I looked at all the tan, muscular bodies in the room, sweating and lifting, reflected over and over in the mirrors on the wall and wanted to bite down on the cyanide pill. I didn't have a cyanide pill, though. I had juice, which would have been a fucking sight better with tequila. I didn't have that either. I had a brand new exercise outfit, fresh out of the box sneakers, a pale, plump, out-of-shape body and an attitude that had gone from bad to worse. I felt a hand on my elbow and looked up. I tried to prevent myself from sighing in agony, and didn't make it. He smiled at me with the deepest compassion. He was about 6'3", very solid and well built, with an intelligent face, piercing blue eyes and a captivating smile.  A T-shirt that said "Frank -Staff" had been asked to encase the incredible chest. It was doing its best. The shiny shorts had thrown in the towel regarding concealing his cock.

"Bit intimidating at first, isn't it?" he whispered. I could hear the British accent. I just nodded at him dumbly. He smiled again, that warm compassionate smile, then firmly led me over to stare at the wall. At first I thought I'd been sent to the corner. Then I focused on the row of photos. "Before and after" pictures. The "after" pictures made me look like shit, but compared to the "before" pictures, I was a fucking Adonis. He tapped a photo standing alone, of a man who could have been a balloon in the Macys' Thanksgiving Day parade. "Me," he said simply. I expressed disbelief, then peered at the photo. Son-of-a-bitch, it was.
"You'll be up there before long, Samuel," he said quietly, in that incredible accent. That was the last soft thing he said as he launched upon a campaign to kill me.

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