At the intersection of too many seismic jerks, Henry stood at the centre of a Venn diagram of horrors, gaping. Unbidden, a dull whimper developed in his throat as the sight of his gigantic, older brother hit him a moment before the sharp smell of sweat burnt the inside of his nose. ‘Oh, sweet heaven,’ croaked a whimper, failing further. ‘Dear God!’
Standing below the transforming dome of the Braysen machine, Henry shivered as a creeping fear for his predicament grew. At a quarter of an inch, he was more than three hundred times smaller than George, who now seemed over a third of a mile high. ‘Every inch to him,’ cowered Henry, trying to remain calm, ‘is more than twenty-five feet, to me.’ Trembling uncontrollably, calm was an aspiration too lofty, so he settled for sane. An involuntary sob escaped his chest as his Brother stood, messing with his cellphone.
Moments before, waiting for the brother he assumed was not going to show, George snatched a stray screwdriver from the floor, placing it on a work surface. ‘He’d forget his head,’ George muttered, ‘if it was a lunch date with me.’
Seized, squeezed to the brink of bursting and dropped, Henry scrambled in a blind panic, already bruised and bruising anew, confused and terrified, from directly beneath where George had plucked up more than a tool. He’d have called out to his brother but the words lodged in his throat as the George’s oblivious left heel crashed millimetres from where Henry hadn’t found his bearings. Turning, it knocked him aside but didn’t drag him under, where he’d have been simultaneously crushed and ripped apart.
Striding several paces to make a call, George tutted as his sloppy brother failed to pick up. ‘Henry,’ he scolded the voicemail, ‘it’s me. Where are you?’ He paused, his voice even more surly. ‘I’m at the lab. I’ll wait another ten minutes. Call me when - as soon as you get this.’ Hanging up, he scowled.
Shaken to his core, Henry hung in anticipatory dread that, bored, George might notice something, stride back to inspect it and, without noticing an underfoot crunch, crush his quarter inch brother en route. ‘Oh George,’ he sobbed, desolate. ‘Please help me!’
Unaware his brother hadn’t stood him up, George threw himself into Henry’s office chair. Scrolling through a website in which he harboured no interest, the older brother felt distinctly dumped and more than a little miserable. A strapping jock of twenty-nine, already on a salary Henry, in all likelihood, could never match, George was burdened by a deluded sense of failure. The sporty, more popular brother looked around the bewildering display of scientific equipment weighing on him like the covert sneer of an academic clique, at his athletic, heavy but handsome looks. George felt a fool with a brainy little brother whom he loved and envied, to obsession. ‘Little shit,’ he grunted, upset and abandoned. Overheated and uncomfortable, he kicked off his shoes and hoped without holding out actual hope that the little brain-box might stroll through the door and seem pleased to see him. ‘Said he’d something,’ he sulked, ‘great to show me.’ Disappointed, he wiggled to unstick his toes and air his hot, damp socks before once more, sloping away, sad.
Henry’s whimper begot a gasping moan of shuddering nausea at the sight and, above all, smell of giant feet. Sweltering, the air above them rippled like a car roof in sunshine. Henry’s stomach knotted in somersaults of dread-arousal and, forced to kneel lest he stagger, he gulped, too excited to hide and too terrified to stay still. With a will of their own, his hands firmly gripped the mounting convulsion of a climax long overdue but still not with him. ‘Oh, brother,’ he wretched, as the vicious, grey tang of sweat socks practically steamed the hormones from him.
‘Heartless little shit,’ grunted George, upset and uncharacteristically desiring redress as he reached beneath the chair to ratchet the height of the seat. ‘Short-arsed meanie,’ he pumped, a hard bicep finding inadequate solace, rearranging comfort. Chair positioned, he spread his feet and, as if entertaining a novel idea well thumbed, he plucked up his telephone and scrolled to a photograph, a particularly cute snap of his cute, insensitive brother, studying it for the umpteenth time, anger melting into a superior smirk as his breathing thickened and his toes wiggled. Stretching his legs, a juddering, happier mood ascended, whilst his free hand descended. Smug, his smile became haughty. Imagination positioned an image of a cute little man, littler still, not so cocky, to a place of peril betwixt George’s feet. ‘Not laughing at me, now,’ he chuckled, toes wiggling to reiterate a dominant leer.
‘I didn’t mean to be mean,’ the tiny scientist attempted to reason.
‘That’s a pity,’ gloated the giant, his throbbing shaft stoked and ready to flow. ‘Because this time, I do mean it.’
Shaking with wave after wave, Henry knelt, barely able to remain upright as he gasped in terrified ecstasy, his huge brother’s feet framing a vision of the colossus arriving at his own crescendo, one running shoe kicked aside, the other on its side, ground beneath the planet-heavy heel of a hulking god.
Looking up, high into his brother’s face, Henry knew he was too insignificant to be visible but followed the line of George’s eye, alternating between some image or text on the cellphone and where Henry quivered, a fearful euphoria, throbbing with adoration for a gigantic brother whose marble heavy brow overshadowed the intense gaze of an uncontested authority, his heavy jaw gritted in supremacy over a defeated insect at his ripe feet.
‘Little man,’ sucked gritted teeth, grinning with a gloating mouth wet with triumphal spit, ‘better show big George if you can grovel for your life. Did I not say? The stakes raised while I was waiting.’
‘I’ll be a good little brother,’ he imagined Henry sob, the gentle flick of a big toe having knocked the terrified scientist on his back.
‘Sorry about the - the manly scent,’ George snuffled with a quiet laugh. ‘You stood me up so many times I didn’t have time to change.’
‘Oh please, George,’ begged repentance, squirming beneath a real stink of heavy cotton. ‘I don’t deserve this!’
‘Don’t deserve?’ sneered an insulted giant. ‘You bought me these socks! Every year I planned your birthday, Christmas or anniversaries of qualifications and honours, searching for something I’d hope you’d love - ‘ George rubbed away an angry tear. ‘Well, I suppose I hoped you’d love. I spent all year planning to please my dear little bro - and what did I get, in return? Socks! If you remembered! Another multipack of supermarket, grey socks! And I wore the fuckers to the exclusion of all others, and thought of you!’
Giving his heel a weighty twist, he imagined a dying cry of regret as Henry’s begging accompanied the satisfying crunch he’d delayed for years, shooting a sad anger into a heady fist.
In awe, Henry gazed upon his Olympian sibling, face skyward, exhausted, charge spent into a slippery fist.
‘Gods spare us!’ gasped the simultaneous rush of a drained mayfly as his own blood flooded with the same hormones as this sweating god.
His thoughts filled with the enormity of a brother, never less than a hero but now panoramic, Henry gagged on self-disgust as the idol he fraternised sprawled, panting, internalising a dilemma cut from the same interdiction.
As a child, Henry fled a gang who inflamed a wrath George presented neither before nor since, mountainous in savagery but loving in its reflex. As unreasonable as he was unstoppable, George razed a cordon sanitaire of monstrous, brotherly affection around his little brain box. ‘You’re hurting me!’ Henry wailed as George hugged him better. ‘Please Georgie! I can’t breathe!’
‘You’re so fucking wonderful,’ Henry sighed, before almost mouthing, ‘I love you, big brother.’
Suddenly George jerked, as if waking. Any minute, some colleague of his little brother could walk through the door and discover him, jizzed up on an act a fraternal politics, in his shorts and T-shirt, the lab stinking of socks. Jumping to his feet George stomped heavily back into battered Nikes, hastily lacing his obvious dishabille as he spotted something he’d somehow missed.
Already weak at the knees basking in the godlike scent of a brother, heroic before but now beyond beauty in his gargantuan majesty, Henry felt the air leave his lungs too rapidly as George rose to his full height. His head swimming, the bullet of an orgasm shot without warning as, straddled by his enormous brother’s feet, Henry looked directly up as George looked directly down.
‘Fuck!’ thundered George, raising a foot so suddenly to crush the sole witness to his fantasy, his shoe, not properly tied, fell off. ‘Filthy fucking bugs,’ he hissed, apoplectic, ‘get the fucking fuck out of my little bro’s lab!’
Mid-chug, Henry was barely aware how the darkness could descend so instantly but, in a split second of agony, he knew it was his brother’s weight crushing come into blood and bone into paste as he died with the last air in his lungs, the foot sweat of gigantic George.
‘Oh, fuck!’ roared George as bug juice soaked into the sweaty, grey cotton of a cheap sock he wore for the love of a little brother who showed little hint of loving him back. ‘Fuck, fuck,’ he grumbled, his foot already back in its trainer. Monetarily, he paused to revisit the vision it was his negligent brother he’d crushed. Standing on one leg, he pulverised what was left of the loveable runt, soaking into his inner sole, sock and foot. ‘Down, big boy,’ he sniggered, as his manhood twitched at the notion of Henry’s face. ‘Serves you right,’ he told the annihilating foot, ‘for buying me cheap socks.’
‘Henry?’ George asked the voicemail as he exited the lab. ‘When you hear this, just so you know, you're the best, d’ya hear me? Love you lots, Bug-Boy.’ Chuckling, he rearranged his shorts and ground down on an already half absorbed stain.
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