Chapter 72: Bas & Bodyworks

Chapter 72: Bas & Bodyworks

AnaboLIFT Gym, LA. February 2012.

“Fetch the kettles!” Any self-respecting citizen of the United Kingdom would cherish that command. Harkening to the aromas of burbling Darjeeling, the soft crumble of butter biscuits, and the comforts of home. 

However, this wasn’t tea-time; I was currently undergoing torture.

“Hrngh—Grah!” I kicked one sneaker forward, and halted my other knee from sinking completely to the floor as I dropped into a deep lunge. Simultaneously, I shoulder-pressed both arms high into the air. The pair of kettle-bells clutched in either fist forced me to additionally engage both my glutes and core to keep me upright. A motion I repeated again and again to complete my set. 

Suffice it to say, none of my huffing and puffing was being done to cool a cuppa. 

“Five, six, seven—that’s it! Keep going, two more! Come on, another one. Gimme a last push, Bas–wooh! Alright, hit the tailpipe. Eight breaths, no rest; then we move on to the next exercise.” My trainer, prophetically named Jim, enthusiastically spurred me on.

With malice aforethought, I carelessly relinquished my grip on the weight equipment. Too bad the impact was absorbed by the thick cork padding instead of crashing through the floor, since I’d intended to show my displeasure at his chipper attitude. “Go shove it up your own tailpipe!” Pushing my blistered palms off my wobbly knees, I extended myself up to my full height. Chest out, I took eight consecutive breaths as deep as my lungs were capable of. Every ounce of oxygen was precious.

In through the nose and out through the mouth precisely eight times, then directly on to the next set. Tailpiping, the process of exhausting yourself pumping weights, and to continue running on fumes despite it. One of those nifty Hollywood body-building tricks to maximise hypertrophy. 

The constant ache of my flesh tearing and repairing made me want to hang myself. Thankfully, Jim was about to hand me the reins that’d enable me to accomplish that very feat. “You’re on hangers next, Bas. Full range of motion on those extensions. Keep it low and slow, I want your back burning, ‘kay?”

I’d made the fatal error of divulging my years of gymnastics.

Which meant, as I latched firmly onto the handles dangling via straps down from the ceiling, that my aerial routine happened to be atypical. Instead of having the privilege of resting my heels on the ground as I did my muscle-ups, I was encouraged to divorce myself from mother earth entirely. Sweat’s purpose was to provide relief; yet, as it soaked into my top, clinging jealously to my torso, it merely became added deadweight dragging me down. Call it a horizontal pull-up, or a reverse push-up—didn’t change the fact that every fibre of my brawn moved in utter defiance of gravity, and physics in general, for that matter. “Mother—oof!” 

Then Jim compounded my suffering by draping chains on my already yelling belly. “Tuck your knees in, hold ‘em links in place, and twist. Gotta blast those obliques.” 

I have a mouth, and I must scream—yet I refused for fear of looking like a bitch. “Grng…” Therefore, I settled for struggling shakily.

Every trembling pull-up I performed was micro-managed by Jim. With the rottweiler-esque intensity of a drill sergeant, he practically glued his nose to my head while he taunted me. “You hear that rattling, Bas? Those aren’t the chains jingling, that’s your jelly rolls burning alive, you fat fuck! Push!” 

“When I…get outta…here I’m…gonna eat an entire jar of jelly, you son of a bitch!” I stubbornly bulled through the last pumps of my set.

“Oh, I dare you! I double-dog dare you! I promise to put you through ten times as much pain. You already see my face ten times a week, want me to double that? Disney’s footing the bill, and they’ll keep paying me until I’m satisfied you’re in a shape that isn’t spherical.”

“Your mum’s spherical!” Both the mental and physical abuse I spewed out stole the last of my breath, and my body gave up on me. 

The kettles earlier were disappointingly dry, but my moist spine collapsing on the cork was decidedly wet. As if the anguish of my heaving chest wasn’t enough, salty sweat flowed into and stung my eyes, making them scrunch shut. 

Whoever started the myth that exercise generates endorphins couldn’t be more wrong. I was absolutely miserable.

And as they saying goes: misery loves company. It proved true, since I wasn’t the only sob experiencing Jim’s tender mercies. “Will you two pillocks keep it muzzled?” Idris Elba was here, too.

Feet shoulder-width apart, stanced squarely in a squat as his pores squalled just as much as mine had. Biceps bouncing and on the edge of bulging through his skin because he slammed alternating waves over the thick chords held in his fists. “Take your own advice, Idris. Less talking, more battleroping!” 

If it wasn’t already apparent, master Mickey had ordained that my body-building training in preparation for Malekith commence posthaste. 

Given our history as co-stars and colleagues in Limitless carrying forward into Thor, Idris had made the mistake of scheduling his own sessions alongside mine as my gym buddy. 

We each had our part to play, and our parts had their respective roles as well. Whereas my woes were circulated around my whole body, Idris got stuck enduring that same effort solely on his arms. Mostly because his costume was head-to-toe armoured except for his guns, in particular. While my super suit was as yet undecided, so I had to work with the assumption I’d have my buns hanging out for Marvel nerds to potentially question their sexuality. 

“You’ve crossed eight breaths, Bas. Wanna stay husky forever? Fine, then I’ll treat you like one. Get to the sleds. Mush!” Jim only let me get onto my knees before he strapped me into a harness.

Leaving me tethered to a big metal platform, to which he racked plate after plate of weight.

By the time he was done, I was hauling the mass of a car while crawling in crocodile walks on all fours. 

“That’s it, I’m finito. My meat’s minced.” I wish I had the strength to stand while speaking. Currently, my lips were kissing the padding with every syllable. Certainly a new spin on ‘putting a cork in it’. 

“Alright, Bas. Good hustle today–you too, Idris.” The distinct sloshing of slurried liquid perked my ears when Jim placed a shaker near my supine form. “Chug your post-workout.” 

“W-water…” I wheezed out, dreading the gritty taste of whatever supplemental concoction he’d prepared.

Slave driver denied me. “No. Finish this first, then we’ve gotta hit your macros and daily caloric requirements. Cultivating mass means you’ve constantly gotta keep eating. If there’s any space left in your guys after that, then you have my permission to drink. Second lunch is on the menu, before anything else. The only drop of water you’re getting is the showers. Locker room’s pretty much yours. Go freshen up.”

Jim’s suggestion actually sounded wonderful, but I had a teensy issue following through. “Can someone carry me there?”

“You’re on your own, B. We’ve gotta start cutting to get you lean again in a few weeks; so you may as well get used to the cardio. Or find something or other that suits your sensibilities better. Whatever gets those legs moving.” 

“But I can’t feel them.”

–

Facilities designed for celebrities really were extra special. 

No mere sun shower for this superstar! Multiple nozzles with varied settings–specifically the massage function, kneaded my throbbing skeleton back into alignment. 

A duo of extra fluffy towels preserved my modesty around my waist, and my privacy with the second veiling my face. 

Though, I needn’t have bothered. Limping across the marble tiles, the sparse majority of other gym clients I spotted were too enamoured with their own reflection to bother glimpsing in my direction. Pretty, vaguely familiar people all focused on sculpting prettier bodies for themselves, by any means necessary. 

A far more welcome sight than the ubiquitous nightmare of geriatrics unashamedly hand-drying their flappy, wrinkled undercarriages.

Completely discreet.

Thus affording me the opportunity to admire my own bulked form. 

Screeching to a halt in front of the massive vanity mirror. It was lined with warm, yellow LEDs around the edges, strategically highlighting all the tasty lumps, and accompanying shadows contoured my swollen bits. “God damn! Spank my toned glutes and call my Harry Spotter.”

Ping! That wasn’t a lightbulb popping off. It was my phone’s chime, which gave me an idea.

Rushing over to the bench with Idris guarding my belongings, I scrounged around for my phone.

Whipping it out, I barely resisted the urge to whip it out when I saw my most recent message.

Elsa had DM’d me. Quote: ‘Should’ve stayed behind’ pinned to an image of her posed provocatively in a sheer, peach shelf bra and matching bottoms that left nothing to the imagination. 

Lingerie models were just the absolute best, weren’t they? Had my sore triceps been limber enough to reach, I’d be patting my back over that delicious decision right about now.

I considered my obligation–Nay! My civic duty to reciprocate. 

After I tried to angle the lens for the most tantalising view, I just wasn’t getting the full (frontal) picture. Conveniently, my ‘ol pal Idris was there to lend a helping handy. “Hey, help me sext a supermodel.”

Despite his complexion, he appeared green at the prospect of chundering into his tupperware tiffin full of steamed broccoli, boiled chicken, and the driest rice this side of the Sahara. “Mate… I’m having a tough enough go with this tasteless slop. Don’t ruin what little appetite I’ve been able to muster.” 

Pity, my own meals were similar; and I could say from experience that a dollop of vomit would only enhance the flavour. 

Fortunate, then, that I was salivating over a different dish. “Don’t be like that—I’d do it for you!”

“I’d never bloody well ask you to in the first place, you degenerate!” 

“C’mon, please? All this gyming has to be worth more than contractual obligation. What’s the point of washboard abs, if I can’t use ‘em to get laid?” I beseeched his sense of wingsmanship.

Success! Even as he sighed in resignation, he stood and gestured for my phone. “Fine. Fair warning, though, if you flash the camera, expect me to broadcast my BBC I retaliation.”

“Sure, sure, keeping it family friendly. I gotcha.” Launching myself at his vacated bench, I adopted a tried-and-true classic position from my repertoire—the boudoir Buddha. Curling the hem of my towel to properly show off my Adonis belt, I scarcely output the chee in cheese before Idris rapid-snapped a bunch of photos. 

I fumbled as he immediately tossed my cell back. My fingers were more dexterous, though, as I responded to Elsa with the next shot of the lot, attached to a simple but evocative ‘enjoy yourself’. 

Chuffed as I was with both the pic and my pecs, I made the Hollywood executive decision to spread the wealth of my wondrous visage a bit. 

…Okay; a lot!

Every single woman on my contacts received a replicate message. Emma, Gemma, Nat, Zoë, Lea, Mrs Stephens—hell, even Kyoko, JK, and Cadbury got a copy.

Regardless of how recently or how long ago we’d encountered one another, my effect on women wasn’t to be underestimated. They just can’t get enough of Bas Rhys.

Meanwhile, Idris decided he’d had. 

He clipped the latches on his lid closed with half his grub still unfinished inside. “Right, I’m off! I think I’ve exceeded my quota of Bas for the day. Gonna hop in the ring to fulfil my cardio goals; unless you’re planning on being my punching bag, steer clear.”

“Nah, no worries.” My striptease down memory lane with the old boy’s club inspired a nostalgic solution to my exercise needs. “I know exactly who I ought to bother.”

–

Koreatown, LA. February 2012.

Ditching my terrycloth turban and skirt, I once again hid underneath my reliable incognito outfit comprising a ball cap, shades, and face mask.

Fists on hips, I basked beneath the polished signage. When gain was attributed to pain, there wasn’t anywhere else in the world that could compare.

Gym Won, Taekwondo Studio.

Unable to resist the punishing attraction, I slipped into the dojang.

Before I could shuck off a single shoe, a calloused foot came flying at me, which I narrowly dodged.

“You must be truly desperate to come to me for help.” The same wild mane framed the same dour expression, if streaked ever so slightly grey. Oh Dae Su, my martial arts master, picked up right where we left off and continued to take potshots below the belt. “You bundeggi bastard!”