Posted on 25 Nov 2019 In Fiction | Prose

Reading time: ( words)

Damon pressed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into the inner corners of his closed eyes, hoping to provide some relief from the pain that throbbed there. His doctor had given him a new medication to try, phito-something-no-one-could-spell, but it didn’t seem to be touching it. Any longer and he’d have to…

…seek out something stronger. Maybe even something illicit. That scared him, because he didn’t want to become like one of those dependent junkies doing anything and anyone for the next fix of pain pills.

The pain started shortly after the accident. A small explosion at work knocked him across the room and into unconsciousness. He woke up in a hospital bed with a nurse nearby and a staff of suits from the University carrying reams of paperwork. Apparently they were lawyers, both his and for the University, needing all sorts of signatures for liability-this, insurance-that, and god knows what else.

He worked as a research assistant for a distinguished and eccentric chemistry professor at the University. Prof had been working on something extra special that day, and it had gone wrong. Really wrong.

Damon rubbed his temples again, feeling more pain at the thought of remembering. He closed his eyes and saw the scene unfold before him again. He moved his hands to grip the side of the desk where he sat, and that’s when he heard it creak and groan under his grip.

Startled, he stood up, opened his eyes, and looked at the desk. It was made of a firm, solid wood. It wasn’t the type made of compressed chipboard, MDF, or the like. This was solid oak, handed down from his parents. And now the sides of it had massive indentations where his hands squeezed it.

“That shouldn’t be possible,” he said. The pain had lessened.

He scanned the room for more things to test out this burgeoning hypothesis. He didn’t see anything strong he didn’t want to lose, so he bolted out of his apartment and headed downstairs.

Parked in the street outside his apartment building, Damon saw a Ford F-150 pickup truck that had been parked for a week with a flat tire and tickets stacking up. A boot manacled the vehicle in place. It’d likely be towed in a day or two.

He looked around to make sure he was alone, and then went to the side of the truck and lifted.

The massive truck gave way and he was able to pick it up like it was no heavier than a sack of potatoes. ​You have to be kidding me​, Damon thought. This is incredible!

On a whim and with a laugh, he decided to walk with the truck slung on his shoulder, the bed pointing up in the air as he flipped it a bit to hold it by the cab. The impound lot was only a few blocks away. No problem-o! Damon thought.

He passed a few people on the way. Invariably would stop, stare, gasp, and point. One man looked at the joint in his hands, threw it to the ground, stomped on it, and walked off the other way exclaiming, “no more, man. I’m done”. Damon laughed.

He made it to the impound lot and dropped the truck neatly into a parking spot up front. The attendant behind a desk shot up and ran out to meet Damon.

“Did you just?” The man began with a stammer.

“Yup,” Damon said with a grin.

“And that’s a?”

“Ford F-150? Yessir.”


“Well, it was probably made that way at the factory,” Damon replied.

“No,” the man said with a flustered sigh. “I mean, how in the bloody hell did you carry that damn thing all the way here like it was… like it was…”

“A sack of potatoes?”

“Sure,” the man said. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, I know,” Damon said. “As for how I did it, I have no idea. But that’s been parked in front of my apartment building for a week. There’s tickets and a boot and I’m positive it would end up here anyway. I’m just saving you the time of having to tow it here.”

“Um, thanks?” The guy said. He looked pale and in need of a chair.

Damon smiled, and turned to head back home. His head was no longer hurting at all.