Tyson was in his bathroom, on top of his scale in the middle of the room. It was supposed to motivate him more, remind him of his goal right as he woke up in the morning. His belly obscured the scale slightly. He frowned, forced to push it out of the way just to see the exact measurement. 217 pounds. His frown fell further down.

For a career surfer, the weight felt weird on him. He had tried to surf the other day at an off beach, away from anybody who might know him, but it just wouldn’t work. His center of gravity was off, moves more sluggish than usual. He figured he only needed to gain a bit of weight, though. Probably over halfway there now!

The phone rung on the receiver, head swiveling to see it. Grabbing the receiver, he brought it to his ear.
“Heeeeeeeeeeeey, Tyson!” The voice rang out, slight Japanese accent to it. “How’s the regiment going?”
It was the director, who he had already been in contact with to grab the most recent draft of the script a few days back. Seemed nice.

“It’s going ok, man. I’m at 217 pounds, should be finished gaining soon.”

The director laughed at him, before composing himself quickly. “Sorry about that, but, uh, we are going to need you at over 600 pounds.”

Tyson’s next vocalization is not easily represented by the English alphabet, but can be approximated by boiling a tea kettle full of gasoline.

“S-Six HUNDRED? That’s crazy!”

“You know what’s crazier? All the headshots I have lined up for extras… I’m sure all of them would love to get a named role…”

Tyson grimaced and steeled himself. “C-can you get me a food budget?”
The director’s smile echoed audibly through his next words. “The account is already made.”