He's watching you. Somewhere, behind a pile of holographic barbells and rowing machines and other instruments of pain's arsenal, he is watching you. What he thinks is neither complimentary nor inaccurate. What he has planned for you is improvement at the cost of your comfort and gelatinous existence. The fare is not cheap. The ride is not pleasant. The destination is glory, and its territory once granted is limitless. Also, he's not wiping that blood off his head. EVER.