Kyle built his own squat rack out of two-by-fours and deck screws, which he announced in the group chat with a photo and the caption “commercial gyms are a scam.”
The photo showed a structure that leaned slightly to the left, like it was already tired.
“That’s not a rack, that’s a suggestion,” Marcus texted back.
Kyle ignored him. Kyle always ignores him. It’s tradition.
Monday was PR day. Kyle loaded the bar, chalked his hands like a man about to defuse something, and set his phone up to film, because if a disaster isn’t recorded, did it even happen?
He unracked the weight. The rack made a sound. Not a creak — a decision.
The left upright folded like a lawn chair. The bar tipped, the plates on the right side slid halfway off, and the whole barbell rolled slowly across the garage floor with the unstoppable dignity of a parade float.
It stopped against the beer fridge. Empty fridge, thank goodness. Kyle had drunk it empty on Saturday “carb-loading.”
Kyle stood there, hands still in lifting position, holding absolutely nothing.
“Cut the video,” he whispered.
His spotter, Dewayne, had been standing three feet away the entire time, eating a sandwich, completely unhelpful in the exact way only a best friend can be.
Kyle’s joined a real gym now. He pays forty bucks a month to use their rack, which has never once made a decision. He says it’s worth every penny. The group chat disagrees, but the group chat has the video, so the group chat wins.
The video is now the group chat’s most-watched clip. It has a slow-motion replay. Somebody added commentary. Kyle’s rack is now a very sturdy-looking tomato trellis, which is honestly a promotion.
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