WARNING: THIS STORY INVOLVES BRUTAL VIOLENCE, COARSE LANGUAGE, AND IDEAS OFFENSIVE TO PATRIOTIC AMERICANS. DON'T READ IT IF YOU'RE UNDERAGE OR CHARLTON HESTON.

Jason Turns the Screw

By Chip Masterson

At first I thought it must be a mistake, when the sentry at the U.S. 2 gate reported a single black limousine 
requesting permission to enter Jason, Idaho.  A thorough check and strip-search of the four middle-aged 
men revealed no weaponry or tracking devices of any sort.  Jason, of course, had known they were coming 
long in advance.  Permission was granted.

An armada of clouds scudded brightly across the mid-day sky.  Jason went out to create a throne to receive 
the diplomats on.  A large cannon stood proudly in the town square, a massive iron monument to Manifest 
Destiny.  A small mound of cannonballs, long welded into a pyramid, stood below the mouth of the big 
gun.  Jason decided to symbolize his permanent revision to the doctrine of Manifest Destiny in a way no 
one would forget.

The 24-pound howitzer had been forged at the West Point Foundry in New York, stamped only with a 
number 5.  Nothing more is really known, except that the 5,555 lb. weapon had been used in the Civil War 
and later sent by rail to nearby Fort Sherman to protect the missions.  But now the two and a half ton 
behemoth was about to face two bigger guns.

Jason strode up and wrapped his arms around the gun’s thick neck where it jutted out from the massive 
concrete base.  He grunted shortly and the gun bobbed into the air, its butt in rising as if it were a balloon.  
A dry scrape was all we heard as the cannon, which no one had bothered to secure in any way due to its 
virtual immobility, was moved by Jason as easily as a four-by-four.  He grunted again, softly, and his 
nostrils flared with concentration.

The bore was nearly six inches wide, and the iron around it of equal width, perfected by metallurgists to 
withstand heat and explosion.  The iron thickened considerably at the firing chamber; where Jason’s arms 
embraced it, the iron was probably nine inches thick, for a total of 18 above and below the cavity.  Jason 
grunted again.

The cannon awoke from its long slumber ... and groaned.  It had been forged to survive massive pressures 
and deliver death from the sky, but it had never encountered such battery before.  A high sigh whispered 
out of its mouth and a weird creaking resonated, the sound of iron’s crystalline strength splintering.  Jason 
drew a deep breath, his biceps digging troughs in the iron as if it were clay, and began in earnest.  “Just 
wanted to see what you were made of, old boy.”  And he CHOKED it hard.

Nine inches of iron slammed down into nine inches of iron and the force flattened each outward.  One side 
bulged obscenely but the other hit Jason’s chest and deformed around his torso.  The cannon’s mouth 
flattened into an oval from the sudden burst that collapsed the bore.  Jason set to work.

Holding the tonnage in one arm, he pressed his other arm down, bending the giant pipe like Play-Doh.  It 
sighed and shrieked as solid iron felt the force that could make it flow as if molten.  The cannon bent down 
to a ninety-degree angle.  My stomach twisted to see the massive thing massed flat and bent over his arm 
like a towel.  Jason set it back down on its base in order to free up his other hand.

Bracing one forearm against the now perpendicular barrel, his other hand pulled.  His biceps jumped 
obediently to the task, veins chugging blood into the thirsty muscle fibers.  The iron creaked again, cracks 
beginning to yawn where the stressed metal couldn’t maintain integrity against him.  The end of the cannon 
shuddered and rose in his hand, the bore sinking in at the crease like some wimp’s puny chest.  When it was 
horizontal he stepped back to view his work in progress.

The gouges his biceps and forearms had created in the big barrel were the least of its worries.  He bent 
down and began squeezing the end with his fingers, flattening the iron until the sides cracked with a sick 
gong.  His face barely moved as he kneaded a thick tube of cold solid iron flat, and pressed his big hands 
into the surface to create footrests.  Standing up, he walked back to the middle and lifted 5,555 lbs. in one 
arm, turning to me to say, “The concrete base would pulverize.”  Securing his grip and making the iron 
groan in amazement at his arm-strength, he raised his fist and SLAMMED it down into the fat belly behind 
the first bend.

The iron pealed loudly as Jason’s fist cratered it, not only crushing the firing chamber but forcing inch after 
solid inch of iron to blast out of its path.  Setting it back down, his fingers worked hard and fast, molding a 
concave seat into the convex metal.  Iron a century and a half old cracked and bulged, only to find its 
cracks smeared closed by impatient palms and insistent digits.  He stood back and it looked at his throne, 
and said to me, “It’s still balanced, but can’t support my weight.  So...” he said, looking about.  He saw the 
pile of welded cannonballs, 57 24-lb shots welded together, five-eighths of a ton.  He palmed the top one 
and pulled, and it broke off its welds with a hard snick.  He sighed at such shoddy workmanship, and 
leaned over.

Securing his fingers around the bottom corners, he yanked up, breaking the pyramid free of the concrete.  
He carried the comparatively light mass over to the cannon and saw it was still twice as high as the footrest.  
Behind us, a sleek black limo pulled up and idled to a shocked stopped.  Two handsome young soldiers 
rode up front but the back windows were tinted almost black.  The soldiers’ mouths opened stupidly as they 
watched the scene, and the iron, unfold.

Ignoring them, Jason regarded the weight making his arm bulge slightly, and palming it from one corner, 
brought his other hand about halfway down.  Cupping one of the middle balls in his palm, he brought his 
other hand to it to pry the pyramid in half.  His first tug was too light, but his second tug snapped it open 
like a clamshell.  He bent it back and over, steel welds squealing and snapping.  He tore the top off the 
pyramid, the ragged metal bright and silver in the sun against its own tarnished surface, and set the base 
under his footrest.  Almost perfect.  He mashed down on the cannonballs, flattening the top layer a couple 
inches, and shoved them underneath.  The he ascended his throne to address his guests.

A window powered down.  They waited to be addressed, as one does with royalty.  Jason, impressed, 
nodded his head.  “I’m Jason.  Who the blue hell are you?”

A thin, lined face peeked out of the gap in the black-tinted window.  “I’m Deputy Secretary of Defense Ron 
Ferretski.  I’ve with me the Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staffs General Armoral, and two trusted aides.  
We, ah, realize our previous delegations may have offended a man of your, uh, abilities, so--”

Jason waved his hand and heard one of the aides hitch his breath at the sight of that forearm ripple.  “Get 
out and talk to me like men.”

I could see the near-command had its effect on their weaker wills, as bodies flinched to obey yet pulled 
themselves back.  General Amoral leaned over and said in a Carolina accent thicker than the iron Jason sat 
on, “We’d like some assurances as to our safety.  As you know, we are completely unarmed.  There is no 
back-up force.  We trust that you are a man of your word.  We would like to have it please, Sir.”  His “sir” 
did not sound sincere to me and I stifled a laugh: did they think they were safe in that tin can?

Jason shook his head, almost sadly.  “I don’t negotiate with errand boys.  When your President sees the 
wisdom in surrendering to me, he can crawl here on his belly himself.  Until then, you’re wasting my time.  
And that’s something I don’t forgive.”

They sat a moment in stunned silence, then burst out laughing.  I could hear them repeat the word 
“surrender” incredulously.  As their hooting died down, Jason walked solemnly over to the historic First 
Mercantile Bank building, the town’s only cast-iron building.  It had been converted to luxury apartments 
prior to Jason’s ascendancy.  Now it remained unoccupied until he could find a use for it.  Which I think he 
just had.

Jason walked past the car and the back window on driver’s side now lowered.  “I think you misunderstand 
us, Son,” said the elderly general most unwisely.  “We believe you could be of great use to us.  We are the 
world’s sole superpower, and....”

His voice faltered as he watched Jason, ignoring him, punch a hole with his fist through the iron hull of the 
building.  He rattled his hand around, widening the hole as the iron bent, and then he reached with his other 
hand and began ripping a strip of iron out like it was the top of a cereal box.  Elaborate castings deformed 
and tore clean in half as Jason tugged, rolling it back onto itself until it was just the right size.  He left the 
roll attached.  He turned back to the car and saw they were clearly awed by power they had foolishly 
chosen not to believe fully in.  And now their disbelief would be most unfortunate for them.

“See my throne?” he asked, pointed to the throne with his thumb.  His biceps filled his arm, popping and 
twitching as he pointed, and the aides couldn't take their eyes off it while their bosses looked at the 
mangled mass that had once been terror-inducing firepower.  “Was a Civil War cannon that obliterated 
Native Americans in their tipis.  Was a symbol of the strength of a new nation that humbled a proud and 
ancient people, murdering, enslaving, impoverishing them without mercy.  Has now been corrected.  I am 
the sole superpower on earth.  No power has ever been imagined to compare with what these guns can 
unleash.  Your symbol of power is now my throne, in case you don’t get it.  That, slaves, is the shape of 
things to come.  A shape created by these.”

He reared back and flexed the arms that reforged cold iron into a place to park his ass.  Jaws dropped as the 
men could hear the skin stretching across the knobby nodes and veins forced against it by nuclear muscle 
detonations.  The windows powered back up and the engine buzzed as the driver overcranked the ignition 
and cursed.  Finally the limo roared to life and jerked back in a curve to turn around in the wide street.  
Only Jason was there as the soldier shifted into drive.

The car jerked forward an inch and screamed in deep-throated fury as Jason’s legs held it prisoner.  He 
folded his arms below his massive pecs and let the car jitter against him, bouncing back and forth between 
the curb and his knees.  The panicked soldier floored it and the engine shrieked as white smoke turned 
black.  The general shouted, “Reverse, idiot!” and without releasing the gas the soldier jammed the 
automatic transmission into reverse.  The car lurched up onto the sidewalk with a teeth-aching SCRANK.  

But again, the car jolted to a stop.  The soldiers’ faces fell apart with terror as they saw Jason holding them 
in place by PALMING THE FUCKIN’ HOOD.  The car jerked and bucked but Jason controlled it with his 
cupped palm and splayed fingers, forearm thickening to phone-pole dimensions.  The hood separated from 
the frame a few inches as the hinges bent up.  The back wheels began bouncing off the sidewalk, shredding 
chunks of rubber that hit His throne like flecks of shit.

He didn’t like that one bit. 

Slamming his other hand into the other fender so hard the car slid sideways, he grabbed it on either side and 
levered the whole length into the air.  The spinning wheels continued to fling rubber debris all over the 
square so Jason, furious, shook the car.  Shook it like it was an aerosol can.  Shook it so hard the men inside 
flopped and whiplashed against their belts and couldn’t find the breath to scream “Stop!” 

But the engine dropped to an idle and dazed, bloody driver looked up from the wheel with stark horror into 
Jason’s eyes.  “Kill it.”  The man obeyed so quickly he tore off a fingernail but never noticed.  He never, 
actually, ever would.

Jason heaved a deep sigh of annoyance and carried the car, suspended before him like a tray of chocolates, 
over to the Mercantile building.  And with a slight grimace he jammed the rear end into the opening he’d 
just ripped.  It almost fit but Jason’s mighty arms and pecs worked the car back and forth, scrunching the 
trunk back into the hole.  He let go to see if it would hold, and with a few protesting creaks, it did.  So the 
fucker was armored.  No wonder they’d felt safe.  

The bulletproof windows were all powered up and the doors locked.  One of the soldiers began to pray.  
Jason looked him in the eye and said, “I’m the only God here.”  Then, almost casually, he ripped the front 
side panels off limo and grabbed the frame with his hands.  And began to twist.

The car shuddered and the chassis held out against the first test assault.  The occupants couldn’t figure out 
what was going on but the officials in the back lowered the screen so they could see what was happening.  
Jason’s delts bloomed like mushroom clouds and the car set up a loud long protest as it held out ... held out 
... creaaaaakkkk ... held out ... still resisted splitting fingers of delt power ... creaaAAAAAAACCCKKKKK 
ACK ACK ACK ACK POP.  The occupants felt that small, tiny jolt as Jason’s muscle power compromised 
the vehicle’s reinforced, specially designed strength.  

Jason stepped back.  I could see the shallow depression in the roof of the car and the way the door panels 
on each side pressed into each other, held in place by inch-thick steel plating and 72mm-thick splinter-
proof windows.  It may be a stretch limo, but it sure wasn’t meant to stretch this way.  

He smiled at them.  He stretched his arms and pecs, cable-thick tendons jutting out as he twisted around on 
serrated abs sharp enough to slice up the armored fabric coating the plated steel.  And grabbed the car 
again.

One hand pulled down, a thickening lat challenging the biceps for pure power.  The other hard pulled up, 
upper pec splitting into a rolling prairie of power, triceps swelling pregnantly off the back of his arm.  His 
shoulders slanted and he cocked his head, listening to the vehicle POP POP POP POP POP like ants in a 
microwave until a teeth-numbing screech made everyone scream.  The car twisted before our eyes, the 
glass on one side splintering (“Impossible!” screamed Ferretski) while the opposite windows pulled out of 
joint.  The windshield cracked and the steel armor began ripping loose where it could, and bending where it 
couldn’t.  The piercing screech continued as Jason’s arms increased the torque, wrenching the car deeper 
into the corkscrew.  Breathing slightly harder now, his magnificent torso dappled with sweat, he stepped 
back again, savoring their spreading panic like a good Bordeaux.  Now they were trying the doors but the 
frame was too bent by now.  They pounded with all their strength and it had no effect on the car.  They’d 
only tried to prevent Him from getting in; they hadn’t thought the armor could prevent them from getting 
out.

Jason stepped back in, now placing one palm under the frame to push while his other long arm pulled the 
other side farther around.  He took a moderate breath and attacked the car a third time.  By now the vehicle 
was so damaged it could offer little structural resistance, but the armored parts began to lodge against each 
other and made the limo shudder as he forced it around inch after inch.  The bulletproof windows cracked 
again, the heavy fragments lodging more deeply into the doorframe, still not allowing any escape.  The 
armored roof buckled with a grinding groan, bending down into the passenger compartment. The men 
scrambled away, trying to find the strongest place to hide.  

Wood paneling splintered and leather ripped.  Sparks flew as electronic equipment got crushed.  The car 
angled around to 45 degrees and two hard shoves secured it there.  As the roof twisted the front and back 
windshields snapped, the heavy starred glass sticking in the frame and grinding together like mismatched 
teeth.  Pausing only a moment, Jason reset his legs to pull and push the front end up to perpendicular.  
Plates bent, bulged, popped loose.  Rivets sparked in ricochet off the Mercantile and thick glass began to 
crumble to dust.

The armored engine components began to separate, steel crushed tubes and alloys, fuel lines pulled loose 
and oil sprayed against the contorted contours of the undercarriage.  The men inside fell against each other 
and screamed as the seats broke and tore apart.  Scrambling within their screw-like confinement, they 
begged and pleaded to give him anything he wanted.   

“I can do it!” cried Ferretski.  “I can make it happen!”

 “So can I, little wuss,” Jason chuckled.  So can I.”  

With the back end still lodged firmly in the wall of the building, the middle was nearly crushed flat.  The 
glass was no longer a barrier in the windows but the space was too small for anyone to squeeze through ... 
in their present state at least.  Jason was working on that.  The engine compartment, more intricately 
armored than the rest of the limo, retained its shape ... for now.  Only a transverse crease marred the hood.  
Jason moved back around to the “top” side of the car so the occupants could watch as he twist-tied their 
armored limo.

A ripping double-fart signaled their bowels losing it simultaneously, preceding the stench of their acrid gut-
sewage.  They scrambled like animals, trying to find a way out, digging at the seats, pulling the stuffing out 
of the upholstery, slamming their hands against the armor bent in at them like arrows.

Low, near arm shoved, revealing a triceps that weighed more than any of their legs.  High, farther arm 
pulled, exposing a biceps bigger than their own heads.  And the car screamed in pain as it spun on its new 
axis. All that steel plating and mortar-proof fabric was no match for what Jason could dish out.  The rear 
axle, bent into a V, broke loose and bounced a heavily pressurized tire against the side, slapping back up to 
drive bolts into the compartment like shrapnel.  It hung there, sagging.  The front wheels splayed inward as 
the axle was bent deeper into the engine, driving against its anchors.  The wheels jittered like dying limbs.  
Jason twisted. Plates buckled, heavy-gauge steel rent, the steel-plastic alloy flameproof fabric stretched and 
shredded.  The car’s body bucked and kept trying to stop as armor plating lodged against the frame or the 
chassis itself but Jason kept forcing it, forcing steel to actually stretch and crack, forcing steel to bend back 
onto itself, forcing solid fuckin’ steel to twist until a large “CRAAAAACK” and a death-throe-jiggle 
announced the limo’s spine had finally broken under extreme teen muscle FORCE.  The drive shaft jutted 
out from the back, steel bars wrapped around it like snakes, coved armor plate barely holding it all together.

As Jason’s breathing, living body warped the dead steel of the limo into a helix, the screams and poundings 
inside became more muffled.  Exploding upholstery and shattering refrigerators and televisions punctuated 
the hyperventilating disbelief as the four men found their world closing in tighter and tighter, and the 
helpless hysteria inside them grew bigger and bigger.  Chemicals began burning their sinuses and lungs 
from broken coils.  A small fire started somewhere.

Ferretski shrieked as a steel spike pierced the floor and skewered his leg.  Armoral had crawled up into the 
other half of the back chamber and kept tugging at the roof, hoping for adrenaline-strength to somehow 
kick in and help him.  He screamed and begged with the twisting roof pinched down and broke his fingers.  
In the front section the limo was starting to bend in half, held in shape only by the engine’s armor.  The 
hood though suddenly sproinged off on one side, revealing the powerful engine that didn’t have the horses 
to make Jason budge.  It began jutting out, rising and twisting against the steering column.  The driver tried 
backing away but the steering wheel chased him, its lower rim pressing into his lower ribs and bending 
them until they snapped.  The bones jutted out against his uniform coat and blood quickly stained outward 
as he wailed himself hoarse.  The other soldier, who hadn’t uttered a word the whole time, only gaping in 
awe at Jason’s might, cowered in a corner as the seat folded up against his legs.  Then I saw: he was 
jacking off.  His eyes were glued to Jason’s arms and even as the twisting seat tore his knee ligaments apart 
he kept rubbing his hand furiously against his crotch, tears streaming down his face as it jerked with pain 
and an unending orgasm.  

Jason stepped back to take a breather.  “Fucker’s built tough!” he said, cracking his neck with a deft twist.  
I gazed on the mangled wreckage, the front end now rotated about a hundred fifty degrees from still 
horizontal back end.  “Building’s tougher,” I said with a smile.  Jason scowled at me and my heart froze.  
“You daring me to tear that fucker down next, boy?  I DEFINE tough.”  While I stuttered in wide-eyed fear 
he winked and went back to work.

A small geyser of lubricant sprayed up from the contorted underbelly of the limo.  Jason had actually been 
pressing in slightly, to keep the car from pulling apart in his hands too easily.  But the frame where he’d 
been gripping was now squeezed almost paper-thin.  His big hands reached down and began mashing the 
side-panels down to create a thicker grip, his fingers squeezing the steel, scrunching and fracturing it, 
pressure-welding it back together with forearms any linebacker would envy for legs.  The headlamps 
exploded, the plastic blinker covers cracking and twisting in to be incorporated in the mashed handles.  
Then he played with the armored car some more.

He wrenched it around smoothly to a full hundred eighty degrees.  Then ten degrees more.  The 
overstressed frame began snapping, steel bars slapping against ends of plates, ripping through panels, 
poking out like electrified hair in a halo around the vehicle.  Some unlucky ones couldn’t break free and 
were bent in on themselves, corkscrewed back into the interior.  One drove up and pierced the driver’s ball 
sac even as another shoved into his buttcheek and slid right into his glute.  His companion’s eyes had rolled 
back into his head, which the roof bent down to a harsh angle against his shoulders, orgasm or death still 
racking his body.  The Deputy Secretary of Defense of defense could be seen through gaps that had twisted 
open in the bottom, his legs both bent at the knee, shins trapped and being bent back up.  His knees tore, 
blood gushing out against his slacks, while a piece of frame drove through the cotton-spewing back of the 
seat and into his ribs.  His head was bent backwards, even as the roof caved down against his face.  His 
hands flailed, striking themselves bloody against anything.  

The smoke had disappeared; the fire had evidently been crushed out like a cigarette.  The General was freed 
when the roof fully severed his knuckles, but he could only move back an inch.  He rattled back and forth 
like a Mexican jumping bean, pummeling himself against his custom-made Iron Maiden.  Jason felt the 
limo’s continuing resistance, steel tangling with steel, trebling in size only to be bent backwards by arms 
that didn’t know the word “no.”  The engine broke apart and fell in chunks down to the sidewalk until the 
block itself thumped out.  A sickening mush-sound accompanied Ferretski’s head smashing like a melon 
under the roof.  The engine compartment was bending into a sharper V the more Jason twisted.  Pink flesh-
mush pressed out from gaps and cracks in the armor as the car chewed limbs and torsos.  A stream of blood 
issued from the General’s side as plating closed like jaws over his belly, tearing his skin open and cracking 
his ribs.  The dashboard pushed in against the soldier riding shotgun, crushing his chest, causing black 
blood mixed with vomit to bubble out of his mouth.

By the time Jason stopped malforming the limo, the front end hung at two hundred seventy degrees.  It 
couldn’t take any more from him.  It creaked and teetered like an old mummy.  It couldn’t even protest 
with loud groans anymore, only small snicks and snaps.  Jason’s pecs however throbbed with power and 
steel-crushing lust.  He could still hear General Armoral’s raspy, dying breath echoing off the sidewalk.  He 
walked over to the spot, spread his arms across the roof, and held onto it.  He pressed his pecs into the steel 
... and made them dance.  He flexed and bounced his pecs, drumming the steel, denting it, pounding it, 
forcing it to flatten and cave, slowly squashing the General’s head.  He kept it up until the eggshell 
crunching stopped and brains slopped down onto the sidewalk.  Good thing he’d been holding on, or the car 
would have snapped off like a twig.  

Jason walked back and saw the driver, too, was still alive, the steering wheel buried in his gut, his cracked 
ribs still rising and falling in shivers around it.  “Look into my eyes.”  The soldier did, his mouth opening 
and closing like a fish.  “Tell the President to his face to surrender immediately.  Stay alive until you do.  
Got that?  YOU ARE FORBIDDEN TO DIE BEFORE YOU DELIVER THIS MESSAGE.”  He stared 
hard until the man worked up the strength to nod.  

“Stay here,” he said to me.  Then he took off.  It’s like he disappeared.  I watched oil, blood and other fluid 
drip out of creased channels in the mangled vehicle.  I heard the far-off screech of very large, very fast 
wheels being brought to an abrupt stop.  A few minutes later, Jason jogged back into the town square, the 
cab of an eighteen-wheeler carried above his head as if it were a pillow.  The terrified driver kept crossing 
himself and praying.  The flatbed dragged behind, its load of three enormous concrete sewer pipes lashed 
down with heavy chains.  Jason let go of the cab and darted out from beneath it faster than it could fall, and 
it bounced hard.  The driver yelped and kept praying.

Jason said “Pray to me and you’ll live.”  The man began babbling “You’re my God, you’re my God, you’re 
my only one and true God, please spare me.”  Jason ignored him and hopped up onto the back of the bed. 
His hands found the links and he pulled against them.  Steel thick as my fist immediately bent until the link 
popped.  He dropped it and grasped the edge of the top pipe, and pulled.  The pipe scraped free with a deep 
sound and swung around in the air, its tonnage no more than a straw to Jason.  The other chains fell loose 
on top of the remaining pipes.  He set it down on its end on the street, along with the other too.

“These could come in handy so I’ll keep them.  Might be useful in the gym, if I fill ‘em up with cars or 
something.”  He walked over to the wreckage imbedded in the iron wall, and pulled it free, sparks flying.  
Only the front half tore loose and the back half dropped the sidewalk.  “Fuckin’ shitty Union labor.  I’ll 
need to attend to that pretty quick.”  Holding the front end of the limo aside in one hand, he grabbed the 
back half in his other hand and carried them to the semi, his magnificent back rippling in rivers of muscle.  
He jumped up, still holding them in his arms.  Jump right the fuck up into the air, and came down a few 
feet to land on the bed of the semi, which sagged and groaned.  I popped three buttons off my Levis and 
began cumming right there in the street.  Jason gently laid the car halves down, grabbed the ends of the 
chain he’d broken, and looping it through each half, tied the chain into a bow, mashing and molding the 
steel into a rough cable.  He jumped down and approached the driver, who fell out of the cab right onto his 
knees, weeping.  

Jason asked for his manifest, and the guy jumped up and grabbed a clipboard.  Jason tore the board in half 
and threw it away.  “You drive directly to the White House.   Get there before he dies.  You don’t stop.  I’ll 
give you enough hamburgers and soda so you don’t get hungry or sleepy.  Piss and shit in the cab if you 
need to.  YOU DON’T STOP until you get to the White House.  You don’t stop for tolls or cops or anyone.  
You tell anyone who approaches you that you have a message for the President, and it’s in the limo.  Tell 
him this is the last message I’ll deliver that’s not in person.  Tell him it would be better for THEM if I 
DON’T have to come to Washington myself.”

The man nodded like an idiot, his mind clearly snapped, his soul focused on the task his God had deigned 
to assign him.  He got into the cab and some of the town slaves, having heard Jason’s orders, ran to me 
carrying burgers and jugs of soda from the diner.  They loaded me up and backed away, and I brought them 
to Jason.  Jason grabbed one burger and ate it whole, cramming the thing into his mouth.  The rest he tossed 
into the cab.  The driver idled until Jason smiled.  “Good slave.  Now go.”  He hit the gas and headed back 
to the interstate.

Jason cocked his head.  “Fighter jets, four of them, from the south.  Coming low.”  All I could hear was 
birds tweeting.  He picked up the top of the cannon-ball pyramid and cracked off four 24-lb. balls.  Holding 
two in each hand, he reared back, squinted his eyes, and hurled them in a lean trajectory that just cleared 
the tops of the buildings around the square.  When their whistle disappeared, I still heard nothing ... until 
four explosion appeared at the edge of the horizon.  Target acquired, and neutralized.

Jason strode over to the Mercantile building and unrolled the iron, bending it back into place.  It was lumpy 
and had cracked in more than few places because of Jason’s punishing strength.  “I want this to look like 
new by morning.  In fact, I want the whole building shined and polished.”  

Then, quietly, so only I could hear, he said, “Time a Man took control of things,” and walked off.  I gulped, 
and thrilled, at the coming battle.  I gushed cum again, with my hands at my side, in awe of a man who had 
just challenged the full might of the United States of America.  I shuddered as the cum spurted feet out of 
me, my hands tearing at my hair in ecstasy, and wondered how much damage he’ll have to inflict before 
bringing the so-called superpower to its knees, begging to suck his cock.

The end.

chipmasterson@yahoo.com