"Ja." A voice spoke up from the crowd, as deep and trenchant as an orchestral horn. "Ist [i]gut[/i]."

A man stepped forward, as visibly European as his accent. An unnatural shade of orange God did not intend men's skin to turn into, with a fade of blonde hair too short to have been cut any earlier in the week than yesterday. He must have thought this would have been a photographed event.

The blonde man looked both ways -- taking a brief check to see if another had volunteered to go second -- and approached the man on the chair. In an instant, the blonde man's arms shot out, grabbing the volunteer by the shoulder and the crotch. For a brief moment, the room tensed, unsure of whether the blonde man had violated one of the rules, before his body jerked violently, twisting backwards and flinging the volunteer from his seat like a pillow and onto his shoulders. The group of volunteers gave a collective round of "oohs" as the blonde man widened his stance, stretching his grip to the man's neck and hip, and taking a deep squat down.

"Ein," The blonde man said, flexing his fingers and tightening his grip on the volunteer's body. "Zwei, drei," He continued, getting into a slow rhythm. "Vier, fünf," The blonde said through now-gritting teeth, slowing his reps with each return from a squat.

"Sechs, sieben," His legs now shook violently with each lunge upward, and his breathing became thicker in his words. He paused for a moment, finding some inner resolve that had lain dormant, and lunged up once more, outstretching his arms and holding the volunteer up like a prize bass.

"[i]Acht![/i]"

He lowered himself and returned the volunteer to a standing position, now with a clear blob of the blonde man's sweat on his chest, muddling the inky dong that had been drawn previously.