Go pick up something heavy.

Nobody is certain where Finnagit Swole came from, but we know he existed. Some say he was a fierce Viking berserker from coastal Norway while others claim he was the chieftain of a Germanic barbarian tribe during the time Rome was failing. What we know for certain is that he was unbelievably strong. There is a credible account that he once threw most of a war elephant at a group of invaders, crushing six of them. While we cannot know what happened to the elephant or why it wasn’t in one piece anymore, managing to hurl 50% or more of one as a weapon is a majestic feat.

Somewhere between myth and memory, Finnagit lived; if “lived” is the proper word for a being who challenged avalanches to arm-wrestling matches and petted lions and tigers on the belly. His name appeared in no census, but his footprints were once mistaken for ancient sinkholes. “Finnagit” is a strong curse word in fourteen ancient dead languages. Historians whispered of a “Barbarian Goliath” who shattered shields with his voice and once bit an axe clean in half. His battle cry? A quiet grunt. Anything louder and the local vineyards turned to vinegar.

One winter, a frost-coated village on the northern edge of the empire told a tale of Finnagit casually pulling a tree from the ground to use as a backscratcher—roots and all. The villagers swore the surrounding trees never regrew in that spot out of respect. It’s now forest land, except for the one bare meadow where that tree once grew.

Then there was the matter of the unwise ambush.

A commander of the Eastern legions, one Decimus Varro, brought his elite to put down the “muscle-clad pagan ghost.” According to recovered scribal notes, the legion found Finnagit sitting on a boulder, chewing what appeared to be a length of rawhide and petting a bear. The bear, reports note, was “happily submissive, with one eye closed in bliss.” When challenged, Finnagit rose to show seven feet of sinew and fury. With no sword, he grabbed hold of the boulder, his fingers cracking stone to find purchase, and rolled it over all ten warriors simultaneously inventing bowling and ensuring his survival with their gory demise.

After that, Finnagit vanished. Some say he went into the northern mist, others into a mountain cave where echoes of his flexing still shake the stone.

But once, just once, during a thunderstorm in Bavaria, a traveling monk claimed to see a silhouette at the peak of a cliff. Lightning flashed. The shape flexed. The thunder came a second later.

All that remains of Finnagit Swole is his journal which was found encased in ice in northern Canada by an Arctic native and sold to our founder for a large and undisclosed amount of beef jerky, raw milk, and cheesy romance novels. It was promptly smuggled across the Detroit River on a raft made of inflatable and actual beavers into the US; the only country with enough freedom to publish his wisdom without redaction. And now you can own some of it. We will put it on clothing for you to evangelize the greatness of physical strength for we are all now Finnagit Swole.