Masters of Horror (28 page)

Yes! This is my moment. I am shining. No light is any brighter than this.

As much as I can, I stick with barbells and dumbbells, wanting,
needing
to feel the iron. No gloves. Damn, I couldn’t wear leather on my hands. It would block the sensation of taking charge; it would make me feel inferior to the weight. Fuck the calluses. I can deal with them. They’re merely purple hearts of a sort, worn on my hands to show the wages of battle. A battle hard fought and won in the trenches.

Stop admiring your body and attack the weights. More!

More, it is. Let those steroid junkies try to keep up with me. Natural. That’s the way to go. I don’t want a big bloated belly due to the fucking drugs increasing the size of my internal organs as well as my muscles. And as for what makes a man a man: I want to keep my dick and balls and not have them vanish, becoming the size of a well run down pencil and tiny marbles. Women like muscles on a man, but what good are muscles on a pencil-pecker? I have never had any complaints. Ever.

Exercise after exercise, chest and back working as a team, bringing out the very best in each. My shirt gets tighter, inhibiting my efforts, getting in the way of that absolute pump. I cannot reach Valhalla like this! 

Breaking my own rule for the gym, I almost tear the confining, sweat-soaked piece of worthless cotton off my body and toss it towards my gym bag. I grab a big towel from behind the desk and place it on the benches to soak up the sweat, pouring like a turbulent river out of my body.

From my ever-present water bottle by my side, I replenish the fluids I’m losing. My discarded shirt is caked with salt: a sure sign I need to increase the electrolytes in my mix.

Ten different exercises each for my chest and back. Once more, I surpass what I have achieved in the past. Age: what does it matter? Even now, at the so called twilight of my years, a time when many are content to sit in a rocking chair watching the rest of the world parade before them, I am achieving personal bests.  No one here believes I’m as old as I am. So I don’t tell them anymore.

Get your 63 year old ass back to work! Power your arms. You came up short with them the last time.
 
Asses and elbows! Now!

Everywhere around me the equipment beckons. 
Try me. You know you want to flesh out your arms with me.
I will make you bigger
;
I will make your guns too large for your shirts.

Love talk: strange, but provocative. I can’t escape the pleadings of the dumbbells; the already set-up curling barbells; the preacher curl bench; even the cables for the polish.

All of them.
I will use them all
!

For my biceps, the preacher curls will exact some rough sets. It is difficult to cheat with them and the stress goes right to the muscle it’s intended for. To make this really tough, I will work these with reverse grip bench presses which hit the triceps in a magical way. Not many people use this wonderful exercise anymore.

Why? Because it’s
brutal
; damned brutal!

This won’t be easy. Your arms are already trashed from those sets for your chest and back. You’ll never come close to reaching maximum poundage.

“
I’LL DO IT, DAMN IT!” I roar out loud to the empty gym. No fucking voice is going to talk me out of this. Mega weight! Ultimate pump! Uncharted territory. Yes, it’ll all come together.

My head starts spinning from the effort. All my blood is going to my arms now, leaving precious little for anything else. Focus: I have to maintain focus. Everything is starting to blur, causing the line between reality and uncertainty to waver. I plunk myself down on the bench and prepare to tackle a personal record for my reverse grip bench press. All I need is enough time for my faculties to sharpen up.

There can be no room for error; if I misjudge with this last set, I’m so screwed. By all rights, I should have a spotter, but I don’t.

The lift off is a bit shaky; not a good sign. However, my first four reps go smoothly. The fifth rep is okay, albeit not as powerful as the rest.

One rep left; one stinking rep and I’ll be riding a wave of euphoria.

I lower the bar to my chest with perfect control: slow and steady. Now is the time for an explosion of power at the bottom, but...

But there is no explosion. The bar stalls, refusing to go up.

Shit!
I’m in some serious stuff now. I’ve lost all momentum with the bar. It’s starting to exert pressure on my chest. Breathing is becoming more difficult.

Panic sets in.

I’m stuck; and I’m alone. It will probably be an hour at least before anyone comes in. No way can I hold the weight for that long. My arms would give out and the weight would crush my chest.

And if I was to shift the bar to one side, allowing the weights to slide off, with as many plates as are on the bar, the other side could whip around and take me with it. I’ve seen it happen before—with nasty consequences. 

Now you’ve done it! Fucked yourself over real good this time. You had to go for that last rep, didn’t you? You couldn’t be content with five reps. No, you had to do six. And now...well, just look at you. You either lift this bar one more time, or you’re a crushed piece of meat welcoming your clientele in a short time. Yeah, by then your eyes will be bulging out of their sockets, blood will be pouring from your mouth, and your body will be a disgusting mix of blue and gray. It’ll make great word-of-mouth advertising, too. Nice job.

How long can this weight stay like this? How soon before my breath is completely gone?

How much time do I have before my breastplate breaks and my ribs crack like so many little sticks?

Damn it all, you fucking pussy! Shove that fucking iron up there! You’re the best there is. You can’t die like this. It’s not you. Gather your forces and do it.

I grit my teeth, take a massive breath, and try once more to move the weight up. The odds are against me: it has been static for so long that it will take a lot of extra strength to start it moving again.

My entire body shakes from the effort. I’m not concerned with perfect form. I merely want to raise the weight and place it on the rack.

Sweat pours off me as ever…so…slowly…the weight moves.

My arms shake more with each fraction of an inch it advances, the bench wobbling under me from the effort.

The air around me gets thinner, making it almost impossible to suck in enough to do what I have to do, and the ceiling spins around, completing the total feeling of helplessness.

But the weight moves up.

After what seems like an eternity—with every muscle fiber shrieking in agony—I manage to reach lockout.

Now all I have to do is move the bar backwards a bit and place it on the rack: not as easy with this move as a standard bench press. Ever so carefully, I put it in its place.

The weight is secure. I have achieved the impossible!

I lie on the bench, gasping for air, shaking uncontrollably, unable to make sense of anything. My surroundings are totally bizarre: benches, dumbbells, plates, core body balls, and more, all float around me, taunting me, saying they’ll fall and land on me at any second. A spectrum of colors attacks my eyes, the brilliance threatening to blind me.

The stench of nervous sweat rises to my nostrils; I want to puke, but I’m unable to move from my position, and so I fight the urge, not wanting to gag on my own effluent.

My muscles twitch uncontrollably, attempting to tap out a rhythm with the muted rock song playing on the sound system…I think it’s “No Pain No Gain” by Raven…

Ghostly apparitions appear from behind the racks and come over to me; ten in all. Some laugh, pointing at me with that
I told you so
gesture; some have sad looks on their faces as if they understand; and some just stare, non-committal, so pious that it’s unnerving.

One of the sad ones extends his hand.

Come with us
.

What
? This makes no sense. Sure, I’m wrung out from my bout with the iron, but these delusional beings: they don’t belong here. It’s like they’ve come to take me to heaven or hell or Valhalla.
Whoah...

I shake my head; time to clear out the cobwebs. Maybe I did overdo it.

They’re still here.

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.

After opening my eyes, I discover they
still
haven’t gone.
Shit
! They’re
all
reaching out for me now!

You must come with us.

This isn’t real; it can’t be. All this work for this; to succumb to death.
Bullshit
! I refuse to accept it. I’m not going.  ”NO, you transparent little bastards! Find somebody else. I conquered death. I’m not coming!”

Closer…and closer…the hands come to me. The ethereal beings become more substantive before my eyes. And their faces...their faces become hardened, more sinister looking, their resolve becoming obvious. Their bodies are those of who’ve succumbed to a physical obsession: anorexics, steroid-bloated hulks, insanely obese overeaters. A visually abhorrent circus sideshow has come to take me to some specialized hell.  

Although I’m still weakened and don’t wish to move yet, I force myself to sit up, and then to stand. If I’m to fight off these beings—illusionary or not—I can’t do it laying flat on my back. I fought for my life moments ago and if I have to do it again, I will…but I need to do it from a position of strength. I’m outnumbered, but that’s of small concern to me. My physical and mental powers will do the job. To give in to them and accept their dominance would be a show of weakness. I’m not weak.

Nietzsche once said, “That which does not kill you only makes you stronger.” I’ll do just that very thing. Strength: more of it; greater talents; an ever expanding grasp of knowledge; life experience. All of these, coming to the front of my soul, pushing me to uncharted heights.

They are substantive now; flesh and blood—or so it seems. They grapple with me, but I shove them back. Their strength increases. It’s of no consequence: within the well of my strength, I shove a larger bucket down to grab more of what I need to become stronger. I drink long and deep: I beat them back, laughing at their puny efforts, knowing I will conquer them. The physical attributes they had just moments ago start disappearing. Ghosts. They become what they were and can cause me no harm now, but still, they try. Now, they are entities of defeat.

The one who first reached his hand out to me smiles broadly.

You have won. Your battle was great.

Indeed: the battle is over. They are gone now, and I am alone once more. Yet, I am not alone, for it is as if I have become two people: the man of iron and the man of discipline.
And now, I sense another presence beside me…

You could have killed yourself, man.

I look through dazed eyes, trying to see who’s in the gym. Damn! I’m so out of it: I never heard anyone come in. The eyeballs still aren’t working.

It looks like A.J. That’s not too easy to believe, considering he died a couple months back. I am in sad shape.

Don’t wrack your brain, buddy. It’s me.

Shit! This isn’t very cool. Some dead guy is talking to me. The only thing worse would be if I was to answer back.

Fucking cat got your tongue?

“
No, I’m just trying to sort this shit out—I just fought off Hell’s Welcome Wagon, and now
you
show up…” I tell him, completely forgetting I wasn’t going to talk to him. “Excuse me if I’m wrong, but you’re dead. You died right here in the gym. In fact, you died on this bench. Does...oh, shit! Does that mean that I’m...?”

A little sardonic laughter.
No, you’re not dead. You came awfully fucking close, but you’re alive.

“
Why are you here, man?”

I love this place: I always have.

Things are getting more focused. A. J. still looks a bit fuzzy, but since he’s dead, that shouldn’t come as a surprise. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. I haven’t felt really alone in this gym for some time now. Some sort of presence...no, this is too crazy.

He pulls up a bench—somehow—and sits down next to me.
You look like shit. I honestly thought I was going to have you join me in this new world of mine. Of all the crazy stunts.