AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yes. I know this part is annoying, but it is a necessity for me so the fic can gain more visibility for other readers as well. I promise I'll take this down once I reach the goal.
Again, Don't Read This!
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag:
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was already a bad sign. Tuesdays are the Mondays of people who have already given up.
Barnaby Higgins sat at his kitchen table, wearing a bathrobe that had seen better decades and eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% fiber and 60% regret. He tore open the envelope from the International Commission of Aggressive Athletics (ICAA).
"Dear Mr. Higgins," it began. "Congratulations. Due to your recent filing for 'The Backyard Horizontal Endurance Challenge,' you have been officially ranked #1 in the Heavyweight 'Lethal Slumber' Division. Your mandatory title defense against 'The Bone-Cracker' Volkov is scheduled for Friday. Please bring your own mouthguard and a notarized copy of your dental records for identification of remains."
Barnaby blinked. He had filled out that paperwork six months ago while half-asleep, hoping to get a $15 permit for a hammock.
"Linda!" he shouted toward the hallway. "The government thinks my naps are a blood sport again!"
From the bathroom, his wife's voice drifted back, muffled by a toothbrush. "Did you win any prize money? We need a new toaster."
"I think I'm going to win a fractured tibia, Linda! The guy's name is 'The Bone-Cracker.' He doesn't sound like he's coming over for chamomile tea and a light snooze."
Barnaby looked down at his physique. He had the muscle tone of a ripened brie. His "training regimen" consisted of walking to the fridge and occasionally lifting a heavy remote control. If he entered a ring with a man named Volkov, the only thing he'd be defending was his right to be buried in a comfortable suit.
He sighed, reached for his kale smoothie—which tasted like a lawnmower's nightmares—and stood up. If he was going to be a professional athlete, he needed to start acting like one.
He went to the garage, found a dusty pair of sweatpants, and prepared to do his first-ever sit-up. He managed half of one before deciding that the view from the floor was actually quite nice and that he should probably just start his "endurance training" immediately.
By noon, he was fast asleep. The Bone-Cracker didn't stand a chance.
If life were a movie, this is where the upbeat 80s synth-pop would kick in. Barnaby would be seen running up stone steps, punching frozen slabs of beef, and drinking raw eggs.
In reality, the only thing Barnaby punched was a bag of marshmallows because he couldn't get the zip-lock to open. And the only thing he drank raw was a lukewarm Capri Sun he found under the car seat.
"Okay, Barnaby," Linda said, standing in the driveway with a stopwatch and a look of profound pity. "The ICAA handbook says you need 'explosive power.' Try to jump over that garden gnome."
Barnaby looked at the gnome. It was six inches tall and smiling tauntingly. Barnaby crouched. He grunted. He felt a muscle in his lower back send a formal letter of resignation to his brain. He leaped.
He didn't so much "clear" the gnome as he did "structurally relocate" it with his shin.
"Time?" Barnaby gasped from the pavement, his face pressed against a dandelion.
"Four minutes," Linda sighed. "Most of that was you negotiating with your knees."
Barnaby realized he couldn't win through strength. If he were murdered right now, his chalk outline would be a circle. He needed a different strategy. He needed to lean into his true power: The Lethal Slumber.
He spent the next three days "practicing" his defense. He refined his signature move: The Human Speed Bump. The goal was to become so soft, so stationary, and so emotionally inert that any force applied to him would simply be absorbed and forgotten, like a polite suggestion at a PTA meeting.
He even began "resistance training," which mostly involved resisting the urge to go to the gym.
By Thursday night, Barnaby was ready. He had packed his bag: