Arric
“MORE WEIGHT,” I growled.
“Thereisno more. That’s the max setting on this machine,” Frank, my overly polite, young Scottish spotter exclaimed.
I let the handles down and turned around to see he was right. I grunted. “Lightweight piece of shit.”
“This place is only meant to act as a warm-up facility, mate. Not a full-service gym,” Frank said.
“Yeah? Well, how the hell am I supposed to warm up my back if that’s all the weight that candy-ass machine can handle?”
“Sir,” Frank said, softly. “The competition begins in less than twenty minutes.”
“Your point?” I shot back.
“If you’ll notice. You are the only competitor left here,” he said, nervously looking around the empty tent.
“I thought the Scottish were known for being direct,” I said, urging the guy to get on with his point.
“Yes, well. It’s just that most of the men have completed their warm-ups and are conserving the remainder of their energy for theactualcompetition.”
“Jesus, Frankie. I’m not a psychic. Are you kicking me out or what?”
“No, no, Mr. Johnson. I only meant that I know you’re new to the games and would hate to see you injure yourself before you have a chance to compete.”
Thoughts of injuring myself, conserving energy, pushing too hard were the furthest from my mind. In fact, lately, I couldn’t seem to push myself hard enough, no matter how hard, or what, I tried. That was half the reason I was here today. I’d planned on lifting until the final minutes before the competition began. There was bound to be an hour of dancing, bagpiping, and who knows what else before the action would begin and I wanted to be as pumped as possible.
“What brought you to compete in the Gunnach games this year? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I saw one of those on a gym wall back in the States,” I said, pointing to a poster advertising this year’s event.
“Everyone wants to be the next Thor Olsen,” Frank said.
“Your poster boy looks over-conditioned, if you ask me,” I said with a dismissive chuckle.
Frank straightened up, clearly offended by what I’d said. “I assure you, sir. Mr. Olsen’s fitness regimen is very precise. He isneverover conditioned.”
“Not his workout, man. I meant the guy’s hair,” I said with a playful jab to Frank’s arm. “What the hell is up with that pretty boy anyway?”
“You don’t know who Thor Olsen is?”
Frank laughed. “I take it you don’t watch much television?” he asked, handing me a towel.
“I don’t have a T.V.,” I replied.
“An American without a television?” he asked in shock. “Well, that over-conditioned pretty boy, as you call him, is not only the breakout star of Swords of Fire but the champion of the Gunnach Games for the past five years.”
“Swords of Fire?” I asked.
“You know. The show with the dragons and wizards…”
I stared at him blankly. “Again, still don’t have a TV.”
“What about your phone? Every episode is available for streaming.”
“No phone either.”
“Now I know you’re taking the piss,” he said, stunned.
