Heavenhook

© 2004 D.N. Bluth
All rights reserved.

Fitness centers smell the same. Blends of toxic disinfectants override the pungent smell of sweat mixed with body odor leached into vinyl upholstery. Gerald Crumm knew the smell. He contributed to the smell.

This was another first-return visit to the Red Zone fitness center. He had forgotten how many times he had shelled out the cash to enroll in advertised special offers. He knew the statistics. He fit the profile for signing up for membership then vanishing into self-deprivation after a week or two. Fitness clubs loved him. He was a real moneymaker for the fitness industry, sort of a cash cow in every sense of the word. Another year membership meant twelve more hits on his credit card. Each hit was a reminder of personal failure. His credit card company efficiently reminded him the first week of each month that he was a loser.

Gerald vowed things would change this time. He maneuvered his rusted '68 Dodge Dart into the darkened parking structure below the fitness club and killed the engine. The walk up the faux pebbled stairs took exactly eighteen steps. Gerald had counted them many times before. Courageously, he waddled into an arena where the majority of patrons seem to have been clipped from the pages of sporty flesh magazines. He had never adapted to the stares he received nor come to terms with the gestured insults flashed his way. Yet, determination grew from somewhere within. Middle age spread unmercifully assaulted Gerald. Unfortunately, it had attacked a decade and a half earlier than actual middle age.

This time, he would transform his unforgiving likeness into a cherished social commodity.

Crumm had the fitness routine memorized. Light stretching before exercise prevented injury. Moderation was the key (he had been told) to effective physical training. He laughed silently. All the jargon was too familiar. Gerald knew and detested most of the personal trainers in the surrounding three zip codes.

Where do these guys come from? Gerald mused silently. There's got to be a steroid zoo near by. The zoo must be missing a few its freaks.

Gerald was determined to do it alone this time. No paid pep squad. No hooting and hollering from some guy with muscles ripping through his cheesecloth tank top. No motivational slogans or meaningless one-liners slung randomly from these ballooned up buffalos. No putrid sulfur-tinged breath or festering body odor that had been masked with a cheap cologne marketed with some exotic or erotic name. This time, Gerald was doing it alone.

His stubby salt-and-pepper goatee itched more than usual. A nervous reaction to stress no doubt, Gerald rationalized. He zipped his club card through the magnetic reader at the check-in desk, mustered up a huge breath, measurably exhaled, and then uncomfortably stepped into the workout hall.

Row after row of blue vinyl exercise machines lined the industrial-grade gray checkered carpeted floor. Low ceiling lights hung in neat rows down both sides of the hall. Gerald's heart began to race at the sight of the glitzy metal mixed in between the groups of muscle-toned patrons. The piped-in upbeat music stiffened the rhythm of his heartbeat. Pods of patrons socially hovered at individual exercise stations. The constant rhythm of metal banging on metal, synchronized with human grunts and sighs, electrified the fitness center.

Palming his thinning brown hair, Gerald checked to see if his throbbing head had somehow become detached. His oversized gray sweat pants felt like skintight leotards on a bullish ballerina. He felt exposed. Every eye in the hall seemed to fixate on his fat, undisciplined body. Sweat rolled off his bright red checks, soaking into his faded gray tee-shirt. Anxiety soared to a new crescendo.

Gerald desperately gasped for air. There was none. Instinctively all his phobias gelled, then slashed into a blackened spiraling vortex. He turned his back, pushed the exit door wide open, and bolted through, labouringly gasping for air.

He gripped the handrail, knees weak and heart pounding erratically; then staggered down the steps toward the parking structure. The Dodge Dart slumped in the far shadowed corner. Gerald winched the door open, crouched under the steering wheel, and turned the key. The worn engine growled into a low off-beat rumble.

Safe back inside his home, Gerald punished himself as he undressed, tossing his workout clothes on the floor His lunch break had been a complete downer. Refusing to look at himself in the mirror, Gerald quickly dressed in his day attire and headed to his office.

He didn't have far to go. He worked at home editing manuscripts for several small no-name publishers. He called himself a 'proofer.' He hated the job, but it meant a paycheck. He was good at correcting others' mistakes, but that was where it ended. Gerald didn't mix with real people. Real people didn't mix with Gerald. He knew the formula; not mixing with people appeased his strange sense of belonging.

His disheveled office invaded the far corner of a ground-floor studio apartment. A fax machine balanced on the top of a thirteen-inch black-and-white Magnavox television that nudged up next to a row of cluttered filing cabinets. The television permanently secreted a low, static-laced babble, since the plastic on-off-volume knob had long ago disappeared. The Vox, as Gerald fondly referred to it, was his connection to the outside.

It was difficult to distinguish where office ended and living space began. It didn't matter. No one would be coming over. No one ever did, unless it was a scheduled food delivery service.

Bridled with his latest emotional defeat, he sat down to a partially edited manuscript. Defeat infected his psyche like a festering splinter lodged deep in his gut. Each new jab birthed a new level of anxiety. On the plus side, Gerald had mastered all most all known strategies for classifying rejection.

The fitness center experience had been exhausting. Gerald branded his psyche with a big 'L', for loser. Concentrating on work was impossible. Gerald wrestled with his chair, trying to squeeze his large frame between the arm rests and onto a wafer-thin rotting cushion. Comfort eluded him. Focusing on his work became his primary challenge. He yawned in disgust, leaned forward toward his desk, and sank his pounding head into pudgy criss-crossed arms.

The muffled monotone drone from the Vox bathed his mind with familiar sounds. The only human voices inside the apartment, other than his own, came from that black thirteen-inch companion.

"Step up and live!" came the jab from the infomercial pitch. The sensual tone of a woman's voice bit into Gerald's mental refrain. He tipped his pudgy head to one side in its fleshy nest and focused on the Vox. She was speaking to him.

"It's new! Guaranteed to transform you!" she continued. Gerald immediately bought into to her.

"Heavenhook will change your life. One capsule before each workout and watch the change!" She pitched the product in a soft and lusty tone. "Real ... real men," she logistically paused to flick her blonde shoulder-length hair to one side while sensually stroking her long shimmering fingernails down a slender bikinied body, "can have this ... this body in two weeks or less!"

Gerald sat up. The toll-free number scrolled across the screen, inviting an immediate reaction.

Information is power! Gerald reasoned. A call just for information couldn't.... Searching, he found the telephone under a pyramid of soy sauce packets and napkins, and dialed the number.

Distantly, a faint ring echoed back through the line. Gerald neurotically counted the rings. Three ... four ... five! He nodded impatiently at each ring.

"Thank you for calling Heavenhook Industries," came a cold computer-generated voice. Gerald cringed, then complied with the mechanical commands, pressing three on the keypad to speak with an associate.

"This is Andrea. With whom am I speaking?"

"Gerald!" He struggled to recall his full name.

"Gerald!" a pleasant female voice coaxed him onward. "Do you have a Sir name?

"Crumm! Gerald Crumm." Gerald's mind whirred with delightful confusion.

Patiently Andrea added, "Can I help you change your life?"

If you really knew! he thought, squirming uncomfortably in his skin.

"Let me change your life." The gentle voice on the telephone continued. "I have what you need."

"How do you know what do I need?" Gerald shot back. This was getting weird.

"You would like to change your image." She toyed, then teased. "Otherwise you wouldn't have called. Would you?"

Gerald's immediate impulse was to hang up. He couldn't. Something in her magnetic voice kept him on the line.

"I'd like to send you a gift. A free sample! It's a new product named Heavenhook," she continued. "You have been trying to change how you look ... you know, your appearance right? Haven't you?"

Gerald was stunned. He had to give her credit. Her sales strategy was aggressive, yet flirted with sensitivity.

"What's your product?" he responded.

"It's a supplement," she said. "Two capsule before each workout. That's it!" She paused strategically to let the information sink in. "If you are happy with what you are and how you look, I'll hang up right now," Andrea whispered sensually.

"No! Don't," he said. She had him snagged. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," she replied, "Heavenhook is designed to support the unique desires of our special clients ... like you; with special needs."

"It's free?"

"Free if it's not what you want," Andrea answered.

"Huh?"

"If you like the results," she paused, "we'll negotiate costs later."

"What's the risk?"

"Risk is up to you, Mr. Crumm. Either you can risk change or risk remaining as you are. It is your choice." Her voice tapered to a hush.

The phone line was silent except for her soft low breathing at the distant end.

"I'm in!" Gerald shot back. Desperate times dictated desperate ventures.

"I'll send your order of Heavenhook, Mr. Crumm. All the information will be included. Just read the literature in the packing box. It will explain the..."

"When should I expect it?" he cut in.

"By tomorrow morning."

"Overnight air, huh?" Gerald playfully asked, trying to keep her on the line.

"Kind of like that. Thank you for ordering Heavenhook."

The line went dead. Her gentle voice evaporated with a click.

Morning came on schedule. A small brown box sat just outside Gerald's screen door. Hesitating a bit at first, he looked at the box and wondered which express service ever delivered before seven. The thought vanished as he picked up the box.

The contents were nothing special: a bottle of small bluish capsules with a few crumpled sheets of paper and a hand-scribbled note from Andrea reminding him to take two capsules before each workout session. Since details bored him, Gerald scrapped the box and literature on his desk, then headed to the kitchenette. Pouring a large class of Pepsi-Cola, he downed two capsules, then headed to change into his workout clothes. Gerald had a plan; a plan to begin a new chapter in his miserable life.

The old red Dart crawled through the back alley, skirting the graffiti-crusted brick wall that opened into a maze of concrete pillars that supported the parking structure. Gerald killed the engine, elbowed the door open, and shimmied his bulky frame out.

The steps up to the Red Zone seemed less challenging. He wrote this sensation off as a mere psychological perk compliments of the little bluish capsules. Once inside the workout hall, Gerald felt different. He felt an unfamiliar sense of confidence. Immediately, he mounted the first open treadmill and programmed the machine into a slow jog speed. His goatee did not itch.

The treadmill's whir kept pace with the loud beat of the reverberating in-house music. Gerald plodded in syncopation, driving each heavy step into the never-ending cycling black mat. He never noticed that the sweat pouring off his double chin bled straight through his tee shirt, trickled over and down his melon-shaped belly, through his crotch toward his bulging legs, and exited just above the tops of his tattered Adidas soft-sole shoes. A salty, steamy puddle of juice pooled along the edges of the treadmill. Gerald's eyes were fixed. His pace was set. A new energy flowed through his body. An energy he had never experienced.

His mind raced with the possibilities of what he could become. A new man, maybe? A new anything would be a blessed relief.

Off to his left, Gerald spotted a young couple working at a nearby exercise rack. She looked inviting in her lavender body suit with thin shoulder straps. It was evident that the medical profession had perfected her bustline and all the important curves on her body. Gerald studied her body like road map. He traced one line after another, visually mapping a discovery tour across her young, tight body. Her partner, dressed in a jade green short Nike duo, enjoyed her company too much. Mr. Green Shorts strutted between the workout machines, flexing each exaggerated movement.

Envy crawled through Gerald's groin and burrowed into his gut. Ms. Lavender deserved more than she was getting. The green Nike man was definitely too flaccid to be with such a trophy. Gerald fantasized about replacing him as her partner. He glared at the man in green.

OH! Got'cha? Got'cha? he mused, tapping his right temple with an extended right middle finger. Things do happen! Things ... happen! Gerald slipped into a chasm of 'what-ifs' as he jaunted up the treadmill mat. Time slipped by unnoticed as he visually stalked his new lavender vision and her unworthy partner.

Enough! Enough! Exhausted but alert, Gerald stepped off the machine, leaving damp sweaty imprints with each step as he headed toward the exit. Visions of the pretty young woman dressed in lavender filled his mind. Over an hour had slipped by. Gotta get back to work! It was time to go.

Gerald strategically wedged under the steering wheel, then exhaled like a ruptured bicycle tire. The engine stirred with a smooth roar. He never noticed the ambulance rolling up to the steps at the Red Zone with its lights strobing and rebounding off the structures. He accelerated his machine along the dirty brick wall, through the exit and on to the tree-lined avenue.

Gerald's workspace seemed unusually cramped. He had never stopped to realize how small his office was. Perhaps it was the papers stacked in piles tilting every which way that gave this impression. He slung his wet workout gear over the shower curtain rod. There was no hurry to get back to his proofing. His mind was alive, invigorated, and buzzing. It felt different. It felt good.

But with each passing minute, his concentration diminished. Gerald fumbled through the clutter littering his desk. The Heavenhook packaging teetered at the brink. He retrieved the bottle and rummaged through its innards, unraveling a crumpled scrap of paper labeled CAUTION. Other than the heading, both sides were blank. Turning the oddity from side to side, he confirmed his perception of the ineptitude of the printing industry.

Competing thoughts shifted between his proofing task and the lady in lavender. That unworthy little man who'd clutched such a trophy slashed through his head like crushed glass glued into the brim of a tight-fitting baseball cap. Fixating on the flaccid man in green shorts, Gerald licked his middle finger, then poked it lightly into his soft throbbing temple.

POW! POW! The words echoed silently. Punishing agendas ricocheted through his mind, each targeting that little flaccid man.

Fragrant thoughts of Ms. Lavender reenergized his spirit. He felt compelled to return to the Red Zone. Maybe ... just maybe she would be there!

"Nonsense!" he argued. "I just got back. People like me don't do this!"

Nevertheless, in a matter of minutes, the need to return won. Gerald pulled the dripping gray clothing lump off the shower curtain rod, slid into the cold, slimy apparel, and headed out the door. Suddenly he stopped. Heavenhook! Two before each workout!

Retracing his steps, he shook a pair of new friends loose from their bottled prison. He downed the capsules with a Pepsi chaser and headed for his car.

His drenched workout gear stuck to his portly frame, but it did seem a little looser. As the old Dart pulled into the darkened parking structure, Gerald's energy level began to soar. The car's engine tightened and flexed, lurching confidently to a stop. He switched off the key. The engine did not respond; rather it pulsed in perfect harmony with each beat of Gerald's heart. Leaning heavily on the door, he forced an opening and crawled out. The engine died.

Forgetting to count, Gerald bounced up the stairs and passed through the check-in desk. A group of paramedics huddled in distant corner over what appeared to be an emergency. Next to the cluster stood the lavender lady, sobbing relentlessly. Gerald moved closer to the huddle. Peace officers kept the onlookers back while paramedics pumped the patron's chest. It was that little man with green shorts. Lavender lady dropped to both knees, cupping her hands to her mouth. She sobbed hysterically as the medic pulled a white sheet over the flaccid man's face.

"What happened?" Gerald queried a passing patron.

"The man dropped dead!"

"How?"

"Don't know! The young guy was working out with his lady and just dropped."

Gerald's mind jumped. He searched his conscience for empathy but found none. He actually felt a little gleeful.

As he moved closer to the lavender lady, the crowd seemed to part. She sat on the floor, dissolved in self-pity. She smelt vulnerable.

Can I help? Gerald wondered, edging closer.

Sensing an onlooker, lavender lady glanced up landing a glare that stopped Gerald cold in his tracks. Her icy scowl silently spoke volumes. He repulsed her. He felt it. She meant it. Reality slapped Gerald violently across his flushing, fat-pocked face. He pulled back with a jerk, realizing she was out of his league. Anger burrowed deep under his furrowed brow as he retreated. His mechanical therapist waited.

"What an inconvenience!" he growled. "Dying at a fitness center really screws up everybody's workout!" Rage swelled his soul. Rejection had been a way of life for so long that it never mattered. Now it did.

Hate replaced rage. Gerald stared at lavender lady. The medical response team loaded the sheet-covered dead man on the gurney and headed toward the exit. Now she was an object to despise. Gerald fixated on her stylish figure, short blond cropped haircut, and alluring stride. Silently and provocatively, he wet his middle finger then pressed it into his temple. Gerald stepped onto the treadmill.

"Got'cha!" he quavered in a feeble yet audible voice. "Got'cha!"

Lavender lady glanced across the room at Gerald. He returned the glare. His mouth opened, his lips protruded slowly formulating a silent dictum.

POW! POW! POW!

Immediately, she cradled her hands to her ears, letting out a piercing scream. The peace officer reached out to brace her. He was too late. A bright crimson liquid oozed between her fingers. Each ear erupted with cherry-red fluid. Lavender lady collapsed to the floor, withering like a fish dry-docked and gasping for one last breath of oxygen. Her glazed orbs rolled back deep in their sockets. Terror replaced her look of vanity. A fresh puddle of fluid crept over the dingy checkered carpet.

Gerald turned the treadmill up a notch. Energy flowed madly through his veins. His tee-shirt was drenched with perspiration as his pace quickened to a run. Time seemed to evaporate. His mind wandered to places it had never been nor seen. He felt he had evaporated into a parallel existence, perhaps an existence in which he saw everything but felt nothing.

"You about done?" interrupted a large tanned man dressed in a yellow print muscle tank top. Startled, Gerald recovered his balance, hit the red button, and coasted to stop. "You've been on this machine an hour." The man continued. "Ya'know the limit is twenty minutes, don'tcha?"

Apologetically, Gerald stepped off. He was conditioned to be submissive. He had the fat-man's credo memorized. In fact, he had written, published, and distributed the document. The credo mandated giving in, caving under pressure, and especially submitting to the whims and fancies of big strong-looking, tank top-clad gym rats.

Walking to the edge of the carpet, Gerald noticed muscle-man gesturing and posturing to his workout partners who lounged on the far side of the room. His removal from the treadmill had been part of a ludicrous locker room bet. Gerald immediately sensed he had been the butt ... the butt of their joke. It was too obvious. Three empty treadmills sat adjacent to the one he had been using. The big guy could have used any of the three. Rather, muscle-man has chosen to humiliate him, then triumphantly strut back, bragging to his cronies.

Anger boiled up the nape of Gerald's neck, branched through his scalp, and then retraced its path, screaming down his spin.

"I'm out of here!" he rambled out loud. "I don't need this!"

Stopping by the check-in desk, Gerald snapped at the desk jock. "Who's that guy? The big one in the middle of that group!"

"Oh! That's Marco!" said the clerk. "He's a clown. He's always cracking jokes and making life interesting around here. He's cool!"

"He's a jerk-off!" Gerald replied, just out of the clerk's hearing range.

The center doors closed behind him as he headed toward his car. The day seemed more of a waste now. Midday had come and gone. Gerald couldn't think of work. Resentment controlled his physical universe. The editing jobs seemed to disappear from his 'need-to-do' list. The old Dart revved up into a life of its own, squealed out of the structure, then raced homeward.

The bottle of Heavenhook welcomed him home. Gerald picked up the bottle, straining to read the fine print. Losing interest, he set the bottle down inside its original packing box, noticing that a hint of print seemed to be emerging from the once-blank crumpled paper wad with the caution heading.

Not interested, he turned away, dropping each piece of soaked workout gear on the floor in single file while heading to the bathroom. The day had been seriously bizarre.

Gerald thought about lunch, but the thought of food nauseated him. Strange! he mulled. He never missed a meal. Now he had no desire to eat.

Steam from the shower blossomed up and over the curtain railing. Stepping out of the shower, he dried off in front of the small mirror in his bathroom. His face appeared slightly thinner. Illusions! Steamy room with no ventilation. Just an illusion!

Gerald's day clothes seemed to drape where they had been unpleasantly snug earlier that morning. It felt good, but Marco's image crowded his consciousness. He could not justify the insulting pain he had endured, compliments of the gym joker. Rejection and humiliation had, in the same day, slapped his existence.

Gerald retraced his steps to the bathroom, picking up his wet workout clothes, re-dressing in each sweaty garment. Unfinished business waited at the Red Zone.

The engine rumbled to a throbbing pulse just as Gerald opened the car door. He slid onto the seat and slammed the door behind him. The Dart screeched from its resting place, jetting through the avenue. Gerald's mind drifted in and out the rows of silhouetted silver maples that stood guard along the roadside. The car maneuvered independently of him. He fixated on Marco's demise. The Dart mapped out the route with keen compliance. Buried deep in the gym bag next to Gerald rattled the box with the Heavenhook bottle. The car roared its engine and flashed its headlights, announcing its arrival into the dimly lit parking structure.

Gerald squinted, scanning the workout room. Marco was absent. Marco was his target. Gerald stopped briefly by the water fountain to swallow his latest dose of Heavenhook, then headed down stairs.

Below the upper deck, the fitness center housed a large room filled with Olympic free-style weights. Long heavy workout bars lined the wall. Huge stacks of round metal weights were clustered randomly. Every wall sported full-sized vanity mirrors. Row after row of dumbbells in different weight denominations nested in their racks. Maverick dumbbells littered the jigsaw-puzzle rubber floor. The air was stale and smelled worse than upstairs. Gerald spotted Marco in the far corner.

He was not alone. The big guy was entertaining patrons. Young pretty patrons! Marco had an advanced degree in showing off. Flat on a bench, Marco groaned and gasped as he repeatedly pushed the weighted bar bell up from off his chest, climaxing high over his face. Occasionally he stopped long enough to add more weight, boast, flex in the mirror, and soak up "attaboys" from his adoring groupies. Gerald moved closer and sat obscured behind a stack of floor weights. He could see Marco.

The ritual began. Gerald's moist middle finger found home, pressing into his fleshy temple. His heartbeat radiated back through his extended finger.

Got'cha! Got'cha!

"Handle this, Marco!" he breathed, conjuring up a mental image of Marco's penis stuffed inside an electric blender. Gerald paused patiently, waiting for the right moment.

Marco charmed the group, then loaded more weight onto the long bar. He strained to support the massive weight high over his face.

POW! POW! POW!

Gerald mentally turned the blender on.

Crash!

The weight load slammed down, rebounding slightly, tilting to the side spilling metal plates over the floor with a thunderous clap. Marco screamed. His knees slammed together. Reactively, he violently arched his back, offsetting the agony in his groin and sending his body into spasmodic convulsions. The damage was done.

Panic replaced pomp in the downstairs room. Marco's covey of patrons ran screaming, some at the sight of Marco's mangled face, others to get help. Pandemonium reigned.

Gerald moved stealthily toward Marco. He could see his target was still breathing. Bits of bone piercing through his jawline looked like red-stained toothpicks. Marco had lapsed into semiconsciousness. Bright fresh blood dripped from the corner of his ruptured mouth, which hung wide open, exhibiting a series of vacant cavities where front teeth once fit. Marco struggled to hack up fragments of teeth. Blood clots oozed outward, punctuating shallow coughs. His knurled nose was twisted and streamed with mucousy cardinal fluid. Marco's right eye sported a long open gash over the brow. An egg-white bony structure protruded up through the wound.

"Ya about done?" Gerald whispered quietly, leaning over Marco. "You've been on this machine an hour. Ya know the limit is twenty minutes, don'tcha?"

Sensing the day was not over, Gerald stealthfully backed away. He retreated to the main floor while the paramedics hooked Marco up to juice bottles, then transported his limp carcass off to the local hospital for needed repairs.

The thermometer on the sauna wall registered just under one hundred and thirty degrees when Gerald walked in, disrobed, and sat down. The small white towel draped over his lap was dwarfed in proportion by his robust girth. He had never been able to tolerate the heat. Fat people don't ventilate as well as normal folks, Gerald had been told. He had always stayed clear of the hot box. This time, it felt wonderful. The redwood sauna was a quiet and secluded retreat. With all the commotion happening outside, Gerald stretched out on the redwood bench, basking in his hot sweat. He entertained reminiscent mumblings from the black-and-white Vox that wrestled with Andrea's angelic voice. He was changing. His life was changing. Just as Andrea had promised!

The sauna door opened. An older man wrapped in a towel and wearing sandals walked in. It was evident he had finished his daily workout and intended to unwind. Long thin gray hair flowed over his ears and he walked with a swaggering limp. Age had not been friendly to the man.

"Did you hear about Marco?" asked the old man as he climbed up on a bench. "Got his face really messed up!"

"Huh?" Gerald grunted.

"Yeah! It's been a weird day. Lots of happenings around here. None of them too good." The old man continued trying to strike up conversation. "Like that young guy this morning ... dropping off dead. Someone said the guy loaded up on too much of something or other before working out. He was trying to get right for his lady."

"And the lady?" asked Gerald.

"Don't know! It was like she couldn't cope. Her brain just exploded inside her head. What a mess!" the old man added. "These young kids are always mixing and messing with sex meds ... supplements and stuff like that. This generation thinks they're immoral or something!"

Immortal! You idiot! Gerald silently corrected the old man. Immortal!

Gerald felt uncomfortable out of his workout gear. He had never before stripped naked to sit in the sauna. That would be too much for a fat guy to do. Now it seemed not to matter. He reached for his gym bag. Inside the bag, he felt the bottle of Heavenhook. He had no recollection of putting it there. He debated whether to take a hit or not. It was short debate. He slid two more capsules effortlessly down his throat. They tasted sweet. His heart raced with electricity.

The old man looked on in disbelief as Gerald stood, dropping the tiny lap towel on to the floor. Although he felt thinner, the look on the old man's face telegraphed the real story ... the truth!

"How long you been carrying that load?" bluntly asked the old man.

Gerald tried to ignore the comment, but anger rushed in like a marauding invader, raping and plundering violently through his brain. Years of taunting deprivation fostered the relentless internal pressure. Nonetheless, he continued to walk boldly about the sauna, stretching and humming emotionlessly. The sweet taste of Heavenhook regurgitated up into the back of his throat. Its sweet flavor ignited his soul. His eyes drew back, then flared with contempt.

"Don't you know that extra flab you carry can kill you real young?" pressed the old man. "Don't you get embarrassed about looking like that?"

Enough! Enough!

Gerald's temper erupted. He whipped around, meeting the old man eye-to-eye. Gerald's eyes burned red. The old man gasped. Cautiously, he retreated away from Gerald, slinking into the corner of the sauna. Gerald moved in closer, fixating on every breath the old man made. The old man shriveled into the corner, lifting his wrinkled feet off the wood floor into a fetal position, protecting his midsection and chest.

Again, Gerald's middle finger targeted his pulsating right temple. He twisted his hand back and forth, simulating boring a large screw into the side of his own skull.

"GOT'CHA! GOT'CHA!" roared Gerald, spitting droplets over the man's face.

The old man shrank deeper into the corner, trying to escape the onslaught of evil.

"You like hot, old man?" Gerald growled. "You'll get hot! POW! POW! POW!"

The temperature inside the sauna crept upward. One hundred sixty-two, one hundred seventy-three, one hundred eighty-four, one hundred ninety ... one hundred ninety-five. The temperature burped up the mercury tube. Gerald stood calmly over the old man. The redwood benches seared onto the man's leathery body. He struggled trying in vain to process each breath of the blistering air. His eyes rolled back and glazed over as his lifeless corpse withered onto the bench.

Turning, Gerald caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the sauna glass door. He looked much thinner. He felt lean. He felt strong. His double chin was gone. A dark rich-brown goatee glistened elegantly. The hair on his head felt thick. It was full and dark.

What had the old man seen before he died? he pondered, resting back into his seat.

The thermometer needle had stopped in the danger zone ... a degree or two below two hundred. Gerald rested comfortably.

He thought of home and his unfinished work. The lifeless old man in the corner would do no harm. Perhaps the custodial crew would find the corpse tomorrow when they sanitized the sauna. By then, the old man would be mummified, and could never, ever insult another person.

Gerald exited the sauna, re-dressed, and headed toward the parking structure. In his left hand, he clinched the bottle of Heavenhook.

Inside the Dodge Dart, Gerald shook the bottle. It sounded full. He popped the lid off. How many had he taken? He couldn't remember. Nonetheless, the bottle brimmed with capsules. The sweet aroma of Heavenhook filled the car. He shook a fresh pair into his hand. Their grayish color had evolved into a blood-red hue. Strange, but it didn't matter. Heavenhook made him feel good. It gave him control, a control he had never experienced in this life. Heavenhook was his liberator. He swallowed the capsules just as the Dart self-started.

The engine raced up to a dangerous pitch. Every light on the dash panel blinked in an array of reds, ambers, and fluorescent oranges. The Dart jumped back from its oil-stained parking slot. Squealing and sketching, the car spun recklessly, pivoting on its rear wheels. Smoke from the tires bellowed up, trailing the spinning metal mass. Gerald settled back into the seat, clutching his prized bottle. His head whipped from side to side with each erratic jerk the Dart made. It was like a frantic arcade ride trapped inside a dark concrete tomb.

The car was in control. The steering wheel rolled freely over Gerald's lap. The gears shifted into low and brought the vehicle to a low crawl, aligning the car with the distant exit. Gerald felt alive and amused with the demonstration of brute power his car possessed.

AWESOME! He laughed uncontrollably.

The car rolled forward, passing concrete pillars that began zipping by at increasingly faster intervals. The odor of burnt rubber hung in the air.

Gerald heard Andrea's sensual voice inviting him to take that risk that would change his life forever. He embraced the box with its precious contents close to his chest. He screamed with erotic release.

Headlights lasered through the dark structure, splashing monstrous, eerie shadows over the landscape. The Dart screamed with speed as it rocketed through the dark. Gerald stabbed at the steering wheel in a failing attempt to straighten out the fishtailing. The car's head lamps splashed over the graffiti-encrusted wall. The filthy brick wall loomed ahead, growing brighter and larger as each grayish concrete column whipped by.

Frozen like a lost child in the subway, Gerald felt the pop as the rear corner of the Dart clipped the last column, sending the old casket careening through space. The car rolled in mid-flight, launching a spray of light and sparks into the darkness.

CRUNCH!

A mangled concoction on metal, plastic, fabric, and body parts squeegeed down the brick wall, settling into a crackling heap. Oily fluids spurted over the wreck and out across the floor. Ventilating hisses pierced the sudden calm.

Bleeding and crushed, Gerald gasped, trying to inhale. His head lay on the cold concrete floor amid shards of broken window glass. Trapped and losing consciousness, he sensed life draining from his contorted body. His prized box slipped from above, belching its contents—capsules, packing, and crumpled papers—over the blood-soaked ground.

A wad of paper with a caution heading unfolded just within Gerald's fading gaze. Large red print was materializing just below the oil-stained heading. He quietly read its inscription, then exhaled with his last faint wet guttural wheeze.

It read, "Got'cha!"

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