Chapter 4
Operation Dead Weight
Light trickles in through Scott’s bedroom blinds, birds are chirping just outside his apartment window. Scott is sprawled on his bed like a chalk outline from a police drama. He’s snoring peacefully when his stomach rumbles. A second later, he releases an ungodly loud fart. His eyes shoot open.
“HELLO!?” Scott screams, sitting up in bed and scanning the room. His desk in the corner is buried under fidget toys and scattered notebooks. His dresser, drawers half-open with stuffed clothes, sits idle. Only shadows and the faint trace of regret linger in the room.
A moment passes. Nothing but the drone of his cheap ceiling fan and the faint scent of shame and mildew.
“Just a dream,” he mutters, sinking back onto the mattress.
He reaches for his phone sitting on the nightstand and opens up his email.
Junk.
Bill.
Ooohhh, local singles in my area want to meet? Delete.
The next email subject reads, “If you needed a sign here it is, Scott!”
After a moment's hesitation, he taps on the email.
An image of a happy couple, sweaty and in an embrace, is front and center. Under the image reads “2Fit2Furious, come check us out, 3 months free!”
“I guess someone heard me mention ‘Beach Bod Scott.’” He mutters under his breath.
Damn companies are listening in through our phones, I just know it.
He heads to the kitchen to begin his morning ritual: coffee and a sour cream donut.
No loose wires, no water near the outlet. Okay, it should be safe.
With slight hesitation, he turns on his coffee maker.
When he’s sure nothing is about to catch on fire or explode, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.
He goes back to his phone while he waits for his morning brew.
Oh hey, Noah and Barbara are having a baby! Five years of trying finally paid off. Good for them.
Tap tap.
He continues scrolling until the coffee is finished. He pours it in his favorite black cat mug, the one with the derpy face, and takes a sip.
“Oh yeah, today it’s perfect.” He releases a soft sigh. He goes into his fridge and pulls out a box of donuts and sets it on the junk mail table. He opens it up and to his surprise, there’s a custard-filled chocolate donut, his favorite. “Happy Birthday to me,” he mutters.
Things feel different today, lighter, peaceful. Maybe I will check out that gym after work.
Later, Scott is downtown in a shirt that says “Pizza & Beer” and some basketball shorts, a determined look in his eye as he stands in front of the gym. The building is a fishbowl, its street-facing wall is all windows, exposing muscle heads benching new PRs, people on treadmills running from their problems, and every mirrored room crowded with copy-paste influencers.
“I didn’t think I’d be a monkey at a zoo.” He sighs. “Here’s hoping I enter a boy, and come out a Greek god.”
He walks in and is instantly hit with the musk—it’s like someone mixed up chloroform with jock sweat. Scott instinctively covers his nose and mouth with his hand and approaches the front desk.
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The front desk guy doesn’t even look up. “Welcome to 2Fit2Furious, where family doesn’t let family skip leg day,” he drones, exhaling like it hurts. “Please scan in and grab a complimentary towel,” he adds, waving toward an empty shelf where a lone towel the size of a tissue sits.
“Uh…Hi, I got an email about a 3-month pass, no obligation required, do I need to–”
The man quickly interjects. “Yeah, yeah, go nuts. But no towels for you. Here’s your temporary pass, scan this every time. No pool privileges, no lockers, no showers, and the treadmill gives you thirty minutes, tops. Just tap your pass. Enjoy your workout, or don’t, I don’t give…” The last words trail off in a mumble as he slides a plastic card across the counter, never glancing up.
“Thanks, I guess.” Scott grabs the card and walks in. He heads to the vending machine to get a drink.
Hmm… water or energy drink. Decisions, decisions.
He punches in the number for water, as it drops, it hits the energy drink as well, knocking them both down.
Two for one? Today is gonna be a good day!
He looks around the gym, wondering what his first workout should be. He stares at the weight section and sees a bunch of meat heads slapping each other, getting ready for a heavy bench press. A group of kids stands around another bench waiting for their turn in a rotation of 7.
Nope.
He glances into the small rooms where the classes normally take place. He notices a couple of girls posing in front of the mirror. Behind them, on the other side of the room, an older man is curling 2.5 pounds at a snail’s pace as he gawks at the young women.
I’d rather not be associated with the gym creep.
He walks up to the second floor. Upstairs, the music isn’t just louder – it’s a full-on assault on his ears. There are a few empty machines close by, he decides to take an elliptical machine in the corner. He taps his badge on the scanner of the machine, his time balance appears:
45 minutes.
Okay, maybe God is apologizing for yesterday. I’ll take it, you’re forgiven, big man!
After what feels like an eternity, Scott stumbles off the machine, breathless, shirt soaked, looking like the first fish that jumped out of the primordial ooze.
I probably stuck it out for 40 minutes. Five minutes left, max.
He looks at his remaining time blinking on the machine.
33 minutes.
If the world ever ends, I’m jumping on this thing to slow down time.
He heads back downstairs and walks over to an open bench press.
Weights were always more my thing anyway.
“Alright, let’s show these protein addicts what a real man looks like.” He mutters, stretching muscle groups he definitely won’t be using.
No self-respecting weightlifter does a warmup set.
He grabs a 45-pound plate for each side and slides them on with the confidence of someone who’s watched too many Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. He slaps his hands together like he’s invoking his inner strength, and grips the bar.
He unracks it. Lowers it halfway.
The bar stops. His arms shake, his face becomes an ombre of pink, to red, as he struggles to move the weight an inch. He starts grunting, a cross between a deflating balloon and a constipated sasquatch. It feels like someone is working against him and pushing down on the bar. Inch by inch, he starts to lift it – until his hands slip.
The bar plummets towards his throat.
There’s no time to react.
CLANG!
It stops, hovering just inches above his neck, held steady by a pair of veiny, unbothered hands.
“Woah there.” The man says, calm, like he’s not holding 135 pounds. “Always wrap your thumbs around the bar, bro.” He lifts it like it’s paper-mache and re-racks it without breaking a sweat. The man smiles, his eyes have a tint of yellow to them – cat like. He doesn’t blink.
He has thick stubble around his jaw, and he has to be at least 8 feet. Maybe 6’5.
Scott sits up, staring at his savior.
“Thanks for the save – Ow!” Scott pulls his hand away from the bar. “That’s hot!”
The man quickly looks at the bar. Something flickers across his face, gone as fast as it came.
“Ah, yeah. I use this lifting gel – it makes my grip super hot, but it helps with my lifts. Takes some getting used to.” He says with a shrug. “Anyway, I’m Cal. I’ve been watching you.”
Scott raises an eyebrow.
The air gets thinner for just a second.
“Workout, I mean. Been watching you walking around a little lost. Thought maybe you could use some pointers.”
He grins, all teeth.
“Well, I think I might be wrapping –”
“That’s the spirit!” Cal says, slapping him on the back. It feels like someone slammed a 2x4 across his back. “Come on, I’ll show you where they keep the good stuff. It’s only for staff , technically. But they make an exception for me.”
“I wonder why…I’m Scott, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Scott. Come on, let’s go get our burn on!” Cal says enthusiastically.
Well, you could never have too many friends. Especially the kind with the neck thickness of both of my legs.
As they walk off together, a faint trail of smoke curls from the bar – still scorching to the touch.
Chapter 5: A Delicate Ballet
