G-Man
Greenhorn
The long-awaited sequel to the critically-defamed The Steamroom, an ancient fic about a lunk farmer who flexed his muscles so Penny could flex her heart (the heart is also a muscle and flexes approximately 79 times per second on average in women). Though lost to time, except in the far corners of an archive perhaps, the story ended with the farmer and Penny living happily ever after. BUT - like all sequels, the happy ending needs to be retconned so I can milk it into a lackluster trilogy that's just kind of okay. So, without further achoo, the flexening continues.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2 coming soon
Chapter 1
It's a quiet, uneventful night during an abnormally cool mid-summer season. I lay in bed next to my lovely wife Penny. We are still a young couple, married only a few years, but our love hasn't lost its spark. Our little fraternal twins, Biceps our son and Curls our daughter, sleep soundly in the next room, exhausted from a long day of homeschooling and playing. Looking in now, one could never imagine that anything could break the comfortable monotony of this peaceful, pleasant rest. However, all is not as it would seem. While my lovely family earns some well-deserved sleep, I'm wide awake and disturbed. Scanning for threats, of course, but having a hard time falling asleep in general. Every time I close my eyes, the beautiful dream that should dance across the twilight crimson of my inner eyelids twists into the visage of a terrifying nightmare. My precious children, stolen away, brainwashed. My sweet Penny, slain in cold blood for resisting. My legacy, my farm, seized and turned to ruin. The Ferngill Republic falling to righteous tyrants. The Gotoro Empire simply watching, pleased to see us destroy ourselves and biding their time to strike. And it always comes back to one, true enemy: Joj-
My eyes open again, sweat cooling on my brow. It's nearly 6:00 AM. Must have dozed off at some point. I look over and my heart nearly stops as Penny is missing. The kids are still sleeping, and I hear the familiar rattles coming from the kitchen downstairs. I carefully slide out of my steel-reinforced bed, not wanting to wake the little ones. I kiss Biceps and Curls on the forehead and enter the kitchen, my wife hard at work whipping up a simple but delicious breakfast; omeletes, pancakes, hashbrowns, bacon, sliced oranges, a vegetable juice medley, and some hot peppers for seasoning. All organic ingredients grown right here on Grandpa's farm with patience, hard work, and knuckle sandwiches. I come up behind Penny and embrace her, kissing her on the cheek. She responds cheerfully.
"Oh, Fist, you're already up. Good morning, dear." Penny smiles, continuing to fry the hashbrowns.
That's me, Fist Puncher. The man, the myth, the legend. "Yes ma'am, I am. What you cookin' good lookin'?" I reply nonchalantly, never betraying the worries plaguing me nightly.
"Just making your favorites. I know how much you love my pancakes." Penny finishes up the hashbrowns and wipes her hands on her apron, turning to me with concern in her eyes. "I know you haven't been sleeping well lately. Tell me what's wrong. We promised to work things out together."
I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders, and it seems that bits and pieces of it strew about wherever I go. Whether it was a bad harvest season, war on the horizon, banditry, or oppressive regulations, she would always be able to assemble that puzzle accurately from those fragments without me ever having to say a word about it. Her booksmarts and deep well of literary knowledge had little to do with it. She knew because she cared about me and about the family, and about the homestead and the farm.
Tempted to tell her not to worry about it, I sigh and decide that it's a good time to briefly mention it before the kids are up. "Ah, just some crazy nightmares. Nothing major. Although, Ferngill's supposed to have something big happening today, forget exactly what. Maybe that's been on my mind recently." Before anything else can be said about it, we hear the pitter patter of small feet coming down the stairs.
"Mommy, I'm hungry!" Curls runs up and tugs on Penny's skirt.
"I want pancakes!" Biceps likes them just as much as his dad.
Penny, in her kind and motherly way, tells them to help set the table and sit down. They're energetic in the morning and always a handful, but I couldn't be more blessed knowing how spirited and carefree they are. It melts my worries away and I laugh heartily, the steel-reinforced house shaking slightly from my thunderous bellows. After breakfast, I play with the children for a few moments, putting Biceps on my shoulders and carrying Curls in my arm as I kiss Penny once more. She's going to bring them to the library today, but on days that she's home, the kids spend time at the playground in Pelican Town with Vincent and Jas. My wife helps me with the menial tasks keeping the farm tidy and we spend some quality time together, doing this and that. Today, however, it's just me out on the farm.
As I step into the fields, the bright summer sun peeking over the horizon casts a picturesque auburn glow across my promised land. Grandpa's farm was a treasure in its day, and now, I hope to make it a heritage site and a living, breathing museum of quality produce. Farming, ranching, fishing, and various artisan goods. I remember the early days of wrangling crops and cattle. I would till the soil, bury the seeds, and threaten everything alive in a half-mile radius to take care of itself. All with my bare hands and tall, muscular frame. These days I've come to enjoy the quiet work of making sure that there's enough nutrients and water to nurture my farm. Of course, I still practice and train for Mr. Olympia competitions, just like Grandpa did. After all, Muscle Crow, my jacked rarecrow, has never once allowed me to win, flexing eternally on my mortal coil.
I look out on my vast acreage. Rays of mellow light shine through the copse of tapper trees, pines, maples, oaks, firs, and more. My orchard is well organized and varied, some plump fruit always in season. At the animal and monster ranches, happy creatures give their bounty freely. Milk, wool, eggs, honey, slimeballs, even rabbit's feet (don't ask how that works). Occasionally, we have to put an old one down, though we make sure to enjoy its meat. Fish ponds dot the lower region, hatching all sorts of trout, bass, salmon, and even some legendaries. It's a pastime I've always enjoyed. The crown jewel, however, is the crop field. It's a splendid expanse of high quality, tasty produce of all kinds. Sunflowers, corn, wheat, giant melons, blueberries, hops, and much more, all separated into sections and fenced off to prevent the spread of weeds and disease.
Working the farm for a while, I pause for a moment. Not to take a break, as my strength and athleticism makes this a cakewalk, but to talk to Penny's mother. Pam lives next door in her trailer, which I pulled myself across Pelican Town so she would be nearby. I've placed her in charge of the brewing kegs and preserve buckets that I keep indoors in one of my sheds.
"Howdy kid." Pam starts with her usual greeting, two self-brewed pale ales in hand. She offers me one and I accept.
"Howdy, ma'am. You're looking stellar today." I always compliment her, and it's true. She's lost a lot of extra fat over the years, and I've convinced her to exercise some more to add some tone and improve mobility. She's not quite young anymore, but I bet she'll turn the heads of any man in her strike zone. I chug the ale, refreshing and hoppy with a note of citrus.
"Oh, stop it. You should have seen me when I was Penny's age. A handsome man like you would be butter against my charms back in the day." Pam indulges in the flattery, clearly enjoying the attention.
I chuckle. "Careful now. I may just put you in those kegs next, since you age like fine wine." With a flirtatious wink, I go back to my grueling work as Pam swoons into her trailer hard enough to dent the siding. She's okay though, thankfully. Also the work isn't really that grueling. Maybe for Harvey it might be.
No matter what vague, intangible daemons haunt me, no devilry survives the reward and the pleasure of a good day's work. I come inside and take a shower in my steel-reinforced tub. Penny's back with the kids, and I decide to make dinner tonight. It's baked fish made with rainbow trout and a side of salad with freshly pressed garlic oil. Simple, nutritious, filling. Soon, it's night time and my wife puts Biceps and Curls to sleep upstairs. Two tykes is enough for now, I think, but I'll ask her about having one or two more down the road. I truly enjoy raising them alongside my beautiful wife, and I look forward to the day that I can take Biceps on his first hunt. Penny doesn't want him around guns, and Curls hasn't shown any interest, but I keep them anyway. There's bears in these woods, and even worse... men. Apparently. I may be the only man actually scarier than a bear, but who knows. Perhaps it's time to find out.
I'll do it. I'll fight the bear, and mount it in the foyer.
But first, I casually sit down on the couch and turn on the television. That whole Ferngill thing has been on the back of my mind for months. I've completely forgotten what it was about. I turn to the news channel to see the weather for the following day. What I hear next makes my blood run cold.
An animated, even gleeful reporter is announcing the results of a monumental regime change, one that will scar the face of the Valley forever. The Joja Corporation Union has formed a radical coalition, sweeping most of the seats of power in the Ferngill Republic overnight. They ran on a platform of equity and justice, promising that the most valuable laborers and most downtrodden citizens would be elevated according to their ability and their need. The news swapped over to the Chairman of the Joja Corporation Union Party. She says that we are henceforth known as the Democratic People's Republic of Joja. In her speech, it was clear that her twisted vision of utopia is coming whether we like it or not. Already, there are reports of smaller farms being cannibalized and made to turn over all their production to the DPRJ.
There was a small farmer rebellion in the West, a modicum of paltry resistance with old shotguns and trenching hoes. But they all became fertilizer for the crops someone else was favorably or nepotically appointed to oversee. I knew that soon, the Valley was next. Grandpa's farm and all private property would belong to Joja. We would be forced to grow only what they ordered us to grow and deliver the quotas they demanded, even if we starved for it. Biceps and Curls would no doubt be put into re-education camps, internalizing the tenets of the party and acting as informants and commissars. Only JojaMarts would be allowed to operate, always under managers handpicked from the central bureau. Universal ration vouchers distributed by the DPRJ would be the only accepted currency. There was enough for bread, or for milk, but not for both. All who weren't enthusiastically promoting the Party would be whisked away in the middle of the night, horrors unmentionable done to their bodies and minds. Death would be a sweet, welcome release.
"Join us. Thrive. Life is better with Joja.", the party leader punctuated her speech with the familiar slogans, and the news never mentioned any of the chaos happening across the Republic nor what would soon reach us here.
I sit still for a few moments, processing. Why did this happen? How did it spread so far and wide under our noses? Useless questions now. I already knew what had to be done. I raise my head, looking at the self-serving parade on television. I quickly head upstairs. Penny had just finished reading the kids their bedtime story. I pull her aside, explain what happened. As an avid reader, history was one of her best subjects. She went paler than the ale her mother is so fond of. We considered gathering the townspeople able and willing to leave, putting them on the bus and seeking asylum in the Gotoro Empire. There would no doubt be checkpoints, and all the passengers would become targets. I thought about asking Robin to craft us some boats and asking Willy to guide us out to sea. Cutting through international waters was a good bet, but with hasty ships and perishable supplies, some of us wouldn't survive the trip. There was only one option: Stand and fight.
It was time to pay Rasmodius a visit.
My eyes open again, sweat cooling on my brow. It's nearly 6:00 AM. Must have dozed off at some point. I look over and my heart nearly stops as Penny is missing. The kids are still sleeping, and I hear the familiar rattles coming from the kitchen downstairs. I carefully slide out of my steel-reinforced bed, not wanting to wake the little ones. I kiss Biceps and Curls on the forehead and enter the kitchen, my wife hard at work whipping up a simple but delicious breakfast; omeletes, pancakes, hashbrowns, bacon, sliced oranges, a vegetable juice medley, and some hot peppers for seasoning. All organic ingredients grown right here on Grandpa's farm with patience, hard work, and knuckle sandwiches. I come up behind Penny and embrace her, kissing her on the cheek. She responds cheerfully.
"Oh, Fist, you're already up. Good morning, dear." Penny smiles, continuing to fry the hashbrowns.
That's me, Fist Puncher. The man, the myth, the legend. "Yes ma'am, I am. What you cookin' good lookin'?" I reply nonchalantly, never betraying the worries plaguing me nightly.
"Just making your favorites. I know how much you love my pancakes." Penny finishes up the hashbrowns and wipes her hands on her apron, turning to me with concern in her eyes. "I know you haven't been sleeping well lately. Tell me what's wrong. We promised to work things out together."
I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders, and it seems that bits and pieces of it strew about wherever I go. Whether it was a bad harvest season, war on the horizon, banditry, or oppressive regulations, she would always be able to assemble that puzzle accurately from those fragments without me ever having to say a word about it. Her booksmarts and deep well of literary knowledge had little to do with it. She knew because she cared about me and about the family, and about the homestead and the farm.
Tempted to tell her not to worry about it, I sigh and decide that it's a good time to briefly mention it before the kids are up. "Ah, just some crazy nightmares. Nothing major. Although, Ferngill's supposed to have something big happening today, forget exactly what. Maybe that's been on my mind recently." Before anything else can be said about it, we hear the pitter patter of small feet coming down the stairs.
"Mommy, I'm hungry!" Curls runs up and tugs on Penny's skirt.
"I want pancakes!" Biceps likes them just as much as his dad.
Penny, in her kind and motherly way, tells them to help set the table and sit down. They're energetic in the morning and always a handful, but I couldn't be more blessed knowing how spirited and carefree they are. It melts my worries away and I laugh heartily, the steel-reinforced house shaking slightly from my thunderous bellows. After breakfast, I play with the children for a few moments, putting Biceps on my shoulders and carrying Curls in my arm as I kiss Penny once more. She's going to bring them to the library today, but on days that she's home, the kids spend time at the playground in Pelican Town with Vincent and Jas. My wife helps me with the menial tasks keeping the farm tidy and we spend some quality time together, doing this and that. Today, however, it's just me out on the farm.
As I step into the fields, the bright summer sun peeking over the horizon casts a picturesque auburn glow across my promised land. Grandpa's farm was a treasure in its day, and now, I hope to make it a heritage site and a living, breathing museum of quality produce. Farming, ranching, fishing, and various artisan goods. I remember the early days of wrangling crops and cattle. I would till the soil, bury the seeds, and threaten everything alive in a half-mile radius to take care of itself. All with my bare hands and tall, muscular frame. These days I've come to enjoy the quiet work of making sure that there's enough nutrients and water to nurture my farm. Of course, I still practice and train for Mr. Olympia competitions, just like Grandpa did. After all, Muscle Crow, my jacked rarecrow, has never once allowed me to win, flexing eternally on my mortal coil.
I look out on my vast acreage. Rays of mellow light shine through the copse of tapper trees, pines, maples, oaks, firs, and more. My orchard is well organized and varied, some plump fruit always in season. At the animal and monster ranches, happy creatures give their bounty freely. Milk, wool, eggs, honey, slimeballs, even rabbit's feet (don't ask how that works). Occasionally, we have to put an old one down, though we make sure to enjoy its meat. Fish ponds dot the lower region, hatching all sorts of trout, bass, salmon, and even some legendaries. It's a pastime I've always enjoyed. The crown jewel, however, is the crop field. It's a splendid expanse of high quality, tasty produce of all kinds. Sunflowers, corn, wheat, giant melons, blueberries, hops, and much more, all separated into sections and fenced off to prevent the spread of weeds and disease.
Working the farm for a while, I pause for a moment. Not to take a break, as my strength and athleticism makes this a cakewalk, but to talk to Penny's mother. Pam lives next door in her trailer, which I pulled myself across Pelican Town so she would be nearby. I've placed her in charge of the brewing kegs and preserve buckets that I keep indoors in one of my sheds.
"Howdy kid." Pam starts with her usual greeting, two self-brewed pale ales in hand. She offers me one and I accept.
"Howdy, ma'am. You're looking stellar today." I always compliment her, and it's true. She's lost a lot of extra fat over the years, and I've convinced her to exercise some more to add some tone and improve mobility. She's not quite young anymore, but I bet she'll turn the heads of any man in her strike zone. I chug the ale, refreshing and hoppy with a note of citrus.
"Oh, stop it. You should have seen me when I was Penny's age. A handsome man like you would be butter against my charms back in the day." Pam indulges in the flattery, clearly enjoying the attention.
I chuckle. "Careful now. I may just put you in those kegs next, since you age like fine wine." With a flirtatious wink, I go back to my grueling work as Pam swoons into her trailer hard enough to dent the siding. She's okay though, thankfully. Also the work isn't really that grueling. Maybe for Harvey it might be.
No matter what vague, intangible daemons haunt me, no devilry survives the reward and the pleasure of a good day's work. I come inside and take a shower in my steel-reinforced tub. Penny's back with the kids, and I decide to make dinner tonight. It's baked fish made with rainbow trout and a side of salad with freshly pressed garlic oil. Simple, nutritious, filling. Soon, it's night time and my wife puts Biceps and Curls to sleep upstairs. Two tykes is enough for now, I think, but I'll ask her about having one or two more down the road. I truly enjoy raising them alongside my beautiful wife, and I look forward to the day that I can take Biceps on his first hunt. Penny doesn't want him around guns, and Curls hasn't shown any interest, but I keep them anyway. There's bears in these woods, and even worse... men. Apparently. I may be the only man actually scarier than a bear, but who knows. Perhaps it's time to find out.
I'll do it. I'll fight the bear, and mount it in the foyer.
But first, I casually sit down on the couch and turn on the television. That whole Ferngill thing has been on the back of my mind for months. I've completely forgotten what it was about. I turn to the news channel to see the weather for the following day. What I hear next makes my blood run cold.
An animated, even gleeful reporter is announcing the results of a monumental regime change, one that will scar the face of the Valley forever. The Joja Corporation Union has formed a radical coalition, sweeping most of the seats of power in the Ferngill Republic overnight. They ran on a platform of equity and justice, promising that the most valuable laborers and most downtrodden citizens would be elevated according to their ability and their need. The news swapped over to the Chairman of the Joja Corporation Union Party. She says that we are henceforth known as the Democratic People's Republic of Joja. In her speech, it was clear that her twisted vision of utopia is coming whether we like it or not. Already, there are reports of smaller farms being cannibalized and made to turn over all their production to the DPRJ.
There was a small farmer rebellion in the West, a modicum of paltry resistance with old shotguns and trenching hoes. But they all became fertilizer for the crops someone else was favorably or nepotically appointed to oversee. I knew that soon, the Valley was next. Grandpa's farm and all private property would belong to Joja. We would be forced to grow only what they ordered us to grow and deliver the quotas they demanded, even if we starved for it. Biceps and Curls would no doubt be put into re-education camps, internalizing the tenets of the party and acting as informants and commissars. Only JojaMarts would be allowed to operate, always under managers handpicked from the central bureau. Universal ration vouchers distributed by the DPRJ would be the only accepted currency. There was enough for bread, or for milk, but not for both. All who weren't enthusiastically promoting the Party would be whisked away in the middle of the night, horrors unmentionable done to their bodies and minds. Death would be a sweet, welcome release.
"Join us. Thrive. Life is better with Joja.", the party leader punctuated her speech with the familiar slogans, and the news never mentioned any of the chaos happening across the Republic nor what would soon reach us here.
I sit still for a few moments, processing. Why did this happen? How did it spread so far and wide under our noses? Useless questions now. I already knew what had to be done. I raise my head, looking at the self-serving parade on television. I quickly head upstairs. Penny had just finished reading the kids their bedtime story. I pull her aside, explain what happened. As an avid reader, history was one of her best subjects. She went paler than the ale her mother is so fond of. We considered gathering the townspeople able and willing to leave, putting them on the bus and seeking asylum in the Gotoro Empire. There would no doubt be checkpoints, and all the passengers would become targets. I thought about asking Robin to craft us some boats and asking Willy to guide us out to sea. Cutting through international waters was a good bet, but with hasty ships and perishable supplies, some of us wouldn't survive the trip. There was only one option: Stand and fight.
It was time to pay Rasmodius a visit.
Chapter 2 coming soon
Last edited:
