The Monolith

For Jason, With All My Love

From His Boy, Chip Masterson


The lights blinded me as I slipped through the ropes.  A lot of other jobbers 
were there already, so I figured this was gonna be some kinda rumble-slaughter 
thing.  These days I only half pay attention to what my manager says, but I 
don’t think he said much about a rumble.  But there was extra dough involved so 
what the hey.  I warmed by stretching the ropes, slapping my chest, the usual 
gorilla moves expected of us.

“How’s yer hip?” muttered Howie, aka The Revenger.  He had the look of perpetual 
worry in his eye only a guy with five daughters could ever have.

“Chiro snapped it right back into place.  Still sore though.  How’s the pool 
coming?” 

“Damn contractors.  The plans called for a Mickey Mouse head, with two spas for 
the ears, and this guy, he puts in only one spa, so it looks like Mickey’s had 
an earectomy, and the girls are crying and I’m off the last bus from Frankfurt 
Kentucky with a cracked rib and about one ligament left in my entire body...”

I grimaced to keep from busting up.  Howie could go on like that for days, 
stopping only to get more beer and a fresh deck.  Stone Cold could break every 
bone in your body and Howie could make you forget all about it with laughing.

I nodded to the other guys, recognizing all of ‘em from motels and greenrooms in 
the shitiest backwaters of America.  All in all I’d done pretty well.  Six and a 
half feet, weighing two and a quarter, I could take just about anything and heal 
up pretty well.  I had to get over not being able to crash the line, become a 
heel.  I hadn’t the looks for a pretty boy but I thought I had the stuff for a 
good villain, but it’s all politics, you know?  Still, I been around a lot 
longer than most.  Sport’s been good to me.

The last guys came into the ring, nine total plus me, and I was the tallest.  
But then I usually was.  On the CCW, or Chip’s Championship Wrestling circuit, 
height codes were strictly enforced.  Which is why I shoulda been a player.  
Fuckin’ politics.

I didn’t know why the lights were so bright; it was hard to see out into the 
audience.  Somehow the murmurs and shouts weren’t quite right.  But I couldn’t 
squint too much; my character, The Bouncer, glared.  Lights or no lights.  I’m 
gonna need trifocals to find my dick to piss when I retire.

Andy came over and pretended to intimidate me, or try to.  Andy, The Fireplug, 
was as wide in two directions as he was tall, mostly muscle.  He’s the one they 
shoulda called The Bouncer ‘cause when they bodyslam him he bounces right back 
up like he’s made of flubber.  

“I practically had to break my manager’s thumb,” he whispered through a clenched 
jaw.  “Apparently we’re fighting a new wrestler, someone called The Monolith.”

“I thought a monolith was one of those trains with one rail,” said Chuck, who 
played Doc Otis, a hick doctor character.  It was hard to know which one was 
dumber.

“That’s a monorail, dipstick,” I snarled, mouthing something different so it 
looked obscene.  “Villain or hero?” I asked.

“Both in one,” says Andy with a sudden fear in his eye as he pushed me back and 
gesticulated with his big Italian hands.  I shoved back and the little thing 
didn’t move; our respective heights meant I was pushing mostly down anyway.  But 
it looked really cool.  A ref came up and broke us apart.

“Hey Jeb,” I said, and Andy nodded the same.

“Save it, boys, you’re gonna need it.”

“Whattya mean?” I asked, pretending to turn on him.

He blanched and I played it for all it was worth, but I winked. He backed away, 
still playing, but kind of not, too.  “This guy ... we’re not even gonna ref 
from the ring.  We’ll be outside.”

“Outside the ropes?”

“Outside the auditorium.”  

I cocked my head when the head ref, Curly, came over and separated us mock-
roughly.  “Who else is in the ring besides us and the new guy?” 

Jeb shook his head.  “Just the new guy.  One on ten.”

I stopped cold, then busted up laughing, spraying guffaws into their faces.  But 
they didn’t get angry like they shoulda, they just kept shaking their heads 
until I got it they was serious.  Something turned inside my guts.

Curly shoved me, really hard, back into a corner and I was about to shove back 
when the others refs shoved three other guys into me.  “What’s with the Gestapo, 
Curls?” I asked.  He looked at me as if his mother just died and it was my dog 
that bit her.  Then I saw Shorty, everyone’s favorite ref, drag some links over 
the edge of the mat.

These weren’t hot dogs neither, but pretty stiff chains, with gnarly padlocks 
big as your hand.  “What the--” was all I could get out when the refs tackled me 
and pressed me up against the post.  “You coulda just asked.”

“This is how it’s got to be.  He’s watching.”  

“Who?”

No answer.  They chained me to the post, tight against my abs, but slipped 
another chain behind my back.  This better be what the extra pay was for, being 
immobilized.  The next guy they chained with his back to me, the two of us 
together.  The next guy, shorter than him, was chained to him, and the last guy, 
shortest of all, to that guy.  I’d barely worked with these three at all, just 
seen ‘em on the road here and there.  We were like a kind of stumpy tentacle 
that could wave stiffly back and forth.  Fuckers were tight, pinching a lot of 
skin fat.  The other six guys were roaming free when the refs climbed out of the 
ring and ran up the aisles.  We all shared looks ... and then I saw something 
that made my blood curdle.

From the corner I could see into the audience, and it was all rich folks, all 
Dolce and Versace and furs and shit.  Not the usual trailer trash.  That’s why 
the crowd sounds weren’t right: they were piped in.  These characters were chit-
chatting and eating fucking caviar from butlers, not hooting and showing their 
painted bellies to the cameras.  Sweat broke all over my shoulders and suddenly 
I wanted out like nobody’s business.  I tugged on the lock but I might as well 
just have pulled on my own arm, it wasn’t moving.

The six loose guys grouped into a huddle and gave us worried looks.  A loud 
stomping sound started.  One of the jobbers, the fat queen – Alex?  Alan? – 
moved to the ropes and suddenly yelled and grabbed at his throat.  A Mexican 
guy, Felix “El Gatto,” ran up and pulled his hand away to look but there was no 
blood, just an angry red welt.  Stan Morris, The Plumber, stooped and picked 
something up.  In the light it was easy to see in his fat fingers: a rubber 
bullet.  “That could have put out my eye!”

Snipers.  To keep us in the ring.  Fuck me.

Nobody’s telling us anything.  A quiet panic ripples through all of us, but hey, 
ten on one, how bad could it really be?  Maybe ... maybe they unchain us at some 
point to really lay the guy out.  Maybe that’s it, a gang bang, and this new guy 
wanders into trouble and gets the shit kicked out of him.  That must be it.  
Funny how I couldn’t bring myself to believe these folks would pay for something 
that simple.

The lights dimmed and the announcer’s voice blared with a spiel about the 
special nature of tonight’s event, invitation only, handicapped ten to one with 
no break until at least eight men were unable to continue (“Oh, shit, more 
physical therapy,” muttered the guy in front of me; I got a strong whiff of Old 
Spice off him), and welcoming various dignitaries and even some heads of state 
from small brutal dictatorships I recognized from my kid’s homework.  I could 
see better now the look of feverish anticipation on their faces, women literally 
licking their chops and men openly groping their crotches, or more likely their 
own.  It almost looked like some of them were getting ready to fuck, right out 
in front of everyone.  My skin pricked all over with something ghoulish and I 
looked around, wildly.  They were like animals, all of them, hungry beasts, all 
teeth and snarls, fingering jewelry and nipples.  These people were turned on by 
power and what power buys.  Which, apparently, was all of us.

The announcer began listing off the names of the jobbers in the ring, and 
shakily the guys raised their hands and tried to put on a show of fierce 
determination despite the mass hysteria quietly roiling through us.  The 
Revenger, The Plumber, Doc Otis, The Fireplug, El Gatto, and finally Alan or 
Alex, aka Twinkerbell, the fat queen who provided an outlet for all the 
gaybashers in the audience.  I didn’t know him that well, but he was a lot 
tougher than he looked.  Except tonight; he looked pale as a ghost.

Then us, the handicapped guys.  The shortest guy (5’8”) in front was The Shark 
(now I remember, he always kept moving, tough to pin).  The next guy was 
Fernando The Latin Lover, a 5’11” muscular beauty who always flirted with the 
female managers as a way of getting beaten up, kinda funny.  Next to me and just 
tall enough to get hair in my mouth at 6’2” was The Linebacker, a powerhouse guy 
who always took the first advantage but wore out too soon.  He looked like a 
sweet guy underneath his lumpy bulldog face.  And finally me, The Bouncer.  I 
flexed my arms and growled for the audience, but only tepid applause greeted me.  
These rich fucks could really care less about us ... except that we were there.

“And the challenger, new to the CCW, recently discovered on an archeological dig 
in the remotest corners of Lappland, Mad Dog Burrows Productions is proud to 
present....”  A drumroll drew out the tension and the crowd went quiet.  Doors 
opened but instead of the usual fireworks and laser shots there was just a red 
backdrop and some giant Kong-like statute silhouetted against it.  The drumroll 
got louder.  “... Weighing in at an unbelievable Eight Hundred Seventy-Two 
Pounds....” 

Whaaa?  The crowd exploded with applause and cheers, but nothing moved in the 
doorway.  What was that thing, some kind of Nordic totem pole?  The announcer 
broke his pro-voice and babbled excitedly “That’s right, folks, he broke two of 
our scales, one foot on each, bent the bases and cracked the plates just 
standing on ‘em, we had to use the truck scale out back!”  

My head swam and lights flashed before my eyes as the sound of a freight train 
rushed into my face from somewhere dark and hot: the sound of my blood.  My ears 
rang and cleared to hear the announcer continue “... of solid masculine muscle 
packed onto a record-breaking Nine Feet Three inches of blond haired blue-eyed 
Norse God...” 

The shadowed figure began to move: it wasn’t no fucking statue.  It was alive.  
It moved into the light and a follow-spot hit it and I saw the most handsome, 
coldest, ruggedest, transcendent face I’ll ever see.  A thick brow-ridge set 
with depthlessly blue eyes ran below a high forehead capped with shockingly 
golden hair, so thick it naturally spiked.  Hollow checks dimpled beneath proud 
cheekbones flaring beside an arrogant nose, and full lips that stretched the 
width of the narrow face were perfectly framed by the even, firm jawline.  

The spot widened to take in the giant’s torso, but couldn’t quite widen enough 
to contain the breadth of the shoulders, only lighting pecs of a striated 
thickness never before seen by any mortal, pecs that seemed to stand half a foot 
out from the man’s body and wrapped up into traps that rose like mountain slopes 
behind a neck so thick, so long and so proud that every hetero gene in my body 
started a mass conversion.

“THE MONOLITH!”

The throng burst into blood-chilling shrieks, whistles and shouts of praise and 
adoration.  As He neared us, the ramps creaked and groaned beneath His size 30-
plus feet.  The dim light caught rippling things that looked like sea-swells 
dizzyingly upended, abs that worked and stretched and meshed like the gnashing 
jaws of nightmare monsters, swinging arms that were as big around as most men’s 
chests, and hands that looked like they could crush bowling balls to dust.  My 
first thought was “Freak!” but my senses canceled that: He was too perfectly 
ideal, too beautiful, to be a freak.  He was perfection itself, Superiority 
defined, what Man was meant to be in all his size and strength and power and 
beauty.  The only freaks were the rest of us milky ill-begotten chuds.

The front guy, the Shark, fainted and dragged us all forward against the tight 
chains.  Fernando was too dazed to shake him so I had to reach around and slap 
his head.  The Monolith was getting closer and I could taste vomit in the back 
of my throat like the first cloud from Krakatoa.  The Shark gathered his wits 
and screamed like a woman, trying to tear his body out of the chains.  Panic 
spread like fire to Fernando and the Linebacker and they too tugged frantically, 
but being all linked to each other’s bodies, it only made the chains cut into us 
deeper: without ripping ourselves in half, we weren’t getting out.  But that 
didn’t stop them from trying.

Howie and the others all bolted for the ropes but a hail of rubber bullets drove 
them back with twists and yelps.  The Monolith, an expression of serene 
superiority frozen on His heart-stoppingly handsome features, reached the edge 
of the ring and towered over the ropes from the ground.  His shoulders were like 
living rock formations, and as He raised them to flex biceps that would dwarf a 
car engine and reveal intercostals sprouting like elephant tusks up His sides, I 
remembered my little Scotty’s Guinness Book of World Records: the tallest man 
ever was under eight foot something, just under nine, but only weighed about 440 
or so.  This man has twice the weight with only a few more inches.  My bladder 
loosened and hot piss ran down my tights.  He was like an oversized anatomical 
chart of human muscular perfection.

The Monolith stepped on the top step of the stairs and a loud creaking groan 
accompanied their crushing destruction beneath His foot.  The tiniest of smiles 
glimmered on His mouth, hinting at deep dimples.  He put a paw on the top rope 
and the weight of the bunched muscle and blood in His forearm alone bent it 
nearly down to the next rope.

He kept pressing, seemingly without any effort at all, and the ropes stretched 
with a loud popping and creaking sound, one after the other, quivering tighter 
and tighter as His insistence made them sink down to the mat surface.  The posts 
bent inward, groaning, and one of them broke its mooring with a loud bang.  The 
Monolith let go of the ropes and they remained sagging for Him to step over and 
onto the creaking mat.  

When He turned around to bend the one post back upright, the surging depth of 
His back made Fernando vomit all over the Shark’s head and Chuck the hick 
collapsed to his knees.  Never had anyone imagined so much muscle even possible.  
It writhed and hung in glacial swaths from his shoulders, lats so wide and thick 
they looked like ... nothing to compare with, man.  Just rising off his back and 
sweeping out like fucking continents, covered with mountains and cut with deep 
gorges.  They looked like the surface of a planet He had yanked out of the sky 
and split open to wear like a trophy.

With one hand he bent the post back and went to the other, which he pounded back 
into the concrete.  It was inches lower than it had been, but tight enough for 
show purposes.  I didn’t think he planned on using the ropes very much. 

He turned back around and it was impossible not to gasp again at His monumental 
size and perfectly built physique.  Normally giants are angular geeks but this 
Man seemed perfect in every way, somehow in proportion despite thighs and biceps 
that crippled the imagination.  My nostrils flared with hard breaths and I smelt 
the queer mixture of sweat and sex and testosterone that buzzed off him like 
radio waves.  I looked around and everyone one else smelled it too, and despite 
visible uncontrollable tremors in abs and jitters in legs, cocks began to harden 
inside our multi-colored spandex costumes.  The dominance, the assumed sense of 
power that spread like wings over us all, made the spirit rage and quail at the 
same time; I felt my soul flapping against my ribs trying to escape Him.

He just stood there, in the center of the ring.  The overhead lights reflected 
off the angled, ripped planes of his pecs, shadowing His abs completely.  A fine 
sheen of tiny golden hairs stood out over deeply tanned, vibrant skin that 
swelled and molded to the globes and overhangs of muscle without the slightest 
wrinkle, stretch-mark, or distortion.  His only covering were electric blue 
spandex shorts that didn’t even try to conceal balls the size of Idaho potatoes 
and a cock so thick and long and solid it could have been a man’s arm.  I could 
already see gaps where there lycra was starting to tear, unable to stretch 
enough to restrain that cock.  The most frightening thing?  It didn’t look like 
it had even begun to get hard yet.  

He was so tall!  I craned my neck to look up at His face, something I’ve only 
done with a few skinny pro basketball players.  He was nearly three feet taller 
than me!  My heart stopped and raced and pounded and stopped again.  Eyes 
blinked everywhere as brains attempted to conceive Him, to wrap themselves 
around His mere existence.  I’m pretty good with numbers, and love doing the 
weight to height ratio to see how dense an opponent’s muscle is.  Divide pounds 
by inches and you get the index.  Andy at 5’6” and over 200 lbs is 3.3.  I’m 
2.8, cause I’m a foot taller but only 25 lbs heavier.  Your average Joe on the 
street is 2.5 if he’s built, or lower; ‘course, he could be all fat too.  But 
The Monolith ... fuck, man, his density level is 7.9!  And it’s not fat!  How 
can he even be human?  He’s denser than a fuckin’ silverback gorilla!

The crowd went silent.  They strained forward, as if wanting to hear us sweat.  
To taste the fear spraying off us with each shudder.

And He wouldn’t move.  Anything a jobber hates, it’s arrogance.  But this guy 
was so fucking massive, the impulse to “fight” short-circuited with the one for 
“flight.”  Flight wasn’t an option, so the six free guys conferred with nervous 
looks over their shoulders and then, as if sinking deeper into a huddle, sprang 
and attacked en masse.

Howie, Andy and Chuck began kicking at His knees and stomping on His feet but it 
didn’t seem to do any good.  He had to have a weak spot and frequently it’s up 
in the armpit so Stan, Felix and Alan grabbed hold of an arm and tried to pry it 
up off the man’s body.  They tugged and threw their bodies back but the only 
thing that moved was the dimple in His cheek as He half-smiled at their pathetic 
strength.  They couldn’t even move a single finger!  It was like He was made of 
marble, some monumental Hercules reanimated to seek a god’s vengeance.  

Howie got mad, reared back and tried to punch Him in the abs, which were about 
chest-level.  I heard a sickening crack and he screamed as I saw bones stick out 
through his skin.  His wrist snapped and the ends of his forearm broke through!  
Even if he’d hit a brick wall that wouldn’a happened.  The Monolith musta, 
faster than we could see, flexed His abs out to impact Howie’s hand!

Howie held his wrist and staggered off to the side, trembling and green at the 
blood spiraling down his arm.  The other guys gaped in horror, then began 
raining blows and kicks at The Monolith.  The blond beauty just stood there a 
moment, then moved so fast it was like He was a cyborg.  He spun Felix and Stan 
up into the air so hard they hit the lights and fell straight back down, Stan 
landing on his shoulder with a crunch.  Felix grabbed both of his knees and 
rolled around, grimacing.  Monolith’s hands kept moving though, flattening the 
remaining three so hard they all bounced off the mat.  He dropped to His knees 
and caught Andy’s and Chuck’s heads under one arm and squeezed them against his 
body.  They shrieked and their bodies scrambled and bucked, limbs beating wildly 
as they tried to twist off their own heads to escape the pain.  Yet He was 
barely flexing, His muscles just twitched like they was shooing off flies.  His 
other hand held both Alan’s hands behind his back and lifted him up into the air 
that way, curling the grown fat man as if he was a potato chip.

Living men, my friends and colleagues, were just dolls to this giant.  I wept 
and the guys in front of me hadn’t stopped trying to break the chains but the 
ingenuity of chaining us all to each other’s waists meant we’d never escape.  We 
had no leverage.  Besides, where would we go?  He could uproot mountain chains 
to find us.

The Monolith released Andy and Chuck and they staggered off, holding and shaking 
their poor heads.  Chuck fell to his knees and vomited, thick rivers of green 
and brown splattering onto the mat and smearing his body.  He released Alan too 
as Felix got shakily to his feet and Stan’s arm flopped from the shattered 
shoulder.  But He rose too.

The Monolith returned to his stony immobility, but He grinned wider now and the 
crowd’s excited screams died down again, curious about the cessation of 
movement.  This wasn’t what they paid for, they paid for blood!  Andy started 
using the ropes that were still taut and bounding back and forth across the 
ring, turned himself into a human cannonball and launched himself legs-first at 
the blond God’s lower back (the highest he could get).  

The sickening CRACK – SPLAT made us all wince.  Andy’s pain was so severe he 
went into instant shock, unable to scream as both fracturing legs jammed up to 
crack his hips and pelvis.  His face left a splotch of blood at the apex of the 
Christmas Tree of muscle above His globular glutes, from Andy’s broken jaw, 
shattered teeth and smashed nose.  His body twitched on the mat and his face 
began to swell and turn purple.  And He hadn’t so much as swayed from 220 lbs of 
muscle blurring into him!

When He moved again it was so fast all you could do was gape.  He grabbed Felix 
and Stan by the tops of their heads and lifted them into the air.  They shrieked 
and clawed at his fingers but they only left white marks on his skin, they 
couldn’t even draw blood.  Those giant fingers completely enveloped their heads 
and now their cries became banshee wails of agony.  You could see his fingers 
barely squeeze, the enormous belly of muscle hanging off his lower arm stir 
slightly, and the men begged and pleaded and made stuttering nonononononos that 
turned into insane Bantu ululations.  Trickles of blood appeared on their necks 
that must have come from their ears and noses and their bodies whipsawed in the 
air like trapped birds.  The hands opened and they fell to the mat and gave 
quick spasmodic humps before passing out.

Andy started to revive, look around, wonder where he was.  Then he remembered: 
and tried to drag his way to the side.  Rubber bullets hit him but that didn’t 
stop him, he kept dragging his twisted legs behind him, and they flopped around 
grotesquely and you could hear knee cartilage grinding and popping and breaking 
free.  

In a blur The Monolith was there, before Andy had time to panic or scream, and 
with one toe pressed into Andy’s own hard abs, began pulling him back to the 
center of the mat.  Andy’s strong arms struggled and clutched at the blood-
smeared canvas but it was no use against a calf that rose inches off a giant’s 
leg.  The Monolith ignored the crowd’s shouts in a hundred languages and seemed 
to think a moment.  He lay down on the mat (if He’d fallen, He would have broken 
through).  With His feet, He manipulated Andy into a scissors hold, and 
enveloped Andy’s massive chest with thighs far thicker.  

The Monolith rolled onto His back and His abs concaved unbelievably, shrinking 
His waist to what must have been no more than 38” around.  Which is smaller than 
those thighs!  His pecs were so thick they barely moved, remaining huge plates 
thicker than the hull of a warship, and probably more impenetrable.  He levered 
Andy into the air so that his head was straight up and facing Him, and his 
broken legs dangled at odd angles beneath.  Andy shivered and begged.  Stan 
lurched forward, and Howie and Felix and Chuck followed, shuffling like the 
living dead toward The Monolith’s face and neck.

They should have saved their strength.  His arms flew out and batted each of 
them into the ropes.  Huge red welts rose on their bodies as they gasped for 
breath.  Yet He never took His eyes off Andy’s, even as He “handled” the other 
five.  Andy sobbed snot and phlegm and pleaded for his wife and cancerous 
mother.  The Monolith just smiled and slowly brought His thighs to life.

Quads like rows of striped barbershop poles crowded each other, fiercely flaring 
and flexing but clearly just for show purposes because Andy wasn’t screaming ... 
yet.  His eyes widened at the surging sea of muscle storming around him, holding 
his muscular arms trapped against his sides.  Then ... he felt the tide turn 
against him as the furious flexing stopped entirely.

His tough Lower East Side face grew stern as if straining to deadlift a Mack 
truck.  Yet all he was doing to pressing out, trying to resist the compelling 
force of The Monolith’s quad-death.  Veins burst out of his neck and shoulders 
and pecs and he forgot all about the pain of his skewed legs, broken by the 
power of his own thrust hitting the immovable object that now held him captive.  
Sweat visibly beaded up on his forehead and drenched his thick black hair, 
matting his chest hair as the pecs began to cramp and quiver with the strain.  
His jaw jutted out farther and suddenly he groaned with frustration and fury, 
tossing his head side to side.  Funny thing is, though, I couldn’t actually see 
The Monolith’s legs move at all.  Somehow it was more unsettling than the 
flexing exhibition before:  like the thighs were imperceptibly growing INTO him.

Andy’s face now began to spasm with the pain.  The Monolith’s gargantuan quads, 
if anything, seemed to harden in the harsh light, become more granite-carved.  
Yet small crackles could be heard that forced the audience into tense silence.  
The sound of Andy’s joints being ground together.  I watched The Monolith’s feet 
and caught the glacial flow, the slow grind that cast no moving shadow but only 
appeared to have changed positions when you blinked.  As if you were going 
crazy.  But the sound – THE SOUND! – of ligaments bulging ... and popping.  My 
gorge rose as the mental images appeared.  

Andy’s shoulders pushed in past his collarbone until the tendons snapped.  That 
brought tears to his eyes.  The rasp of his shoulder blades rubbing against each 
other, forced over each other, that brought a grimace of despair.  Ribs 
flattened at the point they curved, forcing his sternum out until – OUCH!  You 
could see them poke against his skin as they came undone.  He let out a bloody 
scream of rage that ended in ragged coughs of agony.  

The Monolith’s proud expression still hadn’t changed, His abs hadn’t quivered 
once while levering 200 lbs into the air for five minutes straight.  More 
cracking resonated out of Andy’s body as his arms broke and various jagged rib-
ends tried to dig through his skin into the walls of muscle closing in.  Andy’s 
breaths became shallow and rapid as his chest space diminished and he cried out 
harshly “Do it!  Just fucking do it ya sadistic sonuva bitch!”  

But The Monolith remained as immune to taunts as to shoves and kicks.  His eyes 
showed that He had heard, but it didn’t change His plans one bit.  Andy started 
to pray, a loud Our Father laced with the words “Oh, Fuck!”  With his entire 
lower body shattered, his abs had nothing to pull from and suddenly his 
intestines herniated out through his ball-sac.  “Sweet Christ!” he screamed 
through his teeth as he felt the membranes tear under the forced pressure, 
swelling into his testicles until the sensitive skin ripped open.  His balls 
shrieked fountains of blood as long worm-white guts shot out between his legs, 
slimed with black bile that hit the canvas and splashed into the audience.  A 
foreign general and his whore opened their mouths to drink it like they were 
catching snowflakes.

Andy’s guts continued to pile out like some Marilyn Manson act, streams of 
coiling tubes that stopped suddenly with a curtain of falling blood.  His face 
had gone fish white while his mouth made fish motions.  He looked up into the 
blinding lights, barely shaking his head at God’s absence.  A louder ripping of 
flesh and crinkle of bone-parts preceding his stomach bursting through the 
opening and hanging by his stretched esophagus.  One testicle that hung like a 
dingleball stuck to its ribbed surface.  Strangled gags mixed with the snapping 
of bones.  

Andy’s face sagged pathetically into pleas for mercy, a quick end.  The 
Monolith’s eyes met his, registering that he heard the begging: and then He 
turned His eyes back to His quads.  So Andy would know that his cries had been 
understood, and instantly forgotten.  The depth of cruelty astonished me.

Poor Andy wasn’t gonna last long now, with all that blood loss, and that cruel 
muscle-beast knew it.  His thighs seemed to flex in waves and all the blood flow 
stopped.  Andy’s feed-tube pinched off and fell to the floor, and with a kind of 
sick contraction The Monolith began squeezing everything UP.  The skin of Andy’s 
chest bulged as blood and gore forced its way up over the muscle and into his 
throbbing neck.  Like a tube of toothpaste, this once-brave little man’s head 
expanded briefly as thick dark matter filled the skin to shoot out of his ears, 
nose and mouth.  His eyes burst out of his skull and landed neatly on Chuck and 
Stan’s gaping tongues, and reflexively they swallowed.  Immediately they hurled 
the eyeballs back out with undigested hot-dog chunks and kernels of corn.  The 
Monolith grinned widely now as with one final FLEX squeezed Andy’s lungs up into 
his neck with a snap-crackle-pop of munching bone and Andy’s head EXPLODED.  
Pieces of skull flew dozens of feet and his brain shot up into the air, 
splattering back down into jelly.  The lower sections of skull, still attached 
to the skin, flopped outward off Andy’s neck onto the nerve-jittering corpse.  

We all threw up onto whoever was nearest.  It was like that Scanners movie only 
a hundred times worse because it was real, right before my eyes, my dear friend 
Andy.  Oh, God, how could this be happening?  

The Monolith spoke for the first time, amazingly deep with a slight accent I 
couldn’t quite place, commanding with a rumble we all felt in our own chests.  
“You two, eye boys, over here.”  Hesitantly Stan moved forward while Chuck 
backed away, his eyes wild.  “NOW!” Monolith roared, making the guys chained to 
me squeeze back instinctively.  The voice dragged Chuck forward like a lasso, 
against his will, and as He parted his legs, Stan and Chuck struggled to control 
their gagging.  They hesitantly moved inside those jaws like they were getting 
an egg out of a croc’s mouth.  Stan peeled the distorted upper torso off one 
leg.  Andy’s skin stuck deep into the muscle striations of His leg and Stan had 
to dig it out with his fingers, trembling lest they be shattered at any moment 
by a random flex.  Chuck pulled each leg off the other wall of quad-power, 
tossing the remains outside the ring where the ghoulish audience descended to 
make souvenirs of Andy’s flesh.  

They quickly moved away.  Deftly, The Monolith leapt to His feet in one easy 
move that rocked the arena and make the platform crack like a rifle shot.  From 
the look on His face, He wasn’t done with Stan and Chuck yet.

But first He put on a show of exploding His lats, exhibiting such extreme neural 
control that each intricate muscle pumped and peaked on its own in a complicated 
jazz rhythm.  A look that said “Watch this” appeared as He placed His hands on 
His hips, sank His shoulders and bounced His pecs a few times into sudden 
hardness.  Then He flexed again, making them thicker and higher.  Then AGAIN, 
forcing greater size on those shields that stood inches beyond the sides of His 
torso and half a foot or more thick.  Good Fucking Christ, the cleft between His 
chest muscles was as deep as my biceps was high!  He could crush my entire 
flexed arm in there!

But he wasn’t done, because now He flared His lats.  And he spread them farther, 
working them up and down and shooting them out.  And a third time, inches 
farther out, the muscle bending down from a V into a U shape.  And a FOURTH 
time, thicker and wider, huge plains opening up across the lats as they curved 
insanely back into His thunderhead shoulder-caps.  And then, a FIFTH time, 
flexing so hard you could hear the skin stretch across the surface.

He rotated so everyone could witness the mind-straining breadth of muscle that 
remained thick-rooted into His sides.  He raised His arms in triumph, pumping 
His biceps into zeppelins, detonating Hindenbergs of blood-drenching death, and 
the tracery of veins crawling over the surface increased with every pump.  My 
attention, though, was drawn down.  Maybe I was simply too frightened to look 
right into the face of those two mountain gods and the mountainous triceps they 
ruled.  Savage, northern ice-gods who lived by brute power alone.  But something 
more incredible than their sheer mass caught my eye.

A really wide back will cause a kind of second armpit to form when the arms are 
held up: below the real pit, sometimes a pocket forms between the lat and pec, a 
round hairless socket in the muscle that, on a big man, can get as big as a 
tennis ball.  The Monolith had these deep, perfectly round lower pits ... but a 
tennis ball would fall out.  These were as big as a ... as a human head.

Others in the cheering, praising audience realized that too and hushes spread 
through the throng as hands clawed at bodies and tore clothes in a sexual frenzy 
suddenly reined short.  When He had their attention, He moved.

Again, like some febrile cat and not a nearly half-ton giant, He pounced on Stan 
and Chuck and caught their heads inside these muscle-pits.  Yet He didn’t lower 
His arms: He simply swallowed their skulls in lat muscle.  Their muffled screams 
were softer than the thuds as their hands pounded uselessly on His body.  
Chuck’s fingernails broke off trying to scratch his way out.  The Monolith’s 
back became a swirling dual-whirlpool as muscles locked and released.  He turned 
around slowly, letting everyone see the men helplessly stuck and writhing, their 
feet dragging across the canvas as the rock-hard flesh seemed to chew all around 
their heads.  Only the back of their skulls was visible, their hair shivering 
eerily.  They curled and pulled like night crawlers on a fish-hook.  

Suddenly The Monolith flared his lats again and the men fell out onto their 
asses.  What caused horribly painful dry-retching even in the audience was the 
sight of their wobbly heads: it’s as if through sheer, controlled muscular 
contractions He had pulverized every millimeter of bone matter in their skulls, 
yet left their heads completely intact.  They rippled and bobbled like Jell-O 
molded versions of human heads, too painful to touch as their hands darted 
around the fun-house distortions barely upright on their necks.  Veins had risen 
to the surface across their faces, creating monstrous visages of evil.  Even 
their jaws were crushed so they couldn’t scream.  Wet, airy “hhhhgghhhaaaa” 
sounds came out of their throats as unimaginable pain must have overloaded their 
nervous systems. 

The Monolith crossed His arms before His pecs and stood to consider what to do 
with the two men, a finger resting on His chin.  Above the crowd’s gasps of awe 
and the flurry of flashbulbs recording the poor jobber’s hideous deformity 
contrasted with His superhuman strength and manly perfection, I heard something 
that at first sounded like a zipper opening.  Movement caught my eye and I saw 
His cock beginning to rise from its under-curled slumber ... and the lycra 
beginning to tear.  Yet It engorged so slowly the stretch-fabric kept trying to 
hold it in, only to find more holes being forced open as its fibers snapped 
under the strain.  Like some sort of elephant trunk It kept rising in slow 
bumps, pulling the shorts farther out from his body.  The waistline was now two 
inches from his lower abs, hitting his skin only where it rounded his tiny hips, 
pressing into the striations of his glutes until the leg-holes began to unravel 
as well. 

A slow, nodding smile brightened His heart-killing face, and His spandex shorts 
exploded off His loins into fragments the audience dived for.  His cock, still 
not nearly hard, apparently, bobbed nearly two feet out from His body, hanging 
slightly down.  And still lengthening.  My own cock couldn’t resist the sight, 
and for the first time in my life I wanted a man’s cock.  For the first time, I 
knew what my purpose in life had been all along: to get that cock inside me.

He walked over to Chuck and pinching him in his shattered shoulder, lifted him 
lightly onto His cock like a boy onto his first pony, floppy face to rock-cliff 
chest.  Stan, the bigger of the two by far, He placed behind him, and the cock 
barely sagged with the weight of two pro wrestlers – over 400 lbs! 

IN FACT, it ROSE to the occasion and lifted them inches higher.  The audience 
gasped as one and The Monolith’s smirk revealed He had more tricks to astound 
and revolt us in store.  He grabbed both men’s arms in His hands, extended them, 
and stretched them out ... farther ... a little farther ... until three strong 
and one crippled arm tore loose from their tendons and ligaments.  His hands 
then worked over their smaller hands, feeling for and separating every joint, 
sending shivers and convulsions across their flaccid, bruised backs and making 
their legs kick.  His hands continued to un-joint the elbows, and then moved 
down to the legs, pulling them out until muscles tore loose and the hips popped.  
He didn’t break any bones, He simply tore softer tissues and unstrung them, each 
toe, every foot joint, firmly and yet delicately torn apart.

A curious gargling sound emanated from their wavering skulls, the most protest 
they could utter against the shattering walls of pain that smashed against them 
again and again.  His hands worked quickly down their spines, rupturing vertebra 
from disc without injuring the spinal cord and shutting down vital pain sensors.   
He wanted them to feel every cell in their body quake with torment.  Thick 
fingers probed within muscle and wrestler-fat, finding attachments with a 
surgeon’s precision.  Horrible blooms of blood broke out under the skin, which 
puffed and swelled around the joints, expanding with discolorations that 
stretched skin so tight it split open again and again.  And still His cock 
supported them with Godlike strength, His enormous nuts swinging lightly half a 
foot below that mast.  

Felix and Howie, disgusted and despairing, lunged for those nuts and actually 
tried to rip them off and bite into them.  The Monolith paused momentarily, 
closing His eyes and smiling as a wave of extreme private pleasure transformed 
His concentrating features to pure rapture.  Strong as these men were, with the 
strength of madness despite their injuries, they still couldn’t hurt Him even in 
His nads.  They pulled but the skin repelled them like hard rubber.  They bit 
and squeezed but the fist-sized balls were too tough, and He simply shivered 
with pleasure.  Howie looked around in alarm as he felt sticky precum drip into 
his ass-crack at the top of his trunks and he turned to punch that snake while 
Felix tried to pull Stan to safety.  But even with His eyes closed He knew what 
was happening.  A sudden backhand pulverized the entire side of Felix’s face and 
sent him flying into the four of us, cracking ribs in The Shark.  Before Howie 
could even land a blow with his one good hand He closed His hand around his fist 
and arrested the motion.  He dragged Howie up into the air and began crushing 
his fist.

Howie shrieked and flailed, the compound fracture of his other arm swatting 
vainly and painfully at The Monoliths’ brute arm.  His body convulsed with 
numbing shocks of pain as his bones were crushed tighter, splintered and mashed 
into the flesh.  His legs spun and kicked, almost knocking Stan off the cock.  
The Monolith’s other hand steadied Stan and He pulled Howie higher, all the way 
up so that he hovered some thirteen feet over the arena, blood coursing down his 
forearm.  The Monolith’s arm barely twitched to deliver the crippling force, and 
with a sickening “snick” Howie fell, his fist pinched off the end of his arm by 
His intractable fingers.  

Blood gushed out and Alan ran over, grabbing a shred of His spandex trunks to 
use as a tourniquet.  “Let me die!” said Howie, the funny guy with the kids and 
the pool, “P-p-p-please, let me die!”  

“NO!” thundered The Monolith.  “I alone retain the power of life and death here.  
DO IT NOW!”  And Alan, weeping, bound the tourniquet around Howie’s arm to stop 
the blood.  Howie went into shock and Alan pulled him up onto his lap to try and 
keep him warm.

“Why?” Alan sobbed.  “WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY?!” 

But The Monolith did not answer to us.  He heard us, and more than ignored us: 
He consigned us to some child-realm of complete dismissal.  He released the 
incredibly tight ball, no more than an inch across, that He’d squeezed Howie’s 
hand into, and went back to work on Stan and Chuck, whose eyes focused and 
glazed in intervals as their bodies strove to survive.  Muscles tried to spasm 
but without solid skeletal connections it made them lurch and fling their limbs 
like demented puppets.  Monolith gently cradled Stan’s back and laid him 
delicately on the mat.  For later.

He rubbed precum around His cockhead while He lifted Chuck off, again supporting 
his spine.  When I realized what he was going to do, I nearly fainted but 
Fernando began screaming and pulling again at the chains and the chains sawing 
into my obliques stung me back to consciousness.  

The Monolith’s muscle power so exceeded mortal expectations that despite its 
size, once freed of the weight His cock flew upright, smacking against His abs 
like a Louisville Slugger launching a baseball into orbit.  It must’ve been over 
two feet long and bigger’n my forearm, and He gave it a hard bite as He bent 
over to pick up Stan.  One arm supported Stan’s back and the other forced his 
legs apart: and He began ramming that huge sexlimb into Stan’s completely 
helpless body.  Stan’s Jell-O head quivered with a high wheezy “ghaaaaaa” as the 
Dick of Death not only ripped open his sphincter but forced his asscheeks and 
balls to roll up inside him along with It.  No skeletal connections existed to 
resist that penetration and as the cock-pole entered him, He moved His hand up 
to Stan’s head: His cock was replacing Stan’s spine!  Smoothly, slowly, He 
continued to put Stan on like a giant condom, heedless of Stan’s unmoored flesh 
getting sucked up into his own asshole along with it.  Skin tore off his legs.  
Shit and blood leaked out around the shaft and this slaughterhouse smell 
assaulted us.  Supporting Stan’s infant head, His hips thrust slowly, 
masturbating inside Stan’s body, His massive, ripped glutes drawing sighs and 
shrieks from the audience while He massaged His cock with Stan’s living organ 
meat.

I looked away from this to see the orgy continuing in the aisles, across the 
seats, the depraved elite of the world ripping clothes and skin and hair in a 
frenzy of sexual excitement.  But The Monolith was far from finished.  It was 
now Chuck’s turn. 

With Stan still pulsating around His battering ram, He dropped down with a wood-
splintering thud into a pushup position and to fuck Chuck’s limp body with Stan!  
His hands moved into place over Chuck’s shoulders and His Stan-cock wiggled and 
nudged the splayed legs farther until they ripped with a gross thick splacky 
sound.  Stan’s gagging head swelled like a balloon as His cock forced up inside 
of it, turning his body outside-in around the base of the shaft and ripping his 
legs loose around it.  Suddenly Stan’s head burst open and brains, blood and 
baby-toenail-sized pieces of bone began oozing out onto the mat.  Stan’s 
collarbone and shoulders began folding in as He entered Chuck, and Chuck’s 
heaving diaphragm managed to force high airy shrieks out of his flaccid head.  
Stan’s body disappeared further, furrowed muscle pierced with uprooted bones all 
shoved together by a girder-strong cock, bloating Chuck’s body with another 
human’s mass.  

The Monolith’s panic-inducing triceps bunched and stretched as He moved with 
smooth undulations.  They looked like full-grown hogs at a county fair, the kind 
strong men compete to lift.  Such vein-riddled mass bulging in lobes that 
crowded each other for space, shoving against a rigid brachialis that shoved 
back.  His biceps rounded and stretched, never quite losing some sort of angle 
... there was simply too much of them to fit even on His long bones!

Chuck’s bowels split his skin, and lava-flows of blackish blood and green bile 
carried intestines and kidneys into flatulent pools on the mat.  I think some of 
them were Stan’s.  And still those horrible gurgle-wheezes pierced our ears.  
The Monolith had an inner smile on His face, His eyes locked on Chuck’s half-
focused orbs, His dimpled glutes cramming more and more of Stan up his ass.  
Stuffing him like a game hen.  Only Stan’s legs still remained as He burst 
Chuck’s diaphragm and pressed his lungs aside to seek his pounding heart.  
Convulsions forced Chuck’s entire head to wrinkle and fold, his face bulbing and 
flattening in tidal waves ... and The Monolith ... oh, shit, He started kissing 
Chuck!  His tongue traced delicate designs and His lips brushed maddeningly 
against Chuck’s own, smiling and lapping and laughing lightly to Himself with 
the obscene pleasure of Chuck’s utter abasement.  I felt light-headed as I 
realized this final blasphemous display ... had forced my own cock up against 
the Linebacker’s clenched ass.  

I looked around frantically.  The other jobbers all were hard and weeping with 
humiliation, their bodies betraying them to worship a higher power none could 
hope to resist.  As I watched, He looked at each of them but settled His eyes on 
me, and a hungry smile reached His eyes that said, “I know you like this.  You 
hate yourself for wanting this.  But I know you do.  You can’t hide anything 
from me.  I’ve got you.”

My guts twisted in acknowledgment of this despicable mastery as He turned His 
attention back to Chuck.  Stan’s feet were now disappearing into Chuck’s 
swollen, ripped body.  His cock pressed the double-carcass against His immovable 
wrists, making it accordion back around His dick-will.  The Monolith’s abs 
sucked inward like some ribbed grotto of all-consuming muscle, His lats spread 
down like the wings of God, and His triceps peaked higher and harder than any 
Mr. Olympia’s biceps could ever hope to.  With one shuddering SHOVE He drove His 
cock into Chuck’s skull, blasting away half of Chuck’s formless head with a 
flood of salt-scented come, the reek of which overpowered the blood and shit and 
drove the audience into an orgasmic frenzy.  

But that was the only salvo.  It clearly wasn’t the entire load, those nuts 
could easily fill a fishtank, but He mastered it, controlled it and forced the 
come back down, His face registering the different ecstasy of dominating His own 
nature.  He bent His arms swiftly and pistoned Himself back up onto His feet, 
and when His cock slammed into His abs, Chuck and Stan splattered like slugs 
around His body, smearing all of us and half the audience with their manmilk-
laced semi-liquefied remains.  Half a thigh bone scraped the side of my head.  
He made a ring with His thumb and forefinger and squeegeed his cock clean of 
those remains, His forearm bulging like rocks in a sack as they forced the gore 
slowly away.  His cock shivered and violently quaked, wanting to give in to the 
release, but His pelvis and ass clenched, His abs and upper thighs drew tight 
and He prevented it.  His will was a dam no flood could break.  I came for him, 
drenching the linebacker’s asscrack with my uncontrollable seed, and weeping 
with defeat.

His next move was so swift our eyes, our brains couldn’t register it.  It was as 
if He blinked out of existence and appeared anew across the mat, scooping up 
Howie, Felix and Alan.  Howie found himself dizzyingly eyes-to-neck with Him, 
with fat Alan in butt-fuck position behind him and lean mean Felix ready against 
Alan’s rear.  All three in bear-hug formation, The Monolith’s arms easily 
reaching around all three bodies, fingers interlaced.  His upper-arms dwarfing 
their torsos.  His cock flexed down, then smashed up, forcing their legs apart 
and flattening their balls.  I wept for Howie again, unable to joke his way out 
of this one, as instant danger forced his shock away.  Howie looked up into His 
cruel face, now expressionless, pitiless, blank.  His mouth formed pleas but 
they died on his lips, and he closed his eyes to sob.

He began to crush them so slowly I hadn’t even noticed He’d started.  It must 
have been about once a minute, but His arms pulled toward his body a quarter 
inch at a time.  He didn’t even lean back, but stood upright, legs apart, and 
held three men straight out in front of him; they’re combined weight was still 
less than His own.  He just seemed to stand there, frozen, immobile, with his 
prey pressed against his chest by arms that could probably strip a tank to its 
underwear in seconds.

The crowd grew restive, the sex-frenzy having lapsed into this fucked-up 
tableaux vivant.  They couldn’t see what he was doing.  But they felt it, the 
jobbers.  They felt something steadily welling up inside them.  You could see it 
in the veins pressing out of their necks and foreheads, their red faces, their 
rapid, shallow breaths.  The pacing look in their eyes of caged beasts.  The 
suspense multiplied for me as He ignored the hoots and boos of the audience but 
did everything His own way.  Alan, stuck in the middle, may have been fat but he 
was pretty solid too.  His biggest problem was The Monolith’s upper arms: they 
completely covered his sides, leaving nowhere for him to bulge but up or down as 
those incredible biceps, contracting ever so slowly, grew into shoulder-
crunching fullness.

Felix was valiantly flexing everything he had that still worked but Howie seemed 
to have given up, laying his head against His neck.  The Monolith brought His 
chin down against Howie’s skull and without moving His head, just opened His 
mouth slowly.  His jaw winched down into the solid bones of Howie’s skull like a 
monkey wrench opening and forced him to wake up and scream.  And still, slowly, 
He ratcheted His arms tighter.

Alan’s tits began to balloon up around his chin and soon his traps and backfat 
followed, as if his body was trying to swallow his head.  His collarbone said 
“snick-snack” as it bent, snapped and jutted through his fat into Howie’s 
shoulder.  Blood shot up from Howie’s back, joining the burble of Alan’s wound.  
Alan’s arms and shoulders bore the brunt of The Monolith’s expanding biceps 
mass, and bones that had withstood innumerable poundings were not hard enough to 
take the pressure of iron-muscle growing against them.  The louder shocks of 
spiral-fractures caused Alan’s legs to jitter wildly and he bit through his lip 
to keep from giving Him the scream he wanted.  But He could wait.  Could Alan 
hold out much longer?  Another quarter inch might tell.  Or maybe, another one.  

Felix bore the brunt of locked hands that utterly covered his lower back as best 
he could, also struggling not to give in to his vital need to screech.  The 
Monolith’s wrists squeezed into his shoulders but even so, as the total volume 
decreased His wrists moved outward, even though He was bending His elbows down 
instead of out.  Felix’s spine caved in as his ass thrust farther out with each 
new tightening.  His shoulder blades were curving out as well, so The Monolith 
contained him by unlacing His fingers and spreading them across Felix’s 
backside, and firmly pressed his ass back into line using only His pinkies and 
forced his shoulders in with His thumbs.  Felix’s spine straightened just as his 
sternum cracked in half and he screamed blood spatters all over Alan’s head.  

The Monolith’s forearms bulged with these amazing finger-feats, balls of rock 
piling into Alan’s hips, shoving them out of joint.  Alan’s voice guttered with 
deep moans that broke into hoarse sobbing cries.  Howie’s shriek fell into an 
infantile gasp as The Monolith’s jaw-strength punched a hole in the top of his 
skull.  The bone musta just split and folded in ‘cause Howie’s eyes jittered 
like they was on speed.  

Suddenly the giant screens that had been dark around the auditorium blazed to 
life and an overhead camera aimed via mirror right down His veined muscle-
cleavage coincided with Howie’s renewed squeals of terror and the kind of pain 
nothing could ever prepare you for.  What we saw caused members of the audience 
to faint, clutch their hearts, fall the ground with eyes rolled up, drop dead.  
It induced numerous seizures and such widespread vomiting the acidic stench 
burned my nostrils.  My spent cock was unwillingly beginning to harden again as 
something inside my brain snapped.

The camera showed us such a feat of muscle control as defied the laws of physics 
and human sanity.  I ceased to hear Howie’s banshee wails as all my senses 
reeled.  I focused on forcing my eyes to make sense of what I saw.

The Monolith was rolling His pecs from the outside in.  The grooved striations 
rippled to interlock in the cleft like the teeth of a woodchipper.  His 
shoulders flexed and rotated as well, pumping up His back to sanity-twisting 
dimensions.  The veins across his back throbbed like tentacles.  His arms 
squeezed the others against Howie so hard that Howie’s skin and muscle were 
molded into these striations, then the hard ridges of muscle drew it all in 
toward the middle.  Huge swaths of skin and chunks of muscle ripped off his 
breastbone and crept slowly into the half-foot deep crevice between those 
mounds, where the ridges met and crushed it into juice like grapes.  The pinkish 
flow fanned out down his and The Monolith’s legs in a steady stream as the 
flexing pecs continued to eat Howie’s body alive.

But He didn’t pause or increase the rate of His constriction.  It was as if His 
arms were operating separately, on their own.  Alan couldn’t see what was 
happening.  Most of his body had squeezed up to surround his face.  He could 
only look up into the lights and the mirror mounted to focus the camera 
downward.  Felix’s jaw jittered in counterpoint with his legs as the total 
pressure on his back fractured his ribs, which slowly squeezed out between The 
Monolith’s fingers in shards through his bulging flesh.  Each breath out was 
harder to breath back in and his mind knuckled under with a full claustrophobic 
panic attack.  He battered his head and legs around, forcing his arms out 
against The Monolith’s in such bursts of desperation that he broke his own 
humeruses.  He screamed and chewed his own lips off, biting through his tongue 
in a fevered madness of terror.  He banged his head forward but Alan’s back was 
thrusting up like some continental plate of fat, protecting Alan’s head ... for 
now.

The pressure forced ribs to crack, break, pierce into other bodies but the 
pressure also stanched the blood flow, or channeled it into the other man.  One 
more quarter-inch squeeeeeeze ... and Alan’s skin ruptured in three places, 
spilling gobs of sickening fat laced with blood down over the horrifying beauty 
of The Monolith’s arms.  Fat dripped off the triceps and coated the rising 
Everest biceps peaks with shiny grease.  His belly unzipped down to his dick and 
bathed a segment of Godcock with bloody entrails.  And His arms were still only 
half-flexed.

A mere normal man couldn’t even sustain such an effort without suffering fatigue 
and cramping but His arms didn’t tremble, didn’t show the slightest sign of 
rebellion against His will.  He squeezed again: and bone fragments shot out of 
Felix’s back between his fingers as his entire skeleton from pelvis to neck 
split into pieces.  These jagged missiles flew into the audience with such force 
people screamed, clutching bleeding faces where eyes used to be.  The injured 
dove away in waves, and one businessman ran up the aisle trying to escape, only 
to find the doors locked.  He pounded on them until a guard stepped over and 
punched him in the gut, sending him rolling down the aisle.  

The Monolith’s long neck bent so His lips could caress and nuzzle Howie’s face.  
Howie’s eyes focused unbelieving as the tender caresses whispered “ssh ssh ssh” 
to his crazed shrieks.  Yet His human-shredder pectorals continued to mulch 
Howie’s body, grating loudly against his exposed ribs and shearing off pieces, 
muscle harder than bone, muscle striations sharper than saw blades.  The ribs 
splintered and pulled loose from his spine, feeding into the pulper that reduced 
them to the viscous protoplasm that plopped onto the mat around His feet.  Flesh 
pulled tight off his belly, around from his back, off his arms and shoulders, 
and broke off in rags.  His shoulders folded in, caught in those conveyor-belt 
flexions.  The Monolith’s shoulders and back worked like complicated machines, 
maintaining perfect rhythm, blood fueling the pecs in their feeding frenzy.  He 
looked like he was humping the three of them, His back clenching, His dick 
thrusting in and out of their skittering legs, His hips driving into them like 
ocean tides, the cockhead poking out behind Felix’s flattened body.  Which meant 
they were now no more than two feet thick, all of them.

The linebacker in front of me was pulling on his chains, trying to find a weak 
link; but we were so tightly packed together he had no room to maneuver, nothing 
to brace against except other men who roared and jabbed back.  Our own bodies 
were now coated with our own smeared blood, drying to a dark film under the hot 
lights.  I tasted grit between my teeth I didn’t even want to think about.  I 
stared out at the audience to see very few were enjoying themselves anymore: 
most crouched terrorized, trapped, disgusted with themselves or whoever brought 
them to this abattoir.  Those who enjoyed this all the more took pleasure in 
their revulsion, and somehow I sensed that He did too.

New geysers of fatty blood burst out of Alan’s distended fat in all directions 
up and down.  The Monolith’s biceps swelled into his body further, crushing his 
massive chest cavity between them.  But Alan’s last gagging groan was muffled by 
the rapidly deflating flesh pressing against his face, hiding his head in 
fluttering envelopes of torn and spewing skin that made incongruous farting 
noises.  The sudden explosion of Alan’s body meant He had to press tighter 
suddenly, in order to keep the others in pain and keep the gore fountains 
flowing as hard as possible.  When Alan’s body was squeezed virtually empty, the 
men were now less than a foot in total width, and Howie’s legs were drawing up 
into the pec-maw in stead jerks.  I realized He was going to feed all of them 
into his pecs, the constant rhythmic flexion of which defied possibility.  Yet 
somehow I could tell, I could smell that He was not some cyborg, some robot: He 
was one hundred percent human.  Howie’s head bobbed a couple times and then 
disappeared behind His biceps, and more grinding, munching sounds registered the 
utter destruction of his being.

Alan fed through faster, with most of him already spread across the lower half 
of the auditorium.  The Monolith’s muscle wasn’t fazed by the greasiness of 
Alan’s flesh, but fed on it relentlessly.  Alan’s skin shredded with a wet 
tearing muted only by his remaining organs, but the thick crunching of his bones 
being milled into flour by massive Godpecs made me dry-heave in agonizing 
convulsions.  Felix was surprisingly bone-free, many of his torso bones having 
already been propelled away.  But both Alan & Felix’s legs provided more food as 
relentless flexing pulled skin from muscle, muscle from bone in thwocking hunks 
of ceaseless butchery.

As the bodies folded into the human juicer, His cock rose back up to full 
height, as if helping gather and herd their bodies into the crack of doom.  I 
gazed around and noticed some of the people outside the ring seemed catatonic, 
wandering aimlessly like zombies.  They stumbled into each other, fell into 
aisles and occasionally reached an exit where a guard punched them mercilessly 
until they fell back into the seats.

His hands massaged the slimy protoplasm into His own deeply tanned muscles like 
some kind of lotion, flexing His arms and pecs anew to show us He still had 
control left, creating the fear that the might not stop.  People in the audience 
tried to leave the front rows but now guards in riot gear stomped down the 
aisles to cattle prod them back in their seats.  The buzzing and screaming, the 
smell of burning silk, skin and hair competed with the nauseating spectacle of 
rendered human bodies smeared over popping muscles and the few scattered clumps 
of Andy.  My guts braided into twisted rope as I realized it was now our turn.  
Desperation alone kept me conscious; I felt myself nearly blacking out every 
minute.

He walked over and bent down to flex His pecs and show off His bloated-yet-solid 
biceps close to The Shark’s face.  I couldn’t tell what Shark’s expression was 
but his head bobbed and twisted the way stroke victims do.  But that didn’t stop 
The Monolith from making His double-peaks harden almost against his face, 
bringing the iron muscle a hair’s breadth away and swelling those bone-chewing 
pecs so close the Shark tried to back against us and meekly whine “No no no no 
no no.”  The Shark brought his hands up as if to push Him away, but fear made 
him shy from actually touching that glistening skin.  On a 872 pound monster, 
those pecs were the size and weight of large children, vampire twins hungry to 
gorge.  The Monolith’s face showed how much He loved inducing terror without 
even touching him.

Then my heart stood still: while still flexing, He looked up and straight into 
my eyes so piercingly I felt as though He knew my deepest, darkest desires.  His 
wolf grinned bit into my soul and I realized He had something extra special 
planned for me.  I began sobbing helplessly, like a fuckin’ little girl.  He 
leaned over to lick the tears off my blood-smeared face and the heat coming off 
His body made my skin crinkle and shrink away.  His breath smelled like he’d 
eaten an entire steer, possibly alive, before the show, and runnels of saliva 
ran down my neck.

He turned around and flexed his glutes, rotating them like his pecs.  The Shark 
started screeching like some experimental monkey, bucking and spraying piss and 
shit.  I couldn’t believe it!  The Monolith actually parted his ass-cheeks to 
reveal his hungry bunghole by sheer muscle control, rolling that muscle away and 
then opening his asshole wider and wider ... and wider.  Like some kind of giant 
eye.  Heavy shit shot out to cover The Shark, filling his mouth and eyes and 
nose.  His hands slapped and clawed at the thick muck and when he bent over to 
spit and puke, the shitchute gaped wider and suddenly engulfed the Shark’s head.  
The Monolith’s glutes closed over his neck and caused the body to rack, his 
shrieks completely sealed off by the nearly half-ton of muscle engulfing him.  

The Shark shook uncontrollably and The Monolith shit his head back out covered 
in brown slime.  The Shark gasped for air, coughing and pawing at the air 
blindly.  Welts from the gluteal striations rose up all around his neck.  The 
Monolith parted his cheeks amazing again, hands-free, and chomped them at the 
Shark.  Shark HEARD those cheeks crack together like a quarter-ton marlin 
hitting the deck and his high-pitched panic rent the auditorium.  The chain 
around his waist gouged into his body as he literally tried to cut himself in 
half to get away from that dark hot stifling tunnel of death.  But He turned 
around and laughed, a harsh bark that jolted our fillings with its power and 
scorn.  Bending His face down into Shark’s sputtering view, He laughed again.

How long had this slaughterfest been going on?  It seemed like endless hours. 
With a savage grunt He lunged at us and we all screamed.  But the crash didn’t 
come: He stopped short, just barely, pressing His body firmly against us.  The 
bottom of his pecs just grazed the top of the Shark’s crap-mired head.  The 
Monolith’s cock rose straight up, crushing into Shark’s body, more than filling 
the deep gouge between one side of His abs and the other.  It jabbed up into 
Shark’s head, crushing it against the bottom of His pecs.  Shark whimpered; and 
He started leaning into us.

At first it was just harder to breath.  Like it suddenly got hot, or my tights 
had shrunk.  But the harder it got, the larger a reptilian fear grew in my mind, 
urging me to find some way out.  I felt the pole dig into my back even as the 
chain went slack at my side, but now the pressure was too strong for anyone to 
duck out, get away.  We couldn’t move.  We were absolutely helpless.  And 
without seeming to move His feet, He leaned a little harder.

Shark’s sternum crackled and the broken ribs he’d already suffered bulged out of 
his skin.  His body bent forward, warping around His cockmast as if it were a 
tree and he hit it doing eighty.  But all in the slow-motion we knew was His 
trademark.  The steady application of increasingly unbearable pressure.  The 
utter control and domination that slowly broke every aspect of your person and 
personality.  

The Shark’s entire schtick was constant motion, and this induced paralysis 
following his head’s trauma within His rectum unearthed his hidden terror of 
being buried alive.  His panic cut his throat raw with shrieks and only 
increased his suffering because jerk and twitch all he might, with ALL his 
might, the only movements his body COULD make were the ones directed by Him.  
Shark’s shoulders folded in to contact His abs, which flexed to shove them back 
out, popping joints out of line and ripping tendons.  Shark sucked air through 
the ripple-valleys of The Monolith’s paver-sized abs.  His head pressed back 
into Fernando’s ripped chest, making Fernando moan.

I’d never heard this before in all our staged or even semi-improvised matches, 
but I knew what it was instinctively: Shark’s teeth shattering inside his mouth.  
He gagged on the broken enamel and spouting blood and searing pain but he 
couldn’t move, his head was trapped between those cliffside abs and Fernando’s 
tough pecs.  His jaw cracked too from the cock flexing up against it; blood and 
tooth bits jetted out of Shark’s nose because his mouth was sealed shut.  Then 
his entire skull split down the middle, his brain bulging up and squeezing out 
around the bottom of His pectoral monstrosities.  The Shark’s arms shot out in 
spasms as Fernando got a taste of his brains splashing against his lips, his 
eyes growing wide and wild at the approach of His massive unstoppable body.

Fernando, being a few inches taller, tried to turn his head but already the 
strain was too great.  He prayed in Spanish as wind-claps from those mashing and 
flexing pecs hit his face.  They caught his nose and crushed it closed, 
smothering his prayers and pushing the Shark’s caved-in head into mouth, 
stuffing it shit-smeared hair and gray matter.  Fernando bravely pounded on 
those pecs and pulled at them, as if his arms could possibly separate them.  
Bones cracked in his hands with each blow and tendons tore with each pull.  The 
pecs released just long enough to let him cough out the blood, grab a breath; 
then they clenched again.

The Linebacker was praying to Jesus in high squeaks and quivering non-stop.  
Fernando’s blows became weaker and weaker as the Shark’s body crunched flatter 
against his, pieces of vertebrae piercing his skin and ribs rasping against his 
own.  The Linebacker kept flexing to resist Fernando’s back muscle but the ever-
closing man-vice would wear him down and he knew it.  I too bunched my back as 
well as I could but I could feel my own spine beginning to shiver against the 
hardness of the post, the ropes biting into my body on either side.  

The chains, limp beside us but still between us, sank into our abs.  I whimpered 
with the heat and crazy cramped-feeling that I couldn’t move to relieve.  I felt 
like my brain was about to explode and the stench of shit and blood and terror 
didn’t help.  Fernando’s blows weakened, his hands splayed across the vast mesas 
of chest muscle almost as if caressing them.  The pecs opened and he gasped for 
air, only to find the rock-muscle shift, move sideways like a veined whale 
breaching.  The Monolith’s huge nipple brushed against his face, a two inch long 
man-udder set in a dark circle as big as my palm.  Fernando, the hetero Latin 
Lover, had no choice when this dark tit-cock thrust into his mouth.  He tried to 
bite it but it was so tough and leathery he felt his teeth bend, only to hear 
The Monolith’s sexual rumble “Oh, that’s it.  Nurse like the baby girl you are.”

The inexorable muscle wave kept coming, forcing the nipple deeper into 
Fernando’s mouth.  He opened wider but there was no room to close again.  His 
mouth sealed around the nipple and muffled his cries as the pec bent his teeth 
slowly, painfully inward.  His gums bulged and tore open as the roots cracked or 
tore loose, and teeth pressed back against molars and cracked both.  He 
shrieked, choking on fillings that caught in his bronchial tubes.  But the 
racking gags were revealed only in a slight quiver of his sweat-drenched gore-
spattered hair as his head flatted and dug back into the Linebacker’s chest.  

The skin around Fernando’s mouth split open as the Pec Offensive broke his jaw 
at the hinges and forced it farther down.  Blood seeped out around the pec but 
mostly must have flooded down his throat.  I could feel his body’s death-throes 
vibrate through the linebacker straight past me and into the post.  The body-
mash alone had the power to stop it and a moment later Fernando’s heart burst 
from the squeeze with a sickening “pop” feeling that penetrated my heart.  
Fernando’s bones jutted into the Linebacker’s and the big man chained directly 
to me released grunts of agony.

Through my grimace I feel His heat like toxic radiation burning into me.  Those 
death-pecs and bone-scrunching abs were a foot away, and His sweat dripped onto 
me like Chinese water torture.  If anything, He seems to have slowed down 
slightly, His face savoring the feel of men’s bodies squeezed into nothingness 
by His Hulk-sized bod.  But He could wad the Incredible Hulk up like a napkin in 
one hand, and He knew it.  I looked up the two feet into His face and saw Him 
flexing His arms for the audience, opening and closing His mouth in pretend-awe 
at Himself, at HOW MUCH FUCKING BIGGER He could make His biceps grow.  He’d flex 
one and point at it.  He’d reach around to point at the cavity formed by his 
triple-headed delts.  He pounded on the muscle to show how firm, how unyielding, 
it was.  And they were staggering biceps, projecting off His arms in all 
directions while the skin stretched in tight folds to accommodate them; you 
could almost hear the rubbery sound of the swell as muscle slid within skin and 
forced it to make more room.

The Linebacker’s near-300 lbs. made him appear nothing more than a Pugsley 
Addams next to The Monolith.  The skeletal remains of both the Shark and 
Fernando were jabbing through his skin, and their smashed flesh followed to 
tangle with his own.  The three wrestlers were being merged into one ... and I 
would be next.  My rage broke through the pain and just as He looked down at me, 
I broke into animal snarls, baring my teeth like a dog and jabbing my head up at 
His.  He smiled in a new way, pleased almost, winked and then began kissing his 
biceps and licking the fat and blood off, cleaning them like a cat.  Dismissing 
me.

The Linebacker began jabbering like a maniac as his proud body distended 
sideways, forcing his arms out like airplane wings.  His heavy iron-built sinew 
ripped, spread apart to be muscle-raped.  Bones that ground to dust against The 
Monolith’s abs easily punctured his.  The grinding of those bones made my teeth 
stand on end.  The smells of dead flesh and semen and the ozone-haze of 
testosterone and His armpit stench swirled in a dizzying miasma around me, 
making my cock harder against the Linebacker’s sharp coccyx even as my stomach 
bucked and retched.  The Linebacker’s round ribs cracked like a 21-gun salute 
and torn organ meat began growing out of splits in his skin and plopping down 
onto the canvas, sliced open by jagged bones.  The Monolith drew his head 
forward into the crack between His pectorals, and they rippled in sequence up 
and down like fingers softening the bones of his skull.  HOW CAN HE FUCKING EVEN 
DO THAT?

Relieved as I was to have the Linebacker’s head pulled off my breastbone, I felt 
the inches-thick post behind me bend backward with a heavy groan and a few of my 
vertebrae cracked at the same time, shooting rods of electricity out my limbs.  
For the last, final time my senses, instincts, sense of being raged and faltered 
against the total, all-encompassing Might of The Monolith, His inescapable power 
and the relentless cloud of erotic arousal infecting every pore of my 
subconscious, milking my most perverted dreams and desires with insistent 
tentacles of Knowing Ownership.  His being twisted deeply through my own, 
crushing and obliterating every memory, humiliating every accomplishment, 
corrupting every love or hate I ever felt or dreamt of simply by forcing His way 
into them and being Superior to everything and anyone I’ve ever met or 
experienced or even imagined.  The best I’d ever striven to be was turd under 
his heel.  And even as my heart strained against the rising pressure in my veins 
and my lungs spasmed air in and out in the narrowing coffin of my chest, my soul 
surrendered utterly to His Godship, caving to His will and embracing the death 
He has decreed as the only option that I didn’t even have a right to know about.

Something burst inside me, my spleen I think.  I tasted grimy nickels in the 
back of my throat and something hot as blood shot up out of my cock into the 
deforming muscle of the Linebacker’s lats.   Those thick (for boy-men like us) 
lats trembled and throbbed before suddenly going still.  His head, half-
swallowed in His chest, rose as the muscles pulled it up, ripping the skin and 
rupturing a vein that jettisoned blood in a crimson fountain into the center of 
the ring.  Linebacker’s hands jittered against my thighs and finally stopped 
forever.

A bubble of blood rose from my lips and when it popped I whimpered “My Lord and 
my God, Your possession of me is complete!” and braced myself, eyes open and 
raised above the swollen massif of His pecs to feel the furnace blast of His 
Holy nostrils.  And the pressure ... it stopped growing.  

This final delay, the ultimate humiliation after I’d yielded myself utterly to 
His domination, racked my body with sobs that shook fillings loose.  Was He 
rejecting my obeisance?  The unbearable weight of His near half-ton of steel-
muscle, amplified by a mere fraction of the strength of which He was capable of 
exerting, froze against me.  I heaved breaths, twisting my head out from the 
Linebacker’s clotted hair, when I felt hands the size of Jeeps but much more 
powerful press against the sides of my skull and I clenched my jaw against the 
death ... that didn’t come.

I felt myself calming down, as if a greater, soothing current were flowing out 
of those hands into my body, forcing my heart to slow, filling my skin with 
tingling currents.  Insisting I submit to it.  I raise my eyes again to find His 
giant’s face, perfectly set with ice-blue eyes and framed with thick, sweat-
drenched golden fleece, inches from mine.

His lips parted, bathing me in His breath, as He said so deeply I felt more than 
heard it: “You’re cute.  I’m saving you for later.”

His hand reached down and effortlessly twisted the links of the chains at my 
side apart as if they weren’t inch-thick steel but grocery store twist-ties.  He 
pulled his body back and nodded to the flesh, bone and eyeball plastered into to 
his abs.  I twitched to remove them but was so weak and broken I couldn’t will 
myself to move, and wept anew at this failure.  He grinned, like the sun 
emerging from a hurricane, and His hands made quick work of peeling off the 
unidentifiable remains, which He flung into the cowering crowd.  He gently 
separated my shuddering body from the cum-soaked multi-corpse imbedded in it, 
dislodging some ribs and a thigh bone that had stuck into me.  His fingers 
pressed to stop the bleeding and He curled me up into His hot hairless armpit 
and cradled me in a womb of pulsing, rippling granite.

He crushed the post double under his foot.  He walked up the aisle past hands 
fluttering to touch him, and ignored them.  I could feel the tremoring orgasm 
still held in check by His will, struggling vainly to flood out.  I could smell 
semen trying to seep out through His pores along with the musk of His ass sweat.  
I could hear it boiling furiously in His boiler-room balls.  I broke into a 
delirious sweat wondering what He had in mind.

When He came to His doors, the guards scurried to open them, and they clanged 
shut behind us, sealing everyone inside the death house.  He carried me to the 
locker room, and exploding bricks and squealing metal proclaimed that the door 
was too narrow for His shoulders.  I had no idea what was in store for me... but 
knew I’d find out in His good time.

The End