Trish drags you down to the basement and sets you down. The place is a mess of wooden boards, tarps, paint cans, and various other objects littered about. “Here we are,” she announces. “It‘ll take some hard work, but the two of us can turn this into a first-class workout room for me to use every day. I haven’t told you yet, but I’ve been planning something big for a while now. I’ll let you know once we get this place up and running. Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get down to work!”
The next few hours involve carefully setting planks into place, bolting structures to the wall, and maneuvering ropes, cables and weights into place. With your small, weak composition, you are relegated to the minor adjustments and finishing touches on the completed structures, while your ex-pro wrestler mom does the heavy lifting. As time passes, it becomes increasingly clear that she is back in her element, marveling at the gradually completed equipment that will soon be ready for her use. While her enthusiasm and strength keep her going at a rapid clip, you gradually begin to wear down. Before long,
you need to rest, and find yourself sitting on the end of a long wooden plank resting on an overturned paint can. As you catch your breath, your mom comes around the corner, humming to herself and toting another long board under her arm. She heads your way, failing to notice the upturned end of the plank you are sitting on.
“Uh...Mom?” you attempt to warn her, “Watch where you’re stepping.” Trish doesn’t seem to hear you, blissfully continuing her path unabated while humming her tune. “Mom,” you plead, “watch out for that board. Don’t step on...Mom! Look out! Mom! Mom! MOM! MOOOM!!!”
Oblivious to your cries, she steps down on the edge of the raised board, jerking your end up and flinging you skyward. She continues on her way, missing your panicked screams, finally stopping at the sound of a faint *SPLAT!* behind her. She turns around to find an empty room, and that she is standing on the end of a board. “That’s funny,” she shrugs. “Jack was here a minute ago. And I swore I heard him just now. Did he need something? I guess he went off to get it just now.”
If your mother had only looked up, she would have noticed a strange blur smeared on the ceiling. Your cries come out as muffled anguish, as you had hit face-first. As she turns back around, you slowly loosen from the ceiling, and struggle to reform as you hit the ground. You finally peel fully off, and brace for the impact of hitting the floor. Your momentum is sharply arrested, and you suddenly find yourself reforming, mysteriously dangling from a sharp surface. You turn around to find the back of your shirt caught on the edge of the board sling under Trish’s arm. “Oh well,” she shrugs, “He’ll be back any second.” She continues on her way, unknowingly carrying her son behind her. You lift yourself up to catch her attention, only to smack your head on a series of crossbeams your mom passed under.
“Mom, help!” you call out, desperate to grab her attention. “Mom, I’m back here! Over here!”
“Huh?” Trish suddenly stops. She begins to turn back, vaguely aware of your voice. “Jack, is that you back there? Are you alright, sweetie?” She whirls quickly around, swinging the board behind her, flattening you against the wall. “Jack? Honey? Did you need something?” She turns back around, seeing nothing behind her, unaware of your flattened form pasted on her board. “I guess not. Now where is that silly boy?” She continues on her way, once again unwittingly dragging you along. You separate from the board and reform just enough to shout back to her. “Mom, stop!” you yell. “Back here!”
“Hold on, Jack! Mommy’s coming!” Trish turns to check back towards the source of your voice. As she walks back, she lobs the board over her head and across the room. It hits with a hard crash, squashing you underneath. You will yourself towards reforming, and struggling to push the heavy plank off of you. The effort proves to have little effect, and as your bewildered mother makes her way back to where you landed, she fails to see the board rising up at her feet, or hear your desperate struggles. She walks over the board, crushing you under it and her.
“Jack?” she calls out to the air in general, “You have to stop playing games, or we’ll never get done.” She then goes about carrying supplies across the room, crossing the downed board and trampling you flat at regular intervals. When she finally settles on one area of the room away from you, you wiggle out from under the board and allow yourself to reform, dizzy and smarting from your mom’s careless bumbling. You look up to see her taking various workout items from a box and tossing them across the room. You approach her and begin to alert her to your present, you are squished under a wayward weight, tossed courtesy of your oblivious mom. The weight fortunately rolls away, leaving you flattened on the floor. As she empties the box, Trish once again approaches you, but fixated on the near-complete workout room. “A quick wipe-down and we should be all done,” she announces. “Now where’s a dust-rag when you need them? Ah, here’s one.” You faintly whimper as she bends to pick you up.
What follows is pure torture as you are bent, twisted, stretched, snapped, and roughly run over every surface in the expansive new home gym. Finally, Trish gives a few final, violent shakes, and tosses the “rag” over her shoulder. You fly across the room, and land with a splat, your mind still running through the harsh, ricocheting journey your body has just taken. Meanwhile, your mom triumphantly dusts her hands off, and surveys her new workout facility. “What did I tell you, honey,” she calls to you. “Look how we got this room together. Now I want to try this out a little bit. You better go back upstairs for a while, sweetie. This is Mommy’s workout room, and you might get hurt in here.”
As she says this, you look up to see her striding your way, directly towards where you landed....
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