I felt myself being lifted up, ready to for the first thrust. This was it! Down I went, down…there, I could feel the tip of his penis, oh God, let me clench! Suddenly, Mitch’s hands around my waist grew tense. Was this what is was like? His grip hardened, but I did not go any further down. Again, his grip tightened, and I felt a rib of mine crack. Pain shot through me, but not from where I thought it would be, but from the broken rib. CRACK! Another rib. What the hell was happening? Did he truly want a rag doll. Then I heard it.

“GET THE HELL AWAY FROM MY PATIENT”

I opened my eyes, pain still searing from my midsection, to see Doctor Morgan just inside the doorway, duffel bag on the floor next to him, gun in his hand. “Get the hell away from him Mitch or I shoot again”, said the good doctor. I felt Mitch laugh and begin to move me down again. Again, a crack and again the tightening. But this time I saw what Doctor Morgan was shooting. It was a dart gun. “I have more darts, enough to fell even you”, he said.

“We’ll just see about that”, Mitch said, casting me aside, me falling in a heap with pain coming even from my eyelashes, “You will be next on the list, doc. You may die in the process, but your muscle god will have you as a sacrifice.” Mitch was a wild man, snorting and staggering. The darts must be taking effect.

“Then I won’t go down without a fight”, Doctor Morgan replied, shooting a third dart into Mitch. Mitch, for his part, didn’t even try to remove the darts. And, with relief, I saw that he hadn’t grown so big that projectiles bounced off his skin, like finally happened with Chuck. Mitch laughed, but was staggering. “You won’t bring me down. You can’t bring down a god.”, he said, staggering toward Doctor Morgan.

“Well, maybe I can’t, but this can”, replied the doctor. He reached down and brought out what looked like a PDA, pointed it at Mitch, and pressed a button. Instantly two cones with cords attached to them shot out and landed squarely on Mitch’s enormous pecs. Before Mitch could react, Morgan pressed a button on the device. Mitch froze, all his limbs paralyzed, him screaming in pain. It was a stun gun, but from Mitch’s reactions, more powerful than I ever have seen. Morgan released the button. Mitch was groggy, trying to take off the wires, but missing each time. He staggered toward Morgan. “I will kill you with my bare hands!”, said Mitch, speech slurring. Morgan pushed the button again, causing Mitch to scream. Mitch fell to the ground, writhing in agony, until he didn’t move any more.

Morgan released the button and retracted the cords back into the device. Pulling out another gun, this one definitely not a dart gun, he walked over to Mitch. He kicked him in the leg. No reaction. He kicked him again. Again, no reaction. He held his big toe, which nearly took an entire hand to hold. “He’s alive”, he said, both to the room and to me. “But, just for good measure”, said the doctor, pulling out a covered syringe from his pocket. He jabbed Mitch in the leg – no reaction – and pushed the plunger. “That, along with what was in the darts, should have him asleep a while”, he said. He walked past Mitch, his senses coiled just in case this was a ruse – no reaction – and walked towards my crumpled frame on the ground. He walked past me to the kitchen. Hell of a time to get a sandwich, I thought. He returned a few minutes later with a pot of water that had steam rising from it. Carefully he walked over to the prostrate body of Mitch and poured the water right on his genitals. No reaction was gotten from Mitch. “Even muscle giants couldn’t take boiling water to the nuts without some reaction. He must be out.”

And that was it. Well, let’s say that is all I remember. According to Doctor Morgan, there was more that happened after that. According to him:

I came over to you began tending to your wounds. Yes, I wasn’t that kind of doctor, but I also knew basic first aid at least. I wrapped your torso as best I could and you seemed to be in less pain. I helped you up, intending to get you to the couch where I would then get you dressed and get you to the hospital – didn’t want anyone seeing this sight in your house, thus no ambulance – but when we got near Mitch, you stopped and pushed me to the side…well, as best as you could.

You began to tremble, your eyes grew both narrow and watery, and you clasped your hands into fists. You began shaking some more, and then let out what I could best describe as an anguished wail. Then, even though you were naked, even though you were shoeless, even though you were injured, you began to…well…how do I put this…beat the living shit out of the body of Mitch. You kicked, you punched, you pummeled. You used words on him that would get you an honorable mention in the Longshoreman’s Hall of Fame. You reminded me of a top, all wound up, slowly spinning out, slowly releasing all the energy you had pent up, all the rage you had at both Chuck and now at Mitch. For a fully 20 minutes, you went off on him, both verbally and physically. I would bet that, even had he been conscious, he would not have been able to withstand that assault.

You ran into the kitchen and came out with a knife. That I could not allow happen. I walked sternly up to you and grabbed your arm as you were about to plunge it into him. “No!”, I said to you, “You will have your revenge, but you are not a murderer. You do that and you are no better than either of them. Stop it, stop it now.” You struggled, you struggled mightily, calling me some more names that would earn you the President’s Award for Vulgarity. You tried to reason with me why you should do it. After a while, you dropped the knife and just kneeled down and began beating your fists on Mitch’s chest.

Finally, you wound down and I walked towards you. You crumpled into me and began crying. I patted your back, let you cry on my shoulder, and led you over to the couch. You sat down and I put a blanket on you because you are one ugly naked guy (I gave him the finger about that when he recounted the story to me), you paused for about 10 seconds, and then dissolved again in tears of rage and relief.

When you were able, and I still don’t know how you did it, you told me we have to get rid of this body. You calmly walked over to the desk where the computer used to be and sat down and wrote a note on writing paper. Calmly, you pulled out an envelope, wrote Chuck’s name on it. You went in to your bedroom, got dressed in sweats, came out and told me we had to somehow get this dead weight into his truck and you would know where to go. In a scene reminiscent of a Laurel and Hardy movie, we ‘wheeled’ Mitch’s body out and hauled it into his truck. You drove the truck out to the woods, about 10 miles away from your house. There we unloaded Mitch, you put the note on him, actually pinned it to his penis…ouch!...and we drove to the hospital. You were kind enough to wait until you got into the emergency room to collapse from exhaustion and pain.

That is where I woke up two days later. Doctor Morgan was sitting by my side. I tried to turn to him, but felt a sharp pain in my side. “Three cracked ribs. Nice job.”, he said sarcastically. I went to make a retort to him, but found my throat on fire and not able to make sounds. Morgan poured a glass of water and told me to take it in small sips. I did, had to, because it burned like vodka going down. Slowly the pain in my throat subsided and my voice returned over the four days I was there. During that time, I told him all that had happened with Mitch.

“So, are you going to tell me what was in that note, or do I have to play 20 questions?”, he asked during one of his visits. I smiled. “Well, I do like games”, I replied. “Now I can see why you were so popular with Mitch and Chuck…your sparkling personality”, he said. I laughed, and then coughed, both causing a hell of a lot of pain. “Serves you right, smart ass”, he said, “Now what was in the note?”

I should not have been able to remember any of it, since that was time I had blacked out, but somehow I did. It went something like this:

Here is your brother. You are welcome to him. I never want to see either of you or your ego-driven, people using, fucking selfish faces again. If you do ever come near me or my friends, I promise you this…I will be ready. I will be ready to take you down so you never stand up again. I don’t care how big you are, how strong you are, how huge your muscles are, you will not win. You may have all those things on your side, but I have the one thing you don’t. I have determination…a determination for all we who have been used…all those who have been tossed around and beaten in this life. And every ounce of that determination will go into making sure that if you come to my house, you will be leaving in a body bag. That is my promise to you. Don’t doubt for one second that I have the power or the determination to make sure it comes true.

Morgan stood there with his mouth agape. I lifted my still weak hand and pushed his chin up, triggering a memory of when Chuck did that to me. A memory of Chuck. I had a memory of Chuck and I didn’t flinch, I wasn’t panic stricken. It was just a memory. The one thing that Doctor Morgan feared he couldn’t do, I was able to now do. I conquered my fear. I conquered the panic. I was no longer a slave to Chuck.

A few months later I was working out and gaining some mass again. My writing was better than ever, and my editor asked me how I came about with this new slant to my stories – more empowered, more action driven. Doc Morgan and I continued our friendship, though I did not see him as a patient anymore. And, there had been no indication or stories of muscle giants anywhere near town, though I had some special bullets and tranquilizers made to pierce even Chuck’s skin. As Doctor Morgan had done with his arsenal, I found the internet to be a very interesting place to shop for destruction. I would be ready.

And best of all, I was sleeping like a man who was finally at peace. •