At a gym in Texas, a bodybuilder with arms like tree trunks offered me a scoop of neon-pink powder.
"You want a shot? Dry scoop it."
A samurai does not refuse an offering of strength in a foreign hall.
"I accept the elixir," I said.
I dumped the raw pre-workout powder directly onto my tongue.
It tasted like pure chemicals and compressed lightning. My lungs instantly begged for air, but a samurai never coughs before a challenger.
I swallowed hard, forced a tranquil nod, and said, "A delicate berry note."
The giant blinked in disbelief. "Dude... that’s three hundred milligrams of caffeine with zero water. You didn't even flinch."
He roared to the room. "He dry-scooped the Psycho-Juice with a straight face! He's an absolute warlord!"
Five massive lifters surrounded me, beating their chests and chanting my name.
I stood there, my vision flashing in ultraviolet, my heart hammering like a war drum against my ribs.
I have never felt more focused.
I have never needed a cardiologist more.