Description Sixty-year-old Roger Jespersen no longer believes his lifelong bodybuilding goals are achievable. On the other hand, his new therapist, Dr. Haddad, possesses unusual talents. Thanks to his efforts Roger’s inner Mass Monster is unleashed.
|Updated||05 Sep 2020|
“Really? Sigmund Freud’s study?”
If anyone could vocalize an eye-roll, Roger Jespersen was the man to do it. Dr. Haddad looked over his half-glasses at his “patient,” stretched out on the elegant mahogany leather chaise lounge. The half-glasses were a nice touch, Roger thought. They went well with the academic tweeds and Haddad’s curly black beard. Of course, the blue skin and the blinding white turban sort of spoiled the effect.
“You would prefer something more modern?”
The leather chaise, mahogany furniture, exquisite Oriental rug, and deep, green velvet curtains were replaced with the ultra-MCM chic of Dr. Victor Stephanson’s office in What a Way to Go (1964, Shirley MacClaine, Bob Cummings, Paul Newman, Robert Mitchum, Gene Kelly, Dean Martin).
“I was six years old when that movie came out,” Jespersen pointed out. “Take me back to Vienna.”
Haddad sighed. It felt like he had been with Jespersen for days. In fact, he had been with Jespersen for days. Jespersen was a tough cookie. Damn Akbar anyway! “Let’s go over this again,” Haddad said, soothingly. “Why don’t you want me to help you?”
This time Jespersen dispensed with the eye-rolling. He sat up and glared at Haddad. “I think I’ve made myself perfectly clear, several dozen times,” Roger said. “But let’s go through the litany again…” Haddad winced.
“I know the answer to this one, knew it before you ever made yourself known to me, but I will ask it again: Can you restore a lost love?”
Haddad shook his head.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I know,” he agreed. “Let’s try something a bit easier.”
He cleared his throat. It bugged him.
“Can you save my failing marriage?”
Again, Haddad shook his head.
“As you know,” he said. “It has already failed.”
Roger did indeed know. Tom, his husband of 15 years, had traded him in for a new model half his age. The very generous divorce settlement meant a secure and comfortable retirement but it didn’t compensate for what he now saw as wasted years. Who wanted a broken down 60 y.o. gay man for a husband?
“Can you undo all the mistakes I have made in my life?”
Haddad pursed his lips. “Yes, of course,” he agreed. “But as you know, the mistakes you’ve made are the mistakes that resulted in two grown children and a grandchild, an excellent relationship with your ex-wife, and the lost love that you continue to mourn nearly 20 years after the fact.”
Roger grimaced. “Indeed so,” he said. “Just as you said and just as I knew before I ever asked.” He tried a new one.
“Can you forgive my sins?”
Haddad threw down his notebooks.
“Oh, c’mon, Roger, who do I look like? Your blue-eyed Jesus on a freaking plate?!’
Jespersen had to laugh at that one. Placating, he held up his hands.
“That would have been my grandmother’s Jesus, not mine, and I think at this point I’m entitled to get a rise out of you.”
“Isn’t it about time you gave up?” Roger asked.
Haddad counted to 10.
Then he counted to 20.
When he got to 100…
“Never mind,” Roger said. “I understand.”
He had, in fact, been paying attention from the beginning when Haddad kidnapped him from his kitchen counter where he was having his morning coffee and waffles and peanut butter and Chobani while checking Facebook and Instagram.
“I’m Haddad, a genie,” Haddad had said. “I have been sent to give you what you most desire.”
Roger hadn’t batted an eye. He lived in the Age of Trump, after all. Nothing surprised him anymore. If Haddad had been a three-eyed, three-legged, green-skinned, antennaed Martian named Gfrlzkbk, he would have taken that in stride, too.
“And?” Roger had asked.
“The great Genie Akbar has commanded me,” Haddad said.
It later turned out that Akbar and Haddad were brothers and ancient enemies. Akbar had laid a geas upon Haddad, requiring him to give Roger what he wanted, dispensing with all the usual three wishes and trickery nonsense. (How and why Akbar has chosen Roger, of all people, to be the recipient of Haddad’s attention remained a mystery both to Haddad and Roger. Authorial privilege, perhaps?) The usual rules about not being able to raise the dead or causing someone to fall in love (and whatever the other one was) still applied. Otherwise Haddad was free to act. More to the point, Haddad was required to act. And therein lay the rub.
Roger was 60, newly divorced, moderately well-off, at a far remove from his children and grandchildren. Aside from a new young body, there was nothing Haddad could give him that wouldn’t undo the life he had led. And for all its mistakes and injuries, compromises and disappointments, Roger’s life had likewise been full of joys and successes. He wouldn’t trade it.
“I wouldn’t trade it,” Roger said, for the hundredth time. “Not in this universe, anyway…”
Haddad’s ears perked up.
“Not in this Universe?” he inquired.
Roger didn’t notice the hint of hopefulness in Haddad’s voice.
“I’ve long believed in the Multiple Universes theory,” Roger drawled. “Why not? Great for fantasy, if nothing else. I’m completely convinced that elsewhere in the Universe I’m married to all of the Chris’s—Evans, Hemsworth, Pine, and Pratt. I’m just not sure whether there’s a separate Universe for each. Or if there’s a Universe where plural marriage is commonplace and I’m married to all of them at the same time.”
Haddad bit his tongue. He knew the answer to that question but he wasn’t going to share it. He had an idea. An idea that just might work.
“Roger,” he said, tentatively. “If you lived in a different universe…”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Roger said. “If I lived in a different universe…”
He would be young and tall and handsome and hung like a porn star. He would have the genetic potential to be the world’s best bodybuilder plus all the knowledge, drive and ambition that the world’s best bodybuilders had accumulated over the previous century, instantly at his fingertips.
“But I wouldn’t be at my peak,” Roger said. “I’d just be starting out. Completely confident, no distractions, free to sweat and grunt and enjoy every minute of it, never making a mistake or suffering a setback, always growing, whether quickly or slowly, always keenly aware of it.”
Once again, he sighed and then stretched out on the chaise.
“But I don’t live in some other universe,” Roger said, addressing the coffered ceiling. Haddad’s dedication to verisimilitude was really quite impressive. “I live in this one. And you can’t give me that without undoing the life I have lived.”
Roger didn’t see Haddad’s smile, nor did he see the gesture Haddad made that rendered him unconscious.
“Not in this Universe, I can’t,” Haddad said. “But since when has that been a problem for my kind?”
The next day Haddad read the local announcement.
Mud Creek, Indiana.—Funeral arrangements for Roger Endicott Jespersen, 60, will be held 11 a.m. Saturday at the Neptune Chapel, E. 96th. Mr. Jespersen succumbed Monday to injuries received when his vehicle suffered a malfunction and plunged into Morrison Reservoir. He is survived by his mother and stepfather, Leonora & Fred Hardcastle (Nymph, Ala.); his son and daughter-in-law, Kevin and Patricia Jespersen (Eubanks, Ga.); his daughter, Nigella Jespersen (Denver, Colo.); two brothers, Sidney Jespersen (Wausau, Wisc.) and Frank Jespersen (Gilt Lily, Va.); one grandchild and several nieces and nephews. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to the charity of your choice.
Lest the reader worry: Roger’s consciousness had already left the building when his Lexus went over the guardrail.
“That takes care of Universe 975832A,” Haddad said to himself. “Now for a visit to Universe 975832B.”
Roger’s eyes flew open. He was on a television set, dressed in his favorite pink blazer, black slacks, and a crisp, white shirt with a pink-and-black floral silk tie.
“Welcome to Your New Model,” declaimed the host, Peter O’Dell. “And welcome to our Celebrity Model, Henry Cavill!”
Roger tried not to gape! He had long had a mad pash for Cavill, thinking him the perfect blend of dashing good looks, muscle, and, OMG, that hairy chest!
“Roger, as you know, you’re a contestant on Your New Model because the body you currently inhabit is worn out,” O’Dell said, in his avuncular tone. “Most of us can’t afford a replacement but the Oligarchs, in their wisdom, have created this show as an opportunity for poor unfortunate souls like you to have their shot, just like the deserving one percent.”
Roger nodded agreeably.
“Henry, will you do us the honor of describing the New Model for Roger and the audience?”
Cavill grinned that devilish grin as the spotlight shone upon his handsome features. “Of course, Peter, I would be happy to do so!” A spot shifted to a dais on which a young man stood with his eyes closed. “As you can see,” Henry continued. “This fellow was grown at Gencor, the world’s most advanced cloning facility, taken from my DNA. He’s basically my younger brother. He looks quite a bit like me—but not exactly. It’s also the case that he’s just my height—6’1 for you Americans—and just my size, 210 pounds. All muscle!”
Roger worked hard not to lick his lips.
“But there are differences, most of which you won’t be able to notice, right down at the cellular genetic level,” Cavill pointed out. “Most of you know that as a young squirt I was a hefty lad and as a result I was bullied for it. ‘Fat Cavill,’ they called me, if you can believe it! This gent, though, has had his genes tweaked so that no matter what he does or doesn’t eat, his body fat percentage will never go above 10%.”
Roger’s eyes widened. If he had to guess, he would estimate the New Model’s BF ratio at no more than 5%, just based on the state of those shredded abs.
“It’s also the case that some people prefer a man who is naturally smooth, others a guy who’s—how shall we say—a bit rough?” Cavill grinned that impossibly sexy grin. “This fellow can be customized so that he can be either. And if you happen to prefer a guy who is even rougher than I am, well, that can be arranged, too.”
It was time for O’Dell to chime in.
“That’s right, Henry, and the customization options don’t stop there,” he added. “No one has ever accused our Henry of being a slouch in the underwear department but more is more, right folks? And if more is your thing, Roger, more can be had!”
It’s really too good to be true, Roger thought. How did I wind up here?
“Roger, as you know, the New Model can be yours if you answer all 20 questions successfully,” O’Dell continued. “Each successfully answered question entitles you to a cash prize. At every step along the way, you can opt for the cash prize—or you can go for the Gold. Keep in mind that thus far in the history of the Show no one has ever gone the distance, although today we have handed out $7.8 million in cash prizes. Are you ready to play?”
Roger grinned his winningest grin.
“Ready, Peter,” he announced. “And let’s be clear. I’m going for the Gold!”
The audience cheered.
Dr. Haddad, minus the turban and with lots of make-up covering his blue skin, sat directly behind Roger.
It took Roger the equivalent of two episodes to answer all 20 questions. Each time he answered another question successfully, the audience cheered louder than it had the time before. By the time he was in the upper teens, the audience was having a hard time settling down. The show-runners had to stop the clock on more than one occasion to get people to shut up. When he answered the 20th question successfully, pandemonium broke up!
“Oh My God!” O’Dell exclaimed. “You did it! I just knew you were going to be the one!”
Cavill swept Roger up into a big hug and gave him a big kiss smack on the mouth!
“And now for the moment we’ve been waiting for these past five years,” O’Dell proclaimed. “The transfer of consciousness! This standard process is completely safe and 100% effective but we have never had the opportunity to employ it in front of a live studio audience!”
O’Dell took Roger’s hand.
“Roger,” he said, in a tone that bordered on reverential. “There’s no going back. Are you ready?”
Roger looked at the host and smiled.
“Peter,” he said. “My husband, my children, my granddaughter, my friends, they’re all in my corner. They know what this means to me. They’re ready—and I’m ready.”
With that O’Dell signaled the Gencor technicians to come forward. They lowered the CTD (Consciousness Transference Device) helmet onto Roger’s head, then pressed the big green button. A series of blue and green pulsing lights flashed up and down Roger’s body, a sequence that was repeated over the body of the Henry Cavill clone. At the 60 second mark, the Gencor supervisor pushed the red button.
“Transfer complete,” she intoned. Roger’s body slumped to the floor. The Cavill clone gave a shudder and jerk, then his eyes opened.
“It’s me,” he said, in a smooth, mellow baritone. “I’m Roger Jespersen!”
Haddad breathed a sigh of relief.
“Really?” Roger said. “Sigmund Freud’s study?
Haddad winced. He had chosen the study on purpose, hoping to determine whether Multiverse bleed through was occurring and, if so, how much.
“It’s been a year, Roger,” he said. “Surely you’ve noticed before now?”
Roger chewed his Mike Mentzer-style mustache. He’d always had the hots for the 70s bodybuilder and with his Cavillesque dark good looks—square jaw, patrician nose, high cheekbones, chin dimple, flawless complexion—he could pull it off.
“I don’t know, Doc,” he said. Haddad had been this New Model Transition Therapist for a year. “It just suddenly seems like I’m on a movie set. And for some reason I keep picturing you with a turban. And, yes, I know, that’s got to be wildly offensive but it pops into my head at the strangest times.”
Oh, dear, Haddad thought. It’s worse than I thought. Time for a distraction.
“Tell me how it’s been going?”
Roger stood up and flexed. If Haddad had actually had actual male genitals, they would have done the cha-cha.
“Check it out, Doc,” Roger growled. “277 pounds at 4% body fat. That’s up 67 pounds in one year. I’d say I’m taking Henry’s genetic potential to the max. It’s like everything I ever needed to grow—knowledge, will-power, ambition, dedication—it’s all right there. It just springs into my mind!”
Haddad cleared his throat. That much had worked, at least! “And what do your children think about it all?”
Roger deflated. He got back on the couch and stretched out. “On the one hand, they’re happy for me,” he said. “They knew I wasn’t going to last much longer in that body…” Haddad raised an eyebrow. “On the other hand,” Roger continued. “It’s pretty fucking weird for ‘Gramps’ to look younger than they do. Kevin and Patricia have started calling me ‘Uncle Roger’ in front of Charlotte and Nigella tells everyone I’m her younger brother.”
Roger shrugged his massive shoulders. “I guess I can’t blame them. It is pretty weird.”
Haddad appeared to busy himself with notes. “And Tom?”
Roger sighed. “You know, I thought it would be great,” he said. “I’m a dozen years older than he is, you know, at least up here [tapping his head], and I think he had begun to look around for a younger model.”
This time Roger chewed his lower lip.
“Now, though, I appear to be half his age, plus I outweigh him by a hundred pounds, and my dick is twice is big. He always told me that he had a thing for big muscles and big dicks and that he’d always wanted me to be even bigger than I was. But now that he has it…”
Haddad looked over his half-glasses (and wondered whether they were one affectation too many.) “It’s too much…?”
“He no longer wants to have sex with me,” he explained. “Apparently I’m too big for him down there. And apparently my ass intimidates him. Says his dick can’t get past my giant butt cheeks to my hole.” Roger draped his massive 20-inch forearm across his eyes. “I just don’t know what to do about it,” he said. “I love him, he’s been very good to me, and…”
Haddad cleared his throat. “And thanks to the show you have $10 million in the bank,” he pointed out. Roger scratched the forest of black curls that covered his sculpted 58-inch chest. “I lost one love,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t think I can walk away.” Haddad arched an eyebrow. “But it’s not like you don’t get offers?”
The glance Roger gave Haddad was in some ways more worrisome than the Freud reference. The implicit eye-roll was exactly the same, no matter what Universe Roger Jespersen happened to inhabit.
“All the fucking time,” Roger replied. “And that’s from the people who don’t recognize me as being Henry Cavill’s clone. I have this retro hairstyle and 70s stache to downplay the visual resemblance. But does that stop people at the gym, the grocery store, the ice cream parlor? No, it does not. And it’s as many women as men despite the fact that I try to gay it up as much as possible. I guess everyone likes a challenge!”
Roger cleared his throat.
“As for the groupies…” In a year he had requested and been granted 47 restraining orders. “Henry’s been a big help with that,” Roger continued. “The Oligarchs don’t put up with that crap and at this point he’s been adopted into the Club.”
Before Haddad could raise an eyebrow, Roger added:
“Which is not likely to happen as far as I’m concerned. I’ve accompanied Henry on a handful of jaunts to Oligarch Events—he likes to show me off—and, man, talk about the Cold Shoulder. They were happy to make the New Model available, they just never expected anyone to win!”
Mentally, Haddad crossed his fingers. Realistically speaking, there was no way the Oligarchs could know that the questions and answers were readily discernible to any being with his powers, nor could the possibly suspect that he had planted the answers in Roger’s brain. It could only be a one-in-ten-million fluke, as far as they were concerned. Or so he hoped!
“So has it been worth it?” Haddad asked.
Whether he continued to be “on the hook” for Roger’s happiness depended on the answer. The answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming. Roger crossed his arms, unfolded them, sat up, stood up, walked around, stretched out again. Haddad was losing his mind.
“Aww, hell yeah,” Roger said, looking up at the coffered ceiling with the Tiffany-shaded light fixture. “I love the kids but they’re grown and have lives of their own. I don’t need to be their dad any more. And they’re happy to have me be part of Charlotte’s life, which is something I worried about.”
He cleared his throat. “As for Tom, well, we’ll see,” Roger said. “I can’t make him love me if we won’t.” He looked down his hirsute massively muscled torso and flexed biceps that measured 24 inches cold.
“And when you really get down to it,” Roger said. “Muscle is what I’ve always wanted. Growing it, feeding it, feeling it, having it. For 40 years I never made the progress I wanted because of school, work, marriage, children, coming out, new relationships, widowhood, newer relationships. All those things made me who I am up here [pointing to his head again] and I don’t remotely regret them. But now I’m free to choose a new path.”
Haddad sighed with relief.
“Now would you for the love of God get rid of that ridiculous make-up?” Roger said. “You look much better in blue!”
Haddad’s half-glasses clattered on the floor.
“You’ve been had, Haddad,” Roger said. “I know what you did and why you did it!”
“Now wait just a minute,” Haddad said, holding up his hand.
“Really, Haddad, it’s okay,” he said. “When I finally figured out what was going on, I was conflicted. But I’m not now. It’s like I said, this body—this experience—is the one I’ve always dreamed of having. In terms of my personal relationships, there are downsides, but when isn’t that the case?”
Haddad breathed a sigh of relief.
Roger explained that from the get-go—from the moment his eyes opened on the set of Your New Model—he had experienced a significant degree of cognitive dissonance, that he knew something wasn’t quite right.
“It was like I had two sets of memories,” Roger said. “One where my husband had left me and I was living in the Age of Trump, another in which I was living—and dying—in the Age of the Oligarchs.”
It was the latter that really brought home the difference.
“I knew in my heart of hearts that Trump notwithstanding, the American people had never given up the vote in favor of enlightened despotism on the part of the richest of the rich,” Roger said. “You wouldn’t believe the look Tom gave me when I said ‘whaddya mean we don’t have enough money to vote?!!’”
Haddad grimaced. “You noticed, huh?” Roger nodded.
“More precisely, you didn’t notice that that Roger was always highly conscious, politically speaking,” he said. “You should have known better than to try to sneak that past me.” Roger shrugged his ox-like shoulders. “So how did you handle my disappearance?” he asked. “I mean, I assume that I disappeared and that you just didn’t split my consciousness in some fashion?”
Haddad showed him the Mud Creek obituary. Wordlessly, Roger wiped tears from his eyes. “I hope they’re doing okay,” he said. “It can’t have been easy.” Haddad waggled his hand up and down.
“It’s never easy, from what I can tell,” he said. “But they seem to be doing okay. Charlotte now has a baby brother, Roger Endicott Jespersen II. And Nigella and Reed are getting married next month.”
“Well, that’s okay, then! May my memory be a blessing!”
“L’Chaim,” Haddad agreed.
Roger cleared his throat.
“You realize, of course, that as far as I am concerned, you are free of your obligation?”
Haddad blinked. “Well, yes, but…” Roger looked at him. “And, no, I’m not trying to shoo you away,” he continued. “Strange as it may seem, I enjoy your company.” If it were possible for a genie to blush, Haddad would have done so. “Likewise,” he replied, grinning. “You can’t imagine what a relief it is to be around someone who doesn’t want something from me!”
“Well, it looks I’m here for the duration,” he said. “And I could use a therapist, you know. I find blue ones are the best!”
The make-up disappeared, the turban returned. Haddad was once again blue.
“But, seriously, Freud’s study?” Roger asked. Haddad harrumphed. “I actually knew Freud, you know, and quite liked him,” he pointed out. “Early 20th Century Vienna was quite a nice place to be!”
Blink blink blink!
“In that case, it’s settled,” Roger said. “Wednesdays at 3 p.m.?”
“Wednesdays at 3 it is!”
A year later…
Haddad looked at the mountain of a man on his chaise lounge. In the two years since Roger had received his new body, he had more than doubled in size.
“I’m 450 pounds now,” Roger said, flexing arms that were 38 inches cold. “And thus far I have shown no signs of slowing down. At this rate I ought to hit 500 pounds by Halloween.”
Haddad arched an eyebrow.
“Are you planning to paint yourself green and go as the Hulk?”
“Too obvious,” he said. “Besides, it would freak out Ruffalo.”
Taking a cue from the Roger playbook, Haddad rolled his eyes.
“And how is the Superhero club these days?”
The grin on Roger’s face told Haddad everything he needed to know.
“The bigger I’ve gotten, the bigger Henry has wanted to get,” he said. “He’s up to 250 pounds now, which means I’ve got exactly 200 pounds on him. The studios are freaking out. They keep telling him enough is enough.”
When Roger had broken the 300-pound mark, Henry was suddenly around all the time. It turned out that impulsive full-on-the-mouth kiss when Roger won the contest wasn’t all that impulsive.
“Seeing you get huge is such a fucking turn on,” Henry had confessed. “You’re wearing my body, for all practical purposes, and you’re bigger than I ever dreamed I could be!” Roger was instantly hard. Henry put his strong, masculine hand on the 13-inch bulge in Roger’s compression shorts. “And, this, mate, this is fucking gold! I like my tool but seeing a really BIG one attached to a freak body that happens to be mine?” Roger put his hands under Henry’s pits, lifted him in the air, and spent the next five minutes massaging his benefactor’s tonsils with his tongue. Then he fucked his lights out.
“I had no idea that they were all equally into it,” Roger confessed. “You know, I used to say in another Universe I was married to all the Chris’s. And here it is another Universe and I’m not married to all the Chris’s but I’ve fucked all of them! That’s really good enough!”
Score yet another one for Roger, Haddad thought.
“And how was the Olympia?”
The frustrated snort confirmed what Haddad had suspected.
“They wouldn’t let me compete, of course,” Roger said, the exasperation clear in his voice. “Claimed that ‘clearly’ Gencor had tweaked my genes or something and that I couldn’t compete against ‘naturals.’ Ha!”
Then his frustration melted away and Roger grinned.
“On the other hand, they let me guest pose,” he pointed out. “You should have seen Ramy. 5’9 and 330 pounds on stage—and I was four inches taller and 120 pounds heavier. I thought his pecker was gonna pop right out of his posers! They don’t call him big Ramy anymore, not after they saw him standing next to me!”
Roger chuckled at the memory.
“As for Heath, man, I would have been so embarrassed,” Roger said, as if unsure what he felt about it all. “He literally pissed himself. Hasn’t been seen since.” Roger fingered his thumb-sized right nipple with fingers the size of meat-hooks. “And what I found out is that it doesn’t matter whether those guys are straight or gay, they’re all size queens,” Roger went on. “They all want to be as big as humanly possible and at that level they are in fact bigger and stronger than 99.9% of the men in the world. And then I come along and I outweigh the biggest of them by a hundred pounds.”
Haddad’s big kielbasa stirred in his loose-cut tweed pants. Genies don’t normally have equipment down below but Haddad was so aroused by Roger’s stories that he had had one installed.
“And it’s not just the size, of course. They like being man-handled. When you’re 300 pounds plus and some guy comes along and picks you up with one hand like you’re a little kid, I can guarantee it will get your motor running.”
It’s certainly working for me! Haddad said to himself.
“But you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” Roger asked.
He stood up and walked over to Haddad’s, looming alarmingly large.
“All you’d have to do is think it and you’d be what? Twice my size? Ten times my size?”
Haddad cleared his throat. “Vast cosmic powers, teeny-tiny living space,” he quoted. Roger’s hubcap-sized hand was rubbing his crotch, waking up his 13-inch monster. “Isn’t it about time you took your boy for a ride?”
Oh, well, fuck it, Haddad thought. Why not?
His clothes were gone. The room was gone. They were standing on a beach, brilliant emerald water, white sand, sea oats on the dunes, and cloudless blue sky over head. Roger looked up.
“Are you ready boy?” Haddad’s voice was like thunder over the mountains.
Roger looked up at giant blue muscle beast in front of him. What was he? Ten feet? Twelve feet? His giant standing-straight-up cock had to be three feet, minimum.
“Ready when you are, Haddaddy!”
It had been 2000 years, give or take a few decades, since Haddad had last had sex. Since just before he became a genie, in fact. All those years Haddad had been waiting for someone worthy. Someone like Roger, he finally admitted to himself.
“Ready when you are, Kiddo!” he said. “Ready when you are!”
Ready! Set! Go!