By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter Three: The Training

The first few weeks would be harder than I could ever have imagined.  And for the first few days I felt a little embarrassed about the Collar locked around my neck, wondering what people were thinking when they saw it.  But no one even batted an eye.  Maybe they were used to seeing it.  Maybe they had too much respect for Viktor to think disparagingly about anything he did.  So pretty quickly, it became just part of me, and I was proud to be wearing it.

Every day, it felt like I was moving from one task to the next without rest. The carnival was always on the move, traveling from town to town, setting up and tearing down with a kind of clockwork precision. I was no longer just the lonely orphan — I was part of the team, working with the roustabouts to unload crates, set up tents, and make sure everything was ready for Showtime.

The work was brutal. My hands were always raw from the ropes and wood, and my back ached from lifting heavy boxes or pushing the wagons into position. But through all the pain, Viktor never let up.

“Come on. No rest,” he’d bark at me, the sound of his deep voice cutting through the noise of the camp. “You want to be strong? This is how it’s done.”

At first, I thought I couldn’t take it. The physical labor drained me, and every time I slowed down, Viktor was there, a constant presence pushing me forward, pushing me harder.

“You wear that collar because you’re mine to train,” he’d remind me, eyes flashing as I struggled. “Every time you fail, it’s on you. But you’ll get stronger if you keep at it.”

And if I really slipped up — if I showed weakness or hesitated when I should have been working — that was when the real pain began.

Viktor would lead me by my Collar to the kettle bells in the back of the wagon.

There he would force me through grueling workouts. He pushed me to lift more than I ever thought my body could handle, adding weight until my arms trembled with the strain. The whole time, he was watching me with a sharp gaze, silently judging every rep.

“Come on! You want to be a strongman? Prove it!”

The sound of the weights clanking on the floor, the muscle-burning exhaustion, the sweat that poured from my body like a river — it all became a constant part of my life. When I wanted to stop, when I felt like I couldn’t take one more press, one more squat, Viktor would slap the back of my head, his hand like a brick.

“You’ll thank me later,” he’d growl. “Every rep is a step toward your strength. Remember that.”

It wasn’t just physical pain, though. It was the constant reminder of the collar around my neck. The leather chafed against my skin at night, a constant, heavy weight. It was part of me, a symbol that I belonged to Viktor — both as his apprentice and as his creation.

“You’re not just lifting weights,” he’d tell me. “You’re lifting your own weakness, your past, your doubts. You’re shedding them, piece by piece.”

I didn’t fully understand it then, but the more I trained, the more I started to feel it. Each weight I pushed, each set I finished, was a small victory. And slowly, my body began to change.

The first time I really noticed was one evening, after a particularly brutal training session. I was wiping the sweat from my brow, exhausted, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in Viktor’s wagon.

I hadn’t paid much attention to my appearance before. I had always been small, scrappy, just getting by. But now, my arms — my arms were thicker. They weren’t just skinny things anymore; they were solid, taut with muscle. I flexed, and the skin tightened, veins running beneath the surface like ropes.

“Look at that,” I muttered to myself, staring at the reflection.

I reached up, running my fingers over my bicep. It was real.

I was starting to look like Viktor.

The realization hit me hard. All the pain, all the sweat, all the discipline — it was paying off. I wasn’t just becoming stronger. I was becoming someone else, someone new. A version of me that I didn’t even recognize.

But I still had a long way to go.

Viktor was always watching. Every moment I slacked, every time I took too long between sets or didn’t push myself hard enough, he’d be there, the shadow of his presence looming over me.

“You still wearing that Collar?” he’d ask when I looked like I was lagging.

I’d touch it instinctively. “Yes, Sir.”

“That’s the reminder,” he’d say. “You’re wearing it for a reason. Don’t forget it. Don’t forget who you are.”

And I never did. The collar never let me forget.

But then one night after the show, Jacob had invited a bunch of other roustabouts to his wagon and asked me to tag along. I liked him as he always treated me fairly, and the idea of finally being friends with him and the other guys drew me in, so although I knew Viktor wouldn’t like it, I decided to join them all anyway.

Jacob’s wagon was already packed by the time I arrived. The roustabouts had spilled into the small space like a flood, each man jostling to find a spot to sit or lean. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and mud from a long day’s work. I could hear the low hum of voices, laughter, and the occasional whoop echoing outside the walls.

Jacob grinned when he saw me. His face was flushed from the heat of the day, but there was a fire in his eyes. He slapped me on the back, a move that nearly sent me off balance.

“Good to see you,” he said, motioning for me to join the group. The rough wooden bench creaked as I sat down. Around me, the air was buzzing with energy. I could feel their presence, their bodies pressing in close, all of them dripping with the effort of the day. Their hands were thick with calluses, their faces rough from the sun. They were loud and unapologetic, men who lived and breathed hard labor, and I… I wanted to be a part of it. Really be a part.  I had been working with them all every day, but they always thought of me as Viktor’s Wagon Boy, in fact that was the nickname they all called me by — Wagon Boy.  So I knew they never really considered me to be one of them. So when Jacob pulled out a flask, I didn’t hesitate. He handed it to me with a knowing look. The liquid burned down my throat, but I swallowed it.

Then one of the other roustabouts, the burly guy with the thick beard who we called “Bear,” slid over, a bottle in hand. “Here you go, drink up!” he said, and without a word, I took it. Another round of laughter filled the air as the bottle passed around. It wasn’t long before another one appeared, and then another, each man offering something to drink, urging me to join in.

I told myself to stop. I knew that Viktor would’ve reminded me about discipline, about controlling myself. But in that cramped, hot wagon, surrounded by the rough, unapologetic men, I felt so happy. They weren’t judging me, weren’t questioning me. They were welcoming me. This was how I fit in.

Another drink, another round of laughs. The men around me were boisterous, loud, full of life. The walls of the wagon felt like they were closing in with every passing minute, but I didn’t care. Not anymore. I kept drinking, laughing along, the alcohol loosening my tongue and filling my veins with warmth.

Soon, the laughter grew louder. The whole carnival felt like it was shaking, the ground vibrating beneath me as the sounds of the men carried into the night. The air smelled heavier, the laughter louder. It was chaos. The noise echoed across the camp, and I could hear the distant shouts of the others trying to sleep, probably cursing us for keeping them awake.

I could feel it in my bones now, what I was doing. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about the night slipping away or the trouble I was in.

It wasn’t until much later, when I looked at the lantern clock and realized how late it had gotten, that it hit me. Panic.

I tried to stand, but my legs wobbled under me. The world was spinning, and the rough laughter around me seemed like it was miles away. I reached for the door, but the wagon tilted as I moved, and I nearly lost my balance. I was drunk — way too drunk.

“Where you going, Wagon Boy?” someone shouted, but I didn’t answer. I just stumbled out of the wagon, nearly falling as I tried to regain my footing. The cool night air slapped me in the face, but it did nothing to steady me. I ran, my heart racing, my mind scrambled with fear.

I stumbled back to our wagon, the world spinning wildly around me.

Viktor was waiting up for me of course sitting on his stool outside.  Smoking a cigar.  His eyes burning through me.

“I … I was with Jacob,” I slurred, not even having been asked. “And a bunch of the other guys,” not wanting to be caught in any lies.

“You been drinking?” he spat.

I couldn’t even utter a word to answer him, but just sheepishly nodded my head.

“You go to bed and sleep it off.  We’ll deal with your Punishment in the morning.

I woke up with my head throbbing, it was so bright outside it had to be almost noon.  I staggered to my feet, and walked down the steps of the wagon to see Viktor straddling on one of the sawhorses the roustabouts used to cut wood.  At his feet next to him lay a pile of Lifting Belts.

The night before had been so much fun, me and Jacob and all the other guys, drinking deep into the hours, laughing like fools, without a care in the world. And now, as the hangover blazed, the guilt was even heavier. I knew what was coming. Viktor’s silence was all the answer I needed.

He dismounted the sawhorse and stepped toward me. He didn’t shout. He didn’t lecture. Viktor had always been measured, deliberate. He knew how to make his point, and I knew I had crossed a line.

When I saw him standing in front of me, his face grim, I braced myself.

“I waited,” Viktor said, his voice low but steady. “I waited until you were sober, until you could really think about what you did.”

His eyes were piercing. I could see the disappointment in them, the silent judgment.

“I know I messed up,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You did.” He stepped closer, picking up the pile of lifting belts. “You drank yourself stupid, made a fool of yourself and dishonored everything we’ve worked for. You know what’s coming.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. He was right. I had been reckless, and I knew punishment was necessary. There was no escaping it.

“Get over the sawhorse,” Viktor ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I hesitated for only a moment before I walked over, the weight of my own shame pulling me forward. I knew Viktor had always believed in hard lessons, but this was going to be different. This wasn’t just about discipline — it was about me taking responsibility for my actions from here on in.

The sawhorse was cold beneath me as I bent over it, the rough wood digging into my stomach. Viktor worked quickly, strapping me down with the many lifting belts, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. The leather belts tightened around my arms, my thighs, my waist, holding me firmly in place. There was no escaping now.

Viktor stepped back, taking a moment to look at me. His eyes softened slightly, but there was still a steely resolve there.

“This isn’t just about what you did last night,” he said, his voice quieter now, though still carrying that weight of authority. “It’s about respecting yourself. About knowing where your limits are, and what it means to hold yourself accountable. To hold yourself to the standard that a real Strongman needs to.”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t need to.  I knew what was coming, and I was ready to face it.

Viktor’s hands pressed down on my back, firm, steady. The heavy leather lifting belts he’d used to strap me down were snug, pinning my wrists to the legs of the sawhorse. My chest pressed into the pitted wooden beam, my breathing shallow as I braced myself. I knew what was coming. And I deserved what was coming.

“And I also waited until you were sober,” Viktor’s deep voice rumbled behind me. “Because I wanted you to feel this with a clear head, to feel every stroke, and to understand why.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers already curling into fists.  I had screwed up. Drinking with Jacob, making a fool of myself, forgetting the discipline Viktor had drilled into me from the start. He had every right to be furious.

A soft creak of leather filled the air, and I knew he was unbuckling his belt. Not just any belt — his training belt. Wide, thick, heavy. The same belt he wore every time he hoisted impossible weights over his head, the same belt that had been with him for years.

He doubled it over, and I felt the cool leather ghost over my skin before he drew it away.

“This isn’t just about the drinking,” he said. “It’s about self-control. Strength is nothing without discipline.”

I barely had time to nod before the first stroke landed.

CRACK.

The force of it jolted me forward into the sawhorse. Fire bloomed across my backside, and I sucked in a sharp breath, gritting my teeth against the sting. Viktor wasn’t holding back.

Another stroke. Then another. Each one precise, measured, delivered with the same unwavering control he shows in the ring. This wasn’t anger. This was Viktor teaching me a lesson the only way he knew I’d remember.

I grunted, my fingers digging into the wood. The pain burned deep, but I didn’t protest. I wouldn’t.

“You think that bottle made you a man?” he asked between strokes. “Strength isn’t found at the bottom of a glass.”

CRACK.

I let out a shaky breath. “I — I know.”

“Do you?”

CRACK.

I flinched but didn’t cry out. My skin throbbed, my body tense, but something inside me shifted. This wasn’t just punishment. This was Viktor shaping me, molding me into something stronger.

He paused, letting the weight of his words — and the belt — sink in.

“Next time you forget yourself, remember this.”

One final stroke, the hardest of them all.

I gasped, the pain searing, but through it, I understood. This was discipline. This was the price of failure. And next time, I wouldn’t make the same mistake.

Viktor stepped back, and for a long moment, there was only the sound of my breathing, short and uneven. Then, finally, he spoke again, voice softer now.

“Get up.”

After he undid the straps, I pushed myself up slowly. My body ached, but I felt… steadier. Grounded. I met Viktor’s gaze, and he gave me a nod.

“Lesson learned?”

I swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

He grunted in approval. “Good. Now get to work.”

And just like that, it was over.

But I’d never forget it.

Many months later into my training, I had started to feel the change in me, not just in my body, but in my mind. Viktor wasn’t just training me physically; he was shaping me. He wasn’t just building muscle; he was building a mindset.

Every time I pushed myself further, every time I forced my body to grow, Viktor was there. Watching. Judging. Mentoring. Training.

The carnival was more than a job. It was the life I’d chosen. And through Viktor’s brutal mentorship, I was beginning to understand what it meant to truly commit — to push beyond what you thought you could handle and become something greater than yourself.

I was becoming a strongman.