Every muscle in his body screamed in agony.  He fought against the strong urge to vomit as the invisible vice tightened around his arms, his legs and his chest.  Harry tried to think of something, anything else besides the torture he was enduring.  His mind drifted for a moment.  He thought of his mother… she was wearing that ugly yellow apron and standing in his childhood kitchen.  She was making cookies.  She always let him lick the spoon!  He could almost taste the sickly sweet batter.  She smiled at young Harry as she turned the electric mixer on high speed.

Without warning, Harry was in the orange plastic mixing bowl and he was being beaten to death by the electric mixer.  He couldn’t breath.  His mother’s smiling face looked down into the bowl and she waggled her finger and said, “No more cookie dough for you, young man!”

He tried to claw his way up the sides of the bowl, but his efforts were in vain.  The beaters were holding his legs in place as he reached for the rim.  His mother calmly used the rubber scraper to loosen his frantic grip on the edge of the bowl, which sent him crashing back into the cookie dough.  She scowled into the bowl and said, “Now Harry, you wouldn’t want to insult my baking, would you?  I’ve been making these special for you!”

He let out a groan as the whirring mixer beat his mangled legs into the batter.  His mother continued to beat his legs with the mixer as she used the rubber scraper in her other hand to get the dough and bits of his demolished arms and legs off the sides of the bowl.  She absently hummed an unrecognizable tune to herself as she used the scraper to begin piling the cookie dough and Harry’s body parts on top of his chest.  He gasped for air as the weight on his chest grew heavier and heavier.  He was beginning to grow faint from lack of oxygen.  His mother looked down at him scornfully and said, “Now, now, Harry, don’t eat too many cookies.  You’ll get fat!” And with that, the excruciating pain lifted and his world faded to black.

Harry gasped as he pressed the emergency stop button on the treadmill.  Sweat poured down his ruddy face and his oversized t-shirt was soaked.  He bent over and put his hands on his knees while he wheezed.  Finally when his breathing returned to normal and the nausea passed, he stood upright and looked at the treadmill monitor.  “6 minutes and 14 seconds” it read.  He sighed as he wiped his face with his little white gym towel.  He lumbered toward the men’s locker room and resolved to come back and do it all over again tomorrow.