NAked Warrior - ZANDERBILT

More documents

Recommendations

Info

I R O N E S S A Y S “The schedule says 220—NOT 225!” Ken is yelling and suddenly with snake strike quickness, he grabs Mic by the hair and spins him around like a rag doll into a neck-wrenching headlock. Mic whelps in pain, protestation and embarrassment and with 60 gym members watching, Ken wrangles Mic to the front door and flings him outside into a snow bank. Ken walks back inside and locks the front door. Mic ended up walking home that day in gym clothes. Ken was “client selective” and refused to allow “normal people” to train at his facility. “The Muscle Factory was more of a private club than a gym for civilians off the street. “All I need is to rough up some vicious lawyer who causes me to go off. Then I get my ass sued and lose the gym. All on account of way back when, in a moment of weakness, I took 300 bucks in cash.” He looked at me with a look that said this man knew that of which he spoke. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Well you weren’t weak-minded today.” As he was about to respond, a weird sound started coming from the left rear section of the gym. It sounded like someone was torturing a cat. Ken moaned. “Oh Jesus— this is all I need— Brucie! Knock it off!” I turned and saw that the high pitched squealing was coming from an oversized goon doing triceps pushdowns. He was wearing a cassette music player with headphones and singing at the top of his lungs. Singing would be a stretch; it was more like Neil Young being subjected to some hideous torture involving water, 220 volt raw electrical power and a blowtorch. He was oblivious, lost in the endorphin rush of the pushdowns. He couldn’t hear because music was blasting through his headphones. Ken turned back to me, “So, anyway, I am looking to enter the APF National Championships in July. I think I got a good shot at a 950 squat. My bench press training….” The singer/squealer cranked his vocal volume up a notch, “Jeeeeezus God! Shut the hell up Bruce!” Fantano was standing up now and his face had turned beet red. “It’s the chorus from Hey Jude.” I said. “WHAT?!” Ken yelled at me; he looked flustered. “The chorus from Hey Jude—Naaah nah nah na na na nah! Nah na na nah! Hey Jude!” “WHAT THE HELL!” Bruce was repping the entire stack with all his might and singing with all his might at a volume that could only be matched by a Marshall amp stack set at 10. Ken spun around to the product shelf behind the counter, looking, looking, looking…until he found what he was looking for. He wanted a throwing implement, a projectile. For the first time I noted he was left handed. He ripped a two pound canister of pro- For complete information on Marty Gallagher’s The Purposeful Primitive, or to purchase the physical book, visit http://www.dragondoor.com/b37.html now 62
63 T H E P U R P O S E F U L P R I M I T I V E tein powder off the display case behind the glass counter and in one motion spun and threw a fireball that would have done a major league pitcher proud. The protein canister sailed twenty feet through the air across the gym floor towards Brucie. “NAH! NAH! NAH! NAH! NA! NA! NAH!” This is the god’s honest truth: the can hit Big Brucie square in the side of the head and exploded. A cloud of anthrax-like powder swirled around his head. He let go of the handle, the weight stack zoomed downward as the pushdown handle flew upward. The headphones flew off his head. An airborne powder cloud settled on his sweat-drenched torso: his shaven head, his pig-like face, his 20-inch neck—everything covered in white protein powder. He looked as if he’d thrust his sweat-soaked head into a bag of flour, like Curly in some prank gone awry in a Three Stooges episode. Big Brucie growled and crouched down; he swiveled looking for someone to bust up. He looked as if he had lots of ass-kicking experience; perhaps today he would commit his first murder. He’d calculated the trajectory and looked in my direction: he caught my eye and stared with black-death eyes through a layer of white powder. He growled loudly and dropped further into his crouched stance. He was about to attack me, maul me, perhaps even kill me; the stranger. Likely he’d rip out my throat out with his teeth. I took my right finger and pointed left. Kenny was scowling, standing right next to me. As soon as the powder-dredged maniac saw Fantano, the killer went limp. Like a dog who’d been caught stealing the turkey off the Thanksgiving table. From enraged psycho killer into submissive puppy ready to pee himself all inside of ten seconds. It was, what I would later learn, was what the boys called, “The Fantano Effect.” Ken yelled to Bruce. “One more time with the singing Brucie and You are OUT of HERE! FOR- EVER! Capiche?!” Brucie said nothing. Ken was insistent: “Are you HEARING ME! Cause I ‘shore was hearing YOU!” The monster nodded. Bruce was submissive and chastised. He gathered his tape player off the floor and headed to the bathroom to towel off. Being a good sport, he cleaned up and came back out to finish his workout. Ken yelled from his seat, “And you owe me 14 bucks for the protein powder!” Brucie nodded and everything returned to “normal.” It was just another day in Ken World. For complete information on Marty Gallagher’s The Purposeful Primitive, or to purchase the physical book, visit http://www.dragondoor.com/b37.html now
Page 1 and 2:
The Purposeful Primitive By Marty G
Page 3 and 4:
3 T H E P U R P O S E F U L P R I M
Page 5 and 6:
Page 7 and 8:
Page 9 and 10:
Page 11 and 12: 11 T H E P U R P O S E F U L P R I
Page 15 and 16: 15 P T H E P U R P O S E F U L P R
Page 27 and 28: 27 P T H E P U R P O S E F U L P R
Page 33 and 34: 33 Contrast Is King T H E P U R P O
Page 39 and 40: 39 Let’s examine the component pa
Page 47 and 48: 47 T hey say that variety is the sp
Page 61: 61 T H E P U R P O S E F U L P R I
show all

NAked Warrior - ZANDERBILT

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?