Let’s make a deal

“We may not pay Satan reverence, for that would be indiscreet, but we can at least respect his talent.”
Mark Twain

I never thought it would come to this. As a child I was active, healthy and fit as anyone, but somehow I let my body get away from me. It must have started back in college. All those late lights filled with endless rounds of pizza and beer, those long hours in front of the computer, the movies, the road trips, the sedentary living. There was always an excuse to avoid exercise; miles and miles of homework, papers, tests to study for, people to talk to, parties to attend. Somehow, I lost my fitness. Time caught up with me.
So there I was, poised on the brink of my 30th birthday, a poster-child for sloth and gluttony. No exercise in months, scarcely a physical memory to draw upon. The last time I broke a sweat was with…what was her name? In the back of my SUV… Well, it didn’t matter, there I was, fat, out of shape, lazy and lethargic. My clothes didn’t fit and my girlfriend left me, said I just wasn’t very exciting anymore. Not only that, but my doctor told me I had better get my ass down to the gym. My numbers were borderline, he said. It was time to rally, time to get my body back.
And so I signed up at the local gym. I bought the pro membership, the new workout clothes and enough supplements to feed an elephant for a year. I loaded up my iPod with high-energy rock and charged through the door. I was amped and ready to move.
Unfortunately, things went downhill pretty fast. After the first week, I was so sore I could hardly get out of bed. My trainer adjusted my sets and reps, gave me a new protein shake and some words of encouragement, but that was about it.
In the weeks that followed I tried everything to get on track. I adjusted my program, tried some new machines, tweaked my spreadsheet every which way. I read all the magazines, all the websites and followed every Facebook suggestion.
No results: all I had to show for it was a bad attitude.
Somehow I endured the frustration for a couple of months, and then one day, everything took a turn. The day started like any other– my robotic, comatose trip to the gym, my grim determination to gut out another session, like it or not, and my usual excuses for a lackluster performance.
As usual, I pushed myself through a warmup on the treadmill and staggered over to the bench and grabbed a couple of dumbbells. Lying down, I took a big breath, dreading the effort to come. Lamely, I pushed the weight up towards the ceiling, but my heart just wasn’t in it. The looming mass wobbled above my head, threatening collapse and traumatic head injury. Muscle failure came early this day and I failed to complete the reps that I had done just one week before. I sat up on the bench, racked the weights and sat back down. Depressed, I hung my head, hoping for a way out of this doldrums.
“Frustrated?”
Curious and ready for any distraction, I sat up and looked towards the voice.
Before me stood a figure of incomparable athletic stature, a chiseled marvel of muscle dressed in black pants and a tight fitting red shirt. He looked like a cross between George Clooney and Michael Jordan. His body was part decathlete, part bodybuilder, but with an unmistakable air of royalty. His posture was superb. His body fat must have been less than 1%. He had a full head of hair and a sparkle in his eye.
He was flanked on his right by a woman of strikingly improbable beauty. She looked like an Olympic figure skater, but was pleasantly buff in all the right places; she must have stepped right off the cover of a magazine.
I had noticed him before, of course. His powers in the gym were legendary. He always went to the heavy end of the dumbbell rack and hoisted the big units without grimace or grunt. Most remarkable of all, he never seemed to break a sweat, no matter how outrageous his physical achievement. Even in the midst of summer, sprinting stadium stairs at high noon. While every other trainer staggered on the verge of heat exhaustion, he just smiled with a glint of moisture on his forehead.
“So tell me, how’s your training going?” he asked. “Seems like you could use some help.”
“Yeah, you know, I just can’t take this, this body anymore. This fat, this weakness. I just hate myself. I’d do anything to get back on track.”
“Have you tried adjusting your diet? Your training program?
“Oh yeah,” I replied. “Every protein shake in the book, every periodized combination, every machine, every trainer. None of it seems to make any difference. “I’d give anything to get in shape…”
“Oh really? Anything?”
“Oh yeah,” I nodded. “The time has come to make a change.”
“You’re sure about this? You’re really willing to do whatever it takes?”
“Yes, absolutely, I’m ready. Whatever I need to do, that’s what I’m going to do.”
He leaned in closer to me now, locking his eyes onto mine and extending his hand. “Deal,” he said. “It’s all yours.”
I stared at his hand, unable to comprehend his intent. Was this guy a kook or what?
Without really knowing why, I offered my hand and shook, but instantly regretted it. His grasp was not just firm, it was crushing. I could feel my carpal bones fusing and at the same moment, a wave of nausea swept through my body as I broke into a cold sweat. My body went weak and I thought I might pass out. I struggled to withdraw my hand, but he maintained the grip, even increasing its strength before finally releasing it with a grand and glorious smile. His brilliant, perfect teeth gleamed at me and he winked.
Shaken, I excused myself awkwardly and headed for the showers. That was enough for today, I thought. Maybe I just needed a rest day.
That night, I slept peacefully and the next morning, I woke up early feeling not just refreshed, but completely rejuvenated. And inexplicably, I felt a compelling urge to head directly back to the gym. No morning stupor, no lassitude–I felt curiously strong and couldn’t wait to hit the weights and the cardio.
That morning I hit it harder than I ever had. I achieved personal bests across the board, in both strength and endurance. It seemed that I had made a quantum leap in performance, almost without trying. My body was energized and my mind was hungry for new challenges. After three hours in the gym I headed home, but I could have done more.
Over the next few weeks, I watched in amazement as my body inexplicably transformed itself. I lost pounds and inches almost every day and then started to add muscle to my frame. I could almost see the changes overnight.
My body was changing so fast, I was forced to go shopping for new clothes almost every week. At the beginning it was new pants with narrower waists, but eventually I had to have all my clothes custom made. My shoulders were getting too big for any off-the-rank clothing.
It wasn’t long before I became the talk of the gym. Even the most powerful lifters and cardio extremists began to comment on my spectacular progress. Formerly a certifiable nobody, I was regularly consulted for training tips and motivational nuggets. Even the big dogs began coming to me for advice.
And then there were the women, the gorgeous vixens that began to stalk me everywhere I went. Formerly a social lightweight, I could scarcely keep them away from me. They called at all hours of the day and night, showed up at my apartment and delighted me with every sort of pleasure imaginable.
Not surprisingly, the gym manager was all over me as well. Delighted with my meteoric rise to fitness success, he hired me into his sales department and signed me up to do endorsements. Easy work. All I had to do was show up, pose for some pictures, and head back to the weights. I was rolling.
About the same time, my phone started ringing off the hook. Every equipment manufacturer wanted me to be a centerpiece in their marketing and promotion campaign. Their favorite machine was something called “the placebotron.” I had no idea what it was or why it was supposed to be so great, but I looked great next to it and the machine sold in record numbers.
The money from equipment sales was good, but the real action was in the world of supplements, and I was the newest star. My mug started showing up on posters, brochures and catalogs around the world. I began hocking the newest miracle weight-loss formula, a completely inert formula made from the pollen of gender-neutralized Amazonian tree fungus, endangered of course.
Then I got into the diet plans. I endorsed a formula that alternated high-carbohydrate and low-carbohydrate on Mondays and Wednesdays, with high-protein and low-fat diets on Tuesday and Thursdays. It was impossible to track of course, but fortunately, I was also selling the software package that made the whole thing comprehensible.
About the same time, I started endorsing another weight-loss formula. The stuff supposedly was made from goat livers from Tajikistan or someplace. As we pitched it, these goats were known for their ability to eat absolutely anything and still remain rail-thin. I had no idea if the stuff actually worked, but I could have cared less. The stuff sold like crazy and I was rolling in profit.
Not wanting to hang with the little people down at the club anymore, I had my own personal gym built for me by a exercise equipment manufacturer. It had everything, complete state-of-the-art machines, climate controls and cardio-theatre. Not that I ever used it much. What would be the point? Go and work out for nothing? How boring is that?
Along the way, I “authored” a series of health and fitness books, which is to say, my name appeared on the cover. I never actually wrote anything, but my publisher made it all possible; I spoke with my ghostwriter on the phone a couple of times and the next thing I knew, there it was on the NYT Bestseller list: Look at Me! physical perfection with zero effort. Reviewers fawned over my elegant prose and trainers adopted my methods without question.
And then of course, there was Oprah. As everyone knows, she had finally had enough of her regular trainer and her ballooning body. She wanted action and I was the inspiration. She had me on the show and pushed my book. Before the hour was out, I was a literary superstar.
In the months that followed, my life became a whirlwind of appearances, talk shows, keynote speeches and promotional events. I didn’t even have time to go to the gym anymore. Not that it mattered. I soon discovered that training was completely unnecessary for fitness, or health for that matter. I could go for months without a workout and my body continued to glow and grow.
Even more astounding, I found that I could eat and drink whatever I wanted, as much or as little as I liked. Self-discipline became completely unnecessary and I began to chow doughnuts, cheesecake, beer and wine with abandon. Huge meals, day or night. Fast food became a standard. I even began to smoke.
My doctor was astounded and my fans were mystified. Photos and video began to circulate around the Web. There I was, playing pool in the local bar, drinking pitchers of brew and looking like a million bucks. There I was, playing blackjack in Vegas, knocking back platters of refried bacon, chased with whisky shots, surrounded by babes. Critics complained about my status as a lame role model, but who could argue with my results? After all, my lifestyle only made me stronger.
By this time I was living in a gorgeous 10 bedroom crib up in the hills and driving a Hummer and flying the world in a Gulfstream. My body just wouldn’t fit anything else. I had no time for anyone who wasn’t in the game, anyone who couldn’t amuse me with something new. I had some old friends get in touch from time to time, but I let my agent take care of them.
My body was now at the peak of its power. I weighed in at 250 pounds and body fat was nearly immeasurable. I was off the chart on all standard medical measures of health. And on those few occasions when I bothered to show up in the gym, I set new records for whatever event I wanted. I could squat a thousand and run a sub-4 mile. My resting heart rate hovered about 30 beats per minute. My marathon time was around 2 hours and I would have done better if I hadn’t stopped at the pub. According to my doctor, I was officially 50 years old, but I lived in the body of a 20 year old. I showed no signs of aging or degeneration.
The pinnacle of my success came when I was invited to Stockholm to receive the newly-created Nobel prize for physical fitness. I could scarcely be bothered with such trivialities, but my agent insisted that I go. It was a crushing bore, with all the royalty, ceremonial dinners and the like: the King of Sweden was such a fag, I could hardly wait to get away.
When I returned to the US, I was gripped by a strange sense of malaise. I found myself bored and restless. My amusements were failing me and I began to wonder about the old days and my former self.
I’m not sure what inspired me, but I wandered down to my gym, flipped on the lights and wandered up and down the aisles. Posters, mirrors and trophies lined the hall, reminding me of the early days and my struggles with my body.
Suddenly I was shocked out of my reverie by a presence in the room. A figure stepped out of a corner and faced me directly. I was taken aback, but stammered “Who are you? What are…how did you get in here?”
Security was supposed to be tight in my compound, or so I had been told. I grabbed for my phone, only to find it dead in my hand.
“Who are you?” I asked again.
He seemed so calm, not like a criminal trespasser at all, not like a burglar caught in the act. The way he behaved, it was almost as if he felt he owned the place.
I moved towards him, ready to punch or grab, but something stopped me. This was too odd, too curious. I had to know.
“You mean you don’t recognize me?” the man asked, incredulous.
I stared, taken aback and speechless.
There was something familiar about him: his perfectly tailored suit of clothes, his full head of hair and his physique, similar in form to my own.
Just then, the memory flooded back to me in a shockwave. It was the man in my old gym, the athlete with the perfect body and the cold handshake. It was him! But how could that be? That was thirty years ago! And he looks exactly the same, not a day older and in perfect health.
I was lost for words. I opened my mouth, but was speechless.
The man was obviously amused by my state of confusion.
He laughed at my befuddlement, then shook his head.
“Why the surprise, my friend? Surely you knew that I’d be back one day to collect.”
“To collect?” I replied, not understanding what he was talking about.
“You know,” he explained. “The anything. You said that you’d give anything to be strong and fit and healthy. Surely you remember the deal?”
“Well, yeah, sure, but…”
“So, there you have it.”
He walked to the nearby squat rack and racked up some iron on the bar. His movements were swift and he handled the plates as if they were made of cardboard. He racked a few on each side, then gestured to me.
“Go ahead, please show me your form.”
Normally, such a weight would have been trivial in the extreme, less than a warm up for me.
“Go ahead” he insisted.
Furious at this insult to my dignity, I walked over, set my feet into position and reached for the bar. But just as my fingers wrapped around the cold steel, I felt an excruciating pain in my lower back. Racked, I fell to the floor, writhing like a harpooned shark. My breath came in ragged gasps as I struggled to control the pain. After a few moments I pushed myself to my feet and gasped once again as I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My body was no longer recognizable as my own: My figure was fat, lumpy and weak. My skin was wrinkled and my hair was almost completely gone. I groaned in pain and anguish.
The man merely laughed at my predicament. “Normally, when I conduct these sorts of transactions, there’s a lingering sense of dignity that I can collect on,” he said stepping in close to me.
“I came for your soul, but I can see that you’ve already given it away…Best of luck with your eternal damnation.”
And with that, he was gone.