I took growth hormones.

I slammed them into my veins and let them build me into a monstrous example of human flesh.

Everyone I knew said I shouldn’t take them. They were evil cheating. Give you cancer. Your nuts will shrivel up and fall off.

I heard all the excuses, but I wanted to win the three legged race more than anything.

“Don’t you mess this up for me,” I said to Dean, my twin brother. Next to my physical size he looked a sickly twig.

Three orange and green ties—Father’s Day presents to my prostate cancer-ridden Dad—held us together. I’d tied them tight, more so I could drag Dean along with me than to help keep us in sync.

Dean wrapped an arm around my shoulder and looked up into my face. I could see the fear sprinkled through his eyes like little sparkling chop on a lake in the morning sun.

“Don’t fuck up,” I hissed at him.

Dean nodded. The starter raised his pistol. I put my head down right next to Dean’s.

I was a shoe in for the wheelbarrow race later on in the afternoon, and if I won the three legged race, I’d have a nice trifecta lined up with the egg and spoon race.

But it was the three legged I really wanted.

Along with the five dollars in prize money, the prize always included a shiny steel thermos. For those cold nights when the chills of hormone abuse set in, it would be priceless.

The starter’s pistol fired.

I leapt away. I felt Dean clinging to me and heard his high pitched scream.

I never slowed until we hit the finish line, clear in front. I let go of Dean and jumped up and down, fists pumping the air in triumph.

Dean fell down and his knee twisted awkwardly, but it didn’t matter.

That thermos was mine.

Later I stood on the eerily silent podium. The Master of Games, a balding little twat wider than he was high, handed me an envelope and the prize in a brown paper bag.

I peeked inside the bag, only to find a meccano set instead of a thermos.

“Where’s the thermos?” I said.

The Master of Games looked confused. “The what?”

“The thermos. The fucking prize every year for the three legged race. The thermos.”

“Oh, well, Mrs Dimes who donated the prize every year passed away last month. This year we had a new donator—”

I slapped the Master of Games across the mouth and pushed him from the stage. People fled before my wrath. I raised my arms and shouted, “Noooooo” in my best James Earl Jones impression.