Cheryl came into the mini-museum, where Baxter was watching the Mr. Amazing origins documentary again. Baxter wasn’t wearing a shirt - and he was scooping ice cream with his hand from a catering sized tub. At first the changes Baxter had undergone since his mysterious disappearance had intrigued her. Baxter’s new found sexual libido had pleased her - but now she looked at him and all she saw was a stranger. It was Baxter’s face and Baxter’s voice - but that was about it. His body was not Baxter’s - and his behavior was not Baxter’s - his mannerisms had changed and he had become brutish, and coarse. And the thought of having sex with him reviled her and filled her with fear.

‘Baxter’ - said Cheryl.

Baxter didn’t respond, he continued to scoop the Double Dutch ice cream from the tub with his hand, and stare at the TV screen. Cheryl closed her eyes, and took a silent breath. She tried again - ‘BAXTER!’

Baxter picked up the remote and paused the program, and then turned to Cheryl - ‘What?’

Cheryl opened her eyes - ‘There are journalists downstairs, who want to speak to you’

‘What about?’

‘Some deal you were involved in - with P&P and Edison’

Baxter shrugged, and pressed play on the program and went back to eating ice cream.

‘The cooperative board called this morning - they are not happy about the journalists, they say it is creating a disturbance’ - said Cheryl, trying to sound commanding.

Baxter wasn’t paying any attention - he was listening to a historian talk about Perseus and Hercules.

Cheryl closed her eyes again, and took another silent breath - ‘BAXTER - I AM TALKING TO YOU!’

Baxter paused the program again, and then stood. His giant muscular frame rippled with even more muscles, and he walked to the door. Cheryl took a step back - she was scared of this stranger, and Baxter closed the door. Cheryl heard the door lock. She then heard the muffled sound of the documentary start again, and Baxter turned the volume way up.

Cheryl went to their bedroom, locking the door behind her and then she lay on the bed and cried.

***

It was Sunday, and Baxter was getting ready to head to the retreat run by Giancarlo Marazzi. Over the last two weeks Baxter had continued an affair with Cinza Marazzi - meeting with her at hotels for wild sex, and homemade bread. Baxter no longer could fit behind the wheel of his Porsche or Mercedes - so he had rented a giant pick-up truck for the drive from New York to Giancarlo’s cabin nestled deep in the forests of Pennsylvania’s Appalician mountains. Baxter wasn’t taking anything with him - he just had the latest tracksuit he was wearing and the latest pair of sneakers (both purchased from a big and tall shop), and a small bag with his wallet and a few other items. He left the apartment without saying goodbye to Cheryl - she was locked in the bedroom and all she seemed to do all day was cry. Baxter headed down to the lobby, and headed out onto the street. He was immediately surrounded by reporters and TV crews, all covering the demise of Alan Topp and the Edison Electric Car Company.

‘...Mr. McGill, did you have prior knowledge of Alan Topp’s indictment?...’ - said one reporter.

‘...Did you know that Topp was planning on killing the federal agents?...’ - said another.

Baxter ignored the reporters, and headed north on Park Avenue. The reporters and news crew followed Baxter all the way to the hire car office, continually asking questions, where Baxter stepped inside and completed the paperwork on the rented pick-up truck. Baxter pulled out of the hire car parking garage, and pulled away heading south on Park Avenue. The reporters and journalists ran after the pick-up truck, but Baxter was gone. Baxter drove south and then headed across Central Park and then down through Hell’s Kitchen and then left Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel. He took I95 for a while, and then joined I78 and settled back for the three hours drive out into the mountains.

As Baxter drove he thought of Perseus, and Hector, and Achilles, and all of them - all of these super beings - metahumans, the historians had called them - who had lived throughout history. The historian in the documentary had said that these metahumans, like Perseus, most likely possessed a genetic mutation that provided them with incredible power and speed - and that the people of the times ascribed the intervention of the Gods as an explanation of these “gifts”. With Perseus, his strength and power was ascribed to his father, Zeus - but the historian said, with the appearance of Mr. Amazing, we can see that ‘the Gods” had nothing to do with it - it is genetic mutations. A scientist in the documentary described how in colonies of white mice, every 10,000 generations a black mouse will be produced - what appears to be an entirely random event, but one that is predictable every 10,000 mouse generations. 10,000 generations in mice is not that long at all - the scientist continued - but what we believe we are seeing with Mr. Amazing is this same kind of apparently random genetic event, the production of a metahuman that possibly occurs every 40 or 50 human generations.

If Mr. Amazing were one of these metahumans, thought Baxter - then what was he? Baxter had gone to the gym, and placed every single weight he could locate on a barbell and bench pressed over 500lbs, with ease. The other people at the gym couldn’t believe it when he had done it - and they told him it was a new world record. In the documentary it had said that Mr. Amazing, or Richard Ladd, had been in a coma for years after a serious automobile accident - and had no memories of his earlier life. Baxter thought of his own memory loss - and he thought that perhaps this was part of the genetic mutation process, the loss of memory as the mutation awoke and the changes began. It all seemed too impossible - that he, Baxter McGill, was developing the same genetic mutations as historians presuposed had affected historical characters such as Perseus and Hercules, and that scientist believed affected Mr. Amazing. It didn’t seem possible to Baxter that he was just like Mr. Amazing, a metahuman, and yet here he was - transformed from an ordinary human to this powerful and muscular thing he had become. And then there was the prescience with the sixty six and three eighths - and the dreams of the elephant that allowed Baxter to foresee the downfall of Edison and Alan Topp.

Of course, the truth was that the historians and scientists in the documentary were CIA shills who had been paid to build and reinforce the legend of Mr. Amazing. Dick Rollins had his memory erased by Dr. Janus, just as Baxter McGill had his memory erased. There was no genetic mutation that produced metahumans every 40 to 50 generations in a lineage dating back to the times of Perseus or Hercules. Dick Rollins and Baxter McGill had been “treated” by Dr. Janus and her gene therapy processes that created superhuman strength, speed, and endurance. Richard Ladd, Dick Rollin’s reincarnation, knew that his power came from injections Dr. Janus had given to him - and he played his role in the grand CIA sponsored deception because it brought him fame and money and adoration - even if he had to kill a few kids along the way. As for the prescience - this was an anomaly brought on by the exotic cocktail of drugs and genetheraphy that Baxter had been injected with. But Baxter McGill had no idea of what had happened to him - and he believed that he was a genetic mutant with superhuman powers.

***

Baxter had stopped a number of times on the drive to Giancarlo’s cabin for food and drink - and he arrived at about 9 AM. Baxter’s pick-up truck wound its way up the snowy mountain pass and then arrived at Giancarlo Marazzi’s cabin and the retreat. There were several other cars parked in the cabin’s driveway, and Baxter could see a group of men standing around a fire talking. Baxter parked the car, and then stepped into the cold morning air and walked towards the group of men. One of the men, a handsome man who was wearing a fur coat and snow boots, broke away from the group and walked towards Baxter.

‘Can I help you?’ - said the man, it was Giancarlo Marazzi.

‘Oh hey - I am looking for some retreat up here, and some guy named Carlo’ - said Baxter.

‘I am Giancarlo Marazzi - and who are you?’

Baxter beamed a broad smile - ‘Carlo, it’s great to finally meet you. It’s me - Baxter McGill’

Giancarlo studied the giant of a man, wearing a tracksuit and sneakers - his face was familiar - but it couldn’t be Baxter McGill. Baxter was short and not muscular - not like this man.

‘Look, I guess we have met before - but I had this brain injury a while back and I lost my memory, so you will have to forgive me if I don’t remember who you are’ - said Baxter, extending a large hand and still smiling broadly.

‘Is that you, Baxter?’ - said Giancarlo, taking Baxter’s hand and holding it limply.

‘Yep - it's me!’

‘But you look so different - you are so much taller, and so much…bigger…’ - said Giancarlo, flabbergasted by Baxter’s appearance.

‘And I am fucking starving, Carlo - please tell me I haven’t missed breakfast!’

Giancarlo stared at Baxter for a while, and then let go of his hand and turned - ‘It is Giancarlo, not Carlo. Come, let’s introduce you to the rest of the group!’

‘Sure thing Carlo’ - said Baxter, following Giancarlo back to the group who were huddled around the fire pit.

‘Everyone - I would like to introduce you to the final member of the group. This is Baxter McGill, from New York!’ - said Giancarlo, and Baxter smiled at the cold looking faces.

‘You…are…Baxter…McGill?’ - said a cold looking young man who wasn’t particularly well dressed for the Appalachian mountains in winter.

‘That’s me!’ - said Baxter.

‘Baxter McGill - from P&P?’ - said the cold looking man.

‘Yep’

‘Holy fucking moly - you are a fucking legend, man!’

‘You shorted Edison - and made like $1.8 billion in a day!’ - said another cold looking man.

‘That’s right’ - said Baxter - ‘Sixty six and three eighths!’

‘Okay, okay’ - said Giancarlo - ‘I know it is going to be hard for your Wall Street guys, but the rules up here are no office talk. This week is all about freeing yourself from that life, and finding your primitive innerself…’

‘You don't understand, Mr. Marazzi’ - said the first cold looking man - ‘This guy is literally a fucking legend. They are going to build a fucking statue of him on Wall Street, write books about him - make a fucking movie about the Edison short!’

‘I took a fucking blood bath on Edison!’ - said another cold looking man, angrily - ‘I had nearly a million tied up in Edison stock - and then this mother fucker burned it down to the fucking ground!’

‘Topp burned it to the fucking ground, you fucking normie!’ - said the first cold looking man.

‘Hey Carlo - so where is the food at?’ - interjected Baxter.

The two other men continued to argue about Edison stock.

‘What do you mean, where is the food at?’ - said Giancarlo, turning from the arguing men to Baxter.

‘I am fucking starving man!’ - pleaded Baxter - ‘Let’s get in the house and get some bacon and pancakes on the go - and a big pot of coffee!’

‘BE QUIET!’ - shouted Giancarlo to the arguing men - ‘Now let me explain - this retreat is not about sitting around and smoking cigars and eating medium-rare steaks and sipping single malt whiskey. This retreat is for you to connect with your inner primitive self, and as such you will be living like a primitive man. There are no bacon and pancakes - and there are no pots of hot coffee. If you want to eat, you will have to find something to eat. If you want to be warm, you have to make yourself somewhere to shelter from the elements and you have to build a fire. You ancestors - the primitive…’

‘I don’t fucking thinks so!’ - interrupted Baxter - ‘I didn’t give you 200 big ones to scramble about in the fucking snow looking for berries to eat!’

Giancarlo stared at Baxter - his large muscular frame towering above him and his serious face staring back at him.

‘...but that is how your primitive ancestors lived - and it is how you will connect to your primitive inner self…’ - said Giancarlo, weakly.

‘Let’s imagine we are all primitive men, just like our ancestors, up here in the fucking wilderness in the fucking cold and in the fucking snow’ - said Baxter - ‘And we came across this fucking cabin. What do you think our primitive ancestors would do, Carlo?’

‘It’s Giancarlo…’

‘I will tell you what they wouldn’t fucking do, Carlo - they wouldn’t be standing around here in the fucking cold looking for berries to eat and building a fucking shelter. They would be inside that fucking cabin and warm and dry before you could say Yabba Dabba fucking Doo!’

‘Yeah!’ - said a couple of the cold men.

‘Now I have a $200,000 fucking credit with you, Carlo - so I suggest we go inside, light the fire - and we get some breakfast on the go, capisci paesano?’

***

Baxter McGill was sitting at the head of the table and he was retelling the story of the elephant dreams and the sixty six and three eighths and the shorting of the Edison stock. The other attendees of the retreat sat and listened in rapt silence, eating pancakes and wild boar bacon and sipping coffee. Baxter stopped his retelling of the story and shouted out - ‘Hey Carlo, can I get some more pancakes and bacon my man - and more coffee!’

Giancarlo was in the kitchen cooking. Baxter had eaten an astronomical number of pancakes and bacon - and showed no signs of his appetite being sated. Giancarlo was muttering to himself in Italian - he looked harassed and his expensive looking woolen sweater was covered in flour as he mixed a new batch of batter and watched the bacon frying in the pan.

Baxter continued with his story - about the day he made $180 million. The group listened to his every word as he retold his story. Giancarlo brought in a fresh platter of pancakes and bacon - and a fresh pot of coffee. Baxter smiled at him and began helping himself - stacking his plate with food and drenching it with maple syrup.

‘What’s for lunch?’ - said Baxter, pausing his story.

‘What?’ - said Giancarlo, staring at Baxter in disbelief.

‘Lunch - what is for lunch?’ - said Baxter, pushing a giant helping of food into his mouth and chewing.

Giancarlo stood and stared at Baxter, scratching his head and looking entirely confused.

‘What do you guys fancy?’ - said Baxter in between giant mouthfuls.

The group chatted amongst themselves - and they agreed that lunch would be meatball subs, with marinara sauce and beers.

‘And dinner?’ - said Baxter

‘Look - I think that there has been a misunder…’ - started Giancarlo, but Baxter cut him off.

‘You are Italian - maybe some pasta with garlic bread, and red wine. What do you guys think?’ - said Baxter, and the group murmured and then agreed.

‘You got any of that bread your wife makes - Cinza’s special bread?’ - said Baxter, shoveling more food into his mouth and sipping coffee.

‘Cinza’s bread?’ - said Giancarlo, now looking even more confused.

‘Listen guys’ - said Baxter, addressing the group sitting at the table - ‘Carlo’s wife, Cinza - who is a real class piece of ass with huge tits, by the way - she makes this bread and mixes her pussy juice into it. You haven’t ever eaten bread like this - so fucking tasty and tangy, it really is unreal!’

‘How do you know about Cinza’s bread?’ - said Giancarlo - ‘I thought you had lost your memory?’

Baxter let out a huge belch, and then sipped more coffee - ‘Well, when I went over to drop off the cash for this deal, I was starving after…after working out…and Cinza gave me some of the bread - it was fucking lovely!’

‘It is not her pussy juice - it is vaginal yeast!’ - said Giancarlo, now becoming irate.

‘Whatever it is - I am just saying that it tastes fucking great. Like I said, tangy! I am literally addicted to your wife’s pussy bread’ - said Baxter, winking at Giancarlo.

Giancarlo stormed off back to the kitchen, and Baxter continued eating and restarting his story about shorting Edison. Giancarlo headed into town to pick-up supplies, whilst Baxter and the other retreat attendees watched sports on the TV. Giancarlo returned and Baxter informed him that he was starving - and Giancarlo began cooking lunch. Lunch took hours to prepare and serve, and Baxter ate dozens of meatball subs and drank dozens of bottles of beer. As soon as lunch was completed, Giancarlo had to begin preparing dinner. After dinner Baxter suggested they play Texas Holdem poker - and Giancarlo was forced to offer around cigars and Scotch. They played poker until 4 AM, and then Baxter wearily headed upstairs and fell asleep in Giancarlo’s bed. Giancarlo was forced to sleep on the floor beside his own bed - listening to Baxter’s loud snoring.

***

Baxter awoke the following morning and washed his face and then headed downstairs. The house was deserted. Baxter checked the fridge - and then poured a cup of lukewarm coffee from the pot that was on the side. Baxter went to the window, and saw the group outside struggling to build a shelter, as Giancarlo enthusiastically gave them encouragement. Baxter finished the coffee, and stepped out of the cabin and into the cold morning air.

‘...that is right Burt…bend the supports like that!’ - Giancarlo was saying, dressed in his warm fur coat and snow boots.

‘Did I miss breakfast?’ - said Baxter, walking up to the group who, apart from Giancarlo, looked cold and miserable.

Giancarlo straightened up, and turned to Baxter - smiling - ‘Well good morning your majesty, how was your sleep?’

Baxter shrugged.

‘We have had a meeting this morning, Baxter McGill - and we are all in agreement that we will be returning to the set agenda for the retreat’ - said Giancarlo, beaming at Baxter - ‘Now we have put you down for foraging, Baxter. Your job is to head out into the wilderness and to look for sustenance for your fellow tribe members’

Baxter stared at Giancarlo and then looked past him - to the valley below.

‘What’s that?’ - said Baxter, stepping forward.

Giancarlo stood beside Baxter. In the valley below them some animals were moving around in the snow - perhaps a mile away.

‘Russian boar, and very tasty’ - said Giancarlo - ‘But Baxter - I wouldn’t recommend trying to take on one of them - you will have to look for sustenance using only primitive tools and weapons’

Baxter stared at the animals in the valley far below them - and then turned. He picked up one of the poles the rest of the “tribe” were using to build the shelter, and picked up a knife. He sharpened the end of the pole so that it looked like a spear. Giancarlo was chuckling - ‘Baxter, by the time you get down there the boar will have heard you and be long gone. And if you were to encounter one - it is more likely that it will attack you, and you will be injured in the wilderness…’

Before Giancarlo could finish, Baxter raced forward and threw the sharpened pole like a javelin. Giancarlo watched the spear fly away and down into the valley.

‘Light a fire, boys!’ - said Baxter

The spear glided down across the trees and then hit a Russian boar through the shoulders - pinning it to the ground and killing it. The other boar scattered, and Baxter smiled - he thought of himself as Achilles.

‘Spit roasted boar is on the menu!’

Giancarlo was dumbstruck. The others in the group stood on the edge looking down on the valley and looked in disbelief. Baxter tucked the knife into the belt of his tracksuit and then wandered down through the snowy undergrowth to the valley below.

Baxter returned a couple of hours later carrying the skinned and gutted boar on his shoulder. Baxter had his tracksuit top tied around his waist, and was covered in blood. His bulging muscles flexed as he carried the carcass - the boar probably weighed more than 300 lbs. A mighty fire was roaring, and the orange flames reflected off of Baxter blood soaked skin - Baxter set about building a spit to roast the animal on. As night bagan setting Baxter carved off the first crisp bits of meat - and tasted it. He told the others it was ready - and the tribe ate delicious spit roasted Russian boar under the stars. The shelter had been completed - and Baxter demanded that Giancarlo bring them some wine. Giancarlo had never seen anything like he had seen today. He had never seen a Russian boar killed by a javelin throw from a mile away. He had never seen a man carrying a 300 lbs carcass up a steep valley wall before. Giancarlo stared at Baxter as he sat shirtless in the cold night air, ripping meat from the bone with his teeth as the flames from the fire danced in the reflection of Baxter’s eyes. He went into the cabin, and brought out bottles of wine. The tribe cheered - and Giancarlo handed a bottle to Baxter who took it, and nodded and then drank the entire bottle in one go and then returned to eating.

***

The following morning Giancarlo came out of the cabin dressed in his warm fur coat and snow boots. The fire was still smoking - and the plentiful remains of the boar still sat on the spit above the fire. The tribe had spent the night sleeping in the shelter - but Baxter McGill had slept in the snow. He was still shirtless - and was laying on the snow and lightly snoring. Baxter was covered in a light dusting of snow. Giancarlo thought he might be dead at first - but then he saw his chest rising and falling as Baxter slept. It was well below freezing - and it didn’t seem possible that someone could have slept, without a shirt, in the snow, and to still be alive. Baxter stirred and opened his eyes.

‘Hey Carlo!’ - said Baxter, sitting up.

‘Are you not cold?’ - said Giancarlo, throwing some logs on the fire.

Baxter shrugged, and then pushed himself up - ‘So what’s on the agenda today?’

‘Well - we will be having a sweat lodge and confronting the root causes of tribes inability to maintain an erection’

Baxter walked to the boar on the spit, and ripped off one of the legs. He took a bite and chewed for a while and then swallowed.

‘I think I am gonna duck out of the rest of this deal - I am not sure I have any erection problem root causes that need confronting’

They stood in silence for a while - the only sound coming from Baxter ripping meat from the bone and chewing.

‘What has happened to you, Baxter?’ - said Giancarlo after a while.

Baxter ripped more meat from the bone, and chewed and shrugged. He swallowed - ‘I think, Carlo - that I am becoming a superhuman!’

There was silence for a moment.

‘But how?’ - said Giancarlo.

Baxter shrugged again - ‘Just lucky, I guess…’

They stood in silence for a while longer - and then Baxter took a final bite of meat and then threw the leg into the trees. He turned and walked to his pick-up truck, and then started the engine. Giancarlo stood in silence watching him. And then Baxter left the retreat, and headed down the snowy mountain. Baxter stopped at a diner and ate several breakfasts - with the other patrons staring at this muscular man in a tracksuit who appeared to be covered in dried blood. Baxter paid for the food - and then went to a public phone and dialed a number.

‘Hey, it's me…yeah, I am leaving early…yeah…he will be here for the rest of the week. Yeah…are you going to bake me some of your delicious, tangy bread?’

Baxter hung up, and then drove back to Manhattan where he checked into the Waldorf Astoria and was joined by Cinza - and they spent the rest of the week fucking and eating bread.