Out of Bodybuilder Experience (part 1 of 2)

Helle Trevino wearing a sexy bikini.

“Want to hear a secret?”

Max, having just stripped down to nothing but his boxers, was about to approach Emily’s beautiful right bicep and kiss it before she unexpectedly asked this question.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. What is it?” Max Shimura politely asks. He walks right up to Emily, dressed in a sexy revealing white satin slip dress, and places his warm lips onto her hard bicep peak. He recalls her arms being 16.5 inches in circumference, but that could be when she’s in “competition shape.” Regardless, they seem noticeably bigger since the last time he saw her.

“This building is haunted. The front desk guy told me when I checked in.”

Genuinely curious, Max stops kissing her muscular arm and turns to face her. He gets lost in her gorgeous ocean blue eyes before refocusing on the conversation at hand. “Really? As in haunted by a specific ghost, or by mysterious apparitions in general?”

“By a ghost, I think,” she says. Emily Jakobsson is a 30-year-old professional bodybuilder and athletic apparel model from Sweden. Like many Scandinavian women, she has dense bone structure and the genetic makeup to grow large, impressive muscle mass. Max first saw her for a muscle worship session about 8 years ago when she was a 22-year-old powerlifter and he was a poor 20-year-old college student. The $350 he spent to see her that evening made a significant dent in his modest bank account, but it left quite an impression. He instantly became infatuated with her. Dare say, he fell in love? Max knows these sessions aren’t romantic in nature (he’s pretty sure she’s married, or at least engaged), but he can’t help but dream.

“Not sure who specifically, but he says somewhere within the halls, guests have seen the white figure of a dead woman float around in mid-air,” she says. A casual fan of the paranormal himself, Max actually wants to know more to this story. He’s not one for hunting ghosts, but if it’s right here in this very building, he definitely doesn’t need to travel far. “I haven’t seen her yet, but I’d love to!”

“Yeah, no kidding. I didn’t know this building was haunted, but I do know that this place wasn’t always a hotel. I believe it used to be an insane asylum,” Max says. “World War I era, I think. Maybe later. I don’t know exactly.”

Emily’s eyes widen. Max quickly steals a glance at her broad shoulders before returning his gaze toward her lovely face. “Seriously? That’s some top-notch horror movie shit right there!”

“Well, to be fair I think it was technically a regular hospital that happened to have a mental ward,” Max recalls. “It may have been in the basement? Who knows…”

Max places his fingers onto Emily’s sculpted pecs. She kindly flexes them in response. But she still seems preoccupied by the possibility of ghosts haunting the building to focus on giving her client a good time. No worries, though. Max appreciates Emily’s body with or without her attention being on him. From head to toe, Emily is a sight to behold. He can only count on one hand other women who’ve achieved her flawless balance of natural beauty, femininity, muscle mass, symmetry, and fun personality.

“Still, that’s quite a coincidence,” she observes.

Emily motions for Max to lift her dress over her head. He happily obliges. Wearing nothing but a creamy orange-colored bikini and stiletto heels, Emily is in full Goddess Mode. She lifts her left leg up and impressively bounces her quads up and down, mesmerizing her client. They have to be at least 28 inches around. Maybe 30 inches? Max can’t help but feel a chill go down his spine just thinking about it. He can see every striation, every individual muscle dancing in response to her flexing.

“God, you look amazing. Absolutely perfect, Emily.” She stops daydreaming and turns toward Max. She smiles to acknowledge his compliment.

“Why, thank you kind sir. I suppose I should stop talking about ghosts and instead start showing off my rock-hard body!” And with that, Emily does exactly that. Emily takes a small step back to give her room to showcase all the main bodybuilding poses. Max gets down on his knees to watch the Scandinavian Muscle Goddess in action. He reaches out to touch her meaty calves, tree trunk thighs, and bulging hamstrings. He’s always been a leg guy, in case that hasn’t been made clear yet.

“Mmmm, unbelievable. Love these legs. Love how much hard work you put into them.”

“Thanks, darling. Thank you very much. I’m glad someone notices.” She then turns around to show off her back muscles. As wide as a freight train, Max cannot fathom how a woman can be so damn large and remain as unquestionably feminine at the same time. Miss Jakobsson has achieved the seemingly impossible. She’s peerless.

“Oh, I’ve noticed. I follow you on Instagram, so I’ve kept track of–”

Out of nowhere, the lights suddenly start to flicker. Emily stops posing. Max stops regarding her immaculate figure. They both look up at the ceiling light fixture. After about a dozen rapid flickers, it finally goes out. The bathroom fan turns off. The air conditioning unit – which had been blowing in gentle warm air to heat up this small room on this late October evening – stops humming.

Darkness. Nothing but darkness and…eerie silence.

An ominous hotel hallway.

There appears to be a power outage. No need to be an electrician to understand that.

“Well, shit. That sucks,” Emily says. She walks over to the desk phone sitting on a small bedside table. “Is it just us, or has the entire building gone dark?”

“Let me check.” Max quickly pokes his head out the door to see what the hallway looks like. He’s careful not to step outside because he’s wearing nothing but boxer shorts…and sporting a massive erection. How embarrassing would it be if somebody saw that?

“Hm.”

All the lights appear to be on in the long corridor hallway. And, as a side note, there isn’t a single soul in sight. Which seems odd considering how many tourists he saw in the lobby an hour ago, milling around and chatting up a storm. So it must be just their room that’s without power.

Max closes the door. He sees Emily on the phone, speaking to a front desk staff person. She nods her head, mumbles something unintelligible, then hangs up.

“What did they say?”

“They said it’s an old building and that shit like this happens frequently,” she says, rolling her eyes. “They recommend finding the electrical panel and manually switching the room lights back on. If that doesn’t work, they’ll send over a maintenance guy to inspect what’s gone wrong.”

Great. A fucking maintenance guy showing up? That’ll ruin the mood!

Max turns back toward the door to look for the electrical panel. He doesn’t see one. Emily also starts to search. In complete darkness, it’s difficult to see anything. A moment later, she apparently finds it.

“I think this is it.” Emily pulls back a small painting of a 1920s speakeasy hanging on the north-facing wall. “It’s a weird place to put it. And why would they hide it behind a painting?”

Emily tries to open the old rusty metal door situated at eye level. It’s somewhat jammed shut, so she has to force it open with all her (considerable) strength. Once she does, a cloud of dust greets her as the door flies open.

“Oh gross! Ugh.”

Max is now standing behind her. He cannot help but admire her rounded butt. Holy shit, she must squat a lot. Or do endless walking lunges. Or both. Damn! Before he can caress it, a brown leather-bounded book drops to the floor. Emily picks it up.

“What the fuck is this? This isn’t the electrical panel. It’s some sort of safety deposit box,” Max says. He leans over to see what kind of book it is. It appears to be a diary.

“It’s a journal. It’s really old. Take a look at it,” Emily says. She opens the curtain to let in some moonlight. There’s a full moon out with not a single cloud in the sky. Max takes the diary and thumbs through it. Indeed, it’s somebody’s old journal. Emily finds her cell phone, turns on the flashlight app, and shines it on the crusty yellow pages of the diary. Max finds a random passage and decides to read it.

“My love for you is unending. It has no bounds. But society will not let us be together. I am unwell and everyone knows it. You have your whole life in front of you. You say you want to go off and fight in the war against the Germans. While you are in the trenches, I shall be here. Rotting away in my little room. All alone.” Max reads aloud.

“Damn. That’s sad. It must be the personal diary of a former patient here. You said it used to be a hospital, right?” Emily asks. Max nods his head. He continues to read:

“The world will not allow us to be together. But we are stronger than that. We are meant to be together, in love, for all eternity. If we cannot be together in this life, we shall be together in the next life. I know a witch who understands the ancient incantations. She has taught me how to give us eternal life. So no matter what happens, we will live our lives together in love forever and ever. With or without society’s approval. I love you, Private Max Kincaid. Sincerely, Emily Carroll. August 7, 1916.”

Both Emily and Max are silent for a moment, deep in thought.

“Whoa. I mean, holy fucking shit. Her name is Emily and his name is Max. Just like us!” Max whispers to Emily. She too is stunned. This shocking coincidence disturbs them both.

“This is from World War I. This Emily Carroll girl seems like a patient at this hospital. She says she’s ‘unwell,’ so that probably means she was a mental patient,” Emily ponders. “And Max Kincaid is a private, so that must mean he was in the military. Maybe he worked at this hospital as an orderly. Or maybe he was a patient as well, but not a mental patient. Just a regular one.”

“Fort Brennan is 30 miles away from here. Maybe he was injured in a basic training accident. Wow. What a find! I wonder if the local museum would want this.” Max wonders aloud.

A leather-bound diary.

“She mentions knowing a witch. Was Emily Carroll into witchcraft?” Emily asks. She takes the book, finds another random page, and reads out loud: “Today is the day we choose to die together. Our fates are bound. There is no going back. This is the path we choose. At the stroke of midnight, we will slice our throats and bleed out all the hate that has been oppressing us. All the demons that have denied us our happiness. And before our hearts stop beating, we will say the ancient incantations that will grant us eternal life. Sincerely, Emily Carroll. October 31, 1916.”

“Wow! It was Halloween night, more than 100 years ago when she wrote this. They carried out a suicide pact. Fuck! That’s intense.” Emily exclaims. By now, it’s a mini-miracle that Max has completely forgotten that he’s currently in the presence of a beautiful, scantily clad female bodybuilder. He’s seen her three times before for a muscle worship session, and usually savors every minute of it. But tonight, on Halloween Night 2020, they’re both distracted by the personal diary of a long-dead woman whose tragic story is yet to be fully uncovered.

“I’ll bet you’re right. Private Max Kincaid was either an orderly at the hospital or a patient here. They met, fell in love, and understood that their families wouldn’t approve of them being together. There’s no way his parents would want him to marry an unstable woman who was committed to an insane asylum. So they formed a suicide pact, probably went through with it, and hoped their souls would forever haunt this building, so they could actually be together for all eternity,” Max speculates. “Ancient incantations? A witch? Holy shit, that’s fucking intense.”

“I found it! The incantations, or whatever it’s called,” Emily announces after flipping through more pages of the diary.

Emily shines her phone at a slightly torn out page located at the very end of the diary. It’s written in English but seems to be Sumerian in origin. Max is no historian, but his father is a history professor at the local university. So he knows a bit about ancient civilizations. The scribbled writing is Miss Carroll’s attempt to phonetically spell out an ancient language.

“Shall we read it together?”

Emily looks up at Max after he asks this. Max doesn’t blink. A wicked smile forms across her gorgeous face.

“Yes! That’ll be fun. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Well. Famous last words, Max thought to himself. But what the heck?

“Let’s do it.”

To be continued

A Female Bodybuilder Christmas Carol (part 1 of 3)

When you picture what Bobbi Cratchit would look like, think of Hannah May Southwood.

“Sorry, my friend. But my mind is made up.”

Bobbi Cratchit, a brand new 24-year-old intern at the West Coast Bodybuilding Federation, could not help but eavesdrop on her boss’s conversation with his director of marketing. She knows this is a crucial discussion that will determine the fate of the WCBF’s female bodybuilding division. An aspiring bodybuilder herself, Bobbi’s heart sinks at the tone of her boss’s voice. She knows what’s about to happen.

“There’s nothing I can do about it. This decision has to be made,” Ebenezer Scrooge growls into the phone. “The lady competitors don’t bring in the crowds like they used to. Hell, let’s be perfectly frank, Charlie. Those ‘roided up chicks never brought in large crowds. It’s just the truth.”

“Shit,” Bobbi whispers under her breath.

Ebenezer stands up and looks out the window of his spacious office. A newly minted sheet of snow has just fallen across town, giving it a unique poetic beauty that even the grumpy Mr. Scrooge can appreciate. But he’d never acknowledge it out loud, of course. That’s not who he is.

“Listen, Charlie. My fucking mind is made up, alright?” Ebenezer pours a small amount of whiskey into his coffee cup and sips it with the delight of a powerhouse boss who doesn’t care what other people think. “Take off all mentions of the FBB Division from the website and scrub it from our social media accounts. But tell our sponsors that we intend to keep the bikini and fitness chicks. They can draw a crowd!”

Bobbi nearly snaps her pen in half in response to her boss’s sexist attitude. She has nothing against the bikini and fitness girls personally, but philosophically she’s totally offended that they’re allowed to compete in a bodybuilding contest when most of them probably couldn’t do a single pull-up to save their lives. Bobbi aspires to be a heavyweight bodybuilder like Alina Popa and Anne Freitas – which takes building a hell of a lot more muscle than any bikini competitor can even comprehend of. But her anger is outweighed by her sadness that her dreams of becoming a big-time female bodybuilder is about to get shattered for good.

A few minutes later Ebenezer hangs up the phone and downs the rest of his whiskey. He burps loudly and walks out of his office.

“You probably heard every word of that conversation, right Bobbi?”

“Of course,” she says with the fakest smile she can possibly muster. “How can I not? You and Charlie always have spirited conversations.”

Sitting at her desk near the main entrance, she’s well within earshot of Mr. Scrooge’s palatial corner office. It has a nice leather couch, a well-stocked bar, and plenty of posters of nude and near nude female bodybuilders lining the walls. He may not think much of them as financial assets, but he sure has hell seems to like how they look. It’s almost pornographic, as many outside visitors have observed over the years.

“Well, that’s certainly true.” Ebenezer scratches his salt and pepper colored hair as he peers outside the window on the opposite side of Bobbi’s desk. He notices out of the corner of his eye a familiar car park in one of the guest spots. He sighs. “But business is business. I have to do it. I’ve held out long enough, but now is the proper time to make this difficult decision. The Female Bodybuilding Division has to–”

“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but can I persuade you to change your mind?”

Bobbi gets out from her desk and approaches her boss. She may be a woman with well sculpted muscles, but she still lacks the confidence to firmly reprimand her superior. Hopefully she can use her own personal story to persuade him to change his mind…

Ebenezer chuckles condescendingly. “You can try, my dear. But you won’t. My mind is made up. I know you desperately want to one day become a competitive bodybuilder. And that’s great. I don’t want to dash your dreams. But if you’re going to do that, you’ll have to move away from the West Coast and head somewhere else.”

A power executive office.

A virtuous knock on the door interrupts their awkward exchange. Ebenezer tries to ignore it even though he knows very well who their visitor is going to be.

“Yes, it definitely appears that way. But it’s my dream to get on that stage and compete with the best women in the world. And I have some great ideas of how we can market it moving forward…” Before she can finish, the door opens and Fred, Mr. Scrooge’s chipper nephew, struts on in. He knows he doesn’t have to knock on the door – it is a business, not a private residence after all – but he does so anyway because he never wants to appear to be rude.

“Oh, uncle! Good day to you! And it’s very nice to see you, Miss Cratchit.” Fred enters the room wearing a fashionable pea coat, Seattle Seahawks beanie, and red wool scarf. “Oh, I almost forgot. Merry Christmas to you both!”

Well, it’s not technically Christmas yet. It’s still Christmas Eve. But everyone knew where Fred was getting at.

“Bah, humbug,” Scrooge mutters to himself. “We were just talking business. And you have the nerve to barge in like this, dear nephew?”

Fred is carrying a gift basket full of wine, cheeses, fruit, jams, and crackers. He places it on Bobbi’s desk and smiles at her. “How is your family, Miss Cratchit? And how old is your son now?”

“Oh, you remembered!” Bobbi exclaims. “He’s doing very well. Just started first grade this fall. He turns six in three months.” Ebenezer walks into the bathroom to pee. He has no interest in talking to his annoying nephew or hearing about Bobbi Cratchit’s pitiful family matters. The father of her child is the son of Jacob Marley, Ebenezer’s former business partner. Jacob passed away seven years ago from cancer. He battled it for several years, but it finally conquered him. Ebenezer won’t admit this to anyone, but that tragic event changed him forever. He became colder and more distant. And definitely more emotionally detached. But because Bobbi’s son is Jacob’s grandson, Ebenezer felt an obligation to give her a job at the WCBF front office as an administrative intern. He’s too cheap to pay for a full-time employee, so he just simply cycles through intern after intern so he can take advantage of their affordability.

Plus, most employees tend to not last very long around Mr. Scrooge, which shouldn’t come as a surprise to anybody.

“That’s lovely. Tell him I wish him and his mother a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,” Fred proclaims. “Wow! You’ve certainly been working out, huh?”

Today, Bobbi is wearing a short-sleeved blouse that shows off her big muscles. She began lifting four years ago after her son Tim was born. She usually wears a sweater to the office – especially on cold winter days like this – but she plans to attend a Christmas Eve party later this evening and she wanted to look “classy.”

“Thanks for noticing!”

“Well, how can I not? You look impressive. One day you’ll be a world-class bodybuilder,” Fred says. “I can sense it!”

Ebenezer flushes the toilet and forgets to wash his hands. He storms out of the bathroom and revels in being able to break to his nephew the cheerfully bad news. “Unfortunately, nephew, that’s not going to happen as long as she lives around here. I’m axing the FBB Division for good. It’s official as of today. Or more specifically, as of ten minutes ago.”

Competitors from Wings of Strength.

Fred turns toward his uncle with an exasperated look on his face. “Are you serious? You aren’t joking?”

“No, dear Fred. I’m being perfectly serious at this moment. After years of staving off this harsh reality, I’m afraid this is the time to do what should have been done years ago. I’m eliminating the women’s bodybuilding class for good. Permanently.” Scrooge sits down in a comfortable leather chair and basks in his unsentimental despotism. Fred turns to his uncle and pleads his case.

“Oh, please reconsider, dear uncle,” he begins. “The women deserve their time in the spotlight, too. They work just as hard as the male competitors, if not harder. They’re incredibly hardworking athletes who deserve to have their blood, sweat, and tears recognized. Please don’t do this, Uncle Scrooge.”

Fred’s uncle shakes his head with the look of a man who refuses to be persuaded otherwise. “Sorry, nephew. My mind is made up. I already spoke with Charlie about altering all our marketing materials to reflect this new reality. The FBB Division is a dead goose. But the bikini and fitness girls will be allowed to remain, if that’s any consolation prize.”

“Consolation prize?” Fred interjects with righteous indignation. “This isn’t about what I want. This is about fairness, equality, empowerment, and doing the right thing. Women have made an indelible impact on the history of this sport. Don’t turn your back on them!”

“Nope.” Scrooge leans back, demonstrating his power and prestige with the careless smugness of a totalitarian dictator. “My mind is made up. Business is business. End of story.”

Fred, knowing putting up a further fight would be fruitless, turns toward Bobbi and smiles at her. “Well, so be it. I hope you are able to achieve your hopes and dreams, Miss Cratchit. Even if you need to move away from my uncle’s jurisdiction.” Bobbi is crushed to hear such a nice man like Fred become such a cynic so quickly. That’s what happens when you engage in a business conversation with the infamous Ebenezer Scrooge.

“Thanks,” Bobbi says meekly.

“Well, my reason for coming here is to invite you to my Christmas Eve party, dear uncle. But I get the feeling you won’t feel charitable enough to attend.”

Scrooge laughs and stands up. “No, my dear nephew. I will not be attending. I don’t like parties. Parties make me uncomfortable. Too many people having a good time. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.” Scrooge grabs his coat and briefcase from his office and locks his office door. Bobbi quickly glances at the clock and sees it’s nearly 4 p.m. How fast time flies! “Have fun, Fred. And tell your wife I said hello.”

“I shall,” Fred begins. “If you change your mind, you know where I live. My address hasn’t changed. The party starts at 6 and will go on all night.”

“Bah, humbug. I won’t change my mind, I can guarantee you that!” Just as Scrooge is about to exit through the front door, Bobbi suddenly remembers an email solicitation that arrived in her inbox just this morning.

“Oh, Mr. Scrooge? We got a letter today from the local homeless shelter. They’re asking if we’d like to sponsor their annual year-end holiday fundraising dinner. Can I tell them yes or…”

Scrooge stops dead in his tracks. Without hesitation, he provides his answer. “Tell them not this year. No fucking way. We gave them $1,500 last year and the homeless problem is even worse. Worse! I tell you, someone needs to address the issue of this pitiful surplus population plaguing our fine town. It’s cluttering up our streets!” And with that, Scrooge slams the door shut, leaving Fred and Bobbi completely and utterly speechless.

How can a man be so cruel and unfeeling? It boggles the mind.

“Merry Christmas, uncle,” Fred mutters with much sadness.

The drive home was long and arduous for Ebenezer Scrooge. When it snows, people in Seattle become idiots and can no longer drive like civilized people. On a clear day, he can make it back to his condominium in twenty minutes flat. But today, it takes almost forty-five minutes. Bah, humbug indeed.

Winter in Seattle.

Scrooge parks his car in his usual spot and trudges toward the front door. The chilly air assaults his senses. A few neighborhood kids are building a snowman. A larger group of kids are making snow angels on a nearby baseball field. Scrooge hates the snow. And the rain. And sunshine can be a bother if it gets too hot. Basically, Scrooge hates a lot of things.

He takes his keys from his pocket and proceeds to unlock the door. But before he can do that, he looks at the brass door knocker and sees the reflection of a familiar looking man. Scrooge’s heart skips a beat.

“What? Who are you?” Scrooge violently turns around to see who has crept up behind him. He sees…nobody. How fucking strange! He then turns around and looks at the door knocker again. There is no one in the reflection. Not even Scrooge himself. The man in the reflection looked oddly enough like his late partner Jacob Marley. But that’s impossible, Scrooge thinks to himself. Of course it is, but the resemblance was uncanny. He must be exhausted from working so damn much. Nothing a short nap and a tall glass of brandy can’t cure!

Moments later Scrooge is pouring himself a glass of brandy and opening up a bag of barbecue chips. Though he is a 57-year-old man, Ebenezer still snacks like a small child. He regrets nothing. He eats nearly the entire bag. Satisfied for now, he puts the chips away back in the pantry. He knows in a short while he’ll crave actual food. But now is not that time.

By now, the sun has completely set and the unforgiving coldness of winter makes its presence felt. Ebenezer finds an old blanket sitting in the laundry basket and wraps it around his body. He turns on the fireplace. Within seconds a generous warm orange glow fills the room. Scrooge sits down in his favorite lounge chair and takes out his phone.

“What the hell should be open at this time? Chinese? Thai? Greek?” Ebenezer opens a take-out delivery app and scrolls through his various options. Nothing excites him. So he has to settle for Chang’s Family Restaurant, one of the worst Chinese joints in the city. It isn’t bad on its own, but it certainly doesn’t satisfy his desire for a nice juicy steak. So stir fried green beans and noodles will have to do for tonight.

He makes his order and sees his dinner should arrive in 22 minutes. Fantastic. Scrooge turns on the TV to see what’s on. Nothing much except for a college football bowl game featuring two teams he doesn’t care about. After flipping through channel after channel chock full of God-forsaken Christmas cheer, Scrooge opens Netflix and peruses through whatever terrible options it has to offer. More of the same. More Christmas. More dreadfully happy people enjoying this superfluous commercialized monstrosity of a holiday.

Bah, humbug.

Scrooge turns off the TV in disgust. He checks his phone and sees his dinner will arrive in 19 minutes. Can time move any slower?

Perhaps it can. Scrooge leans back in his chair and sighs. If there’s anything in the world he hates more than Christmas and holiday cheer, it’s having to wait a long time to satisfy his hunger. Scrooge is not a man who is accustomed to waiting. Whatever he wants he gets. Immediately. It’s been like that his whole life. A great example is how his first marriage came to be. Gail was her name. She was a rising star in the bodybuilding industry, having graced the covers of several magazines and appeared in a few documentaries and television commercials. He had to have her. No one else could. Scrooge remembers the first time they met. Gail just wrapped up a photoshoot with a well-known photographer. It was at Venice Beach in 1989. He was a young scout recruiting new athletes to join the newly established West Coast Bodybuilding Federation. She wore a revealing red bikini and looked radiant. Scrooge approached her boldly and asked if she was interested in turning pro. She blushed and replied enthusiastically “yes!” He was lost in her deep blue eyes, unable to think or complete a coherent sentence. He could not stop looking at her magnificent body. She had a lot of muscle but had the potential to build so much more. She just needed a few more years and a better personal trainer who knew…

A knock on the door interrupts Scrooge’s trip down memory lane. He looks at his phone and sees 20 minutes have passed. Did he fall asleep? Scrooge could have sworn he only closed his eyes momentarily. Surely he didn’t take a nap without intending to!

Chinese takeout food.

Scrooge gets up from his chair and heads to the front door. He greets the delivery man, a youngster in his early 20s who looks annoyed that he has to work on Christmas Eve. Ebenezer pays the kid and slams the door shut, locking it with authority. Soon, Ebenezer returns to his favorite chair and eats in silence. The green beans were fine. Not the best, but not the worst either. But it was the noodles that pleasantly surprised him. They’re much tastier than he was expecting.

After he finishes eating, Scrooge looks at the huge pile of dishes sitting in the sink and scowls. He doesn’t have any inclination to clean up after himself. It’s a holiday, after all! Can’t he be lazy just for one day out of the stinking year? Yes, that’s perfectly okay. So he decides to take a real nap instead of an accidental nap. That’ll cap off this frightful evening…

Within moments, Ebenezer Scrooge falls asleep for real.

He cannot remember if he dreamt of anything. But something startled him awake. Something was happening downstairs. There was a loud clanking sound repeating itself again and again on the bottom floor. Scrooge opens his eyes and sits up. The noise continues unabated.

“Is that…someone deadlifting?” Scrooge asks himself. He knows this is absurd, considering he’s the only person in the house. And he doesn’t have a personal gym downstairs. Ebenezer gets up and picks up a baseball bat sitting on top of a pool table. In “attack” position, Ebenezer cautiously walks down the stairs to investigate the source of this unexplainable cacophony. Once he reaches the ground floor, he notices a light shining in the living room. Scrooge raises the bat high in the air before pouncing toward his intruder.

An ominous light creeping behind a door in a dark hallway.

“You there! Get the fuck out of my house, asshole!”

Just before his eyes can adjust to the light, a familiar voice replies to him.

“Ebenezer, cut it out old friend! You said I was welcome into your home anytime I was in the neighborhood,” the voice beckons. Scrooge lowers the bat and drops it to the floor once he is able to comprehend what is in front of him. Sure enough, sitting in the middle of his living room is a makeshift home gym. He could have sworn none of this existed an hour ago! He sees a bar with four 45-pound weights on each side lying on the floor. And sitting on a bench is the figure of a man Scrooge had known for decades.

Jacob Marley, his old business partner!

“Jacob! I must be dreaming. You can’t possibly be alive,” Scrooge observes in a daze. Jacob – if that’s what this apparition can be called – appears to be working out…right in Scrooge’s living room. He’s just got done deadlifting 405 pounds for who-knows-how-many reps. Very impressive. Jacob was always a gym rat at heart. He just sort of abandoned it later in his life and substituted going to the gym for snorting cocaine, partying all night, and heavy drinking. It’s what ended up killing him, unfortunately. His liver couldn’t handle his over-the-top lifestyle and became too sick to function.

“I’m not,” the apparition replies.

“Then…who are you?” The ghost blinks.

“No, no, you dumbass! Ask me who I was!” Taken aback, Scrooge swallows his pride and does as the ghost tells him to do. After all, it’s a fucking ghost he’s dealing with here.

“Alright, you prick. Who were you, then?”

The ghost, seemingly satisfied with getting everyone’s vernacular on the same page, takes a few steps toward Ebenezer. He backs up with fear.

“In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.”

Ebenezer stands still and ponders what the ghost has just told him. He wonders if he’s still dreaming or if that Chinese food he ate was secretly spiked with LSD. Maybe this is what happens when you don’t leave a generous tip…

“You don’t believe me, do you old sport?” Jacob asks.

“Of course not! You’ve been dead for fucking seven years! There’s no way you’re still alive. This is just a fucked up dream, that’s all.” Just as Ebenezer was about to turn away, Jacob picks up the bar with one hand and tosses it across the room. Instead of smashing his coffee table into a million pieces, it instead disappears into thin air. Nevertheless, Ebenezer lets out a gasp when it happens.

“What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your own senses? Why do you doubt your senses?” Jacob floats toward Ebenezer and stops right in front of him. Up close, he looks as real as a freshly trimmed hedge. Refusing to back down, Ebenezer ignores the philosophical implications of the existence of ghosts and addresses his old friend directly.

“Because,” says Scrooge, “A little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheat. You may be an undigested bit of beef broccoli, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone chow mein. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!” Unconvinced, Jacob demonstrates his “realness” by picking up Scrooge and wrestling him to the ground. He pins Ebenezer to the ground and nearly chokes him. That’s enough to persuade him that Jacob is, more or less, real. “Alright, you fucking asshole! I get it, you’re real. God damn.”

Both men stand up and Jacob wipes off sweat from his brow. “Good. Because I’m as real as I’m going to get in this current reality. You’re probably curious why I’m appearing before you. Right?”

“Yes, of course,” Scrooge says.

“Good. Well, it appears the Powers That Be aren’t too happy with you. Especially since you’re planning to discontinue the Female Bodybuilding Division for good.”

“Oh shit. Is that what this is about? Mother fucker!” Scrooge leans against the wall and groans. “Why the fuck do the Powers That Be, or whatever the hell they want to be called, give a rat’s ass about what happens to the fucking Female Bodybuilding Division? It doesn’t make money and has no hope of ever making any money. Alright?”

Jacob Marley drinks from an imaginary water bottle. “True, but it can in fact make money and become really successful if you give it a chance. If you rebrand it. If you take my daughter-in-law’s advice.” Scrooge stands up straight.

A nice looking home gym.

“Well, this is fucking fantastic. You can hear my private conversations. Yes, you’re right that Bobbi mentioned she has some ideas of how we can make the FBB Division more successful. But I’m not convinced it’ll work. It’s not even worth a try…”

“Not worth a try? Oh come on, Ebenezer. That’s not the Ebenezer Scrooge I know. The real Scrooge loves muscular women. Almost too much,” Jacob smirks. “Your first four wives were all bodybuilders, were they not?”

“Of course they were!” Scrooge begins. “I love them as partners and lovers. But not as business commodities. I know it sounds harsh, but that’s how the real world works. There’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“Hm, I somehow doubt that’s the real reason. I think you’ve ignored your entire life just how important female bodybuilders are to you, your industry, and the world at large. Thankfully, I’m here to change all that!” Jacob rises into the air, with a brilliant white light filling the entire house. Scrooge squints in response. “More specifically, my friends are! You will be visited by three spirits. The first will arrive at the stroke of one. The other at two. And the third at three. Heed the lessons they teach you! I died a bitter man with lots of regrets. I drank and did lots of coke because it filled the void in my soul. Don’t make the same mistakes I made!”

The ethereal light gets brighter and brighter. Eventually, Jacob Marley’s body disintegrates into a fine white powder that looks ironically like the same kind of white powder he’d frequently snort off the butt cheeks of Brazilian supermodels. Within seconds the room returns to normal. The home gym disappears into the ether. The light is gone. Jacob Marley is no more. The house is dead quiet.

Scrooge remains frozen. Absolutely stunned. He cannot believe what he just witnessed. But he gets the horrid feeling that the fucked up shenanigans are just getting started.

Continued in part two