Ted's world slowly materialized around him as he regained his senses.  The earlier assualt on his frail form had left him dazed and sore, but now, as his surroundings became clearer, he realized he was in much more trouble than he had ever envisioned.

Robin's tiny son was now enclosed in a small glass case, perched on a table in front of a cheering female audience.  Airholes throughout the walls of the case provided wisps of hot studio oxygen, and a long, clear tube directly above Ted's head had been fed into the box.  With enough room to only stand or sit with his back agains the case, Ted felt like a hamster in a cage.

Peering through the clear box, he noticed the tube led up to another box on a higher platform.  Next to that platform, his mother was stationed on a treadmill, her feet now clad in what appeared to be thick cotton socks that extended up to her knees.  She also wore white tennis shoes and stood nervously on the device, occasionally looking down at her son with trepidation.  Ted shivered as he tried to understand this particular "game."

The announcer then sauntered next to Ted, and as the studio erupted into more cheers, she explained the event for all to hear.

"In this final million dollar challange," she boomed into her microphone, "Robin must generate enough sweat on her feet to completely fill the special one-quarter cup that is placed on the platform next to her."

Ted didn't like where this was going.

"As Robin runs, she will need to 'wring' the sweat into the cup from her socks.  After the quarter-cup has been deemed officially full, it will be feed into Ted's tube, and Robin's tiny son must drink every last drop of his mother's foot sweat."

Ted's blood ran cold.  "No! Please!" he shouted, banging on the walls of his prison.  The announcer either didn't hear him or care about his disagreement to the game.  "I didn't sign up for this! Please, mom, no!" But he could only look up at his giantess mom, who was now positioning her feet on the treadmill.

The announcer continued.  "Ted and his mom must complete this game in 10 minutes in order to receive the million dollar prize."

Ted slumped down on the floor of the glass.  A quarter-cup to him was comparable to almost a gallon! A gallon of his mom's foot-sweat! The very idea made him sick to his stomach.  No amount of money was worth this.  He would simply refuse, and his mom would have to be happy with whatever consolation prize the contest offered.

"One more thing, ladies," the announcer boomed as she held up a piece of paper.  "I have here, in my hand, a signed agreement from Robin to help her son with this game.   It reads:

'I, Robin, agree that my son may not wish to participate in this game.  I authorize the motivation punishment to force him to drink my foot-sweat.  If he does not drink all of my sweat, I authorize this contest to forcibly strap him down and insert the tube into his mouth after my attempt.  During this time, any member of the audience who wishes to do so may use this treadmilll to generate sweat on her own feet and force-feed it to Ted as punishment.  Hotel accomadations may be provided to those who must wait until tomorrow.'

Now, how's that for motherly love, audience?" the announcer asked.  The audience cheered louder than ever.

Ted stood in shock and horror.  Placing his hands on the cold glass, he peered at the audience of woman.  Teenagers, middle-aged woman, white, hispanic, Asian, black...slender, large, short, tall...all seemed eager and hopeful for him to fail.

He then peered up at his mother, who mouthed the words "I'm sorry," and watched as she tapped a button on the treadmill and began to run.