Mike Mentzer, R.I.P.

Anderson snapped off the music. “You're the best you been, brother, no question there,” he said.

“But?” seethed Theo.

Anderson gave a cavalier shrug. “I doubt I even need to say it. I'm talking about your delts. They're there, they're shredded, it's just you need a little more symmetry, is all.”

Was he right? Theo was ready to clock the little fucker, that's just how right he was. Theo suffered from the Mentzer Midriff — a trunk so large he couldn't suck his gut in far enough. Getting his pecs and delts big enough to offset the abdominals was a never-ending struggle. He gritted his teeth. “So what's the prognosis, doctor?”

Anderson shook his head. “That was the prognosis, Einstein. The prescription is this: incremental doses of synthol in your final two weeks leading up to the event. We do it right, the only thing people will notice is your winning form. The big question, however, is this: are you willing to do a little more work for me?”