“Starting…to…piss me…off,” Billy spits. Letting out a primal scream, he surges anew.
I reward his effort by putting his wrist four points past his right shoulder. I feel a slight tremor in the palm of Billy’s right hand. I wait. His cannonball-sized bicep begins to quake and spasm. I wait. A thin rivulet of blood leaks from the corner of Billy’s mouth where he’s bitten his cheek. I start to pull.
I meet Billy’s eyes halfway. They appear scared and confused, like some intelligent animal that’s about to be gaffed. Bulking up, Billy tries a throw of his own, only it’s too late as his engorged bicep finally gives out, deflating like a truck tire running over a railroad spike. Billy’s eyes flutter and blink as I align my right shoulder with his and drive down his wrist, where his knuckles lan
