Saturday, October 4, 2025

Shorts: Never Run your Mouth

 Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time. 

 


 

 Vince was new to the gym.

Not new to gyms, he clearly spent plenty of time in them. But this one? He was definitively the new guy and the lowest on the totem-pole. Despite this, and from the moment he walked in, everyone could see the difference from the average Joe or seasoned fighter. Sure, he came in looking good. He was lean muscled, sculpted like a statue, and had the kind of definition you only get from hours of treadmills, weights, and mirrors. But, in a way, that was the problem. Vince here looked great, but he didn’t look like a fighter. No, kid looked like a pretty pretty princess poster. Everything about him screamed show over substance. Likes and subscribing over form and trails. His warmups looked less like drills and more like a performance. Instagram staged, rehearsed, like he was filming content for followers instead of preparing for combat. He flexed between sets but only when someone was looking, adjusted the lighting when he thought it was even slightly off, and angled his phone just right to catch his best side. Where the other men ended their sessions plunging sore muscles into ice baths or wrapping joints that ached from decades of work, Vince disappeared into the locker room with a razor. Every trace of body hair had to go. His chest, his arms, even his stomach and legs, stripped smooth as glass. He spent longer shaving than most men did sparring. His body always had to look “on point”.

While all others who entered this gym bore sweat, scared, bruises and more like badges of honor they truly where... Vince checked mirrors between rounds. Bro just absolutely had to make super sure every strand of hair on his head stayed in place. Where men saw sweat and pain as weakness leaving the body, tot a drip of sweat on Vince was allowed to roll where a camera might catch it wrong. Only approved proper sweat was allowed. His guard, when he practiced or did drills, was neat, polished, practiced. But really, that's was all it was. A stance from a boxing video game copied for maximum effect. A pose from an old movie where the star was clearly paid to much. A grunt like he was a 80's action star. Kid moved like a live studio audience was watching, like the damn bell was just a cue for the next scene. It was obvious to everyone: Vince didn’t come here to fight. He came here to be seen. Which was a huge mistake in the long rung. You see, nothing pissed off the veterans, these men who bled and bruised for every inch of ring space, than watching a glossy show pony strut around their gym pretending to be one of them. It was, to keep it brief, bullshit.


Fitness boy belonged on a fitness magazine cover, not inside a ring.

Personal: 15 mins

Part of the personal series. Personal are short one off stories done by events inspired first by my own life, and then slightly taking a different turn that I WANT to happen. Obviously names and locations have been changed. 

 


 

The phone slammed into its cradle harder than I meant, but at this point I didn’t care. Honestly at this point, I didn't give a crap about anything. If management wanted to scold me about things like tone, manners and being approachable they could shove it. Shove it hard with sandpaper. You see, I just spent ten minutes explaining to a woman why an expired coupon from 2017 was not valid anymore, and you fu- freaking think I just told her I keyed her car in the parking lot. Worse part was, this was the easiest thing of the day. 

Customer service. Retail. What a Gods damn joke. I swear every person who comes through this line thinks I’m the king of the universe with powers to bend reality. What am I Thanos? 

  • Can I honor their expired coupons?

  • Can I adjust prices to whatever fantasy number they dreamed up last night?

  • Can I be personally responsible for shipping delays caused by a blizzard in another state?

Sure. Let me just wave my magic wand.

The worst part? Well one of the worst parts (yes with a s), it's the attitude. No one’s happy, like ever. Nobody walks up smiling, nobody says thank you. Or please. Nope, what I get are sighs so dramatic you think I just ruined Broadway for them. Oh did I mention the eyes rolling so hard I would wonder how they are still attached? Geez, one guy earlier looked at me like I just kicked his puppy because I asked him to swipe his card again. Heaven forbid someone be mildly inconvenienced. And Gods help you if you tell them no. People look me dead in the eye, like I’ve personally betrayed them, like refusing that crusty, crumpled two-dollar coupon is the same as murdering their firstborn.

Screw it, ill say it. Just fuck me.  

So yeah. When my fifteen-minute break finally comes around, that’s my time. Me, me and only me. No fake smiles, no “how can I help you today?”, no playing referee between people who want to fight over the last half price piece of shit blender. Just me, silence, and whatever cheap caffeine I can scrape out of the break room. Really anything will do, just as long as it makes the hurting stop for a few minutes. I want to sit down, stare at the wall, and feel nothing. That’s the dream, baby. Not a beach in Cancun, not winning the lottery, just fifteen uninterrupted minutes where no one looks at me like I ruined their lives by doing my job. Yeah that's me right now. I am one more sigh, one more eye-roll, one more “but the customer is always right” away from snapping.

Shorts: Never Run your Mouth

  Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be s...