Something has changed about The Beast's demeanor. He's always in a foul, sadistic mood when I see him, but today it seems there's something even more aggressive about him. This, I think, is bad news for me - an instinct that is soon confirmed when we head over to the bikes.
"Today, we try something new, tubby!" says The Beast. "Today we're going to alternate your speed a bit."
I climb on the bike and cycle away for about 2 minutes and then The Beast twiddles the controls and ramps the speed up to 20, and suddenly I feel like I'm pedaling through a moat of cement.
"Stand up!" barks The Beast. "If your revs drop below 60 I'll hurt you!"
I plough through the next five minutes as my legs turn to jello and my breathing slows to a wheeze. The temptation to slow down is immense but after The Beast gives me a crack to the back of my bare legs with the flat of his hand, I speed up. Now I know what if would feel like to be a horse pulling a cart through a bog.
After the bike we walk (well, he does, I flop around slightly) to the squat rack.
"Right," snaps The Beast, "I want you to do lunges. Then I want you to do squats. Then I want you to do push-ups. Then bicep curls. Then push-ups again. Then deadlifts. Then..."
He trails off as my mouth falls open and my eyes bug out of my head.
"Pffft! Nevermind," he says, "Just do what I say when I say it. GO! LUNGES! NOW!!"
I start with the lunges, my body wobbling a bit as my centre of balance is off. I count out loud until a rubber-band pings off the side of my head.
"Who told you to count, arsehead?"
"It helps if I know how many I have to do."
"You have to do as many as I feel like making you do!" says The Beast, collecting his rubber band off the floor. "Squats, now!"
I begin my squats and get through about two before the rubber band pings off my head again.
"Don't you dare straighten your legs all the way! I want them bent at the peak of your squat!"
"The peak of my what?"
"DON'T! STRAIGHTEN! YOUR LEGS!!" And the rubber band pings off my right cheek.
The pain is fucking excruciating. It feels like a dwarf is using a hand-drill to bore a hole straight through my knee cap. Furthermore, it feels like my body's forgotten how to breathe. I stare into the mirror in front of me and see a pink-faced sweat-gland who looks like he's about to cry. I'm actually about to cry.
"Push-ups!"
At least down on the ground no one will see me cry. The Beast for his part pings the rubber band off my arse this time, and then sings the lyrics of Everclear's "Wonderful" over the top of Shontelle's new video for the single "T-Shirt". Well, they are the same song after all, even if the latter is a key lower. Eventually I'm allowed to stand up and he hands me a barbell and barks the word "CURLS!!!" in my face. By now I've stopped fighting. I've stopped whining. I've stopped crying. I just want to die.
"What was that?"
Oh shit, I said that out loud.
"You just want to what?" yells The Beast "You want to die, huh? You want to to die? Then why don't you quit, you pussy?! Why don't you just put the weight down and quit??!!"
"No!"
"Why not!!??
"CUZ I GOT NOWHERE ELSE TO GOOOOOOOOOO!"
At the end of the workout, The Beast offer me a cup of orange juice and delivers some of the most horrible news of all time:
"You have lost weight, but your figure will not change until you change your diet. Also you now have a weekend assignment. You are to lose 600 calories every weekend. I don't care how you do it. Treadmill, rowing machine, cross trainer or bike. But you need to have burned 600 calories a weekend. If you do not do this, you will die in the coming months. And I shall inherit your games consoles and your comic book collection. Understand?"
I nod and head to the showers with The Beast's final words echoing in my ears.
"600 calories, bitch! Remember that! 600 calories!"