Wednesday, August 24, 2005


My temporary gym is in a strip mall. It's one big room. The color scheme is white walls, black floors, and all of the detailing and machine-pads are a bright fuchsia. There are fart-scented air-freshener plug-ins, and I'm pretty sure the spray bottles for disinfecting the machines are filled with reconstituted sweat. A quick glance at the thermostat showed me that they keep it a very comfortable 78 degrees.

There were plenty of indomitable dudes with biceps bigger than my entire body who are perect for my vicious street-fighting task force, but my favorite guy was your proto-typical under-developed over-enthusiast. He buzzed around the room, hopping on his toes, and banging his head to music none of us could hear. He would select some weights, put them on the floor, and then do a ritualistic dance around the weight-bench followed by a couple of grunted "Come on!"s and "Let's Go!"s. Then he would literally JUMP into his seat and start thrusting the weights around maniacally. After a set he would throw the weights down, jump off the bench, and dance around the room. I'm not sure how much damage he would be able to do, but he's the front-runner for my gang's mascot.

We're called the Champions.
Make an appointment if you want to get beaten in.


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