Clink-Clank-Clink
That beautiful rythymic clink of the weighted vest was the only heartbeat I needed
I was currently hanging on a rusted ass pull-up bar at a park, my body a map of every road in the states. Sweat slicked my skin, making my muscles look like they'd been shrink-wrapped in bronze. Every fiber of my lats flared as I pulled my chest to the bar.
"Four ninety-nine, fuck....Five hundred"
I didn't do this for health reasons like those boomers nor for some aspirations like becoming some firefighter or 'having the ability to rescue others when times call for it' no I did this for one simple reason. Call me shallow, but I just wanted some bitches. In a world that judges you by your cover no matter how good your pages, I was handed the equivalent to a piece of carboard wet from sewage water.
I dropped to the gravel, my feet hitting the ground with a heavy thud. I unclipped the 40kg vest and caught my reflection in a nearby puddle. From the neck down, I was a masterpiece. Six-pack deep enough to hold water, serratus muscles like knife wounds, and shoulders that made doorways a challenge.
But from the neck up?
I sighed, staring at the uneven jawline, the recessed chin, and the negative canthal tilt eyes that looked like they were perpetually apologizing for being there. I had tried it all. I'd spent thousands on skincare, spent months "mewing" until my tongue hurt, literally fingered my eyes just so they would look like hunter eyes and used every 'maxxing' trick in the book. But you can't out-train a bad RNG. An F-tier will never be an SSR.
"Today's the day" I muttered, wiping my face with a towel. "The physique is peak and the confidence is... present."
I didn't want to but I also did. I could already imagine it. I walk up to her with a gift and a cheesy ass pickup line. She laughs because it's corny and accepts. We go on a date, and on the way back, maybe if I'm lucky, our lips unite to make my dream come true. On valentine's day, I lose my v-card. 10 years later, we both relax on a beach chair, with our children running around while we reminisce of the old days. I wanted 2 sons and 1 daughter, but I'd have to ask her how many she wants.
A smile crept up on my face. "Come on man, grow some balls!" I whispered to myself. "Don't be a bitch remember, don't be a bitch"
Sarah was waiting by the fountain. She was "average"—which, in my world, was a level of beauty I could only dream of reaching.
"Leo," she said, her eyes widening as I approached. I was wearing a fitted T-shirt that was currently losing its battle against my pecs. For a second, I saw it—the spark of attraction. Then, her eyes traveled upward to my face, and the spark died like a wet match.
"Hey, Sarah," I said, trying to keep my voice in a deeper register. "I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner sometime. My treat."
She looked down at her shoes. Then at my arms. Then, with a wince, back at my face. "Leo... you're a great guy. Truly. And your body? It's honestly insane, like it's hot as hell. Like, if you were even average looking, I'd say yes in a heartbeat. Any girl would. But..."
"But I'm ugly as fuck," I finished for her.
She didn't disagree. She just gave me a pitying smile. "You can't polish a brick, Leo. I'm sorry."
And they said the worst thing she could say is no.
I walked away, the weight of the rejection feeling heavier than any barbell I'd ever pressed.
If you were even average.
That was the kicker. I had built a V12 and dropped it into a rusted-out 1998 sedan with a smashed grill. I was a man of iron discipline trapped in a face of clay.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my 'Inspiration' folder—images of models with perfect hunter eyes and jawlines that could cut glass. I was so focused on the screen, comparing my pathetic chin to the Golden Ratio, that I didn't notice the world around me had gone quiet.
I didn't hear the screech of brakes. I didn't see the light turn red.
I only looked up when a shadow swallowed me whole. A massive, chrome-fronted semi-truck was less than ten feet away, its grill looking like the grimace during a squat. Somehow even a truck was better looking than me
I looked at my reflection in the polished chrome one last time. Even now, all I could think was: My left trap is definitely lagging behind the right. What a waste of a bulk.
The horn blared, a deafening roar that shook my lats.
"Oh fuck—"
CRUNCH