My right arm is toned, lean and muscular. I’m capable of crushing a tin of beans with my thumb and forefinger. Full control with sinuous adaptability and chiseled flexibility. I can lift my entire body weight by balancing on my carefully manicured fist.

Some call it impressive and I’m inclined to agree.

My right leg is much the same. Thigh and calf is that of marble Gods. My fibularis brevis is exquisite. My rectus femoris, divine. I write weekly political poetry with an ink-dipped quill, between my big toe and foretoe, on parchment paper. I do it just because I can.

I’m a Greg. I’m a Todd. I’m a Chad. It’s undeniable, I am the American Dream.

In 2017 I won a “Sexiest Arm” competition and pocketed fifteen thousand for the title, before taxes. While fools I competed against focused on toning both arms, I spent my time on one arm.

That’s my edge.

Going all in on one area.

Onlookers may gasp at the sight of my shriveled left appendages, but they don’t understand what it takes to be tremendous. I sacrifice harmony for greatness. They sacrifice greatness for comfort and belonging. But what do they belong to? The soft-bodied, gelatinous class.

It’s pitiable.

Greats don’t dabble in magnificence. They embody it.

The circus has attempted to recruit me at least forty times. Each time an insult. I’m above the circus. The circus is full of clowns, whores, mutants and dancing dogs. That’s like requesting the King become a Jester.

What kind of a job could contain someone like me?

I do stocks and trades and bits and coins. I press buttons with my nimble fingers; quickest to draw, fastest to profit. And I do it while toning my quads and glutes with a series of repetitive motions.

Tonight everyone will see how remarkable I am. Tonight the world will know my name: Allen-Colin.

Allen-Colin is the new Chad.

The would-never’s and could-never’s will relish the magnitude of my flesh and willpower on full display in the “Mister Ultimate Arm & Leg Contest.” I was personally invited to compete in. The prize is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Oiled and moisturized myself to perfection, and primed for the bright television lights. Power-loaded with magnesium, bromelain, collagen and trace minerals. Steroids? Would never. Don’t need to.

I await my public tryst with the stage, sequestered in my dressing room surrounded by protein shakes, chickpea puffs, dehydrated wasabi peas, water and towels. I like to prepare in silence, but I can hear a familiar autoerotic grunting through the wall on the other side of my vanity. He’s at every show I compete in, and always places several points behind me: The Weasel. A man made as much of grease as he is disturbing hair patches. I found an autographed photograph of myself that I only bequeath to my lovers, riddled with dart holes, in his dressing room. No one loves you as much as your biggest haters. Even your own mother.

I deftly apply shimmering highlighter powder to accentuate my brawn with a dewy glow. I tape my bits down in the royal plum Speedo, not wanting to pull gaze away from the main attraction with my other impressive feature - especially if I catch a glimpse of my own reflection. Nothing gets me harder.

I practice my signature poses. The Throbbing Philosopher requires taking a mid-orgasm version of the “thinking man’s” pose, merging sensuality in a thrusting silhouette with fist resting under the jaw. Contemplative Superstud entails utilizing my flimsy left arm, for which I’ve created a sheer tattoo sleeve to resemble a stack of thin books, while I casually flex with my powerful right bicep. The Fauxlanthropist stance requires more acrobatics as I scatter money with my portrait on it to my audience, while standing on the ball of my right foot.

I’ve got this on lock. Three rounds. Three inevitable wins. The money, endorsements and magazine covers.

It’s almost time. I sense the urgency in the applause before it reverberates through the halls of the stadium. I’m in sync with my soon-to-be adoring fans, their energy filling me like a sacred sacral serpent rising from my perineum to my heart.

“Everyone ready in 90 seconds! To the stage! Just follow the arrows on the floor.” A grating female voice violates my reverie over a loudspeaker.

I open the door and cannot help but look back over my shoulder at the beauty, the definition, the artistry: I am breathtaking.

I step out into the wide hallway and am flattened by a careening suped-up, heavy-duty, 8-person lambo-cart airbrushed with the words Mister Ultimate.

I can’t breathe or feel anything in the moment. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve been run over. Not just hit and rolled up on the wagon, but hit and then driven over.

The host, a cheesy D-list actor known for peddling protein powder’s is in the passenger seat grinning at me with a whoopsie doodle expression on his face. His name is Michael or Jake or something. Nothing like the dynamism of Allen-Colin. I don’t even have a moment to move out of the way when the driver, a woman - of course - screams, panics and backs up over my right leg.

My good leg.

“I didn’t see you!” she wails. “Why didn’t you move after I hit you?”

They both get off the hefty cart and look down on my injured body. My magnificent side has been pulverized. My leg bleeds. My arm lays limp, likely broken. My skin lacerated by a strip of bird spikes with rainbow flags on them.

“Guess it’s time to develop that left side, huh buddy?” the D-lister says to me.

I clench my teeth.

“What do I do?” the female driver sobs.

“Hey, I’m not gonna get sued for this am I?” The cheeseball says under his breath and grabs a confused assistant. “Get me out of here.”

The female gets back in the buggy and rips it for the stage, blaring some kind of empowerment music and taking a photo of herself wiping away her tears, almost hitting a second contestant.

I’m left for dead in the hallway. Part man, part mulch. Magnificence undone by nature’s greatest predator - the woman driver.

I watch my unworthy and putrescent competitors leave their dressing rooms and head towards the stage. The Weasel steps over me and laughs. “Someone call an ambulance for this fruit!”

Do not show weakness, Allen-Colin. Maintain a state of stoicism. I’m quite certain if I let my guard down, he’ll molest me. The Weasel traipses away, probably hoping I enjoy my view as much as he enjoys his. Unlikely.

I would drag myself back into the dressing room but my left side is like that of an anemic girl. I’m helpless in this state, losing vital fluids, and perhaps organs or tendons. I dare not look at the stew forming around my body.

As I begin to lose consciousness, I have an epiphany. The path becomes clear. This is a divine intervention. I’m aiming for God status while trapped inside a mortal meat bag. But God status is not possible, not like this.

Ultimate Man. An aspirational concept. What does “he” have that I don’t?

Fuck the left arm and left leg. Useless. The right arm, the right leg - disappointing. I don’t need to develop anything. I don’t need to holistically approach my health.

Paramedics surround me and gasp. “Wow… that’s brutal.”

What I need is prosthetics.

Bionics.

Machinery.

“Buddy, you’re gonna be so rich when you sue these fuckers,” one of the young, degenerate paramedics whispers in my ear. “Have you seen where Gary David lives?”

“I was personally invited by Gary David,” I rasp.

“God, I wish I was you. Poolside pussy Stephen Hawking up in here.” He loads me into the ambulance. “Don’t forget to invite me to the afterparty.”

There would be no party, though there would be a celebration. Allen-Colin: Judgment Day.

Titanium. Hydraulics. 3-D printed viscera.

Muscles are so 80s. Contests are passé.

I’d never touch steroids, but this is beyond injectables. This is a new lifestyle. Way of being.

I was thinking too small with a hundred thousand. Millions? What can I do with millions?

Optimized. Elegant. Efficient.

How did I not see it before?

My dedication and focus need to evolve, and as such, a death must occur: Body, mind and soul.

This will be my genesis story.

I will rise again.

I slip into a beautiful dreamlike state of exquisite pain as they jostle me around in the ambulance. The chariot driving to my new beginning.

As a superhuman.

Beyond the American Dream.

Allen-Colin 2.0: Bionic Allen-Colin.

I will finally be Magnificent.

ₗₐᵣᵢₛₛₐ’ₛ ₘᵤₛᵢₙgₛ & ₑₗₑᵥₐₜₑd Bᵣₐᵢₙ ᵣₒₜ

Magnificence 💪🤩💪 (short story)