From: lewj99@yahoo.com JOE BY JL --------------------------------------------------------------------- "Dammit" I muttered, whipping out the bus schedule for the umpteenth time. My car was in the shop, so I had to take the bus home tonight. According to the schedule, it should have been here twenty minutes ago, but there was no sign of it. 'Your tax dollars at work' I thought to myself, preparing to reread my newspaper, until I heard a horrendous crash a couple of blocks away. Actually, it was two crashes: a slamming and crumpling of metal, followed by the squeal of brakes and a loud THUD. I threw my paper down and ran in the general direction of the noise, which turned out to be two blocks west and about half a block south. My jaw dropped when I witnessed the scene - it was like something out of a movie. A Ford Explorer had slammed head on into a telephone pole, which was now embedded in the Ford's front end and leaning at a precarious angle. About 50 feet behind was a city bus, the one that I had been waiting for, lying on its side. The Ford's driver had emerged, dazed-looking but without serious injury, likely saved by the airbag. The driver of the bus, however, was slumped over in his seat, bleeding from a gash in his forehead. It was hard to tell how many passengers were inside, but there had to be at least a few this time of day. "What happened?" I asked a man emerging from a nearby building. "I saw it all from upstairs. Dude in the Explorer had to swerve to avoid some maniac in a Camaro who came flying out of that alley, and rammed into the telephone pole. Bus driver musta seen it and slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the Explorer, but he hit that slick spot and just went up and over. Never seen anything like it. I called 911, they said they'd be here in a few minutes, but how are they gonna get at that bus driver? He looks hurt pretty bad." I had been wondering that myself - the bus had fallen so that the door faced the ground, and it would take a crane to lift it upright. A couple of minutes later, the wailing of sirens pierced the air, as a cop car and ambulance flew around the corner. One of the emergency workers attended to the driver of the Explorer, while the rest rushed to the overturned bus. They huddled, as if forming a plan of action, and I caught glimpses of their conversation: "...gotta weigh at least ten tons - you'd need a crane..." "...could break the window, but it'd be risky getting them out..." "...maybe the Jaws of Life..." Just then, a Jeep came around the corner, screeching to a halt behind the cop car. My attention was diverted from the accident scene to the Jeep's occupant, who seemed to fill a good portion of the Jeep's front seat. As he emerged from the vehicle, I had to do a double take. He was only about 5'8", but he looked about as wide as he was tall. Massive delts and shoulders swelled from a fireplug-sized neck. His sleeves were rolled up over a pair of the thickedst, most powerful looking arms I had ever seen - not well-defined like a bodybuilder's, but undeniably powerful and solid. Those fuckers looked nearly as big around as my thigh! The navy-blue shirt stretched over an equally powerful looking, barrel-shaped chest and a thick but flat stomach. He looked about 30 or 35, with thinning hair and a full goatee. Had to be a cop or firefighter, I thought. The Jeep's occupant strode over to the emergency unit, who immediately stopped and listened to what he had to say. He exuded authority,even though he as a good four inches shorter than any of them. The cop's eyebrows arched as he listened, glancing back and forth between the bus and this powerfully built man. 'OK' I saw him mouth, shaking his head as if in amazement. The man strode over to the bus and looked it over for a few seconds, scratching his goatee. By now, about ten people had gathered at the accident site, collectively holding their breath. "If any passengers can hear me in there, find something secure tohold on to. I'll get you out of there in a minute" the man said in a deep, authoritative voice. The crowd gasped as he stripped off his shirt to reveal an incredibly massive upper body, with hairy pecs jutting out like shelves over a thickly- muscled midsection. "Stand back" he ordered the crowd, and everyone quickly complied. Squatting down, he stuck his hands under the side of the bus and took a couple of deep breaths. "What the - " I began, but was cut off by a loud grunt as the muscleman started lifting. His biceps tightened and swelled, forming round, boulder- like peaks that stood a good six inches out from the base of his arms. Tight bands of cable-like muscle stretched across his titanic back as the bus reluctantly began to shift with a heavy groan. The crowd gasped again; one woman fainted dead away. His quads swelled like beer kegs as he slowly muscled the bus upward, not pausing until he had lifted it to shoulder level. He stood there for a few seconds, holding a fucking 10-ton bus in his gorilla arms, before changing his grip so that he was pushing instead of pulling. Then, as if doing nothing more than a simple shoulder shrug, he pushed the massive vehicle upward with a look of steely determination. I got the impression this wasn't the first bus he had manhandled. Once he had extended his piledriving arms fully, he gave one last SHOVE which sent the bus upright, rocking slightly as it landed on all four wheels. By now, the driver had regained consciousness and was stirring in his seat. The front door, however, had been mangled in the crash and couldn't be opened from the inside. Wasting no time, the muscleman stuck his right hand into a crease in the door frame. Bracing his left hand against the bus, he started tugging with a forceful grunt. The muscles of his upper body exploded anew, thick triceps bunching up into iron horseshoes, as he dared the bus to stand up to his power. Within seconds, the tortured metal emitted a squeal as he methodically peeled the door away, finally ripping it from the frame with a quick yank. I noticed the galvanized steel frame of the bus was indented a good two inches where he had braced his left hand for support. A couple of passengers stepped off the bus, one cradling his arm, the other ok except for a few cuts and bruises. "OK boys" the giant said to the EMT, "you can get at the driver now." His face was red, and he was breating hard, but I got the feeling he was nowhere near the point of exhaustion. Having attended to the bus, he walked over to the Explorer, which was still halfway in the street and would have to be moved. Once again, he stopped and looked the bulky vehicle over, plotting a course of action. The front end was wrapped in a semicircle around the sturdy pole, which was embedded at least a foot into the SUV's engine. Grabbing the back bumper in his monstrously pumped arms, he planted his legs and started pulling. The heavy steel chassis groaned as he shifted it slightly, lifting the back tires inches off the ground as he attempted to wrestle the SUV free of the pole. The back bumper cracked under his hands as he exerted his awesome muscle force, which was causing the front end to warp and distend as it clung stubbornly to the pole. A heavy crack of splintering wood filled the air, and the muscleman dropped the back end of the SUV. "No use, that'll just rip the pole out of the ground" I heard him mutter to himself as he walked around to the SUV's crumpled front end. He grasped the splintered pole in his left hand, steadying it as he dug into the smashed front end. Another loud grunt preceded the sound of crumpling steel as he bent the mangled bumper upward, separating it from the pole. He kept grunting and bending reinforced steel upward with that one hand until he had the SUV free of the telephone pole. The pole was heavily damaged, but it would stand until the repair crew arrived. Walking back to the Explorer's back end, he effortlessly lifted it wheelbarrow-style and guided it into a nearby alleyway. He emerged from the alley to a round of applause from the stunned spectators: his muscle had accomplished in minutes what normally would have taken hours, not to mention a crane and who knows how much else heavy equipment. The cop walked over to him and clapped a hand around his swollen shoulder. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but the muscleman finally cracked a smile for the first time. "No problem. Glad to help out" I heard him say as he walked back toward the Jeep. My heart was racing, and my brain seemed to be stuck in neutral as I tried to comprehend what I had just seen. Suddenly a risky thought crossed my mind - I had to talk to him, find out how the hell he could manhandle a bus and an SUV like they were toys. I knew he could snap me like a twig...but on some level, I knew he wouldn't. If he were out of control, he could have bent that SUV like a pretzel. Besides, his smile had betrayed a certain weary kindness. Before I could talk myself out of it, I began walking over to the Jeep... He was leaning against the Jeep, hands on knees, breathing returning to normal. When he saw me, he said (almost sheepishly) "I must be getting old. Ten years ago I coulda handled those vehicles no sweat, and still had enough left to take on a Mack Truck." He straightened up and wiped the sweat off his forehead, causing his engorged bicep to distend. I struggled to find my voice. "Sir..that was incredible, what you did back there. You may have saved that driver's life. But how on earth did you do that? I've never seen that kind of strength anywhere." That kind smile returned. "First off, don't call me sir. Makes me feel like I'm ready for a home. Name's Joe Miller, work for North Metro Fire and Rescue. I was on my way home when I heard about the accident over my police scanner, and thought I'd see if I could help. And yeah, I guess you could say I'm pretty strong," he added, tightening his thick arms. "Runs in the family. Guess you could call it a gift. Works for me, anyway." "It's a damn good thing you showed up. Actually, I was waiting for that bus." "You need a ride somewhere?" Joe asked. I told him my address. "Sure, no problem. That's on my way. Hop in." The Jeep wasn't all that big to begin with, and with Joe's tank of a body in the driver's seat, there wasn't much room for me. "Sorry about that, kid" he said, earnestly. "The ol' bod gets pretty pumped when I toss around serious poundage like that." He wasn't kidding. Now I knew why he took his shirt off - if he hadn't, his swelling muscles would have split it into rags. As we pulled out into the road, I got a better look at the horseshoe tattoo that crawled across the craggy mass of his right bicep. "Cool tattoo" I said, trying to start conversation. "Yeah. Got it during my young and reckless days in the Navy. Partly a good luck charm, partly cause I got my start bending horseshoes." "So you've always been really strong?" "Hit about puberty, yeah. I was benching half a ton by my fourteenth birthday. By the time I hit sixteen, I was benching two, squatting three- and-a-half, and leg pressing seven." Those were tons, I had to remind myself incredously. "Wasn't all great though. I had a hard time controlling my temper, and put a kid in the hospital for six months. Got kicked out of school for that, joined the Navy for a couple of years, then hooked up with Fire and Rescue. Figured I could put my strength to good use there." "No shit" I blurted out. "I don't usually like to use that much muscle in front of a crowd. Freaks people out. Does come in handy, though. Remember that hostage-taking at that bank a few years back? Those employees locked in the vault?" "Yeah" I responded. "Cops said they had to call in a safe-cracking team to get them out." "Not exactly" Joe said with a noticeable trace of pride. "Ripped the door off the hinges myself. Man, those things are built tough. My arms were sore for a week." The conversation was interrupted by Joe's cell phone. "Hello...Yeah...yeah, I cleared it up...No shit? Three DWI's? Uh huh...386 Pioneer Court. Yeah, I think I'll pay him a visit. Thanks for the tip." "That was a buddy of mine down at the 9th precinct. Says they got a positive ID on that guy in the Camaro who caused the accident and fled the scene. Three priors on DWI, two for reckless endangerment, just released from jail last week. Lost his license for life, but he was still tearin' around like a maniac. Jail didn't seem to work, so I'm gonna see if I can teach that little punk a lesson." Joe's guns flexed slightly as he said this, as if in anticipation. That same look of steely determination set over his face again, made even more menacing by the bristly goatee. I thanked God it wasn't me who had pissed this monster off. "It's just a few blocks away. Mind if we make a detour?" It was a rhetorical question. -------------------------------- We pulled into the driveway at 386 Pioneer, on an almost deserted looking street, greeted by Metallica blaring from a boombox. The guy who had caused the accident, Dylan, was working on his Camaro in the open garage. He couldn't have been more than 21, tall and wiry with tatoos snaking down each arm, wearing a wife-beater and a New Jersey Devils hat. Empty beer cans littered the cement. Joe emerged from the Jeep - he had manage to fit his North Metro shirt on again, but with all that muscle bulging around the shirt sleeves and collar, he looked even more menacing. Remembering the accident scene, I decided to linger back. "Dylan Prescott?" Joe asked, in his authoritative tone. Dylan looked up from his car. "Maybe. Who wants to know?" He caught a glimpse of the North Metro F&R logo on Joe's shirt and laughed. "Great, just fucking great. Now they're sending the fucking fire department after me? This has gotta be a joke. Fuck off, steroid boy, you can't touch me." He must have been incredibly drunk or incredibly stupid. Probably a combination. Flames raged in Joe's dark eyes. He grabbed the top of the passenger side door with his left hand and squeezed, crumpling the heavy steel as easily as other men would crumple tin foil. "Hey, what're you doing to my car, you freak???" "You listen to me, you little turd. I know you caused that accident this afternoon and fled the scene, just like the pussy you are. I know about all your other convictions. I know you don't give a shit about anyone but yourself, and someone needs to teach you a lesson. You wanna take me on, little man?" Joe squeezed even harder, crushing the steel and sending tiny fractures zigzagging down the door. "Ok, ok, just stop doin' that. Damn, I was almost done restoring that car." Dylan stepped away, hands up as if in surrender, but before Joe could grab him, Dylan spun around and grabbed a heavy, foot-long lead pipe. Joe didn't even flinch. Dylan slammed the pipe into his left shoulder, but it just clanged when it hit the mass of corded, invulnerable muscle. "OW!" Dylan screamed, as the impact reverberated up his arm. Joe grabbed the lead pipe and stared at Dylan with icy resolve. "Kid, you just made a big mistake." Joe cradled the thick pipe in the crook between his biceps and forearms, brought his forearms up, and flexed. The sound of tearing fabric filled the garage as his shirt sleeves split open, revealing the knotted peaks of his cannonball biceps. That sound was quickly replaced by the familiar sound of groaning metal as the pipe began to deform under his unyielding arms. Joe grunted and flexed harder, ripping the sleeves open up to his shoulders. His biceps and forearms were nearly touching, crunching the heavy lead between them. Joe relaxed his arms and let the pipe clatter to the cement, completley flattened where it had been caught between the cast-iron muscle of his own huge pipes. Even in his drunken stupor, Dylan was finally beginning to figure out just how powerful this fireman was. "Holy shit...how..." Fearing for his life, he ran around to the driver's side, gunned the engine, and threw it into reverse. I jumped out of the way to avoid being run down as he flew back into the driveway. "I was afraid this would happen," Joe said, shaking his head. "If he thinks I can't outmuscle that piece of shit car of his, he dumber than he looks." Dylan tore out into the street, and paused to change gears. That's when Joe made his move, bolting out of the driveway and grabbing the back bumper with his right hand. Dylan threw it into drive and gunned the engine, but nothing happened. "COME ON, COME ON!" he yelled in desperation, but it was no use. Not once Joe had locked on with his iron-crunching grip. The tires spun white smoke as Dylan continued to mindlessly gun the engine, but Joe continued to hold the car back, overcoming the 250 horsepower engine with one hand. I could see that he was angry now, furious at this little punk for trying to defy him. The heavy cotton shirt split up over Joe's surging back, all the way to the collar. With his free hand, he formed a fist and RAMMED it into the trunk, folding it inward and forcing the front tires six inches off the ground. Dylan was sobbing by this point, a far cry from the streetwise tough he had appeared to be five minutes ago. The gears squealed at this unexpected punishment. Smoke poured out of the engine as it struggled to overcome Joe's inhuman power. With a roar, Joe began pulling the Camaro backward, his enormous quads finally splitting open the seams of his Levi's. Joe's feet actually began to crack the asphalt as he expressed his full power against this kid's Camaro, crumpling the back end as he dragged it back on squealing tires. Finally the transmission blew with a loud BANG, followed soon after by the engine. Joe roared with the thrill of victory, slamming his fists into the back end with such force that he blew out the shocks and popped the rear left tire. Dylan sat frozen in his seat, unsure of what to do. Maybe he thought he was safer inside the car. Maybe he wasn't thinking at all. But Joe wasn't through with his lesson. Grabbing the muscle-wrecked back end in his swollen arms, he found a secure hold on the Camaro's undercarriage. The peaks of his biceps dented what was left of the back bumper. His face was bright red, and his muscles must have been burning, but what he did next made my jaw drop, even after all I had seen. Grunting savagely, he flexed those monster arms once again, and started lifting the entire car off the ground - from the back end. The chassis groaned as Joe muscled it six inches, then a foot off the pavement. His blood-engorged guns flattening the bumper, he torqued the front end of the Camaro skyward, holding it at a 45-degree angle. The entire frame seemed to shudder. Cracks spread across the pavement as he planted his redwood-thick legs, heaving like a wild animal, a goddamn Camaro held in place with his mind-blowing strength. He shifted his grip, warping the undercarriage, until the back end rested on his barrel chest. His shirt hung in rags over his dense, granite-hard musculature. Dylan's sobbing intensified. Then, like some sort of demented, insanely-pumped Olympic weightlifter, Joe yelled "UP! UP! UP!" and started pressing the Camaro above his head. The outmuscled car was nearly vertical now, the nose sticking straight up in the air. With a considerable effort (not surprising, considering everything he had done in the last hour or so), Joe hoisted the entire fucking car over his head, locking his arms out. Un-fucking-real. The giant muscles of his column-like arms trembled slightly, but it would have taken a bomb blast to move them. "Let me down!" Dylan whimpered, leaning out the window. "Do what you want to the car, just let me down!" Joe's voice was like cold steel. "The way I see it, punk, there are two ways that can happen. You can agree to turn yourself in, and to be a good, law- abiding citizen for the rest of your life, and I can set this car down slowly. Or, you can refuse, and I can hock this piece of shit down the street. I once hurled a Camaro like this almost 70 feet. You wanna see if I can break my record?" "No! No!" Dylan screamed. "I'll turn myself in! I'll join the Boy Scouts! Anything you say!" "Good. I thought you'd see things my way." Joe slowly brought the car down, his cold expression not changing. The entire back end was warped, with deep grooves visible where Joe's biceps had dug in. It would take some serious body work before the Camaro could ever be driven again. Once the Camaro was back on solid ground, Dylan stepped out and stumbled around. At some point during the 'lesson', he had pissed his pants. He flinched as Joe approached him, cell phone in hand. "I've dialed the cops. Tell them what you did, and where you are" Joe ordered. Dylan quickly complied, almost babbling incoherently. Joe pushed the wrecked Camaro back in the garage. It wobbled reluctantly on three tires, but Joe had no trouble getting it in. He walked back to Dylan, who was sitting on the curb with his head in his hands. "Stand up, punk" Joe ordered. Dylan was about 6'1", so Joe had to look up slightly, but there was no doubt who was in control here. Joe ripped off the remains of his shirt. "You made me ruin a perfectly good shirt. I don't like when people make me do that." Dylan could think of nothing to say, so Joe just cocked his right arm and slowly brought his forearm up, hitting the freakiest bicep pose I had ever seen. The muscle had swollen up to the size of a cantaloupe, round, full and dense. A couple of veins climbed their way to the summit. "You see this, punk?" Joe growled, holding the flex mere inches from Dylan's face. "The next time you even THINK of doing something illegal, just remember what this fucker did to your car. Next time - if there is a next time - I'll bend it in half. Whether or not you're inside. Don't think I can't do it." 'Y-yes sir" Dylan said, tears returning to his eyes. About five minutes later, a cop car pulled around the corner. Dylan ran over and practically jumped into the back seat. "I did it! Take me downtown!" The cop in the front seat looked at Joe with a quizzical glance. Joe just smiled and shrugged innocently. The cop car pulled away, and Joe sat down on the pavement, not far from where his feet had cracked it. His quads bulged through the burst seams. "Dude! That was incredible!" I said exuberantly. Joe just offered his weary smile and wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Yeah, I don't think he'll be showing up on any police blotters soon. Didn't mean to wreck his car, but that little shit needed to be taught a lesson. To be scared straight." I counted my blessings that Joe was on our side. He could lay waste to an entire city with his muscle, and probably nothing short of the army could stop him. Maybe. Joe stood again, looking slightly winded. "Gimme a sec here, and I'll drive you home. Hopefully we won't run into any more criminals on the way." I couldn't help but laugh. -------------------------------- I had even less room on the drive home, but I didn't mind. "Jesus, man, how big do those things get?" I asked, motioning to his heavily pumped arms. "I dunno, twenty-six, twenty-seven maybe. Haven't got a workout like that in a while, so it could be more." "Wow" I whistled as we pulled in the driveway. "Thanks for the ride." Lame, but all I could think of to say. "No prob. Listen, I'd appreciate it it you could keep what happened back there to yourself." "Sure. Who would believe me anyway? That this fireman held a Camaro back with one hand and then pressed it over his head?" Joe laughed. "Good point. I gotta get home, my dog'll be tearing the place apart by now. See ya, man." He pulled out before I had a chance to ask him what station he worked at. Somehow, though, I had a feeling it wouldn't be too hard to find him. END