LoGear Fitness
Part I: Demo Day
Randy’s desk phone rang. An unusual, but not alarming occurrence. “Personal Training desk,” the tiger answered. ”It’s May up front. Grab Darren and get up here.” “Why? What’s the big rush?” “We’ve got a demo today.” “We do? Since when?” “Since now. Sarah just got the email from WeightList half an hour ago.” ”Fuuuck...” Randy cursed under his breath. “You said it,” May replied. “When?” Randy asked. “4:30. Don’t bother checking the clock, it’s a bit over two hours out.” “I thought we got a 5 hour lead time on demos!?” “Not today, I guess.” Randy hung up. It was 2:16 PM. Not only was 4:30PM the very start of the after-work rush, but it was, as you may have surmised, only two-ish hours away. Darren was with a client. Of course he was. After a brief, urgent game of waving and gesturing between the tiger and the otter, Darren dismissed his client and followed Randy to the front desk. May was a youthful, lithe girl. At 4’11”, she was well on the shorter side of the gym’s staff, but her upbeat, energetic personality all but made up for her shorter stature. While most of the gym’s members and staff focused on gaining strength or size, the cheetah had (somewhat obviously) found herself at home on the track instead. Her instructions from Sarah, the gym’s membership manager, were short but very clear: this customer could make or break this gym’s next three years, financially. Also physically, but Sarah wasn’t as concerned about that aspect of the visit. It was imperative that they acquire this client and get the three-year contract signed TODAY. Presumably occupied imagining the stacks of cash this client would bring in, Sarah had neglected to send the details of said client to the rest of the staff, so they were effectively on their own until she got back to them, but she had left one hint: a three-year contract. The more… advanced clients were given contracts based on a number of factors, including insurance rules, income potential, and remodeling/stocking needs. May didn’t feel the need to share this with the trainers, but she knew that three years was the absolute largest contract the gym was allowed to offer, and this was the first one they’ve offered. LoGear Fitness was one of those gyms that casual folks were scared to be near. The weight rooms were loud, hot, and sweaty, the weights were heavy, and the clientele was of the “enthusiastic” sort. The kind that liked to roar and howl before, during, and after a set to really get the blood pumping. The kind that needed the gym to stock not only reinforced barbells, but reinforced weights and doubly-reinforced safety equipment. When the vending machine area had a rodent problem, not only did the exterminators call it quits, but the rats wound up putting on upwards of 5lbs of muscle themselves. Two of the rats remain, adopted by the gym as mascots. Tactfully avoiding the phrase “gym rats”, LoGear was proud to feature them in a stint of television ads demonstrating that even the pests get huge at LoGear. WeightList® was the premier fitness review site for the Force Group, an association of gyms, foundries, fitness equipment manufacturers, construction companies, and medical groups specializing in post-professional weightlifting. It features a workout planner, bulk supplement sales, equipment rentals, and their most profitable service: the gym-seeker. WeightList®’s original form was a fitness forum, used to share reviews of heavy-duty gymnasiums for the heavy-duty patrons of the fitness community. Because of the potentially disastrous results of pairing a particularly strong patron with a less-strong gym, WeightList gradually developed a standard procedure for a patron to try a gym while mitigating the risk to the participants. Thus, the gym-seeker and its product, the “demo” visit were born. Before Force Group had perfected the rules and methodology behind it, some trainers shared horror stories of “demo”nstration becoming “demo”lition. The Heavy X-3 weight room was evacuated in preparation for the visit, and all lower-level fitness rooms were thoroughly instructed to avoid the main hallway and rear parking lot until 6:00PM. Time ticked by as the tiger, the otter, and the cheetah frantically dashed around following checklists and documenting the state of equipment pre-encounter. A light, shrill beep echoed through the room as Randy and Darren finished resetting the squat machine with a forklift. “Shit, It’s 4:30! He’ll be here any minute!” the cheetah squeaked as she pulled out her phone. Almost as soon as she had finished her exclamation, a lazy “ding” rang out from her phone. Sarah sent her the demo visitor’s info. Her tail dropped from an attentive, anxious point to the floor as her ears flattened against her head. “Hey Randy...” “Yeah, May?” “What does this say?” she asked, handing him the phone. “It says… Name: ‘Markus van Haart’, type: Bovine/Ox, age: 29, weight:...” His jaw dropped. He carefully handed the phone back to May and sat down on the floor. “That’s what I thought,” May sighed as she joined him on the ground. Their shoulders sagged jointly. Darren hopped off the forklift and knelt down to them. “I can’t sort the fuckin’ weight rack myself, forklift or no forklift,” he complained. “Hey, c’mon, get up, guys,” he pleaded “Yo, Randy! Short stuff! Come on, we’ve got a demo to get ready for!” he implored again and again. “We can’t do this demo, Darren,” May replied defeated. Darren paced in frustration, “What do you mean we can’t do the demo, the guy’s practically got his name on the contract already. We just gotta get this place right and then Sarah’ll-” Randy spoke up, “We can’t do it, Darren. The fucker’s almost eight tons.” Darren stopped mid-step. “Eight tons?” “Yeah. Eight.” “But, we’re only a H-X-3 gym? How’d we get someone, uh...”, Darren paused to count on his paw. “Fuck, he’d be a H-X-7, right?” “Close. X-6,” May corrected. Moments passed. Randy broke the silence, “Who’s going to tell Sarah?” “Sure as hell not gonna to be me, I LIKE having a job,” Darren snapped. “Think we could we get Dave to do it?” May asked. “You want me… to call Dave… not just going above Sarah’s head, but above Andy’s head too… to tell her we can’t seal the deal because she said we’re able to handle 4 metric fucking tons more Ox than we actually can?” Darren, displaying an uncharacteristic patience, raised a paw and waited. “On second thought, let’s not,” May quickly reversed. “What is it, Darren?” Randy asked with mild exasperation. “They sent over his lifts, right?” “They usually do. May?” Randy redirected. “Uh, yeah. Hold on.” She read off the stats, “Bench Press: 2.7tn, Squat: 6.3tn, DL: 8.1tn.” “He only fucking deadlifts 8.1? That’s just a little over his bodyweight. Fuck, I was expecting 12 easy. Does his profile say how long he’s been at this?” “About a year.” “The bodyweight of a H-X-7, and the lifts of a strong H-X-2...” Randy and Darren looked at each other for a tense second. “May, call Sarah and tell her she needs to rework the contract. He’ll fit in H-X-3, but only for a month or two if he does well. Tell her to get Andy in touch with the construction guys; we’ll need at least the H-X-7 he’s supposed to have by next summer.”
Randy’s desk phone rang. An unusual, but not alarming occurrence. “Personal Training desk,” the tiger answered. ”It’s May up front. Grab Darren and get up here.” “Why? What’s the big rush?” “We’ve got a demo today.” “We do? Since when?” “Since now. Sarah just got the email from WeightList half an hour ago.” ”Fuuuck...” Randy cursed under his breath. “You said it,” May replied. “When?” Randy asked. “4:30. Don’t bother checking the clock, it’s a bit over two hours out.” “I thought we got a 5 hour lead time on demos!?” “Not today, I guess.” Randy hung up. It was 2:16 PM. Not only was 4:30PM the very start of the after-work rush, but it was, as you may have surmised, only two-ish hours away. Darren was with a client. Of course he was. After a brief, urgent game of waving and gesturing between the tiger and the otter, Darren dismissed his client and followed Randy to the front desk. May was a youthful, lithe girl. At 4’11”, she was well on the shorter side of the gym’s staff, but her upbeat, energetic personality all but made up for her shorter stature. While most of the gym’s members and staff focused on gaining strength or size, the cheetah had (somewhat obviously) found herself at home on the track instead. Her instructions from Sarah, the gym’s membership manager, were short but very clear: this customer could make or break this gym’s next three years, financially. Also physically, but Sarah wasn’t as concerned about that aspect of the visit. It was imperative that they acquire this client and get the three-year contract signed TODAY. Presumably occupied imagining the stacks of cash this client would bring in, Sarah had neglected to send the details of said client to the rest of the staff, so they were effectively on their own until she got back to them, but she had left one hint: a three-year contract. The more… advanced clients were given contracts based on a number of factors, including insurance rules, income potential, and remodeling/stocking needs. May didn’t feel the need to share this with the trainers, but she knew that three years was the absolute largest contract the gym was allowed to offer, and this was the first one they’ve offered. LoGear Fitness was one of those gyms that casual folks were scared to be near. The weight rooms were loud, hot, and sweaty, the weights were heavy, and the clientele was of the “enthusiastic” sort. The kind that liked to roar and howl before, during, and after a set to really get the blood pumping. The kind that needed the gym to stock not only reinforced barbells, but reinforced weights and doubly-reinforced safety equipment. When the vending machine area had a rodent problem, not only did the exterminators call it quits, but the rats wound up putting on upwards of 5lbs of muscle themselves. Two of the rats remain, adopted by the gym as mascots. Tactfully avoiding the phrase “gym rats”, LoGear was proud to feature them in a stint of television ads demonstrating that even the pests get huge at LoGear. WeightList® was the premier fitness review site for the Force Group, an association of gyms, foundries, fitness equipment manufacturers, construction companies, and medical groups specializing in post-professional weightlifting. It features a workout planner, bulk supplement sales, equipment rentals, and their most profitable service: the gym-seeker. WeightList®’s original form was a fitness forum, used to share reviews of heavy-duty gymnasiums for the heavy-duty patrons of the fitness community. Because of the potentially disastrous results of pairing a particularly strong patron with a less-strong gym, WeightList gradually developed a standard procedure for a patron to try a gym while mitigating the risk to the participants. Thus, the gym-seeker and its product, the “demo” visit were born. Before Force Group had perfected the rules and methodology behind it, some trainers shared horror stories of “demo”nstration becoming “demo”lition. The Heavy X-3 weight room was evacuated in preparation for the visit, and all lower-level fitness rooms were thoroughly instructed to avoid the main hallway and rear parking lot until 6:00PM. Time ticked by as the tiger, the otter, and the cheetah frantically dashed around following checklists and documenting the state of equipment pre-encounter. A light, shrill beep echoed through the room as Randy and Darren finished resetting the squat machine with a forklift. “Shit, It’s 4:30! He’ll be here any minute!” the cheetah squeaked as she pulled out her phone. Almost as soon as she had finished her exclamation, a lazy “ding” rang out from her phone. Sarah sent her the demo visitor’s info. Her tail dropped from an attentive, anxious point to the floor as her ears flattened against her head. “Hey Randy...” “Yeah, May?” “What does this say?” she asked, handing him the phone. “It says… Name: ‘Markus van Haart’, type: Bovine/Ox, age: 29, weight:...” His jaw dropped. He carefully handed the phone back to May and sat down on the floor. “That’s what I thought,” May sighed as she joined him on the ground. Their shoulders sagged jointly. Darren hopped off the forklift and knelt down to them. “I can’t sort the fuckin’ weight rack myself, forklift or no forklift,” he complained. “Hey, c’mon, get up, guys,” he pleaded “Yo, Randy! Short stuff! Come on, we’ve got a demo to get ready for!” he implored again and again. “We can’t do this demo, Darren,” May replied defeated. Darren paced in frustration, “What do you mean we can’t do the demo, the guy’s practically got his name on the contract already. We just gotta get this place right and then Sarah’ll-” Randy spoke up, “We can’t do it, Darren. The fucker’s almost eight tons.” Darren stopped mid-step. “Eight tons?” “Yeah. Eight.” “But, we’re only a H-X-3 gym? How’d we get someone, uh...”, Darren paused to count on his paw. “Fuck, he’d be a H-X-7, right?” “Close. X-6,” May corrected. Moments passed. Randy broke the silence, “Who’s going to tell Sarah?” “Sure as hell not gonna to be me, I LIKE having a job,” Darren snapped. “Think we could we get Dave to do it?” May asked. “You want me… to call Dave… not just going above Sarah’s head, but above Andy’s head too… to tell her we can’t seal the deal because she said we’re able to handle 4 metric fucking tons more Ox than we actually can?” Darren, displaying an uncharacteristic patience, raised a paw and waited. “On second thought, let’s not,” May quickly reversed. “What is it, Darren?” Randy asked with mild exasperation. “They sent over his lifts, right?” “They usually do. May?” Randy redirected. “Uh, yeah. Hold on.” She read off the stats, “Bench Press: 2.7tn, Squat: 6.3tn, DL: 8.1tn.” “He only fucking deadlifts 8.1? That’s just a little over his bodyweight. Fuck, I was expecting 12 easy. Does his profile say how long he’s been at this?” “About a year.” “The bodyweight of a H-X-7, and the lifts of a strong H-X-2...” Randy and Darren looked at each other for a tense second. “May, call Sarah and tell her she needs to rework the contract. He’ll fit in H-X-3, but only for a month or two if he does well. Tell her to get Andy in touch with the construction guys; we’ll need at least the H-X-7 he’s supposed to have by next summer.”
Part II: Arrival
May rushed back to the front desk, if you can truly call it rushing. (The last time she genuinely rushed somewhere, she almost slammed in to a patron at 60MPH, and the branch’s manager, Andy, was rather unhappy with her.) She dialed Sarah’s extension… busy. She started recording her voicemail with Randy’s message, but then she saw it: the eighteen-wheeler in the parking lot. It had just stopped rolling as it caught her eye. She’d seen those really big types that have to ride in the back of a pickup truck just to get around, but this was brand new to her. She wrapped up the voicemail and walk out to the big rig. A gruff dalmatian was getting out of the cab as she reached it. “Hi! Are you with the 4:30 demo?” she asked politely. “Yup. Name’s Tuck. Guessin’ you already know my cousin’s name. Y’all got somewhere for me to let the big fella out?” “Around back. Hop in and follow me.” “A’ight, miss.” Strange for a dalmatian to be an Ox’s cousins, she thought to herself. She guided the trucker and his cargo to the appropriately-sized entrance in the back of the building. Randy and Darren were waiting. Judging by their exchanged glances, they weren’t expecting the truck either. Tuck carefully backed the trailer to the loading gate attached to the H-X-3 annex. The brakes hissed as he put the truck in park. The dalmatian slapped the side of the trailer as he walked along it. “YOU READY IN THERE?” he shouted, apparently to his passenger. A muffled, but enthusiastic “Yup!” answered him. Tuck unhooked the latch on the trailer’s gate and a pile of Grade-A Ox beef hopped out. His landing shook the ground, and from May’s point of view, it looked like he had put a couple of hoof-marks in the pavement. From top to bottom, Markus was wrought with muscle. It never ceased to amaze her how someone so BIG would want to get even bigger, but as her eyes scanned him up and down, she paused to admire the tree-trunk legs and massive, full glutes on this piece of meat in front of her. Her eyes traced to the front of the ox’s denim-clad lower body, spying a mouth-watering package hiding beneath it. With her lip under her sharp teeth, a slight purr left her chest. Tuck tapped her on the shoulder. “Miss?” Having been so deeply entranced by the heaving, pillar-like legs and enticing endowment in front of her, she let out a surprised yelp and bit her lip a little harder than she had been expecting to. “I was told you all were gonna have some papers for us to sign.” “Yep, yep. Sorry. He’s all laid out on my desk inside.” An awkward moment passed. “He?” “Did I say he? It. It. I meant it. The papers, I mean.” Tuck looked at the short cat, then at the ox, and said nothing. He gestured toward the door, and followed the profusely blushing cat. May walked Tuck through the paperwork for the demo, and Randy and Darren started chatting up the soon-to-be patron. “Hey there! I’m Randy, the head trainer for the Mannsville LoGear branch. This is Darren, one of our assistant trainers.” “How’d y’all do. The name’s Mark!” The bulging ox stuck out a hand attached to a forearm noticeably thicker than Randy’s waist. Fearing for his hand, Randy nodded. “Right, sorry ‘bout that. Old habits, I s’pose.” “Are you familiar with what we’re going to be doing, Mark?” Darren asked. “I reckon I’ll be movin’ some stuff around, just like last time.” “Last time?” Randy asked. “Yessir. The last time some fellas had me push around a whole load of weights and wrote it all down.” Randy nodded. “Right, when they were helping you find some place that’s the right size for you.” “That’s the one!” “Well, let’s get a move on, shall we?” Randy pulled the thick, red binder from the H-X-3 room’s cabinet. Flipping to the tab marked “DEMO,” he started reading off the instructions to both Darren and Mark. “Today’s demonstration session consists of four staple exercises with a fifth of your choice. In order, they will be: High-Load Over-head Press, Hybrid-Hydraulic Bench Press, Assisted Dual-weight Squat, and the Classic Drop-Arrested Deadlift. You may choose from any of the following to complete your demonstration: High-Load Bicep Curl Static-Loaded Hip Thrust Compressive Pectoral Flye Magna-grip Selectorized Pull-down Amplified-Resistive Leg Press You do not have to make your choice now, and you’re free to change it until the time comes to perform the exercise. Please follow your trainer to the High-Load Over-head Press station.” Darren walked with the tremendous ox to the machine, fitted with tubes and pistons. Turning his operator key, the steam flowed and pumps whirred. The obvious handles were in front of the ox, beckoning to him. Darren was in the middle of bringing the pressure down from the maximum storage test pressure when the alarm buzzer started warbling. The pressure on the hydraulics was… rising? But he was venting off the… he looked out the protective window at the exercise station. The ox was forcing the industrial-built handles right back up as high as he could push them. Which was surprisingly high, considering his overgrown, vascular delts were fighting for space with his similarly-sized traps. Darren shouted at the ox over the sound of groaning metal and venting steam, “Hey... HEY! PUT THOSE DOWN! THEY’RE NOT SET UP YET! HEY! THEY’RE NOT READY! KNOCK IT OFF!” The ox was solely focused on getting the handles up, ignoring Darren’s yells. A low, deep thud echoed throughout the cavernous 4-story room, and Darren’s stomach dropped. The pressure was falling across the dials, in the storage tank, in the pistons, everywhere there was pressure to be measured, it was leaking out. Darren waved for his aghast partner. In as low of a whisper as they could manage despite the hissing steam, Darren asked Randy: “You’ve worked this thing before, right? You know how much pressure they have us test this thing at?” “Haven’t touched this one in years, Darren, but I know one thing. I don’t think it’s supposed to be doing what it’s doing now.” “You got that right. It’s built to stand almost 75 tons.” “If he was pressing about 75 tons up, then that thing was at least pressing 75 down. What’s the floor rated for? 90?” “I’m surprised it held at 75, but I know our luck won’t be this good for after the bench.” Randy turned to look at the other equipment lined up for the next hour. “Oh yeah, Randy?” Darren asked. “Yeah?” “Those lift numbers they gave us? I think they’re a bit low.” “Gee, what gives you that impression? The busted $500K machine that our friend here wasn’t supposed to be able to budge? Or was it the fact that his fucking shoulders are almost twice as big as they were 5 minutes ago?” “Should we bail? I have no clue what Andy or, hell, what Dave would do if he found out we let this guy break everything in H-X-3” “Listen, Sarah’s technically our supervisor. She told us in no uncertain terms to get this guy on board. I’m going to call May and have her stash away a few copies of Sarah’s emails just in case, but right now? We’re just doing our jobs.” Randy did as he said, and called May. Mark was already lurking around the Hybrid-Hydraulic Bench Press. Darren walked to the loading crane with a renewed sense of severity. Fortunately, the expensive portions of this machine weren’t to provide resistance directly to the hulking ox. It consisted of two cranes: one, a spotter crane to make sure the bar wouldn’t crush the user or any bystanders, and the loading crane, to hoist the enormous weights on to the bar’s weight platform. In all other ways (perhaps but size) it was an ordinary bench pressing setup. Darren started loading the weights. He put 2 tons on the bar, like Mark’s stats said he should be using. “Go ahead Mark. You know what to do. Push it just a bit off the supports, bring it down to your chest, then push it back up.” And so he did. And over, and over again he did it. If Darren had to describe it in a word, it would be “effortless”. “Y’all didn’t forget to put the weights on this bar, did ya?” the ox shouted. “Rack it back up, I’ll put some more on,” Darren replied. The bar returned to the supports as easily as it had left them. Fifteen minutes of consecutive weight-loading and testing later, the platform was fuller than it should be, and he was still repping out dozens of presses. This time, Darren had the opportunity to pay attention. With each press, the ox’s chest puffed out a bit more. He had to be putting on at least an inch with each rep. And with his chest, grew his triceps, his lats, and his abs. “I think we oughtta move on to the next thing now. Whatda’ya think there, boss?” the immense ox asked Darren. “I’m going to let Randy take care of ya for these next few, alright Mark?” “Fine by me, so long as we get to keep goin’.”
Darren walked over to the desk Randy was sitting at. The tiger’s face was buried in his paws. The otter smacked Randy’s shoulder and offered a parting “Good luck.”
Randy walked to the massive bench with the even more massive ox. “Follow me, big guy. We’re going to do some squats,” Randy instructed. “Yessir we are!” the ox eagerly replied. Randy lead him to the chain-bound contraption. The machine was rigged to a pair of engines leagues larger than those that belonged to the truck that drove him here. Each was going to pull down against him with all its force. Or at least, that was the hope. Randy started the engines one at a time. He morbidly wondered what, if the current trends held, would go first: the engines, the harness, or the chains. It took almost no time to find out: The harness bent, a link on the left chain exploded like a grenade, and the right engine just about threw a rod. The tiger had been watching all along as each exercise engorged the ox further, blowing beyond anything he’d seen or heard of, even in and above the ox’s actual weight class. There was no way he would fit back in the trailer he’d ridden home in, but thee was no doubt he could carry it back, truck and all. Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps the Drop-Arrest system was scared. Perhaps the steam from the High-Load Over-head Press machine had fried the control cabinets. Whatever the case, the safety gear and all the other deadlift equipment wouldn’t start up. Not even a flicker from the power light. Maybe he’ll at least get credit for saving this thing the absolute destruction the squat rig and the overhead press endured. “Hey Mark, doesn’t look like this thing is gonna be working with us today. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll let you pick two of those extra exercises instead of just the one. Sound good?” “Fine by me. I’ll take that bicep one first. That’s the top part of my arm, right?” Taken aback by the question, Randy confirmed the ox’s suspicion, and pointed out exactly what composed his swollen, vein-riddled bicep. It wasn’t hard, the thing was practically bulging out through the skin. Even without flexing, the muscle bunch rose past his head. He lead the ox to the High-Load Bicep Curl equipment. Despite the similar naming, it was mechanically unrelated to ill-fated High-Load Over-head Press machine. The curl machine used specialized electromagnets to control the ascent and descent of a bar. Powered by an adaptive computer, the magnets tuned themselves to provide a nearly constant, slightly-increasing resistance to the bar. If the computer sensed the bar was moving too easily, it would throw more power to the magnets to help keep the resistance up. Randy had already warmed up the system, and, as soon as Mark was in position, switched the magnets on. Randy watched Mark struggle for the first time this entire session as his biceps twitched and expanded, throbbing larger and larger as the magnets threw relentless weight at them. The lights flickered, and then, nothing. In a moment, the emergency lights flicked on, shining dimly across the warehouse-sized space. Making his way to the poorly-illuminated ox, he offered up the last viable exercise. “Only thing we’ve got left that works with the power out is the hip thrust setup. You’re gonna have to put the weights on yourself, though.” The equipment was similar in nature to the Hybrid-Hydraulic Bench Press, except instead of the weight being placed on the ox’s arms and chest, it was centered on his hips, strictly isolating the glutes. Not beating around the bush, the ox loaded every weight in the H-X-3 room on to the weight platforms, positioned himself beneath them. He thrusted with all his might, and his mighty glutes grew and filled out. After what felt like an hour of this ritual (actually only about 10 minutes), his glutes were finally too large to complete a full thrust. He squeezed himself out of the contraption, and slapped his own rear. “Gad Damn, I can feel it!” “Glad to hear it. That’s what it’s there for, big guy.” Randy heard the H-X-3 room doors swung open. In the darkness, it looked like May and Tuck. Indeed, it was May. “Randy! You still in here?” “Yeah, we’re in here. Hey, out of curiosity, how many out-of-order signs do we have handy?” “Hell, I don’t know. Why do you ask?” The lights flooded back in. “Oh Darren found the breaker box,” May commented before soaking in the scene. Piece by piece she saw the disaster area, and knew why Randy had asked. If her fur could go pale, Randy was sure it would have. That was, before she saw Mark. She stared at the tremendous ox for a moment, before noticing a wetness in her loins. “Excuseme!” she squeaked out, before rushing to the ladies room to take care of some urgent business. And this time, she rushed.
“Well Mark, whadaya think? Worth it?” Tuck asked. “Hell, I haven’t had this much fun since y’all had me helpin’ out at the railroad yards!”
-loW