Itsgonnahurt.com - Aiden From Boston.mp4 File

"ItsGonnaHurt.com," he whispered, a crimson stain spreading across his teeth. "Upload that."

The basement air in South Boston smelled like old copper and damp concrete, but to Aiden, it smelled like an opportunity. He adjusted the ring light—a cheap thing that flickered if he breathed too hard—and checked the frame on his DSLR.

The setup was simple and insane. He’d rigged a heavy-duty pitching machine normally used for baseballs, but he’d modified the feeder to hold taped-up hockey pucks. He was standing twenty feet away, wearing nothing but a vintage Bruins jersey, cargo shorts, and a pair of plastic safety goggles he’d found in his dad's garage. ItsGonnaHurt.com - Aiden From Boston.mp4

The screen cut to black. Within an hour of the upload, the video had a hundred thousand hits. Aiden was a star, at least until the bruises healed and he had to find something even more painful to do for the next one.

"Yo, it’s Aiden from Boston. You guys voted for the 'Slapshot Roulette.' So, here we go." "ItsGonnaHurt

He pulled his face into view. His jaw was swelling fast, and he couldn't quite open his left eye, but he held up a shaky thumbs-up.

Aiden wasn’t a "stuntman" in the professional sense. He was twenty-two, worked a dead-end job at a pier, and possessed a terrifying lack of a self-preservation instinct. He leaned into the lens, his thick Boston accent cutting through the silence of the room. The setup was simple and insane

"I'm... I'm still here," he wheezed, pointing a defiant finger at the machine.