"I was in L.A. about ten years ago. I went into one of the gyms and asked about a man named Mac Batchelor. They told me how to find the tavern where he worked and that night I drove over to see him.

The tavern was full of thirsty customers, but there was no doubt who was Batchelor. He weighed about 330 and most of it was muscle. I climbed up on a bar stool and introduced myself.

"Tell me Mac, "I said, "You still the world's best arm wrestler?"

He laughed. "I think so." He propped an arm like an elephant's leg up on the bar.

"Wanta try?"

I looked at the arm. "No Thanks."

He looked surprised. "No? How come?"

Mac, I'll tell ya, I said. "You might break my arm and I don't think my insurance would cover it."

He smiled broadly. "You know," he said, "you're one of the very few people who ever walked in here and didn't think they could beat me.

"Good grief," I said," I ain't too bright, but I'm not crazy. I tell you what I would like, though. I'd like to see some of those strength feats of yours I've heard about."

"Sure," he said. "Here." He reached under the bar and brough our four bottlecaps. He jammed one betwen each finger on his right hand and held his hand out. "Watch." He squeezed lightly and the four caps crumpled like Kleenex..."