Olympian heights

by Anonymous

“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely “—Lord Acton

Added: Mar 2004 6,042 words 13,080 views 2.0 stars (2 votes)


Another hard day of practice, and Blaine was ready for a break. He had been preparing for the Olympics for years—it seemed like forever—and he was at a point where frustration and fatigue were setting in. Physically he was in great shape; standing five-foot-four, he was totally buff and well-muscled, like the rest of the gymnasts. But that didn't keep him from getting tired of training, and today he was sick of the whole thing.

After showering and getting dressed, Blaine quickly mixed up and downed a nutritional supplement he had been taking recently. He made sure no one saw him do it, since he wasn't sure how legal this particular supplement was, and he didn't want to get busted. Still, he would do just about anything for a competitive advantage, and this supplement seemed to be doing the trick. Since he had been taking it, his strength, endurance, and energy level all seemed to improve. However, he also had gotten more irritable and aggressive. But to Blaine, that was a small price to pay. Conforming to rules wasn't a high priority with him, as his pierced tongue and various tattoos attested. He followed the rules he had to, and as for the rest—screw 'em. He was his own man. Not bothering to put on a helmet, Blaine hopped on his motorcycle and took off, not knowing where he was going. He just needed to ride.

How long he rode, or exactly where he was, he didn't know. But somewhere on the plains of eastern Colorado he flew along on his motorcycle. He had blown off most of his steam and was ready to head back, except that he couldn't. He was caught behind a tanker truck on the highway. Although the truck itself was speeding, it was going way too slow for Blaine's taste. Unable to get around the truck, Blaine's irritation quickly turned to anger, just as they hit a bumpy stretch of road. The hatch on the truck must not have been properly sealed, because as the truck jounced over the bumps, some of the liquid it was carrying sloshed out. Riding close behind, Blaine was unable to avoid the liquid and was drenched by it. His exposed skin burned, and when it soaked through his clothes, his entire body burned. Squinting to keep it out of his eyes, it was all Blaine could do to keep from crashing his motorcycle. The combination of fighting the bumpy road, attempting to stop, and trying to keep the chemical out of his eyes proved too much. Before he could come to a complete stop, he lost control and skidded across a wide, flat ditch, coming to a stop beside a fence. Extremely lucky to be alive, Blaine discovered that he was uninjured. In fact, he didn't even appear to have any scrapes or cuts. He must have been going slower than the thought when he lost control. The burning chemical had nearly driven him crazy, so it was no wonder he didn't know how fast he was going.

As he thought that, Blaine realized that the burning had nearly subsided. Only a slight tingling remained. “I wonder what the hell that was,” he thought. “I suppose I need to go to a hospital and make sure I'm not poisoned or something.” Reaching for the fence as he stood up, he thought, “If I ever get my hands on that driver …” Just then he touched the fence.

His brain exploded in a kaleidoscope of pain. The fence was electrified. Once again, Blaine's whole body seemed to be on fire. His head swam, and he couldn't tell whether he had let go of the fence or not. The excruciating pain probably lasted only a few seconds—certainly not more than a minute—but to Blaine it seemed to go on for hours. Eventually the pain began to subside, and his head began to clear. “Where the hell am I?” he thought. “Did I get delirious and wander off somewhere?” Looking around, he saw mountains in the distance, plains stretching around him, and a little path at his feet. And he also realized that he was naked. “What the fuck?!” he exclaimed. His mind raced: “How did I get this way? How am I going to get home?”

At about this time Blaine saw something coming towards him along the path. Something very small, and he couldn't tell what it was. Before it came within reach, it slowed down, then stopped. As he watched, it seemed to make a three-point turn and begin heading in the other direction. Something about the way it moved didn't seem right. It didn't act like an animal, he thought. “It moved like … a car!” Curious, he wanted to see what it was. Whatever it was, it was too slow to get away. He overtook the tiny object in two strides, then reached down and picked it up. What he saw was amazing. It *was* a car! But it was tiny. He held it easily between his thumb and forefinger. Even more amazing, he could see a tiny occupant inside. If the little guy stood up, he couldn't be more than three quarters of an inch tall. But how could that be? Dumbfounded, Blaine crouched to take a look at the trail. Looking closer, he saw that it appeared to be covered with asphalt, and it was marked like a road. Then it dawned on him: It *was* a road! In fact, it was the same road he was on when he had his accident. Somehow the chemical, the shock—and maybe the supplement he was taking—had all acted together to turn him into a giant. Judging by the size of the car and the road, he must be a hundred times his original height.

Taking a couple steps back to where he stood when he came out of his daze, Blaine crouched and peered at the ground. A shiny piece of metal caught his eye. It was his motorcycle, but that it had been flattened. Crushed like a tiny toy, it sat in the heel of a huge footprint—his footprint. He had crushed his own motorcycle just by stepping on it, and he hadn't even realized it. He hadn't even felt it. Scattered nearby, but also embedded in the footprint were the shredded remains of his clothes. “Well, that explains what happened to them,” he thought. Fortunately for him, Blaine wasn't shy; he knew he was in terrific shape, and being naked didn't bother him too much. Plus, at this size he figured he was pretty damn impressive, and he didn't care what anybody else thought.

Picking at his motorcycle with his fingernail, Blaine pried it out of the footprint and held it up to see. Totalled. At this size it wasn't any use to him anyway, but he still loved that bike. In disgust, he threw it aside, where it flew hundreds of feet through the air before it crashed to the ground. On the other hand, as angry as he was about losing the motorcycle, he was excited about being a giant. He had always been a small guy, and even though he was built and never lacked self-confidence, he always wanted to be bigger. Well, now he was bigger all right. Nobody and nothing even came close. Now he could set all the rules, and if anybody crossed him … watch out. Thinking of how easily he destroyed the motorcycle triggered a rush of excitement tinged with aggression. And then he remembered the car he was holding in his hand.

Holding the car up to eye level, Blaine could see that the driver was nearly crazed with panic. When Blaine's huge visage stared through the windshield at him, the guy frantically attempted to open the driver's-side door—though for no logical reason. If he escaped from the car, he would plummet hundreds of feet to his death. Plus, Blaine's thumb covered most of the driver's side, making it impossible for the guy to open the door.

The driver's panic only amused Blaine. When the guy frantically banged on the door, trying to get out, Blaine gave the car a slight squeeze. The side windows shattered, metal groaned, and the sides of the car started to cave in. As the door beside him pressed inward, the guy frantically retreated as far from it as he could.


As Blaine's words rattled the car, the terrorized driver's field of vision lurched wildly, and his stomach flipped as Blaine lifted the car skyward. The next thing he saw was a pair of enormous lips. He was right in front of Blaine's cavernous mouth, which could easily engulf his car. As that terrifying thought flashed through his mind, a monstrous wall of tongue thrust out and spread across the car as Blaine licked it. The gold stud in his tongue was the size of a car tire, and it dented the hood as it slammed into it. The horrified driver watched helplessly as Blaine's tongue swept along the top of the car, completely covering the windshield. The gold stud scraped up the hood and along the glass, and then suddenly the tongue was gone, leaving the hood and windshield glistening with saliva. Soon after, the world outside the car again spun crazily. The driver was roughly thrown around until the car suddenly jolted to a violent stop. He gave silent thanks that he was wearing his seatbelt, or he would have been seriously injured by this point. With his hands braced againt the dash, the driver looked out and saw that his car was resting on a broad, fleshy plain—the palm of Blaine's hand. He warily watched the tree-sized fingers in the distance. The enormous digits curved majestically—almost gracefully—upwards, yet he knew that any one of them could crush his car far easier and more thoroughly than a wrecking ball. He felt like a sitting duck, but what could he do? Even if he got out of the car, how would he escape? The thought made him start hyperventilating.

Staring at the car he held in his palm, Blaine had never felt such a rush of power. It used to be that nearly every guy was taller than him. Now the average six-foot guy was just three-fourths of an inch tall to him. He held an entire car like a tiny toy. And he could see the guy inside hyperventilating in terror. “OH RELAX,” said Blaine. “I'M NOT GONNA EAT YOU.” Pausing for a few seconds, he continued, “I'M JUST GONNA CRUSH YOU INSTEAD.”

Inside the car, the driver couldn't see Blaine's face, but the giant's words rattled the car. And when he heard what Blaine said, the driver's blood froze, and he wet himself in terror. In mortal dread he watched the huge fingers at the end of the palm that held him, waiting for them to curl toward him and crush him. However, they didn't move. But suddenly out of nowhere, a finger about two yards wide crashed down onto the hood of his car. The driver yelled in abject terror as Blaine crushed the front of the car against his palm, causing the rear of the car to fly up into the air, throwing the driver forward onto the steering wheel. For several seconds, the enormous finger twisted back and forth just outside the cracked windshield, grinding flat the entire front of the car. Then suddenly the giant finger lifted, and the car crashed back down onto his palm. The front of the car was destroyed, crushed beyond recognition. Various parts and fragments lay scattered around on Blaine's palm.

Blaine peered through the windshield and grinned. “HOW YOU DOIN' IN THERE?” he asked, entertained by the guy's terror. “YOU GOT ENOUGH LEG ROOM?” After pausing for a second, he said, “HOW ABOUT NOW?” Clamping his index finger on the trunk and his thumb on what was left of the front, he squeezed. Metal screeched and buckled, and inside the car the driver frantically put his seat back as far as it would go. Even so, when Blaine stopped squeezing, the steering wheel was pinning him painfully to the seat, and shooting pain in his legs told him that they might be broken. The car itself was roughly square now, the front and rear ends having been severely compressed. “NOW YOU'VE GOT A REAL COMPACT CAR,” Blaine joked wryly. “YOU OK IN THERE?” he asked mockingly.

“Please,” yelled the driver. “Just let me out!”


At that, the driver frantically pulled at the unresponsive door handle with his left hand, and pounded and wrenched at the steering wheel with his right. But it was futile. With all his might he couldn't even budge any part of the car that Blaine had so effortlessly compacted with just a squeeze of his fingers.

Blaine watched the guy's struggles for about a minute with a mixture of amusement and contempt. “CAN'T DO IT, HUH?” he said. When the driver began pleading again, Blaine said unemotionally, “YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE. IF YOU CAN'T GET OUT, THAT'S YOUR FAULT.” Then, as the driver screamed, fingers the size of tree trunks closed on the helpless car. With one squeeze of his immensely powerful fist, Blaine turned it into a scrap of metal, entombing the driver's corpse somewhere inside. Staring at the twisted wreckage in his palm with a sneer of contempt, Blaine's pulse raced when he thought of how easy it was to destroy it. After savoring the sensation a few seconds, he dropped the wreckage onto the road hundreds of feet below where it landed with a tremendous crash. Grinding the remains into the asphalt under his foot, he headed off in search of the truck that splashed him.

It didn't take long for Blaine to catch up to the truck. Jogging beside the road, he covered an enormous distance in no time, his gigantic feet pounding deep, thirty-yard-long craters into the ground with each stride. Since the road was sparsely traveled, it was easy to spot the truck traveling along it. When he neared it, he decided to show off a little and scare the driver shitless. He launched into a tumbling pass, turning handsprings as he passed the truck and got ahead of it. Landing perfectly on his feet, he turned and straddled the road facing the oncoming truck. He smirked as he imagined what that must have looked like—and felt like—to the startled truck driver as he thundered past.

He could see that the driver was trying to stop the truck, although with such a heavy load it was difficult for him. And even if he managed to stop and miraculously turn his rig around, there was still no way he could escape. To ensure that, Blaine planted one gigantic foot on the highway, blocking it completely. At that, the driver braked even harder and the truck began to skid, eventually jolting to a full stop when it slammed into Blaine's unmoving toes. “IT'S TIME SOMEONE TAUGHT YOU SOME MANNERS,” he thundered. Moving his foot so that his big toe rested on the cab of the truck, he said, “GET OUT.” When there was no movement below him, he pressed down slightly with his toe, which was bigger than the cab. He could have crushed it instantly, but he pressed slowly, to give the driver a chance to escape. Sure enough, in the next instant he saw a tiny figure sprint away from beneath his toe. Satisfied, he pressed down hard and instantly flattened the cab, then turned his attention to the driver.

The guy was sprinting, but it was hopelessly obvious that he had no chance to escape. It would have taken him at least seven seconds just to sprint the length of Blaine's foot. With one step Blaine overtook him and slammed a building-sized foot down in front of him to block his path. The shock wave knocked the guy down, and before he could get up Blaine demanded, “WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?” He could hear the driver saying something, but he couldn't make out the words, and he didn't care. He reached down and picked the guy up none too gently. The trucker screamed in pain as he was half pinned, half crushed, between Blaine's enormous fingers. Dropping him roughly into his palm, Blaine could faintly hear the guy moaning in pain and terror.


“Please,” begged the trucker. “I didn't mean to. Just let me go!”


Not sure what to say, but definitely not wanting to make Blaine mad, the driver didn't say anything. He cowered in Blaine's palm, trembling in fear, knowing that the immense, muscled god who held him could crush him like a bug.

“I SUPPOSE I COULD MAKE YOU A SLAVE,” Blaine continued. “IT MIGHT BE COOL TO HAVE SOME BUGS LIKE YOU GROVELING AT MY FEET.” He paused and let the guy sweat for a while. Then, crouching, he roughly dumped him out of his hand onto the road. His voice hammered the trucker's eardrums: “I'M LETTING YOU GO. CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY. NOW GET OUT OF MY SIGHT.”

As the little guy took off running, Blaine stood and watched his slow progress. When the guy was several Blaine-sized strides away, he shouted a deafening, “HEY!” Startled, the trucker stopped and turned around. “I RECONSIDERED,” said Blaine. “I DECIDED TO SQUASH YOU AFTER ALL. UNLESS YOU CAN OUTRUN ME, YOU'VE GOT ABOUT FIVE SECONDS TO LIVE.”

His heart in his throat, the trucker turned and sprinted with renewed desperation. But Blaine covered the length of a football field with each stride, and the trucker could feel each earth-shaking footstep getting closer. Suddenly there was a tremendous rush of air overhead, and the sun was blotted out as Blaine's foot overshadowed him. He barely had time to open his mouth to scream before the foot slammed down and crushed him into oblivion.

After executing the trucker, Blaine didn't give him a second thought. Turning his attention back to the truck, he mused, “I wonder if this stuff will make me grow any more.” Picking up the tanker like a travel-size tube of toothpaste, he held it over his chest. With a squeeze he ruptured the steel tanker, sending hundreds of gallons of the mysterious chemical cascading onto his pecs. To Blaine, the contents of the tanker didn't amount to much, but he rubbed it all over his torso like tanning lotion, feeling some of the same burning that he felt before. But his height didn't change. Puzzled, he reasoned, “When I grew, it was after I got shocked on that fence. Maybe I need electricity, too.” Remembering the pain he felt last time, he took a deep breath, bent over, and grabbed the power lines running beside the road. They broke like cobwebs between his fingers and sent out showers of sparks, but he hardly felt anything more than a brief, tiny shock. Even after holding the broken lines for over a minute, nothing happened. Frustrated and disappointed, he thought, “I guess I'm maxed-out. Still, I'm pretty awesome already.” Grinning, he reached down and ripped up a lone cottonwood tree beside the road. His enormous hand encircled the huge trunk like it was a mere twig. Snapping the tree into pieces and grinding it to splinters in his hands, he thought, “Nobody better mess with me!”

With a rakish grin, Blaine followed the path-like highway toward the nearest town. He could have walked beside it, but he enjoyed walking on the road itself because of the damage it did. Each step destroyed a huge section of the road. It cracked like eggshell under his foot, and his heels pounded huge, impassable craters in it. The highway was sparsely traveled, but he summarily pulverized each of the few hapless vehicles he met. Since he could easily crush an entire house under his foot, cars and pickups were nothing more than bugs. After he passed, all that remained of them was a ragged wafer of metal inside a colossally huge footprint. “This is so frickin' cool,” he thought. “I can't wait until I get to a city.”

Nearing a small town where the highway became Main Street, Blaine paused and announced, “TAKE COVER, EVERYBODY! I'M THE BIGGEST, BUFFEST, BADDEST GUY AROUND, AND I'M GONNA DO SOME DAMAGE!” Seeing the flashing lights of a sheriff's car approaching at his feet, he bent down and picked it up, grinning at the astonished townsfolk who gaped at him in awe. Not taking his eyes from the crowd, he effortlessly crushed the car with one hand, extinguishing the flashing lights and cutting off the siren with a sudden, pathetic squawk. Hurling the remains of the car through the side of a nearby house, he challenged, “STOP ME IF YOU CAN!”

When Blaine took a step forward, the transfixed townsfolk suddenly came alive. The people who were outside when he arrived suddenly began yelling, screaming, and running around in confusion. Some rushed towards their homes, others towards their cars, and others into nearby buildings for cover. For his part, Blaine got a real rush from the panic the mere sight of him caused. As a car pulled out right in front of him, he gave it a kick. Most of it shattered on impact, but a few of the heavier portions arced through the air to land many blocks away.

Wanting to try again, Blaine nudged a parked car out into the street. It was parked beside the narrow sidewalk in front of a one-story brick building. To get at the car, Blaine wiped out the brick building with one swipe of his foot, instantly turning it into rubble. Now he had plenty of room. Shaking a few loose bricks off his foot, he nudged the car away from the sidewalk and into the street. It was nearly totaled by the time it rolled to a stop in the center of the street. This time he kicked it soccer-style. Again, most of the car shattered on impact, but the engine and frame sailed through the air to land on a house several blocks off Main Street.

Crouching, Blaine scooped up a handful of dusty bricks from the building he had just leveled and hurled them at a row of buildings across the street. To him the bricks were tiny pebbles, but at street level, the bricks shattered windows, dented cars, and were lethal projectiles to anyone caught in the open. The building only provided him with one handful of bricks, so he demolished the neighboring one-story brick building with his bare hands. Cupping his hands around the front and back, he bulldozed it inward. Scooping up a handful of bricks and assorted rubble, he saw a few people caught in the wreckage. The ones that he saw he flicked out of his hand with an enormous index finger, sending them to fall dozens of feet to their deaths—though he didn't care about them in the least. This handful of bricks he flung at the opposite end of Main Street, where about a dozen cars were streaming out of town. The deadly hail of bricks struck down a few pedestrians, but most of them struck buildings or damaged cars. Several cars careened out of control and crashed as bricks smashed through their windows.

Not seeing much else of interest at this end of Main Street, Blaine stood up, destroying another building in the process by smashing it under his hand as he got to his feet. Seeing some more people attempting to escape at the far end of the street, he kicked another nearby building, sending more bricks and debris raining down in their direction.

Taking another step forward, he nonchalantly crushed several more cars without even noticing. It was so easy that he didn't even pay attention any more. He was used to the crunch of metal and glass beneath his feet, and he didn't notice whether the cars were parked, or whether they were trying to escape and were unluckily in his path. Many unlucky drivers and pedestrians met their demise under the sole of Blaine's foot. Their deaths would have been even more ignominious had they known that Blaine didn't even realize—or care—that he had squashed them, any more than stepping on an ant.

On his left, Blaine saw the local volunteer fire department building. Finally, something different! Crouching down, he poked two fingers through the big front doors and peeled away the front of the building. Inside, he saw two fire trucks. Awesome! There didn't seem to be any firemen inside, but there probably weren't any full-time firemen in a town this size. Reaching inside, he grabbed a fire truck and pulled it out. It was quite a bit bigger than a car, but it still sat easily in his hand. Shiny and red, the detail was amazing. He tried to move the ladder on it, but he succeeded only in breaking it. “Oh well,” he thought. There was another one. Tossing the first fire truck aside to land with a heavy crash, he nabbed the other one. Like the first, it was covered in amazing detail—not surprising, since it was the real thing, though at Blaine's size it was a tiny miniature. He was able to carefully unwind the threadlike hose, but unable to do much else. And he accidentally snapped off the ladder on this one, too. He was about to toss it aside when he had an idea. Positioning the two trucks on their sides, he was able to block one end of Main Street with them. He didn't have any particular goal in mind, but it gave him an even bigger advantage to restrict the people's movement, so he did it. After he placed the fire trucks across the street, there was no way anybody else was moving them without some heavy equipment. He decided to leave the rest of the fire department intact, but he destroyed the next-door building with a single blow from his fist, just to even the score.

Seized by the desire to show off some more—though why he should want to show off to these puny runts, or how he could be more impressive than he already was, he didn't know—Blaine put his hands on the ground and effortlessly elevated into a handstand. Grinning, he walked on his hands the rest of the way down Main Street, occasionally pausing and balancing on a single hand while flicking a car through a storefront window with the other. Soon he had reached the other end of Main Street, where the buildings ended and it reverted to the highway again. Coming down out of his handstand, he crushed most of a small grocery store under one foot, and wiped out most of the cars in the parking lot with the other. Looking down, he decided to finish the job, and swept his foot through the remainder of the grocery store, sending canned goods, bottles, and all manner of groceries flying through the air and scattering them throughout the neighborhood. Out of several bodies lying in the wreckage, one man was relatively unharmed.

“HEY YOU,” thundered Blaine. “GIMME SOME APPLES.” He lowered his open palm with a crash, compressing the debris beneath it. The frightened man limped around and gathered as many apples as he could, then reached up to dump them into Blaine's hand. After giving Blaine several dozen apples, the man indicated that he couldn't find any more. “IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?” asked Blaine.

The man cringed and said yes.

“OK,” said Blaine. “THAT'LL DO FOR NOW.” Lifting his palm, he saw that the apples didn't look any bigger than poppyseeds in his hand. Hardly enough for a taste, let alone a mouthful. Shrugging, he licked them out of his palm. They were so tiny they really didn't need chewing, but at least he got a little apple taste that way.

Out of the corner of his eye Blaine saw the man trying to sneak away unnoticed. “GET BACK HERE!” Blaine boomed. Scared out of his wits, the man complied. “WE'RE GOING BACK TO YOUR PLACE,” he said as he lowered his hand to the gound. It slammed down beside the man, crushing flat an overturned freezer and some other rubble beneath its weight. “GET IN,” he commanded. The man clambered up onto a pile of rubble and half jumped, half fell, into Blaine's hand. When he was in, Blaine stood, the G-forces nearly making the guy in his hand pass out. “WHICH WAY TO YOUR HOUSE?” he asked.

Of course, Blaine had no way of knowing whether the guy was telling the truth, and he really didn't care. But the guy was too scared to lie, thinking that Blaine would somehow know if he was, and would squash him like a bug. At least if he told the truth, he'd stay alive a while longer.

“That way,” said the guy, pointing to a house about eight blocks away. “The green house with the red car parked out front.

As soon as he said that, Blaine started off, cutting directly through the town to get there. With each step, his gargantuan foot swooshed through the air and knocked over trees, snapped power lines, and demolished houses. Several homes were destroyed as he either stepped down directly on them, or else disintegrated as he drove his foot through them. Nothing in his path remained standing. At a gradeschool halfway to his destination, a little girl was alone on the playground after school. Swinging happily, she was oblivious to the destruction of the town around her. Suddenly a huge shadow fell over the playground, and not more than fifty feet away a titanic foot crashed down. The playground shook violently as most of the school was destroyed beneath Blaine's foot. Then, as the little girl kept swinging, his immense foot rocked forward and whooshed ponderously away, leaving only rubble and a cloud of dust where the school once stood. As his foot swooshed away, it smashed a slide to bits and destroyed a basketball hoop, hitting the steel poles and bending them parallel to the ground. And through all this, the little girl kept swinging.

When they arrived at the house, Blaine lowered his hand and let the man jump down. “NICE CAR,” said Blaine, pointing to the red Mustang. Then he suddenly smashed his fist down on it, crushing it and shattering the concrete driveway beneath. “NOW IT'S GARBAGE. LET'S SEE WHAT YOU'VE GOT IN HERE.” With his huge fingers he poked a hole in the roof and began peeling it away.

“Stop! That's my house! Don't do that!” shouted the man.

“YOU TELLIN' ME WHAT TO DO?” challenged Blaine with a glare.

“No sir! I'm sorry!” the man groveled.

“I DIDN'T THINK SO,” said Blaine. “AH! HERE'S THE FRIDGE.” Reaching in, he lifted out the refrigerator, which looked the size of a domino in his fingers. Setting it down in the driveway, he said, “GIMME WHATEVER FRUIT YOU'VE GOT IN THERE.”

The man quickly opened the fridge and began dumping all the fruit—and even a few vegetables—into Blaine's open hand. But he found even less than there was at the grocery store.

“THAT'S IT?” said Blaine. When the man fearfully nodded yes, he said, “I SHOULD'VE KNOWN YOU WOULDN'T HAVE AS MUCH AS THE STORE. OH WELL.” He licked the meager snack out of his hand, then brought his thumb down on the fridge. The man jumped back out of the way as Blaine scrunched the fridge beneath his thumb. “BETTER THAN NOTHIN',” he said. “AND NO HARM DONE,” he added with a smirk, tossing the crushed refrigerator back inside the ruined house.

He was about to get up when a couple of police cars drove up, sirens wailing. An officer got out of each car and stood behind the door with a pistol pointed at Blaine. One spoke through a loudspeaker: “We don't want any trouble, mister. Just get up nice and slow, and then walk out of town without hurting anybody.”

Blaine stared at them with an amused, dangerous look. “AND WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO IF I TELL YOU TO FUCK OFF?”

“Sir,” said the nervous cop, “Just do as we say, and nobody gets hurt.”

“I WOULDN'T BE SO SURE OF THAT,” said Blaine. As he reached toward the nearest car, both cops started firing. Blaine couldn't even feel their bullets. Laughing derisively, he flicked the first cop with a finger about as wide as the cop was tall, instantly killing him and sending his limp body flying. It crashed into a house across the street and slumped to the ground. Grabbing the police car, Blaine crushed it and flung it at the other cop, who dived out of the way just before it struck his car. The wreckage of the first car smashed into the second, totalling it and driving it back several feet. The cop hadn't had time to pick himself up off the ground when he saw that Blaine was now standing.

“I THINK I WILL LEAVE TOWN, OFFICER … EVENTUALLY. AND THOSE GUNS ARE PATHETIC. *THIS* IS HOW YOU BACK UP A THREAT …” Saying that, Blaine swung his foot over the cop who began screaming and firing impotently at the vast, impenetrable sole descending upon him. Slamming his foot down in a crushing blow that shook the neighborhood, Blaine pulverized the cop, then set about methodically destroying the town house by house. Some he kicked apart, others he crushed in their entirety beneath a colossal foot. Sometimes he chased down and crushed the fleeing inhabitants, and other times he let them go. But eventually he got bored with it all. For a challenge, he did another effortless handstand and walked through town for a while on his hands, crushing houses that way. But eventually that, too, got boring, even before he was halfway through the town.

“Screw this,” he thought. “This oughta be fun, not work.” Vaulting back to his feet—smashing another house and cushing several fleeing people in the process—he took one last pass down Main Street, demolishing every last building there, just to leave a “small” reminder of himself. And then he left town.

But where would he go next? Blaine didn't know. Maybe roam around for a while. Maybe find out what chemical was in that tanker and see if he could find more. Maybe head back to the training center and show everybody his newfound power. Now that he thought about it, he still had a case of his training supplement there, and maybe that was part of the secret to his growth. “Either way,” he thought, “I think those guys deserve to see the new me.” And with that, he thundered off towards the training center.

More Like This

 Looking for stories 

Got one you want to share? Send it in.

 Commissions are open 

Want a BRK story? Find out more.