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ManaThere sure seems to be a lot of errands to run over at the beach. A lot of those errands, too, seem to be taken by that big, spooky scary muscled man with the weird head. At least he had a decently good word in thanks to all the help he gave that marine biologist lass, so at least he was.. trusted. Not trusted like a friend or a good person in the community, more of a “No, he’s not the embodiment of evil who’s here to eat your kids” kind of trusted. A good thing either way, he didn’t even like eating children.
Children devouring aside, the errand this time was surprisingly simple. When the huge, buff old man met the young buff guy, they got into a mutual understanding quite quickly, which allowed them to at least get business moving quickly enough: there’s a competition he wants to sign up but it’s kinda far and he’s too busy to go himself, since he has to stay on that 24/7 muscle grindset, which Bucket understood down to his very core. There were no more words needed to be exchanged, justifications, talks of rewards. The muscles talked for them and the muscles vouched for the young competitor.
Assuring the young man he could leave everything to him, Bucket was out of his sight in seconds, on a full sprint, towards the advertised place of sign-up. And like always, when one’s in a hurry, then there’s the biggest obstacles in their way. Though, weirdly, the sight of a giant, muscle-bound man with a jagged, cursed grin running towards them at full sprint was actually enough for them to just get out of the way. An insult or two for the hurried man, some talking about how he was scaring the children, others about how he really should slow the fuck down, but nothing that would actually stop him or even slow him down.
In a quest for the honor of muscles, nothing can serve as a distraction. NOTHING can stop a man in the righteous pursuit for muscles and muscle-related activities. Drunk teens? Avoided. Old ladies crossing the street? ..Carefully helped, they actually could slow him down, it’d be mean not to help them. The playing children? They chased him as if they were playing as heroes chasing down the big bad monster, though he eventually lost them with sheer pace. NOTHING (except that exception) could slow him down at this point.
Oh look, something that can stop him! A LINE. Thankfully, the fact that he eventually got to the line, sweat dripping off of him like rain off of a fuckin’ cloud, it meant that he’d at least get to sign up, since the line would be closed when the time limit arrived. It moved slow, but at a constant pace, which was just fine for him: it let him rest after that sprint through the city, that work-out feeling like it was a tad bit too much for a man his age.
Whatever. The sign-up was done without a hiccup (thankfully, since Bucket couldn’t read the personal info), he got the participator badge and moved at a more relaxed jog back to Jay. Once he relayed his success, a happy Jay gave him the reward promised, the men shared a strong handshake and split ways for now. Like true, new bros.
Children devouring aside, the errand this time was surprisingly simple. When the huge, buff old man met the young buff guy, they got into a mutual understanding quite quickly, which allowed them to at least get business moving quickly enough: there’s a competition he wants to sign up but it’s kinda far and he’s too busy to go himself, since he has to stay on that 24/7 muscle grindset, which Bucket understood down to his very core. There were no more words needed to be exchanged, justifications, talks of rewards. The muscles talked for them and the muscles vouched for the young competitor.
Assuring the young man he could leave everything to him, Bucket was out of his sight in seconds, on a full sprint, towards the advertised place of sign-up. And like always, when one’s in a hurry, then there’s the biggest obstacles in their way. Though, weirdly, the sight of a giant, muscle-bound man with a jagged, cursed grin running towards them at full sprint was actually enough for them to just get out of the way. An insult or two for the hurried man, some talking about how he was scaring the children, others about how he really should slow the fuck down, but nothing that would actually stop him or even slow him down.
In a quest for the honor of muscles, nothing can serve as a distraction. NOTHING can stop a man in the righteous pursuit for muscles and muscle-related activities. Drunk teens? Avoided. Old ladies crossing the street? ..Carefully helped, they actually could slow him down, it’d be mean not to help them. The playing children? They chased him as if they were playing as heroes chasing down the big bad monster, though he eventually lost them with sheer pace. NOTHING (except that exception) could slow him down at this point.
Oh look, something that can stop him! A LINE. Thankfully, the fact that he eventually got to the line, sweat dripping off of him like rain off of a fuckin’ cloud, it meant that he’d at least get to sign up, since the line would be closed when the time limit arrived. It moved slow, but at a constant pace, which was just fine for him: it let him rest after that sprint through the city, that work-out feeling like it was a tad bit too much for a man his age.
Whatever. The sign-up was done without a hiccup (thankfully, since Bucket couldn’t read the personal info), he got the participator badge and moved at a more relaxed jog back to Jay. Once he relayed his success, a happy Jay gave him the reward promised, the men shared a strong handshake and split ways for now. Like true, new bros.
