Nils hiked his jeans up over his thick thighs and glutes, and strode over to the tractor. He was determined to show me his power by squatting the big old farm machine. He grabbed a big wooden platform from the side of the barn, and slid it underneath the tractor. Then he crawled onto the platform, squatted down, and braced the tractor onto his wide shoulders and back. With one loud GRUNT, he slowly stood, and I watched in amazement as the tractor tires lifted off the ground. He stood straight up, then squatted down again, the tires barely tapping the ground before he started up again. He balanced the massive weight of the tractor with ease, and pumped out rep after rep. I counted twenty before he stopped. Then he turned on the platform, tractor still on his shoulders, and stepped off onto the floor of the barn. Gritting his teeth and huffing, he walked the whole distance of the barn and back again with the entire weight of the tractor on his back, his neck veins popping, and sweat beginning to pour. He reached the platform again and ,with one giant grunt, pressed the tractor overhead. Then he lowered it to the ground in front of him, and turned toward me. His upper body was drenched in sweat. He was pumped huge. He stuck one leg out and flexed it hard. The denin tore down the seam with a loud rip. He did

the same with the other leg. He reached down and ripped away the tattered fabric, tossing it aside. His jeans were now a short pair of cut-offs. He pulled

the frayed ends up even higher, exposing more of his massive legs. Then he flipped over the waistband of the jeans, exposing more of his torso. His workout

with the tractor had pumped his huge muscle even bigger. The big musclehead farmboy was shiny with his own sweat. He looked like a young Marcus Ruhl. "Howw...?" I stammered, barely able to speak. "I'll show you," he said, and walked over to some barrels in the corner of the barn. His thick glutes had bloated freakishly from his lifting, and the backside of his jeans looked like two over-inflated balloons of powerhouse muscle, rolling as he walked. He lifted the top off one of the barrels, and I looked inside. It was filled with an off-white powdery substance. It smelled sort of sweet. "What is it?" I asked him. "Whey," he said. "My father and I make it from our own dairy. I got a broken evaporator from a local dairy company, fixed it, and run it off a generator I fixed up too. I run all of the mechanical devices, so no one else is

compromised. I eat tons of the stuff, and I think my father is secretly proud of my size and power, so he enjoys making it with me. Whatever I don't use, we sell for veal feed." "No shit?" I said, looking at the powerful young man beside me with awe. Those crafty wonder he was so big and strong. "Besides," he said to me in a whisper, " I use the generator to hook up the wireless laptop I have hidden in my room. I check out all the bodybuilding sites. I have more muscle than most already. And I watch Britney Spears videos. She will be my wife one day." "Oh, you think so do you?" I said to him. "I know so. I will drive her wild with my powerful thrusting. And she will be there cheering when I win the World's Strongest Man contest." "What about Mr. Olympia?" I asked. "I will win that first, by making Jay Cutler and Ronnie Coleman look puny and weak. Then I will meet Britney at a party, or backstage at her show. She will take one look at me and go weak with longing for my superior strength and looks. Just the way you do." He was right, but I wasn't sure that I liked that he knew it. He grabbed me by the belt with one hand, and curled me easily off the ground, pulling me closer into him. Then he raised his other arm and flexed it, his freaky triple peak standing out on top of his bicep like a tennis ball atop his arm. He brought his big peak up to his lips, and kissed it, worshipping his own superhuman muscularity. "Look at my strength, outsider," he said, setting me back down. He grabbed a horseshoe off the wall, and twisted it in his hands. Twisted it like it was made of putty. Then he crushed it into a ball and tossed it aside. There was a railroad tie against the wall of the barn. He picked it up, and brought it down across his knee, snapping it in two with a giant CRACK. "So Strong," he growled, totally mesmerized by his own feats of strength. He grabbed the head of

a iron spike that was imbedded in the broken railroad tie. Using only his thumb and forefinger, he wrenched the thick, eight-inch spike out of the wood. Then he laid the iron spike in one hand, and closed his fingers over it. His forearm, now mapped with thick veins, began to bulge. The ends of the spike rose

up on each side of his hand, as his crushing fingers indented to iron. He dropped the misshapen metal to the ground. "Look at this forearm," he snarled. He clenched his fist and twisted his wrist downward. The forearm muscle bunched up toward his elbow like a roughly hewn rock. His skin was stretched tight as a snare drum over his swollen, pumped muscle arm. His nostrils flared as he raised his other arm into the same postion. He stood in this cross position, holding the flex, shredded fibers of muscle rippling up and down his massive farmboy body. It was a pose that could win him any bodybuilding competition he chose to enter. And this was at 250lbs. I imagine him at 300, and my knees almost buckled. "Nils," I said, " you should fix up my car, and come to the city with me." "What?" he asked me, shaken from him muscle reverie. "I live near a hardcore gym, full of musclebeasts that would love to mass you up to your full potential. Imagine a place twice the size of this barn, filled with heavy iron, and big muscleheads into training. You'd grow like a bull just from breathing in the atmosphere." Nils stared at me hard. I knew he wanted it, and wanted it bad. This kid had ambitions. And they weren't going to be met here, living the simple life, and he knew it. He went over to my car, and lifted up the hood. Then he got his tool box, and started working. •

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