I'm sorry you couldn't make it this year. Not really. Ha ha. A nine year old in this fantasy land of pumping? You'd get your little baked bean toes squashed under a free weight.
I've finally met someone who can keep up with me. You'd really like her. Nah, you wouldn't. You lack the intensity, the verve, the pure nitro in your veins, that it takes to live this life I'm in. It's like they say: GO BIG OR GO HOME. I've got that written on the wall of my gym. I stare at it as I power through the 900 rep burn out point and explode like a meteor up to 1400. These guns are ropy as hell, Danny. Ropy. When I flex it looks somebody draped an octopus on an oven-roasted chicken. When I megaload bench (amateur hour, but good for a laugh) it looks like the barbell is being held up by swamp trees with gnarly roots.
My heart pumps once per day. My blood is thick as paste. I'm changing. Let's do this. Let's do it.
I am including a picture of Rosa. She is next level. She is ready for whatever comes after this. We are into some Narnia zone, Danny. You wouldn't understand it. Beyond Harry Potter stuff. This is like, pumping, I mean, we're slowly become lions. Actual lions. I know it doesn't sound real but you'll see. We're zoo beasts. Fierce.
Danny, this is just for you. If you ever get old and you're lonely, I want you to have my tabard whenever I finish changing. Swing it over your head and me and Rosa will come out of the lockers with a big foggy cloud. We'll give you the cenegenics you need. Wars will be fought over this body, Danny. Welcome to the realm of perfection. True story.
GRANMPA + ROSA
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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