Nuclear Muscled Erection Man

American physicist survives a nuclear meltdown to become NuME man, a Nuclear Muscled, Erection Man turned superhero.

At first the United States wasn't willing to share his brilliance with any other country for fear that they'd kidnap him, torture him, drug him, steal his secrets, and tap into his knowledge, but for the betterment of the world, now they do. It all started in 1986 when Brock was enlisted by the CIA under the guise of the United States Department of Energy to help the Russians with their failing nuclear power program. Having already traveled to Russia twice in January, again in February, and now in April, he was traveling there for a third time to help get their nuclear power plant in Chernobyl back online.

Only, instead of helping them to fix what was already broken which was impossible to fix anyway, it was too late in their nuclear reactor core meltdown for even for Brock Steel to bring the nuclear reactor back online. Rather than fixing something that couldn't be fixed and rather than canceling his flight plans, the United States government put Brock's life in jeopardy by having him go to Chernobyl anyway. Instead of cancelling his plans to try and get the nuclear reactor online, the Department of Energy working in concert with the Department of Defense, wanted him to spy. Matter of fact, their biggest intelligence asset, literally and figuratively, they put him in harm's way and risked his life not only for the betterment of the country but also for the world. Now more than just spying, they wanted him to sabotage their nuclear power plant plans so that the Russians would never be another world nuclear power threat again.

Something that a triple Nobel Prize winning scientist protested doing, using science for political advancement, political influence, and political power gain, Brock had no intention of sabotaging their nuclear power plant or even spying. His role was to get the nuclear reactor at Chernobyl back online, to save their plant, allow the Russians to continue their nuclear program, and to save the people who lived close enough to the plant to be effected by the meltdown and infected with nuclear radiation. Knowing full well the ramifications of a nuclear power plant meltdown, a time when those in power didn't fully understand what would happen in such a disaster, he was there to help them get their nuclear power plant online to avert a nuclear disaster.

Bad enough he was trying to fix something that couldn't be fixed, figuratively and literally a chain reaction of shit, the real problem started when he told his brother, a bodybuilder and an anabolic steroid user and pusher, the complete opposite of Brock, about his trip to Russia.

* * * * *

"Dude are you really going to Russia again?" His brother looked at him as if he had just won the lottery. "That's great!"

Since when does his brother Clay get excited over his travel plans? Immediately Brock knew his brother was up to something.

"Yeah, I leave here tonight," he said looking at his brother with suspicion. "Why is it great that I'm going to Russian again?"

Brock knew his brother wanted something. He always wanted something. Knowing him, only too big for him to smuggle her in his luggage, he'd want him to bring him home a Russian bride, some tall, blonde, busty beauty from the Ukraine.

"Brock I need a favor," said his brother Clay and not making eye contact but looking down at his feet instead.

Oh, oh, here it comes, thought Brock. It's always something with him. Sometimes, he wished he had sexy sister instead of an annoying brother.

"I'm telling you right now Clay, I'm not smuggling anything in the country for you ever again. The last time they nearly caught me with two suitcases full of caviar and vodka," protested Brock.

He watched his brother fall back on his heels while thinking of the words to make his pitch.

"It's nothing like that. I promise," said Clay waving his hands as if he was stopping traffic to cross the street. "I promise."

Not believing a word that came out of his mouth, Brock looked at his brother with suspicion. Unable to trust him, with his brother always trying to use him and his knowledge for his personal benefit and monetary gain, he no longer believed anything he said.

"What is it then?"

Brock looked at him while imagining the worst.

"I, um, just need some medical supplies?"

Now still imagining the worst, Brock looked at his brother with concern. Maybe he had cancer. Maybe he had AIDs. Yet, whatever he had, he'd get him the best medical care and treatment at Walter Reed Hospital on the government's dime. With Brook working for the United States government, his brother didn't have to go to another country to buy the drugs that he needed to save his life for whatever ailment and medical condition he had.

"Medical supplies?" Brock looked at his brother with horror. With all of the muscles that made his brother's body so grotesque, as if he was a cartoon caricature of himself, he looked like the picture of health. "Why? Are you sick? Tell me. What's wrong with you?"

No doubt trying to play Brock for the fool that he wasn't, his brother gave him his sad look, a look that Brock has seen many times before and immediately recognized.

"Sick? No I'm not sick but I will be injured very badly if I don't get all that I need soon. I'll have two broken legs if you don't help me to get what they already paid me to get. I may even be dead," he said with sadness that was uncharacteristic of his brother's outgoing and otherwise confident personality.

A bodybuilder with legs like tree trunks, he couldn't imagine anyone breaking his brother's legs. Someone who competed in the Strong Man competition and who could bench press six hundred pounds and deadlift and squat nearly a thousand pounds, Brock didn't think his brother feared anyone. Yet, the gun was the great equalizer and for his brother to be so fearful, whoever so troubled his brother must have guns and weren't afraid to use them.

"Why can't you buy them here in the states?"

He suspected there was a ruse and that his brother was up to no good.

"They're too expensive," said Clay.

Brock couldn't imagined what his brother needed that was so expensive.

"Tell me what it is that you need then," said Brock. "No judgments. Just tell me."

Obviously reticent to tell his brother what he wanted and needed, he watched his brother pausing his response in his nervousness.

"Anabolic steroids," he said in a soft voice as if he had done or was doing something wrong and he was. "I need some anabolic steroids and they're wicked cheap over there."

He knew it. It was always something with his brother. First the vodka and caviar and now anabolic steroids. No way. He wasn't about to put himself in Jeopardy with the Russians and/or with the United States by smuggling something in the country that was illegal, especially something that was so harmful to his brother's health.

"Anabolic steroids? Are you nuts? That stuff is poison," said Brock. "Besides, anabolic steroids are illegal in the United States, Clay. Created by the Germans in the 1930's, their manufacture is now unsupervised and unregulated overseas."

"Spare me the history lesson Brock," said Clay.

"Allow me to give you a lesson in reality then," said Brock. "Most of that shit comes from China and or third world countries. You have no idea what's in it. You have no idea what in the Hell you're injecting in your body," he said looking at his brother as if he was nuts and as far as he was concerned, his brother was crazy to inject that shit in his body. "Sorry, but I can't help you with that," said Brock stepping back as if Clay was contagious. "I'll not be party to you poisoning yourself."

"C'mon Brock. I need you to do me a solid. I need this. Not only do I need this to save my life, I really need the cash from the sale of it to get my life back on track," he said.

After having been down this road many times before with his big brother, Brock looked at his brother with disbelief.

"If you're serious about getting your life back on track, get a job. Try working for a living instead of just working out to build your muscles and instead of trying to figure out all of these illegal angles to make some easy money," said Brock.

"Tell you what," said Clay with an insincere smile. "If you smuggle in the steroids for me, I'll split the profits 50/50."

Brock rolled his eyes at his brother and slowly shook his head in frustration.

"I don't need your money. I don't want your money. I have more than enough of my own. With the United States government paying for everything while giving me a very generous salary, I still have my Nobel Prize money squirreled away in investments," he said giving his brother a long look and letting out a big sigh before speaking again. "How much do you need? I'll write you a check. Just give me a number."

"Nah, that's okay," said Clay backing away from his brother as if he had a contagious disease. "How would it look for my baby brother to help me, his big, musclebound brother, out with some cash?"

Brock made a face at Clay.

"It didn't bother you to accept money from me before," said Brock with a snide laugh. "Why should it bother you now?"

"Because I want to make my own money," said Clay. "In the way that you did, I want to make my own way."

"If you need a loan for a fresh start, I can give you—"

"I'm embarrassed taking money from you," said Clay.

"If you need a job, I know plenty of people in the government who would hire you to—"

"Nah, that's okay. I don't need no stinking job. A job isn't the help that I want or need right now," said Clay. "I need steroids."

"I'm sorry Clay but I could go to jail if caught. Moreover, my trip is funded by the United States Department of Energy under the guise of the Department of Defense and the CIA. I'd be an embarrassment to them and to my country if caught smuggling. How would that look if I were caught?"

Clay rolled his eyes and made a sour face at his brother in the way that his brother has been making faces at him.

"You won't be caught. You're an undercover agent for the CIA working in Russia under the guise of working for the United States Defense of Energy or Department of Defense, or whoever the Hell it is who signs your big, fat paychecks. Even if you're caught smuggling, which you won't be, leave no man behind, they'll still get you out of the country," said Clay.

Even with Brock's big brain, his command of the English language, and his ability to intelligently and intellectually communicate and debate his thoughts, trying to convince his brother of anything was useless. Too stubborn, too ignorant, and always jealous of his younger brother's successes, Clay was arrogantly comfortable in his ignorance. Besides, not playing his game anymore, Brock had already made up his mind not to be involved in his brothers shenanigans and illegal activities.

"No Clay. I'm sorry but I can't help you," said Brock with finality.

"I don't know what you're so worried about. You're Brock Steel. Trust me, even if you are caught smuggling steroids out of the country, which you won't be, the United States is not about to leave you behind for the Russians to make use of your big brain," said Clay.

"Leave no man behind is the motto for the Marines and not the motto of the CIA. If caught and if I embarrass my government, the CIA would terminate me, deny my existence, and dump my body in a lead weighted bag somewhere in the ocean," said Brock with a sad laugh.

"The President would never allow that. He relies on your big brain too much," said Clay.

"Clay, no, I'm sorry, but I can't help you. Not this time. I won't smuggle steroids in the country," said Brock. "Tell you what I will do," he said with a big smile while figuring that this was what his brother wanted all along.

"What?" Clay looked at his brother with hopefulness.

"What if I smuggled you home more vodka and caviar. How about that? Would you like that? I can do that? Everyone does that when leaving Russia. I'll bring my two big steamer trunks with me and will fill them up with the best that Russian has to offer. You can sell that on the black market and make a barrel of money," said Brock.

Clay stepped closer to his brother as if he was a used car salesman getting ready to try and sell him a clunker.

"Vodka and caviar won't cut it this time Brock," said Clay pontificating his point by jackhammering a finger in his chest. "If I don't come across with the steroids, the bodybuilding juice that these guys need and paid me to get, these men will kill me. Do you understand? I'll be dead."

"Ow, that hurts," said Brock rubbing his chest and looking down at where his brother's finger was. "That's going to leave a mark."

"You're such a wuss," said Clay flexing his chest while making his pectoral muscles vibrate.

Pausing as if thinking, which was rare for Clay to be thinking about anything other than himself, he continued trying to convince his brother to smuggle him out some anabolic steroids from Russia.

"Listen little brother, you told me that you're doing the Russians a big favor by fixing their nuclear program problems and now with their nuclear reactor offline, who else can fix that but you? You told me, because of who you are, that they don't even search your bags. If anything, in the milktoast way that you look, they'll more be thinking that you're sneaking out vodka and caviar than anabolic steroids. They'll never suspect you of smuggling steroids."

If Clay had any hopes of having Brock bring him home steroids, it would never happen by him taking cheap shots at his frailly weak appearance. He already felt self-conscious that his brother was such a he-man and he was such a wimp.

"I don't know Clay. Let me think about it," suddenly feeling sorry for his brother and caving. "I'll see what I can find on the black market but I'm not doing it if it's risky," said Brock.

Actually, with the 1988 Olympics quickly approaching, the Russians needed all the steroids that they could get their hands on and it was a problem for Brock to find a contact to sell him the steroids at black market prices. Rare for them not to have whatever he wanted, whenever he needed it, even the black market didn't have any steroids to sell. Instead, privy to such information being that he was a scientist and in the know of ongoing research, albeit experimental, Brock was able to get a new product from a fellow researcher in Russian years before it was approved by the FDA.

Assured that it was safe but not yet trial tested and approved, Brock trusted his secret contact deep within the Russian government. Not really caring how his friend got a hold of it, Brock didn't question how he was able to smuggle the product in Russia from the United States. Weird that he'd have to travel to Russia for something that was made in the United States. A copycat clone of steroids, and one that had years to go in research and test trials before receiving FDA approval, Andro-gel, a supplement testosterone crème that claimed to help men with erectile dysfunction while increasing muscle mass at the same time, was being heralded as a miracle drug.

For much less than the price of illegal steroids, he was able to buy an entire case of the Andro-gel, enough testosterone supplement to juice the entire American and National football Leagues and World Wrestling Federation for the entire year. Moreover the Andro-gel, other than being unapproved by the FDA, being that it was a testosterone supplement, wasn't illegal in the way that steroids were. Unfortunately, in this untested and unapproved form by the FDA, the experimental Andro-Gel that Brock possessed contained a much higher concentration of artificially enhanced testosterone. A super mega dose, than what was finally approved to be safely used by masses, if Clay's clients wanted muscle building results, Brock couldn't think of a better way to get immediate results. God only knows what other side effects such large doses of testosterone would do to the human body but the doses that he had could certainly and negatively affect the prostate gland.

For the time being, until he was able to leave Russia, Brock hid the testosterone supplements beneath his bed while thinking how to smuggle them out of the country. His brother told him to wrap each little packet in duct tape and wrap that around his body beneath his clothes. A time before TSA agents and before machines X-raying people through their clothes, just as they did the last time he was there, the Russians didn't even bother searching him and/or his luggage. Going through a special passenger gate as if he was a diplomat or a special emissary for the Russian government, stamping his passport, they just waved him through without so much as questioning him.

* * * * *

Only, this time was different. Somehow already knowing that the United States were trying to sabotage their nuclear progress, the Russians didn't want the help of the United States government and they didn't want someone in the likes of Brock Steel snooping around their nuclear reactor. Perhaps there was a leak in the spy game but seemingly they either knew or suspected that Brock was there not to help them get their nuclear reactor back online but to spy on and sabotage their nuclear program. When he presented his credentials to the security guard at the gate, after a long wait and short telephone conversation with someone higher up, he was denied entry. Not even there a day, his mission to help the Russians with their nuclear reactor, Brock was returning home empty handed with nothing but smuggled, experimental Andro-get for Clay.

Just as his brother told him to do, he carefully wrapped the packets of testosterone supplements around his body. With so very many packets, thousands of packets, he had Andro-gel wrapped around his chest, his back, his stomach, his arms, and his legs. With still more testosterone supplement crème left to wrap, he wrapped them around him four more times. Looking much like the Michelin Man and as if he had gained some sixty pounds, luckily his oversized sweater covered the layers of duct tape. Still cool enough on April 26, 1986 to wear a coat, unable to even button his pants, he covered his unbuttoned, belted pants and smuggled goods beneath a long sweater and a trench coat.

Packing his bag to go home, with his hotel room in close proximity to the nuclear reactor, he was getting ready to leave just as the first nuclear explosion of released nuclear steam hit. Knowing full well what it was but not even having time to react, the second nuclear steam released explosion hit within a few seconds. Too late to do anything about Chernobyl now, he knew he was doomed. Too late to save himself even if he had a superfast car to drive, he knew he'd be dead. He didn't need to have two PhD's and be a nuclear physicist, a rocket scientist, or a mathematician to know that there was a nuclear meltdown and he was right there in the middle of it as it was unfolding.

Everything and everyone who weren't dead already would be infected and would soon die horrible deaths soon. With no warning and no sirens in the way that they did in the United States with the Three Mile Island partial nuclear meltdown in Pennsylvania on March 28, 1979, these were different times back then, especially in Russia. With the Nuclear Regulatory Commission just commissioned in 1975, many of their programs and safety systems weren't yet even operational.

To be continued...