Ethan's Pecs
Ethan had a mean pair of pecs. His pecs were so ferocious that the president of the military academy drafted him to fight the war of the boars.
Do bear in mind that the army was a practical muscle factory; more so than the gym. When you factor in the rough and tough of crawling naked across fields of pointy rocks, those biceps, triceps, thighceps and cryceps come creepin' out for a better look at what tortures them so. Ethan's pecs were already out (as were, to be fair, the rest of his muscles, but the pecs are the ones we mostly pay attention to).
The other muscle-meisters were blown away -- the ones on his side, figuratively. The ones they battled, literally. What happened was the battle boar baddies found themselves navigating a long narrow trench, and like Willy Wonka's liability hazard hallway, it only became narrower and narrower so that they could only venture it (with their own hard slab muscles and all) in a silly-looking single-file line.
The captain himself grieved thusly:
"I've done squats, burpies, all the moves, pulls, and tugs of embarrassing workouts. My shimmering muscles testify to that much. I've demonstrated my rock hard yet flexing shapely ass to the air, but this line we are forced to assume is just plain diaperkin."
They discovered too late that they were not so much in any trench; rather, like the Death Star's garbage compactor, the walls were closing in. It squeezed them into unmanly shapes, scoring knew heights, setting humiliated and defeated eyes upon the upper landscape of (yes, you guessed it) Ethan's pecs.
"Hooray! This battle is won!" shouted Ethan.
They celebrated the way manly men do, by punching one another in the nipples and hauling around the heaviest sofas they could find. They were true men. Sofas weren't for sitting, unless you volunteered yourself as resistance and you sat on it during the lift.