WARNING: THIS IS A VIOLENT STORY INVOVLING RAPE, MURDER, TORTURE, 
THRASHING AND QUALIFIED PEDOPHILIA – THE QUALIFICATION BEING FOR AN 
IMPOSSIBLE “SUPERBOY” ONLY.  IN NO WAY DO I ENCOURAGE OR CELEBRATE 
ANY OF THESE CRIMINAL ACTIVITIES.  THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY FOR 
ENTERTAINMENT AND/OR EDIFICIATION PURPOSES ONLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE 
TO PERSONS OR ENTITIES LIVING, DEAD, OR THE LIVING-DEAD, IS PURELY 
COINCIDENTAL.  IF BLASPHEMY, VIOLENT AMORALITY AND FLAGRANT 
IMMORALITY OFFEND OR UPSET YOU, OR IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE IN YOUR 
LOCALITY, THEN DO NOT READ THIS STORY.

THE REST OF YOU, MAZEL TOV.

***

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE 

By Chip Masterson 


The president sat as near the bonfire as he could stand.  Aaron had started it by uprooting two 
full-grown pine trees – one in each hand, with a casual tug that pitted veins against roots in an 
uneven contest – and rubbing them together so fast their bark became its own tinder.  He then 
ripped any number of more trees up to create a clearing in the forest, roots popping and bursting 
out of the ground, trunks splintering in his vise-grip.  Draping the huge boles over his traps, his 
arms bent them until they snapped with a sound like cannons, his bigger guns bulging greedily.  
The green wood and needles made for dense smoke so the president had to keep changing 
positions with the wind.  

They stopped for the night in a Colorado forest, and the president told himself the boy could 
manhandle all those trees so easily because they were already cockeyed – not a one stood straight 
up anymore.  But he knew he was deceiving himself.  The boy could rip a redwood out of solid 
rock and snap it to toothpicks if so chose.  The president had been afraid such a big fire would 
attract animals traumatized by the 25-minute earthquake that devastated the continent.  But 
something about the child terrified the hungriest of predators.  In him they sensed a deadlier 
beast.

Aaron’s turbo-thighs had carried them a hundred miles at a hop, traveling that distance 
sometimes in as little as a quarter hour.  But for the protection of those rock-hard extra-wide pecs 
and shoulders, the wind shear would have torn him to shreds.  The glimpses he got of the country 
they sailed over were as alien as anything the Mars rovers sent back.  He salvaged a pocket radio 
from a still-burning rural gas station and picked up snatches of news, but Aaron’s power sped 
them out of range before he could ever catch a full sentence.  

“…Florida panhandle still entirely underwater…”

“…Mississippi flowing east through St Louis…”

“…we’re trapped, all bridges out, roads too and rails twisted …”

“…giant sinkhole swallowed half of downtown Houston…”

“…reactor meltdown cannot be stopped, evacuate immediately on foot or bicycle, roads 
impassable…”

“…a fuckin’ volcano is what it is, the lake’s gone, gone for good…”
 
“…we need food and medicine, but the airport’s ruined, helicopters only, please, if anyone…”

“…’and I heard a voice in the midst of the Four Beasts and I looked, and behold, a pale horse, 
and its name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.…”

“…oh God, here comes another one, hold onto something…”

But there was only so much reality he could absorb and keep functioning, so he tried to 
concentrate on formulating a plan for what was left of his country.  

“You sure care a lot about stuff you can’t help,” Aaron said, standing practically in the bonfire 
yet untouched by it – as if his body heat were too much for the flames, they seemed to flicker 
away from him.  He had caught and skinned a timber wolf for his dinner, which he spitted and 
held in the fire with one extended arm.  For the president, he thoughtfully scooped up a nice 
plump bunny and gave it to him still kicking.  Fortunately, the president knew what do.

“Such enormous shifts so deep underground levels could collapse the aquifer,” the president 
explained.  “People and livestock rely on wells.  Maybe the forest service, those fire planes, 
could deliver water…”  He trailed off; the fuel shortage nixed that.  Every pipeline must have 
ruptured, ports and rigs out of service – one Gulf rig smashed Sleeping Beauty’s Castle at 
Orlando when the surge carried it there.  That wave was last seen headed for West Africa.  
Picking up speed.

“It’s funny you think you can do something,” Aaron laughed, turning his wolf and not even 
straining to muscle it out while it roasted through.

“I have to help, it’s my job,” the president answered peevishly.

“You still don’t get it.”  It was Aaron’s turn to explain the obvious.  “I’m in charge now, not you, 
and for sure not my lame old dad.  You answer to me, not them.  Me.”  He stuck out his chest 
and flexed his free arm, which knotted with impossible muscle and veinage.  “Until you got 
something that can take this on.  No?  Didn’t think so.”  He shook out his arm so the president 
could see how flexible the long loose sinews were.  Then he cocked his head to the side.  “They 
can fend for themselves, like I had to.”

‘Not everyone has your unique survival skills,’ the president thought to himself.  But he said, 
adopted a lecturing tone, “That makes perfect sense when you’re eleven and that’s what you’ve 
known.  But--” 

“Nah-ah, stop right there,” Aaron interrupted, shaking his head and a finger at him.  “You keep 
that big fat ‘but’ to yourself.  Look, I’ll try to explain it again in simple words even an adult 
could understand.  You think I’m a kid and I’ve gotta learn how to adapt to the world.  Uh-uh.  
That’s not how it is.  The world’s gotta adapt to me.  To this.”  He flexed both biceps now, 
raising the spitted wolf straight in the air so its juices ran down the club of his forearm.  “Either it 
bends to me, or these will bend it ‘til it breaks.  So whatever I think?  That’s the law.  The only 
law.  Even the laws of physics will learn to bow to their new master.  So get used to it.  Fast.  
‘Cause these,” he said, inhaling and somehow forcing his biceps to peak almost up to his wrists, 
so he could tap them with his fingers for emphasis, “are the most powerful engines in the world.  
And this kid’s driving.” 

“I sure hope so, kid,” the president said, wearily rubbing a greasy hand through his hair and 
longing for a shower.  Or a drink that wasn’t his own piss.

Aaron cocked his head and asked, “You doubt it, gramps?”  His tone made the president’s skin 
prickle with imminent danger.  The kid dropped his arms and, leaning his sizzling wolf against a 
stack of logs he’d made with his bare hands, wiggled his fingers to say Bring It. 

“You don’t know about the finer points of gardening, I take it,” the president replied, taking the 
offensive despite his flip-flopping stomach.  “What with your Beyond-Atkins diet of meat, meat 
and more meat.”

“If this is about patience and how trees can break concrete with their roots, check out the fire, 
dude.  Who broke them?”  As if in fear, a knot burst in the pyre and shot sparks into the sky.  
Aaron nodded silently as if to say, See?  They know.  He turned and wrenched a leg off the 
animal and began, pardon the expression, wolfing it down by the mouthful.

“I’m talking about a thing gardeners like my grandfather knew about.   You’ve seen caterpillars, 
eating leaves?  Well, a gardener knows to leave them alone, because being eaten alive triggers a 
growth response in plants that makes them double or triple in size.  Meanwhile, the worms go 
pupal and when the butterflies emerge, the plants they thought they’d devoured have surrounded 
them, with flowers so overpowering and compelling they’re forced to pollinate them.  In other 
words, they try to eat the plants to death but get turned into sex slaves.”

Aaron looked at him thoughtfully for a change, and said, “Why would you think something like 
that could happen to a person?”

“Jason’s growth is unlike anything we’ve ever seen.  In some ways it’s immeasurable.  
Unpredictable.  In other ways, it’s more like a tree than a mammal.  What if he never stops 
growing?  Keeps adding mass?  How big could he get, how heavy, how dense?  He already has a 
magnetic field strong enough to fuck up equipment.  Could he develops gravity?  Could he 
become a living singularity, warping the fabric of reality by his mere existence?

“We thought the only way to kill him would be if we swallowed a nuke.  We weren’t even sure 
one exploding next to him would affect him.  Could he repel that much violent energy?  Contain 
it?  Absorb it?  We simply don’t know.  Never sick.  Never hurt.  Even his blood is stronger than 
the most virulent pathogens imaginable.  

“Broken bones,” he continued, “if properly treated and cared for, often grow back stronger than 
before.  What if the injuries you inflicted on him – for the first time in his life - what if these 
don’t just heal back stronger?  What if they trigger a more comprehensive response?”

“Double, or triple, in size?” Aaron asked, the half-smile on his face saying ‘I could still take that 
with one hand behind my back.’  He blew a raspberry but the president could see it in his eyes – 
he’d gotten through.  “I got pretty banged up too, you know, and I’ve never felt better,” Aaron 
boasted, throwing punches at the air.  

Then Aaron put on a little show, tensing his abs and intercostals.  That morning they’d been 
purple and already had faded to a yellow made invisible by the firelight.  The shadows it threw 
played over them like dark fingers, and they meshed and clacked against each other so fast and 
hard real digits would have been severed and mashed to jelly.  The armor plates of his 
abdominals hardened and stretched with liquid ease, while intercostals rose beside them like 
rungs climbing up his spreading lats.  Now the muscle was smooth, barely veined, like living 
marble.  His hair had barely started coming in above the deep perfect pocket where his lats 
locked into his pecs.   Darkness gathered in that deep warm socket most of all; the firelight 
couldn’t reach all the way in.

Jason could crack open the earth’s crust a mile deep and a mile wide with his bare hands.  Yet 
the boy’s body had beaten back his fiercest assaults and overwhelmed that giant strength with 
unstoppable kid muscle.  Bested Jason at his own cruel game and scared him away with superior 
muscle and staying power.  Came back with nothing worse than bruises and a broken nose – 
already healed.  And if they’d despaired of coping with Jason … how could they possibly deal 
with Aaron?

A cold thought froze itself in his belly like rancid grease:  What if the same thing happened – 
was happening – to Aaron?  And this wasn’t Beowulf, the muscleman hunting and killing the 
bigger monster, but War of the Gargantuas? 

The president closed his eyes against this apocalyptic vision and asked, “When you taunted 
Jason about bringing him back from the dead, you were just fucking with him, right?”  He 
mustered a cockeyed smile.  

Aaron responded like the kid he was, eager to impress.  “Maybe,” he said, cracking the wolf’s 
skull and sucking out the brains, sucking the eyes.  “So far, nothing big, just birds and prairie 
dogs.  And they only stirred for a few minutes.  I need to hone it.”

He sounded like the kid who makes up whatever he wants because he knows he can sell it.  “You 
know,” the president suggested, “nerves are still reactive for some time after death, and gas from 
decay can make a body move, sit up even.” 

Aaron’s face flushed with anger and his lips tightened.  The president’s heart raced in response.  
Then Aaron relaxed, smiled and shook his head knowingly.  “I know you can’t fully comprehend 
how beyond you I am.  Because my limits, if they exist, are not your limits.  Don’t make me 
show you.”

“Nobody makes you do anything,” the president couldn’t resist saying, eyes twinkling.  “You 
keep telling me yourself.”

Aaron dropped the wolf and walked toward the president, body gleaming with wolf grease.  His 
muscles flexed slowly and languidly, his fists opened and closed.  Aaron muttered, “You sure got 
a mouth on you.  Boy.”  He cracked his knuckles, first one fist, then the other.  

“I just wonder,” the president persisted, sweating with an electric sense of danger, “if you dream 
of doing this because you feel bad about people you killed before you knew better.  People who 
loved you, cared for you.  You didn’t mean to kill your mom, and your grandparents?  You were 
only two.  All two-year-olds think only of themselves.  It’s human to regret something you did, 
and want to fix it.  But you’ll never be able to bring any of them back.  It just doesn’t work that 
way.”

“It works however I tell it to work,” Aaron growled.  He loomed over the sitting president, body 
hotter than the fire, chest rising with breath like a magma dome.  “Wanna be my first human 
experiment?  Keep shitting out yer mouth.”

The president started trembling and couldn’t stop.  Aaron’s breath hit him hard enough to bruise.  
He’d never admit he regretted anything.  Or that anything he ever chose to do could be wrong.  
But as his moral sense develops, it’ll be harder and harder to live like that, the president knew.  
Because there are things in everyone’s soul that cannot be controlled by the application of 
limitless strength. 

He’d learned the dire lesson to his eternal shame that very morning, when he avidly gave in to 
the urge to press his tongue against the hot coiled power of that kid’s bulging muscle, and 
thrilled to feel all the balled-up power revving within it, yearning to wreak its will on any pitiful 
obstacle that got in its way, but willing to lie purring while the president sucked and licked at it 
in worship.

So he hung his head and said, “I’m just tired and scared, I don’t know what I’m talking about.  I 
didn’t mean to doubt you.”  

But Aaron had already crossed a point of no return.  He had to exact more than what was offered.  
And he knew exactly what would cost the president most dearly.  “You must think I’m a pig,” 
Aaron said.  Look at all this grease I got on my chest.  Grease leaking out of the wolf I chased 
down and cornered and toyed with and then crushed to death against it.”  He smeared his hands 
across the shelf of his upper pecs, rubbing the juices into his skin.  “Here?  You can almost see 
the marks where it tried to bite my arm.  ‘Course I let it try, only to pop this honey like a surprise 
Jack in the Box.  Not only did those razor teeth shatter, it blew his fuckin’ jaw clean off!  I 
thought the whole fuckin’ head might explode, just from one flex.”  He laughed and 
demonstrated the extreme elevation his biceps can achieve at his command.  He looked back and 
forth from his biceps to the president as if, ‘Can you fuckin’ believe this?’

“‘Course,” he continued, flicking fat off his nipples onto the peaks of his abs, then letting his 
fingers drag and scratch at the muscles, outlining them and showing how many knuckles’ deep 
they were.  “It was no match for me, one scraggly lone wolf against the muscle boy.  But it was 
sure fun hearing things pop and snap after a day playing nanny to you.  Tired old wolf kinda 
reminded me of my old man.  Driven from the pack, hiding out, waiting for death.  They say oil 
can keep your skin supple – but then,” he said, picking at the creamy thin skin that shrink-
wrapped each sinew, “I’ve never really had skin problems, as you can see.”  Snap.

“Please,” the president begged, staring tensely into the fire and grinding his molars.  “Don’t do 
that.”

“You know, I felt you behind me the whole way,” Aaron teased mercilessly.  “At least, I thought 
it was you – maybe you were keeping a Vienna Sausage safe for later.  But then everything 
became …. slick.  Like maybe the sausage and that goop it comes with got all shmushed.  But 
then you suddenly had another one and I thought, ‘Where’s he getting’ all those sausages?  Did 
he stash them up his butt, for later?  Then I realized no, that was you.  All of you.  Rubbing 
around on all my hard working boy muscle, you kept making a mess.  Over and over until I was 
impressed you had that much mess in you.  If fact,” he said, turning around and pummeling the 
president with back poses – teres bigger than the president’s lats, traps that spread like 
continental drift across his spine, the image of a majestic cedar pressed into the erector muscles 
above his waist, all flexed as he tried to reach behind and point – “I think some of you is still on 
me.”

He looked over his shoulder with an innocent smile and said, “Could you maybe check all the 
crevices?  Since I’m naturally ripped, some of my cuts are pretty deep and I can’t reach 
everything.  I’d recommend your tongue, so I won’t crush any fingers if I twitch all of a sudden.  
Fast healer, the tongue.”  

He stuck his tongue out, with his jaw hanging open:  his neck widened like an oak stump and the 
big wet organ unfurled from his mouth like boa constrictor scenting a mouse.

“No,” the president whispered.  “Please.  You don’t know how hateful and filthy it makes me 
feel – afterwards.”

Aaron cut his eyes and saw the president sitting on his log, third leg tenting his pants and making 
a dime-spot of wetness at the peak, his face slathered in tears.  Ropes of drool dangled 
heedlessly.  Aaron nodded knowingly and winked.  “Afterwards, right.  Because of how you get 
so lost when you’re doing it.  How you can’t stop and go at it faster and faster like a bitch in 
heat.  Like it’s the meaning of life, slipping down your throat as fast as you can lap it up.”  He 
rotated his deltoid to allow his lat to unfold even father, like the east coast of South America. “At 
least, all the meaning your life has, or will ever have.  Admit it.  Admit that, and maybe, just 
maybe, I’ll let you slide.  This time.”

The president grunted in revolt, snot flinging out of his nose as he struggled against the 
inevitable, his entire body rigid.

“‘Cause it’ll stay there until you’re ready for it.  Once something gets in that deep, it ain’t 
coming out until something forces it out.”  With phenomenal control, Aaron flexed individual 
strands of muscle all the way up his back.

“Yes!” the president spat hoarsely, bent in half with red eyes and flared nostrils.  “Yes, I admit 
it!”

Aaron turned sideways so phenomenal thickness of his upper torso, from the outermost curve of 
his pecs to the Himalayan expanse of his back, could contrast on a vacuumed waist so thin it 
disappeared when the light flickered just right, so all that mass appeared to hover above thighs so 
dense with arcs of striated muscle they nearly looked like tractor tires.  “want you to say the 
words.”

The orgasm wrenched his body so hard the president struck his head against his kneecap.  
Slavering, he grunted, “I want you!  I want only you, always you, I live for you!  You’re more 
than God – you’re the universe and all I ever need!”

“But I’m a boy.  A minor.  Not even a teen yet.  And you’re old enough to be my grampa!” 

“I don’t care!” the president confessed, his face contorted with warring emotions.  “I’m weak 
and you’re strong!  I need to feel your boy strength or I’ll die!” 

Aaron rolled his tongue under his lips and made a chucking sound, saying, “Dude, you gotta 
learn some self-control.  Talk like that could get you in trouble with the authorities.”  The 
president sobbed and hit himself repeatedly on the head.  Aaron squatted down to look up into 
the president’s face with a look of angelic vulnerability.  Only the mounding plains of brawn 
filling the field of vision from side to side belied his expression.  “Don’t worry, daddy, I won’t 
tell.  It’ll be our little secret.”  His giggling ended the torture session and he sprang into the air in 
a back flip and went back to his half-eaten wolf.  

Feeling Aaron turn away, the president clutched his knees and huddled toward the darkness.  
What scared him most wasn’t what he wanted to do with Aaron, to Aaron.  What scared was 
how, each time, he hated himself a little less when he was done. 

As if self-loathing for unforgivable desires was the last thing he could call his own, and it kept 
slipping through his fingers, and he lacked the strength, or the will, to close them tightly enough.  
But it wasn’t slipping away – Aaron was oh-so-gently wriggling it out his grasp with an insistent 
confidence that somehow fed his craving for more forbidden man-boy flesh.

A ravenous hunger that would consume him before it ever could be sated.  

What frightened him was how he’d let it.

Eventually a fitful sleep came and five minutes later, it seemed, Aaron was shaking him awake in 
the dim pre-dawn blueness.  His bones hurt from using Aaron as his personal jet.  The fatigue of 
holding on and getting buffeted by the ceaseless rippling of that liquid iron bruised every inch of 
his body.   Aaron had bragged he wasn’t tired and could have made Idaho in one trip; it was the 
president who insisted they stop so he could rest.  Now an instinct rebelled against more torture; 
he put it out of his mind and focused on stretching himself upright and finding something to piss 
in so he could reuse it and not dehydrate.  

Aaron was doing his morning calisthenics – 100 rapid pushups balanced only on each of his ten 
digits in succession, pinky to thumb, without rest, for a total of 10,000.  And that was for starters 
– he’d knock those out in about 20 minutes, averaging 500 per minute or almost 9 per second.  
Watching him, the solution to the president’s predicament presented itself: his morning wood 
practically vibrated like an antenna.  All he had to do was open, aim and shoot.  It burned like sin 
and stung like a fire hose but he didn’t miss a drop.

Thus fortified and having no appetite, the president willed himself back onto his pummeling-
horse and draped his arms around Aaron’s neck.  The shorter trip was worse than the day before.  
But Aaron sensed his suffering and decided to “do the 14 over 14”:  leap along the tops of all 14 
peaks over 14,000 feet without touching down in between, even though it meant backtracking.  
Were it not for the boy’s radiant body heat, the president might have gotten frostbite from the 
sustained exposure at Mach 3 as they arced to 20,000 feet between peaks.  He couldn’t shake the 
idea that Aaron might also be trying to stomp the peaks down as well, as if to erase any increased 
altitude they gained from Jason’s blunt realignment of the continental plates.  

Aaron sailed past the last known perimeter of the Black Hole and made straight for ground zero 
– the lakeside town more recently known as Jason, Idaho.  The signage was illegible, caked like 
everything else in blood preserved under thick layers of still-tacky cock lava.  They each picked 
up that dictatorial saline stink from miles away, and it grew more oppressive the closer they got 
until it clogged the lungs and filled the mind with powerful images of Jason in his glory.  Even 
Aaron had to fight to remember Jason injured and desperate – the images took on the quality of 
dreams and longings, losing their edges as real things that really happened.   For the president, it 
was that much worse – he couldn’t wait to get off Aaron, get away from him and his malign 
influence.

A hot week had made the stench of human decay nearly unbearable.  Yet the Jason’s funk 
overpowered even that sickly sweet, clinging fetor and beat it down to the level of an irritant.  In 
a disturbing way, it was a blessing.

Jason appears to have killed everyone he encountered on sight with a single blow atomizing their 
heads, leaving raggedly decapitated corpses lying where they fell and fragments of skull and 
brain matter freckling everything else.  From the evidence, that stopped no one:  people flocked 
to their Master, trampling the corpses of (formerly) loved ones and friends as if that deathblow 
were their deliverance.  The headless bodies lay stacked along his trail, their arms reaching for 
him even as they fell.  A few had been hit so that their skulls blasted down into their chests and 
exploded out their backs or chests.  Yet still, every finger strained outward, pointing the way to 
the burnt-out hulk of a hangar by the airport.  The feeling of dread creeping up the president’s 
spine burst into fireworks.

One lone emaciated figure squatted nearby, dizzy with sleep deprivation but pawing the bloody, 
blistered gristle of his pisser like a kid who’d just discovered what it could do.  The president 
convinced Aaron to hang back since his magnificence might just kill this pitiful creature and they 
needed information.  Aaron insisted he could find Jason without any slave’s help but humored 
the president and stood out of eyesight.  The slave, reliving memories as he tortured his fleshrag, 
didn’t see the president approach.  He froze a moment when he realized he wasn’t alone but then 
resumed wanking and, like a good slave, he waited until he was spoken to.  

“What happened here?” the president asked, holding his nose; a stink of living filth came off the 
young man, and his hollow eyes darted up and away like tiny schools of fish.  He looked more 
like a CGI character from a fantasy blockbuster than a human being. 

“The master’s gone away, gone away,” it said, muttering the phrase into silence as if that’s the 
only thing worth mentioning, in the scheme of recent events.  The slave jittered and a milky pus 
seeped out of the raw stub gripped.  Bony fingers caught every bit and squeezed it back into the 
torn skin, incapable of letting it slacken and rest; the Master must be worshipped at all times.  
The president swallowed his revulsion and got specific.

“What happened to the hangar?”

The slave’s face contracted like a crumpled tissue with confused sorrow.  “The Master … 
something hurt … somehow … something evil … somehow hurt the Master.  i can’t – i can’t – 
some evil … THING … must be.…”  Clearly it couldn’t imagine what had that much strength, to 
hurt God and make God so angry.  “People come – they come to come,” it giggled, mind 
clearing, and looking up, said, “He selected me, gave me authority to keep everyone out while he 
slept, but the heat of His glory ignited this puny shed and it burned around Him.  He did not 
burn; He did not awake.  But i could not keep all the others from seeing, the Seed compels them.  
Then in the darkness one night … He left.”  The slave wept miserably but never stopped choking 
his sacrifice to Jason. 

The president walked through the still-smoldering ruins of a hanger once big enough to service 
DC-3s – still so hot he thought Jason’s healing-fever just have ignited the steel itself.  Everything 
was carbonized except for a depression in the concrete corresponding to Jason’s proportions.  
There the cement had been crushed to gravel and baked into glass by his body heat.  He wished 
he had a tape measure – it appeared to be seven feet from head to toe.  In any case, there was no 
trace of Jason from this spot – no footprints, nothing but sky.

He turned around and saw Aaron talking to the slave.  The president was right:  the creature 
cowered in two directions at once, torn to get away from the EVIL THING and drawn to him as 
well.  The slave twisted sideways on the ground, his heart at war with his ‘nads.  Aaron knew it 
couldn’t hold out long against his rampant masculinity: it probably imagined some strength 
borrowed from Jason would allow it to remain loyal to The Master.  It writhed like the demon-
possessed burnt with holy water.  And hope.

Aaron spoke so softly the president couldn’t hear but from his boastful expression, he was 
describing Jason’s humiliation blow by outMastered blow, flexing as a kind of visual aid, then 
acting all concerned by how the sight of his forearms or quads made it hard to breath.  That 
betrayal – lusting for Aaron – would be worse than any information it might divulge about 
Jason’s whereabouts.  It was like watching Moses ditch the Ten Commandments and rub himself 
against the Golden Calf – only here were two golden calves more arousing than any idol.  In so 
pitiful a ghost it ought to have been ridiculous, but the sight made something catch in the 
president’s throat.

Then he thought randomly, ‘Antarctica calving glaciers the size of Delaware can’t compare to 
those calves.’  He felt a prickly sensation and looked up to see Aaron looking straight into his 
eyes, a mocking smile on his lips.  He felt exposed and shamed but Aaron had other prey in his 
teeth, and all he did was cock his head sideways with his mouth open, like, ‘Look what I made.’

The president looked.  The slave convulsed, arching and foaming, clawed knuckles slapping at 
the gravel.  Aaron of course hadn’t touched him – all he had to do was show himself – and now 
he went in for the kill.  Rearing back, he spread his lats out, a little left, a little right, a little more, 
a little more.  Even with his eyes rolled into his head, the slave’s legs kicked sideways and it 
gagged in response to each movement.  

Slowly, Aaron hardened one pec, then the other, each time rolling his sinew-sprouting delts back 
to showcase how they kept getting bigger, and bigger, with no end in sight.  He wiggled the 
twisted double-columns of abs like a snake-dance, cinching them in so his lats flared farther out, 
like Superman’s cape capturing a hurricane.  Only bigger.  The slave bucked and heaved.

Aaron ramped the rhythm faster and faster, whipping the slave into a glossolalial frenzy.  
Nonsense and blood sprayed from its mouth, its nuts crawled up inside its withered torso and its 
rigid cock fired pus that steadily turned pink to livid red.  A dark stain spread out from its 
grinding ass until Aaron reach his maximum flex – for now – holding the pose of impossible size 
for second after second without twitch or fatigue.  In response, the slave petrified too, breath 
gargling through blood and foam while a stream of cumblood pissed over its own chest and face.  

Without diminishing in size, Aaron bounced his pecs, making them balloon hugely, one-two one-
two one-two … but now the rhythm slowed, one two one   two   one     two    one     two      

The slave reacting by hitching its breath in time, its arched back falling slowly like ash.  

One.  Two.  One.  Two.  

One

Two

One

He held that last flex for full minute without breathing himself.  The slave’s fingers skittered 
involuntarily a few times and then stopped.  Its papery skin slipped down over his ribs and skull, 
slack with oblivion.  

Aaron had flexed the slave to death, controlling its heartbeat by pouncing his pecs until he willed 
that organ to stop beating entirely.  And every autonomic system operating in the slave obeyed 
this greater, alien will, and ceased.  All the hair rose on the president’s arms and neck as he made 
the connection:  if that was really true, then maybe, just maybe, Aaron wasn’t lying.

Maybe he could jump start them back again.  

Even after a long time?

What if Aaron’s power was so great, it denied those bodies the right to decay without 
permission, and they remained in a kind of suspended animation?  

The president’s abs contracted painfully and cum exploded inside his pants.  He dropped to his 
knees shaking with terror in the presence of such unknown power.  A blowfly flew into his open 
mouth, and he gagged it back out, bracing himself on one arm while his hips bucked beyond his 
control, obeying some alien instinct to worship this apparent power to take, and give, life at will.  
As an exercise of will, he repeated in his mind.  His prick pulled his knees across the gravel as if 
it wanted to shoot itself off his body and toward its hero.  When the president feverishly looked 
up, feeling like a three-legged dog in heat, Aaron faced him, still pumped like a peacock of 
muscle.  King Musclecock, glaring at him with icy arrogance.  

The president’s eyes burned – he couldn’t blink or even look away from Aaron’s soaring 
muscles, even as his balls strained to disgorge every last drop of his offering as fast as it could be 
produced.  Aaron’s mouth opened but he didn’t speak and somehow that made the president 
spasm with renewed frenzy.  His hips pulled him into the gravel and ground his dick against the 
sharp rocks as if daring the pain to defy his hunger.  

“Imagine ME,” Aaron said, cocking a thumb at his engorged mantit, then jutting it toward the 
corpse at his feet, “doing THIS to a packed stadium on live TV.”  He paused, eyes wide with 
shocked surprise as his open mouth broke into a smile.  “I could lay waste to this entire planet 
like that,” he added, snapping his fingers, “without so much as getting my hands dirty.  Just by 
revealing my self to it.” 

The president gasped, picturing not only that, but the other thing:  mass resurrection, an instant 
army of fanatics.  His voice scratchy and hoarse with panted breaths, the president said, “In the 
old days, if the gods revealed their true selves, mortals would be incinerated.”

In some way he’d meant that as a compliment, he’d thought; but something in his tone turned it 
into a challenge.  Aaron cocked an eyebrow:  Did this groveling worm dare to suggest that 
anything short of spontaneous human combustion lacked the power of a God?  Aaron leaned 
toward him, eyes livid to say, Wanna Try Me?  With his hands on his knees, his shoulders and 
traps looked like they could stop an entire tank battalion and shove it back.

“I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.”  

The president thought, ‘Did I just say that?  Who said that?’

A foggy memory fought its way through the nightmare of Aaron’s unholy displeasure:  Weren’t 
they looking for someone who worried him even more than Aaron?  Someone they couldn’t 
find?

Someone had found them.

Aaron froze at the sound of the voice, both familiar and somehow deeper, with authority that 
obliterated any other thought.

“Shouldn’t you be in school, rugrat?” the voice said.  “A boy doesn’t learn proper respect for 
authority playing hooky.”

The voice rumbled eight octaves deep, on the verge of audibility yet with a bone-rattling clarity 
that broke like thunder.  They both turned and saw a staggering sight.

Where nothing had been moments before, there he was.  The president’s mouth dropped open 
and he scrambled back onto his ass, pulling himself into a ball to control his first impulse which 
screamed FLEE FLEE FLEE because that would only get him killed.  He blinked several times 
trying to comprehend what he saw.

His first impression was a living wall of muscle, if the Great Wall of China could flex.  Jason 
must have been at least eight feet tall – it was hard to get a sense of scale because the proportions 
were so perfect despite their obvious exaggeration.  Like something out of Escher.  Possibly 
twice as broad across the chest as before, and as thick front to back as he had been wide before.  
His skin appeared to be a new color, a kind of golden-purple, as if supercharged blood suffused 
every cell and transmitted some kind of light from within.  Like some kind of dark star, 
smoldering with unlit power.  But it was what the skin embraced that set loose animal terrors in 
his belly.

Jason’s musculature had evolved in some strange way, the fibers knitting together with a 
thickness and depth that defied comprehension.  His pecs stood out from his chest like mesas in 
Monument Valley, or rather a single mesa with an imperceptible division down the center.  Fist-
sized nipples hung down from the under cleft, easily half a foot from the rutted gorge that ran 
between swelling abs carved over millennia by some primordial river.  His lats breathed with a 
life of their own, like two bison locking horns across his spine.  His arms braced out to the side 
like totem poles, a series of swollen heads stacked atop each like dark war gods hungry for 
blood.  His legs called to mind what it would look like if a Chicago slaughterhouse strung bull 
carcasses off a central column.  His feet arched arrogantly into toes the size of newborns, yet still 
barely big enough to support the enormity of his cock.  

Like an ICBM, that stood straight out, tilted slightly up, cable-like veins encasing and massaging 
it with visible throbs.  The slit winked like a warning light and could swallow a man’s arm; each 
pulse spilled a trickle of salty essence that strung and swayed like bling.  Its potency silenced 
every animal, insect and bird for miles, bringing all creation to attention.  The balls slung from 
that foremast could have been prisoners’ heads.   The glutes that counterbalanced this phallus 
that easily weighed as much as the president himself carried such power they could easily jack-
hammer that monsterdong to the center of the earth like it was pudding.  

Despite the crushing weight of each individual muscle, nothing hung or sagged on that body.  
Gravity might clutch at it uselessly, but each muscle rose straight up from the bone before it was 
flexed, already hard, defiant of every so-called physical law.  The body was a set of laws unto 
itself.  ‘My god,’ the president thought, ‘the energy it must take to simply stand there would 
exhaust and kill a dozen athletes.  He must devour whole herds at a time.’

He mustered the will to dart his eyes to the side, to get Aaron’s take.  The kid clamped his jaw 
hard, struggling to suppress the desire to adore his heavenly father.  Or maybe an impulse to run 
away.  Or weep and beg forgiveness.  The boy’s body jittered back and forth with the effort of 
maintaining his cool, looking for all his brawn like the eleven-year-old he tried not to be.  
Clearly the new Jason was beyond his wildest imagination, and it was blowing his mind.  Jason 
wasn’t two or three times bigger than before.  He was exponentially larger in ways that called 
new dimensions into existence merely to contain him.  Jason was, simply, beyond.  Beyond 
anything and everything.

Jason knew it.  His handsome face seemed even more perfect than before, his hair too thick for 
the wind to ruffle, his eyes too clear to permit any deceit.  Without seeming to move, he began 
bouncing his pecs, mocking what Aaron had done earlier.  He controlled them so completely 
they moved in a blur, but in a complicated rhythm hypnotically engrossing.  The eye could not 
keep up with them, yet somehow images seared into the brain of those leviathans at every stage 
of flexion to create a mental mural, the way a car’s wheels appear to spin backwards.  They beat 
so fast they created a breeze smelling of his musky sweat.  The breeze got stronger, and stronger, 
the pecs fanning the air so hard the president had to squint, then turn his head sideways: and saw 
Aaron, jutting out his own chest and looking about to cry, fists clenching like he was working up 
the nerve to try and punch those muscles and make them stop.

But was afraid of hurting his hand against all that bone-pounding meat.

The fear sparked defiance and sneering against it, Aaron attacked, launching a punch that could 
have split a mountain.  But instead, his fist flex back so hard his own arm yanked him away and 
he stumbled.  Flexing the pain out of his fingers, he cocked both fists and tried to speedbag 
Jason’s earth-movers into submission.  Each smack sounded like whole trees snapping but Jason 
registered nothing, even as Aaron’s blows grew wilder and wilder.  Soon Aaron lost all ability to 
control the recoil and his windmilling arms flew back so hard he landed on his ass.  

Humiliated and enraged, he jumped to his feet.  The punch came so fast, again, there was no way 
to track the movement.  Only a sensation of a runaway freight train rushing inches away 
registered.  Only this time Aaron couldn’t move away in time.  This time he took the punch 
square to the chest and wasn’t there anymore.  Terrified that he’d been destroyed, the president 
strained in every direction, finally locating the distant speck that was Aaron sailing above the 
forest on the far side of the lake and vanishing over a hill.

“Oughta knock the wind outa him for a minute,” Jason said cockily.  

BOOM.  The impact of Aaron hitting a mountain rocked the president’s molars.  In the silence 
that followed, he became aware of a deep resonant groan he couldn’t located.  He realized it was 
coming up through his feet:  it was the earth itself, settling beneath Jason.  

“Seems like we were interrupted before,” Jason continued, looking down casually at the 
president.  “But I can’t remember exactly what we were talking about.  Oh yes, I believe we 
were talking about me.”  

The president slowly moved into a crouch to feel less vulnerable.  Jason smirked and said, “No 
sudden movements and no flash photography around the dangerous beastie.”

“Are you … still human?” the president asked, wincing at how stupid it sounded.

In answer, Jason motioned with his fingers to come feel his forearm.  He curled his fist and 
hardened bunched muscle into a thousand facets.  The president tremblingly ran his fingers over 
the buttery surface, felt the jolt of each slow pulse of blood and the palpable throb as the muscles 
absorbed it.  Only its extreme size and heat made it feel in any way unusual - otherwise it felt 
like a man’s arm, vibrant and alive.  Jason flexed it harder, made the densening sinews expand 
beneath his fingers the way only living muscle can.  ‘The way muscle is supposed to feel,’ a 
voice back of his mind whispered.  ‘The arm of a real man.’

The president looked up, his nose brushing the crest of a pec bristling with short stiff hairs 
between winding veins, unaware his eyes revealed naked longing.  Jason’s were cold.  He said, 
“You chose wrong.”

The muscle beneath the president’s fingers bulged threateningly and he backed away, bowing his 
head.  The words ‘I had no choice’ died in his throat.  Because there was one alternative to what 
he had done.  However powerless he felt to take it.  The simple fact is, he had pushed that 
alternative from his mind.

Because giving in was so very sweet.

“Since the world looked to you, I need to give the world something everyone can look at and see 
how miserably you failed to protect them, in turning away from me.”

Jason intended his perverse statement would torture the president, but he conceded too easily.  
“You don’t have to do anything,” the president said, cold dread clotting in his belly.  “Sir.”

Jason sneered, eyes glittering.  His said, “He broke you as easily as that?  And here I thought you 
were more of a man than that.  Guess I was right about humanity all along.  Worthless.  Now, 
let’s see.”  Jason put one arm under his pecs and scratched his chin with the other one, like he 
was thinking. “What could I do that would send exactly the right message about who’s in charge, 
that everyone could see whether they still have electricity or not?  Hmmm.”

As he rubbed his chin, his biceps rippled; the president’s stomach rippled in response, and an 
awful sense of having lost something forever ate at his guts.  Then Jason looked straight at him 
and said, “I’d probably have to knock the moon out of the sky to get the point across.”

The president stepped back, the cartoonish image of Jason ripping Mt. Everest up and hocking it 
into the sky almost making him laugh.  Jason, who saw everything, saw that too.  

In a low voice, he said, “Do I need to remind you that these thighs are more powerful than any 
Apollo rocket?  That these lungs could hold a week’s worth of air?  This skin repels the harshest 
radiation the sun could try to dish out?  My own body heat alone could raise absolute zero to 
boiling.  And that dead rock is practically daring me to take it on.  Whadya say, Mr. President of 
Yesterday?  Wanna bet me?”  He held out a hand to shake on it.

The president could only stare with fear at that hand when a sharp whistling came through the air 
and Aaron landed with megaton force straight in the center of Jason’s chest.  And bounced the 
fuck off.  Jason grunted, like ‘huh,’ but Aaron careened off at mach speed, the thickest boles 
unable to slow his flight as he smashed them to stumps.  After a few moments, Jason vanished.  
The president realized that Jason’s most casual movements now could no longer be caught by the 
human eye.  On shaky legs, he set off at a trot along the path of destruction.

After a few hundred yards he heard a crack that instinctively drove him to cover – not that trees 
were any real protection.  He saw Aaron hurtling back toward him, and then hit an invisible 
barrier that sent him off, faster than before.  Another loud CRACK and here he came again – and 
the president realized the game Jason was playing.  

One-man volleyball.  Jason outraced Aaron and simply let him smack against his chest, popping 
his pecs to speed things up each time.  Then he raced again, easily overtaking him and POW:  
those pecs bruised and cracked Aaron’s bones and sent him flying faster than before, faster and 
faster each time, until his speed topped what those kid-powered legs could produce.  The 
sickening game continued with Aaron now just a blur of pec-pounded meat, until Jason got bored 
and stepped out of the way.

Trees, some feet thick, lay blasted apart, stumps yanked out of the earth as if by bombs.  The 
remains of a cabin flared gas that would soon ignite, so the president turned the propane tank off.  
Farther along, two trailers looked like a tornado ripped through them.  After half a mile he saw 
where Aaron came to rest.

At some point in the past, Jason had deposited a diesel locomotive in the middle of the forest.  
Now there was only an outline of dead grass.  Aaron had hit it at the carriage level and the diesel 
bent around him, folding nearly in half, and together they plowed a trench the length of a football 
field.  Jason stood there with his mammoth arms folded across the hemispheres of his chest.  

“That was fun.”

Eventually, Aaron came to.  Metallic scrunching brought the image of his arms uselessly 
flattening the metal structures around him until he realized what had happened, found the steel of 
the chassis encasing him, and applied his boymuscle to it.  The two ends of the engine shivered 
to open, hemmed in by mounds of earth.  Steel griped and moaned and those huge mounds piled 
higher and higher.  Frustrated at the resistance, Aaron SLAMMED either side of the carriage 
away from him, exploding plumes of soil.  Through the raining dirt, the president saw the 
battered boy, his body bloody and already swelling with injury, standing unsteadily on his feet.  
Behind him the flattened diesel looked like a gigantic gum wrapper dug up by Marmaduke.

Aaron’s pride refused to admit Jason could ever surpass him but his eyes were swelling shut and 
his lips bloomed purple.  He spit out the bloody tip of his tongue, bit off in the impact.  He 
staggered a step, then pounced, driven to attack.  Whether Aaron even got a punch in, the 
president couldn’t tell – there were a deafening BRACCK and another cloud of dirt.  Jason 
looked like he’d never moved and Aaron lay some distance away crumpled in a crater, coughing 
up blood and teeth and struggling to lift himself on his arms.

Aaron sprang again, going from sprawl to Jason’s head in a microsecond.  But even that didn’t 
catch Jason off-guard.  Jason’s hands stopped Aaron cold, twisted him around and, holding 
Aaron’s arms crossed behind his back, rammed his cockhead into the boy’s virgin asshole.  
Aaron gasped, his bloody mouth unable to find the breath to scream.  He clamped down, flexing 
his abs and glutes – but too late.  Jason was inside him, that oily megaglans lodged against his 
sphincter like a fishhook.  Jason’s chest expanded and those buffalo lats and train-car arms 
pulled himself deeper into Aaron’s guts, his thickness forcing the boys legs out sideways.

“Come sit on Daddy’s lap, boy,” he growled confidently.  

Each thrust doubled the fire in Aaron’s ass, and Jason’s grip on his back-crossed arms made it 
nearly impossible to draw breath.  Panting in agony, the boy bucked and heaved, eyes rolling 
with pain he’d never dreamed of.  Now Aaron was the one experiencing unimaginable injury, 
fighting not only it but the specter of imminent death that first brush with real pain always casts.  

Aaron went rigid in a total body flex that hardened and sharpened every muscle toward expelling 
the intruder.  His abs rippled and shrank deep into his torso, his glutes bit like sharks into that 
battering ram, and his legs curled to brace his sphincter’s straining squeeze.  He should have 
been to pinch through I-beams but Jason’s manliness only thickened in response.  His humped 
back sprouted angry thunderheads of muscle up and down his spine and cracked Aaron’s 
helplessly locked arms.  Then, ominously, Jason stopped moving and began to chuckle.

At first the president couldn’t see what, if anything, was happening.  Then he saw Aaron’s 
clenched legs rising and spreading despite desperate efforts to contract them.  But Aaron wasn’t 
moving down that deathshaft.  With controlled breaths, Jason was engorging his virility to ever-
greater girth.  

The president gaped at this expansion, at veins pounding like jungle drums to feed more and 
more blood into the punk-splitter.  There was the sharp SNICK of Aaron’s pelvis fracturing.  
Those trench-sunk abs were forced back out like a beer belly by the volume inside, unable to 
compact it and trembling with exhaustion.

Aaron’s head tossed from side to side, his face melting into a ga-ga-ga of weeping.  He clamped 
harder but his asshole ripped from the effort.  But no blood could trickle past the burgeoning 
meatplug that now crushed Aaron’s glutes into his spine.  Aaron knew that if he let up even this 
resistance, the ass-torpedo would blast him in two …but he was losing steam.  Fast.

Aaron’s chest broke into striations of torquing muscle as he strained to free his arms.  Jason’s 
forearms bulged like VW Beatles and he crushed Aaron’s wrists in a his grip, grinding the 
popping bones until they cracked.  Still Aaron’s triceps distended obscenely, his bowling-ball 
biceps crushing into his own back as struggled to get free.  Jason’s bloating beer-keg was 
splaying his legs into a full split that threatened to become all-too-literal as his hips popped out 
of joint with a wet SLOP sound.

Then desperation peaked somewhere in Aaron’s soul, and his throat erupted not in a scream of 
agony but a defiant howl of rage.  His struggling ceased – or appeared to.  His entire body 
seemed to shimmer, the skin ruffling – and then the president saw stretch marks.   Everywhere.  
His muscles were healing – and growing – almost spontaneously.  Even Jason sensed the change 
because he gritted his teeth and raised his elbows to bear down on Aaron’s wrists with more pec 
power.

But Aaron’s wrists were thickening: he could see Jason’s knuckles separating as he labored to 
maintain his grip.  Those biceps sprouted striations in every direction, his pecs doubled their size 
before his eyes, beads of blood sweating through the stretches … and BOOOOOM Aaron ripped 
his hands free.  Jason immediately dug his fingers savagely into Aaron’s waist to hold him in 
place.  Aaron’s fingers interlaced with Jason’s and, with forearms like mating snake balls, he 
crushed down against Jason’s fingers and pried them away, then squeeeeeeeezed them 
backwards to pulverize them completely.  Jason tore his hands away before he could cripple him 
– again – and watched with rage Aaron’s asshole vomiting back his cumcannon like a gigantic 
turd.  Until, once again, the head lodged behind that holy ring.

Still hanging in the air as if on a seesaw, Aaron broke into an evil grin.  His abs clenched and his 
hips writhed.  Jason’s eyes opened wide and he SLAMMED his fist into the repelling meat of 
Aaron’s shoulder.  With a brutish grunt, Aaron pinched off the head of Jason’s dick, dropped and 
rolled away.  Jets of black-red blood shot from the truncated shaft fifty feet across the clearing to 
hammer the trees with such force it blasted the bark off.  When Aaron stood up, so did Lt. Aaron, 
who burst through his fly and rose like a salute.  “Now that’s what a man looks like,” Aaron 
taunted, fingering plumb-sized head snug in its foreskin.

But Jason ignored him.  Crushing the end of his end decapitated king to stanch the hemorrhage, 
his face shivered with pain, horror and growing fury.  But Aaron had some lessons in fury still to 
impart.   He bent over and shot that bloody glans straight into Jason’s bellowing along with a 
fusillade of shit that stuck like wet plaster.  Jason instantly shut his mouth, tried to shake the shit 
from his face while gagging on his own nuclear warhead.

Aaron back flipped through the air and landed on Jason’s back with a scissors around the waist.  
Grabbing his neck, Aaron tried to choke that prodhead farther down toward his windpipe.  With 
one cruel thigh-squeeze timed to force air up as his hands clenched hard, Aaron’s hips slipped 
back and slammed his boner all the way up Jason’s virgin mangina, crushing Jason’s prostate so 
hard he forced Jason to come.  Salty Pink froth seeped through Jason’s fingers, his face twisting 
with rage, ecstasy, panic, fear, even shame.  Aaron bucked him hard and tightened his quad-
noose against that cobbled midsection to break the cobbles, crowing with victory when the 
bigger man dropped to one knee and swayed in helpless panic.

Clenching his eyes, Jason swallowed his own woodknot and flexed his traps against Aaron’s 
shattering chokehold.  Through the pasty shit cleaving to his face, the president thought he saw 
… sweat?  Tears?  But then a shark’s smile spread coldly from ear to ear – and Jason glutes 
rippled.

Aaron immediately pulled half-way out but Jason, clenching his cock in one hand and seeming to 
will himself into flaccidity, reached back and dug a thumb up under Aaron’s ribcage to hold him 
in place.  Then he really bore down with a grinding twist.  The home-run KKEEERAACKKK of 
that supersphincter breaking Aaron’s gut-wrencher made the president heave all over again.  
Then KRAACK in another spot.   And again he KRACCKTT it a third time. 

His face turning vermillion, Aaron dug his knees into Jason’s leg biceps and tried to pry the 
glutes apart but Jason butt-jaws were kept chewing Aaron’s broken cock back up inside him, 
seeking more hardness to pulverize.  Jason squeezed and splintered Aaron’s lowest rib, fingers 
crawling higher up inside Aaron’s ribs, nails digging into the skin and muscle, until his vice-grip 
found the next rib to pinch into powder.  Aaron’s panic broke into simian frenzy as he felt 
himself being drawn deeper into Jason’s bowels, imagining his bones being broken the better to 
fit.  When Jason pulled out of the boy’s rib cage with a xylophone run of pain and went for his 
hip, Aaron bent down and sunk his broken teeth deep into Jason’s triceps.   Blood shot up into 
his eyes but for a moment Jason relaxed his ass, allowing Aaron to jam his thumbs in that fetid 
stinkpit and yank.  

Aaron grunted as the power of that ring defied him for precious seconds.  His delts and triceps 
crinkled with new muscle and screaming from the depths of his soul, Aaron managed to widen it 
just long enough to propel himself out and away, his cock waggling at sickening angles.  He 
scrambled to his feet and they faced each other, each maimed and breathing hard and smeared 
with sweat, blood and shit, gauging the other’s stamina.  Jason flexed drying shit off with his 
facial muscles.  Grimacing at the pain, Aaron wrung shit from newly-jointed dick.  Each had to 
concede the other was too much stud to take down without losing another body part.  

The smell of cum, sweat, shit, and blood was nearly overpowering – it took all the president’s 
strength not to pass out coming and choke on his own vomit.  Jason saw doubt in his son’s eyes 
and lunged at him, stopping to gloat when he saw Aaron flinch away as if he himself weren’t too 
scared to drive in for the kill.  “You’ll never be bigger’n me, squirt,” Jason snarled.  “Now hold 
onto somethin’ if you don’t want to learn to fly.”

Jason’s pecs seemed to part like the Red Sea as his chest suddenly expanded.  Through his open 
jaws, Jason began vacuuming the earth’s atmosphere into his lungs.  His arms rose and fell in 
rhythm with the crunch of his abs and pecs as he compressed cubic tons of air into each 
individual lung sac.  The president scrambled and braced himself behind the thickest trees, 
whose branches bent creaking from the massive draw.  Even Aaron reached out a hand to grab a 
tree – and then gripped it with his other one.

A funnel down pulled down out of the clouds overhead as gale-force winds swirled and collided.  
The twisting cone distended closer to Jason’s maw, bucking like a doomed beast struggling to 
escape.  But Jason only narrowed his eyes and seemed almost to smile as he doubled his power.   
Smaller trees began pulling out of the ground and branches ripped free and spun so fast they 
shattered to splinters.  Larger objects – abandoned cars, debris from the destroyed homes – came 
bouncing through the forest and smashing flat against Jason’s body.  The spinning twister threw 
lightning off in every direction, igniting fires immediately snuffed by the icy winds drawn down 
from the stratosphere.

Then he was gone.  Jason shot up into the sky on thighs powerful enough to shred Earth’s 
gravity.  Even Aaron blinked and looked for him in vain.  But the tornado was far too strong to 
dissipate and struck out towards the choppy lake, nearly draining it before continuing into the 
forest on the far side.  

Aaron and the president were drenched as lake water fell everywhere along with other things 
floating in the water – fish, frogs, decaying body parts and skeletal remains, entire sunken boats.  
Souvenirs of Jason’s prior incarnation as merely the strongest creature ever to walk the earth.  
‘Now that he was an order of magnitude more powerful,’ the president thought, narrowly 
escaping a corpse-laden rowboat that crashed inches away, ‘there may be no souvenirs left at 
all.’

The lake was lower by a third before the rain died down enough to talk.  Lightning continued 
flying into the sky in the hills beyond the lake as the tornado continued its swath of destruction.  
The President, wiping fish-nibbled fingers off his shoulders, stumbled shivering into the clearing.  
“Where do you think he went, with all that air?” Aaron asked in bewilderment.  “Do you think 
he’s going under the sea?”

“I’m sure we’ll know soon enough,” the president said, remembering what Jason thought he 
could do.  But right now that knowledge was all the leverage he had so he kept it to himself.  If 
Aaron hadn’t considered it possible to leap to the fucking moon yet, then they had some time.  
Surely a journey of some 240,000 miles would take even Jason, without friction, a little while.
 
Then he paused.  A showdown in space or on the moon might be enough to finish them both off.  
And whatever it did to the moon would be better than them doing it here.  But Aaron was in no 
shape for a fight.  He was still struggling for breath and fingering his broken ribs.  

“I need someplace to sleep,” Aaron said.  “Alone.  Come on.”

‘How like his father,’ the president thought.  But he followed mutely.  While clearly the boy 
could heal faster than his dad, and without resting, that didn’t mean he could live without sleep. 
Soon they shambled up to a rocky outcrop with like a small cave opening.  

“When we were fighting, I could hear caverns echo underneath us,” Aaron said.  “The cold will 
keep my fever down.  I just need…”  He looked around, listening, then leaped into the sky.  A 
few minutes later he returned with three big bulls, one around his neck and one under each arm, 
stunned but alive.    “Eat one now, and keep the other two handy for later,” Aaron said.  “Won’t 
spoil in the cold if they die.”

He dropped them onto their backs and, too tired and hungry to play with his food, twisted the 
head nearly off the nearest one and pulled it apart like a stewed chicken.  He flexed from his 
traps through his abs as a kind of full-body mastication as he sucked massive slabs of meat down 
his piehole.  His jaws crushed through the thickest bones to slurp out the marrow and when he 
was done, all that was left was a pile of hide and bone fragments.  He even sucked the skull and 
horns clean.  

A massive belch made stones jump around them and for a moment, his boyish grin gave away 
his age.  He gripped the edges of the slit into the rock and pried it wider, shifting tons of rock and 
with his vein-riddled arms.  Then he didn’t look so boyish.  He tucked the bulls under his arms 
and dropped into the hole. 

The president looked up at the clouds and waited.

It happened two nights later.  The president returned from town with some grub, the light of the 
full moon brilliant enough to read by.  One of the bulls bellowed forlornly down below.  It was 
almost by accident he looked up and saw it.  

A plume of dust emerged from one of the seas near the bottom.  Like a volcano – except that, 
apart from a few moonquakes now and then, the moon was geologically dead.  But he could see 
a black spot near the center of the sea out of which the plume erupted.  He blinked – did the spot 
just get bigger?  Squinting, he couldn’t tell exactly what he was looking at.  

The dust belching out of the apparent hole grew thicker, denser, partly obscuring scene and 
trailing away into space.  Dropping his groceries, the president tried to imagine it:  a being only 
eight feet high but immeasurably dense punching and ripping his way through the concrete 
surface, hurling out boulders that, with such weak gravity, would already be earthbound meteors.

But even after one mile, two miles, ten miles … how long would it take before he got deep 
enough to do anything?  Or would he get so deep his strength would finally run up against an 
impossible limit, and expending all his air in this maniacal pursuit, turn that mine into his own 
grave?  The moon was what, 2160 miles in diameter?  How could Jason possibly exert enough 
pressure to affect such an enormity of cold, dead rock? 

Then he considered:  Jason had made that distance in a little more than two days.  Calculating 
quickly, the president realized he must had to reached a speed approaching 5000 miles per hour.  
That would be … nearly Mach 7.  Unless he got there earlier and looked around for the best spot 
– in which case he broke the world speed record with a single standing jump.  And sustained it, 
unlike NASA’s unmanned X-34A, which required booster assistance to make that speed for ten 
seconds.  

The moon rose higher, the cloud covering a larger portion of the body and spreading like a 
miasma into space.  The president – and possibly untold millions of others – pictured Jason 
relentlessly pulverizing and gutting the moon’s unprotected belly, a one-man strip mine working 
toward the core itself.  The body heat produced by those massive pecs compressing a small 
planet’s worth of air into his lungs blistering the rock more powerfully than unshielded solar 
radiation.  The evil grin as each asteroid-packed stratum crumbled before his physical strength.  
Mars itself crashing into the moon might not pack the punch of Jason’s right fist.  And then here 
comes his left.

He’d know when he got there – he’d know where to start … pressing.

THOSE arms … those THIGHS … PRESSSSSSSING.

With no air to groan by, the moon’s billion-year hardness begins to fissure.  Silent cracks zig-zag 
up, down, around, for miles, a hundred miles … then split as even greater pressure builds.  Rock 
begins to explode like seams at distant points as Jason’s Hulk-humbling might intensifies its 
increases its force.  Shock waves begin rivening whole sections of mantle, quaking off chunks of 
crust like scabs, waves that shatter ancient fire-forged bonds and impact-welded strata.   The 
moon’s big but its gravity is weak, and this thing inside it, this monster, is small but strong … 
stronger … too strong for even a thousand miles of icy rock to stand up to.  

Suddenly the pressure doubles, then doubles again as pressing turns to shoving, then hitting and 
kicking.  Violent shocks rattle down to the core itself, massive living muscle rupturing the dead 
gravity of massive rock.  Cracks branch into cracks as hammering fists match anything the early 
solar system ever threw against it, then exceed that, exceed the rock’s tolerance for punishment.  
From the far side of the moon, rocks begin to eject into space.  Then boulders.  Then continents.

His own hips bucking in awe shook the president out of his reverie.  A thick wetness plastered 
his crotch and spread down his leg.  The cloud of ejecta now completely obscured the moon but 
the moon was poking through – to the left, and to the right, and up, and down.  Or rather, hunks 
of what had once been a moon.  Some receded into space but others would no doubt be netted by 
Earth’s gravity and come catastrophically home.  

Jason, a force powerful enough to rival anything in the cosmos, had shattered the fucking moon 
right before his eyes ….

Wolves began howling in the forest around them, a startling, frenzied chorus that made him want 
to howl along.  He pictured Jason standing on what would look like a tiny pinpoint, a star, that 
was the dense core, whaling and whaling on it with his bare fists until it couldn’t take any more 
and crystalline fractures spread deeper and deeper until two hands begin to pull and rip and tear 
even that iron ball apart like rotten fruit.  

Suddenly the president felt very exposed, thinking of what would start raining down upon them.  
And one of those obliterating moon-parts would be carrying the musclebeast himself.  He had no 
doubt Jason could withstand the violence of re-entry.  They had only a few days to prepare.  He 
hoped Aaron would be ready by then – ready and not completely insane.  Gathering up his pitiful 
snacks along with some firewood, the president stepped into the vespertillian blackness, 
following the cries of the bull towards his, and the world’s, only savior.

THE END
chipmasterson@yahoo.com