BigSaltyDog

The wooden bench outside the leisure centre was holding on for dear life under Sgt. Salty’s back-end. He’d just finished an absolute blood-bath of a gym session—mostly heavy bench press, three minutes on the exercise bike to say he did cardio, and forty minutes looking out the window at the foot traffic. He was sitting there in his rain-soaked trackies, holding a shaker bottle of chocolate whey that tasted like wet cement and broken promises, squinting down at his phone. "I’m tellin’ ya, Govna," Salty said, wiping a lather of sweat off his eyebrow with his sleeve. "The talent in that gym today. Absolute top-tier. Cracking pair of legs on half the broads, and the fellas are all built like brick shithouses.  Look at McFinleyyy over there by the vending machine—man is absolutely ripped to the gills. Sitting beside him, perched on the absolute edge of the timber so his trousers wouldn't touch Salty’s sweaty leg, was The Govna. Impeccably turned out as usual, ...