Camera feed cuts in. 

It's some dingy locker room. Abandoned, sans the one man sitting on a bench. He strokes his bicep, his mouth is moving, he seems to be whispering. As the camera man draws closer, words can made out, vaguely: 

"Oho, power here. Coiled, ready, a serpent waiting to strike." 

The camera starts to say something, but the Juicer interrupts.

"Shh, shh." A moment of silence, then-

THE JUICER RISES TO HIS FEET.

He is towering, he is vascular. When he flexes that self-same bicep, a roadmap of New Jersey is visible within his veins. 

"THE JUICER HAS BEEN REWARDED FOR HIS PATIENCE." He bellows, his voice and words echo like some thunder in distant hills. For the camera man, it brought to mind memories of cowering in the face of an oncoming storm, rushing into the arms of his mama for comfort. 

But before that childhood trauma can be examined, fully brought to light, the Juicer continues.

"PENNYFARTHING, YOU ARE NOT MUSCULAR. YOU TREAT THIS SPORT AS CRAFT, AS ENTERTAINMENT, YET IT IS NOT. DO YOU SEE THIS?" 

He flexes. 

"REAL. THE CULMINATION OF INFINITE HOURS SPENT IN TOIL. CAN YOU GLIMPSE THIS?" 

And the Juicer is turning, ramming his head into a locker. The old metal shrieks, caves, and when the Juicer faces the camera, blood trickles down his face. 

"THE CRIMSON WHICH BAPTIZES THAT RING, WHICH MAKES IT A HOLY PLACE. THE JUICER AND MANY OTHERS HAVE OFFERED IT AS TRIBUTE. DO YOU BLEED, PENNYFARTHING? HAVE YOU?"

The Juicer goes silent for a scant moment, before he continues, voice soft now. "You will." 

Another second of unspoken word, perhaps to let it marinate, before the volume resumes. 

"AND WHEN YOU DO, WHEN THE JUICER'S LARIAT SERVES AS THE GUILLOTINE THAT SEVER YOU FROM THAT TITLE OF SIR, THAT TITLE OF NOBILITY THAT YOU ASSUME RENDERS YOU ABOVE THE SUFFERING THAT GIVES SUBSTANCE TO OUR REALITY, THEN YOU WILL BE MADE MUSCULAR. FIRST IN SPIRIT, THEN PERHAPS IN BODY, SHOULD YOU BE WILLING. WHEN THE JUICER KNOCKS YOU DOWN, HE WILL OFFER YOU THE HAND THAT ASSISTS YOU TO YOUR FEET. YOU NEED ONLY TAKE IT. DO NOT WORRY ABOUT THE WEIGHT, THE JUICER WILL CARRY IT ALL." 

Heavy breathing follows, as if the Juicer finally remembers in his mania that he, like any other man, requires air. There's a certain tenseness to his shoulders, however, as if this fact bothers him. As if it were a small reminder that regardless of how yoked he became, he could not surpass it. 

Or perhaps the cameraman was a drama kid and he's imagining things, something to humanize the beast-in-the-form-of-man before him, to get at the cold terror that freezes his blood and bone and leaves him rooted to the spot.

"Hixx. It is obvious to the Juicer that you are truly dedicated to your craft. You are muscular, your career is storied. The Juicer is honored to be across the ring from you. He will step over you gratefully."

And the Juicer is rolling his shoulders, finally walking away, giving the camera a view of a back wide enough to cause a solar eclipse, should only altitude be granted. 
 
"Prepare yourself. The Juicer will not hold anything back."

And to emphasize the point, the Juicer's arm surges forward in a lariat that rips the door off a locker, sends it crashing into the corner. 

As he turns sideways to walk out of the locker room's exit, the camera man is left is shaking, a single thought running through his head:

What the fuck.