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D. Harlan Wilson

A bodybuilder in a purple Spandex g-string snuck into my home and started to pose. His tan seemed to have been painted onto his skin and his muscles seemed to twitch and flex of their own volition. His grin was as white as the image of God.

I reached underneath the couch cushion I was sitting on. Pulled out a crowbar. “I’ll teach you to invade a man’s privacy,” I exclaimed, and made like I was going to swing at him. He didn’t flinch. He went on posing, turning his broad back to me and tightening up his gluteus maximus.

Impressed, I couldn’t help but comment. “Nice gluts,” I said. The bodybuilder thanked me, straightened out one of his arms and exhibited a sublime tricep muscle. I made a frog face. “That’s pretty nice, too. But could you leave please? My wife will be home soon and if she sees us here together she might get suspicious. And anyway you’re breaking the law. You can’t just sneak into somebody’s house, start posing and expect everything to be all right. Please go.”

The bodybuilder shook his head. “I’m sorry but I can’t do that. Once I start posing, there’s no stopping me.” He placed a foot out in front of him and mockingly jiggled his profound thigh muscles back and forth. “I may take five now and then to shoot up an anabolic cocktail and fix myself a protein shake, but otherwise, you’re stuck with me. You’re stuck with me for a long, long time.”

I called the bodybuilder an asshole. Then I called 911. “You’re going to jail for what you’ve done,” I smirked. The bodybuilder shrugged. The shrug was as much a pose as it was a gesture of indifference.

In light of the severity of the crime I had reported on the phone, the police didn’t bother knocking on my door when they arrived. They simply crashed through my door like a stampede of mad oxen. There were three of them, each equipped with a bushy handlebar moustache, each wearing two articles of clothing: a ten gallon police hat and a purple Spandex g-string. Their tans seemed to have been painted onto their skin and their muscles seemed to twitch and flex of their own volition. Their grins were as white as the image of God.

“What seems to be the problem here, sir,” said the cop in charge, and struck a pose. It was an impressive Front Double Bicep pose and, following his lead, the rest of the cops struck it too.

I said, “This bodybuilder is an intruder. Take him away.”

“We weren’t talking to you,” replied the cop in charge. He and his colleagues synchronously shifted into an equally impressive Side Chest pose. “We were talking to him.”

Confused, I glanced over to the bodybuilder. He nodded at me. “This man is not a bodybuilder," he said. "Take him away.”

The cops laughed and made sniggering comments about my less than rock hard body as they frisked me, cuffed me and lead me out to the squad car . . .


D. Harlan Wilson’s fiction has appeared in a number of magazines, most recently in Doorknobs & BodyPaint, Redsine, Diagram, The Café Irreal, Driver’s Side Airbag, The Dream Zone, Samsara Quarterly, Eclectica and Absurdism. A chapbook of his stories was published in 2000, and his first full-length book, a collection of forty-four stories called The Kafka Effekt, was published in 2001. Wilson holds two M.A. degrees, one in English Literature (University of Massachusetts-Boston), the other in Science Fiction Studies (University of Liverpool). Currently he is working on his Ph.D. in Twentieth Century American Literature and Theory at Michigan State University. Check out D. Harlan Wilson’s official website.

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