Krueg
Master Don Juan
- Joined
- Mar 6, 2012
- Messages
- 1,279
- Reaction score
- 131
- Age
- 36
by John McCallum
PART ONE
When Eddie Martin was nineteen years old he stood six foot one-and-a-half, weighed one hundred and thirty-eight pounds, and looked like a cross between a picket fence and a bamboo rake. Eddie, however, was not what you would call burdened down with dreams of physical perfection. He thought barbells were young ladies who worked in ****tail lounges, wouldn’t have known a weightlifter from an elephant, and the only bodies he ever noticed were on girls.
Girls were, in fact, Eddie’s principal interest. He had a closet full of cool threads, a handsome if skinny face, and a head of thick black hair which he had secretly styled at twelve bucks a pop. Eddie was just entering young manhood and he intended to make his entry a notable one.
One evening Eddie took his current girlfriend to a movie with the full expectation of a little action on the way home. The movie, however, turned out to be an economically produced Italian thriller about a mythical and thinly woven character named Hercules, and it starred an enormous young man named Reg Park who was not the least bit mythical and was about as thinly woven as Grand Coulee Dam. Eddie’s girlfriend gave a strangled gasp when Hercules strode on to the scene, and for the rest of the show she sat dumbly with her mouth hanging open and her eyes fixed glassily on Reg Park while Eddie gritted his teeth and wished they’d gone to see “Mary Poppins.”
Eddie’s worries, as it turns out, were not entirely without substance. His girlfriend declined a stroll through the park on the way home because, as she pointed out, it was dark in there and a girl might not be safe with the type of protection some of them were stuck with these days. She refused a hamburger but observed that it might be a splendid idea if Eddie ate about a dozen of them. She said goodnight to Eddie at her front door – she had a blinding headache it seemed and couldn’t invite him in – and observed with deep regret that she was going to be frightfully busy in the foreseeable future.
Eddie charged home, ripped off his shirt, stood in front of his bedroom mirror, and cursed muscles and the movie industry in general, and Reg Park in particular.
The next morning, after a restless night plagued by nightmares of 20” biceps and vanishing girlfriends, Eddie wandered into a newsstand to pick up something to read. He let his gaze roam listlessly over the available selection and then jerked rigidly to attention. There, right before his eyes, was the Herculean figure of Reg Park gracing the cover of a garishly colored magazine.
Eddie peeked furtively about and saw that no one was looking. He seized the magazine, paid for it, tucked it under his coat, and raced home like a starving rabbit.
When Eddie got home he read the magazine from cover to cover in one sitting, although, since three-quarters of it was advertising, this was really no great feat. Reg Park, he read, owned 20” arms, was the product of a musclebuilding system that bordered on the miraculous, and that he – Eddie – could have arms the same size in no time at all or even sooner.
Eddie was convinced. He ordered the weights and the wonder system and commenced his search for big arms. Five years later, sadder but no wiser, he was still searching.
Eddie, it must be admitted, tried hard. He triple-zapped and power-zoomed as conscientiously as could reasonably be expected of anyone’s pupil. He blitz-blasted and force-flushed until his eyeballs felt like they were coming out of his head. Results, however, were not quite as promised. Eddie got a little stronger and a bit harder and his arms grew to almost 15”, but he looked more like Arthur Treacher than Reg Park, and, while the girls did not desert him quite so blatantly anymore, neither did they swoon in groups when he strolled by in his T-shirt.
One sunny summer day Eddie stood looking at himself in the mirror and began to have doubts about the whole thing. The work, it was obvious, was all out of proportion to the results, and it didn’t need a Mr. Spock to deduce that the logical move was to chuck the whole scene. Five years of toil, however, represented a large investment, and Eddie decided to seek professional help as a last ditch measure.
Eddie cleaned up, put on his newest T-shirt, and drove downtown to the premises of a small commercial gym. He inspected the muscle pictures in the window somewhat wistfully, and then stepped inside.
Eddie peered around the gym and through a doorway where the gym owner sat in a shabby sweater behind a desk with a ham sandwich the size of a manhole cover in one hand and an open can of beer in the other.
Eddie walked into the office.
The gym owner got to his feet, beamed his friendliest smile, put the sandwich down, and shook hands with Eddie. “Sit down, my boy,” he said. “Sit down.”
Eddie wiped the mustard off his hand and sat down.
The gym owner drained the beer can and threw it into the wastepaper basket. “Left here by mistake,” he said. “Normally I never touch the filthy stuff.”
Eddie nodded.
The gym owner broadened his smile. “Now tell me, lad,” he said, “what may I do for you?”
Eddie cleared his throat. “It’s about training,” he said.
“Splendid,” the gym owner boomed. “Just splendid.” He rummaged through the desk drawer and whipped out a stack of contracts and a pen. “We have the one, two, or three year membership,” he said, “Or, if you care to bring your wife or someone else’s, we have what we call the joint life and last survivor plan.” He took the cap off the pen. “Cash is preferable, of course, but since we have an air of complete trust and harmony here a certified cheque will do.”
“Just a minute,” Eddie said. “I didn’t say I wanted to enroll.”
“But you should,” the gym owner said. “You have great potential. An interested and experienced professional eye like my own can see immediately that you have a wonderful framework for an untrained man, and with . . .”
“I’ve been training,” Eddie said.
“Great,” the gym owner said. “Just wonderful. A week or two of calisthenics to tone up, eh? Very wise precaution. Yes sir. I could see right off the bat that you . . .”
“I’ve been training,” Eddie said, “for five years.”
The gym owner blinked at Eddie. “Five years?” he said. “What have you been lifting, ping-pong balls?”
“Weights,” Eddie said. “Heavy weights.”
“Christ,” the gym owner said. “That’s ridiculous. You oughta be way bigger than that after five years. What have you been doing?”
Eddie told him.
“Man,” the gym owner said. “That’s like a lot of work. What are you trying to accomplish, anyway?”
“I am trying,” Eddie said, “to develop arms like Reg Park.” He got to his feet and flexed his biceps. “Is there a noticeable resemble?”
The gym owner picked up his ham sandwich and bit into it. “If there is,” he muttered, “it escapes me at the moment.”
“You don’t think they look anything like Reg Park’s?” Eddie asked.
The gym owner chewed his sandwich thoughtfully. “Actually,” he said, “they look more like my Aunt Gertrude’s.”
Does your Aunt Gertrude have big arms?” Eddie asked him.
“I doubt it,” the gym owner said. “She’s been dead for seven years.”
Eddie sat down and put a determined look on his face. “I want big arms,” he said “more than anything else in the world.”
The gym owner sat back and thought about what he would say to Eddie. Arms, he thought, are only three percent or whatever of the total muscular bulk and not really too important from a health standpoint. He opened his moth to speak. “Arms,” he said, “are only . . .”
“And don’t give me that garbage about arms being only two percent of the muscles,” Eddie said. “I want arms like and I’ll even enroll here if it’ll help me to get them.”
The gym owner cleared his throat. “Actually, “ he said, “I was about to say that big arms aren’t really too hard to develop, and with professional supervision there’s no reason why you couldn’t have arms like Park. However, you’ve been going at it the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?” Eddie asked him.
“Well, first of all,” the gym owner said, “you’re missing the most important point of all.”
“Like what?” Eddie said.
“Like what do you weigh?” the gym owner asked. “About one-seventy?”
“One-seventy-three,” Eddie said.
“Sure,” said the gym owner. “And you’re about as tall as Park. The only trouble is that he outweighs you by about seventy pounds.”
“I don’t care about weighing that much,” Eddie said. “I just want big arms. I told you.”
“Can you imagine twenty-inch arms hanging on a one-seventy body?” the gym owner asked. “It’d be a physical impossibility. If you want arms like Reg Park, then you’re going to have to weigh as much as he does.”
“Really,” said Eddie. “I never thought about it that way.”
“Certainly,” the gym owner said. “What you need is an arm specialization program coupled with a weight gaining plan, and at the moment gaining weight is more important. Building big arms is easy if you gain weight,” the gym owner said. “If you bring your weight up it’s just a matter of slapping some of that weight on your arms and, if you want to specialize, you can add a lot of it to your arms. But the weight’s gotta be there and it’s gotta come first.”
“What would you suggest?” Eddie asked him.
“Gain Weight,” the gym owner said.
“I know,” Eddie said. “But how?”
“No, no,” the gym owner said. “I mean Quick Gain Weight. That’s the name of the stuff you should be taking. Hoffman’s Quick Gain Weight.”
“I never heard of it,” Eddie said.
“I don’t doubt it,” the gym owner said. “You’ve been reading the wrong books.”
“What’ll it do?” Eddie asked him.
PART ONE
When Eddie Martin was nineteen years old he stood six foot one-and-a-half, weighed one hundred and thirty-eight pounds, and looked like a cross between a picket fence and a bamboo rake. Eddie, however, was not what you would call burdened down with dreams of physical perfection. He thought barbells were young ladies who worked in ****tail lounges, wouldn’t have known a weightlifter from an elephant, and the only bodies he ever noticed were on girls.
Girls were, in fact, Eddie’s principal interest. He had a closet full of cool threads, a handsome if skinny face, and a head of thick black hair which he had secretly styled at twelve bucks a pop. Eddie was just entering young manhood and he intended to make his entry a notable one.
One evening Eddie took his current girlfriend to a movie with the full expectation of a little action on the way home. The movie, however, turned out to be an economically produced Italian thriller about a mythical and thinly woven character named Hercules, and it starred an enormous young man named Reg Park who was not the least bit mythical and was about as thinly woven as Grand Coulee Dam. Eddie’s girlfriend gave a strangled gasp when Hercules strode on to the scene, and for the rest of the show she sat dumbly with her mouth hanging open and her eyes fixed glassily on Reg Park while Eddie gritted his teeth and wished they’d gone to see “Mary Poppins.”
Eddie’s worries, as it turns out, were not entirely without substance. His girlfriend declined a stroll through the park on the way home because, as she pointed out, it was dark in there and a girl might not be safe with the type of protection some of them were stuck with these days. She refused a hamburger but observed that it might be a splendid idea if Eddie ate about a dozen of them. She said goodnight to Eddie at her front door – she had a blinding headache it seemed and couldn’t invite him in – and observed with deep regret that she was going to be frightfully busy in the foreseeable future.
Eddie charged home, ripped off his shirt, stood in front of his bedroom mirror, and cursed muscles and the movie industry in general, and Reg Park in particular.
The next morning, after a restless night plagued by nightmares of 20” biceps and vanishing girlfriends, Eddie wandered into a newsstand to pick up something to read. He let his gaze roam listlessly over the available selection and then jerked rigidly to attention. There, right before his eyes, was the Herculean figure of Reg Park gracing the cover of a garishly colored magazine.
Eddie peeked furtively about and saw that no one was looking. He seized the magazine, paid for it, tucked it under his coat, and raced home like a starving rabbit.
When Eddie got home he read the magazine from cover to cover in one sitting, although, since three-quarters of it was advertising, this was really no great feat. Reg Park, he read, owned 20” arms, was the product of a musclebuilding system that bordered on the miraculous, and that he – Eddie – could have arms the same size in no time at all or even sooner.
Eddie was convinced. He ordered the weights and the wonder system and commenced his search for big arms. Five years later, sadder but no wiser, he was still searching.
Eddie, it must be admitted, tried hard. He triple-zapped and power-zoomed as conscientiously as could reasonably be expected of anyone’s pupil. He blitz-blasted and force-flushed until his eyeballs felt like they were coming out of his head. Results, however, were not quite as promised. Eddie got a little stronger and a bit harder and his arms grew to almost 15”, but he looked more like Arthur Treacher than Reg Park, and, while the girls did not desert him quite so blatantly anymore, neither did they swoon in groups when he strolled by in his T-shirt.
One sunny summer day Eddie stood looking at himself in the mirror and began to have doubts about the whole thing. The work, it was obvious, was all out of proportion to the results, and it didn’t need a Mr. Spock to deduce that the logical move was to chuck the whole scene. Five years of toil, however, represented a large investment, and Eddie decided to seek professional help as a last ditch measure.
Eddie cleaned up, put on his newest T-shirt, and drove downtown to the premises of a small commercial gym. He inspected the muscle pictures in the window somewhat wistfully, and then stepped inside.
Eddie peered around the gym and through a doorway where the gym owner sat in a shabby sweater behind a desk with a ham sandwich the size of a manhole cover in one hand and an open can of beer in the other.
Eddie walked into the office.
The gym owner got to his feet, beamed his friendliest smile, put the sandwich down, and shook hands with Eddie. “Sit down, my boy,” he said. “Sit down.”
Eddie wiped the mustard off his hand and sat down.
The gym owner drained the beer can and threw it into the wastepaper basket. “Left here by mistake,” he said. “Normally I never touch the filthy stuff.”
Eddie nodded.
The gym owner broadened his smile. “Now tell me, lad,” he said, “what may I do for you?”
Eddie cleared his throat. “It’s about training,” he said.
“Splendid,” the gym owner boomed. “Just splendid.” He rummaged through the desk drawer and whipped out a stack of contracts and a pen. “We have the one, two, or three year membership,” he said, “Or, if you care to bring your wife or someone else’s, we have what we call the joint life and last survivor plan.” He took the cap off the pen. “Cash is preferable, of course, but since we have an air of complete trust and harmony here a certified cheque will do.”
“Just a minute,” Eddie said. “I didn’t say I wanted to enroll.”
“But you should,” the gym owner said. “You have great potential. An interested and experienced professional eye like my own can see immediately that you have a wonderful framework for an untrained man, and with . . .”
“I’ve been training,” Eddie said.
“Great,” the gym owner said. “Just wonderful. A week or two of calisthenics to tone up, eh? Very wise precaution. Yes sir. I could see right off the bat that you . . .”
“I’ve been training,” Eddie said, “for five years.”
The gym owner blinked at Eddie. “Five years?” he said. “What have you been lifting, ping-pong balls?”
“Weights,” Eddie said. “Heavy weights.”
“Christ,” the gym owner said. “That’s ridiculous. You oughta be way bigger than that after five years. What have you been doing?”
Eddie told him.
“Man,” the gym owner said. “That’s like a lot of work. What are you trying to accomplish, anyway?”
“I am trying,” Eddie said, “to develop arms like Reg Park.” He got to his feet and flexed his biceps. “Is there a noticeable resemble?”
The gym owner picked up his ham sandwich and bit into it. “If there is,” he muttered, “it escapes me at the moment.”
“You don’t think they look anything like Reg Park’s?” Eddie asked.
The gym owner chewed his sandwich thoughtfully. “Actually,” he said, “they look more like my Aunt Gertrude’s.”
Does your Aunt Gertrude have big arms?” Eddie asked him.
“I doubt it,” the gym owner said. “She’s been dead for seven years.”
Eddie sat down and put a determined look on his face. “I want big arms,” he said “more than anything else in the world.”
The gym owner sat back and thought about what he would say to Eddie. Arms, he thought, are only three percent or whatever of the total muscular bulk and not really too important from a health standpoint. He opened his moth to speak. “Arms,” he said, “are only . . .”
“And don’t give me that garbage about arms being only two percent of the muscles,” Eddie said. “I want arms like and I’ll even enroll here if it’ll help me to get them.”
The gym owner cleared his throat. “Actually, “ he said, “I was about to say that big arms aren’t really too hard to develop, and with professional supervision there’s no reason why you couldn’t have arms like Park. However, you’ve been going at it the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?” Eddie asked him.
“Well, first of all,” the gym owner said, “you’re missing the most important point of all.”
“Like what?” Eddie said.
“Like what do you weigh?” the gym owner asked. “About one-seventy?”
“One-seventy-three,” Eddie said.
“Sure,” said the gym owner. “And you’re about as tall as Park. The only trouble is that he outweighs you by about seventy pounds.”
“I don’t care about weighing that much,” Eddie said. “I just want big arms. I told you.”
“Can you imagine twenty-inch arms hanging on a one-seventy body?” the gym owner asked. “It’d be a physical impossibility. If you want arms like Reg Park, then you’re going to have to weigh as much as he does.”
“Really,” said Eddie. “I never thought about it that way.”
“Certainly,” the gym owner said. “What you need is an arm specialization program coupled with a weight gaining plan, and at the moment gaining weight is more important. Building big arms is easy if you gain weight,” the gym owner said. “If you bring your weight up it’s just a matter of slapping some of that weight on your arms and, if you want to specialize, you can add a lot of it to your arms. But the weight’s gotta be there and it’s gotta come first.”
“What would you suggest?” Eddie asked him.
“Gain Weight,” the gym owner said.
“I know,” Eddie said. “But how?”
“No, no,” the gym owner said. “I mean Quick Gain Weight. That’s the name of the stuff you should be taking. Hoffman’s Quick Gain Weight.”
“I never heard of it,” Eddie said.
“I don’t doubt it,” the gym owner said. “You’ve been reading the wrong books.”
“What’ll it do?” Eddie asked him.