So yesterday I meant to go to the gym, I did, but we got caught up in the momentum of deep cleaning the jungles our children call bedrooms. And then it was late and I was tired.
Today I continued a little in the cleaning vein, and then I went to the gym. I vowed to go, and I went. So yay me!
When I got there, I found Helga sharpening his horns over in a corner. He lays in wait for unsuspecting
victims clients on his days off. Such dedication.
Pretty soon he moseyed over my way on his scaly little legs. They carpet these places to cut down the noise of claws clicking on the floor. I was on the DeathMaster, slogging my way through the customary twenty minutes of level 2.
“Vhat do you haff it set to?” he grunted. I told him. He looked deeply unimpressed. I informed him that I was feeling sluggish.
“Vell, if zat is ze best you can do,” he frowned at me, and returned to his horn-sharpening disappointedly.
Naturally, my pride dictated that I had to turn it up to level 3 and punch in another ten minutes.
A DROP OF SWEAT FELL FROM MY TEMPLE TO THE TREAD OF THE DEATHMASTER.
When you sweat profusely, a
demon gets one step closer to returning to whatever circle of Hell it came from trainer gets a warm fuzzy feeling. Like an angel getting its wings.
Take that, Helga!