Finjen

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Brock. I thought you would be sick of losing by now?” came a laugh. Brock whirled around from securing his bike to a chain link fence. His  hazel eyes narrowed to glaring slits as he saw his taunter was none other than Andre. Andre and Brock had been doing marathons for years and the young men were bitter rivals. It frustrated Brock to no end that he hadn’t yet managed to defeat the dark haired French Andre that moved like a cheetah.

The gym was peaceful, as peaceful as a gym could be with the clanging of weights, grunts of exertion from the gym members and the blaring music. Tyrone considered himself the king of the gym, as he was the biggest guy in the gym and as a result the other members gave him a wide birth to let him do his thing. Sitting at his bench curling dumbbells that were bigger than some people’s heads, Tyrone was in his element. The music of his large headphones making himself oblivious to everything other than himself.

Pete was a tall, buff, blonde haired guy, with a beard looking much like a blonde version of Lou Ferrigno from back in his Hercules days. Pete was a mechanic, the term being used lightly, as to the annoyance of his coworkers Pete was a real slacker. Pete was always on his phone or chatting up the female customers who came in, entrancing them with his bulging biceps or how his shirt strained against the movement of his rounded pecs or even with his sheer height as he beamed down at them his white teeth and pale blue eyes.