"Say when," he said to me.

"GO," I answered, and our muscles tensed. I intended to only push hard enough to hold him steady, to toy with his puny arm strength, and show him just what real strength meant. But soon I found myself pushing harder and harder just to keep him from pushing my hand down toward the desk. It wasn't long before I was pushing full force. Pablo just smirked at me, and didn't seem to be struggling.

"What's the matter, fat man, too much for you?" he said.

"Fuck you, you little rican," I answered him.

He glowered at me hard. "I'm Mexicano," he said darkly. His steel grip got even tighter, and if it hadn't been for the last month of intense training with Jeb, I would have crumpled from the pain right then. Instead, I focussed on using the pain to tap into my own strength, and squeezed his hand right back. I could have sworn I saw a slight grimace pass his face briefly. We both hunkered down harder, and leaned into each other across the desktop. Our noses were almost touching. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of my face. It helped to see sweat beading up on his upper lip and forehead.

"Let's say we up the ante," he growled in my face.

"To what?" I asked.

"I win, I get your car."

My brand new red Firebird was sitting in the driveway. I involuntarily glanced out at it through the window. Cocky little Mexican. I'd rip his arm off before he got that car.

"Alright," I grunted, "and if I win, I get to fuck your sister." That got him. I knew it would, and I shifted his arm an inch in my favor.

"I ain't got no sister, gringo," he sneered, "but I should kill you just for saying it."

"Alright," I said, "so then, I win, I get to fuck your ass clear across the border, wetback." That really pissed him off, and he pushed so hard, we went back to even. Kid was strong as shit.

"OK, fat ass," he said, "and if I win, I get to cum all over your face."

"Alright, bitch," I said, "but first you gotta fuckin win."

With that, we were both back at it, harder than ever. My arm was so bloated and tight from the tension, I had never felt so powerful. Even though Pablo was matching me shove for shove, I felt like I could take on the world. And we had leaned into each other so closely that our shoulders were almost touching, clearing breaking the rules of tournament armwrestling, but neither of us cared. Pablo was practically leaning his whole bodyweight into his arm, but I didn't care. I wanted to take as much as he could dish out. My face was now drenched with sweat, and it was dripping down onto the desk. Pablo sweat still only beading on his upper lip and forehead, but a zigzagging vein was popping out of his temple, throbbing with angry pressure and stain. He smelled of gasoline and oil and teenmuscle sweat. Our eyes were an inch apart, and locked.

"I'm gonna take your sweaty bulk down hard," he grunted.

"The hell you are, dirtbag lawnboy," I hissed back. •