Buff Son burst from the womb already greased up for show. By the time he could talk he was a fixture on the bodybuilding circuit, having won every competition in which he entered, and sporting biceps swollen up bigger than his head. Buff Son ate pure protein, spurning carbs as others his age spurned vegetables. Buff Son could do one hundred pull-ups, though he needed some help reaching the bar. “My god,” some said, “imagine when he’s older—he might flex his way to the presidency.” And others: “My god, what a hellish abomination, a signal, surely, of our decadence and depravity, our moral rot and terrible complacence, soon we will plunge into an endless dark age and this muscular child will be looked upon as the clearest portent of what was to come. Like a blackened moon.” TLC produced a show, Jacked Toddler, that ran for seven seasons and two hundred thirty-one episodes, not including the Christmas special in which Buff Son appeared, sleeveless, as one of Santa’s elves. Buff Son’s family grew wealthy from the project. When asked, they promised that all the money would go to set up a college account for the kid, or maybe to some sort of charity for children with muscular disorders or something, either way it didn’t really matter because they eventually whittled it all away on increasingly ill-advised real estate speculation. Life for Buff Son was always and invariably lonely—children feared him, parents feared him, teachers treated him with casual cruelty. He wasn’t sure what he had done wrong. Sometimes his peers gathered around to cheer while he ripped an apple in half with his bare hands, and in those moments he felt joy even if he knew that their interest was fleeting, that no one really loves the things they gawk at. Buff Son had his own brand of exercise supplements, though these were eventually pulled from stores for causing severe gastric distress. Buff Son cried too much. Buff Son stopped wearing tank tops. He was sick of being himself, of being known. For him the world was not indifferent but actively malicious, and it tore him apart every time he stepped outside and came under its vicious gaze, for there were always those who stared, always those who whispered and snickered to their friends. Buff Son feared the eyes of others. Buff Son was weak.