DeadLifting

Ch:1 This can't be happening

Popular music of the time played at a reasonable volume. Thrumming and popping in a way that any normal person would find difficult not to sway or dance to. It could have been playing in an empty room. The only person who could have heard it had high-end noise-canceling earbuds in that deafened him to all the world giving him only the music he had chosen. So just like the emergency news report that had taken over every muted TV above the treadmills, the music was ignored. Under the stern-looking reporter, a bander flowed warning of spreading violence. Though many people around the city were watching enraptured with the report these TVs were ignored out right. The earbuds filled his mind with the booming and screaming of Thy Art is Murder. The particular song tended to make his mind thrum in a way that made his swollen muscles strain that little bit more.

"Twenty-three... twenty-four... twenty-five." The metal bar slammed home in the rest.

Without any fanfare, he rose from the bench and began removing forty-five-pound weights from either side of the barbell. He started to grab the cleaning supplies to wipe down the bench, wet with his sweat but at the thought, he realized his heart rate was leveling back out. Before it could go down, he mounted one to the treadmills. He turned it on and increased the speed and angle until he could feel his body resisting the strain again.

This was his third hour today and he knew if he held on to the feeling a bit longer, he would cross the barrier into a runners high that could take him another couple of hours. Tomorrow would be rough, but he would deal with the pain and stiffness when it came the same way he was dealing with it now.

He increased the speed a bit more as the song finished. The next one began with an explosion of sound and a screaming that was half guitar and half pig squeal. He shadow-boxed, feeling the rush go through him, eyes closed he attacked the imaginary opponent. The thudding of his feat less a noise and more of an impact that shuddered his whole body. When he opened his eyes again the news report caught his eye as a video of a burning car was being shown. Before he could think about reading the subtitles though, he saw something moving outside. A person was stumbling across the parking lot, they were moving spasmodically, and his first thought was 'Druggies.'

He continued to run and tried not to watch the person when the music cut out and his earbuds alerted him of a call. He slowed the tread mill and tapped the earbud to answer the phone panting and out of breath.

"What?" He answered the phone with a bit more of an edge than he had intended, the rush of the workout leaking through.

"Heeey bro, where are you? I texted you an hour ago and you haven't shown or responded." Behind the voice was a rhythmic thumping and the sound of a crowd.

"Busy." He huffed between strides, after a moment he added. "Sorry."

"Rodger, you have been there every day for three weeks. Don't think I don't know what this is. There are better ways of getting over a girl, as a matter of fact I am looking at two of them right now. One is ice cold the other is hot as hell and just your type." The voice lowered to give it a smooth slyness.

Hitting the button to stop the treadmill Rodger replied between breaths, "Have at it Kenny, I'm here for my own reasons." He walked over to the punching bags and chose the least stained hand wraps and began tightly wrapping his hands taking care to warp farther up his wrist for the extra support.

"Dude, the ladies are all here tonight I need a wing man. Do it for me, if not for you. How many times have I helped you get laid." Kenny said loudly.

"I can't think of once, honestly." Rodger said, he wiped sweat from his forehead and ran his wrapped hands back over the stubble on his head. He made two tight fist and began double tapping the bag, it shuddered and began to sway in time with his punches.