Day 1
My name is Rick. I turned 28 in March, roughly seven months ago. At the time of writing this, I am 5’10, 151 lbs. I wear a size medium in Old Navy— a small if I shop at H&M, although sometimes my nipples show through too much on the slimmer fits. Whatever.
Physiologically speaking, my penis is of average size for a male. My hobbies include art, music, spending time with my wife, and good beer. I love to have good times. I have a few friends, but my best friend is my wife. We live together in a one-bedroom apartment on the northwest side of Chicago. The rent is outstanding and I want to leave but I’m afraid I’ll get mugged if I move anywhere else.
I work as a graphic designer, sometimes from home, sometimes not. It’s going okay. I should have pursed a career where I’d spend more time on my feet. Getting a little rotund here.
The reason I am telling you this is because I feel like things are about to change. These things... they happen for a reason, and when they happen you can either embrace them or ignore them.
I’ve ignored a good amount of those signs in my life, but no more.
I was biking home from a late meeting with a client. It was a decent ride, 20 minutes tops. I’d actually preferred it at night, less traffic. A Korn song from the 90’s came on my iPod. You know the one. It’s like, “Gaah tooo meeee, beein meee life, doooon too ga.” So I was getting real into that sick rap-rock-spitting whatever and started pedaling faster and faster, swerving into the middle of the empty streets, tapping and bobbing fingers and head.
Before Korn could hit the second chorus, a figure darted out into the middle of the street. I had been whipping my head (see: rocking-out) so much that before I could process that there was something I should attempt to not strike with my bike, I slammed on my brakes and sailed over the handlebars, smacking my entire arm on the curb.
While I gathered my bruised body and mind, I grew scared of what I might’ve hit. I thought it could’ve been a rat, or even a newborn kitten. Perhaps a small child, escaped from it’s crib.
But it was none of those.
The streetlamp flickered across it as I hobbled over. It was a bottle. A pill bottle.
On first sight, the label looked like some dollar-store knock-off bullshit “natural” supplement. Even the name reeked of the clearance aisle. “Ultimate Man Pills” it said. There wasn’t even an ingredients list, just the shadow of a label, peeled-off.
, I almost left them there. I almost walked away. But as the pills rattled gently beneath the orange glow, I found myself having second thoughts. It was the name. Ultimate Man. What does that even mean? What kind of thing could make a man an ultimate man? So I brought the bottle home.
When I creaked open our door, there was a note on the kitchen counter.
“Pls don’t wake. TY. ZZZ <3”
I could hear her snoring, sounding like a wildebeest.
I undressed, creeping through my own apartment. In the bathroom I discovered myself more bruised than I had realized and thought to self-medicate immediately.
I had two choices: Tylenol and rest or whiskey and whiskey.
Opting for a plentitude of whisky, I found myself having the completely rational thought that I should take one of these Ultimate Man pills. They were just supplements. What could be the harm? I generally made pretty good decisions when I was tipsy, too. Other decisions influenced by the hand of whisky have included: online shopping binges for a case of just the marshmallows from Lucky Charms, a signed Creed tour poster for $3, and a 1:1 replica of the dagger/flute the Green Ranger used in the Mighty Morphing Power Rangers.
I twisted the top off and dumped one of the massive tablets into my palm, chalky and heavy. I readied my sippy-cup of Jim Beam and swigged back the pill with the amber alcohol. Almost immediately, I felt the room spinning. The wound on my shoulder throbbing. My heart made noises like that of an elliptical whirring. The creeping feeling started up my throat. My mouth watered, filling with saliva which I couldn’t swallow for fear of retching. I darted into the bathroom.
Thankfully, there were only dry heaves.
I ran the faucet, splashing my face with cool water.
I stared at myself in the mirror: I looked bad. Terrible. Not terrible like beaten— terrible as in wimpy. Terrible as in I’d never seen myself so scrawny before.There was nothing impressive about me. I was just some poorly dressed shrimp with a couple of bones and a bit too much flab. Nothing about my own appearance screamed at me. Nothing except how mediocre I was.
I began to hear a sound. The sound of arms. Clanging. I stepped into the hall, which was tilted, and listened in the darkness.
Grunting. Barbells being dropped. The gentle buzz of a treadmill.
I went to check on my wife, but as soon as I even saw my bed, I knew it was time to pass out. I collapsed immediately.
In the morning I was startled awake by my own hand, moving involuntarily of me.
It was crushing something. Squeezing. Perhaps flexing. There were whimpers, kind of half-breaths coming between each contraction. I sat up in the bed, unfurling my hand. Inside was what I believe to be a spider the size of a large potato chip. Was. Let me reiterate: was. The only reason I believe it was a spider was based on my loose knowledge of the arachnid species and the gratuitous amount of leg-like structures that were jutting out of brownish goop that had become paste-like on my skin.
Every since I was a child I had been terrified of spiders. My wife killed them for me. Yet, here was one, king-like in stature, that I crushed in my sleep, without so much as a tremble.
I went to the bathroom, washed off, and began my morning urination. I was again presented with another change.
“Honey! Honey, I’m pissing sunshine!” I called for my wife when I saw my urine was bright orange. No response. I was alone. I checked my pupils, which appeared dilated andintensely bluer. From the whiskey the night before, I had no hangover. Even as I drank hot coffee, it went down like room temperature tap water.
I stood, churning over the developments, feeling larger on the inside. Expansive and mighty. Like the general of a conquering army.
What sealed the deal was the cat.
The cat sat, as cats do, on the windowsill, overlooking our block. But as soon as I made eye-contact with the kitty— an action that would normally illicit slow blinking— she hissed at me, and gurgled, recoiling further against the glass.
She was afraid.
So, all said, I’ve decided I am continuing the “Ultimate Man” regimen. One pill a day.
I will document the process via this online blog.
Day 2
Worked from home. Clients seemed to notice a slight deepening of my voice. It’s become slightly more difficult to remain still at my work-station. I’ve taken to playing instructional workout videos in the background instead of classical music, as I usually had. I went out to purchase live lobsters and protein powder to cook for dinner. Plans were sidetracked as I came back and my wife was inside, napping on the couch, a bowl of melted Velveeta cheese next to her on the coffee table, along with a box of Cheez-It’s which she dipped in the melted Velveeta. There were some lost sailors in the orange sea.
I could not believe my eyes. This was the woman I married. I knew she was vaguely sedentary, as all true Americans are, but never like this. Still, I chalked it up cycles in her menstruation or the tides or something.
I went to start the water to boil the lobsters.
“You will be ingested by the same man who killed you. Waste will be produced only in shell. Through your meat, your nutrients will be absorbed. For many years your proteins will lay within my body, muscle. You will help me achieve my goals. You will live-on through my ideals and health. This is a good death.”
I snipped the ties around their claws. They did not struggle.
As I went to throw away the bright yellow bands, I gasped.
The 38 back-issues of Muscle and Fitness I had picked up from the Salvation Army early this morning were all in a pile near the garbage.
I entered what can only be described as a state of bloodlust. I dropped the crustaceans into the pot without care. Elevated pulse. Increased sensory experience. Breathing; gasping. Grinding teeth.
I left the apartment— my own home— for fear of causing destruction to my wife and my belongings.
The neighbors came home, saw me staring intently at my own door, stone-faced.
“Hey Rick, you, uh, you okay?”
I always liked Luke and Rachel, but at that moment, I almost told them to suck my dick. Thankfully, I managed to glare at them, force a slight smile, and walk back inside. To ease myself down from the rage I began lifting gallons of whole milk while waiting for the water to boil. After 20 minutes I was throbbing, but the water was still, unboiled.
I checked the burner; it was on, flame high.
I walked to the window suspecting the problem. With my back turned, I would no longer intimidate the flame. It was understandable. I was clearly entirely more alpha than fire.
I spit at the water. I called it names. I turned on the faucet and laughed as its kind helplessly spiraled down the drain. I wanted it to know who it was dealing with. If that fire would not voluntarily boil the water, I would make it.
Instead of salt, I poured in 2 scoops of vanilla-flavored whey protein into the pot.
This seemed to ignite the liquid to a rolling boil.
The lobsters could not scream, but they sure as hell grunted.
After my lonesome dinner, wherein I tried not to wretch by looking at my lazy wife, I called my mother. She is overweight by at least 35 lbs and has terrible eating habits. I detailed her a fitness routine and alerted her to the perils of remaining in such a state. She seemed impervious to my suggestions, if not outright startled. I also wanted to tell her I hate her for raising me as a coward, but that was that was mostly dad’s fault.
I am unsurprised by the lack of like-mindedness from my family. My parents loved me but they allowed me sweets, low-quality carbs, and fats. Rick relied on them as a crutch for his emotions.
The Ultimate Man promises more.
Day 4
Attempted to make love to my wife tonight. The first intercourse she’d have with since I began taking Ultimate Man pills. I put on the Workout Jamz Pandora station and poured her a glass of Powerade Zero with a tablespoon of vodka mixed in (she needs to lose a few).
We watched a 45 minute long advertisement on cross-core training and muscle-confusion techniques. By the end of it I was primed, burning for release.
I hefted her into the bedroom.
It took much mental-stamina to block out the images of her yesterday. The cheese. The slob.
“I want you to fuck me,” she said.
I laid her down and looked her over. Vaguely snake-like in her writing, she dislodged her clothing as I watched, standing at the edge of the bed. “Come on, Rick.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t call me Rick.”
She sat up, her head level with my scrotum, pushing her hands on my thighs. “Well, what do you want me to call you?”
I pushed her down. She giggled, biting her lip. I was trying not to recall how I’d found her just the other day on the couch, gassy and immobile.
“I want you to call me the Ultimate Man.”
My wife laughed at this, which only made me want to slay her sexually even more.
“Okay, Ultimate Man. Are you going to fuck me or not?”
She was on bottom, per usual, while I mounted her. I wanted the lights to be on so she could witness the Ultimate Man. She protested but I pretended to not hear beneath the rhythmic slapping my testes were making against her.
I was on my 34th thrust when I realized that I was not finding pleasure. She was trying to catch her breath, and she was not even doing anything. I tried focusing on the amount of calories I had burnt. It was no use. My core was not being amply worked and I felt the urge to do continue my training overcome the passion of the moment.
On the other hand, I had a responsibility to chauffeur this woman to orgasm. Compromising, I began to do push-ups on top of my wife. I found my erection stabilized, harder than I have ever experienced. The sweat came to my pores. My wife had taken to claw my back, but my skin was tougher than it used to be— her nails broke as they attempted to break me.
I continued doing push-ups.
I got to 214 when she climaxed. I chose not to spread the Ultimate Seed to this woman on this occasion. I would ejaculate later, when I could peacefully watch my Insanity workout videos. For now I was in dire need of protein in the form of a TotalBodyMILK bar.
"Where are you going?” my wife was visibly moist, the covers thrown off, splayed out on the sheets.
"I am currently experiencing micro-trauma in my muscles from the workout. I require a high-intake of high-quality protein which you, apparently, cannot keep in-stock for us. I am going to purchase it myself, and then I will meditate away from you while you sleep."
“Rick?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I am more than okay,” I told her, “I am Ultimate.”
Day 6
Though it has been less than a week, I can feel the Ultimate Man making his presence known. He stirs within me, a mist of blood and testosterone that taunts the weakling in me— luring him into a cage where the Ultimate Man will devour him like a Double Chocolate Peanut Butter TotalBodyMilk Pro 42 shake.
Not only has my body had it’s chains cast-off from it, but also my mind. My thoughts are more nimble: increasingly, I find myself making quick work of sudoku puzzles and once-trying New York Times comics. No longer do I fear the complexities of nutrition labels, their insufferable maths. I only need to check the protein content— anything I can chew that contains than less than 10 grams of protein per 1 oz serving is wasteful and inefficient. I discard it. The Ultimate Man pills provide all other sustenance I require.
At the grocery store, I remove junk food from the carts of others, replacing them with potent protein sources. A can of creamed corn becomes 8oz of raw chicken breast. A bag of chips becomes a multi-pack of raw chicken breast. A tub of ice cream becomes a can of diced chicken breast.
If I am confronted, which I do plan on, I will explode one of the pre-packaged TotalBodyMilk banana-chocolate protein powder packs I keep on my person, disappearing in the haze.
Theatrical, but effective.
Though all other facets of my life have made gains, not all is well with the woman.
She came to me at 3AM, upset, while I was doing shoulder presses with the cat and more whole milk.
“You’ve been up for almost two days,” she says.
I told her, “You should appreciate the fact that I am so dedicated to my training.”
“You used to be dedicated to us.”
For a moment I stopped pressing the cat and milk and looked at Julia: soft, hair down, pale. Did I mention her name? It wasn’t necessary. It still isn’t. Wife is Julia. Julia is my wife. On our honeymoon almost 3 years ago, she had been ravishing; tone, blonde, tan. She had appointments for her nails and hair, she counted calories. Speaking candidly, I had thought her too beautiful for me— for Rick. I mourn that woman.
“That’s correct,” I told her, “I used to be. Now I am evolving. Something you might want to consider.”
She, of course, began to cry, shutting herself in the bedroom. It’s of no concern to me at this point.
I stayed vigilant through the night, training. As the sun came up, I found myself in a sparring match with the sky, throwing jabs out of the window. With each blow, I sensed a distinct ripple against the fabric of reality. My left hook made the moon rumble as it receded in it’s small, fragile orbit.
Julia emerged from the bedroom. I chose to not acknowledge her, but she took my hand (which I could have easily crushed). I saw our wedding bands overlap and felt I owed her this pardon of touching me without my permission.
“Rick,” she took my palm and placed it over her chest, “I love you. I don’t know what is happening. But I know that something is wrong and I want you to know I love you. I always will.”
I felt a distinct amount of nothing, but knew I should humor the woman.
She then pleaded to take me to the church. I obliged. There are many who fill those pews that can benefit from the gospel of the Ultimate Man.
The drive was tepid. She pointed out all the new restaurants being built along the way. “We should eat there, we should get dinner there, we should get lunch there, we should do brunch there.” This woman and brunch. She was insatiable for breakfast at noon. I distracted myself by imagining I could tug our car with my teeth.
When we arrived the hollow home of God was filled with his despicably out-of-shape of followers.
However. However. There was one thing I had not noticed in my other ventures to this place. One thing, upon seeing now, I felt inspired by. Jesus Christ himself was absolutely ripped. Just cut from here to Tuesday. Pecs that screamed “total body workout.” Lean, chiseled muscle definition from crown to toe. Why did these servants of the Lord follow his Word but not his Fitness Regimen?
As I gazed upon the congregation in my muscle-tee, I thought of my mother and father. My sister.
My family.
We were standing in the same place where Bob and Linda were wed. Where my sister Christine and I were both baptized. Beneath the altar where the sugary-sweetness of the Blood of Christ is held was where Julia and Rick traded vows some two years earlier.
There was nothing I couldn’t do without them, at this point.
All of them.
Christine was going to be baking cupcakes until she died, a fool.
Julia was beginning to understand the complexities of being with the Ultimate Man, but it would not be long until I had no choice but to leave her. There was no “ultimate couple.” There was only one. Whether or not she accepted our fate was up to her.
Bob and Linda would also have to be cut-off. As my parents, they should know better. The Ultimate Man could not keep ties to such unfit people, no matter the bloodline.
It was time for communion. Again, waiting in line to eat. I sighed. At least it was light.
I went through the motions, Father Casi handed me the Body of Christ. I refused to ingest the empty carbs, pocketing the wafer. In return, I handed the Father a Strawberry Shortcake TotalBodyMilk bar, fortified with a plethora of vitamins and packing a whopping 22g of lean protein and 16g of fiber. One of those and he’d be erupting in gas on his way to the barbells.
“My son..” he said, “I do not require this gift.”
I looked him up and down. Covered, hidden. Barely alive beneath the wardrobe of God.
There was no time for these games.
I went back to our pew and rummaged through my gym bag for a can of Banana Creme TotalBodyMilk PRO80, with an astounding 80 grams of high-performance protein and a proprietary blend of enzymes and amino acids. Julia began badgering me at my side, “Rick, Rick, Rick. What are you doing? Don’t open that. Don’t drink that. Rick, don’t live your life. Blah blah blah.”
I knew what I was doing: I was showing these people the way.
I approached the pulpit with my nutritional drink.
“My son,” Father Casi started, “if you wish for a perso—.”
“They made Jesus march through the streets carrying the cross on his back, didn’t they?”
Casi stumbled for a moment before smiling. “They did, yes.”
“Takes a lot of upper-body strength, don’t you think, Father?”
“Or the strength of God.”
Fool. I poured TotalBodyMilk 80 into the holy water.
“A high-protein, low carb diet is the only God I need, father.”
The congregation gasped, and I saw Julia run out the doors.
The sheep became riotous towards me. I had assumed they would understand that there was only truth in my words. I was briefly reminded of the mob that hunted Jesus himself— I glanced to the King of the Jews, he gazed back at me knowingly. I would have no qualms defending myself if it came to it.
“Satan!” a rotund woman yelled, “The devil is here!”
Provoked, I surveyed my options, backing to the organ.
I tore my muscle tee off and did twenty pushups, counting down. “TWENTY. NINETEEN. EIGHTEEN. SEVENTEEN. COME ON, FATHER. GIVE ME STRENGTH.” My actions appeared to hold them off long enough for me to regroup.
I heard someone say they were going to get their gun.
My time had come.
I leaped on top of the organ and began to shimmy to the top via the brass pipes that lined both sides of the chapel. I dangled off the side, casting judgement down at the people below as they swarmed and shook, consistent in their oppression. I batted away their portly insults, their shrieks, and in the heat of the moment channeled one of my fitness idols, King Kong. Just like Kong, I was simply too large, too in-charge, to be contained, and I understood what must be done. I swung my body up, planting firmly on top the organ pipes. Taking one last look down at the revolting crowd, I could see that some understood what was about to happen— they went silent, bearing witness to the miracles of the Ultimate Man.
With a great gasp, I ripped the 10-foot replica of Jesus on the Cross from the wall with my bare hands. There was only silence— admiration, even— as I held the image of Christ out, dripping plaster, over the congregation.
Before I could begin my sermon, the twirl of sirens entered the room. They were coming for me. I had to be quick.
I tossed Jesus over my shoulder and leapt down to the floor with true grace. There, I tossed the Jesus on the floor, surveying his physique. A younger man tried to approach me, (a challenge of masculinity, no doubt) to put his hands on me, but I dug into my gym shorts, into my reserve of protein powder, and threw a handful of banana chocolate into his eyes. He hissed, stumbling back, and with him incapacitated I began to bench-press Jesus on the Cross in front of the entire congregation while challenging them to change their lives through fitness.
“This could be you! This could be you, benching your God, if you would just lay down and count to 20 with me. Come now, don’t be afraid! We will walk together out of the darkness of sugars and fats, into the land of light and lean protein! Come! Come! Nine, ten! Come!”
Before I could fit all 20 in, the sirens grew too close. I escaped through the back doors, into the daylight.
The Father, Son, and Ultimate Man.
Day 7
Halloween. Day of the Dead. It is no wonder the dead are dead, as only the weak perish so readily. Will the Ultimate Man die one day? Perhaps. We shall see, though I do not plan such things.
I impatiently waited at the intersection, across from the elementary school, for my son, who would come around in the Halloween Parade. I passed the time with calisthenics, shredding my muscles to further perfection, dancing between minivans full of stay-at-home parents who apparently had not bothered to look at themselves in a mirror over the last 8 or 9 years. They garner no amount of sympathy from the Ultimate Man. It is not hard to move. Yet, as I gaze around, there is a woman sitting in the front seat of her car talking to a woman sitting in the front seat of her car across the street.
Disgusting.
The entire neighborhood around the school was more or less blocked-off from traffic because of this insufferable display of bad-parenting and a failed education system, but I felt as though I owed it to my boy to at least pretend to encourage his pipe-dreams for the time being. While it’s true that I hope to one day pass on the Ultimate Manliness to him, it remains that for him to usurp my throne, he will have to take it through sheer muscle and focus. I will not helicopter the Ultimate Child to my throne. As for the rest of his classmates, I could care less.
The parade routed around the grounds of the school before glacially making it’s way down a blocked-off neighborhood because our children cannot move fast enough to get out of the way of vehicles if the need arises. As the front doors opened and the littles began spilling out, all I could think about was how the school likely deemed it most appropriate to cancel Physical Education (or “gym class”) for this display of cultural destruction. For ghosts and goblins.
Safety-guards in bright orange stripes guarded the streets from.. nothing. There was literally nothing for them to guard these children from except their disillusioned, overbearing parents.
I attempted to enjoy the moment. Not for me. For him.
I was pleased with the quality of most costumes— the enormous, rippling muscles of superheroes, firemen, turtles, strong alien-trucks showed initiative and promise. But who are these parents that allow their children to be flabby spirits? Scrawny vampires? Then, they were being freely given sweets. I knew I couldn’t prevent all atrocities of the day, but at the very least, I could steer the young away from the Evil.
As the children marched by, I handed them all HyrdoxSlim pills which I had placed in Tootsie Roll wrappers, inside of a cheap plastic jack-o-lantern. HydroxSlim brand fat-burner is a second-to-none: it operates by over-stimulating the metabolism to the point that the body burns through it’s carbs, protein, and ultimately, fat reserves, leaving clean, pure muscle in it’s wake.
“Trick or treat!” they all shouted, marching by.
“Fitness!” I told to each of them, “Fitness or fitness!”
I watched for my son. I could not recall what his costume was this year. He could have been anyone. I continued to look for him and hand-out the HydroxSlim to eager palms. Before long, the back of the line came, there was a grown woman dressed as a witch bringing up the rear. Still, no sign of my son. Then, I remembered.
I have no son.
The Ultimate Man has no progeny.
The air distilled around me. Heavy. In each mask I was looking the future I did not have. Julia was not a worthy mate, and I seriously doubt any woman on earth would ever be considering an Ultimate Woman enough for the Ultimate Man.
I stammered away from the crowd into the surrounding neighborhoods. My feet slapped hard against the streets as I broke into a brisk jog, measuring my pulse while attempting to sweat-through these feelings.
Homes. Porches, even. The sidewalks uneven with tree roots. Gardens sprouted from behind fences that supported addressed. Dogs came to challenge me from their pens, yapping. I put them in their place with a stern return-bark. A cat lazily swatted it’s tail in the window of a second-story window.
This was no place for me.
Julia had once expressed interest in a child but I denied her, opting to use the phrase “career-minded path” in my rebuttal. Was it a mistake? Could I have bred the Ultimate Son? Or even, perhaps, the Ultimate Daughter?
I knew only one thing could extinguish my sorrows: a strenuous workout followed by a high-intake of lean proteins.
The Ultimate Man.
Day 9
Late last evening I had the pleasure of watching the comedy “My 600lbs Life;” staggering in it’s hilarity. The man no more than 35 living in rural Maryland, hated himself because he was 550 lbs! Here’s the kicker though: the man, “Thomas”— along with the editors and producers, obviously— made it seem as if food somehow “controlled” him, like it held a power of the man. Please. A lack of willpower is no excuse for what that man had become. Blubbering with tears multiple times as blurred faces of strangers taunted him as he tried to fit in a booth at a restaurant, the program attempted perilously to make the viewer sympathize with his “condition.” Thomas left the establishment before he could be served, rightfully consumed by heckling. It was like a sci-fi documentary comedy. Must-see TV. Hilarious.
During the commercial break, a costumed animal peddling sugar-coated oats for breakfast was interrupted by a breaking-news bulletin. Area police were searching for a man who had been distributing candy that was laced with large, white pills to young children during a Halloween Parade.
It was not until the police-sketch that I understood that the man wanted was me.
The artist’s rendition was praise-worthy. Each new muscle I have discovered (created, really) in the last week was brilliantly shaded. My shoulders began halfway up my neck. He even correctly detailed the 10 lbs. weights I keep strapped to my chest via a vest to strengthen my core. Had this criminal not been me, I would have sought them out for training. But of course it is me, I am the Ultimate Man.
The mustached, overweight anchor suggested my HydroxSlim pills were low-grade amphetamines. Please. If Channel 4 News Anchor Ty Rachtsberger could get his mustache out of his ass for one minute— or had the slightest bit of journalistic integrity— he would’ve done the research and realized that the HydroxSlim pills were removed from the market simply because they were too effective at suppressing appetite and 3 corporations control 95% of all food production on Earth, meaning they were strong-armed out of business by these Big Three.
To the children who had sick tummies from the wonders of fitness science, I say enjoy your excess weight and hospital stay.
Later that evening I made my way to the 24 hour gym to avoid being spotted in daylight. I admit a paranoia crept over me as I prowled, doing leap-frogs across the city, but I will not admit to fright. Instead, a flirtatious anticipation of conflict did arouse in me. The thrill of the hunt. The world’s oldest sport. A manhunt.
The Ultimate Man is the rarest game. The rarest game with the biggest horn and the strongest hide. It would take more than guns and ammo to bag me.
Each size-XXXL citizen I passed on the way to the gym was a slave of the television: they would undoubtedly recognize me. Therefore I had no choice but to camouflage myself in “normal” clothing rather than my usual synthetic-cotton blend shirts and polyester gym shorts. They actual wick moisture away from your skin; amazing. I do not recommend working out in a denim button-up and jeans. Maneuverability is limited. Chaffing occurs.
Julia also remains a problem. I run the risk of provoking her into turning me in, meaning the sooner I cut her out, the better. I know not where she will go or what she will do but I know it will involve chocolate and cheese. Yes, Julia, I understand the 7-11 sells ice cream 24/7. They cater to people like you.
While not a member of this gym, my physique alone was surely enough to earn it’s privileges. At the entrance I was greeted by a young, flimsy desk-clerk. It’s a shame they could not at least employ someone decently-built, even if he was the overnight shift.
“Hello, sir,” he began. The old dog-and-pony show.
“Why.”
“May I have your membership card?”
“I am not a member,” I flicked a small pen off the counter onto his lap to assert my dominance over him.
“Well this gym is for members only. We can get you signed up, let me get you an application, it only takes a minute.”
As he reached in a drawer my animalistic-instincts took over; I would have to forcibly remove him from my life.
I leapt over the desk and behind the man. He stood up. I took his neck in my hands and performed a wrestling move known as the “Stone-Cold Stunner,” (really a testament of the human-condition) on him.
The Stunner is a blend of ancient Greco-Roman wrestling and modern-day brutality wherein the provoked (me) takes the subject (him) by the head, puts their back to their stomach, and falls to a floor on their butt, taking down their subjects head and neck down in one swift, crisp motion.
I shoved the boy beneath the desk. There was approximately a 4% chance that I had broken his neck, though there was no time to check. I craved the iron and cardio.
I roamed the gym alone, the only one dedicated enough to be there at this hour. Without the usual crowds, my intensity grew exponentially; no longer held back by queues for machines or laughing fits from the obese on treadmills and recumbent bikes.
Sparks jumped from the cables of the leg-press. From beneath the smattering of the weights as they dropped against the other, I could forge armor imbued with Ultimate Man Strength.
Let me diverge for a moment, as the forthcoming thoughts are not easy for the Ultimate Man. It is my wish that, should I one day die (which at this point is highly unlikely because I am in great shape and will remain in such) my body will become the mascot for a Federation of sorts. A Federation that patrols the planet— eventually the galaxy— and seeks out poor, unfit souls that do not have the motivation or expertise to become fit. It is important I state this because, as I weighed myself at the end of my workout, I brushed against the Dark. The Dark that awaits each creature, lingering in the corners of weight-rooms and shower stalls. The same Dark that compels us to microwave oozing, leaking pockets of cheese and ham, to gorge ourselves on candy-coated candy that has been mechanically separated from anything nearing nutritional.
51.
My Body Mass Index was 51.
The Ultimate Man, morbidly obese.
My post-workout high crashed: the sweet dopamine-rush imploded, my blood-sugar plummeted, and I began to violently shake. For the first time since I began my Ultimate Man Regimen, I felt... non-optimal. Sickly. Weak. Eventually, somewhere between leaning against the wall and trying to do a jumping jack, I blacked-out.
Sometime later I came-to on the floor in the center of the showers with three heads running hot water me. I can only assume that as Rick descended into nothingness, the Spirit of the Ultimate Man took control of my lifeless body and moved me into a safe place.
I let the steam wash over me as I emerged from the grog. There was only one thing on my mind, one thing that could wash over me like a tide, cleansing me of this affliction. From my moist, damp pocket, I removed a small plastic vial of HyperMet. HyperMet is one of the most expensive, isolated protein supplements on the market. $9.25 an ounce. The only flavor it is available in is Strawberries and Creme. It’s synthetic formula promotes mass gains as well as bone health, heart health, brain health, liver-functioning, libido, blood-oxygen levels, nail-strength, eyesight, the immune-system, flexibility, and saliva-potency.
It also is an excellent source of calcium.
I took this vial, the 4 ounces of pink powder which sparkled in the pale flood-lights.
With my teeth I gnawed the cap off, pouring the supplement over my chest ritualistically— in circles and cross-hatches.
Between breaths I allowed the formula to ease into my pores, massaging it gently.
Here, then, I experienced a Vision. Visions of the Ultimate Man. Visions of a land. The Ultimate Man Land; where I roamed tirelessly, lifting, squatting, pumping, running, jumping. On the floor, wherever you looked, was cooked, skinless chicken breast and skim chocolate milk. The roads were paved with protein bars, every flavor imaginable. Apple strudel. Cinnamon bun. Mixed berry. Banana creme. Peanut butter decadence. Mango Coconut. Chocolate chip cookie dough. Key lime. Oh, key lime.
Far off in the distance, an open-air shower ran eternally, omnipotently. At the very thought of it, I was summoned beneath it’s falls, where I stood as a cascade of whey protein powder poured over me.
Whispers came to me, nutritional facts and amino acid chains. Formulas for proprietary blends.
Without warning, I was pulled from the vision, back to real. Back into the mist of the lockers, where a dull pink aura pooled around me. I was forming a basin of HyperMet.
Again, the voice of the Ultimate had made itself clear: there was only one path. And so, I tore the BMI-calculator poster from the wall, broke the lock on the juice bar; shattered the blenders, pitchers, and shakers. I took the barrels of powder from inside the cabinets and dumped the entire content of creme’s, cookies, beans, and deluxe chocolates into a pile that kept a haze around it like a fallen cloud.
I walked out, into the world, born again, baptized by protein.
Day 10
The Ultimate Man returns to you fundamentally altered. No, not physically.
Spiritually.
After the experience of the Ultimate Vision I found myself churning, my core being shaken and strengthened.
It was Tuesday. Sometime before dawn I found myself stirring anxiously in my apartment as I shrugged off sleep for the third day in a row. Julia had opted to stay with one of her girlfriends, a choice spurred by my neglecting her emotionally and physically. It happens.
Like most days around this time, my body tingled with sensitivity; my pre-workout cue. I had found that, when this sensation occurred, if I did not begin my fitness regimen within the hour, parts of myself would go completely numb.
In the wake of my decision to decimate the gym, I was left with having to improvise for the time being. I jogged to a Burger King a few blocks north, as they wouldn’t be open for another 3 hours. It made perfect sense, really. Appropriate the Burger King— a kingdom of unhealthy choices— into a workout space.
I climbed their sign, shimmying, and rearranged the “WHOPPER $1.99” sign, putting instead “199 REPS. POW.” The “H” and dollar-sign were tossed into the street.
After doing pull-ups from the drive-thru 7’0 Clearance pole, I attempted physically shift the building from it’s foundation with my bare hands.
As I pressed my palms against the cold brick, centering my mind and body, I became distracted by a pigeon.
This pigeon was massive. I doubt it could even fly. Yet, it looked to joyous. So entirely pleased to be alive with it’s warm cooing and prancing steps.
I watched it meander up and down the sidewalk until it came to a discarded piece bun of some sort next to a trash can.
Instinct told me to not allow the fat bird to ingest those empty carbs.
Instinct is a fickle thing. The first, and therefore, most often obeyed. Yet, shambling behind the Ultimate Man’s ideals, somewhere in the cacophony judgement, was another voice. Smaller. Weaker. Familiar.
The voice of my heart.
For what may be the last time, I chose to appeal to what my heart had told me. Let the pigeon eat. It told me that maybe the pigeon was okay with it’s body, that, perhaps, the pigeon loved it’s body just the way it was.
At that moment, I took the pigeon’s, knowing glance and coo to me as a sign of thankfulness.
It pecked, picking up the bread in it’s tiny beak, throwing it’s neck back, swallowing the entire lump.
I should have known then. It was not thankfulness in the pigeon’s eyes. It was a plea for help. The pigeon needed someone— me— to intervene. To pull it from the deep, to rescue it from itself.
I attribute my failure in this moment to the fact that the Ultimate Man does not speak bird. The Ultimate Man…he does not chirp, nor coo.
The bird wobbled a few feet before falling on it’s side, motionless.
I leapt to action, attempting revival of the creature using chest-compressions and the least amount of force I could— still an absurd amount. I tried to dislodge the bun in it’s throat by flicking it with my pointer finger.
“DO YOU WANT THIS?” I screamed, “DO YOU WANT THIS BAD ENOUGH, PIGEON? YOU HAVE TO WANT IT, BIRD.”
Nothing.
Frustrated at the limits of the power as Ultimate Man, namely my inability to resurrect the dead, I was moved to hard tears.
As I sat there, bathed in the early morning glow of the Burger King, those tears moved me to rage— tears were so Rick— and this rage moved me once more to punch a hole through the drive-thru window and bury the pigeon inside as a warning to the King of Death.
I stumbled home confused and hurt by the tragedies of life.
At the threshold, with the door swung open, I stopped.
I was stepping through, into the darkness, just as the pigeon. In his honor I will not fear the dark again, I will not tremble before the unknown. I will not be made a slave to fear and calories. I will step through the threshold and out the other side with discipline and fortitude.
I will perform a piledriver death in the afterlife, cooing gently as he begs for mercy.
In loving memory of pigeon.
The Ultimate Man.
Day 12
Allow the Ultimate Man to reminisce for a moment.
When the Ultimate Man was a young and not so ultimate, he was befriended by a boy named Jared, who was, in every way, better than I (as much as that pains the Ultimate Man to admit). Jared had long, luscious hair, a deeper voice, and wore more black than I was permitted to by my Catholic parents. To top it all of, he drank a mixture of a beer called “O’Douls” and coke at lunchtime. Truly, Jared was a testament to manliness at such a young age.
I, Rick, was not a small boy. I ate salad and gained weight, probably because of the rich, oil-based dressings, but that’s neither here nor there. Jared ate enough for three people and was lanky. His skin was clear. He would whistle terribly, but with confidence, and whistle he did. Jared had no need for the braces or a retainer that made my mouth feel, as I put it, “fucked.”
Despite all our differences, Jared was my best friend for nearly 10 years. From second grade to twelfth.
Every summer we concocted a different plan for how to get out of our town. A business-venture. A heist. A scheme. Jared was the reason I did not dread going to school, he protected me; he had a tattoo of a bleeding heart on his bicep at 17 years old, something that frightened the faculty and our peers. We had our reasons for sticking together, I believe both of us felt a deep connection with being less-than-valuable to the world in our own ways. I would doodle over everything, comic our lives. He would drum with pens and pencils, orchestrate the sloppy soundtrack.
He never once betrayed me, never abandoned me. When I could not procure a date to 8th grade formal while he had 3 separate offers, he decided to deny each of them and treat me to a film at the cinema: Shrek 2.
Our friendship was all peaches and lollipops until our senior year, when I found Jared kissing Maggie Mittal.
Sweet, timid Maggie with her curly blonde hair. Maggie, whom I had found myself in-love with from the moment I saw her brushing her teeth at the water-fountain between classes in 7th grade. Jared knew well how I felt about her. I only confided to him about it every day. I had planned our wedding. We would walk down the aisle to Chumbawumba’s “Tubthumping,” and then slow-dance to Seal’s “Kissed by a Rose,” or maybe it was the other way around. Either way.
For as long as I knew Maggie, I also knew I was not good enough to be her boyfriend. We occasionally spoke. Maggie and I had friendship which I appreciated, never took for granted—a public friendship, to my surprise. I admit the way I looked at Maggie must’ve said it all. I did not pay attention to anything or anyone else when she was around.
On the second-to-last day of school, as I walked from the west side of campus to meet Jared at the cafeteria, he was there waiting, and so was Maggie. When Jared spotted me, he waved. I felt a burning in my chest, much like the one after I do a set on the pulley bar, except this one was central, buried. That feeling then washed up my throat and into my eyes. I knew what was going to happen. Maggie did not take her eyes from his. She did not remember her friend, Rick. She only saw Jared, just as I only saw her.
They kissed.
With his lips and tongue on and in Maggie, he took her— the strange, smacking noises, his hands running up dear Maggie’s back. Helpless, a ringing filled my ears. It felt as though the blood my heart was pumping was swelling up to come bursting out through my tear-ducts. In hindsight, I wish I would have cried blood, as it might have garnered me some pity. I rushed to the boys bathroom, where I sat alone, marinating in the wake of putrid shits that people left; physical manifestations of my feelings.
The later hours of that afternoon were spent performing slow, painful huffs inside of an empty paper bag, and later, a family-sized Sour Cream and Cheddar chip bag from which I drew deep, salty breaths from after gorging myself on.
This was the moment Rick, in his infancy, began his love-affair with food. It was the day a tub of peanut butter swirl coated the despair that singed his fledgling heart, neutralizing the sting in a chilly glaze of cream and partially-hydrogenated oils. From that day forward, food was about control. I had thought I was the one controlling it, but in reality, it had become my puppeteer, and I simply danced happily while it strung me along. The Ultimate Man forces himself to relive this day each time I step foot on the treadmill, or prop my legs on the seated-squat machine. The agony propels the Ultimate Man forward.
One can assume that the next day, the last day of school, Maggie and Jared spent wrapped around one another. I did not attend that day. The last I saw of them was at a distance as I accepted my diploma on stage, they had managed to sit next to one another, their last name’s separated by eleven characters.
It has been more than ten years since I’ve spoken to either of them. I only have heard rumors of Jared moving to Seattle, Maggie becoming a lawyer. Clippings of their lives spread through the internet, which tells me they both enjoy photo filters and celebrations. I might have also accidentally found Maggie’s old blog from years ago.
For everything Rick went through in regards to Maggie, it did lead him to Julia. Julia was as ignored about as much as I was— I didn’t even know she was the same class as I was until our third date, when I drunkenly opened the yearbook to find my class-picture, along with her own, not far from mine.
Get to the point, Rick.
This afternoon I was at the grocery store tearing open packs of fruit snacks and dumping them on the floor (as to render them inedible to the masses), when a familiar sound caught my ears. Someone was whistling “Yankee Doodle” in the next aisle over. They were doing it loudly, with the tempo slowed immensely, as to force others to listen intently. They were intentionally massacring the song, butchering it to where one had to continue to listen in order to judge whether or not they were correctly hearing what was actually happening. I had decided that, so long as this person was not a small child (and even then, perhaps) I would go intimidate them into stopping their abrasive whistling.
You can imagine my surprise when I turned the aisle to see Jared. That Jared. The same Jared. Jared. Jared, after all this time, standing before me, comparing two kinds of instant pancake mix (of course, he opted for the buttermilk, not the whole wheat).
Once again, I froze. Rick came stumbling back into the realm of the Ultimate Man, fearful. Shivering.
There was that long, parted hair and that bulging, prominent Adam’s Apple. The rough, faded tattoo of a bleeding heart on his wrist that he flaunted still.
As much as I wanted to absolutely crush everything in my vicinity with my raw strength and cardiovascular fortitude, I knew that my blood-feud was not with the obese patrons of the supermarket (they were more or less a loving, bastard project). There would be no innocent bystanders today.
First, I had to gather myself.
I took four WeightMilk Lights out of my gym bag and walked to the loading-bay behind the store. I shotgunned them, one after the other until I had a creamy, frothy foam coming out of my mouth. Consequently, the amount of protein I ingested so quickly forced my body into a deeper level of shock. I knew I had to exert myself quickly or risk falling into a restful, strengthless sleep. In a rush, I blasted out a solid minute of flutter kicks in front of the cart corral before returning to the task at hand.
Jared was coming in my direction.
The Ultimate Man wants you to know he does not condone senseless violence, unless it is violence incited against trans fats. Vengeance, on the other hand, vengeance is different.
The Ultimate Man says Jared Japonik was not disturbed or harmed in any way, shape, or form on this day, a Monday. Jared Japonik safely made it to his car with two bags of groceries, unaware of the Ultimate Man’s presence. Jared was not punched, benched, kicked, slammed, broken, twisted, or maimed. Not today. The breath of the Ultimate Man did not even graze his freckled skin. T
However, that does not mean I will sit idly by as Jared comes like a thief in the night, screaming out of the past, to take something from me again. No. It does not. The Ultimate Man maintained a safe distance as he followed Jared Japonik to his apartment on the North Side. This is only the beginning. I will monitor him even as he sleeps. His return can only mean one thing: he is coming to rob me of my Ultimate Man-ness.
.
Day 14
Two weeks. Two weeks have passed since the Regimen entered my life. What have I gained in two weeks? Massive gains. Confidence. The strength of two— maybe three— men. There is a long road ahead, but for now I’d like to focus on the beginning of my journey.
When I happened upon the Blessed Bottle a fortnight ago, I overlooked a simple fact: the container was opened before I had gotten to it. It is listed that there are 60 capsules in each bottle of Ultimate Man, yet, with some strenuous counting, I had determined that 21 were missing. Today, with my 14th pill (that I consumed after trying to boil a pot of whole milk with my own body heat by glaring at it— achieving a temperature of 80, a healthy start), that leaves 25 pills remaining.
It is yet unforeseen what shall become of my physical-form when the regimen is completed. Will I revert to my old ways? Unlikely. I feel the unmistakable surge of testosterone when I urinate or take deep breaths. It stings, and I flinch with might.
That being said, I would still like to avoid that future. A future devoid of Ultimate Man pills. My search for this particular brand of Ultimate Man comes up with unsavory results. I have interrogated numerous GNC, Vitamin Shoppe, and pharmacy reps— none have any knowledge of the Ultimate Man brand Ultimate Man pills.
Come what may, what matters now is what I have achieved. No longer do I subscribe to the fears that once overtook my life. For example: the cinnamon challenge. One whole tablespoon of ground cinnamon triggers a violent gagging reaction in the non-ultimate. Rick once wrote this down on his list-of-things-to-do simply because he was that bored with his routine. He never even attempted it.
The Ultimate Man just completed it four times in a row.
Lo, the Ultimate Man Regimen has come on clouds of glory and TriSource Protein to save Rick from himself.
Yet...there are times when I am physically beating a half-gallon of ice cream on the sidewalk outside of the supermarket (to make a point), splattered in cream, smelling vaguely of creatine, looming over the pooling ooze and I ask myself, “Rick, where is your wife? Your old life?”
Like footprints in the sand, she has gone to stay with her mother.
Tonight, though, the Ultimate Man confronts the loneliness head-on with the animated fitness documentary Dragonball Z (highly recommended).
Day 16
...And so, like the rat returns to it’s cage, I find myself here, carrying toxic shame, a shame completely devoid of any phytonutrients or protein. I come here to repent for my Ultimate Sins. Two days ago was a day I have longed for since I began my transformation: cheat day.
Please, readers, let me finish.
There exists a place that upon entering, The Ultimate Man relinquishes all that makes Him truly Ultimate. It is not a choice, but a prerequisite: to enter is to surrender.
It is a solemn, well-lit place that sings it’s siren-song with low prices, cheap ingredients, and high-volume meals.
The booths, lined around the perimeter, house patrons which they (ironically) struggle to fit inside. Tables and chairs, stained and worn, creak against the weight placed upon them. Children dash between the aisles, heavyset and jiggling on their way to the taco bar.
Even now, I am overcome with a sense of vertigo even thinking of what I’ve done to myself, a vertigo much like the one I experienced upon being escorted to my seat by one “Patricia K.”
However, that particular feeling subsided into a tranquilizing comfort in the form of a enormous glass of sweet-tea. Even before I could survey my surroundings to assess any potential threats, I put the tea to my lips, my hands trembling, and with that first sip I grew an erection so solid I had to shove ice cubes down my synthetic-blend shorts to manage the thing. I can hear you now. You are turning away. You are calling, “Blasphemy!” You say, “That’s the first rule of any respectable fitness regimen, don’t drink empty calories!”
Wait. Please. Wait. Reader, have you ever been in love? Have you ever been in love only to give it up, to have it ripped from your hands, leaving you in the overhead-press position, empty-handed? You must know the feeling. The sensation. Warm. Encompassing.
Imagine coming to this love again after so, so long. Imagine of all the unsent letters, the coffee cups you left out for them— just in case they decided to show up— that were poured out. Imagine the vulnerability, the tension that strikes you like a bullet, knocking you down, as you find yourself in their presence again. You thought it’d never happen. You imbibe in them. You swallow them whole. The heat of passion congeals you both: you are one again.
That is what happened here, at the Golden Corral. It was, in a sense, pure. More pure than anything existing outside the Ultimate Man Regimen. How? How is that possible? Our beginnings shape us. The Golden Corral shaped Rick extensively. So, perhaps I should restate my former thought: the Ultimate Man did not dine-in at the Golden Corral; He remains outside, doing Dolphin Planks in the parking lot. Rick, however, was the vessel for this sweet transgression.
And, oh, how sweet she was. Her stables of gold. Such the selection! Five different kinds of breaded, battered chicken, the heat-lamps shining upon them like little suns. Yellow pools of butter, floating perpetually at the bottom of every tub, winked at me as sunlight does on the early ocean’s face! Coagulated sauces, glazes, and fats huddled around fried starches and “baked” proteins, keeping them warm in the brutal winter of blandness.
But the moment I will cherish the most came during hour three, as I made my way to the Holiest of Holies: the Dessert Fountain. Oh, my God, what a world You’ve made. The release— mm!— as I tenuously placed my hands beneath her obsidian waterfalls of chocolate and voluptuous caramel, sliding my fingertips in and out of her. A lush of the moment, I began to smear her substances on my cheeks and biceps, shivering with pleasure, forming a sticky golden and brown enamel over me.
Now, I speak from Ultimate Experience: these are the dangers of keeping Rick around, the dangers of allowing his “himness” to remain apart of The Ultimate Man. There cannot be another flagrant disregard of fitness such as this— there will not.
As I began to become more and more enveloped in my membrane of sugar and fats, voices screamed from inside of my mind, “Why, Ultimate Man, why do you betray us with this rodeo of sin?”
I had no explanation, but only because I did not desire one.
Retreating to my table in the far east corner of the Golden Corral, I erected a tent of menus to shield myself from the restaurant for the entire 5 hour feast, during which garnered many strange-looks from customers and workers alike. I would jingle the cubes in my glass as a signal for refills, put the empty plates on the ground beneath my table.
It was between the bacon-wrapped sirloin that I topped with country gravy and the aptly named “Shadow Cake” (being that I literally felt my shadow gain weight as I ate it) that I was stricken with a sudden, final chill. I could hear the murmurs of the children, fat and sad, whom I was betraying. I could feel my thighs reaching for my heart, angry, to constrict it between their newly-fattened loaves. It was time to flee.
I struggled to perform tricep-dips as I left a tip (a collection of multivitamins, two CLIMB bars, and a bottlecap I’d found in the parking lot).
I ask that if you judge, do not judge the Regimen or the Ultimate Man. Judge the man. Just the man. The Rick. Understand. Understand that now, I am closer to the Evil. I have slept with the enemy and intricately understand what pulls so many into their ranks. With this understanding, I will not fail again.
Day 17
In an effort to more readily understand the Jared Japonik I have followed him relentlessly, closely. Attempts to monitor Jared from afar were useless. I had to get closer, I had to get inside the life of the man who was attempting to steal my life. Thus, for nearly an entire day I hid myself in a narrow, dark space behind his sofa. From 3:30 am, when I infiltrated, to well into the evening, I planked in the trenches, tightening my core. You ask: Ultimate Man, you must be as big as 4 men, how do you fit behind a couch? Hard work. Determination. Tearing a hole in the back of furniture to fit part of myself inside of it.
That being said, here is what intelligence I have gathered.
The Jared lives alone, his only audience is a small calico cat, “Truman.” I collected a small amount of the feline’s urine and used it as an oil, rubbing it into my skin to mask my overtly intimidating scent.
Most of the day he worked from home, clacking, stationary at his computer.
It appeared that his relationship with Maggie had since ended.
Between sunrise and mid-afternoon, when the sun began to work its way across the hardwood floors, Jared placed numerous phone calls.
In them, he relayed the same information between pleasantries. “Monday, 4PM, the Calypso Hotel, downtown. Conference Room 4.”
I figured these were clients of his, as it was most likely Jared was apart of some multi-level, marketing scheme involving fitness supplements— another attempt to plunder my life from me.
Then I heard him say her name. “Can I speak to Maggie?”
Their call was mostly formal, short. “It’s going to be rough. But there’s only so much we can do, you know? We just have to take it step by step.”
Shortly after their call Jared placed a call for a take-out order of bahn-mi and left. In his absence I ate the remaining of Truman’s wet cat food (a source of crude protein) and made arrangements to be in attendance. The end is in sight.
Day 18
Matters of the heart tire me like a steeply inclined treadmill. Matters that cannot be repaired by lean meats and their nurturing properties.
I received a letter from Julia. For a moment I did not recognize the name. I thought it might be a mistake, misidentification. It was stuffed into my locker at the World’s Fitness Gym and Health Earth 24 Hour Location, where I make my home. The Ultimate Man made the conscious decision to not succumb to the petty currency of the world— frail paper and metal alloys. Also, (along with the fact that the management company would not accept jumping-jacks as payment) I was evicted. However, I had a forwarded P.O. Box set up here, to my locker at the gym, so I could receive my monthly installments of BodyBuilder Magazine.
After a brisk hour in the pool treading water, trying to create a whirlpool around the confused, weak swimmers, I returned to my locker to find the letter.
"Rick," she wrote in that green pen she always used, "I am sorry."
There were the divorce papers stapled to the note.
Quietly, I considered laughing, but the thought quickly faded to a deep, black terror that swept over my speedo.
It is hard right now— and yet I am always hard, like my core— but right now it is so so hard to be Ultimate.
Whatever part of Rick that is left inside of the Ultimate Man feels this susceptibility. It cannot be a characteristic of the Ultimate Man, for he does not feel such things. Still, I resent the part of me that makes me shake from the divorce. Every muscle group clenched as I read these forms.
As much as I despise Julia’s reliance on carbs and her paltry commitment to fitness, she was... reliable. A strange mixture of softness in the bosom and firmness in the mind. For Rick, she was The One, and to think, all those years, she had been right beneath his nose— Julia was one of Maggie’s best friends.
Thusly, it is even more apparent that Jared’s appearance is not coincidence, and he will not go unpunished.
But for now, this is all I can muster. I am decidedly non-Ultimate as my heart swells with loss and omega-3 fatty acids. From the moment I, or Rick, or whoever I was, sat next to her at a coworker’s birthday celebration, I fell in love with the way in which she ate her hummus from the plate with a fork, scooping it along the edges and stabbing the paste, only to comically suck and pucker it off the fork. I asked her to pass me some of the chicken masala, and when she dripped sauce onto my pants, I knew I might never wash them again.
On that night night, almost four years ago, Julia tried to hide her smile after each of my terrible jokes by covering her mouth with her hands, which were covered in those red pen from grading papers (she even had a small line across her chin, right beneath her lips, but I neglected to mention it).
Today, I am bidding a farewell to the love of my life.
There will be no fitness today, no pumping iron. Despair shall be my workout. I spend the day knowing all of the B-Vitamins in the world could not give me the energy to lift a single thing at this moment.
We will not touch her again, not in this life. With the envelope sealed and signed, beneath enormous fists, Rick and the Ultimate Man shall close themselves off in a corner near the water fountain, buried under old issues of Muscle and Fitness, aching to remember the gentle caress of her tiny hands inside of our own.
Julia, whomever you find yourself with next, it will never be the Ultimate Man, and perhaps that is for the best.
Day 20
Each day I take my Ultimate Man pill as a suppository as an addition to my morning routine that includes my own creation, “mirror-shouts,” wherein I attempt to cause my own reflection flinch before I— the actual, physical me— does. I scream obscenities and hateful, slanderous things about myself, at myself. Thus far, I’ve remained unwavering.
Because I do this in the 24 hour gym where I now make my residence, occasionally my power will— how do you say?— upset the other guests, who are not familiar with the routines of the Ultimate Man. One of these guests was a young woman who wandered into the men’s locker room after hearing me perform my mirror shots early this morning. I imagine she confused my shrieking anger with shrieking distress, and she found herself going toe-to-toe with the visage of the Ultimate Man in one of his more perplexing poses.
In an effort to save time, which is the only thing the Ultimate Man truly obeys (and even then), I had decided to insert my morning Ultimate Man pill while simultaneously performing my mirror-shouts in front of the full-length mirror.
When the woman crept in I was just calling attention to my reflection’s disgusting, flabby, untrained nipples. I had attempted smearing protein powder on them to engorge their puny appearance, but it did not take. I suspect I will need to inject creatine into them to truly boost their performance. The whole thing gnawed at me.
I was positioned on my back, screaming at my reflection with my arm underneath my legs, held aloft over my enormous chest, aligning the Pill with my hole. In the midst of the swirl of rage I had towards my nipples, I neglected pay attention to my surroundings.
“Look at it! Not even the small babe of Christ, born in the manger would touch that nipple! The nipple is hungry for power! I bet you that nipple has nothing! You can’t even feed from that nipple, can you?!”
At that point I had had begun nursing on my own nipple (at the very least it would give it the illusion of bulk), and had mostly docked the Pill into my sphincter, which was when I saw her standing in the hallway, clad in a drenched hooded sweatshirt.
I laughed.
I think she expected me to stop. I did not stop, but turned to face her, reaching for my breast, bringing my head down to my chest, where I began to suckle on my nipple as I maintained Ultimate Eye-Contact.
I held strong even though I could taste blood. After nearly half a minute the woman stumbled backwards into the wall and bolted out the corridor.
After she had gone I felt oddly violated. Victimized. As I looked upon myself and my raw nipples wondered why could I not simply tell the woman to leave. Why I could not address her. With my voice. With my words.
I feel as though the Regimen has unleashed a primal energy, one that most men actively stray away from. I would not speak to this woman because the Ultimate Man uses his words like the soldier uses his weapon. Only when necessary. Where have words ever gotten me? Nowhere my strength would not take more easily. I suspect that when the Regimen is complete these entries will also cease; even now, they seem to be hemorrhaging my own thoughts. The written word produces less struggle.
Which brings me to a problem.
As I was packing away the bottle, I realized I had never truly read the label. To take the Pill was a reflex at this point. To my surprise, I discovered that there are no distinct markings. No expiration date. No manufacturers code. No SKU. Not even directions. Just the blue label with white lettering, a black border on each letter.
What truly concerns me is that in all my travels thus far, I have not yet seen another bottle of Ultimate Man pills. In a way, I am relieved. Why should there need to be more than one? It is Ultimate Man, not Men. Still, what if my transformation is not complete by the time I run out? What if the full transformation requires a whole bottle’s worth of pills? The bottle was not even half full when it found me!
I’ve decided that at sunrise tomorrow, I will begin my search for anything I can on the origins and lineage of the Ultimate Man pills. If I cannot truly complete the regimen, and then all of this…will have been for nothing.
Day 21
I have inquired with every nutritional, fitness, and medical facility in a 10 mile radius to no avail. No one has ever heard of “Ultimate Man” pills. They search their inventory, back-stock, check with the warehouse— everywhere.
“We have Ultimate brand man-pills, is that it?”
“No,” I roared, “‘Ultimate Man,’ is the supplement, not the god damn brand.”
I honestly wish I had more to report. They all wanted to direct me to proprietary supplements that they assured me would work just as well. Bullshit. I would have none of it.
Upon making my way back to the gym I made a final stop at the pharmacy nearby. Small, family run. There was no aisle wracked with overpriced cereal and condiments. It was all business. The walls were brick and the floors wooden. It made me sick with it’s homeliness and quiet comfort, even though half the people browsing the aisles had some sort of serious medical condition.
I waited in line doing bicep curls with two gallons of water I picked up on the way back to the pharmacy counter.
When I was called upon, it occurred to me that these people might try to take my Ultimate Man pills from me. After all, if anyone were to know the value of these, it would be the Pill Peddlers themselves. I needed to remain vigilant.
“Hello,” I held out a pill with my left hand, my right fist ready to strike him. “Tell me about these.”
“Umm, can I see the bottle?”
Cautiously, I removed the bottle from my gym shorts, placing it on the counter. One wrong move and I would end the lanky clerk.
“Why is the phrase ‘Ultimate Man,’ in quotes?” the fool asked.
“That’s how they were when I found them, do not ask so many questions.”
Allow me to add that, though this conversation may appear civil, at the time I was holding back an insurmountable amount of fury. It is a testament to the Ultimate Man regimen that the Ultimate Man was able to hold the Ultimate Man back from shattering this man.
“You just found a bottle of pills and started taking them?” he pressed. “You have no idea what they are?”
I bit my tongue.
Of course I started taking them. Why would I not? What reason would I have for not becoming the Ultimate Man? The label clearly indicates their purpose.
“Yes, Ryan. I did. And if you would like to see the results, please, gaze upon thee.”
Ryan, with his terribly feminine, long hair, sensed his impending doom. He leaned to me. “Look, dude. I don’t think these are,” he glanced around, “trademarked, if you catch my drift.”
“I dead-lift 300 lbs, of course I can catch your paltry drift.”
“No, I mean,” he began to speak softer, “look, if you want me to, I can run a quick test and find what’s in these. You just have to let me borrow one.”
This was one of my last pills. If Ryan was lying to me, as I assumed he would be, I would be that much closer to oblivion. However, these were indeed desperate times. I reluctantly gave him the single pill.
“Come back in about an hour,” he said.
I did not leave. Instead, I sat at the blood-pressure reader with my arm inside the band. As the silly machine attempted to cut-off circulation in my arm, I flexed in resistance, breaking the machine near the 45 minute mark.
I would not take my eyes off the counter where Ryan was, even blinking could prove disastrous. In his place an older man helped sickly older men and women. It made me feel virile and thriving to see the way in they attempted to avoid impending death.
When Ryan returned, I was waiting for him.
It was a quarter past 4 in the afternoon. He appeared grave. “Dude, how many of these have you taken?”
“You may address me as ‘Ultimate Man,” I corrected him, seething, “and today I took my 21st dose.”
“Okay. Jesus Christ.”
“Weakling,” I spat.
Ryan ran his hand over his mouth. “Have you been feeling different? Mood-swings? Irritability?”
“Of course.”
“Physically, how do you feel?”
“Look at me.” I stepped back. “I lift for, at the very least, 3 hours a day. Without muscle stiffness, no pain.”
“Okay. So. Yeah. Ok. Yes. Um, okay. So what you have been taking is a mixture of two very dangerous, incredibly potenet medications. The street name for them, combined with a bit of phencyclidine, is ‘Ultimate Man.‘ These are not nutrimental supplements. They are mostly two things. Cogentin, which is something that we give to people with Parkinson’s. It decreases sweating, muscle stiffness, and generally promotes movement. Do you find yourself drooling more than usual?”
“Often.”
“Yes, okay. That’s what that is. The other half is something called Aventyl, it’s an antidepressant. All that energy you have to work out? Do you find yourself, um, having mood-swings? Temperamental at all?”
“You would too if you had to look at people so out-of-shape as you.”
“Okay.” Ryan had the Ultimate Man pill in a small, clear bag, it was split into sections. “I’m just going to tell you this: you should be dead. I don’t know how else to say that. You should have died with these doses. These pills are enormous. You need to go to a hospital immediately.”
I laughed. “You say to me that I should not be alive, yet I am. Praise be to the Ultimate Man regimen.”
“No, dude, please. Seek professional care.”
“Can you tell me where I can find more?”
“Seriously?”
I flexed my pecs, answering him.
“No. These are shady as shit.”
I snatched my pill back and left.
Whatever Ryan the pharmacist had to say was of no help. It did not matter what made the pills, only that they worked.
So, here I say this, newly aware of the nature of the Ultimate Man Regimen: the pills of the Ultimate Man may come to an end, but the :egacy will not. This is the new testament, the Ultimate Testament. The transformation of Rick. I will complete my journey the only way that truly honors the man I have become. I will do what Rick never could, but the Ultimate Man was born to do.
I will seek vengeance.
Day 24
QUESTION: what will become of me?
Will my muscles shrivel? Will I spoil in the night like the residue at the bottom of protein-shaker, left in a locker for weeks? Will my body-mass collapse on itself as a dying star? Will I no longer feel the drive, the absolute strength stemming from a life centered around fitness and nutrition?
ANSWER: I will cross that bridge when I come to it. No, I will rip the beams from that bridge, I will find the forest where the wood for that bridge was harvested and I will pull it’s brother’s and sister’s from the dirt and I will sever their roots. There is no bridge, no troubled water that can hold the Ultimate Man back.
I go through my wallet. Black, with velcro. Three-panel. I’ve had it for years.
A month is all it’s taken for those years to become obsolete.
The driver’s license. Rick, with his pale skin and ill-defined neck muscles. Credit cards, customer loyalty cards. “Social security.” There is a condom that I would never wear at this point, it implies I am not as strong as bacteria, viruses.
I’ve thrown it all away.
At sunrise tomorrow, I will make my way to the Calypso. Once inside, I will make illegal use of it’s on-site fitness-center to complete my last Ultimate Man workout.
This will take approximately 5 1/2 to 6 hours.
When that is completed, I will enter into a state of meditation for 2 to 3 hours, leaving me an hour to eat my last meal, where I will consume over 400g of protein through a combination of MytoFlex and Blitz Performance Bars. This should be enough to repair whatever muscle damage I have done to my body.
At 3:59PM, I will enter into Conference Room 4.
Finally, should I not return to write my last entry, let me say that my only hope is that my legacy be passed-on to each succeeding generation until we as a species have conforming, peak physical-fitness. The Ultimate Testament deserves as much.
Day 25
Hello.
This is Jared, updating in place Rick. Julia and I decided we needed to tell all his readers about what’s going on, and, uh, it wasn’t very hard to guess what his username and password were. Rick has created quite the compelling journey to follow here. We were all a little surprised to discover he even had enough mental fortitude to form complete thoughts and follow-through with updating this.
By now you understand the history between us. Rick wasn’t wrong there. We were best friends for a long time until I made a stupid decision and lost his friendship for good.
As you can tell, Rick has been spiraling for quite some time. However, Julia had suspected a problem almost immediately. You know, it’s not hard to be concerned about your spouse when they go through three gallons of whole milk in a day, especially if they’re lactose intolerant. When she got into contact with his parents and compared notes, it was obvious this was not the same person she fell in love with. He’d been sending his parents envelopes stuffed with protein powder and coupons for nutritional supplements, gym memberships.
She did indeed move out, except to live with his parents, not hers. They’re dead, and have been for a while now, which he also neglected to mention. However, when Julia returned to the apartment a few weeks later, she’d discovered Rick had also gone, but he’d left a note with the P.O. Box at the gym in case she wanted to “pursue becoming fit” with him.
Their split had nothing to do with me. That happened after he’d become abusive and discovered he’d quit his job and began living out of a 24-hour gym where he could shower, sleep, and workout. She gave up the apartment, took everything and moved across town. About a week ago she found his blog on the computer which they shared. Rick continued posting from the public library and gym wifi. The acting-out, the violence? All of it started when he found those pills. That was when Julia called me and I got into contact with Maggie. He actually got that part backwards. I’m the lawyer and Maggie is the one who moved to Seattle. We met up and began to talk about what we could do to help Rick, if anything. All of us decided to attempt some sort of intervention.
The conference room which Rick stumbled into earlier on today was actually our trial-run at that intervention. We just all wanted to be in the same room once before actually going through with it, to discuss our plan. I guess it became the real thing when he burst through the door. I had no idea he had been in my apartment, let alone harbored that much resentment towards me. We were planning on holding a formal one shortly thereafter, assuming we could actually get him to agree to meet us.
At the Calypso, Rick attempted to strangle me and accused me of taking everything he loved away from him. I wish I could tell everyone that he was appeared in good-health. His skin was...well, remember how Edgar looked in “Men in Black?” It was kind of like that. Just awful. Pale, black and blue marks everywhere. His eyes were more red than white. If you got within three feet of him it became obvious he had not showered in days. For all of it, though, he was pretty muscular.
The whole time, all I could think about was how I could’ve prevented this is, all those years ago, if I had just been as good a friend to Rick as he had been to me. We don’t know where he is now. He broke a few tables, threw chairs, did a few jumping-jacks, then bolted out. I’m not sure he even registered that Maggie, Julie, and his family were in the room. He was too obsessed with me.
Rick, I am assuming you will read this, somehow, somewhere, so I want to say something to you. We all want to say something.
We all love and care about you more than you know. There was never any scheme to hurt you. Ever, between anyone. I take full responsibility for what happened to us in high school, but that was years ago. Julia, Maggie, your family, and I, we all know you have always been ultimate, Rick. We know how good of a heart you have. We know this isn’t you. We want you to come home, or if you don’t want to come home, please find help. Maggie says she misses you, so does Julia. You’ll be pleased to hear your parents have lost almost 30 lbs. together. They look great.
Rick, you know where to find me. I will leave my door, and window, unlocked for you. Please find your way to my home again. Let’s go for drinks, for protein shakes. Please, Rick. Come back to us. I need some pointers on getting into shape.