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Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 31

You grunt heavily as you plant yourself down on the reinforced metal stool. The cool granite counter top soothes the burning in your forearms as you slot in next to two more of the gym’s regulars. The music throbs in your ear canals through your earbuds with that dull droning in the background. The barman approaches and grunts as he runs a drying cloth over a massive cup. “What’ll it be?” “Post workout,” you return. “Biggest size you’ve got.” The man nodded. “One muscleman special coming up.” You shudder and grunt as he turns to the blender, enjoying the high that surges through your system. Looking to either side of you, you notice the whole bar is full of regulars. Each of them sits mulling over a massive container of protein shake. Earbuds snake down their ears as they sip and stare intermittently. The loud whirr of the blender makes it impossible to talk, but for some reason, you know that even if they could, they probably wouldn’t want to. These guys were hard core body builders, after all. You were just a prissy model who came in for a gig. You casually tense your bicep as you watch it inflate. “Not so prissy now,” you mutter. The mug smacks down in front of you, and you look up in some surprise. Had the time passed that quickly? “Good hustle on the floor today,” the barkeep complimented. “You deserve this.” “Thanks,” you say. The keep shrugged. “Just tellin’ the truth.” You furrow your brow in confusion. “Do I ... know you from somewhere?” “I’m here every day, dumbass,” he deadpanned. You chuckled as that pleasurable fog rolled in. Dumbass. So funny. “Huhuhuh ... yeah. Sorry, man.” Then you frown again. “But seriously, haven’t I seen you ... you know, somewhere else?” He turned quickly away from you as he worked a cap off one of the many jars of powders the bar provided for its unique blends. You watched his shoulders tense and relase as he hunched forward, then returned to his full height, and suddenly it clicked. “Yeah ... weren’t you on the team that helped remodel my--?” “You really should be drinking your protein shake, muscleman.” And suddenly your body went rigid. Your eyes fell on the shake. Your mouth watered. “I ... I should....” “Drink your protein shake, muscleman.” Your hand trembles as you reach for the tall container. “You are what you eat. Drink the muscleman, become the muscleman, muscleman. You should drink the shake.” You blink your eyes slowly. Your head feels full of cotton. “Drink ... the shake?” You feel the cold from the cup seeping into your hand as the droplets tingle on your skin. It’s sweating, just like you’re sweating. And for some reason, that makes you smile. It’s good to sweat, after all. “Don’t think, muscleman. Just drink. That is what you are here for. You should drink your shake.” “It’s good to drink,” a gruff voice sounds to your right. “I drink the muscleman to be a muscleman,” the hulk on your left says. “Musclemen drink their shakes,” the counter says in unison. You smell the sweet scent as the cold beverage hovers under your nose. Your hot breath fogs the plastic on the cup. As one body, the men hold their cups to their lips as their eyes rest on you. “They’re waiting, muscleman. Drink,” the barkeep says. “I should drink my shake....” The words are out of your mouth before your addled head can even wonder. And then you feel that familiar, exultant sensation of thick, cold liquid flowing over your tongue, consuming your taste buds, flooding the roof of your mouth. And you feel your neck throbbing, bobbing, with every swallow. Up and down. Up and down. Your eyes look to either side. Thick legs are spread at a perfect symmetrical angle. Backs are straight. And Adam’s apples are bouncing with every loud gulp. Up and down. Up and down. Musclemen drink their shakes. Up and down. Up and down. Together..... Your crotch tightens with each gulp and you sigh, then belch in perfect time with the others as you all lower your cups to the counter top. Everything feels so ... muted, calm, empty. A massive hand claps you on the back. “Welcome to the club, muscleman.” Your response is immediate. “I am a muscleman. I grow my muscles.” The man looks at you calmly. “We lift things up and put them down.” You shudder in pleasure at the phrase as the pair of you clasp hands and he nods approvingly. “I look forward to seeing you on the circuit.” “When I am ready,” you respond. “Until then, muscleman.” He nods to you, and you nod dazedly in return as a smile crosses your face. “Until then,” you say. Then you turn back to the barkeep, who’s busy clearing away the empty cups. “So, what was it you wanted to ask me again?” he said. “Huh?” “That question. You wanted to ask me something.” It takes a moment for you to process that. “Did I?” The barkeep rolled his eyes, but smiled, despite himself. “Nevermind, dumbass.” You chuckle and pop a double bicep flex. “What can I say? I put it all in here.” “You’re a real meathead, aren’t you?” You take a few minutes this time as you tap your chin, flex a few muscles, bounce your pecs shamelessly against your tight tank top. “Yeah, ... I suppose I am.” You grin. “Just a big, dumbass meathead.” And every part of you sang at the phrase.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 32

The days have all become a round of mindless repetition now. You eat you portioned meals, drink your protein shake, lift, drink your protein shake, return to the apartment, eat your portioned meals, lift your weights to the pulsing screen and throbbing beat of your speakers massaging your brain, drink your protein shake, train with Duff, sleep, repeat. One or two times, you questioned yourself, your progress, what you were becoming, but a few pumps of your dumbbells, a few words of encouragement from Duff, a few seconds of your recordings, and those doubts were swept away like so much sweat off your brow. You linger in front of every reflective surface you see now, and you flex out of impulse. With the arrival of late spring, you’re able to go out in public with your shorts and tight muscle tee. After all, Sun’s out, guns out. The bar bends under the hefty plates you’ve laid on both sides. You work more in grunts and growls now, hardly speaking, but that’s because you have to focus on your body. Put everything into your body. You smile proudly at your gains, at the power you now exert every time you press against that bar, pushing higher, harder. Up and down. Up and down. Then the pullups. Up and down. Up and down. Squats. Up and down. Up and down. Situps. Up and down. Up and down. You grin as you execute your purpose. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say to yourself. A brute like you doesn’t want to do anything else. And then your bliss is interrupted by the ringing bells from your cell phone. You stare at it for a time, considering just letting it go. But ... you promised to pick up, if it’s Harry. You groan in frustration as you break your daily routine for the first time in you don’t know how long and check the ID. As you suspected, it was Harry. “What is it, Harry?” you growl as you answer the call. “You’re interrupting my workout.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back it up, muscleman. Don’t go killing the messenger.” Your head reels a moment and you stumble briefly, then grunt as you shake your head to clear it. “Why would I want to kill you?” There was a period of dead silence on the other end. “Harry?” “It ... was a figure of speech,” Harry finally responded. “Oh.” You flex your pecs impatiently. Your body still wants to move. “So, what’d you call me for?” “The client loved your photos from the last session. What they don’t love is how pale your skin is.” “And your point is...?” “I booked you an appointment at a tanning salon. I’ll be picking you up tomorrow at twelve thirty. Make sure you’re ready to go, muscleman.” Once again, the world spun around you. “I ... understand. I’ll ... I’ll, uh, ... be ready. Yeah....” You liked your skin, but, uh ... whatever the client wants. Yeah. You’re bound by contract, after all. So, what the client wants, you want. ... Yeah. ... Have to follow instructions. “Good. I’ll see you soon. Keep up the great work, kid.” “Will do,” you low absently. The weights are already calling you back. You don’t even bother to end the call as you return to your exercise. Can’t allow yourself to lose the pump, after all. Real Musclemen love the pump.

“And I’m a real muscleman now,” you mutter to yourself as that pleasant haze returns again. “I lift things up and put them down....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 33

“‘Sup, Harry?” you greeted your agent casually as he drove up in his convertible. The sun was already starting to beat down, and your muscles tingled in anticipation under the exposure. It took every ounce of will power you had not to pop a flex at the man on instinct. Your skin glistened from the preparations you had made the previous night, following the instructions Harry had sent over to the letter. After all, you had to, in order to fit your role. “Oh, the usual,” Harry replied casually. “Making deals, helping clients, getting paid, taking you places.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I feel almost like a chauffeur.” “You know, you don’t always have to drive me, if you don’t want to.” “Oh, but I do want to. After all, somebody’s got to make sure you get where you’re supposed to go on time. Knowing you, you’d probably get distracted along the way, maybe go through a posing session for some ladies, or just get lost in the warmth on your muscles as you stretch.” You chuckle and reach your hand back to rub up and down against the stubble at the back of your neck, causing your black tanktop to ride up over your pectorals. “You see right through me, don’t you?” “Bit hard to do that with a big guy like you. Come on, and get in. We’ve got a ways to go.” And just like that, you’re in the passenger’s seat, resting your heavily sculpted arm on the window port as you watch the world pass by. Harry passed a few sidelong glances your way as you approached an intersection and waited for the light to turn. “You know, you’ve changed a lot, since this all started.” You shrug. “Change is good,” you reply simply, almost automatically. Your motivational poster flashed through your head with that big, dopey smile on that bodybuilder’s face, and your own face pulls into an almost exact replica. “I enjoy my changes.” “And you don’t miss anything?” You turn to look at the smaller man and frown. “Should I?” Harry shrugged. “That’s not my place to say, kid. I’m just your agent, remember?” He chuckled then as the light turned green, and the trip resumed. That statement did leave you wondering, however. If it wasn’t Harry’s place to say, .... Whose place was it?

The tanning salon was a broad building in the bustling city, not unlike a small warehouse. The parking lot was loaded with expensive-looking cars alongside a few dustier used ones. Harry slipped right into the reserved section and pulled out a little plastic hanger to place over his rear view mirror. A shining sun with a single palm tree stared back at you, along with the words PREFERRED CUSTOMER. “What’s that for?” you ask, pointing to the hook. “We got you the deluxe package,” Harry explained. “You can’t get a full tan just by going once. You have to come back. This here hook gives us good parking and all the benefits you need during your sessions. “So, it’s kinda like when I went with the doc before?” “Yup, except your sessions here will be shorter.” “How short are we talking?” “Somewhere a little under ten minutes.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t take much with these machines.” “I see.” “Which means you’ll have plenty of time to get back to the gym.” You can’t help but grin at that. “I thought you might like that part of it,” Harry smirked. “Come on. Let’s get you ready.” The aides were quick to put you through your tests to check your skin type. Then you got your special goggles to protect your eyes and were instructed to strip down to the bare minimum. A towel was also provided for decency’s sake, when it was time to enter the main floor. “And don’t forget to use this,” one of the ladies said. She handed you a tube of what looked almost like sun block. “Apply it all over your skin. We have a brush over there to aid you with your back. If you prefer, we can have someone help apply it for you, instead. Just say the word.” You nod gratefully as you’re led to a private room and quickly follow the attendant’s instructions to the letter. You opt for the second of the two options you were offered, and smile as you feel delicate hands running up and down your back. “You’ll need to wait here to give the lotion time to work,” she said. “About twenty or thirty minutes. After that, you’ll be ready to tan.” You nod absently, enjoying the sensation of the rubbing too much to really give a full acknowledgement. “We’ll play something for you, while you wait, so you won’t get bored.” Again, you nod. “Thanks,” you manage to say. And suddenly, you find yourself alone in that state of suspended pleasure. Music begins to filter through the speakers, followed by a low, deep voice. “Hello, muscleman.” Your response is automatic. “Hello, Sir....”

The tanning bed was warm and inviting. You couldn’t help but smile as you listened to the calming music flooding through the chamber. The urge to flex had been muted in favor of the overriding need to achieve the perfect tan. For that, you had to relax. “A tan muscleman is a good muscleman is a proud muscleman....” you murmur to yourself as the words reverberate through your skull from your time in the prep room.  Your muscles glisten, and the longer you bathe in the light, the more pleasure you experience. You make sure to keep your arms above your head, so you can get a proper full body tan, just like you were instructed by the employees. The lamps are hot, but not entirely unpleasant. It’s more like when you’re on a run, after a workout and go bare-chested, instead of the usual means. When the time is up, you get out and look almost disappointed at the sight of your skin. “It’s not tan....” “It takes a day or two for the melanin in your skin to react,” the attendant explained. “You should notice a difference, by the time you come back, assuming you follow all the instructions right.” You chuckle. “No problems there. Uh, thanks, Miss...?” “Call me Jessica,” the girl said with a smile. “We’ll see you again in a couple of days, won’t we?” “You will,” you promise as you stomp your way towards the door, while the attendant begins cleaning the bed. You smile and pop a flex briefly, imagining just how much better it’ll look, when that skin is a healthy gold. “I can hardly wait,” you mutter.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 34

“Hey, kid. I’ve got another gig for you, if you’re interested,” Harry’s voice carried over your new bluetooth phone accessory into your ears. Hank suggested the twin earpieces the moment you talked about how Harry’s calls were messing up your workouts. The little devices were an absolute miracle. “It’s for a new brand of sports gear coming out,” Harry continued. “Jock straps, cleats, socks, shorts, uniforms, football, baseball, you name it.” You pump your dumbbells casually, admiring the healthy gold that’s replaced your once pale white skin as you mull the offer over. “How long?” you finally ask. “It’ll take about a week or two.” “Local?” “Out of state, but they’re willing to add housing expenses.” You mull that over again slowly as you continue to pump rhythmically. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Finally, you nod and speak. “I’ll need a gym. High quality, full spread, full access. It’s not home without a gym,” you say, “and I need to keep up my workout schedule.” “Of course. I already explained the details of your other contract to them. They agreed a muscleman like you is perfect for the job.” The world came to a halt as your weights dropped to the padded flooring. “A muscleman like me is perfect for the job,” you repeat in a dull monotone. “Because proud musclemen love to show off, and what is modeling, but a chance to show off those muscles?” “I am a proud muscleman. I love to show off.” “That’s right,” Harry said. “Show off for the cameras.” “I show off for the cameras.” “You will pose as you are ordered, during your photo sessions, because proud musclemen don’t think. You remember that, don’t you, muscleman? Musclemen don’t think.” “Our muscles think for us,” you return. “My muscle drives my body.” “Just a big, dumb muscleman growing bigger and dumber, bigger and dumber every time you lift things up and put them down.” “I lift things up and put them down,” you slur in a deep, bovid voice. “That’s right, Djur. Lifting and growing and dumbing, until there’s nothing but a bulky, brawny brute of a body builder. Because that is what you are becoming. That is where you want to be, isn’t it?” “Yes.” “Good muscleman. Now, when I say the word congratulations, you are going to wake back up out of this trance with no memory of this exchange. You will remember agreeing to the contract and feel enthusiastic about the modeling to come, because musclemen and sports gear go hand in hand. You know this from the compression gear you take with you to the gym every day.” “Yes,” you agree. “And you will wear whatever they ask you to without complaint, because...?” “Musclemen and sports gear go hand in hand.” “That’s right. You’re a good muscleman.” “I am a good muscleman.” “Now pick up your weights and resume your exercises.” You quickly move to do so, pumping mindlessly as you listen to the voice that has held your attention so raptly. Harry’s chuckle carried over into your ears. “Congratulations, kid. You’ve got the contract.” You blink blearily for a moment. “S-sorry, Harry,” you low slowly. “I ... didn’t get all that. I think you broke up a bit.” You shake your head to try to clear the fog. “I said you got the contract, kid. I’ll send the travel arrangements your way, once I’ve got them booked. A big grin spread over your face as your heart rate picked up. “Awesome! Thanks, Harry!” Harry chuckled. “No problem, kid. I’ll see you soon. Keep up the great work.” “I will,” you promise as you stare into your mirror and smile at the way your muscles ripple and shift under your skin as you work them. “I will,” you repeat in a dreamier tone as the buds pick up on your MP3 player and the familiar tracks filter through your ears.

Harry panted to himself as he laid a hand against his chest to get his heart rate under control. An exultant surge pulsed through his brain as the flood of adrenaline merged with a hint of arousal. His cheeks flushed and his bald spot shone with sweat as he reached for a tissue and dabbed the droplets away. Once he’d regained enough control of himself, he pulled out his cell phone and clicked the redial button. A few rings later, and he heard the familiar voice of his client on the other end. “How did it go?” the deep voice asked. “Surprisingly well,” Harry said. “I ... I’ve never done something like that before.” The man on the other end chuckled. “You enjoyed it.” It wasn’t a question. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Mister Harrison.” The flush in Harry’s cheeks deepened. “Please, call me Sir. I find that much more informal than ‘Mister Harrison.’” “I, uh ... don’t know if I feel all that comfortable calling you that, ... Sir.” Harrison chortled. “I’ve already sent the payment, along with a little ... let’s call it a bonus, a reward, if you will, for excellent service.” Harry’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “I ... I always aim to please, Sir.” “Of course you do. You have talent, Harry. You don’t mind, if I call you Harry, do you? After all, we’ve been working together for so long.” Harry gulped. “O-of course not, Sir.” “Good. Good. You see, Harry, when I find talent, real potential, I like to make use of it, polish it until it shines so perfectly, so emptily, that I can see my own reflection.” “Um ... is this going anywhere, Sir?” Harry’s voice cracked, and he swallowed to alleviate the dryness, then fumbled for his coffee mug and took a sip. His hand trembled as he returned the mug to its place on his desk. “To put it simply, Harry, I see that glimmer in you. I see the talent, the spark. You, sir, have the soul of a conditioner, a manager, if you will, not unlike Fängsla.” Harry chuckled nervously. “Um, thank ... you?” “Which is why I’m going to start polishing you now.” “Excuse m--?” “Report, candidate.” Harry shot bolt-upright in his chair. His eyes stared unseeingly at the door to his office. “Yes, Sir.” His chair scraped back against the hardwood floor as he reached over to grab his phone and keys, then made his way to the office door. He stopped only long enough to lock it behind him and tell the secretary to hold his calls and cancel his appointments, followed by the assurance he’d be in contact soon and handing her the key to the main office. “Lock up. Take care of the place. There’s a bonus in it for you, if you do well,” he promised. And then, just like that, he was out the door walking at a brisk pace to reach his car. He had to report.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 35

You’re a linebacker, tensing down at the starting line, just waiting for the call to crash into your enemies. Your jockstrap and cup hold your manhood securely as you feel the tight hug of the lycra in your pants and the weight of your shoulder pads clinging to your bulky frame. You’re a brick wall, and you’re not about to let anyone past you as you enter a three-point stance staring through the bars along your helmet’s guard. A few flashes later, and suddenly you’re a grinning, happy-go-lucky beach bum in a speedo. You feel the volleyball resting casually between your vascular arm and your hip as you stare into that beautiful lens and chuckle emptily at the sensation of sand between your toes. Sun’s out, guns out. It’s good to show off. Next thing you know, you’re up at bat, ready to slam into that ball as it comes flying over the plate. Your hands clench tightly to the wooden bat as your gloves creak from the pressure of rubbing against the varnished wood. A thick baseball helmet adorns your crown, with an extension of the ear to protect against any blows to that area. You can almost hear someone whispering, “Pose for the cameras....” So, that’s what you do. Because that’s what good musclemen do. And you’re a good muscleman, just doing as you’re told as the flash empties your mind more and more, making it that much easier to just ... do. One more flash, and you’re a goalie who’s just made a saving catch. The ball is hoisted over your head as you prepare to throw it back into the field. The next moment, you’re posing victoriously over the ball, with your heavy cleats resting atop the blended cover of polyester and cotton that forms the outer layer of the soccer ball. Your jersey clings to all the right places as you grin for your fans. Then you’re suddenly feeling heavier as you hunch your shoulders and clutch the rugby ball close. Your compression shorts cling to your legs and your dark jersey shines with every shutter from the camera. The game must be won, the ball passed on to another teammate. Another flash, and suddenly you’re shaking hands with a member of the opposite team. You feel the surge of anger at this, but the voice whispers again. “Sport requires fairness. You must show respect.” Must show respect. You release your crushing grip and look at him with a placid expression, neither friendly nor hostile. After all, you’re both just competitors. Then, suddenly, you’re standing holding a long metal pole with a woven net at its top. A casual glance reveals a heavy white ball that holds the container down. Your pectorals jut out against the material of your jersey as you stare with just a hint of a smile and smoldering eyes. The voice whispers praise, and you grin as your body trembles with pleasure. Suddenly, you’re back at the gym, pumping a massive pair of dumbbells and loving every second of it. Your posing strap holds comfortably to you as you shift and pose in front of the mirror, never once stopping your reps as you maintain your form. It’s so good to just lift and pump, lift and pump. Flash. Lift the weights up. Strobe. Lowering down. Flash. Up. Strobe. Down. “Huhuhuh,” you chuckle to yourself as you retreat to that place deep in your mind and let your muscles squeeze the thought right out of you. ‘I’m a good muscleman,’ you think as the reps continue. ‘I lift things up and put them down.’ You come to in the gym at your living quarters, still lifting, still staring. Your protein shake is on a cup holder off to the side, waiting for you to take another chug. You chuckle again as you notice the bulge pressing against your posing strap. “Big meat,” you low to yourself, then return to your vapid gaping at the mirror. “That’s right, muscleman, because musclemen are meatheads.” “I am a muscleman. Musclemen are meatheads. I am a meathead.” “Good muscleman. Good meathead. Now get back to work.” You happily obey.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 36

You lumber through your apartment door with a dopey grin on your face. It feels so good to be back. The two weeks were such a blur, but it was a happy blur. And if you were happy, then there was no need to question it. Leave the money and stuff to Harry to manage. You drop your suitcases easily by the door and stomp your way to the kitchen for your protein shake and a healthy meal. You crash down into the reinforced steel chair by your new dining table and start forking your typical lunch of brown rice and chicken, while the siren call of the blender roars through your ears. Musclemen drink their shakes, and yours would be ready soon. It didn’t take long to finish. You rise about halfway through your meal, when the motor finally dies. You don’t even wait to start chugging the drink, and make your way to your chair to resume your meal. After all, muscle machines need fuel to run, to produce more muscle. You pull out your phone and check for messages, noticing some new voicemails. You stick it on speaker and continue to eat as you cue up the first. “Hey, lil’bro. Duff here. Just wanted to be the first one to welcome ya back. Been pumping at the gym a lot, since you left. The guys all miss you. Been wondering where you’ve been at. Think I had to remind a few of them a good three or four times, before they finally got it.” Duff’s dimwitted chuckle reverberated through your ears, and you couldn’t help but join in. What a bunch of dumbasses. “I’ve been making some gains of my own, since you left. Hank’s been helpin’ me out again, pumping my brain with anatomy as much as he does with lead, so I can pass my classes. Let’s hook up again at the gym for old times’ sake. Then we can hit up that restaurant for some teriyaki. My treat. Anyways, gotta go, bro. Those weights are calling my name.” He laughed a deep, husky bark of a laugh, then spoke again. “See you soon, lil’bro.” A big grin crosses your face as you think back to all those late night gym sessions with your best bro. Duff really was a great training partner. The guy would go pretty far, once he got his training certification and graduated. Then he could help build other muscle machines. You casually shovel another bite of your meal and chew as you access the second voicemail. “Kid, it’s Hank. You’d better not have slacked off during those two weeks. I’ll whoop your ass, if you did,” he growled. You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Good old Hank, always looking out for you. “No, Sir,” you mutter absently, after swallowing your food. “Anyway, the gym’s waiting for you. So am I. Don’t flake out on me. You know what’ll happen, if you do.”  Like you’d ever do that to him. You can’t help but smile at the concern you know is hidden under that gruff bravado. The man was harsh, but after all that time under his tutelage, you’d come to understand that elusive language all musclemen seem to share on a subtler level. Every word, every action held a hidden meaning. With those few short sentences, the man had communicated an ocean of questions and concerns ranging from diet to health and dedication to maintaining ties. “I missed you, too, Hank,” you say as you smile at your phone. Of course, neither of you would say that to your faces. Musclemen don’t do mushy. They banter. They bluster. Their muscles do the talking and the thinking. Every word said and not said is registered and interpreted in that secret language that’s becoming more and more natural to you with each passing day. You pop a double bicep pose and flex, grinning in that way that says, ‘I am healthy. I am happy. I am ready to return to work.’ “I want you here bright and early tomorrow morning. No excuses, understand?” You chuckle to yourself. Why put off for tomorrow the workout that can be done today? Besides, you’d like to see that stony face surprised for once, and what better way than to come unexpected? “I’ll see you then. Don’t be late.” The message clicked shut and your smile widened. You can’t wait to throw him off his game, just once. The third message had Harry’s familiar voice blaring out the speakers. “Kid, that last shoot was incredible! The camera loves you, and so did the photographers. They said you were one of their best models, bar none! I’ve got some paperwork I’ll need you to sign a little later for some last transactions and a few formalities involving finances. I’ll drop by the gym, and we can take care of it during your rest period. I’m telling you, big things are coming, kid. BIG!” You chuckle as you lift up your bicep and flex one more time, watching the muscle strain and pop against your skin. “Yes, they are, Harry,” you agree. “Yes, they are....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 37

You smile as you arrive at the gym. The sun is setting, painting the stone along the building’s outside a fiery orange, and that only makes you feel more fired up for the reunion and workout to come. You open the glass door, gym bag in hand, heedless of the fact the sign has been flicked to closed and the illuminated one turned off. It’s not your first time arriving close to closing. You smile as the familiar clank of the weight machines in full swing rings through your ears. Hank must’ve decided to get in a little pump of his own, after shutting things up for the night. After all, people knew better than to try to break into a gym frequented by bodybuilders and run by one of the greatest personal trainers the circuit has ever seen. You make your way easily to your usual locker and quickly pull out your combination lock. After you grab what you need from the bag, you stow it in the locker and click the lock shut. You drape your hand towel over your shoulder and start to guzzle your protein shake you prepped before coming down. You already feel the familiar tension in your muscles as the surge of your heartbeat rages in your ears. That same dimwitted smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you passed through the locker room door and back into the entry point. You flip the cap shut on your mixing cup and strike into that double bicep pose you’ve been practicing as you let that smile pull into a confident grin and step onto the main floor. “Yo, Hank, I’m--.” Hank wasn’t on the floor, but the gym was packed with some of the most chiseled and buff men you’ve ever laid eyes on. Barbells bent with the sheer weight some of these men were repping with as rippling muscles strained against their singlets. “--back,” you finished lamely. Nobody responded. Nobody stopped. You strode into the fray, watching as the builders and lifters pushed in eerie silence. No cursing, no growling, no roars of rage or triumph. You felt almost like a ghost as you passed through their ranks. Those who weren’t at the machines stood in a perfect line in front of the floor-length mirrors. Their bronze skins shone slickly under the lights, whether from sweat or those oils you’d heard Duff gushing about, you weren’t sure, but the sheer synchronization of their movements was incredible. They switched as one man, fluidly, from pose to pose. It was almost like a dance, pure poetry in motion. You couldn’t help but give a sympathetic flex of your own at the sight. This. This was the ideal. This was what you were training to become. Perfect strength. Perfect symmetry. Poetry in motion. Over at the drink bar, a familiar flash of red drew your attention. Stocky builders would walk to the counter and grab the cups lying in wait along the counter’s surface. You approached and smiled at the familiar face of your lifting buddy. “Yo, Duff. What’s up?” Duff continued about his business as if he hadn’t heard you. He mixed the powders with the proper fluids, then closed the lids and started the blenders, before turning back to you again. When he noticed you hadn’t moved, he strode over, picked up a cup, and shoved it at your chest. “Please drink and return to your workout,” he said in a peremptory tone, not unlike those robo recordings you used to have to deal with when you had to call about your banking and stuff. Man, were you glad you didn’t have to worry so much about those things anymore. “Duff? Big bro? Anybody home?” you asked as you waved a hand in front of his face. He didn’t have the chance to respond as a group of the hulking giants came over and shoved you aside to drink lustily from the cups. Once again, Duff sounded the refrain. “Please drink and return to your workout.” When the drinks were finished, they slammed the cups down on the countertop and rose from their chairs. “We have finished our drinks,” their voices echoed in unison. “We are returning to our workouts.” And that was it. Duff took the dirty cups to the wash station and cleaned them up, without saying a word, while the men returned to the main floor. Then he dried and refilled the cups to place on the counter top again. “Uh ... okay, then. Guess I’ll catch you later,” you say lamely as you lumber away from the bar. This wasn’t exactly the welcome back you were expecting. Practically all the weights and equipment are being hogged by the titans, and there’s still no sign of Hank in sight, so there’s nothing you can do about it. You sigh and decide to poke around a bit. Maybe some of the equipment will get freed up in the meanwhile. It was worth a shot. You’d hate to waste the trip, especially after that letdown with Duff. You wander over to the door marked STAFF ONLY. Maybe Hank is back there. You test the door and find it unlocked, so you pass through into a long, broad hallway. A series of doors stand on either side, just waiting to be explored. A smile pulls at your lips. Maybe this wouldn’t be a wasted trip to the gym, after all. And if you did get into trouble, well, you were just looking for Hank, after all. Surely, he could forgive you for that. You pick a door at random and test the knob. Much to your pleasant surprise, it’s unlocked. The room inside is dark, so you flick a switch to get a better idea of what’s inside. A series of speakers have been mounted on all sides of the space, while a single large monitor sits atop a desk. A mounted camera in the corner stares sightlessly at the opposite side, clearly inactive. You shrug and withdraw, making your way to the next door. You continued your search, finding more of the same. After the tenth one of its kind, you were getting exceptionally bored. You decide to try one last door, before you turn back. The handle shifted as easily as the others had, but when you cracked the door, this time, you saw something different. The light was dim as you stepped through, save for the glow on the monitor highlighting the familiar face of your landlord. A sandy shirt clung tightly to his frame, highlighting the beginnings of a perk in his pectorals that you knew only too well from when you first started your journey of growth. His eyes were completely locked on the screen, his pupils wide as the light flickered over his face. A thick set of headphones had been mounted over his ears and as you drew nearer, you could just make out the familiar camouflage pattern of military style fatigues and the heavy duty boots that lay beneath them.  “Collin?” you ask. He doesn’t answer. You walk around behind him to see the rapidly flashing images of tanks, missiles, heavy duty weapons, marching soldiers, men saluting, ancient soldiers fighting in their armor, battle scenes, all superimposed over a flickering spiral and words that flit in and out along the screen at random points. Finally, he lets out a sigh, followed by a, “Sir, yes, Sir.” Since when had he gotten all gung-ho about the military? You get closer and pull one of the earphones off slightly, leaning in close to pick up on whatever is playing. “That is good. You’ve identified your commanding officer. And you will listen to your commanding officer at all times, won’t you, soldier?” “Sir, yes, Sir,” Collin said dully. You reel back from the headphone as it plops back into place. That voice. That was Harry’s voice. “What the hell...?” That was when the door came open and a heavily breathing Hank stared at you. “Hank, what’s going--?” “Sleep, muscleman,” he ordered. And suddenly, everything went dark.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 38

You slowly open your eyes to the sound of that throbbing clank. You wince and hiss as your brow furrows in reaction to a sudden stabbing pain. You try to reach for it, but a familiar thick hand holds yours steady. “Easy there,” Hank rumbled gently, then smiled. “Gave us a real scare there, kid.” The room swam around you and you groaned. “What ... happened?” “You smashed right into my door is what happened, or maybe it’s better to say my door smashed into you.” You feel a stinging pain as a red cloth dabs at your skull. You turn your head weakly to see Duff staring down with clenched teeth. “Idiot. Don’t scare us like that!” he growled “Ambulence is on its way. You’re gonna be fine. Just make sure to relax, okay?” “I ... I thought I saw....” Hank shook his head. “Just try to keep calm, okay? How about you tell us about your trip?” “My ... trip?” You blink blearily as you try to think what he means. Then it clicks. “Oh, you mean the modeling.” “Yes. Tell us about that.” “O-kay, if ... you want,” you slur. “Stay with us, now. Come on.” You smile goofily. “I’m not going anywhere.” “‘Course you’re not. You’ve got too much to tell us about. What’d you model, huh?” So you talked, answering the carefully worded questions one after the other as Duff and Hank switched off, always keeping you talking, until the ambulance arrived. You remember blinking a few times, then the gym was just gone, and you were staring at a bland wall with a TV running overhead. “He’s going to be fine, Duff,” you hear Hank’s reassuring voice, followed by a heavy smack and thump you know to be the big man clapping Duff on the back, maybe the shoulder. “The doctors say he just needs rest now. You do, too, ya little musclehead.” “But--.” “No buts. Go home. Sleep. Work off some steam before, if you have to, but you’re not going to do him any good here in that state. It won’t do you much good for that test of yours either.” “But--.” “I said no buts, Duff. Move it. That’s an order.” You hear Duff sigh. “Yes, Sir,” he said sulkily. “You come on by as soon as you finish that final. I’ll keep you posted. I promise.” “You’d better,” Duff growled. Then you heard his heavy footsteps falling into the general hubub of the hallway beyond, followed by the creak of the door slowly shutting. You wait patiently as Hank makes his way over to the bed, then smile weakly. “Hey,” you croak. “Hey, yourself,” Hank chuckled, after he got over the initial surprise. “You had us worried for a second there, champ.” “Worried? You? Now I know I must have hit my head.” “Pity it didn’t do something about that clever mouth of yours.” “Apparently, it’s the only part of me that still is. I mean, who walks into a door like that? I should’ve seen you there, or Duff, or whoever it was. I mean, it’s glass for crying out loud!” “Well, at least you remember that part of things.” “More I remember you telling me.” You sigh. “It’s probably not a good thing for me to rub my head right now, is it?” “Probably not, considering the bandaging and all that,” Hank agreed. “You’ll need to sleep sitting up tonight. No letting your head fall too far out of place. You should be in the clear after tomorrow, though, so that’s a plus.” “I’m such a dumbass,” you grouse. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, kid. It’s only natural, the way you’ve been these last couple of weeks. I should’ve expected you to come back to the gym as soon as you could. A muscleman like you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but the gym.” “Yeah,” you murmur sleepily. “The gym is my home, after all.” “Yes, it is. Why don’t you tell me more about it, talk the smart out of that mouth of yours, eh, muscleman?” “Yes, Sir, ... Coach....” Hank smirked. “Took you long enough.” He chuckled. “Was starting to wonder if you’d ever agree to it.” “I wanna be the best muscleman. And the best muscleman is a proud muscleman is a strong muscleman ... is a ... good muscleman ... is ... an ... uh ... uhhhhh.....” “Obedient muscleman.” “Oh, uh ... yeah. Right,” you say as you smile dopily. “Sorry. That was kinda stupid, huh?” “No, it’s just how you’re supposed to be,” Hank said with a smile. “Tell me, did you see anything unusual, while you were unconscious?” “Hmm?” you ask sleepily. Your eyes feel so heavy, even heavier than your usual high. Hank shook his head as his smile faltered somewhat. “Get your sleep, kid. We can resume our talk later. Just get better, you hear me, muscleman?” “Yes, Sir....” You fade away to sleep, barely laying your head back against the comfortable bed as that last order echoes in your ears to send you off. When Hank was certain you were asleep, he pulled out his phone and quickly pressed speed dial. “Report, Harry. How’s the subject coming?”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 39

You never thought wearing your jock strap could ever feel so good, but after spending a good couple of days in the hospital in little more than a gown, it felt so right being reunited with one of your favorite undergarments. You pat the pouch fondly as you look down at how full it is. It actually feels almost snug now as it cradles your privates. The rest of your clothes were a little tricky with the bandaging and dizzy spells, but you managed, with a little help from a couple of nurses. Duff grinned at you from the receptionist’s desk. “Hey, lil’bro. What’s up?” You chuckle. “Oh, you know, the usual.” “Now, remember to keep resting for at least another week,” the receptionist said. “The doctor left those instructions specifically for you. Give that bruising enough time to heal, before you even think  about using those weights again.” “That’s gonna be a little hard,” Duff snarked. You couldn’t help but chuckle yourself. “Lifting’s about all we ever really think about.” You both grin at her cheekily. “We lift things up and put them down,” you recite together in perfect unison, then laugh again. The receptionist rolled her eyes, but held her tongue and proffered a clipboard your way. “Sign on the line below, and we’ll release you to your friend’s care.” You quickly sign, then you’re home free, walking to a large charcoal-gray van and the familiar towering shape of Hank. He smacks you on the back and smiles. “Welcome back, muscleman.” “Good to be back, Sir,” you say with a mock salute. “Smartass,” Hank said gruffly, even as he smirked. “No, Sir. I’m a total dumbass. Ask anybody in town,” you say with a smile. “Huhuhuh,” you chuckle. “All right, dumbass, let’s get you home, then.” You smile. “Sounds good.” “You and I are going to have to have a long talk, later,” Hank said as he pulled open the sliding door effortlessly. “There are some things I need to iron out with you.” “I thought iron was for lifting.” Hank stared silently at you for a few moments. “Was that a joke?” he finally asked. “No, Sir. It’s healthy for a muscleman like me to pump iron. I love to lift things up and put them down. It’s right for me to lift things up and put them down. I need to lift things up and put them down.” You know you’re repeating yourself, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It all feels so good to say. It takes a few moments, before you realize your arms are tensing as your pectorals pop back and forth. “Recovery first,” Hank insisted. “Then we’ll see about the lifting.” “But--.” “No buts,” Hank growled. “That’s an order.” You sigh dejectedly. “Yes, Sir.” “Now let’s get you settled in.” A few moments later, you’re sitting in the middle of the bench seat behind the driver and passenger’s chairs. Hank smiles into the rear view mirror as Duff slides into the front and clicks his seat belt home. “I’ve got a little treat for you, though, since you can’t lift right now. Call it a consolation prize,” Hank said. He pressed a few buttons and suddenly the vehicle reverberates with a familiar whirring as the speakers kick in. Your mind immediately slows as a big grin plasters itself all over your face. Then the screens mounted on the backs of the driver and front passenger seat both flicker on, revealing a pair of spirals and images flickering faster than your severely retarded thinking process can track. “Now just listen to the recording and watch the movie, muscleman. I made them especially for you.” “Yes, ... Sir....” you drone as you fade off into the nothingness again and revel in it. You grin, unable to help yourself as you murmur, “It’s good to obey.”

Flynn Rides Again

This story was inspired by a piece of artwork I stumbled across on Furaffinity.net. It’s a tad too mature for my standards, since I’m not exactly a fan of hyper, but the main intent of the brief two-panel sequence inspired me to do this story. I hope you all enjoy.

Eugene looked suspiciously at the strange metal cylinder that had been shoved into his hand. One moment, he was looking at some old mirror in Corona’s castle, definitely not in a forbidden wing that he’d be in terrible trouble for stumbling into, if the guards caught him. Then he was here, in this place. He remembered the dark room and the dank smell of a forgotten dungeon well enough. It really was his own fault for being too proud to ask some proper directions, but him being a newly reformed thief and all, he wasn’t exactly willing to take any chances of certain … misunderstandings that could potentially end his life, before he had the chance to propose to Rapunzel. You only got so many passes for being the love interest of the princess, after all.

He furrowed his brow in concentration as he continued to think back on the events that had led him here. He’d dodged into the room to avoid being caught by a guard patrol. He remembered that much. Enough light shone through the bars of the from the torches in the hall to grant him at least a dim view of the room. When the guards passed by, he quickly darted behind the closest thing at hand, a broad wooden mannequin bedecked in the strangest armor the former thief had ever seen. A thick cap made of hard leather with two straps that dangled on either side of the ears sat snugly on the top; a spacious garment not unlike chainmail hung from the shoulders, though it appeared to have been made from cloth, rather than steel, and a strange set of worn characters faded by the ravages of time and the nibbling of certain other creatures had left the man wondering if the garb might not have been enchanted at one point. It certain would explain the sheer size of the thing. The garment could have fit Attilla or Vladimir no problem. It might have even been loose on them, and that was saying something. When the guards’ speech had faded enough, Eugene emerged from his hiding place to take a closer look at the alien garb.

“Just who did you used to belong to?” Eugene had muttered to himself. The tattered remains of what had once been a pair of pants hung from the waist portion of the carved wooden frame, and the strangest pair of boots he had ever laid eyes on sat on the broad wooden base. They looked almost like shoes, with no sign of the usual high walls associated with the article, but they had thick powerful soles attached to their bottoms with dark spikes that would be great for traction and cause no end of pain to an enemy, if kicked or stomped on. Next, he picked up a large metal tankard with a massive upside-down horseshoe etched into its surface. As he ran his fingers along the etching, he felt the contours of a large B, followed by a capital N and finally a capital A. A set of dusty wooden placards sat atop the shelf. Eugene removed each one in order, before returning it.

“LilBro, Fall, BigBro, Spring? What are these even supposed to mean?” As he replaced the last of the items, unfortunately, his unique brand of luck kicked in, and in true fashion, one of the supports of the shelf came undone, sending everything falling to the floor. Eugene did his best to catch what he could, but he couldn’t stop all of it. The clatter was defeaning. The shouts of the suddenly alert guards and the steady clomp of their booted feet left Eugene’s heart racing as he shook his head, muttering worriedly to himself, and slowly backed up. That was his second mistake. The old stand wobbled, then crashed to the floor thunderously as he bumped into it. Now Eugene knew he was rightfully done for.

“Oh, come on!” Eugene wailed. “Give a guy a break.” As a last resort, he rushed to the back of the room, where a great white sheet sat. He whipped it up, ducked under it, and prayed the guards wouldn’t think to look as he leaned back against a cool surface and promptly fell through.

The next thing he knew, he found himself here, in this … place. It was a disorienting trip, but rather alarmed screaming, laughter and a pleasure-filled shrieking had greeted him, instead. He stood in the middle of one of the strangest manors he had ever encountered, and in his career as a thief, he had seen his fair share. The furniture in this one was finely crafted, albeit well used. The carpet was firm, almost rigid under the supple soles of his worn leather boots, and young men and women rushed around in costumes, laughing and partying to loud music that emanated magically from tiny boxes, yet somehow filled the entire vaulted room with noise that blended with the general hubbub of the crowd. More than one of the men came up to him, after he’d gotten his bearings with the lowing compliment, “Sweet costume, bro.”

After about the tenth compliment, Eugene rubbed the back of his head, his white shirt billowing slightly in the heated air. “Uh, thanks, … bro?”

The man with the devil horns just smirked as he walked past.

A thick arm suddenly wrapped itself around Eugene’s shoulders, and he looked up in utter shock at the massive minotaur that now held him bound. His eyes shrunk to pinpricks as his mouth dropped open, before the monster pulled its own head off to reveal a heavily muscled boy with golden hair cut into a tight buzz in a flat along the top of his head. His jaw was thick and square, and a carefully groomed layer of golden shadow rimmed his jaw like sand.

“You look lost, LilBro,” the big man chuckled. “First time at the frat?”

“Frat?” Eugene returned, completely confused.

“Omega Beta Nu Alpha. Biggest fraternity in the world.” He chuckled. “Only one with its own brewery, too,” he added with a wink. “You try our Alpha Brew yet?”

“Alpha … Brew?” Alpha Brew. Why did that sound so familiar?

“It’s good shit. Makes a real man of you in no time at all.” The hulk shoved a metal can into his hands. “Here. Have a cold one on me.” He grinned as he lumbered away. “And enjoy the party, bro! I’ll see you later!”

And so Eugene found himself back up to the present, examining the cylinder again. “Alpha Brew. Alpha Brew. Alpha Berew….” Eugene’s eyes widened. “Alpha Beru!” he snapped his free fingers. The place was supposed to be a myth, a land where just a short time in its borders would leave you a warrior among warriors. That explained why the armor on that mannequin had been so flimsy. A warrior must have come through from Alpha Beru at some point in the kingdom’s history. He wouldn’t have needed metal to stop an opponent. His strength would have been enough. Eugene tried to worm his way back towards the mirror again, but by this point, the room had been packed. There was hardly any space to maneuver, with all the thick muscled bodies surrounding him. And … actually, was it just him, or was he shrinking? Or … was it just everyone else was growing? More and more, he had to crane his neck to look up at a titan in a costume. The legends definitely seemed justified, but … why wasn’t he effected, then? Why was he still so small?

Suddenly, Eugene felt a thick set of knuckles bunched up around the collar of his shirt and he gulped as he was hoisted into the air.

“Hey, we’ve got a pansy here!” a deep voice bellowed over the crowd. Eugene’s eyes darted left and right. There was a veritable sea of testosterone turning as one to stare at him. “What should we do with him?”

The crowd roared. “Chugfest!”

Eugene gulped as the brute of a man hauled him over to a raised platform and plopped him down unceremoniously.

“You heard ‘em, pledge,” he sneered. “You ready to play?”

“I, uh … don’t know if that’s a good idea. You see, I’ve got this appointment with my girlfriend, and–.” The brute cracked his knuckles menacingly. “–Okay, I can play,” Eugene said quickly. Anything to avoid getting beaten up. “But, uh … what’s a pledge?”

The big man grinned predatorily. “You’ll see, LilBro.” He turned to the crowd and spread his vascular arms wide in the air. “Now let’s get this hazing started!” he bellowed. The crowd erupted into cheers.

“Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!” they cried.

Eugene didn’t see any sign of the women from earlier, just a pack of burly men sloshing their cups and hooting for him to drink. He turned to look nervously at the man who had lifted him out of the crowd. His familiar black horns curled over his head as his significantly enhanced body tensed and flexed. He easily reached down, guiding Eugene’s hand to the tab resting atop the metal. “Like this. LilBro,” he said. The container fizzed and bubbled, after the tab popped the lid open.

The smell of fresh hops, honey, and a hint of fruit danced under Eugene’s nose. “This smells almost like mead,” he said, surprised.

“Take a sip,” the man urged. The crowd continued to chant, exerting their collective wills in that single repetitive word.

Eugene gulped, then, seeing no other way out of his situation, took the plunge. The taste as he tipped the strange container up to dump the brew into his mouth was surprisingly mellow. The earthiness from the hops mixed with the sweetness from the honey to mellow the bitter flavor and leave just a hint of a pleasant aftertaste that clung to the palette. A dull tingle spread through his system as a slight flush rose in his cheeks. “You know what? This stuff isn’t half bad.”

“That’s right. Now drink up, pledge. Take a nice long pull.” The behemoth of a man yanked Eugene’s head back, then upended the can, with Eugene’s hand still wrapped around it. Eugene sputtered and gasped as the liquid flowed down his gullet. He had no choice but to swallow or choke, so he did the one that would keep him alive and well. The tingling increased as his heart rate picked up and his shirt and vest began to feel taut. He gasped for air as the hulking muscle man finally let him go to breathe. “So, what’s your name, Pledge? We haven’t had someone come from Corona in decades.”

“You … know where I’m from?” Eugene asked. His head was starting to feel a little fuzzy and a strange sort of euphoria began to well up in his chest and stomach. He barely managed to keep the muscles in check as a twitch pulled incessantly at the corners of his lips.

The … frat(?) boy sneered down at him. “Yeah. Coach Henderson’s an old resident, one of the last to pass through, before people stopped coming. We still keep an eye for new pledges to pass through, just in case. Now come on. Tell us your name. Everyone’s dying to know.”

“It’s … Eugene,” the reformed thief said. “Eugene Fitzherbert.”

“Lame,” the man jeered as the rest of the crowd joined in. “Come on, man. Give us something to work with here.”

That stung his pride a bit. It was the old village all over again. “I … I used to go by Flynn,” he mumbled.

“What was that, pledge?”

Eugene took a deep breath, then set his shoulders. The heat was somewhat stifling, so he took another swig of the brew. The shimmering gold substance trickled down the side of his chin and the edge of the can from the last forced “pull,” as the behemoth had called it. “I said you could call me Flynn. Flynn Rider.”

“Now that’s a name!” The muscle man grinned as he smacked Eugene heavily on the back. A popping sound echoed in Eugene’s ears as he watched a series of familiar dark buttons go flying off his torso piece by piece.

“What the…?” He looked down at himself and gasped at the sight of two thick round globes straining against the confines of his vest and shirt. His grip tightened on the can, causing the metal to crinkle somewhat as his bicep tensed and began to tear ever so slowly through the material around it. Eugene’s blush deepened at the sight.

“There it is,” the frat boy said with a grin. “All right, Flynn, it’s time to chug.” He reached over to the edge of the stage, where a thick metal keg was easily passed into his hands and he dropped it onto the platform, like it were little more than a pebble. He handed a thick hose to Eugene, shoving it in the man’s chest, and causing a shudder of pleasure to pass through the former thief as he grabbed the extension out of reflex and stumbled back a step or two.

“But I … I just want to–.”

“Chug,” came the first call from somewhere on the floor in front. A thick meaty fist stood out in the air as the costume goer, a kid in a greaser outfit with a hat textured to blend into his hair at the back, began the chant.

“No, no, seriously. This has been fun and all. And … I do admit I like the muscles,” Flynn said as he raised his hands placatingly and absently flexed one of his arms. “It, uh … it really feels nice and all, really. I just–.”

“Chug,” came the call as the voices doubled, then redoubled, slowly spreading back as more of these frat boys picked up the call.

“No, guys. Really. I just need to–.”

Half the room was roaring at him now, and the rest would soon follow. “Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”

Eugene breathed heavily as a faint dusting of hairs began to grow along the backs of his hands and his pupils began to fluctuate. The call banged like a hammer on an anvil as he struggled to keep his thoughts in focus. All the while, the titans continued to crow in bovid ecstasy as their eyes began to glow.

“I … I need to–.”

“CHUG!”

Eugene shook his head. “Have to–.”

“CHUG!”

“I … I….”

“CHUG!”

Eugene looked up almost pleadingly at the leader of the mob. The devil simply grinned as his own eyes began to glow. “Chug, Flynn. You know you want to.” Then he sneered as he cupped one massive hand around Eugene’s two and raised the hose to the man’s lips. “Let me help you get started.” He towered over Eugene’s back as he leaned over the man and brought the hose to the man’s lips. “Now listen to the crowd, Flynn. Listen, and start chugging.”

It all came in a whirl. One moment, nothing. Then he tasted the flow of the brew as his cheeks sucked in. He swallowed once, and then he was like a machine, sucking as fast as his body would let him, accompanied by the supportive cheers of the fraternity. His cheeks flushed even more as his body began to pack on the pounds and his irises began to change from a rich brown to a golden amber. The buckles along his vest burst apart, while the sleeves and remaining material continued to shred under his rapidly swelling muscles. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as the memories of Rapunzel’s flaxen golden hair shifted to cascades of the rich golden lager flowing down his gullet. Thoughts of old heists were replaced with memories of manning the pullies. Instead of getting thrown out of pubs, he was the one doing the tossing.

Soon the tube wasn’t enough. He needed that lager pouring down his throat. No pauses in between to pull more. He wanted to shower with it. He lumbered past the devilish frat boy, hardly even noticing how he didn’t have to look up so much anymore to match his gaze. He didn’t care when he heard the seams shredding apart on his pants or felt the breeze along his bare chest and back. All he saw, all he knew, all he needed was right there in front of him, sitting, waiting, and he had to have it. “Ch–chuuuuuug,” he said slowly as his voice warbled unsteadily.

“What was that, Flynn?” the muscle man asked with a knowing sneer.

“Chug,” Eugene said again, and his feet burst out of his boots.

“That’s right, Flynn. Chug.”

Eugene clenched his hands a few times and watched as they cracked and swelled into powerful mitts that easily tore the hose out of the opening to the keg. “Chug,” he repeated a second time, this time with more enthusiasm. His voice cracked, then dropped as what little remained of his pants strained to contain the bulge swelling at his crotch.

“Chug, Flynn. Chug,” the devil whispered as the crowd of spectators hooted, hollered, and whistled, still sounding their cry.

The former thief couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but listen to that constant march of orders. A dopey grin rose on his face as he hefted the massive can and then opened his mouth wide. “CHUG!” he said more assertively as his deep voice rolled over the spectators, causing them to roar in excitement. He upended the keg, surprised at how light it was, but happy with the heavy slosh he could hear inside of it. He squeezed, and the metal began to give way, sending a high-pressure jet of the rich, mind-numbing substance into his mouth and down his throat. His body swelled to titanic proportions as he nursed the last drop, hardly even noticing the new thick red cap that had been plopped onto his head, then twisted backwards. Two massive wrist bands had been snapped into place on either wrist, and there was the devil, grinning wickedly as he raised the drunken man’s arm triumphantly.

“Congratulations to Flynn Rider, the newest member of Omega Beta Nu Alpha!”

Flynn grinned, then let out the loudest belch he’d ever done in his life, before grinning dopily, letting out a low dimwitted chuckle, and finally saying, “Let’s party, Bros!”

The devil sneered as he watched a tattoo with the frat’s symbols engrave itself along Flynn’s massive neck. “Score another one for us,” he muttered, then chuckled.

Flynn grunted as he heaved the last of the massive kegs into place on the delivery truck. He wiped away at the sweat that had formed along his brow, even as he flashed a cocky smirk at the women he knew were watching from across the street. They wanted him, he knew, but he wasn’t that easy to bed. He still couldn’t remember how he got to OBNA, but he was glad he had. Things were simple here. All he had to do was work his muscles, drink his lager, help with the beer shipments, and play the occasional football game. His powerful body strained against the tight compression shorts and sleeveless muscle tee that made his fraternity work uniform. It clung in all the right places, leaving nothing to the imagination as he followed his fellow newly inducted laborers in the shipping department to a long countertop filled with beer taps. He couldn’t help but smile as he styled his perfectly coiffed pair of bangs sprawling flawlessly out the gap in the back of his twisted cap. “Man, if only I could bring Rapunzel here,” he said. Then he frowned and furrowed his brow in confusion. “Who’s … Rapunzel?” A brief flash of flaxen gold passed though his mind, followed by a … castle? What the…?

“Next!” the barman cried, snapping Flynn out of his thoughts as he approached the tap. A frosty glass soon sat in front of him, filled to the brim with his favorite drink. He guzzled the Alpha Brew and waited as that familiar tingle immersed him and washed away his worries. His eyes glowed gold as a dopey grin crossed over his face. “Fuck yeah,” he groaned in pleasure as he flashed his free hand up with his middle and ring fingers bent over against his palm. “OBNA for life, Bro.”

A burly arm rested across Flynn’s broad shoulders and he grinned wider at the sight of the frat’s president, the man who had inducted him just a little over a week ago. His short cropped red hair shone like red gold in the afternoon sun and his eyes glowed that same fiery gold as he peered intently into Flynn’s eyes. Flynn’s irises glowed brighter as his pupils dilated, and the president sneered triumphantly as he watched that little spark of intelligence and memory get smothered. The ones who were in love were always the hardest to keep, but it seemed this love was still relatively new. A couple more weeks, and Flynn wouldn’t think of Corona ever again, and Alpha Beru would have a new permanent resident.

“That’s right, Flynn,” the president said. “OBNA for life.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 40

You chuckle as you stare into the mirror and flex, posing with your muscles. Words like musclehead, dumber, lift, don’t think, obey,” lick so gently through your earbuds as you grin blankly at your reflection and it looks back. “So, what do you think, Lil’bro?” Duff asked with an equally vapid grin as he posed next to you. “I don’t think. I flex,” you repeat automatically, instantly, like the muscle machine you are. “Needs more pop in the pectorals. Show them the pump, but don’t make it look like you’re trying. It needs to be natural,” Hank instructed. You immediately breathe deeply, thrusting the upper portion of your chest forward, even as you keep your smile plastered. A thrill of pleasure rushes through you as you feel the familiar tightening in your crotch. “I am a natural meathead bodybuilder,” you say, even as the recording continues to whisper its affirmations of agreement into your ears, stimulating that now familiar numbness in your head that settled in so easily, after the accident. It was like that blow to the head just ... made everything so much clearer, so much easier to just focus and let go. Your eyes drifted briefly over to the corner of the mirror, where a hint of movement pulled your gaze. Harry stood in front of a man in military fatigues and a sweaty olive-green shirt that clung to his frame as he mounted the bar and slowly sat up. A set of earbuds sprang from his own ears as he stared ahead and rose swiftly to his feet, clicking his heels together as he offered a sudden salute. His face was clean-shaven and his dark hair had been reduced to mere stubble as he promptly dropped to the ground and began methodically performing a series of core exercises to the agent’s barked commands. You notice a slightly baggier waistband and pant leg as Harry shifts his stance and folds his arms, revealing the hints of mounds that are starting to press against the fabric in the sleeves. Then your eyes are back on the military man and his head. The words induction cut flash through your brain, followed by a dim memory of a dark ponytail and a sweaty puffing face as you worked out in front of your television screen at home. You stop as realization suddenly strikes and you point at the man in the mirror, before lowing, “Lil’bro.” “Not yet,” Hank said gruffly. “Commercial first, muscleman.” “Yes, Sir,” you repeat as the strange urge leaves you and you resume your posing, completely oblivious to the once interesting cadet.

You shudder in pleasure at the sound of the heavy metal doors shutting firmly behind you. The bells went off as the take finished and you turned back to see the grinning man in the yellow shirt holding the door open for you. “That was brilliant!” he praised you. You shrug, letting the plaid button-up shirt you’re wearing ride up against your thick pecs, while the tight shorts cling in just the right places to leave you comfortable as you show off the powerful muscles and well-developed tan that you’ve gained. “Not a big deal. I got a lot of training,” you say as you lapse back into your normal deep tone from the heavy Austrian accent you’d been pressing before. “Besides, I really have just been lifting up and putting down for the last few months. I was just saying it like it is for me.” The two of you step back onto the set and you smile at the sight of a smirking Hank next to a sleeker man with well-toned muscle. “You killed it, kid. Great job,” he praised. You beam at the compliment and look questioningly at the man staring woodenly ahead beside your coach. “This is Brutus,” Hank said. “He’s the owner of this new gym chain and my future partner. When people are ready to take the next step in building, he’ll refer them to my gym and we’ll be able to transfer membership seamlessly.” He clapped Brutus on the back. “Isn’t that right, Brutus?” “Yes. We’ll introduce them to a world of fitness, until they are comfortable and confident with their bodies,” Brutus said with a smile. “Then, when the time is right, we’ll take the big fish and put them into a bigger pond, so the smaller ones don’t feel threatened or intimidated. Jeff here has been waiting for a chance to get big for a while. He’s one of the main reasons we came up with this scheme in the first place,” he said, pointing to the man in the yellow shirt. Jeff blushed. “It’s kinda flattering to think of it that way. You’ve both been so kind to me.” “Just wait till we put you through your paces with your trainer. Then we’ll see how kind you think we are,” Hank said with a hearty laugh. “He’s received training in all the most recent and efficient techniques, including some of Hank’s own unique program. You’ll be in good hands,” Brutus assured Jeff. “Who?” you ask. “Who else?” Hank asked with a smirk. “Duff, of course.” “Duff? But I thought--.” “He’s accelerated, and he already earned his certification. Based on my recommendation, Brutus is confident he’ll do a fine job.” “Yes, I’m confident he’ll do a fine job,” Brutus parroted in a strangely chipper sort of voice. “So, uh,” you say somewhat sheepishly, “can I use the equipment now?” Brutus shrugged. “Why not? It’s just models here today, anyways, and we have plenty of footage to edit for the commercial.” You grin as your pecs begin to bounce in excitement. “Awesome. Let me show you the basics, Jeff....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 41

You beam openly as you step off the stage and out of the hot lights. Your posing strap holds perfectly to your wide hips as they sway back and forth in that familiar swagger that’s become your natural mode of locomotion. A massive cardboard check is clutched in your right hand as you grin almost childishly at your trainer. “I can’t believe I just won!” you gush. “And at my first competition.” “I told you I’d make a proper bodybuilder of you, didn’t I?” Hank asked, smiling enthusiastically as he bore his teeth in a grin to offset the thick dark stubble that had grown in around his face. “Yes, sir, but I mean, wow. Just wow! This, this makes it official. I really am an actual bodybuilder now.” “And how do you feel?” “Fucking fantastic!” You’re still grinning, heedless to the many knowing smiles and angry glares directed your way. “I’m so full of energy. I feel like I could run a thousand miles.” “Then we should see about working some of that off, shouldn’t we?” Hank chuckled. “Yes, Sir!” Hank chuckled again. “You’re a regular gym addict, aren’t you, kid?” “Musclemen are big and strong. The gym is where we all belong,” you say in the tone like a child reciting a line of overpracticed prose. “The gym and the stage,” Hank agreed as he wrapped a burly arm around your shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

The familiar sounds of fife and drum thrum in time from the crack beneath as you knock on Collin’s door. Of course, a knock for you is more like an aggressive pounding, but musclemen should always show off their strength, and it wasn’t like you were about to bust it off its hinges or anything. It took a few moments, but the music finally paused and the door opened to reveal Collin’s sweat-streaked face. His gaze was somewhat distant and his pupils seemed to be having difficulty adjusting to the light, as if they were resisting shrinking. As usual, he wore his fatigues, a pair of heavy duty boots, and a shirt with earthy tones that currently clung to his toned frame in wet patches. “Hey, Lil’bro,” you low gently as you smile down at him. A big grin spreads across Collin’s face. “Welcome back!” He laughs as he lunges forward to embrace you. “Harry called me with the news.” He smacks you manfully on the back, then steps off. “So, how does it feel to win, Mister Bodybuilder?” You smirk. “Fucking amazing.” “Hell yeah, it does,” Collin said. “Come on in. I was just in the middle of my workout.” The broad suite was more like a house than it was an apartment. The floor had a massive open concept with a great kitchen filled with sleek modern appliances and an almost spartan level of cleanliness as the marble counter tops shone in the overhead lights. Your eyes wander over to a gun rack, where you note a series of shot guns, rifles, and pistols waiting to be used. “Found some more for your collection, huh?” you note idly as you lean in to peer at the registrations that are mounted behind each of the weapons against the backdrop of a flowing American flag. “Gotta keep up the practice,” he shrugged. “You talk to that recruiter yet?” Collin shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted to, but....” His brow furrowed in confusion. “I ... don’t exactly remember why I didn’t, actually. Something about ... not ... quite ... ready.” “You have to be in tip top shape.” “I ... have to be in tip top shape,” Collin parroted. “Ready to follow orders.” “Yeah....” “Ready to obey.” Collin nodded dreamily. “Sir, yes, Sir.” You chuckle. “Nah, man.  I’m just your bro. Your big bro, but still your bro.” You smile knowingly at the familiar twitching you see in his hands and pectorals. “I think I’ll leave you to your workout, man. We’ll talk later, okay?” “Yeah, ... later,” he said as he reached for a remote. “Gotta get fit.” “Fit for service,” you prod gently. You remember how much he loves talking about stuff like that. “I will be a good soldier. A good soldier serves his country. A good soldier obeys.” “That’s right, Lil’bro.” You smile as the fife and drums renew their rigid cadence and you take your leave. That smile soon grows into a predatory sneer. Seeing his growing muscles has left you with a pump of your own, and your body practically vibrates with the need to exert itself. You couldn’t get to your apartment fast enough.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 42

“Looking good, Harry,” you low as you tower over the man who had first nudged you into your incredible metamorphosis. He panted and huffed as he pushed the bar up again and again in rigid form. “I can’t ... believe I’m doing this,” he grunted. The agent’s arms trembled as he puffed out several short breaths, struggling to reach that top. “Image is an important part of any business deal, Harry. To negotiate from a position of strength, one must be a pillar of strength,” Hank said as he looked on calmly from the side. Then he looked over at you. “By the way, I like the new design. The gym logo looks good on you.” You grin, bouncing your pecs, which causes the golden bicep and upper arm that is the gym’s logo to “flex” over your chest. “Your gym is the best! How could I not agree to be your top model?” Hank cleared his throat. “While I appreciate the flattery, I believe you have some more ... pressing matters to deal with.” He pointed down to where a beet-faced Harry was struggling to maintain his position as his arms locked in place. Your eyes widened and you quickly dove in to intercede. “I got you, Harry.” “It’s I’ve,” Harry grunted as you began to lift the bar ever so slightly for him. “No, I’m pretty sure your name is Harry,” you reply with a completely straight face. “Unless you’ve been lyin’ to me?” “God, you’re such a dumbass,” Harry swore as the bar finally landed above its resting point and dropped into place. “Well, uh, yeah,” you say, still not getting it. “It’s good to be a dumbass, cause that’s what a muscleman is, and it’s good to be a muscleman, so it’s good to be a dumbass. Just a big, buff, ... burly, ... brawny....” you slur off as that familiar pleasure and emptiness strike at your brain again. Hank frowned, then called your name. “Why don’t you go prep the weight machines for your group session tonight?” “Huhuhuh. Sure thing, Coach,” you low, then turn and lumber away. “A good muscleman obeys.” Hank watched carefully as you made your way through the gym’s patrons towards the Staff Only closet. He watched as you withdrew the weight machine control key and various cleaning supplies, along with a set of stanchions to cordon off the machines that were to be used that night. Content that you were thoroughly diverted, he rounded on Harry and glared. “You don’t ever insult my musclemen, especially not my new ones. You’re damn lucky he didn’t listen to the Loud and Proud track, or you would be little more than a smear I have to clean up off the floor.” He snatched Harry’s workout shirt in one mammoth fist and yanked the man to eye level. “I’m the one in charge here. I’m the alpha. You are the gum on the bottom of my shoe. I allow you to stay, but I can take away everything from you just as quickly, then cast you aside. I could make you fatter than the Stay Puff marshmallow man, more timid than a wild rabbit, and more sensitive than a butterfly. See how well you broker deals, after that.” Harry gulped. “Clearly, you need more training. Perhaps walking a mile in their shoes will help you to have a little more patience for them in the future.” “Um, that’s all right, Sir. I-I’ve learned my lesson. I promise. Scout’s honor.” Harry chuckled nervously as he watched the predatory sneer pull across Hank’s face. “Good. That means it’s time for a new one. Conditioning time, Harry.” Harry’s eyes widened, then he gasped and his body went limp. “Ready to receive,” he uttered in a dull monotone. Hank lowered the man back to the floor. “Report to sound room C. You have a new persona to incorporate.” “Yes, Sir. I understand.” Harry turned smartly and marched straight for the STAFF ONLY door near the shake bar. Meanwhile, Hank raised his digital watch and tapped a few buttons on its screen. When an affirming tweet sounded in his ears, he smirked, then turned to look back at your well-toned deltoids and carved lats stretching the fabric on your shirt. “I can’t wait to make you bigger,” he purred.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 44 (End/Epilogue)

You smile goodnaturedly at the blushing young man fidgeting in front of you as you run your sharpie over the photo from your greatest triumph, the day you broke the world record for strongest man. A hint of silver has come into your bristles along the side of your head, but you didn’t mind. It was a sign of character, after all. You still felt young and strong, even after all these years in the spotlight. For the briefest moment, as you look up from the photo at that beaming face, you see the shadow of your former self staring back up at you with adoring eyes. It flickered away as quickly as it came, but you took an interest as you stared at the man’s figure. He was slim, yes, but there was definitely tone there. He wasn’t a slouch. It was quite possible he had potential, just that he couldn’t reach it on his own. You sure didn’t, till you met Hank. You can feel your twin bodyguards chafing as they fold their vascular arms impatiently. Harry said he’d found them on a website. You figured that was probably true, but you had your suspicions about what kind of website that may have been. Of course, you were careful to avoid going too far down that road. Last time you tried, you dropped into trance again. Besides, it wasn’t for a muscleman like you to think about such things. Your purpose was to Lift things up and put them down. You hand the signed photo back to the man and chuckle. “Hey, kid, how’d you like to join me for lunch? I’ve got a few friends I’d like to introduce you to.” The kid blushed. “I ... I don’t know....” “Aw, come on, Draco. It’ll be fun!” “Um, it’s ... Drake, Sir,” the man muttered. “That fire in your eyes when you stood up to my guards says otherwise, kid. I’m calling you Draco, no ifs, ands, or buts. Think of it as a nickname,” you suggest. “Duff and I had plenty of our own, when we first started in the field.” You chuckle then. Ah, good times. Good times.” You wrap your massive arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Come on. It’ll be my treat.”

You sighed in contentment as you laid back in your chair and smiled up at the ceiling. In all the years you’d been trekking around the globe, this place still had some of the best damned teriyaki you’d ever tasted. You couldn’t help but smirk at all the gym goers chowing down. Each of them wore a familiar bicep logo somewhere on their person. One endorsement from a pro bodybuilder, and the whole place had practically exploded. The influx had been so great that they had to relocate and renovate to accommodate all the extra business. “Everything sitting with you well, Sir?” Shirley, a cute little lady with curly blond hair asked as she returned to refill your glasses. “Just fine, Shirl. Thanks for asking.” You smile kindly at her and she giggles and blushes. You then turn your attention back to the table, where Duff and Charlie both sit mashed next to each other. Two young men sit to either side of them, glaring at one another, and you can’t help but chuckle at the sight. “You know, Chuck, I never thought I’d see you out of those fatigues again.” Charlie let out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Y’know, I never thought I would either. The army was everything to me. It feels so strange being retired now.” “Benefits are good, though,” you point out. “The country takes care of her veterans,” he agreed as he adjusted the camouflage pattern ARMY cap on his head. “Been getting back into the ROTC scene again. Feels more like home, you know?” You laugh. “I know exactly what you mean. I’m gonna miss the circuit.” “You can’t be planning to retire just yet,” Duff scoffed. “You’re too dedicated for that.” “Muscle is my life,” you agree, “but even I can’t fight aging.” You shrug. “I figure I’ve got a few more years left in me, but I’m gonna have to pass the torch, eventually.” Duff eyed Drake speculatively. “And do you have any candidates in mind?” You shrug easily. “One or two. I’ll need to test them, though, see if they have what it takes.” “And what about you, Draco?” Duff asked. “What do you do?” Drake blushed, doing his best to avoid Duff’s gaze. “I’m an accounting student, Sir. I’ve always had a good head for numbers.” “That so?” He smiled. “Maybe you can tutor Lance here,” he said as he thumped the young teen hard on his back. “Math and he don’t exactly get along.” “Dad!” the boy cried exasperatedly. “I-I’m not sure if I’m that qualified, Sir. I focus on finances specifically. Algebra and geometry don’t exactly fall into that scale.” “Oh, I’m sure you can do just fine. I can pay you well, you know. And besides, if you were invited here by the big honcho himself, then you can bet you’ll be seeing a lot more of us in the coming weeks,” Duff added with a smirk. “Wait, what?” Drake asked. “Duff, stop confusing him,” you growl. “What, can’t a big bro have a little fun with his little bro’s protege?” “He’s a guest, Duff,” you stress. “Sure he is,” Duff said as he rolled his eyes. “Say, where’s Hank, anyways? I thought he was supposed to be meeting us today.” “He told us to start without him, said something about a last minute appointment. You know how busy he can be.” “Huh. And I was hoping to introduce Draco here.” You shrug. “Guess we’ll just need to make a stop there, then.” Drake gaped at you. “Hank? As in Hank Harrison? The Hank Harrison?” You chuckle. “The one and only. You didn’t think I’d stop at just introducing Duff and Chuck here, did you? We can leave as soon as you finish your meal.” You looked on in satisfaction at how quickly he devoured the other two bowls you’d ordered. As you had suspected, the kid had a fast metabolism. You allow a knowing wink to pass between yourself and your two friends. Their smiles widened in response.

The gym ran in full swing as you made your way past the reception desk and strode confidently out onto the floor. As you had suspected, there was no sign of your coach, though business was clearly booming. Youths and adults alike grunted and sweated together as they performed their various exercises. You quickly guide Drake through the STAFF ONLY door and pass down the hall towards the great door at the end. You were taken by surprise, when one of the side doors creaked open and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out, looking dejected. He was soon followed by the titanic frame of your coach, Hank Harrison. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that kind of habit in my gym, Albert. If you can stay clean for a year, come back then and try again. That’s my final ruling on the matter,” Hank rumbled as he looked down almost pityingly at the muscle man. Albert nodded, then lumbered sadly away towards the entrance. “Another steroid user?” you ask. Hank sighed and shook his head. His whiskers had taken on a steel-gray, and just a hint of a pudge had started to form on his belly. “They all think I care about how big and muscular they are. What I want is someone who can teach and work safely with my clients.” He smiled sadly. “Hey, Kid. Good to see you again.” You smile and give the man a quick bro hug with a thump on the back. “Good to see you, too. I see the gym is doing well.” “I can’t get them to stop coming. Something about wanting to be like the world’s strongest man,” he teased. “And who is this?” “Draco,” you say, quickly cutting off any chance for Drake to get the first word. “I met him earlier today, after a gig at a local showing. Thought he might like to meet you.” Hank raised his brow in surprise. “Is that so?” “He’s a good kid. Smart, clean, brave, and one hell of a metabolism.” “And you wanted to introduce us.” You shrug causally. “Already did for Duff and Chuck. Figured I’d round it out.” “Is that so?” This time, he gave Drake a much more scrutinous examination. “And it couldn’t wait?” “No, it couldn’t,” you say pointedly. “I wanted him to have the chance of a proper one-on-one.” “I see.” He tapped a few buttons on his watch, then strode over to the big door. he’d just emerged from. “Why don’t we step inside, then? I’m sure my other clients won’t mind waiting a little longer, and besides, I’d like to hear a little more about you, Draco.” “Um, ... it’s Drake, ... Sir,” the kid said somewhat hesitantly as they passed through the door and into the room. You smile as you note the gentle buzzing filtering out from the speakers. Then you enter, too, pulling the door shut behind you. Coach could see it, too. You knew. Now it was just a matter of convincing the kid. That wouldn’t be much of a problem. The muscleman in Drake was just waiting to bust out. And no one could do busting better than Hank. Time to pass the torch.

Muscle Cab

“Often referred to as an illness, what do you call the process by which a person undergoes a metamorphosis into a familiar gym stereotype?” the driver asked as they came to another light. The lights in the ceiling continued to flicker and pulse in a series of slow patterns ranging from ripples to spirals and more. The two passengers leaned close to each other to council over the matter. “I totally read a series about this,” the first whispered. “Chad, we already missed two questions.” The second passenger yawned. “I don’t know if ... if ... uhhh....” He furrowed his brow in confusion. “Damn, lost my train of thought.” “What’s to lose, Brett?” Chad asked. “Our smarts,” Brett countered. Chad rolled his eyes and let out a longsuffering sigh. “Brett, that can’t happen in real life. That’s for fiction.” He wiped his sweaty brow, oblivious to the stubble that had begun to grow in on his chin and upper lip. Brett’s head lolled and bobbed like a cork on water as his jaw slackened and his eyes became glassy. “Who’s Fiction...?” he asked in a low voice. Chad’s eyes darted over to his sleepy friend, then back at the driver. Bright white teeth were borne in a grin through the rear view mirror. “Would you care for a visual aid?” the driver asked. The strobes were getting brighter, faster. “Uhhhhh....” Brett’s head bobbed on a sudden speed bump. “All right, then!” the cabby boomed excitedly. “Turn your attention to your screens, and watch.” The screens flashed to life, first portraying the image of a smaller young man with a hint of a pudge and glasses. In a matter of seconds, that image morphed into a new shape. The boy’s torso was flat now, and he’d begun to gain some muscle definition. Next, the image morphed to show the kid wearing compression gear as he pumped a set of dumbbells. Veins had begun to bulge on his arms, and his face had become more defined and angular. His once longer hair had been cut back to bare stubble. Then it transitioned to the final stage, where a complete muscle stud stood with a vapid grin, posing for the camera. His chest was bare for all to see the chiseled six-pack and swollen pectorals. A bulge pressed at the crotch of his compression pants, and his legs were like carved marble slabs. His trapezius muscles had expanded to the point where they curved over his broad shoulders and transitioned smoothly into the deltoids and other muscle groups farther down the arms. Chad panted as a sudden wave of warmth washed over him. The cab felt so small. His head kept spinning. “Ten seconds, boys.” A gleaming trickle ran down from the corner of Brett’s mouth as he took deep, steady breaths and stared unseeingly at the screen. “Brett? Come on, man. This isn’t the time for sleeping.” He grabbed his friend’s arm. FLASH went the strobes. Chad’s mouth dropped open. His hands recoiled as his eyes widened and his pupils slowly began to expand, rather than contract as they adjusted to the lights. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “Five seconds,” the cabbie lowed. Brett’s arm swelled. His skin tightened as a vein began to snake its way along the anterior compartment of his forearm. His shirt creaked and strained as his shoulders began to expand and his frame grew inexorably out from his place behind the driver’s seat. “G-get me out of here! Let me off. I don’t wanna play anymore!” “What’s the matter, big shot?” the driver asked in a menacing tone. “Don’t know the answer?” He sneered. “Four....” Brett’s hands rested over his crotch as his body slumped back and his eyes began to close. Chad’s breathing grew labored. “I ... I don’t wanna be a meathead!” “Should’ve thought of that when you agreed to the game, kid,” the cabbie purred. “Three...” Everything began to slow as the rapid thumping of his heart matched the rapid strobe of the lights. Come on, Chad. Think! he thought. The door handle was locked, and he couldn’t engage the window. He pounded his fists against the window, but to his horror, his arms swelled with every blow. Even his pectorals puffed up as he tensed and released them. “Two...” The number crawled through the air, like a cheap movie sound effect. Only Chad knew he wasn’t in a movie. His cheeks flushed. He felt a sudden mass pressing between his thighs. He looked at his crotch as the bulge swelled. His eyes darted to the transitioning images and he gasped as he watched the same swelling taking place in the subject on screen as the photo morphed. Please. Please, God. No... No. N-- FLASH “One.” The voice was so slow, he could hardly understand it. His face, once contorted in anguish, now lay slack. His eyes, once alive with fear, now stared unerringly at the screen. His pupils dilated farther. “Uhhhh.....” “Zero.” A loud snap sound effect coincided the final flash as the panels died and Chad’s head slumped back automatically. His arm touched Brett’s, and Chad’s growth accelerated dramatically. Tears shredded through the air, coinciding with the loud pops of reinforced seams bursting, all while their arms, torsos, and legs inflated with dense muscle. The driver chuckled as the lights on the walls pulsed a dull white and the tattered remnants of his passenger’s clothing reassembled into a pair of tank tops: gray for Chad, blue for Brett. A darker tan suffused Brett’s skin with a healthy glow, while his hair retreated into his scalp to leave a simple buzz cut. Every piece of exposed skin was smooth, not a hair in sight. A pair of bluejeans manifested on Brett, while a set of black gym shorts appeared on Chad. “Sorry, gentlemen, but the answer was Meatheadosis.” The driver chuckled to himself as he watched his handiwork settle in. A few minutes later, he nudged the men. “We’re here, Sirs.” The two newly reborn men slowly came to and grumbled. “Uh ... wuh?” Chad lowed in a dull bass. “We’re here,” the cabby said again. A large gym stood outside with the illuminated figure of a muscular man flexing both arms on either side of his head as his legs spread out to brace him. The words Meathead Oasis glowed dully, and the A of Oasis flickered. “You didn’t win, but hey, you got a free ride. And besides that, as a consolation prize, the both of you get a month’s free gym membership.” He handed both men a gift certificate. “Have fun, boys.” Two identical grins widened on the boys’ faces. “Fuck yeah!” they roared together and slapped their hands in a high five. “Thanks, bro,” Brett said happily as they hauled their much larger frames out of the back seat. “Don’t worry about it. You two have a great day. Get a sweet pump for me.” “Huhuh. You’ve got it,” Chad guffawed. Then he slammed the door shut and the two advanced on the gym’s doors.The driver turned toward the hidden camera mounted by the rear view mirror. “These two failed, but you never know who might succeed to win that big money prize. Find out next time, folks, on the Muscle Cab, brought to you by Meathead Industries. See you then.”He winked, then turned off the camera.

To See The Light

“Hey, man,” Chris greeted you with a massive grin as he opened the door. “Come on in! Sorry I missed D&D the other night, but my old man and I were doing some real father-son bonding stuff, you know? S’the first time in ages we’ve actually had fun together.”

You were rendered speechless for a time as you gaped at the sleeveless muscle tee that draped over your friend’s form. His light brown hair jutted out beneath the bill of his snapback. A healthy tan had replaced the paler skin you recalled him bearing just a little over a month ago. Your eyes traced over the curves and definition he’d developed in his arms and chest.

“You okay, bro?”

You blink at the question. “Sorry, what?”

“You were kinda zoning out.”

“Sorry. It’s just ... you look ... different. Have you been working out?”

Chris let out a deep throaty chuckle. “Every day, bro. Dad and I have been going to the gym nonstop. Sure, I had trouble at first, but look at me now, man. I’m jacked!” He grinned again as he flexed a bicep to emphasize his point. “C’mon. I got everything ready for tonight. This party’s gonna be sweet!”

“You got the table set?”

“Table, drinks, snacks, the works. Today’s my cheat day anyway, so Dad won’t mind if I break my diet a little. He even got these new spot lights, so you guys can really see everything.”

“So he’s cool with you hosting tonight’s campaign?”

“It’s fine, bro. He said the more the merrier. Bros gotta hang out sometimes, am I right?”

“Uh ... yeah,” you said uncertainly as you followed him into the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement. Since when had he started talking like some sort of ignoramus? Seriously, he sounded more like some sort of meathead than he did the boy you remember having so much fun with talking video games and RPG elements. Sure, he’d always wanted to be big and buff, but you never thought he’d push himself this far. “Are you sure things are okay?” you finally managed to ask somewhat timidly.

“Better than okay,” he assured you.”Things are fucking fantastic!” His heavy steps thumped along the stairs as he raced down to the basement floor. “Dad and I used to argue a lot, but now it’s just ... better. We’re finally seeing eye to eye on things.”

The heavy clank of metal striking metal and the thump of heavy music echoed numbly through a door in the far end of the basement.

“And you dad won’t try to interrupt or anything?” You wince. “I know he doesn’t really like us that much.”

“He doesn’t like D&D, bro. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you guys. He just wants to make sure we’re all active, like boys our age should be.” He reached down and scratched at his crotch. “Gotta say, once I started, I kinda got hooked. It’s hard to stay still anymore. My body just keeps wanting to move, you know what I mean?”

“Not really, but I’ll take your word for it,” you say noncommittally as you look over the room. A deep-seated sense of foreboding had taken residence in your chest. That drastic of a chance to take place in just a month seems ... well, practically impossible. And the change in Chris’ manner and speech patterns was also highly suspicious, yet there was no sign of foul play that you could see just yet.

True to his word, a large table had been set up in the middle of a stretch of basement. The dungeon master’s divider had already been set up, and a dish filled with various bags filled with sets of dice had been prepared for each of the players, should they have forgotten their own. Another table had been set up at the edge, laden down with chips, dip, punch, soda, and other hors d’oeuvres.

Chris strode past all those to the window, where he closed the blinds and reached over to a nearby switch. Brilliant white light flooded out from two cylindrical sockets, bathing Chris in their light and causing his skin to glow as he raised a bicep and grinned.

“See? Gives a pretty damn good view, don’t it?” He chuckled and flexed. “Mmm ... what a pump.”

“Chris?”

A low blush flooded your friend’s cheeks as he turned his head to face you. “Dad and I like to spend time here after a good workout,” he admitted. “We ... sort of have a pose-off. I know, it’s kinda stupid, but ... I don’t know, it just feels good to do it, you know?”

“Not really,” you admit as you look down at your somewhat pudgier frame. “Don’t exactly have the figure for it.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself, bro,” Chris chastened.

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m not. You remember how Travis used to treat me till we got together in class.”

Chris scowled. His jaw became set as his traps flared and his shoulders tightened with his clenched fists. “He’s not picking on you again, is he?”

“No, no. We’re good for now. It’s just ... well, look at me. Fitness and I are like oil and water. We just don’t get along.”

Chris was silent for a few moments as he stared at you. Then he nodded, as if coming to a decision. “Come here.”

You approach slowly. “Um, why?”

“Just come on. I’m not gonna bite, you know.” Chris rolled his eyes in exasperation.

You couldn’t help but smile. That was the Chris you remembered. “All right,” you finally relent as you step over next to him.

“Now close your eyes.”

“Chris....”

“Close your eyes, man. We’re gonna have a little role play of our own, just you and me.”

Now you’re blushing as he seizes you and you feel a sudden warmth on your face. The light shines through your lids, and you know you’re standing under the two spotlights.

“Now we’re gonna imagine you’re not yourself, got it? Forget about Travis. Forget about what’s happened before. We’re putting you in the shoes of a big hulking barbarian. You know the type. Warrior class, lots of strength, plenty of charisma and constitution. A real brute of a man.”

“Chris, this is--.”

“I said to focus on your character.” His hand slaps firmly on your shoulder, while the other seizes your left wrist. “Picture it, man. Picture those broad shoulders, those wide lats, massive pectorals, a rippling six pack, and thick, powerful biceps. Imagine those muscles straining, bunching, tensing. They want to move. They want to be used. And as a warrior, they’re the first answer to everything. Because the warrior is just that, hired muscle.” He pulls your arm into position and pulls your wrist back slightly to force your arm to bend and tense.

“Chris, I don’t think--.”

“You’re right. You don’t. As a muscular barbarian, your task is to simply be the muscle. Now, you’ve been challenged to a pose-off. Some tiny man is challenging your masculinity. Such an insult cannot stand. You lash out. You punch.”

He forces your arm forward in a harsh jab and quickly pulls it back.

“He dodges. You raise your arms in a guard.”

Suddenly, you feel his arms pressing yours against one another in front of your chest. His bigger frame is against yours, and you feel incredibly uncomfortable, and ... just a little hot.

“You take a blow, then duck and strike. Your blow connects, due to your experience with brawling. Next, you give him a solid kick.”

His foot forces you to push your own out as he supports you.

“Chris...”

“Exultation floods you as your heart rate picks up. You have laid your foe low to the ground. You have defended your honor, and an intimidating scowl leads the cur to fleeing with his tail between his legs. You know what comes next, bro.”

You blush. “A victory crow,” you mumble.

“Exactly.” You feel your hands thump heavily against your chest, almost knocking the wind out of you with Chris’ machinations. “You flex your muscles to an adoring crowd of maidens and jealous men who wish to have had your courage, after routing the lout.

“Chris, I--.”

“Come on, bro. Just one little flex. Just one. You don’t want to disappoint all those adoring fans, do you?”

You sigh. “You’re not going to let me go until I do, are you?”

You could practically hear his grin. “Nope.”

You have a reluctant sigh. “Fine.” You raise your arms and proceed to tense your upper body. It was a paltry attempt, but enough to show you were trying. “There. Are we done now?”

“Not quite. Let me show you how it’s done. Gotta have the proper form.” He moved you around like a man would a doll, and you had to put up with it, because he was stronger. With every pose, he would praise you. With each new direction, he would twist you around to make sure the light highlighted the “best side.” It gets sort of monotonous after a while, so you just let him do what he wants. You’re not sure how much time has passed, when you suddenly notice the bottle cap waving in front of your face.

“Hey, kid. Drink up. You’re gonna drop from exhaustion at this rate.”

You blink slowly. “Uh ... wuh...?” Something feels ... different somehow.

“Water. Drink,” the big man said as he made exaggerated motions, then sneered.

“Dad!” Chris laughed. “Knock it off!” He punched the behemoth of a man lightly. 

You blinked owlishly at your friend. How long had it been? Your mouth felt so dry. You reach to the bottle and take a heavy swig of its contents. Seat has drenched your frame, and your clothes have ridden up against you. You notice a set of adjustable dumbbells laying on the table next to the D&D dice.

“What ... just happened?” you ask. Your head feels stuffed with cotton. Your voice ... is sort of dull, lower, like when you’re congested with a cold.

“You got a little too into character,” Chris said with a smirk. He popped a flex under the lights and you swear his shirt looked tighter than it had before. You gape in amazement when you see your free arm has followed his in almost perfect unison. A ridge had begun to rise out from the fat that had accumulated there. “I ... I have a bicep,” you finally manage to say.

“Everyone’s got a bicep, kid. Drink up,” Chris’ father instructed. You suddenly feel the bottle shoved to your lips. Cool water rushes down your throat and coats your tongue. You drink greedily and crush the bottle in your grip. It feels good to do that.

“‘Atta boy,” the man cheered. “You enjoy your little posing session?”

“Uh....” you respond, at a loss for words.

A heavy hand smacks you on the back. “Of course you did. Come on. Let me show you a few tricks. I’ve got the time, and your party won’t be starting for a while yet.” He smiled and guided you to the open door frame. The music pumped. More spotlights beamed overhead with their glare, flashing like cameras off the polished metal surfaces of the gym equipment. You hardly even noticed the sound of the door closing behind you as he planted you down and started running you through some basic exercises with a set of dumbbells.

“See, boy? It’s nice and simple. Your body knows what to do. You just have to let it move.”

You do. And a dull chuckle pushes its way out your mouth as you fall into that simple pattern. You watch a television screen in front of you showing a transition video and you smile as you watch the person pump in time to the beat. You watch the muscles inflate. And you chuckle as a tan slowly creeps over his pale skin. A high and tight cut replaces the old bowl cut from before. The jaw becomes more chiseled and defined. A low, “Fuck yeah...” echoes and reverberates in the room as you stare with glazed eyes at the screen and the changing teen staring back at you.

Chris’ father sneered as he watched you continue to work, heedless of the changes taking place in your own body, despite the mirror he’d planted you in front of. He chuckled as he watched a series of security monitors mounted next to a control panel. Chris was already lumbering to the front door, where another boy waiting to be educated on the joys of fitness stood.

“One down, four to go,” he purred.

“Fuck yeah, bro,” you low absently, completely unaware what you’re praising in the rush of endorphins and the sheer mindless ecstasy of the repetition. All that mattered was the work and the lights warming your skin as you shredded your muscles to get swoll.

The muscle man chuckled as he watched second guest gradually became enamored by the fixture. It was so good to help them see the light.

The Itch: Part Two

Bro, I just ... can’t stop lifting, you know? It feels too good. So what if I’m a little top heavy? Just look how jacked I am! The bros offered me this old lifting belt, too. S’funny. When I told ‘em you showed me the gym, they all just sort of grinned and welcomed me in.

Dude, they know about the itch! S’fuckin’ awesome! They don’t care if I trail off on a sentence or whatever. Gotta scratch the itch, ya know? They said s’better to just go with it, so I do. Bro, I never felt better in my whole life! I’m high as a kite, but it’s all natural. Fucking rocks! Huhuhuh, yeah. People been talkin’ bout me behind my back, but I don’t care. I’m swoll. Bros say I’ll be ready to compete soon. Mmm ... feels so good when I pose in front of a mirror. Jamming my pecs together, letting that scratch grind so slow.

Fuuuuuuuck. Uhhhh ... wut were we talkin’ about again?

Well, yeah. Course I’m dumb. Why would I want to think about all that other stuff when I’ve got weights to lift and an itch to scratch?

What? You want me to pose for you? Bro, why didn’t you say so?

Huhuhuh ... ready to learn my routine....

You asked yourself that question every day as you sat at your reception desk and welcomed patrons. Funds were tight, and it was a quick and easy job to get some cash on the side. You never pictured yourself working in a gym, but there you were. You often brought a book or some music to help drown out all the heavy clanking, though you would make some exceptions for certain songs that played over the speakers through the building from time to time.

The man was always quiet when he walked in. His gaze remained locked on the weight machines. Sometimes he would carry a gym bag in. Sometimes he would just go straight onto the floor, fresh off a run.

When he wants a machine, he doesn’t ask. People move for him.

When he’s ready for a break, a fountain or vending machine is always free, even at peak time.

His focus can’t be disturbed. Literally, it can’t. You’ve seen it. Some teen tried to muscle in on his session, when he was lifting. He just kept staring ahead as he strained his lats, or spread his wings as your boss likes to call it. The kid grumbled, but backed off. He knew he couldn’t do a thing to this guy.

It’s funny, though. His silence is sort of contagious. Whenever he works out, it spreads like a wave. The other men get this sort of intense expression on their faces, and then they sort of relax and just ... work. It’s kind of creepy, really.

The ones who work closest to this guy always seem to have the most progress. A look of shock, a big smile, then that blankness of pure focus driven by repetition. It’s always the same.

Always.

Just who is this guy?

You find yourself wondering this yet again as you stare sightlessly at the page on your book. You haven’t turned it in well over an hour. He’s been in your dreams the last few nights. You see him there, pumping weights, pushing himself. And suddenly you’re the one standing in his place as his hands are on you, guiding you, pushing you. You feel strain in your muscles. You feel your skin tighten and swell like a balloon with each pump and silent ministration. When your form is off, he corrects with his hands. The whole time, those intent eyes stare silently into your own. And you watch as that same expression slowly takes over in your reflection in those orbs.

You blink owlishly as a heavy tap on your shoulder pulls you back into reality again. How long had you been daydreaming about that dream? You look up.

“Sorry about that, S--.”

And there he is. Your mouth is suddenly dry. The words stick in your throat. Your breathing comes out in a rasp.

He stares at you questioningly for a time as he folds his vascular arms and cups his chin in a loosely clenched hand. Then he nods. He motions to the gym floor with a curt jerk of the head.

“Sir,” you finally manage to croak, “I’m on shift.” A heavy hand rests on your shoulder. You look up to see that same blank intensity that you have dreamed of beaming down at you from your boss, of all people.

“Go on.”

You swallow heavily. Even your boss bows to the will of this person. The owner of the gym!

You look back at the man. He’s still standing patiently and looking expectantly.

Your limbs shake as you rise from your chair. The whole gym is silent as you step onto the floor together. The man surveys the room as the music thrums and gives a curt nod to the gym goers. The motion immediately picks up again.

You weren’t even aware of your own motion as he guided you to a butterfly press. The seat was already vacated by the time you arrived. You sit and stare helplessly up at the behemoth that has guided you there. He places his hands on either handle, sets the weight, then nods to you.

You swallow again. Why were you doing this? Why were you letting him direct you? Why were you sitting here, instead of doing your job? And ... why is it getting harder to breathe?

Clank.

The man nods in approval and backs to a machine parallel to yours. Two handles link to the cables that attach to the weight plates. It’s already set to his weight, courtesy of whatever gym goer had abandoned it for him. You watch his muscles flare, his veins bulge, his biceps mount. His pectorals clench as his traps tense on the back of his neck and shoulders and his lats spread out. In that moment, you finally understand why your boss referred to them as wings.

Clank.

And he stares ahead as you stare. That same blank expression bores into you as the breathlessness returns.

Clank.

And again.

Clank.

Now you’re starting to feel warm. He continues to stare, and you continue to watch his effortless rhythm flow as the muscle groups in his arms and upper torso ripple one after the other in perfect coordination.

Clank.

How does he do it?

Clank.

Why did he pull you out here?

Clank.

Why couldn’t you take your eyes off him?

Clank.

Why...? Why...?

Clank.

Did it ... matter?

Clank.

Just who is this guy? you question yet again as you slog through the strange quagmire that is rapidly becoming your conscious thought.

Clank.

It’s only then that you notice the strange fact. Everywhere, the whole gym. Every machine is clacking together. The same pace. The same strike. The same rhythm.

Clank.

His rhythm.

Clank.

His.

Clank.

As you feel your face go slack and your eyes begin to glaze over, you finally understand the truth. You hardly notice the effort it takes to press the two bars together. Why should you? You’re following him. He sets the pace. He says when you’re done.

He.

He.

Him.

Just who is this man? He is the King of the Gym.

And you have just been inducted into his kingdom’s ranks.

Clank.

Your mouth opens as the quagmire thickens and sets. One last thought burbles up and splatters on the surface, before it hardens completely. You grunt it out in a low monotone as you push through another press with burning muscles and a mindless intensity.

“Long live the king....”

Who is this guy?

Driver Wanted

The bold print stood out from the clipping as Andrew made his way onto the lot. The company must have been pretty small. All he could see were a total of three cars and one single story office building. That being said, the cars were very nice, indeed. Their exteriors shone with a fresh coat of paint and cured protective glaze that spoke just how new they were.

He brushed his hair to the side again as he fussed with his parted comb-over and advanced on the building itself. The interior was well furnished with a more modernistic metallic theme. Black carpet and black leather chairs were highlighted by shiny chrome lamps and side tables. He maneuvered around a burnished metal coffee table that sat in the middle of the waiting room, then approached the front desk.

The secretary seemed a little on the young side, but who was Andrew to judge? If he could do his job, then more power to him. The kid couldn’t have been much older than his mid-twenties. He stared at the screen, typing feverishly behind the monitor as the light flickered over his eyes. His mouth drooped somewhat lazily, as if he were struggling to stifle a yawn, and his hair had been completely bleached to the point of looking almost white as it rose in a series of spikes reminiscent of a boy band. It fit his blocky jaw and tight muscles, however. A set of gray sweat pants and shirt hugged to his frame as he spread his legs wide and continued to type, heedless of the new arrival.

“Excuse me,” Andrew finally said. “I’m here for the interview? I called ahead.”

The kid blinked slowly, then lifted his head to stare at Andrew. The boy’s dark eyes rolled over Andrew’s broad shoulders, his pudgy frame, thinning hair, and hazel eyes.

“Name?” he asked in a low stuffed-up voice.

“Andrew Simmons.”

The kid tapped the space bar on his keyboard, then clicked his mouse a few times to draw up a new program. He scrolled a ways, then nodded. “You’re here early.” He reached for a phone and began to dial. “Take a seat. I’ll call the boss.”

Andrew nodded and strode back to a curved metal chair with black cushions to cradle its occupant. The cushions’ promise did not lie, though the curve made it difficult to support his lower back properly, which left him with a certain amount of discomfort that eventually left him leaning forward with parted legs, so he could rest his elbows on his thighs.

“Sir?” the secretary lowed. “Your next appointment is here.” He listened intently and nodded. “Yes, Sir. I told him, Sir. He’s waiting.” He nodded again. “Yes, Sir. I’ll give him the paper work right away. Yes, Sir. I’ll resume the video after. Thank you, Sir.” His mouth split into a broad grin. “Yes, Sir!” he said excitedly, then hung up and snatched a clip board and some papers from a folder nearby. He practically raced over to where Andrew sat. “Boss has some papers for you to review. Non-disclosure, liability, that sort of stuff. You know how it is.”

Andrew nodded. He’d performed enough stunt driving to know the usual risks and protections involved in a job. His gaze trailed over the boy’s form as he took the paperwork and a pen from him. The kid’s legs were carved like granite, and he walked so proudly. It was more like a strut than a walk. His legs swaggered in his stride, and a light bulge in the sweatpants’ crotch was more than hint enough for why the boy chose that particular gait.

The kid smirked and flexed a bicep. “Like what you see?”

Andrew blushed. “Sorry.”

The secretary just grinned. “S’no problem, bro. I like when people stare at my muscles. Muscles are meant to be admired.” He flexed again as a dreamy look came over his face and he began the return trip to his desk. “Admiration leads to motivation leads to activation leads to....” He continued to mutter to himself as he strode to his chair, sat down, clicked out of the program he’d used to look up Andrew’s appointment, and pressed the space bar again. It didn’t take long for him to start gaping again.

Andrew hastily dove into the paperwork and began analyzing the wording. Much like his other standard contracts, there were the usual safeguards for the company, along with a stated amount of income he would receive for his services and royalty payments, should any footage taken in the course of a drive be used for a commercial.

“Mister Simmons.”

Andrew’s head surged to attention as his neck craned up and up and up to stare at the man that stood before him. The kid was a dwarf compared to the brawn that stood before Andrew now. Andrew quickly surged to his feet.

“Sorry, Sir. I didn’t hear you come in.”

The man known only as Boss chuckled. “Kind of the point of the carpeting. I like to see what kind of reflexes my drivers have when something unexpected occurs. Shall we, Mister Simmons?” He motioned with a meaty hand toward a door marked STAFF ONLY. Andrew took the hint and pushed ahead. The door led to a long hallway lit only by fluorescent overheads that flickered occasionally as they passed along.

“My business is broken into what you might call a set of microcosms integrated into a fine-tuned system,” the man explained.

“Um, excuse me, Sir. I’m sorry to interrupt what I’m sure will be a fascinating explanation, but you haven’t told me your name yet,” Andrew cut in.

A scowl played over the owner’s face for a moment, then it broke apart as he laughed. “I haven’t, have I? Sorry. I like to get down to business when I’m dealing with work. The name’s Boston. Boston McTavish. I ask my employees to call me Boss. It’s a joke as well as a good way to break the ice, so we can be on more of a first name basis.”

“And the sirs?”

“I can’t help it if I’ve garnered that much respect. And let’s not forget societal norms.”

Andrew shrugged. “Fair enough. So, Mister McTavish, you were saying?”

“Boss,” McTavish corrected absently. “I was saying we have a series of focuses in my service that exist to integrate into a proper whole. We focus on body work and maintenance for the occasional special order. And as you’ve seen, I put a particular emphasis on body.” He winked at Andrew. “Part of the benefits package includes a fully stocked gym for workouts. Now, back to business. We have a unique model of cars for ride service. We specialize in escorting and transporting a variety of clientele. Though our particular niche market focuses more in the richer quarters of the states, we also have a variety of transport geared toward the average customer on their way to or from work. Many of our customers are converts from other services. This is on account of our exceptional service and professionalism. It is a standard I expect all of my drivers to maintain, whether they are working the ride service or not.”

“If you have such a large following, how come I haven’t heard of you before?”

“We originally started in the west coast. This branch office has only recently been opened to offer our services out here in the east. I have enough men covering things out west that I can afford to come out here and ensure the setup goes smoothly.”

“And I assume this is where I come in.”

“Exactly. I want to see how well you drive and how well you can follow instructions. Assuming you pass, you’ll have the job and all the benefits that go with it.”

“Such as?”

“Full health and dental, for a start, and in the event you really impress me, an opening salary of twenty dollars an hour.”

Andrew raised his brow. “That much.”

“And that’s not including royalties, should you be chosen as the driver for any future commercials or advertisements we put up. And, assuming you excel and bring more customers or prompt enough positive reviews, you’ll get bonuses with your checks.”

“What’s the catch?”

“I need you to be available when I need you. Most of the time, schedules will be worked out in advance, but sometimes we get last minute customers. Most will be looking for transport either to or from a gym.”

The door opened to reveal a massive cement garage and a waiting sleek black muscle car. There were no labels or brands that Andrew could detect. “What’s this?” he asked.

“In a word, progress. In more words, a new model of car unique to my company. I’d like for you to test drive it for me.”

“You’re sure you have enough money for all this? I mean, going into making a new brand of car is pretty expensive.”

“Which is why we’re only using the one for now. Our other cars are easily modified with any extra additions they may require, and then inspected by qualified individuals. This one, however, is all us, and we intend to make use of it. As with the other models, it’s passed inspections and is up to code. What I’d like for you to do is take it for a drive.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I want it to be put through its paces. We’ve already arranged for a course to practice on, and have all the necessary permits. So, are you in?”

“For test driving, I suppose so. For the job, we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Of course, of course,” Boss said. “Now let’s finish that paperwork, so we can get this test started.”

The car rumbled in a massaging purr as Andrew turned on the ignition. The chair had adapted to his body almost perfectly with its various sensors, and the wheel sat easily in his hands. The cool leather gave him goosebumps as he stared out into the forested area.

“Listen closely, Andrew. We want this to be a good clean run. Start off slow, then run it through its paces. You read?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Andrew replied as he reached down and shifted to first gear. The car pulled out slowly and easily as he began along the course. The rough dirt road was level and dry, so there wasn’t a need to worry about testing the shock absorbers this time. Cool AC blew in his face as he began his run at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. His skin prickled as he pushed the gas pedal and heard the engine’s roar.

“Looking good, Andrew. Run her around for the first lap as a warm-up. Then we’ll see how well this muscle car can flex.”

Andrew chuckled. “Whatever you say, Boss.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Andrew stirred impatiently in his seat as he rounded the final curve and passed the starting line. The moment he was free, he quickly picked up the acceleration and shifted the stick. The car roared exultantly as it spat up a cloud of dust and debris. Andrew chuckled at the familiar tingle of adrenaline coursing through his system. “Someone’s anxious,” he muttered.

The car spun smoothly as he took the sharp turns, digging into the track to pull the traction forward. It practically jumped forward as he ramped up the RPMs and switched into high gear.

“Oh, yes.” He smirked as the trees began to blur by. His body tensed as he clutched the wheel and his heart pounded in his chest. He shuddered in pleasure, the noticed an icon light pop up on the dash. “Hey, Boss, what’s with this mark on the dash board?”

“It’s just the driver assist function. Don’t worry about it,” Boss replied.

Andrew grunted as he rolled his shoulders to readjust his shirt. Things were starting to feel a little snug. “Whatever you say, Boss.”

“Damn right, whatever I say,” Boss teased.

Andrew laughed and scratched at his chest. “What’s this bar icon for?”

“Storage charge. The car’s a hybrid. Gas for the harder faster road and electricity for residential driving. The battery’s just charging, while the gas is burning.”

“Oh. Okay.” He scratched his head and the bristles on his high and tight cut scraped as a dull haze settled over him.

“Eyes on the road, Andrew.”

“Yes, Sir,” Andrew said as he rolled his eyes. He knew what he was doing. The scent of the car’s air freshener washed over him, putting his body at ease as the familiar scent of old spice, or maybe AXE, filled the air. The sun flashed as he took a turn. He blinked and grinned as he barreled through the straightway. They knew the course. They recognized the track. It was easy. He reached over to pat the dash board and sneered at the sight of his muscles tensing against the driver suit. “Ready to really show off?” He sneered as he pushed his foot on the pedal and forced the engine to roar in agreement. “Fuck, yeah,” he muttered under his breath.

The next run, a bout of tunnel vision struck as Andrew pushed himself fully into the track. The car rumbled under his body, massaging it as the seat adjusted to his needs. The static from the bluetooth radio was soothing. This course was his, and he owned it. He never even noticed the tears and pops sounding in his ears. They were only so much static. He had to stay focused.

He raised an arm and chuckled as he glanced at it. His bare bicep launched into the shape of a hill as he flexed. His beard scraped against his shoulder as he allowed himself a piece of vanity.

The muscle car flexed. He flexed. The car showed off. He showed off. He didn’t know how many times he’d run the course now. He didn’t care. It just felt so damn good.

A dull ringing in his ears finally pulled him out of his trance. The bar was flashing white and blue, and the gas meter had dropped to low.

“All right, Andrew. Come on in. We’re done for today.”

“One more circuit?” he wheedled.

“I said you’re done. We need to run a diagnostic, now that you’ve run the car through the course. Besides, the gym is waiting for you.”

He sighed as he pulled up in front of Boss and stepped out of the car. The tatters of his driver suit dangled in the breeze. Andrew didn’t seem to notice.

“Damn, son,” Boss swore as he took in Andrew’s frame. He walked around the driver, testing the tone and density of Andrew’s muscle. Andrew’s pectorals had evolved into two thick hairy slabs mashed together by broad shoulders. He’d gained at least a half a foot in height, and a chiseled six pack pressed out into the air, while his boxer briefs strained to contain the increased mass that had accumulated in his waist, legs, and crotch.

“Call me Drew, Sir,” Andrew said. “I like it better. It’s simpler, you know?” He let out a low deep guffaw.

Boss tapped a glowing light fixture situated between the cup holders and pressed a button on his observation console. A long tube emerged with a gentle hiss. It glowed a bright blue. Boss pocketed it and smiled as he turned to face his driver. “You made this test a complete success. Thank you, Drew.” He clapped the man heartily on the back. “Now, tell you what. I’ve got a special job in mind for you, one that I think you’re really going to like.”

Drew’s eyes glazed over on the contact. “Whatever you say, Boss,” he droned.

Boss sneered. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

Drew smirked cockily in the mirror as he took in his form. The red tank top strained tightly against his muscles. The bleach job in his hair gave him a perfect layered appearance that only added to his raw sexual appeal. He barely suppressed the sneer as the rear doors opened and closed, and the customers gave him directions to where they wanted to go. Just a couple of wimpy kids. They wouldn’t be so wimpy when he was through with them. He pulled out from the curb and pressed the button, just Boss showed him. Then he chuckled as he triggered the system and the lights flared in the back.

“Congratulations, and welcome to the Muscle Cab.”

The Place

Jason didn’t know what it was about this place that was so alluring to him. The weathered building clearly hadn’t been used in years, but he kept coming there inevitably after a long day at work. He used to be a building inspector. He remembered that well. Then he got the call to visit this warehouse, make sure everything was on the up and up. The rest ... was a blur.

He remembered filing his report, of course. The building was fine. No problems. Old, but sturdy. He uploaded the photos, waited for feedback. He received a short reply for approval and everything was normal. The buyers never bothered to inquire again, though. And it seemed that attempts to demolish the district disappeared overnight.

It was odd. The building was old. So was the district. Shouldn’t it be--?

He blinked as the world came slowly back into focus. The building should be preserved. Of course it should be. None should touch the building without ...

Without what? He furrowed his brow in confusion as he pulled open the old sliding door. His dark tank brushed against taut muscle. Why was this place so important to him again? His head felt strange. Thinking came slowly. His thoughts kept coming back to the clothing brushing his muscles, the tingle in his lips and jaw.

“What’s ... wrong with me?” he asked in a low, husky voice. He stopped a moment, surprised at the sheer depth. He ... didn’t used to sound like that. He used to ... used to....

A wave of vertigo struck him as he clung to an old support beam. Another attack. They were becoming more frequent. Always when he got too excited about something stupid. He was used to this. He knew what he had to do.

Jason closed his eyes, took a deep breath, felt the fabric rise and fall in that ghostly touch against his abs, the gentle give and retract that occurred around the defined shape of his pectorals. He focused on that feeling, on the shudder-inducing tingle that sent goosebumps over his skin. The muscle always felt so good.

“Huhuhuhuh,” he laughed as his voice echoed and rebounded off the walls. The pleasure increased. The dizziness passed. What was he so worried about again? He couldn’t remember. But ... it didn’t really matter then, did it?

“Dumbass,” he said and chuckled again as he carried on. A dim light pulsed in the distance, and he approached it only too happily. The white light was good. Good to approach. Good to listen. Good to--

REPORT.

Jason stopped thinking.

Chief Science Officer’s Log: Stardate XXXX-XX-XXXX

After our vessel crashed, it has fallen to me to make use of this primitive world to make repairs and lead what remains of our crew. These creatures call themselves Humans, a most curious name. Even more curious is the series of sub-races and classifications which they grant themselves based upon origin of birth in a particular geographic area and the genetic stock which they bear from various other regions.

They are severely limited technologically, and are more inclined to fight each other like animals over territory and resources. All the same, I am fascinated by them and their adaptability.

Atmosphere is breathable, but far from clean. I’ve ordered all crew to utilize appropriate filtration aparatus as we seek to re-enable our systems to depart. Unfortunately, we have lost our beacon and our anti-gravity generators as well. As such, we have had little choice but to rely on these ... creatures to assist us in our labors.

Genetic recombination and neural stimuli have allowed us the ability to manipulate what few subjects we have managed to acquire. We’ve had to take the process slowly out of necessity to make the transition and programming more natural and avoid suspicion. A simple subroutine embedded into the data for the images that Subject J-001, or Jay-son, took ensured that our work would not be disturbed, and has given us access to the rudimentary network these creatures call the internet.

Depending on adaptability, I may have to recommend this world for colonization and subjection. J-001 is coming along particularly nicely in his metamorphosis to Blarthog. It will not be long until the implant we placed on his brain stem is no longer necessary. His telepathic receptors are developing at an excellent rate. Muscle and bone density will be our next alterations in the subject to hasten his changes and bring him closer to completion. I’ve taken a liking to this one, and may claim it as my own, after his service is complete on the ship. For now, our previous subjects are training him and pushing his body. The male is only too happy to indulge in his baser pack mentality. 

Blarthogs JX-201 and JX-202 were among the lowest caste of this world. They will not be missed, nor will their previous personalities. The sheer amount of toxins and barbituates took a whole two hours to purge, before we could proceed with the gestation. I admit the transformation holds a certain ... fascination for me. One never knows exactly how a creature will react, and the moment when they lose all sense of their old selves and willingly give into their new purpose is truly exhilarating.

I will order J-001 to consume all that he can for the next phase of his metamorphosis. We have already made use of their technology to transfer the funds he will require in this world’s currency beforehand. I have made a note to research this term that appears in the subject’s thought patterns when he sees himself in the mirror. This ... musclehead may yet be a derivative of baser and more primal genetic code to make use of. Farther notation will be made in the future. For now, I must go and oversee J-001′s strength test.

End Log.

Jason felt tired, but relaxed as he left the warehouse. Sweat coated his frame, causing his shift to cling all the tighter to his core. He grinned, baring sharper canines as he flexed a bicep. It always felt so good to work out.

Good to work.

“Fuck, yeah,” he rumbled. His eyes lost focus in a rush of pleasure as he reached down and scratched his crotch, then patted it with a smirk of satisfaction. “Gettin’ big,” he said. The smirk widened into a cocky sneer.

Alpha.

The thought hung there briefly in the haze of Jason’s mind. And then the light in his eyes hardened. He straightened up, pulled his shoulders back, thrust out his chest, and strutted out into the evening air.

His stomach rumbled hungrily.

He scratched his sweaty brown hair, now laying flat against his scalp. He raised his nose, sniffed the air, then jogged like a bloodhound on the trail. One thought drove him. One thought consumed him. He grunted and growled, “Must Eat.”