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James Raven · (07-04-2017)

It's hard to find a good place to work out when you're on the road. You're often forced into the local Golds gym where the meathead bros want to critique your form, or some strip mall cardio mill riding the ellipticals with the soccer moms. Some towns will have a good place to box or get a jiu jitsu roll in, but that can be risky. The last thing you need is some amateur agreeing to some friendly sparring, and then deciding he's going to make a name for himself by tapping or dropping you in front of everyone else.

That's why I opened my own gym when I was 24. I laid out the floor plan for the equipment, installed the mats and the fixtures by hand, painted the walls, built the ring... it was home for me, a place to find young talent and develop them without outside influences.

The HILITE Fighting Club. State of the art. Comforting colours, a bad ass logo that inspires me to work harder, and-

CLANG! BANG! CRASH! SMASH! THUD!

"Are you done on this machine?"

"Dude! Look at her ass!"

"Roger, call on line one, Roger, line one."

I sigh deeply. This is NOT HILITE FC. This is NOT home. This is some chaotic shit hole buried in the basement of an old church, with second generation equipment and employees that look like they've never even considered lifting any of it. The one positive is the eye candy, and of that I can assure you, there is plenty. Thank you, whoever invented sororities.

GIRL #1: My god, look at his fucking biceps!

GIRL #2: Sooooooo big...

GIRL #1: I know, how many times a week do you think he works out?

GIRL #2: Oh, you were still talking about his arms?

I watch out of the corner of my eye as the first girls jaw drops to the floor in shock, her hand lashing out like a flash of lightning to strike her friend on the arm. The second girl shrugs her shoulders, a look of innocence on her face as they giggle together like children.

Maybe this place isn't too bad.

I grin to myself, counting preacher curls in my head and admittedly admiring my own arms in the reflection of the mirror I'm conveniently parked in front of. They continue to chatter about how drop-dead sexy I am as I rest for a minute, and then just to show off I raise the weight. They gasp as I continue the curls with relative ease, a sweat barely broken and my breath barely deeper than normal.

Finally I drop the bar back into place and stand up from the bench, casually flexing in the mirror and showing off my biceps, triceps, and any other 'ceps' that might get their panties wet.

I turn to face them and make my way towards the water fountain they're parked in
front of, bobbing my head rhythmically to the music that's not playing on my I-Pod. That's right, you heard me. Ear-buds are in, the thing is strapped to my arm... but it's not playing shit. Try it next time you go to the gym, you'd be amazed at the things people say about you when they think you're cranking Barry Manilow too loudly to hear them.

GIRL #1: God... I'd fuck him in a heartbeat. Right here on the rowing machine if he wanted.

See? I told you. You'd be amazed...

I pull the earbuds out, and lean over to say something impossibly witty to the dynamic duo, but as soon as I do I hear a familiar voice echo through the building from the front desk.

SHANK: I'm an asshole? I'M an asshole!?! Well... you're... you're a... a dirty fucking pirate hooker!

Ladies and gentlemen, Dustin Tyler, or as he's better known... The Big Shank. He is very much an asshole, despite his astonishment to the accusation. He is also very much an arrogant, womanizing, debauchery-loving alcoholic... which may explain why he and I are best friends. No, not best friends in the sense that we each carry around one half of a gold “B.F.F.” heart-shaped locket (which we actually do, now that I think about it) but in the sense that we don't hate each other nearly as much as we each hate the rest of the world. We unite in our mutual disdain, and we enhance each others vitriolic handling of society. I assure you, he's normally much more clever than “pirate hooker”, he just needs a little help.

My cue...

I rush down the hallway from the water fountain to the front desk and step up behind him, arms crossed to intimidate whoever my boy was facing off with; a college aged female sitting behind the receptionist desk and taking peoples membership cards as they come into the club. I immediately regret playing cavalry in this battle, but as I drop my arms to my side and slide a hand into my pocket, I feel my half of the “B.F.F.” heart-shaped locket, and realize some things are more important than whether or not I feel comfortable verbally assaulting an 18 year old girl with braces.

RAVEN: YEAH! You dirty fucking pirate hooker!

I stare at her with intensity for a moment before turning slightly to Shank and
whispering;

RAVEN: Hey, want to clue me in on what's happening here?

SHANK: Sure. This dirty fucking pirate hooker just called me an asshole.

RAVEN: Did she have a reason to commit such a heinous act?

SHANK: Absolutely none, whatsoever. Completely unprovoked.

The girl behind the counter throws her hands in the air in disbelief.

PIRATE HOOKER: What!?!? That's bullshit! He asked me what I went to school for and I said nursing, and he said I looked too stupid to be in charge of saving someone's life!

SHANK: See? Like I said, I didn't do anything bad. I just stated the obvious.

PIRATE HOOKER: I'M SMART, ASSHOLE!

SHANK: THE SMARTEST THING TO EVER COME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH WAS A COCK!

I pound fists with him after he drops that bomb, but a quick glance into the office behind me reveals the gym manager and three personal trainers standing up from a meeting and coming out to see what the source of the noise is. I weigh my options, knowing full well that I can take all of those middle aged pussies, but also knowing that doing so would probably result in my termination from the company I just made a long awaited return to. With regret, I have to back down from this fight. I reach over the counter and grab the stack of membership cards, rifling through quickly for each of ours.

RAVEN: Raven... Tyler... Got 'em! Let's go!

PIRATE HOOKER: Wait, what's the assholes name? I'm going to report him to security.

SHANK: They call me “Big Shank”, cupcake.

PIRATE HOOKER: What does that even mean?

I grab Dustin by an arm, dragging him into the elevator and furiously tapping the button for the first floor, but the doors don't close quickly enough to mute his final quip.

SHANK: Don't act like you don't know, whore!

I feel the elevator start to descend to street level, and I let out a frustrated sigh as I lean against the wall and look at Shank.

SHANK: What? Don't act like that wasn't fun. Let's grab lunch. You're buying...

Of course I am.

[Image: YourMom.jpg]

Everybody, join me in giving Barney a round of polite applause. Don't be overly enthusiastic about it, we don't want to inflate his ego. A bit more than a golf clap will do.

Well done, Barney. That last promo of yours was the best I've seen from you in years, maybe ever. It almost makes me wonder what you could have been if the right guy had gotten ahold of you and trained you. It almost makes me want to lay down and let you have this match as a reward for your efforts.

Almost.

Unfortunately you're getting an A for effort and not much else this week, Barney. I'm truly sincere when I say you stepped your game up and I'm proud of you but I'm equally sincere in saying I'm going to beat you like I'm Ike Turner, and leave you groggier than Bill Cosbys 57th victim.

I'm sorry about your uncle, I'm sorry about Foley Anderson, I'm sorry about RBI and whoever else you were crying about. I'm sorry you lost your eye. I'm sorry you've had as many surgeries as the rest of us. I'm sorry people don't understand your sexuality.

I'm sorry but don't think you'll play on my sympathies, Barney. I'm not picking on a defeated man, or bullying you. YOU attacked ME. YOU told everyone what a villain I was, and that you wanted to rid the company of me again. Don't try and change your tune now that the day of reckoning has come. This is just a reciept for the damage you've caused Barney, and then I'm off to bigger and better things. Thaddeus Duke for starters.

You didn't go too aggressively at me, so I'll offer you the same courtesy. I'm tired anyways. I don't really have the energy to roast you and call you fat again. You're fat by the way. I'll just end this here, and we'll see what happens in the ring tomorrow night. Spoiler alert, I beat you for the fifth time.

Fear the Raven, and all that shit.

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