Big J walked through the putrid streets of Chinatown, the nauseating stench of dead cats and chickens blended obscenely with the cheap perfume of slanty eyed transvestite hookers. And every few feet a choking cloud of carbon monoxide drenched cigarette smoke exhaled by the busted faces of oriental slaves who spent twenty hours a day slaving over the slop known as Chinese Food and the other four playing Mahjong and picking the lice out of their pubes. In the midst of all this colourful confusion, Big J saw it in a store front window. A man's blonde wig; medium length and parted to the side with a hint of sideburn. Big J entered the shop and was met by a toothless gook who looked about a hundred and ten years old. He wanted fifty bucks for the wig and Big J countered with ten. After some loud bickering the old man said twenty and the two men shook hands. Big J walked back out into the mean streets of Chinatown with a lilt in his step. Excitedly, he entered the Dragon's Chef Authentic Mandarin Cuisine restaurant and stole into the Men's Room. The rancid odor of decades old urine didn't bother him as clumsily pulled his new prize out of it's plain brown wrapping and placed it upon his head. He looked into the mirror and froze. Tom Platz was looking back.Big J wasn't always so big. As a child Big J-or Jonathan, as he was then known- was neither here nor there. Neither bully nor victim. A nobody who slid through through cracks. Teachers forgot his name and girls didn't know he existed. When he was fourteen all that changed. He discovered a rusty old set of weights as he played at the town dump. He dragged it home to his basement and began instinctively pressing the barbell up and down over his head, and curling it like his dad's prison friends used to talk about. He saved his paper route money and soon purchased a copy of Joe Weider's Bodybuilding System from the local bookstore. He added more exercises to his repetoire of muscle pumping movements: barbell rows, bench presses, flyes, crunches, triceps extensions and Squats. While his buddies at school seemed to focus on bench pressing and curling, Jonathan found he responded quickly to the squats. His thighs bulged bigger with every leg workout, and soon his friends were having to lift the barbell and rest it on Jonathan's shoulders. His upper body development was mediocre at best, yet his legs, or "quads" as he was soon calling them were exceptional. Jonathan changed his name to Big J and devoted his life to bodybuilding. He did it all: the gyms, the muscle mags, the supplements; the eventual introduction to orals and the graduation to the needle. His legs blew up like tree trunks and stretched the limit of his pants.Then he found himself in the city. It looked promising at first. But then plans fell apart like houses of cards in that unforgiving wind called Reality. First he bombed in a couple of contests. The plans to own a gym crumpled. The hopes of owning a supplement store were dashed. Big J found himself hustling a couple of quick bucks in men's rooms in the back of porn theaters. A setback he called it. Hard times became Big J's companions. He was 25 then 35 then 40 but swore he felt like18. It wasn't over. He needed an angle, he told himself. And he found it. That day. In Chinatown. He found it.The Tom Platz Wig.
Part TwoThe ad appeared in the local left-wing weekly rag that featured editorials with a liberal slant, alternative band reviews, coffee shop ratings, etc. But the real reason folks grabbed the free newspaper was the "Escort And Massage" section tucked all the way in the back. Perverts and johns would forego the esspresso machine critiques and head right for the smut. And it was here that Big J's advertisement first appeared : Muscle Power! Tom Platz lookalike will crush you and more with tree trunk thighs. Blonde, blue handsome and shredded. Big J: 212-##3-6969Big J was like a kid on Christmas Morning the day his ad premeired. He was up at 6 am, waiting. The phone wouldn't ring. He waited. He stood in front of the mirror in his Tom Platz wig, wondering if his jaw was big enough.
Part Two (Cont.)By noon Big J was dejected. He had failed at life. Again. He slumped on the couch, reached up and tossed the blonde Tom Patz wig onto the floor, where it looked vaguely like a rat. His ruminations were abruptly interrupted by the piercing ring of the phone. Jumping up, he ran across his cluttered shithole apartment toward the now animated telephone. With his meaty weightlifter's hand he ripped the receiver off it's cradle and answered cautiously, "hello?" A muffled voice responded "Big J please?""This is he, I mean him.""I saw the ad in the paper....", the voice was stifled and creepy. A voice calling from beyond the abyss."Okay, what can I tell you?", asked Big J."I want to be put in a head scissors. Maybe roughed up some.""Okay," said J, "what's your name?""Donnie."
Part Three The CarrierNorm was a silver haired muscle dad standing six-two and packing two hundred and thirty five pounds of muscular bulk. His silver goatee was in contrast to his deeply tanned face, a testament to the hours he spent in the tanning booth at his neighborhood gym after his Goliathan workouts. He was on his thirtieth year with the United States Post Office, where he pounded the pavement as a mailman. But that wasn't why they called him "The Carrier." The real reason he was dubbed The Carrier was the fact that he was charged up HIV Positive, and showed zero symptoms. He was of of a stout German-Polish heritage, with a constitution that could throw off anything this corrupted planet could throw at it. Colds, flues...in this case HIV...Norm's immune system could bite it off and spit it out. Nothing delighted The Carrier more than dancing his tush off at a gay bar called The Vault. All the queers would stare and marvel at his wrought iron physique as he would gyrate and grind to the throbbing rhythm of some disco hit. At the same time every night, 1:10 AM to be exact, The Carrier would dramatically pull his skin tight shirt off and really show those queens what he had. then, later in the night, he would hustle some twink back up to the bedroom for some nipple to nipple steam. It was there that The Carrier would culminate his night out by "charging up" the twink; stuffing his rectum full of his uncut horsemeat, and as the smells of poppers and musky man sex filled the air, The Carrier would deliver The Ultimate Parcel, with a return address marked "DEATH".
Part FourBig J sat comfortably in the pleather upholstered bus seat as the big vehicle navigated it's way through the turns and potholes of the city streets. He looked up at an ederly lady who stood hanging on to the overhead handle for dear life as the bus took a sharp right. He thought about maybe being a gentleman and offering his seat to her, but also realized that he was feeling kinda tired, and that maybe next time around he might do something like that. Plus, he reasoned, he was there first and that's the rules of life. Survival of the fittest. The Strong win. He looked at the window as the urban plight passed before his eyes like a moving picture show: the limping strut of the gangbangers, the dirty beards of homeless wretches, the fat asses of Hispanic bitches who used their cellulite as a meal ticket with their male counterparts, the passive look in the eye of a seasoned cop as he pulled a sip from a paper coffee cup and counted down the minutes to his pension. Now Big J was finally on his way up and out of this cesspool of humanity. He was on his way to his first "posing session". He sat, clutching a brown paper bag in his lap in his two hairy knuckled hands. If this guy Donnie is on the level, he thought, it could lead to repeat appointments, referals, maybe even a supplement contract. And the wild card that made all this possible was hidden away in the brown bag: the Tom Platz Wig.
There was no smell like the smell of a 1970's Men's Room, a bouquet of shit, piss, puke, urinal cake and Lord knows what else. Big J stepped into thesubway Men's Room, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. He looked in the dirty mirror and saw himself: A Phoenix rising from the despair of abject failure. Ascending out of the sewers of New York City into the magnificent skyline. He pulled the Tom Platz wig out of it's bag, looked down at the blonde tresses in his calloused bodybuilding hands. He raised the wig to his lips and kissed it gingerly. He slipped onto his head and again gazed at himself. He was now Lion, King Of The Jungle, with his proud blonde mane. He turned and stepped into the stall, where he would wait for his client.
. He looked in the dirty mirror and saw himself: A Phoenix rising from the despair of abject failure. Ascending out of the sewers of New York City into the magnificent skyline.
Juruth, any chance of a sequel to the Tom Platz wig?
