When one is focused and dedicated, time always flies by; in the blink of an eye, another week had passed.
Now, in the backyard of the Alibi Room, the abandoned warehouse Kevin once called the "Rat Poop Buffet" had completely changed its appearance.
Walking into the warehouse now, you no longer smelled mold and rat feces, but a faint scent of disinfectant.
Shane hadn't decorated the warehouse excessively. Instead, he preserved the dilapidated texture of the warehouse itself to the maximum, transforming it into a unique hardcore style.
Shane had simply scraped the exposed concrete walls once.
He scraped off the disgusting mold spots and stains, then rolled a layer of paint over them haphazardly with a brush. It was rough, but unexpectedly had a bit of an industrial flavor.
On a large section of the wall near the entrance, he had spray-painted crooked, large black letters:
—— SOUTH SIDE IRON GYM.
Below it was a drawing of a skull twisted under the pressure of a barbell.
The ground no longer showed puddles of yellow stains and caked rat droppings.
Now, a thick layer of black interlocking floor mats was spread out, extending from the entrance to the innermost part of the warehouse.
The area on the right side of the warehouse was designated as the strength zone.
A simple squat rack stood against the wall, next to two pairs of adjustable dumbbells and several sets of fixed-weight iron plates.
Although they didn't look like big-brand goods and the paint job was slightly cheap, the weight was solid, and most importantly, they were cheap.
Next to the squat rack, a horizontal bar was fixed with expansion bolts, specifically for pull-ups.
Leaning diagonally in the corner were several hollow steel pipes. Carl had picked them up from some construction site leftovers a few days ago, and Shane had repurposed them as props for "farmer's walks."
The middle was the bodyweight training zone and functional training zone.
A yellow suspension training strap hung down from a beam on the ceiling above the push-up stands.
Several resistance bands of different colors hung on a crude iron mesh board, looking like some kind of BDSM prop display rack... Of course, no one should care what it looked like as long as it worked for training.
Near the inner side of the warehouse, Shane set up a small corner as a stretching and cool-down area.
Two thicker soft mats were laid there. On the wall hung a "human muscle anatomy chart," and next to it was a handwritten A4 paper taped up:
[RULES]
NO COMPLAINING.
NO BEING LATE.
NO VOMITING ON THE EQUIPMENT!
Of course, Shane also reserved the most important shooting area. It was a mottled brick wall with the most visual impact, the place in the warehouse that contrasted most strongly with his muscles and face.
Whir... whir... whir...
With the screech of the electric drill stopping as he fixed the last metal sign with an LED strip to its preset position on the wall, the warehouse fell into post-completion silence.
Shane took two steps back, took off his goggles, put his hands on his hips, and looked with satisfaction at this training camp he had built with his own hands.
He looked around. The actual space of this warehouse was larger than he had initially expected.
According to the current layout and utilization rate, it would be no problem to comfortably accommodate a dozen people training on different projects at the same time.
If the group training classes charged by the hour became popular later, pushing these second-hand equipment bought from Temu a bit closer to the edge would free up enough space for more than twenty people to do burpees together.
After looking around, Shane turned off the warehouse lights and turned on the exhaust fan.
Keeping it ventilated was key. He didn't want his "training sanctuary" to smell moldy again before long.
He pushed open the back door connecting to the bar, and the noise mixed with the smell of beer and tobacco hit him in the face.
There weren't many people in the Alibi Room in the afternoon, just a few scattered regulars.
Of course, the bar duo—Tommy and Kermit—were sitting in their unshakeable old spots, exchanging the latest or oldest South Side gossip over their glasses.
Behind the bar, Kevin was lying on his stomach out of boredom, his fingers idly flicking a pile of beer bottle caps. More accurately, he was lying on his belly, which had visibly expanded by a ring.
In just over a week, although Kevin had strictly implemented Shane's instruction to "eat more, but drink less alcohol,"
He couldn't stand Shane's overly bland diet. Coupled with the fact that he inevitably broke his rules in the bar environment, secretly giving himself extra meals every few days—burgers, pizza, Coke, he refused nothing.
Now, the results were remarkable. Kevin was visibly rounder, and the fat on his waist had accumulated.
Shane looked at Kevin's fat and was actually very satisfied.
The "fattening" plan was going smoothly.
If this continued for another week, a standard "middle-aged beer belly" image would be complete.
At that time, training a common big fat guy into a muscle beast would be much more impactful than training someone who already had some training traces back into muscle.
"Yo, Kevin."
Shane walked over, gave him a high-five, and unceremoniously patted his bouncy big belly twice, making a pa-pa sound.
"Looking good! Keep it up. In another week, we officially start hell training. At that time, I hope you can still smile. My training is very strict."
Kevin looked up, rubbed his round belly himself, and tutted:
"Brother, I'm making a huge sacrifice for your 'art' video, you know? If you don't train me into the kind of muscle man on the poster in the end, I'll go knock on your basement door every midnight, do nothing, and just cry outside!"
"Hahaha!" Shane was amused by his words. "Sure, then I'll just take the door off and sit inside listening to you cry. I love falling asleep to the sound of crying."
At this time, Tommy, who had been listening with his ears pricked up nearby, swallowed the beer in his mouth and couldn't help asking:
"Hey, Shane. You've been messing around behind that door for days, acting all mysterious. What exactly are you up to? Don't tell me you and Kevin are planning to open a small casino in there? If there's something fun... don't forget us!"
Kermit next to him immediately chimed in drunkenly: "Right! Did you open a dog fighting ring? Or something even more exciting..."
As he spoke, Kermit showed a "I know what's up" smile, but then added, "If it's an underground dog fighting ring, I'm betting on Carl, because that kid looks like he really knows how to bite."
Listening to the nonsensical words of this bar duo, Shane rolled his eyes massively. "Shut up. The day the cops really come here to raid, I'll push you two out as examples first."
After speaking, Shane took a rag from the bar, patted the dust off his body, and then brought the topic to his own "business":
"It's not a casino or a dog ring. It's a small fitness place of my own. If you guys ever want to lose those bellies soaked in poison beer and want to train something real, you can find me anytime. I'll give you a friendship price."