NAked Warrior - ZANDERBILT

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T H E P U R P O S E F U L P R I M I T I V E
attractive, skimpily clad women, no doubt the rich guys’ dates, appeared completely
enthralled by the giant Italian’s speed rap.
I made my way over to where Bobby stood. He looked massive and thick. He was a good
looking Man with a capital “M.” He oozed power. For a giant he had an amazingly streamlined
body. Though he weighed way over 300 pounds he was shapely, proportional and a
gawd-awful gargantuan. I later learned that he was heir to a mobbed-up trash collection
firm that had offices in the waste treatment sewage plant. He glanced my way as I pushed
through the crowd. I saw the look on his face morph from puzzlement to tension to vague
recollection to recognition. As I pierced the inner circle he said. “Mar-tee…half-man, half
par-tee! What the f#@* are you doing here!” He enveloped me with arms that must have
weighed 100 pound apiece. I smiled as the gaggle of sycophants appraised me. I whispered
into his ear conspiratorially, “So Bobby—where do the boys train in this neck of the
woods?” He got all solemn: we were now talking the secret language of the elite Iron powerlifting
brotherhood.
“There ain’t but one place…Kenny Fantano’s Muscle Factory in West Haven.”
Ken Fantano was a legendary character and for good reason. He had exploits galore and
his lifting accomplishments were world class. His bench press methodology, from what I’d
heard, was revolutionary. He was Old School with some new twists and I was eager to meet
him. From Cassidy to Coan to Furnas, all my mentors stressed a similar message: get as
strong as humanly possible in the three powerlifts using as little supportive gear as possible.
As it turned out, Ken would affirm and amplify that same message.
Elite power men tend to be obsessed. Everything else in life was secondary: wives, families,
jobs, responsibilities, only kids trumped powerlifting in the world of the elite brute.
Fantano’s Muscle Factory was an oasis for the obsessed. I asked Bag-of-Donuts if he would
be so kind as to make a formal introduction on my behalf to Ken. This was power etiquette;
the equivalent of Samurai formalism in feudal Japan. He was the local Major Domo
and I was a newcomer to his fiefdom. I was requesting an audience. I heard back from Bagof-Donuts
later that same week that yes, I would be most welcome and could I be at the
Muscle Factory at 4 pm the following Monday. Please come alone.
I rolled into The Muscle Factory in West Haven on the appointed day at precisely the
appointed time. Ken sat on a sturdy iron stool behind a homemade wooden counter. Kenny
was huge and shapely, he weighed 360 pounds and with a goatee, balding head and soft
eyes, he looked like a dead ringer for the legendary turn-of-the century Canadian strongman,
Louis Cyr. He sat stoically on his stool behind the counter watching the comings and
goings outside the gym while keeping an eye on the lone room that comprised the business
section of the Muscle Factory.
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