Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Excerpt from "Posts from the Underground"

Gonna Set New Personal Records Today

Broseph Smith
Posts: 6,486

I no most of you homos dont even lift so u cant rlate to this or nothin but im all fired up to hit the fukkin gym. theres been so much fuarking shizit lately im gonna go fukin crazy in there prolly and beat all my prs. yeah, its fukkin on now.


Posts: 2,867

I liked the part where any of this actually happened and/or was documented.


Bow to the Masters
Posts: 12,024

In before phaggots who don’t even lift make idiotic comments and show off their ignorance.

Edit: Too late.


Posts: 4,115

Please keep us all motivated with lots of progress pics and videos. I want to see what you got, man. Annihilate those fukking weights, bro! Bring down the pain, we’re all ready for it. This is SPARTA!!!!!!


 “You’re not going to throw up, are you?” The fair young maiden avoided eye contact while abandoning her hair twirling routine to fully express the annoyance and repulsion at said possibility.

“Just give me the key, all right?” They say that a good reputation takes a lifetime to earn while a bad reputation can be obtained in a matter of seconds. The exchange, in addition to being of the highest possible literary quality, was an object lesson in that particular old saw. A few drunken misadventures several months earlier had effectively erased years of disciplined form, weight re-racking and wiping down sweaty surfaces. Indeed, it completely overshadowed all of that good and had become the sum total of his earthly value as far as the employees at Twenty Four Shred were concerned. There was probably some sort of lesson buried in all this, but honestly who fucking knows.

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.” Mumbling incoherent oaths the Man who Actually Lifts negotiated serpentine hallways, found lockers, discarded the garb of an ordinary citizen for the uniform of the Iron Soldier and prepared to set new standards in the realm of moving heavy objects without any particular end objective.

It was coming up on midnight. Some reporter who looked drunk and/or stoned was soundlessly passing on the news, his weary features identical on ten different monitors. A few other lost souls were milling about, apparently done with their workouts but choosing not to leave for whatever reason. He had the weights all to himself, more or less. It was a special providence, a preview of what heaven would be like for the muscleman, assuming he somehow made it because of a clerical error or the like.

Forty Five pound plates slid on to the bar, finding their place with a satisfying metallic clang. Four bells, ready to lift. It wasn’t long before the minimalist preparation for the “dead” was completed and it was time to go testicles to the drywall and shatter preconceptions about what is and is not possible in the arena of raising something to waist level. Every last ounce of strength was deployed as our hero lifted the bar, struggled for one terrifying second and then snapping the bar up to belt level while simultaneously straightening his body to a posture worthy of a finishing school. In his mind the three white lights for “good lift” came on and he let everything crash to the floor, the hellacious collision caused by gravitational forces nearly drowned out by screams of victory. The concrete wall was punched repeatedly and even given a headbutt before an explosion of red pin pricks in front of blurred vision discouraged further self-abuse. The record had been set and it how belonged to the ages.

Adrenaline continued to flow freely, to the point where the pain generated by the injurious behavior that had been part of the celebration quickly faded and than was replaced entirely by a flood of mind narcotics of the “good job” variety. One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to stop there. In this elevated state anything was possible, not just major dead lifts. It was time to squat. Calloused hands balled into fists in anticipation of another tough battle. It happened, but not in the way that was expected. The rack was occupied. It was one of the lost souls, an unbelievably ordinary looking middle age slice of American mediocrity. He was doing curls. In the squat rack. Curls. This could not stand.

Even under the best of circumstances Joe was hardly what you would call even-tempered and right now chemicals generated by triumph and bodily damage removed any free agency that might otherwise have been present. In essence, what was about to unfold had very little to do with free will, if anything.

Before we get to the highly satisfying violent mayhem it should be pointed out that the weight room, like any other social construct, has a complex system of symbols, taboos, mores, stigmas and other two dollar concepts that are dispensed in low level sociology classes at your friendly local diploma mill. To an outsider this complex societal contract can seem nearly impenetrable, but the proscriptions can be distilled down to don’t bother others and don’t use the various stations incorrectly. Our half-way to the grave slice of average was in violation of both and grievously so by performing a wimpy “impress the holes” routine in an area specifically reserved for going all out with the balls out. This is the sort of thing that would make Ghandi beat your ass, let alone a jacked out, stressed out, balls out serious lifter whose pursuit of pee aars is being thwarted by your crapulence.

“Hey bro, I got to squat here. Move.” Across the room ten monitors were simultaneously displaying an image of a hot piece of ass being zipped into a body bag. Outside there was only darkness and a few lights from the parking lot hovering in the air like a will ‘o wisp. Heavy silence descended inside the Temple of Belief. The one other silver ager in the giant well-lit room rushed for the door like someone fleeing a wild west shootout. The silence now hung heavy as the offender of etiquette continued to transfer dumb bells from the belt to the shoulder and back, without a care in the world, as if nothing had been said and a hulking mass of well-defined muscle wasn’t well within punching range.

“Yo, chief, I’m talking to you. You hearing me pal?” Smith was now right on top of Mr. Ordinary. After a few moments of tense uncertainty his presence was finally acknowledged as the lukewarm sample of humanity ceased his exertions and turned partway, facing his inquisitor at a ninety degree angle.

“I just got three more sets. You can wait.” The voice was barely a whisper but it was clear and easy to understand. The actual content was far more difficult to get a handle upon. Three more sets? Of curls? In an otherwise empty gym? With me waiting? This was madness.

Perhaps confused by the way events were now unfolding the Forklift Engineer and Big Truck Pilot actually took a few steps away, even giving his back in what is generally a sign of submission among great apes.

The screens were showing the damage the second bomb had caused at the university. A different reporter, a little older and hopefully a little more sober, was walking through the rubble while making expansive gestures. He was talking, but with no sound it was impossible to imagine what insights were being offered. Probably “look at this fucking mess” or the like.

Mr. Smith spun back toward the violator of unspoken norms as if he was dodging one of those open field tackles in pig bladder ball. Two quick strides and he was on his victim like a tiger taking down a gazelle. The embarrassingly light free weights crashed to the ground, soon to be joined by the two men locked in mortal combat.

“Die, die, die!” Red haze fully descended as Joe flailed wildly at his prey. The young lady from the front desk, perhaps summoned by the man who had made a discrete escape before it all “went down,” took one look at the human insect fight and ran back to her station to make a telephone call that for once was not about ohmaigawd and allied concepts.


"Posts from the Underground is now available paperback and e-book.

"The Foolchild Invention" is also available in paperback and e-book format. Read free excerpts here and here. 

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