The Gym

Davey “Brick” Shiddaus, the most perfectly developed man in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, surveyed the floor of MuscleJocks Power and Fitness with an art critic’s eye for detail.  Surveying five thousand square feet of barbells, dumbbells, smith machines, and medicine balls, he espied five or six powerfully built males whom he immediately took for rivals.  Shiddaus fixed each rival in turn with his glittering eye, an eye that owed its curious glitter to the copious amounts of Deca-Durabolin, Anadrol 50, and swine testosterone that he consumed before each workout.  Christ, he thought to himself as he barked out the number of his bench press repetitions in the guttural call of the wild that now passed for his voice, these little pussies think that they can suck a real man’s dick. Well, I’ll show them.

As Shiddaus approached his thirty-first repetition, his phone began to ring.  Almost at once, his heart, which had grown to at least twice its original size during a decade of pharmaceutically-charged “hardgaining,” suffered one of its periodic spasms.  He barely had time to rack the bar before he collapsed to the floor, clutching at the renegade chest that had betrayed him in his hour of greatest need.

“Oh god, don’t let it end like this,” he whimpered to himself.  “I still have three more reps…”

Fortunately for “Brick,” Chayne “Link” Hughes, Raleigh, North Carolina’s most perfectly developed man and Shiddaus’ erstwhile spotter, rushed over and jammed a horse needle filled with adrenaline into Shiddaus’ pectoral muscle.  Shiddaus convulsed a few more times, then rested stiffly on the floor.  His phone continued to ring.

“Could you hand me my celly?” Shiddaus asked Hughes in a weak voice.

“Christ, ‘Brick,’ your eyes are bulging out of your head like a pair of golf balls.  Are you sure that’s not a papilledema?  That shit you’ve been taking could give you a brain tumor,” Hughes said.

“Just give me my fucking celly!” Shiddaus hissed. Hughes obliged, then hurried to complete his workout.  “Who the fuck is this?”

“Oscar Berkman,” the voice from the receiver said.

“Christ, Ohvuh, you coulda killed me.  You can’t just go ringing phones like that, you know?”

“Shut up, ‘Brick,’” Oscar said.  “I’ve got some big news from you, straight from the science lab here at State University.”

“What?  What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the supplement discovery of the century, ‘Brick.’  The stuff that the pro teams are using now.  Just the other day, Coach ‘Herc’ Broadsides himself attributed the Cleveland Spartans’ thrilling Ultimate Bowl victory to this miracle drug.”

“You gotta tell me, Omar, you gotta tell me,” ‘Brick,’ who was already envisioning the possibility of using this drug in conjunction with a dozen others to achieve his dream of bench pressing 1,400 pounds and thus cowing all of his rivals into submission, begged into the receiver.

“It’s breast milk, ‘Brick,’” Oscar said.

“Brick” was dumfounded.  “You mean from a tit?  A boob?”

“Yes, from a tit, a boob, a knocker, whatever you want to call it.  If you drink breast milk, it’ll help you do all sorts of things, such as winning the Ultimate Bowl.”

“No shit,” “Brick” said.  “And to think I’ve always thought that suckin’ on one of those big fat things was kinda nasty.  Maybe that’s why I’ve hit the wall in my training.”

“I’m sure it is, ‘Brick.’  But we can’t waste any time.  You’ve got to tell all of the other meatheads at that gym about this.  If we play our cards right, we’ll have them eating out of our hands…and sucking milk out of some breasts, too.”

“You can count on me, Otter,” “Brick” said.  And, despite his disdain for Berkman’s middling max repetition figures and haughty bearing, he meant it.  This could be his ticket to the big time, the opportunity for him to move out of his mother’s conversion van and onto the performance stage of the Drug Test-Free Powerlifting Nationals.

After this breast milk-fueled victory, he could love himself.  He really could.  Really.