Dead Weight

Part 1 - Gym Accident

They say America is the most violent country on Earth nowadays. The trauma ward at St. Vick's hospital reminds me that they are probably right. People are increasingly willing to do terrible shit to each other just to keep their egos intact. And so, the ward's screams and tears swell and multiply as each year passes. What the hell is happening to humanity?

My name is Billy Briggs and I'm a detective. I see this crap every day. Murder, torture, mutilation... the more civilized we get as a race the more we revert to barbarism and ignorance. Is there hope for us? I don't think so. We seem intent on our own destruction. But in the meantime, the cycle of violence keeps me and the staff of St. Vick's in a job.

"Are you honestly ready for this, detective?" asked Doctor Morrow. He hadn't missed a day of work here in 30 years despite witnessing mankind's tail-spin into depravity. He led me between patients and medical personnel covered with blood and pickled by shock.

"Honestly? I'm ready for a cigarette. But, yeah, whatever." I haven't been around as long as Morrow, but what I've seen during my time on vice in this city has pretty well numbed me to the horrors of a mutilated human body. I pulled a candy bar out of my jacket.

Doctor Morrow arrived at a private, curtained trauma bay. I was a little slow getting there because I'm short, fat, and have trouble breathing from too much smoking.

"This was no gym accident." Morrow pulled the curtain aside to reveal the man I was here to see. "This man's arms and jaw were pulled off."

The victim was a body-builder. A gym rat the size of an Olympian. But not after this. Both of his arms were missing at the shoulders and his jaw bone was gone as well. He had more tubes and sensors stuck to him than a 4-cylinder engine. The dressing on his wounds grew red quickly. Nurses scrambled to prevent bleeding and change empty plasma bags.

"He probably won't live," muttered Morrow. He was as matter-of-fact as an Undertaker. But his eyes looked a little misty.

I took a bite of my candy bar. "What gym did he come from?"

---

The big, old janitor at Bob's Barbells leaned on a mop. He was nearly done cleaning up the blood around the weight bench where my vic lost his arms and mouth. Bob's was a dusty, old gym that had been around since long before me. This old janitor has probably been coming to the place a long time. Lifted weights here for years then took a job as janitor just to have a reason to keep coming back. Explains why he's so protective of the place.

"Ain't no smoking in here," he declared.

I put away my lighter and rolled the freshly-lit cigarette between my teeth. "Guy was a national finalist?" I asked. The old janitor knew everything about everybody here. Which meant he had a hell of a memory or (more likely) not many people came to this dump.

"He'd a been the first in the state to lift in the Olympics." He either gave up on the no smoking issue or forgot - I couldn't tell. The old janitor stared at the blood on the floor like it was nothing out of the ordinary while shifting the gears of his dusty brain into motion.

"You ever seen anything like this before?" I exhaled the smoke from my cigarette up and away from him.

"Yeah. Ten years ago. Same thing happened to The Champ."

" 'The Champ'?" He die?"

The old duffer was lost in memory. His head rotated just a bit as my question sank in. "Probably wishes," he mused. Then he began a story. "I was on the sidelines at the match..."

---

The Champ was an all-American lad who had fought harder than anyone to accomplish his dream of becoming an Olympic weight-lifter. And here he was, after years and tears, one step away from living his dream. He just needed to lift this one more barbell to win nationals and advance to the Olympic team. He rubbed talc between his palms and focused on the bar above his head.

"This is it," the Announcer whispered over the public address system to the hushed crowd. "If he lifts this we're looking at a new state champion, folks."

The Champ closed his eyes. He was at peace. He understood that he was following the path to happiness, and believed that he was about to take a flying-leap about 100 yards down it. He opened his eyes - they were calm and focused. He thrust his massive arms upward and grasped the straining bar.

The Announcer tried to be respectfully quiet but his job was to announce. "This guy's a champ no matter what in my book. Three years ago he was 300 pounds overweight!"

The Champ pushed until his head looked like it would explode. The barbell trembled but remained at rest.

"My god. Ladies and gentlemen, if he even gets this off the stand that's Olympic-level weight for his class!"

The Champ's skin blushes, his eyes turn blood-red, and the veins of his veins pop out so that his skin can barely contain them. His entire body convulses spastically from the effort and the barbell trembles in time with him. But it rises enough to hover tremulously above the stands. He lets out a roar that reverberates throughout the gymnasium. Finally, the bar shoots upward! The crowd erupts into applause and cheers.

The Announcer shamelessly loses all composure. "He did it. He really did it! From zero to hero, folks!"

The Champ smiles like a little boy on Christmas morning. He holds the defeated barbell aloft like the conquering hero he is. One arm still shakes violently.

"Our hometown boy is headed for Olympic gold!"

Very unexpectedly, The Champ's shaky elbow snaps. A bone splinter ejects through the skin of his forearm and the barbell drops several inches on that side. The Champ, still smiling gloriously, notices the wound but its seriousness does not register in his euphoric brain.

"This man is on a rocket ride to fame! And just a couple months ago he was struggling with Diabetes!"

The Champ's second elbow follows suit, snapping like the first. This one snaps loud enough for the crowd to hear. When he looks at this elbow he frowns. Next, he looks straight up at the barbell. It falls directly towards his jaw...

---

The old janitor shook his head mournfully; as if he and not The Champ had lost the shot at Olympic glory. He'd probably had similar weight-lifting aspirations at one time.

"Tragic." I tossed my cigarette butt into his mop bucket. "Where's The Champ now?"

"Works at a grocery," the janitor said.