Ghostly Gains (Patreon)

Tired of being pushed around, Milton works out late at night to bulk up. Thankfully, the ghost of bodybuilding legend Taran Mason is always here to give a helping hand. Enjoy!

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Milton wasn't exactly familiar with gyms— and between working on his biochemistry finals and his responsibilities to the debate team, not to mention his D&D club and Warhammer game nights, he barely had time for anything else. But the boys at Beta Iota Gamma, representing the most dramatic brain cells to muscle mass ratio he had ever seen, just couldn't leave him alone. After crawling out of his fiftieth gym locker, the black cat was determined— with his skill for planning, he could come up with a way to bulk up, train up, and make sure the frat boys of the world could never push him around again. The only gym that worked into his schedule— and one where he could afford the membership without cutting out of his warhammer mini budget— was Geisthaus Gym. Sure, he had heard the stories of the notorious bodybuilder, Taran Mason, dying in a freak weightlifting accident, but Milton never really considered himself the superstitious sort. Besides; working out at midnight guaranteed he wouldn't run into the Beta Iota Gamma boys.

He grunted with all his might, trying to remember from memory some of the exercises he had seen the jocks and football players use, but while his mental memory was practically eidetic, his muscle memory was absolutely shot. Still, his arms were starting to ache, so that had to be some good. He flinched slightly as he looked at himself in the mirror, his lithe form flinching slightly as he swore he felt someone tap his shoulder— but he ignored it as best he could. Maybe he should wrap it up after this one last set.

Then, with the sound of a thunderclap, the lights went out. Milton yelped, nearly dropping the dumbbells, but he felt an invisible hand jerk him back into a standing position. The black cat trembled, eyes going wide, mouth falling open as he saw in the mirror he was no longer alone. Looming over him, a monstrously huge tarantula— all four of his arms were girded with massive swells of brawn, folded together to squeeze against his titanic chest— he recognized the spider from the memorial photo in the gym's lobby: Taran Mason.

The massive, four-armed beast grinned toothily down at Milton. "Dude. Your form is terrible. Like— what the hell are you even doing, man? But don't worry." 

Milton let out a small scream as he felt his arm curl of its own accord, trembling from the dumbbell's weight. Taran chuckled darkly. "I've got you, man. You should never lift without a spotter, y'know? Now let's see you get some killer gains."