die to escape me.  Imagine waking up hoping you’re in 
hell, then realizing you’re still my property and I ain’t done using you yet.  Imagine that – I can 
kill you whenever I want, by strangling you, crushing you, squeezing you, or beating you to a 
bloody pulp, then with the sheer strength of breathing my lifeforce into, raise you from the dead.  
And I’m only fucking fifteen!  And you’d be what, 23?  23 dude!  Think how long you’ll have to 
worship your god as he gets bigger…”

Squeeeeze.

Crick.

“…and STRONGER …”

Squeeeeeeze twist twist squeeeeeeeze.

Snap.  Stagger.  

“… and more macho than you dared dream possible.”

Aaron’s musculature rippled across his hulking back and out his surging lats, his arms and thighs 
pumping to sizes that could rival Jason’s.  Tossing his head back, he brought paralyzing force to 
bear on the teen musclebeast, each muscle instinctively seeking a weakness it could pursue.

Jason’s body jerked with explosive bursts of power to break free but Aaron’s kid muscles 
encapsulated him in an unyielding death grip.  

“Face it,” Aaron said with a sensual smile.  “I’m more of a man than you’ll ever be and I’m still 
a kid.  The man I’ll become is more than your mind can grasp.  Now say uncle.”  

The president could see the boy’s corrugated abs contract as he constricted his father.  But Jason 
wasn’t done.  He roared a strangled squawk and slammed back into the vault.  The huge steel 
crate collapsed dented beneath them, the last of the lights insider flickering out.  His quads 
exploded to press Aaron into the steel but it caved around Aaron’s iron back with a horrible 
groaning.  The interior had vanished, and now 36 feet of steel stood between the two men and the 
bedrock.  Jason pressed harder, forcing the steel to spread sideways behind them.   

Aaron yawned loudly and released Jason.  As the brute muscleteen expanded his body to shake 
off the memory of those strangling arms and legs, Aaron his feet square against the small of 
Jason’s back and wrapped his hands around Jason’s neck.  

Arching like a cat, Aaron began bending Jason backward.  The giant’s abs strained and failed to 
counter this new onslaught, spasming sickly under the skin.  Aaron whooped to feel the bigger 
man’s spine lose against his superior kid muscle power.  He smiled at his own bulging muscles 
as they rippled beneath his creamy smooth skin.  Jason staggered forward, sensing that if he fell, 
the boy might somehow seriously hurt him – even kill him.  Aaron had nearly bent Jason in half 
before the teen muscle beast accepted that he’d more than met his match. 

The president, distracted by his throbbing prick, nearly missed the look of utter despair in 
Jason’s eyes, a look that said, ‘I cannot beat him.  He’s stronger and better than me at everything.  
And I’m helpless in his hands.”

That crushing realization detonated rage in his chest so strong it overcome his mental collapse.  
A being of hulking thoughtless rage, Jason roared himself upright.  Aaron huffed and strained 
but he couldn’t maintain his advantage against this new onslaught of power.  Jason flexed every 
muscle, not to intimidate but out of total fury, and the fibrous balls and peaks and footballs of 
brawn seemed bigger than anything humanly possible.  Jason’s back swelled and with a violent 
shake, he flipped Aaron off his back and around the front.

Aaron twisted to come face to face with Jason, digging his knees in against Jason’s ribs.  Jason 
brought his arms down against those legs and squeezed with diamond-creating pressures, 
trapping Aaron even as Aaron threatened to break his ribs.  Fixing his father in the eye, Aaron 
pursed his lips in a way that forced Jason’s cock to spurt come in spasmodic jerks.  Then Aaron 
wrapped his arms around Jason’s head and pulled his face into his own pecs, bearhugging it.

Jason’s muffled bellowing sounded strange to the president, and so did the sickening sounds of 
skull plates shifting against each other.  Jason tried to chew his way out but Aaron anticipated 
that and flexed his abs and pecs to keep Jason’s jaw shut. His triceps and shoulder bloomed red, 
the peaks of his biceps digging hard into that skull even as Jason struggled to pull away and 
rained resounding blows that only glanced off the boy’s tight hard body.

Blood from Jason’s ears and nose squeezed out around Aaron’s laboring arms.  His legs clamped 
more tightly against the bigger man’s ribs, making them bend and sing.  Jason’s animal furor 
sank into choked gagging as Aaron’s tireless boy muscle slowly broke him down, muscle for 
muscle, mind against mind.  He sank onto knee with a sound almost like whimper, the blows he 
drove against the boy’s back now almost slaps that did say of ‘uncle.’  Aaron kept whispering 
into his ear, “This is how you die, old man.  In the loving arms of your faithful son.  Arms that 
can crush you to death, and wad you up like kleenex.  These are what arms are, what a man’s 
arms are, not those puny, fragile flippers you have.  Feel--”  (FLEX) “—what power is, FEEL--” 
(FLEXXXXX) “what arms are, FEAR” (FLEX FLEX FLEX FLEX FLEX) “what real arms can 
do to you when you’re so weak and puny to resist them, ADORE” (SQUEEZE CRACK 
SQUEEEEEZE SPLINKTPOPOPOP) “these strong loving arms of your master son, killing 
you.”

Jason shrieked as his mind buckled under the totality of his helpless confinement, just as his 
brain was mashed by the boy’s terrible biceps.  With a strangled screech of wounded 
desperation, Jason gripped Aaron’s neck in his catcher’s mitt of a hand – and pulled.  And 
pulled.  And Aaron felt his grip weakening, his biceps trembling and losing the tug-of-war.  
Screaming with the Herculean effort, Jason peeled Aaron off his body – but Aaron had one final 
inspiration.  He shoved his hands into Jason’s open mouth.

And pulled.

“You like breaking things open?  See how you like it, then,” Aaron said.  Jason’s neck 
bullfrogged with the effort of closing his mouth, but Aaron pulled himself closer and conquered 
Jason’s jaw.  “I’ll turn your throat into my cockpuppet until it splits open from my manly size.  
Because you know it’s what you’ve always wanted.  But never had the guts to take.”

A nauseating crack shot out and after a moment of silence, Jason’s squeal of pain practically 
deafened the President and started avalanches in the new valley above.  Aaron pulled hard, 
yanking the broken jaw farther down until blood spewed out, gushing bright red.  Jason’s 
screams blew sprays of blood that coated Aaron’s terrible muscles as wrenched the jaw back and 
forth, as if to tear it clean off.  Jason’s fist came down on his head so hard it cracked like a rifle 
shot and Aaron fell the floor.

Instantly Jason fell on him, pinning the boy under his knee and smashing his good fist over and 
over into the boy’s face.  But Aaron kept laughing and laughing, hysterically giggling, each 
piledriver more ticklish than the last.  With a final drowning bellow and full-body flex, Jason 
howled his defiance to the world and, using the boy’s body as launch pad, leapt off into the sky. 

Still laughing giddily, Aaron scrambled to his feet, shook his head and spit blood onto the floor.  
The president could see massive bruising already blooming over his body, damage Jason 
managed to inflict which Aaron pretended not to feel.  His face in particular was swelling, 
promising two black eyes and a potato nose for awhile.  Somehow, like with some boxers, it 
made him even more beautiful.

“Sure,” Aaron said, his voice hoarse and grainy, “but you should see the other guy.”  The 
president laughed, despite everything, and the kid grinned.  “And you could, if he hadn’t run 
away from me.”  Flapping his elbows like a chicken, he said, “Begawk!”  Then he rolled back 
his shoulder and stuck out his chest proudly.  “Guess we know who the new alpha male on the 
planet is.”

“All due respect, kid,” the president said, “he’d just completed a labor of destruction 
unparalleled in human history.  You were fresh.  And he only had one good arm.”

“Because I’m the dude who broke his other one,” Aaron shot back.  “Something all your tanks 
and missiles and bombs and planes couldn’t manage.”  He flexed his biceps, extended his arms 
to spread them like well-fed hogs, bunched them into monoliths.  “And I don’t think Hercules is 
the right myth.  Think Beowulf.”

“Beowulf?” 

“Sure – huge monster breaks into the hall.  Beowulf, a man among men but a quarter of Grendl’s 
size, wakes, leans up on one arm and with the other, grab’s Grendl’s monstrous arm and won’t 
let go.  He rips the bigger arm off with one hand, still lying down.  Then, taking his time, he 
hunts Grendl down in the monster’s own lair – the bottom of the sea?  That’s no obstacle for 
Beowulf.  He barges in and kills Grendl.  Just like I’m going to do.”

The president regarded him as both crazy and terrifyingly sane.  “You think he’s going back to 
the Black Hole?  Idaho?”

“Yup,” Aaron said, nodding in a cocky, sure way.  “I literally blew his mind.  He’ll go back to 
the only place he feels safe.  And I’m gonna take my time, so his fear can grow from day to day.  
He can know what it’s like to be doomed.  Before I teach him more than he wants to learn about 
suffering.”

Knowing there was no way to stop Aaron from doing what he chose, win or lose, the president 
opted for the simpler question, “What about me?  Kill me?  Make me a cock-puppet?”

“Naw, you’re a sport, for a geezer,” Aaron said.  “Besides, you might come in handy as my 
beeyatch.  Think you can wrap your arms around my neck and hold onto my back without 
creaming all over me, you fuckin’ perv?”  He grinned to say, Don’t deny it, I know you want to.

The president felt a flare of rage and disgust – that kind of filth had never entered his mind until 
… until today.  But the tent in his pants told a story he couldn’t deny, and frankly, was powerless 
to retract.  So he said, “You’re so unlike any other boy as to be something different.  Something 
new.”

“I bet every pervert tells himself that.  ‘The boy was in charge, Officer, HE molested ME..’”

Aaron had him there.  All the president could do was look at the floor in shame, where his 
inflamed manhood betrayed him, and say, “Never before.  And I firmly believe, no other, ever.”

Sidling closer, Aaron said, “Because of why?  Because … I’m ‘special’?”  He grinned insolently, 
enjoying the torture.  He cocked his arm before his chest, making the peak jut out like some jock 
giving his date something to thrill to as she cupped it in her hand to walk at his side.  “Suck it.  
Go on.”

And to his shame, his pant-soiling shame, the president of the United States bent over and sucked 
that huge hard kid muscle until he passed out coming.


THE END
chipmasterson@yahoo.com