Jason stood still in front of the man working in the shop, waiting for him to answer the question.
  "So," the machinist inquired, "you want me to make a vise that's eight feet tall?"
	"And six feet wide," Jason replied. "And I want you to weld corrugated sheet metal, vertically, to the vise so that way when it closes, the two pieces of sheet metal go right up against each other. Make the sheet metal really strong too, preferably something that won't bend, like steel." 
	"What is this for, exactly?"
	"Personal project. So how much will that run me?"
	"Jeezus Christ," the machinist announced. "Quite a bit, man."
	"That's perfectly fine. I have one hundred thousand dollars in cash right now. Will that be enough?"
	Jason unzipped his backpack and revealed the ten stacks of hundred dollar bills each wrapped in a mustard-colored paper strap labelled $10,000.
	"Holy shit," the machinist stammered. "You're completely serious!"
  "Absolutely, sir. This is something I've been meaning to do for a long time."
  "You sell drugs or somethin'? Defense contractor?"
  "Neither one. I save money."
  "A-alright, I'll do it for one hundred thousand."
  "Great," Jason responded. Jason took the money and gave it to the machinist. The two men shook hands. 
Jason walked back to his car about 30 minutes later, after much time continuing to explain what exactly he wanted out of this project. A vise, with the faces of the jaw about eight feet tall and six feet wide, and to each face of the jaw a corrugated sheet of metal, preferably something strong that won't bend, something like tungsten or a really thick steel. Jason didn't know how to make a blueprint so the machinist did it for him. Jason had no plan for carrying it around yet, or where he would put it, or who would turn the handle to render his flesh into a corrugated piece of brutalist architecture, but he knew that it would eventually happen.
Jason first fell in love with what was called "brutalist" architecture when he started driving by himself at around age 16. Driving a few dozen miles away to the nearest city, he noticed a building, something like a police station or a city hall, he couldn't remember. 
It stood out like a dead body in an alleyway. The concrete, the strong angles, the formality. It stood out to him like no other building did. It was too perfect, so inorganic. 
From then on, Jason would, as though it was a ritual, drive back to that building any chance he could get and simply stare at it. Occasionally, he would stare at it from day to night, or night to day. He would not sleep in these repeated instances. It was a conscious effort to focus the naked eye upon the curvature of the outer walls. 
Time stopped as his eyes glossed over the ridges of concrete, infinite waves to wash the world in gritty shadows. The texture. Oh god, the texture. He trembled as he thought of it. The material had the same beauty of flesh, it rippled like the sea. Even in the middle of winter, the sunlight filtering in revealed warm red colors forming the lines, curving like formations of the erosive power of water. 
Such a gorgeous design for such a meaningless building, he thought to himself on countless nights. It stood, but yet did not move. It was attacked by the natural forces, but yet did not feel the rain, or the snow, or even the wind. It could not feel cold or warm. It could not feel disgusted with the people passing by below. It could not kill itself. Its purpose would be to stand proud, a young ignorant soldier, arrayed just like the hundreds upon hundreds of buildings within the city, and every city, looming over pedestrians with an intent to kill but the freedom to rot. 
And rot it did. Every day. For years Jason watched that building disintegrate before his eyes. Eventually after two decades or so, he was only staring at a sarcophagus of splendid conception.
Jason began to see brutalism around him more and more and more, the concrete, the grey, the strong angles, it seemed to speak to him and spread like a virus. And so sparked the beginning of the biggest change Jason would ever do.
  "The human body is too organic," Jason speaks into a camera. "Too ergonomic, the spine is too fluid and warped. The body needs to be, should be, straight angles and shapes. We crumble under ourselves because we are not rigid. We go out just as we go in-" he pauses, looks at his body, and back at the camera- "crumbling.". 
Jason steps into the vise. He yells, "NOW" with the might of Samson. The vise closes on him. He smiles as the camera sees less and less of his face, more and more of the faces of the vise, closing in, bones audibly cracking… 
  "TURN IT OFF!", Ben yells as Jack pauses the footage. "What the fuck was that?"
  "That was my uncle," Jack says. "Dad kept me away from him after he tried to crush my fingers with a hammer."
  "That's not real, nice joke, man."
  "It's no joke." Jack hands Ben a pamphlet from a funeral for Jason Wynn. Both teenagers are silent. "He did this when I was 12."
  "Jack," Ben said through a croaking throat, "you should not have this."
  "Did you notice something, Ben?"
  "What?"
  "The video."
  "What about it?"
  "Let me go back to the beginning of the video." Jack rewinds. 
  "So as you can see," Jason-as-Lazarus speaks again, "this is the machine. I put a lot of money into this. It has to work."
  "Jack."
  "Yeah?"
  "Is that… another person in there with him?"
    "The human body is too organic," Jason speaks into a camera.
  "Yes, Ben," Jack says calmly as he stands behind Ben, staring into the footage now, entranced by the manifesto. Jack reaches into his pocket for Jason's hammer. He pulls it out, feels the good weight of the handle, thinking about how swinging it feels again. "There is."