You do not deny Gus Bombeater. You just don’t.
Because one day it’s 2 AM, you’re soaking in the tub, trying to wind down, and suddenly across the cosmos you hear that gravelly New Orleans drawl: “Heard you slacked three days on the squats last week.”
And here’s the thing: you already did them once. But Gus doesn’t care. He keeps the books. You missed days, you make them up. That’s the square deal.
His program is simple: Bring Sally Up squats, 3 minutes 45 seconds, every day, no exception. Sometimes with a 32-pound weight vest and 15s in each hand, because baby weight is for babies, and Gus doesn’t train babies. Add 90 seconds of sit-ups on the course — 240 seconds of straight ab torment. If you can’t crank out ten push-ups, you’re a mess, and your underpants go up a flagpole with “Pansie Panties” scrawled across the seat, the butt, initials and all, so the whole of Wargon knows who folded. And he has the gall to say it’s good for you. That’s his style of encouragement.
And don’t think sick days count. Gus forgives those. But he will sniff out any other excuse. Once I skipped, just once, and he called a bomb threat in to my apartment — turned out he was just trying to take me out to lunch. What a guy.
You may think this is violent. But Gus doesn’t get violent. He tanks violence itself. Picture it: a tank roaring down your street, Gus riding it like a limpet, proud, chewing live rounds from the turret like sunflower seeds while The Turtles’ “Happy Together” blasts from the belly of the beast. You’re the rest of the street: the cops, the fire brigade, the press — why your name is on all the paperwork. That’s what happens when you try to deny Gus Bombeater.
He tests you in stranger ways too. I was once on a first date, candlelight, normal night. Out of nowhere: Gus. Left hand, dartboard. Right hand, TNTs disguised as a box of cigars. He yells across the bar, “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” to my date, just to see if the man would shrink, fight, or smooth it over. He failed the test. The date was over. Gus insisted I do the squats at the bar, then bought me a basket of onion rings. Gus ruined the date, but saved me the wasted time. Then he made me do ten pushups in the parking lot of the bar before driving off in his tank.
But none of this is his beginning. Gus Bombeater earned his throne the day he ate the last bomb on Warplanet. When the skies were black with fire and the buzzards with dynamite, stockpiled with endless arsenals, Gus simply swallowed it all. The people made him Eternal Emperor — missiles straight down into his iron belly, each one gone before it could even rumble inside him.
And then, finally, silence. Everyone but the bullies cheered. And there were only a handful of them left, because there always are. The people made him Eternal Emperor, but not for long: he renamed Warplanet Wargon.
The first thing he did on his throne? He wept for his wife, killed in the war. He poured the weight of his love across the land. It rained for a week. The rivers washed away the scars. The planet's citizens also cried with him, blue and green tears, until the water turned sweet.
Gus remains a mystery. Semi-literate, maybe, but you can't ever tell because of his accent. He’s been seen skiing. He once drank jet fuel from a wine glass wearing a cashmere cape. He punishes laziness, but forgives sickness. Above all, he will not be denied.