I Just Wanted the Girl. He Gave Me a Fortune.
A satirical tale of abs, scams, and accidental entrepreneurship.
“Get out!”
The trainer-manager shoved Nick out the door. “And take your money!”
He scribbled a cheque and flung it at Nick’s face.
It was the ninth time in the last few days Nick had been thrown out of a gym.
Nick calmly picked up the cheque, scribbled a note in his diary, and left. Off to another gym.
Nick wanted to marry his girlfriend. But without a job or money, her father didn’t approve. Every interview ended in rejection. Still, Nick knew the real reason he was stuck—trapped in failure, marinated in misery, and flirting with lifestyle diseases.
His weight.
That’s when Nick decided to solve his problem once and for all.
He borrowed money from his girlfriend’s father—promising double repayment or a breakup. But the father added a clause: Nick had to lose 20 kilos within a month.
So now Nick had a plan:
Return double the borrowed money.
Lose 20 kilos.
Earn enough to impress the father.
Marry the girl.
All in one month. Easy.
“I want to lose 20 kilos in a month,” Nick said to the gym receptionist, pointing at his mammoth frame with a burger in hand.
The receptionist looked him up and down. “We’ll make sure you do—or we’ll refund you.”
She chuckled inwardly. Nick joined the gym in ten minutes.
“Don’t use the treadmill for over twenty minutes,” an angry woman snapped, pointing at the notice beside Nick.
Nick checked his smartwatch. He was already 30 minutes over the limit. He smiled and continued his leisurely stroll, ignoring her insults and the chorus of angry fingers from others waiting in line.
“Get off the treadmill, you idiot!” another woman barked. A crowd began to gather behind her.
Nick looked around. All he could see were furious women—voices rising, spittle flying—as they hurled verbal abuse. He gave a headshake and kept walking.
The floor manager was called. When he tried to drag him off, Nick gripped the handles like his life depended on it. His nails scratched the plastic like a werewolf making love to a human.
Unlike the human in that situation, the treadmill survived. Barely.
Nick was banned from using it.
Next, he tried the elliptical. He pulled the handles so aggressively, one gave up like a suicidal rat leaping before a cat.
Nick didn’t stop. He gripped the remaining handle with both hands and yanked like he was drawing water from a 1940s hand pump.
The second handle finally surrendered—bolts flying like popcorn. Nick kept going, now using the mangled elliptical like a stationary cycle.
Four trainers had to haul him off.
The elliptical? Dead.
Nick? Banned.
With the treadmill and elliptical out, Nick turned to the only two cardio options left: the cycle and the stepper.
The cycle refused on sight—traumatized after watching its elliptical cousin fall. So Nick stepped onto the stepper.
The machine groaned under his 120kg (264-pound) bulk. As he increased the speed, sweat poured from his body like melted butter onto a hot pan. His heart pounded like an EDM drop.
Panicked, Nick tried to stop the machine… and accidentally increased the speed.
Both man and machine collapsed on each other. Nick survived. The stepper? Not so lucky.
Nick was banned from the stepper. And the entire cardio section.
In 20 days, Nick had been banned from four gyms and lost just 2 kilos. He was running out of time, options, and machines.
Desperate times. Desperate measures.
He decided to try resistance training.
The problem? His body didn’t need more training to be resistant. It already was.
So Nick searched for motivation. He hired the best personal trainer—specifically, the best-looking one.
Every time she demonstrated an exercise, Nick stared at her from head to toe and smiled like a creepy puppy.
“Chest press,” she instructed.
“You sure?” Nick said, stepping toward her with his hands directed at, well… her chests.
She slapped him.
“Leg extension,” she said next.
He kicked her leg, grabbed it mid-air, and extended it like a gym prop. Extension complete.
Push and pull? He tried pushing himself toward her or pulling her close.
By the fifth inappropriate attempt, she slapped him so hard the slap itself might’ve burned 300 calories.
The manager was called. Nick was banned.
“Take your money,” the manager said, tossing a cheque at him like he was a used protein bar wrapper.
Nick didn’t move. He looked around the gym—at the dumbbells he never lifted, the machines he broke, the people who had glared at him. For a moment, he looked… broken.
“I really tried, you know,” he muttered, voice low. “I just wanted to lose weight… be good enough for her.”
The trainers exchanged awkward glances. The receptionist looked away.
Nick slowly picked up the cheque. Then handed over a crumpled invoice.
The manager’s eyes narrowed—then widened.
It read, in bold:
“Lose weight in one month or get double your money back.”
Nick’s posture straightened. The slouch was gone. So was the sadness.
He turned to the receptionist and winked.
“I’d like that doubled now, please.”
The manager sighed, pulled out his chequebook, and handed over the money.
Nick opened his diary and scribbled in a fresh number. He now had ten times what he’d borrowed from his girlfriend’s father.
As he walked out of the gym, the receptionist called after him.
“Wait... was this your plan all along?”
Nick paused. Smiled.
He pulled out the diary and flipped it open.
Each page was dated. Each entry precise.
Day 3: Break treadmill. Get banned.
Day 5: Elliptical fatality. Compensation expected.
Day 12: Emotional guilt scene—stepper collapse.
Day 18: Hire hot trainer. Trigger slap reflex. Double refund clause.
At the bottom, underlined in red:
Total Refund Target: ₹5,00,000 — Enough for surgery and stage 2.
Nick tucked the diary back into his bag, adjusted his now-loose hoodie, and walked out without saying a word.
That evening, he stood outside a private clinic, cheque in hand.
The board read:
RapidSlim Bariatric Centre — Guaranteed Transformation in 30 Days
Nick smiled and walked in.
He wasn’t just shedding weight.
He was shedding the entire loser version of himself.
He used part of the money for weight-loss surgery. In one day, Nick lost over 40 kilos.
Nick returned to his girlfriend’s father.
“Here’s your money—doubled,” he said, handing over a cheque.
The father stared at the slim, confident man before him in disbelief.
“I’ve got money to last a few years,” Nick grinned. “And more importantly—a strategy to make more.”
He added, “Also, I have a new offer. Give me 50K, and I’ll triple it in a month. Or I’ll break up with your daughter.”
The father didn’t blink. He agreed.
Nick used the money to start his own gym.
He hired the trainers and receptionist from all the gyms he’d been banned from. But now, they had only one job:
Ensure clients never lose weight—so they’d be referred to the doctor Nick had partnered with for surgery.
Nick became a millionaire within months, married his girlfriend, and launched another business:
Helping unemployed men find rich, beautiful girlfriends, borrow money from their fathers, and turn themselves into rich businessmen.
Because who needs cardio when you have capitalism?
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