Iron Will to himself:
Now that you're dead,
fill your enemies with dread.
I like it.
Sweat glistened on his short, blue body hair, accenting the rippling muscles underneath. A series of grunts escaped his lips, vaguely reminiscent of one of his trademark motivational statements if you listened closely enough. The dumbbells that occupied his grip moved up and down in time with the bulging meat powering them.
"...Ninety eight. Ninety nine. One hundred." Satisfied, he returned the two thirty-pound weights to the rack, which groaned under the weight of all the equipment on it. He turned and examined himself in the mirror, and frowned. It wasn't enough. How could he motivate others if he weren't perfectly sculpted, the ultimate expression of his own motivation and dedication?
"You've got the power," Iron Will told himself. "Now make your enemies cower!" He flashed his signature grin and gave a thumbs up, and then immediately turned away from his reflection. His eyes were hollow, his smile fake, and his words empty, he felt. More strength, more conviction, bigger muscles. Yes, that was what he needed, he decided. Maybe then he could convince himself that what he said was actually true.
The shelf behind him creaked once, then gave way. The dumbbell that he had been exercising with earlier came tumbling down and smashed against the back of his left leg, cracking the tuber calcaneus. A small fragment was broken off, but remained relatively in place. That is, it stayed put until the pained minotaur tried to make his way out of his basement to get to his doctor. The fragment dislodged, getting pushed into a vein in the process. Slowly, the bone shard worked it's way up to Iron Will's heart.