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So Tyler had spent his day bitching at everyone in the gym, and had been way too honesty with the people who paid his salary.

He'd finally got sent home for calling someone who wanted to fight him his first day in the gym delusional.

"I hate the world and I need a drink," he yelled into the living room. This ... passed for hello.

Busy, busy, busy.

Tyler -- the real one -- never got enough time in charge, so he was making the most of it while he was out. He'd found a club meeting (he won, thank you, even if the tender red spot on his chest and catch when he breathed in had him worried about the ribs), given a pep talk to a couple slackers with fucked-up teeth. They seemed confused -- the wuss who shared his body had been out the week before threatening to tattle, or some shit like that -- but they'd warmed to him fast enough.

Now he was back in his apartment. The building was condemned, but the WiFi worked, and that was what mattered at the moment.

He idly watched a cockroach crawl across the wall as he tapped into a message board. The napalm didn't work because your proportions were all wrong, he typed. You gotta use cheaper orange juice, too. The good stuff's not acidic enough.

He believed in giving back to his community.

[OOC: Open if anyone wants to talk to not-exactly-Tyler.]