Every time Francis tried to turn his ’92 Toyota Corolla, there was a buzzing and a rattling. This was the reason Francis was on Flagler Street, instead of the highway. His car sputtered behind two vehicles that completely blocked his field of vision: a small bright red porsche convertible, and an enormous black hummer. Francis didn’t need to see his head to know his type: probably blond, jawing away on a cel-phone like a retard. Francis had them jibber-jabber in his ear at the mechanic body shop that he worked at.

“I wanted racing red, not wild cherry red! Speakee de English here, Mexican?”

At first, Francis wanted to punch that type in the face. Then, when it started happening something like two or three times a day, that urge started to go away. Francis was never anything less than as polite as a British butler. And it wasn’t accurate, anyway: Francis was from the Yucatan, of Mayan descent, and spoke Yucatecan, or Yucatec Maya, not Spanish. And ever since arriving in the United States, he spoke English better than some natives (insert your own joke here).

As for the other car ahead of him – well, if you drive a hummer it’s pretty much a guarantee you have a small dick, but Francis thought that was a really unkind joke. He drove a Toyota, yet he was ashamed of his undersized baby dick. It was normal sized when he was born, but well, everything just started growing around it. Not that Francis had done much growing much either: he was an undersized shrimp at barely five-foot-four. His brown body was girlishly slim like a teenage girl. His chest was a pair of pancake-shaped pectoral muscles. And, if that wasn’t enough to make him a candidate for irresistible sex object, he also had a broad-nosed “cara de indigeno,” or homely Indian Face.

And lying on the upcoming curb was that very strange old woman. She was clutching an aluminum walker when she tripped and fell, her cans from her sacks tumbling to the ground. The old woman collapsed to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

“Someone, please help me!” She cried.

The first vehicle to reach her curb was the hummer. Its oversized bull width plowed through the curb like a bullet. The monstrous vehicle’s oversized wheels mangled her aluminum walker, moving past her as dumbly as a blind elephant. The old woman whimpered a sob as she flailed like a turned over turtle.

The second car to reach her was the Porsche. It sped on without slowing. The owner tossed out a Wendy’s cup filled with half-melted frosty, which splattered over the fallen crippled woman’s grimy rags.

Finally, Francis’s Toyota came upon the curb, and hit his brakes with a screech sound in the engine he knew would come back to haunt him sometime in the future. If the car had a lit grenade inside, he could not have leaped out faster.

“Madre de santos! Lady, are you okay? Jesus Christo, that hummer busted your walker pretty badly. . .here, let me help with your cans.” Francis bent to his knees and began to put the woman’s cans back in her bags.

The old woman’s clawlike hand waived dismissively. “Yuppie a-holes. Thanks for the assist, kid.”

“No problem.” When Francis reached to grasp her shoulder and help her up, he was shocked by the old woman’s blue eyes. There was something downright unearthly about them which made Francis slightly nervous. “D-Do you need any help anywhere, lady? With your walker mangled like that. . .”

“Gee, now that you mention it, just a ride to the recycling factory. I get five cents per pop. Thanks to my cans there, I’ll eat better than King Midas tonight.”

“Sure thing.”

Francis stuffed her sacks into the backseat. If he thought carrying an old homeless lady would be easy, he was dead wrong. Though small, that old woman felt as if her entire body was made out of lead. And it wasn’t like the young Maya mechanic’s body was exactly made for powerlifting. It was several full minutes of shoving before he got her in the passenger seat, including her legs, which were as stiff and unmoving as planks of wood. By the end, he was breathing very hard.

“Tell me kid, do you like the Tampa Bay Buccaneers?” The old woman asked, in her scratched, growling voice.

“Eh. . .sure, I guess so.”

On the car ride to the recycling center, Francis was very quiet. His passenger, on the other hand, went on and on about what pussies sports fans are these days, and what a bunch of pussies the Tampa Bay Bucs were, what a bunch of pussies politicians are, and so forth. Francis didn’t say a word, but it was something of a relief when the recycling center came into view.

“Well, here we are, lady. Here, let me help you on the way out.” Francis said.

“Eh. . .that won’t be necessary.” The voice that responded lacked the growling intonation.

Francis turned to see the old woman and was shocked into silence. The entirety of the car was filled with a glowing bluish radiance. Francis squinted slightly because of the intensity.

Standing next to him was no old woman. Rather, she was a blond woman with her hair done up in a way Francis had seen on Greek vases he saw at the museum gift shop. She wore a long dress over her curvy glistening, buxom body, which a brilliant tan. She was something of a cross between old Wonder Woman Lynda Carter and supermodel Nikki Taylor. Her eyes were still that irregular, surreal blue.

“I am Tyche, goddess of fate, chance and fortune.”

There was a long, still silence.

“You know, Tyche – from Greek Mythology?”

Again, silence.

The goddess sighed. “Nevermind.” She smiled in a way that seemed to light up the car.

“Because of your kindness, Francis, I can grant you anything you want in the entire world.”

Francis opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped. There were a million different things he wanted. First was a better, bigger body. Or maybe a better car. Maybe a personal robot butler!

“It’s okay, Tyche. I was just happy to help.” The words were just out of his mouth and Francis already wanted to kick himself. But he knew it was wrong to get something in return for a good deed.

“Somehow I knew you’d say that. Tell you what – I’ll get you something nice, okay?” Tyche leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. Where her lips touched, there was a brilliant flash of light.

Francis felt weak in his knees as everything began to turn to black . . .

* * * * * * * *

Francis awoke again later in unfamiliar surroundings. He felt different somehow, heavier. He was covered by silk sheets, which somehow felt small, as if he was covered by a small picnic blanket. And there was warmth in the bed with him, next to him, as if he was not alone. A purring and contented pressing against his body by others.

This made Francis get the hell up out of the bed. But he immediately collapsed to the ground again with a smack against a wooden floor so loud it would wake the dead. Strangely, he barely felt the collision. But when he attempted to stand his body’s proportions felt unusual, as if his center of gravity was in a different place. Rising to his feet was a challenge; for some reason, his torso felt wider than his waist, and he had to balance it. His arms were wide ballast, and he shifted their position around to help him take steps.

In the dim darkness he felt the ceiling graze upon his head. Was this weird house made for Danny DeVito or something? Francis urged his way to what seemed to be the doorway. Yet another obstacle came when he smacked his head against what seemed to be the doorframe. He ducked his head to lower himself through.

Francis’s hand grazed along the sides, until his fingers met the cold metal of a doorknob, which his hands and fingers completely wrapped around, like the knob on a Fischer-Price toy. His hands met a lightswitch, which he flipped.

Francis almost jumped away in shock when he saw there was a big naked man in the bathroom already. But looking closer, in a strange way, he noticed, somehow, improbable as it was, it was only a mirror. He was the person in the mirror!

The man that looked back was the handsomest man that Francis had ever seen. He was a glistening sweaty sepia bronze, with elegant black eyes, a high forehead, and a strong jaw, like an Indian version of Michaelangelo’s David. The most impressive thing was his physique, and it was small wonder he had to relearn to walk again. In fact, he made Jay Cutler look puny in comparison, and in terms of definition. He a pair of trapezius muscles that were at 45 degree angles, connected to a barrel-thick neck. His pecs jutted out four inches from his sternum, the slightest motion of his arm causing them to twitch. His torso expanded out with cobralike laterals and v-development that made his waist seem small, ridged with washboard abdominals.

And his arms! Each of them had to weigh sixty pounds on their own. His shoulders were the size of bowling balls; on each of them, a full-grown person could sit comfortably, such was their shelf. His biceps were melon-sized, and when flexed were the kind that came to a peak. Francis moved his wrist on his arm, which caused the length of his monumental bicep to slide up and down his arm, almost in a dance. His bicep swelled beneath his skin, moving like a python beneath silk sheets. Turning his arm to the side, his triceps were nearly as wide as his biceps. His forearms were several inches in radius wider at the elbow than at his wrists. When he grasped a metal bar that held towels in the bathroom, it bent in with the slightest of efforts, deformed and cracked like a dorito.

Francis’s thighs were tree-trunk sized around, which combined with his pecs meant that his mirror was the only way he could see them. Looking down, all he got was an eyeful of pectorals. His pointed calves bulged behind his legs as wide as some men’s waists. Francis wriggled his toes, which caused his calves to twitch as if he had thick worms moving beneath his skin.

He turned himself to the side slightly. Previously, Francis had a sputter of a puberty, but instead, he saw inside his armpits a big, black tufts of hair, instead of slim wisps he expected. Most of all, he admired his smooth, blemish free, glistening round bubble butt. It would clearly have stood out in any pair of pants that he wore. He moved a finger to touch his cheek, and it did not sink into his ass. Thus, not only was it big, it was tight. Francis took a few steps, and the butt clenched and dimpled with each leg motion.

But it was in front of him that attracted his new attention. His monstrous sausage flopped, the tip right between his knees. It was as full and lengthy to the point where it appeared to be a third leg.

Francis grinned widely in absolute euphoria. He wasn’t in the shrimp-club anymore! He flexed his muscles and stared at himself in the mirror with a state of unreality. He bounced his pecs in the mirror and saw them rise and twitch, in a fast moving rhythm, their vibrations only increasing in speed. He jumped widely for joy, with such force the ground beneath him shook and the bathroom tiles began to crack beneath his flipperfeet.

Suddenly there was a tossing of a bathroom curtain, and Francis found that he was not alone.

“Hmmm, I think it’s so sexy when you do that pec-twitch thing, baby.” Coming out from the shower was an entirely naked, glistening woman, who pressed her soft, perfumed body against Francis’s unyielding hard muscle. She nuzzled herself against his washboard abs and the underside of his shelflike pectorals like a kitten. Her legs squeezed his trunklike legs, and in the embrace she could feel the rise of his full, long penis between them.

“I heard stories, I just didn’t think it was true, about that python you’ve got down there, stud.” she said, her voice thick and husky with lust and want, like something out of a 1930s detective movie. Her endowed, buxom breasts squished and pressed like hot pillows against the muscle of his chest.

“Believe it, baby.” Francis was shocked by the sound of his own voice. It was deep resonant, bass and sexy, like Barry White’s. The girl squealed with orgasmic delight at the sound of it. Francis grasped her nude body by the waist and full, bouncy and and carried her up as if she was made of styrafoam, pressing her face against his pectoral muscles. He received a good look at her, which astonished him. She was bronze-skinned with long black hair, possibly Arab. Her head only reached the underside of his pectorals, which meant she was either a midget, or he was gigantic.

“C’mon, Miracle, let’s go make some noise.” She purred.

Francis was starting to get the hang of moving inside this particular body. He carried her into the room he entered previously. “Huh? What did you call me?”

“Miracle. You know, like your name, Mayan Miracle Man. Don’t you like it, baby?” She said, her full, thick airbag lips pressing against his chest with kisses, sucking in his skin and tapping it with her hot tongue, leaving a hot trail of saliva and kisses along the length of his chest.

“Mayan Miracle Man?” Francis felt like laughing. “You know, baby, let me relax a bit. I want to watch TV or something.”

The Arab girl glanced dismissively. “Yeah, whatever. Just as long as I get some, stallion. I remember the time last week. You came like an elephant, I had a gut from all the cum of yours I took in. Ugh. . .” The memory of this drove her further into a sexual frenzy along the surface of his chest, as she slid her hands around the swell of his trapezius.

Francis remembered to duck for the doorway, and turned the lights on inside the room he came from on. There was an Edwardian bed, and writhing within, perfectly nude were a pair of women, one a blackhaired girl that was clearly Polynesian, the other a tall blonde.

“’Ey, baby, you ready for more barney, eh, big stuff? Dang, what a bloke!” The blonde woman’s voice was a thick Australian accent. When Francis lay in the bed with them, the indentation he made nearly marked the bed in half like a taco, rolling their bodies directly into his. The Arab girl climbed his body, laying on it as if it was terrain. His legs pushed out from the edge of the bed almost to his knees. Francis attempted to cover himself. However, their smell in his nostrils, their intense want and presence, began to give him a woody. More of the sheets were pushed away, as a tent pole rose up like a pyramid in the sheets by more than a foot. The women took their respective turns grasping his rod with their hands, and he noticed that three of them could place their hands around it at the same time.

Francis grasped his remote control from the sides, and turned on an immense plasma television. He channel surfed for a moment, until a shock caused him to still the channel on a single channel. For there, on the immense television, was himself, or at least the man in the mirror.

“Tonight, on Biography! We examine in depth the life story of one of the 21st Century’s most larger than life personages, Francis Xuxuc, the Maya Miracle Man.” Francis was glued to the television. The only thing that distracted him was the fact both the Australian girl and the Polynesian girl had slid beneath the covers and were running their tongues along the surface of his monstrously swelled pole, with their thick lips pressed against it. He could feel another pair of hands around his testicles, each one the size of oranges, squeezing and massaging them.

The television continued. “Francis is that rare individual that won the genetic lottery. Born to genetically unremarkable Mayan parents from the Yucatan peninsula in the United States, his mother spent 18 hours in labor giving birth to a 19 pound baby, born with additional muscle mass, a rare condition caused by the presence of extensive amounts of myostatin.” Now both women were simultaneously attempting to wrap their lips around the surface of his grown penis. This caused francis to grunt.

“Early on, he showed himself to be astonishingly clever. Francis learned to read at the age of 18 months. He was applying for his first patent at the age of 7 years. Years later, after the first of many IQ tests, Francis was discovered to have an intelligence quotient of over 275 – by far the highest ever recorded. There was no end to Francis’s demonstrated abilities.” Miracle’s penis sucked as if it was caught inside a vacuum cleaner tube, it was in a few moments that the Maya Miracle Man released his load with a blow like a rocket that nearly sent their heads flying off. His load exploded like a fountain, gushing upon their faces like a firehose, their mouths open, their cheeks filled like chipmunk’s with his seed. When he was completed 50 seconds later, it was as if someone had dowsed the entirety of that portion of the bed with a bucket of water. Their hair was wet with his spunk and their faces given facials by what appeared to be fire extinguisher foam.

“Francis grew exceptionally rapidly, and by the age of 12 was six feet seven inches tall. One of his greatest achievements however, was becoming heavyweight champion of the world, at age fifteen. It was in the boxing world he earned his nickname, Mayan Miracle Man."

Seven-Eleven more accurately paid attention to the television set. “At eighteen, he made his first million, investing the money he made from his patents. Reinvestment soon caused this to double.”

The Maya Miracle Man smiled. It all started to make sense to him now. Perhaps it would not have earlier, but after all, he had a brain now that was smarter as the rest of him was bigger and stronger. What are the odds of being born with additional muscle mass at birth? What are the odds of growing to over seven-foot-eleven, particularly with his genetics? What are the odds of having a high intelligence, or a slappable tripod of a footlong penis? Not good for any one, especially not all of the above. So there comes the goddess of chance. Altering his genetic makeup at birth, the probability of such genes come up higher and higher. And stock markets are like gambling, too, except it’s even less likely to win. But nonetheless, chance favored him there too.

And, y’know, he never even got a chance to thank her.

The Maya Miracle Man smiled. Poking up through the sheets, his pole started solidifying out to the point he was having trouble seeing straight.

He was ready to go. •