Shredded Gym is called the Venice Beach of the East Coast, if New York had surf, sun, palm trees, and roller-skates. The analogy is lost on most people until you walk into the glass and steel building and see the hard bodies parading around in tight and skimpy clothing that even the best of us would be too uncomfortable to wear or wear well. It’s almost a competition in who can skirt the laws of public nudity without actually getting arrested and I can’t decide if it’s a lesson in anatomy or a reflection of my own self-esteem. Your abs don’t show that clearly if you’re over 8 to 10% body fat, so to see that level of precision in muscle definition, I have to wonder if the percentages here haven’t dipped into the negatives.
Shredded Gym is not the first meta-inspired gym, but it is the largest and most successful. It was started by a methuman named Super-Flex, a hero more known for his antics than his crime-fighting abilities. Regardless the criticism, he takes it with all the aplomb of an Eighties wrestler challenging all contenders on national television. The news crews and talk shows love him, and he’s equal part charisma and showmanship. Not bad for a Charlie-class meta whose body building career started before his trigger event and took off like a rocket afterward.
Despite his antics, Super-Flex is actually a savvy entrepreneur by the name of Jeremy Pena who has managed to make Shredded Gym as chic as Manhattan’s trendiest nightclubs. What makes it so popular isn’t just its metahuman clientele, but the opportunity to watch them train, to exercise on state-of-the-art equipment like the magnetic resistance plates, and to shop at a proshop whose supplements are so cutting edge in terms of nutrition that even professional athletes shop at Pro-Shred; it comes at a steep price, but nobody can argue with the results.
Shredded Gym has grown from its humble beginnings as a 7,000 square foot gym in Upper Manhattan, to the 80,000 square foot titan it is today in the heart of Midtown. The four-story façade is made from shatterproof glass and showcases the three levels of fitness madness for curious pedestrians. The front desk organizes tours of the facilities, but these are mostly behind plates of glass designed to keep people from patrons from their workouts. It also lends the interior an interesting weight that’s part battleship and part starship with its riveted walls and clean solid plate windows. Add to that a parkour gym with an aerial track for the flighted and agilely gifted, private weight rooms for superstars like Grimsta and Bombshell Betty, a high class fitness bar, and frictionless rooms that bring core exercise to a whole new level, and you can understand the appeal of hitting a gym whose guest pass alone is $250 and whose initiation fee is $5,000. Unless you’re a metahuman, in which case Super-Flex himself is more than willing to lower or waive membership costs so long as you train in front of the general public and put on a show of strength, resistance, dexterity, or what are known as aura effects. After all, Shredded Gym is where people can safely train alongside metahumans and tell the tale at their next social event of the brute doing 5-ton chest presses or the speedster racing in the mega-track ball.
While Super-Flex has been accused by various heroes of promoting the worst in superhuman culture, he’s also volunteered staff and facilities to help train a number of heroes to be street-ready for their tours, as well as offered boot camps, private parkour time for team-training sessions for groups like The Samaritan Guard, and given seminars on exercising and regimes. Publicly, Shredded Gym says they don’t condone vigilante behavior, but they do mirror the War College philosophy that a well-trained superhuman is a lower risk to the public safety.
Super-Flex takes none of the criticism personally, however, and neither does his alter ego, Jeremy Pena. “It’s just business,” he says with a wide grin. “Haters are gonna go after the big players because that’s where the notoriety’s at, and I’ll take their bitching as a compliment. Every time some hero complains about us, we see more visitors.”
What may sound like a cavalier attitude towards the rest of the metahuman community actually masks a deep respect for superheroes in general. Super-Flex donates time and staff to events like Hero Week and to various charities to help disaster victims through drives and personal donations. “Am I making money off the phenomenon? Hell, yeah,” Super-Flex says. “But I never tap the well without putting back, and I’m not biting the hand that feeds me.”
There is no denying that there’s a fortune to be made off being a metahuman, which is a line that divides the superhuman from the superhero. Many heroes refuse to monetize their persona for fear that it would undermine their message, but that is contrary to the reality facing today’s powered elite, some of who have had their brand appropriated by other companies. Super-Flex calls his gym an extension of himself as a brand, and one can’t argue with his success. Grimsta, Bombshell Betty, and Super-Flex are a new generation of socially savvy heroes who have managed to capitalize on the new cultural norms and some pundits in the community argue that it isn’t these entrepreneurs who have sold out their identities, but conventional heroes who may have fallen behind on the times.
Regardless, Shredded Gym has become a shining example in the mainstreaming of metahumans. To some, this is a necessary normalization process to making supers more productive members of society, while others feel that establishments like Shredded Gym are merely creating a new social caste and a new category of superstar.