2019-10-04 - Sweat, Boo Koo and Roids

It was late, certainly, but not late enough. At least not enough to consider this figure in the black of night a criminal, but the more inclined to wariness could perhaps summarize that he was up to no good. This time - this one time in particular - the shadow wasn't a real evil, but Nasir. As he neared the gym's front, neon lights flickered distented radiance upon his body, a line of red across his face; a line of blue across his chest and yellow across his stomach. They flickered, because why wouldn't they? And so his features came from the black to light as the letter 'y' from 'gym' tittered into a short-fusing after the recent fire.

He wore a long, cyberpunk jacket coat with a felt-padded neck, it flared up. Why so? Well, as to display the words sewn into the brim, proudly displaying on its back 'Shithead' in militarized letters. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing incredibly tense arms hashed in hair as black and gingered as that on his head. He wore knuckled gloves, without coverage on the fingertips, and the right hand pressed by its wrist up and against his shoulder, where a duffel sports bag clung to his midknuckles to hang from his back. Cargo shorts colored olive, and some black flip flops that showed those hairy toes. He looked disheveled, some, when walking into the much more soothing lobby light of the Gym's front, and past the rustic doors that lead inside. That's right, no counter- nothing to greet him but a long hallway into a metallic door that welcomed him to the dingy mess of the fire's aftermath inside.

He had been here the past week, at this time hour- late enough so most left, and only the the hardcore remained. He wasn't hardcore himself, but things had to rub off eventually, no? It's how it worked, the fit bug. As he entered, he ran a finger across the door's surface, letting that sulphuric cling dirty the tip, letting him eye it in thoughtful silence. "The fixing's going slow," he mentioned to no one in particular while finding himself a locker. He threw the jacket off his form, folded it carelessly and threw it in.

After sparing a good few moments in seeing the lingering crowd, he pressed two earbuds into each ear from his phone and made way for a speed bag while mashing its buttons, most likely fitting it for a song.

Abby is here for her yoga. Look, those could be yoga pants she's wearing. They're leggings, but still. She's also wearing a thick gray hoodie over a blue tee, and silver running shoes. But she's not yet doing anything yoga-like as she strolls up to the gym at this time of the evening, car parked not far outside. She's also got a small backpack, due to a lack of pockets on the leggings. The hoodie does have pockets, where her hands are tucked away. Nothing visibly skitters out of them.

Abby stops once she's inside and just looks around, like she's mostly curious about the fire damage to the place, studying the emptier areas, and the ceiling and the walls in a search for... who knows, structural damage? She hums to herself and finally wanders in a little further, pulling a hand out of a pocket, holding her phone. She scrolls with a thumb, giving it a thoughtful look, then looks around again, a quiet smile already on her face in preparation, ready to flash brighter should anyone look her way.

Joey looks a bit like hell, but he's piled himself in his office in a sweatshirt and shorts and seems to be following up with trying to jot a few things down. When Nasir comes in his hand lifts in a silent greeting. When Abby comes in it's pointing to the floor as she walks by, "Hey, don't step on my note." Someone is crabby, but for getting stitches and the flu AND having his gym catch fire his scant ability to 'people' has been shot. He squints a look to Abby sounding hoarse, "Yes we got floor space. If Erin sent you to ask me about gymnastics the answer is nooooo."

Nasir wouldn't happen a glance upon Abby until some things were out of the way. Indeed, there was a certain amount of pent-up anger and stress in the way he moved towards that speed bag; in how his shoulders remained stiff even when his feet did a smooth back and forth until it was reached. He flexed his palms on the way there, after fitting his tune - something punkish, which made his earbuds resonate with a loud, reverberating sound that'd certainly explain a degree of deafness in later years. The gym was relatively quiet at the time, it mostly filled with people changing weights on bars and doing more bodily exercise; squats, crunches and the sort, so when he began hitting that speed bag the sound itself ushered through the gym repeatedly.

His form, however, was amiss. His punching constantly went out of sync, and the bag flattened into the wall and back into his face more than once in three hard thwacks. Each time, the sound of hard leather into dry skin announced his failure to anyone witnessing. Naturally, as three times wasn't quite enough to learn the lesson, after another failed back and forth of fist where he missed his imaginary take on Balboa's own technique he was thwacked thusly, send back into one singular, staggered step.

"Fuck this piece of shit!" he cursed aloud, pulling his earbuds off furiously to let them hang on their short cords off his left pocket, where the phone resided. Even if it was a failed attempt, on a failed technique, the speed and pressure in which he worked the bag made his limbs perspirate some, leaving them covered in a brief sheen visible under the dim light.

Within that cursing, and the bellicose swing of face to his right, there she was, Abby. Shit, yes; there, closer to the door than himself. He widened his eyes momentarily, feeling a sudden shroud of shame befall him after what he presumed was being witnessed in a moment of weakness - if she had even noticed at all - and he kept quiet on the spot, like rabbit playing dead.

"Oh, sorry!" Abby flashes Joey a friendly smile and gives the note on the floor some excessive room, drawing a wide curving path around it. "What?" She reacts to Joey's remark by stopping, eyebrows shooting high, a politely expectant look on her face. "Gymnastics?" She asks, with her hands coming up in a half shrug, signalling she has no idea what Joey might possibly be talking about.

The thumping sound of a fist hitting the bag does draw her gaze aside, a quick glance spared for Nasir. It's a brief thing, her attention back on the man she's talking to, but then the cursing catches her attention again and she turns. There's just a small tilt of her head and a friendly smile, brow knitting slightly above her eyes in faint and uncertain recognition for a moment.

Joey just stares and when the confusion surfaces there's a grunt of agreement. "Good." Cool. This is not about that. All is well. Three fingers rise to rub at one eye praying this damn migraine stops and when the speed bag cuts lose from the athlete at large he sighs. Man the flu is doing zero for the generally abrupt but fair brute that prowls around the gym. Tired he hollers hoarsely back to Nasir, "Fucking-A, it's not a race! You try to hit something while it's not there you overextend, leave yourself open, and it comes back. You wanna fight something you gotta wait for it to show up. Anything else is wrestling." And that is setting his migraine into thump-thump-town. "Hey, Abby. We replaces the lights in teh gal's changing room so it doesn't look fucking haunted. Ya welcome."

"Gymnastics?" Nasir asked from the distance, not quite sure what to make of Abby's friendliness- it seemed rehearsed, to him; forced from politeness, and all-encompassingly that only made him frown. And yet, frowning was just his natural state of being. As, indeed, a frowny face. He reached down for the stack of earbuds, spooling the cabling with his fingers to slowly punch them into his pocket. His sweatshirt took better form as he approached the pair, careful himself not to step on the note, to reveal the logo set on its front. A comically drawn huntsman spider walking into a fenced bug zapper, electrified and having its leg half-way turned into charcoal.

"What the hell's gymnastics?" he finally reiterated after nearing the pair, with both of his palms pressing together in front of his navel. He didn't look like total shit, no- his red beard wasn't exactly groomed properly but the sway of hair and the attempt was there. Scruffy and scraggly. He had chosen not to assert Joey's lesson until at respectable distance, and that distance had been achieved just then; "Look man, I appreciate you're trying to help me, but I don't think you're going to teach me anything with your partiality for talking to me hypothetically on how I'm hitting a fucking bag, and all," he argued back, yet 'arguing' wasn't perhaps a fitting word for his snappy response. He was cool, and kept to a certain degree of dudebro smoothness in how he spoke before continuing; "Why don't we go to the actual bag and you show me some technique? I used to hit it before I deployed all the time, but everything boxing related's just alien to me right now, again, so I shouldn't take long to get back into things," and with that, Nasir looked over shoulder and towards the bag itself, pointing at it with a thumb.

Come some seconds, he asserted his gaze back on Abby, and made use of a hand to motion to her lazily with a finger. "Abby, right? Marion's friend-- girlfriend? Acquaintance? I don't know, they never said anything. They never do."

"Good," Abby mirrors Joey's conclusion with just a hint of a twitch of amusement at the corners of her mouth, still confused but taking it all in stride. And since Nasir also asks about gymnastics she's forced to shrug again, this time flailing her hands a little higher for emphasis, before offering her best answer, "There's a lot of tumbling? In my experience there's a lot of faceplanting too, but that was over a decade ago in gym class. So maybe I magically got better at it." She scrunches up into an expression of doubt, but that melts into an amiable smile again just a moment later, though she pulls it back once she takes in Nasir's expression.

"No gymnastics. I'd just heard from a friend that you were going to have more regular classes and - well, she was thinking of signing up. I'd heard there was a fire so I just thought I'd come by to see how the place looked and then I drove by and saw it was open and then I thought I might as well peek in," Abby talks to Joey, gesturing at herself, at the door, and all around. Then she sniffles a little. "But that's good to know. About the changing room, I mean."

She looks to Nasir and her smile warms up again. "That's right! Oh, no, not girlfriend. I'd only really just talked to -" a pause, a milimetric eyebrow rise, a quick course correction, "-them that day. I'd seen them play baseball in school, though. I'm from Elma, so our school played yours a couple of times."

Joey turns to Nasir and just raises an eyebrow. If there is anything renown about Joey Kelly it's he's always ready for a fight, He doesn't waste words or sentiment, and he cut his teeth in this gym. Casually he says with all evenness, "Well one of us isn't getting hit in the head with the god damn bag. You listen to what I'm saying you won't be either." His hand gestures to teh speed bag, though how the hell he's on his feet might be pure tenacity along.

Waving a hand to Abby he warns, "Getting over that fucking fever. Don't come near me. Everyone called in sick or haunted." God he even sounds tired. Looking around he murmurs, "Yeah, Clayton helped me get it out. We'll live and be back to full. Ring ain't cheap but we'll be a'ight."

Nasir wasn't nearly as clear-cut as Joey was, right there and then, where he clung on that sheer grit of his. This Arab was tired, and his expression was the kind that failed to sustain any perplexity, and that's what he felt at the reply. "Fuck," he'd murmur, exhaling an exhausted release of air before a beat. "Alright, explain to me again, wait for it to come, I go with it, swinging-- alright, so what you're saying is, I need to pace my hits with the bag as it goes back and forth? I tried that, but my rhythm makes the return trip different each time. It's like I'm hitting it too hard at times and hitting it too weak at others, so I fuck up the bounce. Yeah, that's right, like a basketball or something."

He did his best to keep an eye-to-eye stare with Joey as he explained, for it was a matter of respect; this was a gym, after all, and Nasir while indeed taller he wasn't nearly as vascular as this man before him, and a brief glance towards this notion humbled him enough to speak simply and directly on the matter. "So, what the fuck happened man? Some fire, shit went down, something with the pipes? Gas' been coming out weird lately, maybe," he'd add, the question made with a brow risen higher than its counterpart - the right one - which looked oddly different to the other due to the scar that bridged through it, ridding it of hair at the center.

The question made him seek answers from Abby herself, for she certainly must've had knowledge on the fire-related affairs, Nasir's assumption obvious with how inquisitively he looked at her then. "Marion rarely talks about things like these. They like to let others do the talking-- either way, Elma, shit, no wonder we've never met. A bit far-- you're a doctor, right? Nurse, or something, know anything about the fire?"

"I'm hoping I'm not coming down with it," Abby says in response to Joey's warning, wincing slightly, only to sniffle a moment later. "I never catch these things," she declares nonetheless, chin up, putting some extra confidence in her voice. Modern medicine be damned, she will resist it thanks to the power of positive thinking.

Abby nods to Nasir next. "Hmm. Well, I came here a bunch times when I was a kid. But... I suppose there's more reasons to come here from Elma than to go to Elma if you're from here," she admits rather cheerfully, then gives him a thoughtful look, "I'm a nurse at Addington Memorial, but no. I'd just heard there was a fire, too."

Joey sways on his feet and stops holding up a hand and really focusing, pointing to Nasir. "THat's... yes. Just like dribbling abasket ball. It's about rythem and waiting for it to get in range for you, not to chase it. Should never swing back past... vertical." Which is wht he looks like he's struggling with . Yup here's to leaning back to the door.

Murmuring to Abby eh utters, "Girl, you don't want this. I don't say that often... but today? Today I do." Looking back to Nasir he murmurs, "Yeah it was a real shitshow for me last week. Started with stitches and ended with my lights catching my damn gym on fire."

His eyes closed then, and remained so, while his chin rose up and leftwards in a perplexed expression. Once settled, he opened them, yet only to blink a couple of times with a subtle, sardonic smile on his face. "The lights?" Nasir finally echoed, more than simply confound by the prospect. "The lights," he repeated, taking one measured step away from Abby and Joey in order to look up; to gaze at the ceiling, and be studious of the process they took in seeing them changed. The quality and voltage of the bulbs, the type of lamp; the framing work, and the way the wires were connected to what he assumed was a new and poorly put together circuit breaker.

All of this, he studied- this was his field of work, after all, and his gaze took on an inspired, driven interest as such calculations took formula in his head and gave him answers, yet mostly questions, one which he'd propose to Joey soon after meandering back to the pair. "A fire. I'm assuming someone must've fucked with the fuses and re-arranged them wrong when putting them back together again. You know what, man? I want you to take me to your power panel. Show me where the cable comes in from the street, too-- I saw the work outside on the post, it's a fucking mess. I could go up there and fix that shitty puzzle the electrician left you, too," each articulation from Nasir was one of knowing, and there was an unhidden confidence with his explanation, even if it did make his features appear more serious than necessary.

"For a price, of course. Man, I'd have to check the current, and you're probably missing out a few fuses too, unless you had another guy come by and check, but I assure you, he's not as good as me," he felt it necessary to re-assert it, and did it this time with looking at Abby; "No one's as good as me when it comes to fixing shit," he'd reiterate, finally holding out his palm towards the woman, yet he addressed them both in the presentation. "I'm Nasir, by the way. Nice to meet you to both."

Abby furrows her brow in response to Joey's murmur. "What, the flu?" Her smile flattens out slightly for a second before she pipes in. "Well, I don't ever want the flu," she tosses out in a light-hearted joking tone, but gives him a look of sympathy, "Must be the nasty strain that's going around this year. We've had a few at the hospital. It does sound a little more aggressive than usual, I'm sorry. That's why I'm hoping I just have a cold. I'll - probably come by to ask about those classes another time. When everyone isn't sick."

"I'm Abby," she returns the introduction, only to add with a tiny, playful grimace. "But you'd heard that. I'm glad to see you're doing well!" Compared to the other day, probably, but she doesn't say it.

Joey looks up with a glance and considers all that happened and the man's sheer balls at bringing business to the forefront. That? That gets a positive response out of him on the direct approach. Contractors he can talk to all damn day. "Yeah, hell man I mean nothing's fucking free. Work me up a good quote and tell me cash or trade. I dunno this place has been checked out in the last eighty damn years. I mean Clayton said the rest looked good but he's a snoop, not an electrician. But yeah. Lemme know if you want to do cash or trade. We'll work something out."

Joey looks to abby and lifts up his shirt just high enough to show what was stitches is now a healed pink line. He promises, tiredly, "Yeah, ya did good. well. She did. Ribs n' burgers is starting to do better I think." He means the woman in the cast. "Not often I get sick. Kinda crushed my immune system or whatever. " yeah he's a bit bitter about it. The sweatshirt is pulled down and wheels on gravel bring the afternoon shit rolling in looking like he's happy to be on with his cocky self. World, meet Duarte.

The supposed electrician waved a dismissive hand at the prospect of payment, and budget, looking briefly to the right while ruminating briefly before looking once again towards Joey. "Any price I tell you right now won't cut it. First I've got to address the state of your cable net, check how's the shitter looking outside when it isn't night, and find out how much we're going to have to replace, which naturally's coming out of your pocket," he finally elaborated, yet made sure to only come up with the answer long after him and Abby had exchanged their flu-related affairs. He knew nothing about it, truth was, and it showed with how little he went into detail with it.

"Hey, about that," happened next, with his left palm reaching up to see some nails deep into his hair, raking at the incredibly messy mane of black and ginger curls on a nervous back and forth. "Some guy, right?" he excused, giving a brief motion to Abby with an open palm while his eyes, while not entirely closed, did look between Joey and her- after all, while hers was the implication, he felt a need to explain himself to the two. "Met him at the Pourhouse, and he had some disagreements with me. One thing led to another, slurs, whatever, insults; fists went out, and-- and, y'know," hesitation was the way then, and he pursed his lips, shuffled his feet and re-adjusted the distribution of his weight on his legs on a left and right tilt, finding the implications of the story too shameful, on what they said of his character. "I'm not violent, okay? I don't go around hitting people. Sometimes, though, you black out- had too much to drink, got too much shit from someone, you know?"

With a soft huff, he let the "you know" hang in there, and he looked searchingly between the four eyes he ascertain could've very well judged him on the matter just then, but he mostly looked for Joey- something about his physique inspired bravado, and he followed with an open palm towards his direction. "You know what I mean, right?"

Joey shakes his hand and responds evenly, "Nah, usually I'm stone sober when I do that." he's not going to pretend otherwise. He might be tired and breaking a sweat standing there but that's what Purell is fucking for. Joey doesn't stand to impress but even at rest his stance is solid, and his bulk compact and body language minimal, fluid, and has a point leaving energy unwasted in that general regard. He speaks, gruff words, even tone, not at all trying to impress it is simply his manner. "Fuck, dude someone wants to step up on you then shut that shit down. Course i'm a fucking white dude so they ain't gonna give me the same shit for it as they will you so... yeah that sucks. Now, what ya ought t'do..." A faint grin forms when he adds, "is call my ass. I love ending some bullshit."