Canyon High School’s Mythic Bruiser

You had just stepped onto the concrete plaza of Canyon High School, a fourteen-year-old bodybuilder armed with a cafeteria tray loaded with a burger, a salad, and a milk carton—your pathetic nod to nutritional balance. You devoured your lunch in monk-like solitude, your pockets clinking with ten Argentine beef liver tablets, swallowed like they were Tic Tacs of the gods. The cafeteria’s noise faded as you retreated to the shade of the overhangs, the lockers looming behind you like post-apocalyptic filing cabinets.

Then came the charging beast.

A teenage mass of muscle and menace barreled toward you like a linebacker with a vendetta. His head was absurdly wide, shaped more like a boulder than a skull. His black sweatshirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that looked like they’d been sculpted out of poultry—two Thanksgiving turkeys in full flex. His hands were sausages wrapped in leather, his calluses more rugged than your self-esteem.

“Hey, shit sack.”

You flinched. This was Falco Labroni—the school’s mythic bruiser. You’d heard the tales. Now you were living one.

You managed a nod.

He eyed you like you were a science experiment gone wrong. “You look like a sad excuse for a bodybuilder.”

“Sorry,” you muttered, like a kid caught microwaving a fork.

“So, you work out, huh?”

You nodded again, trying not to visibly shrivel.

Falco snorted. “You look like you should be running track, not pushing iron. You’re doing everything wrong. You need to check into a hospital, get fed through a tube, and save your calories with an electric wheelchair before you can rejoin humanity. You might be the worst thing to happen to bodybuilding since pink dumbbells.”

You looked down at your frame. Okay, maybe you were a bit slim. But still…

“I wear extra-large shirts,” you offered.

“Who cares about your damn shirts? You’re a disgrace to the international bodybuilding community. What’s your diet?”

You recited your list like a desperate catechism: eggs, steak, chicken, brown rice, bananas, peanut butter, whey, fruits, veggies.

Falco looked like you’d just admitted to eating cat food. “Forget the steak—eat the fat. Open a can of fruit cocktail, toss the fruit, chug the syrup. That’s the path to greatness.”

He zeroed in on your neck.

“Why’s your neck so scrawny?”

“No clue.”

“You ever try trap squeezes?”

“No.”

Falco then described a sadistic exercise involving sky-staring and daily two-hour neck contractions. You gave a half-hearted nod, already certain you’d never do it.

“Who’s your favorite bodybuilder?”

“Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“Good. Anyone else?”

“Frank Zane.”

Falco recoiled. “Frank Zane? That elegant pencil-neck? He’s not a bodybuilder—he’s a decorative lamp.”

“But his proportions—”

“Remarkable proportions? Jesus. Don’t ever say that again.”

You stood your ground. “He’s in my top three. Serge Nubret, too.”

Falco leaned in. “You know who I am?”

“I think so.”

“Then don’t throw these artsy names at me.”

“You strike me as more of a Sergio Oliva guy.”

His eyes lit up. “Now you’re talkin’. But I want to be bigger than Sergio. I want to evolve beyond humanity. Grow gills. Be the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I want people to faint when I take off my shirt.”

The bell rang.

You grabbed your books, feeling like Atlas with a paperwork burden.

Falco looked at you like he was almost amused. “You one of those students?”

“Trying to keep up a GPA.”

“So you’re one of those assholes.”

You nodded. “Apparently.”

“Cool. Meet you here tomorrow.”

Thus began your strange friendship with the school’s resident man-beast. Freshman Rick Galia later gave you a full hour-long tutorial on how to survive high school under the gaze of Falco Labroni. You took notes.