Butch LebowitzHow to Get Your Muscle Growth Soaring, Your Skin Saran Wrap Tight, Your Veins Bulging and Your Muscle Separation Looking Like You Were Hacked Up With a Razor-Sharp Machete
The guy who sold me the vial of little blue Dianabol pills made them sound more potent than Jack’s magic beans. Awesome size. Freaky strength. Energy out the yin-yang. He wasn’t just whistlin’ “Dixie.” Once I put them into my supplement mix, I grew like a fairy-tale beanstalk—almost overnight. I’d been lifting for years and had never felt anything like the full-flush sensation of synthetic hormones rushing through my veins. I was turning into Godzilla! My traps were bulging up next to my ears, my arms were ripping out of my shirts, and I could see the raw power in my forearms crackle every time I made a fist. That’s the kind of shit that makes bodybuilders’ mouths salivate more than a juicy steak served on a beautiful fitness babe’s bare-naked booty.
My strength was outrageous too. Through the friggin’ roof! When I saw some guy’s four-wheeler stuck in a muddy irrigation ditch, I pulled over, jumped out of my truck like Superman and turned into a human jack. With the guy’s girlfriend standing by, her eyes wide with excitement, I lifted the rear end as he gunned it out of the hole. I almost ripped my arms off, and I smelled like a walking sewer afterward, but I got him out—me, one two-by-four and my juiced physique. I also got a date with the girlfriend. She asked for my number while four-wheelin’ Johnny was checking for damage, and then she called me a few days later. We went out and had a hell of a time—me, her and my juiced sex drive. Let’s face it, steroids work—in more ways than one.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m no drug addict. That was my first and last steroid cycle because they became illegal a year later. (No way do I want to get thrown in the Big House. Hell, with my firm glutes I’d be some King Kong convict’s number-one butt boy.) Besides, steroids are powerful drugs with side effects—pissing blood is some scary shit—so these days my eyes are always wide open, looking for a safe, legal edge that will reproduce the Dianabol buzz that’s etched in my memory, and I think I’ve found one that’s pretty damn close. I can’t believe how it’s jacked up my size and strength. Even the monster I train with is freaking.
His name is Bernie, and he’s one big drug-free mother—strong as a gorilla on crank, and abs carved like giant cubes of granite. He’s ornery too. I remember the time he secretly attached one end of a dog leash to my bumper and the other end to a road-killed carcass, so when I took off, the rotting four-legged corpse started bouncing around behind my car. Everyone who saw it thought I’d dragged my pet pit bull to a horrible death.
Yeah, Bernie can be a riot—if you’re into cruel humiliation. Imagine this barbarian pissed, which he was, at me, after only three weeks of an eight-week cycle on my new supplement find.
Check it out. With Lurch standing by, his friggin’ jaw on the floor, I squatted 500 pounds for six deep reps, and the next day my bench hit an all-time high. People at my gym kept walking up to us, saying how my arms and back were looking fuller and freakier than ever. Old Bernie had smoke coming out of his ears. He was more confused than a horny teenage boy looking up a transvestite’s miniskirt. I was gaining size, getting ripped and lifting like a possessed maniac.
Now, Bernie comes from a long line of cops and says if he ever catches me using shit, off to King Kong convict’s harem I go. After my 500-pounds-for-reps act he was royally P.O.’d. He even had the balls to grab my T-shirt, pull me right up next to his face and, with breath that smelled worse than the roadkill he tied to my bumper, snarl, “What the hell drug are you on, bro?”
“Sorry, bro,” I said, knocking his hands away from my chest. (It took me two tries; as I said, the dude is one big, strong mother.) “It’s not a drug, but it feels damn close.”
“Yeah, right, asswipe,” he grunted. “Remember what I said.”
Big B wasn’t convinced. My squat weight went up again at our next leg workout, and he accused me of using Deca and Winstrol. He even asked some of the dealers around the gym if they’d sold me anything. The suspicious ape uncovered nothing, of course, because I’m not on drugs—but, as I said, I sure as hell felt as if I was. I’d know that unmistakable electrifying sensation anywhere (the one where you could tear the head off a raging bull!).