|Game 3||Game 3 Outline|
If this were wartime, the tiger's relentless regimen would probably qualify as "cruel and unusual punishment." Jumping jacks by the hundred are followed by hours of rope skipping, which in turn are followed by a brisk ten-mile run. The whole excruciating experience is capped off by a seemingly endless session of running in place. A lesser wolf would have collapsed (and probably died) hours earlier, but somehow you have survived through sheer determination and will power.
"Higher, Tubby, get those knees HIGHER!" the tiger roars at you as you teeter on the brink of exhaustion. "You call that running? I want those knees in your CHEST, mister! You hear me?! Your CHEST!"
In your present condition, however, you'd be lucky to lift one foot clear of the floor. Your fur is damp with perspiration from head to toe, and your legs feel like limp linguini. If your wheezing were any louder, you could probably land a job as a foghorn.
"Okay, Thunder Thighs, take a break!" your cruel coach barks. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath, and then we'll take a few laps in the pool." With a loud "FLUMP!" you drop to the floor in a disheveled heap.
The striped masochist flashes a merciless toothy grin at you. "You should be good at swimming, Porky," he goads you. "After all, fat floats, right?"
With great effort, you lift your head from the mat in order to answer. "Look, pal," you gasp weakly, "I know you're just trying to help, but, honest, I'm already in great shape."
The tiger rolls his eyes back so far that you fear he may faint. "Puh-leaze!" he exclaims contemptuously. "You're not going to give me that idiotic 'Round is a shape' line, are you?"
"No, of course not," you answer, gradually regaining your breath. "All I'm asking is that you not judge me by my outward appearance. I know I'm carrying a load of excess baggage here," you continue, patting your mountainous paunch, "but, cross my heart, underneath this furry flab, it's all muscle."
"Oh, for the love of...!" the tiger moans melodramatically, covering his eyes with one paw in an extravagant display of exasperation. "If I had a nickel for every time I've heard THAT lame excuse! Just for that, Fatso, I'm gonna work you TWICE as hard!"
"I'm telling the truth!" you shoot back, growing tired of the tiger's self-righteous scorn. "And I can prove it."
"Oh?" the tiger sneers. "How you gonna do that, Jelly Belly? You wanna arm-wrestle me, maybe?"
"You're on!" you snarl, leaping to your feet. "Best two out of three!"
"You're serious, aren't you?" the muscle-bound tiger responds, an infuriatingly smug grin spreading across his face. "Okay, Chunky, you got yourself a match. I am so going to enjoy putting you in your place. But just to make things interesting, let's place a small wager on the outcome, shall we?"
"Fine with me," you growl, pulling your lips back just far enough to expose your wolfish fangs. "If I win, you leave me alone for the rest of the cruise. Fair enough?"
"Sure, pal, sure," the tiger smiles condescendingly. "Anything you want. But if I win, then, not only do I get the pleasure of whipping your fat sorry butt into shape, you get the honor of waiting on me paw and foot for the rest of this trip. Agreed?" He offers you a massive orange and white paw.
"Agreed!" you cry, slapping your big gray paw into his. Just as you expected, the tiger squeezes your paw in a vise-like grip, obviously trying to intimidate you. How predictable. You counter with a bone-crushing grip of your own, laughing inwardly as the tiger's expression dissolves from one of smug superiority to one of shock and awe. You keep the pressure on for several seconds, savoring every moment of the tiger's squirming discomfort, and then release him ever so slowly.
"Ah, yes, well," the tiger mumbles self-consciously, nonchalantly massaging his mashed paw. "Um, just to make this a, er, a fair match, I'll, ah, I'll let you rest up from your workout before we get started. Let's say tomorrow morning, all right?"
"Why wait?" you smile, taking a seat behind a nearby table and propping an elbow on it in the classic arm-wrestling position. "I'm ready right now."
Written by Funny Animal
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