Musclehead Transformation - Tumblr Posts

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.

Ringing Out the old Ringing in the New

Augh. Where am I? “Jim, allow me to introduce Christopher Williams, one of our most successful beta testers to the program, by far. Christopher, why don’t you say hello?” “’Sup, bro?” Wait, did I just say that? “James, are you insane? This man is clearly engaged! We told you, no outside attachments!” “And there are none, if you would just let me explain. The ring is a symbol of being bound to one’s love, essentially making the connection to a particular entity more permanent, yes?” “Obviously.” “Good. Now watch. Christopher, could you tell me who your first love is?” “Uh, the gym? Is this like a trick question or something, Prof.?” The hell...? What am I doing here? Why am I sitting in front of these men? And ... why are my clothes feeling so tight? “And why are you wearing that ring?” “Guys and girls keep askin’ me out. It’s kinda annoying.” “And why is it annoying?” “’Cause I love the gym. Pumping reps, breaking goals, making gains. It feels so fuckin’ good.” Am I ...? Oh no. Please don’t ask me to stand up. Actually, please just pinch me or something. Wake me up! “Thank you, Christopher.” “Uh, Prof., can we just drop it to Chris?” Excuse me? “If that’s what you want.” “I do. Can I go back to the gym now? I was in the middle of a set, when you called me here.” Gym? What’s he ... I ... talking about? I only just started the program. “Not yet, Chris. Jim needs a demonstration of your progress.” Why am I smiling? “Wadaya need?” “Could you perhaps give us a bit of a show?” “Huhuhuh... Brought me to show off, huh? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” What’s happening? Am I...? HOLY CRAP! Is that me? What the hell? Well, I guess that explains the clamminess in my armpits, but ... whoa. I look like a freaking bodybuilder! I ... I can see my fucking pectorals! ... wait. Fucking? “Fuck, that feels good.” “As you can see, the subject takes immense pleasure in the current state of his body. Put him in front of a mirror and his sense of vanity will reinforce the positive effects of his changes.” “How do you like this, Prof.?” Holy--! My arms look like a soccer ball and a softball had babies! I’m-- “I’m ripped.” “Yes, Chris, you are.” Ohhhhh ... fuck, why does it feel so good to flex? “You’ve been ripping for a while now, haven’t you?” “Uhuh....” “Getting shredded.” “Yuh....” “Shredding and repairing, tearing and rearranging.” “Fuckin’ ace. Huhuhuh....” What’s huhuhappening? “What are you, Chris?” “A gym-obsessed musclehead, sir.” I’m a what now? “And what do you do?” “I flex and I grow. It feels so fuckin’ good to work out. I wanna be bigger.” “And nothing else?” “Uh ... what else is there?” Try reading a ... Um ... Okay, how about ...? Will you just--?! O-oh.... ohhhhh... do that again.... “Then you’ll keep going to the gym, even after this trial is complete?” “Uh, ... yeah. Why shouldn’t I?” Fitness is good, but ... Mmm ... what was I ...? I was saying ... Fitness is good. Yeah. And then ... uh ... uh ... Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......... “Fitness is good.” “That’s right, Chris. Fitness is good.” “The subject appears to have difficulty holding sophisticated discussion, James.” “Better that than dealing with being obese.” Fitness is good. Flexing is good. Muscle is good. So ... so fuckin’ good... Good to... I need to... Can’t... Must--! “Uh ... can I go back to the gym now? I need to work out.” “The drain in IQ is a bit much, isn’t it?” “I think he’ll do fine.” “Is there any way we can lessen it?” “Not at this time. That being said, he’s been the most diligent of all our subjects. Perhaps we simply need to reduce exposure.” Flex. Grow. Muscle. Flex. Pump. Flex. Lift. Lift. LIFT! “Chris, what are you doing?” “Gotta lift, Prof. Huhuh. And you make a perfect dumbbell. Huhuhuhuhuhuh...” Huhuhuhuhuhuh.... “... Perhaps I gave him a little too much love of the gym.” “No, you think?”

Schools of Thought

“I don’t know, man. Things have just been feeling ... off lately, you know?” Dennis said as he leaned back on the comfy bed. His black briefs hugged perfectly to his frame, accentuating the well-toned muscle he had gained. “Off...?” Devon asked as he leaned against the door frame with his hands behind his back. His muscle was not so fully developed as his roommate, but he had definite tone. His neon orange briefs hugged tightly to his waist as he stared ahead. “Yeah. I mean, it’s cool and all getting this sweet deal for college, but ... don’t you find it strange how much things have changed?” “Not really.” Devon’s eyes took on a dreamy look as a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. “I like the new us.” “Don’t get me wrong. I like being stronger, too. I mean, this is the fittest I’ve been in like ... ever. It’s just ... Idunno. I never used to like being like this, you know?” “Like what?” “Half-naked. I mean, we’re lounging around in nothing but a skimpy pair of underwear for each of us. The old me would never have done that, but now it feels ... wrong, somehow, not to.” He reached down to brush his abdominals gently. “You know what I mean?” “Yes. I know exactly what you mean,” Devon replied in that same distant voice. “I spoke with Coach Sanders about it earlier today.” “Coach?” “Professor Sanders also runs an independent sports team. He prefers for those who work with him to call him coach. He has asked me to do the same.” He stared off into the distance again and silence filled the room. “So?” Dennis asked. “So ... what?” “What did he have to say? About your question.” “Hmm? Oh, oh, the question. Yeah....” He blinked slowly. “Coach said it’s ... sort of like going to school. A ... school of thought. And he said everyone’s got ‘em in their heads, sometimes multiples. Things we didn’t used to like or want suddenly become more desirable, while the old stuff just sort of falls away. It’s kinda like ... uh ...” He furrowed his brow a moment, then sighed and relaxed as the bulge in his underwear grew a little larger. “Like goin’ from primary to kindergarten, ya know? Stuff changes. You move up in grades. One minute, you’re readin’ books on physics and chemical engineering, the next you start doing a little research on the side about personal fitness. Then you start going to the gym, try new techniques, locate more lit, study it, apply it. “Soon you’re studyin’ more fitness than physics. The only compounds and reactions you’re thinking of are newton’s first law as you’re pumping those weights and formulae for supps and shakes. And ... the more you think about those things, the less likely you’re gonna go back to those other places, those other schools, ya know? And ... and you don’t want to.” A doltish grin spread over his face. “I don’t want to.” He chuckled and his voice cracked, then dropped. “I don’t wanna, bro.” “Devon? You okay, man?” Dennis asked. Devon let out a dull, dimwitted chuckle. “Yeah, bro. I’m fine. Just goin’ over today’s lesson.” “Today’s ... lesson?” “Yeah, bro. In my school. You know, the school of thought? You’re goin’ over yours, too. Can’t you tell?” Devon shuddered and finally ran a hand up and down his own abdominals. Then he paused, turned, and flexed a bicep in front of his roommate. “Yeah, Coach. I get it now... Gotta get swole ta pay the toll.” “Devon, what’re you...?” “Just listen, bro. Can’t you hear it?” “Hear what?” a low flush had begun to color Dennis’ cheeks as he felt a strange heftiness between his legs. “The bell, bro. Coach’s voice. He’s calling.” He grinned as he laid back against the wall again. “He said you were falling behind, bro.” “Devon, what are you talking about?” A strange sense of dizziness had begun to settle in Dennis’ head. “You’re not making any sense.” He shook his head to try to dispel the cobwebs, only for a sloshing sort of hiss to stream into his eardrums. He panted as he felt a warmth spreading in his chest and his pectorals began to bounce, first one, then the other in perfect time. He sat up straight and rested his forehead against his palm. “I ... I don’t ... what ... what’s going on?” Devon walked over to the desktop at the far wall of the room and accessed it. The camera flickered to life as the screen booted up. He typed into the system rapidly as the loud hissing became worse and worse. He strode back to his place and grinned at Dennis. “Just wait, bro. You’ll get it soon.” Dennis tried to rise, but stumbled almost immediately and landed back on the mattress again. He struggled to rise and just managed to prop himself up on his elbows when The screen began to flicker and a pulsing spiral materialized and started to spin. “Hello, boys. School is now in session. Time for role call.” Devon’s shoulders slumped against the door frame as he gaped at the screen with dull, unthinking eyes. “Devon Bryant, Jock Bro Number Six. Present and ready for instruction, Coach.” Dennis groaned, tensed, then ultiately slumped as his eyes locked on the screen. “Dennis Mallard, Exchange Student Number Seven. Present and ready for instruction, Coach.” “And are you ready to transfer permanently to my school yet?” “No, Sir, Coach.” “I see. Let’s see what we can do to fix that. I think we’ll start on your language next. After all, how you practice is how you play....”

Dennis groaned as he rose from his bed. The room was warm and inviting, and he reveled in that dull, mindless state that follows all after a long sleep. That is, until the sudden throbbing in his skull struck. “Fuck,” he grated as he rubbed at his temples, and then his eyes. “The hell happened last night?” He felt a brief stirring in his loins and patted the bulge pressing against the crotch of his briefs familiarly. “Sleep well, princess?” Devon taunted from his place in the door frame. Dennis glared at his roommate. “Fuck you.” Devon just grinned. “Come on, bro. S’time to get ready to work out. Dennis rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” “Oh, and Coach wants to talk to you later. Something about catching you up after that stomach bug you had.” He smirked and flexed. “You wouldn’t get sick if you worked out more, like me.” “Yeah, yeah.” Dennis waved off the criticism. “Just tell me when the hell he wants me there already.” He drank the substance Devon shoved in his face and shuddered as he felt the familiar surge of energy. Next thing he knew, he was on the floor and Devon was counting down. 10. 9. 8. Deeper. 7. 6. 5. 4. Can’t stop. 3. In the rhythm. 2. Following the beat. 1. ... “Time to be a bro, little bro.”

THE BOX

“Something wrong, Mark?”

“Uh, ... Idunno, Coach. It was ... something. Something important, but ... I can’t really think of it. Can ... can we maybe turn down the music? Just for a sec?” “You know we can’t do that, Mark. Music keeps you pumped. Music helps you keep time and rhythm. Music is supposed to keep playing in your head to push you, to remind you.” “But ... but I’m so close....” “Yes, you are. You’re nearly ready to graduate. And you have to graduate my program to leave. You do want to leave, don’t you?” “Well, yeah, Coach, but--” “No buts.” “I just ... I feel so different, y’know? Like ... Like I’m not even ... not even.... Augh. Fuck, I can’t think with those drums beating in my head.” “Mark, we’ve been over this. The drums are there to help you, not hurt you.” “But Coach, I ... I’m not ... I’m not who I ... used to be? Is ... does that make sense?” “Of course you’re not who you used to be anymore. Marcus was small, weak, pathetic. Mark is big, strong, confident.” “But--” “Look, you want to leave, right?” “Well, yeah. That’s ... kinda what I’ve been trying to do for....” He stroked his chin as his brow furrowed. “How long has it been now?” “Since you started this program, Mark. We don’t need to worry about the numbers. Besides, you know how easy it is for you to zone out when you count.” “S’not my fault....” the big man murmured. “Of course it isn’t, Mark. Of course it isn’t. Do you really think you’re the only one who has trouble with that? All your classmates did, too.” “They ... did?” “It’s perfectly natural to fall into that drumbeat when you’re doing your reps.

“One, two, three, four.

“Counting, beating so very steadily. Steadily through your head in that tribal thrumming. 

“Five, six.

“Repping up. Pumping up. Counting up as you fall into rhythm, fall into the beat, fall into that thrumming pumping rush as the drum beats with your heart and surges through your head to cloud it, making it so easy to just ... zone out as you count.” “Seven ... Eight....” Mark breathed heavily as his mouth began to open loosely. “Zoning out all except my voice, except for your training, because my voice is part of your training, and your training is part of my voice. They are one and the same. And it’s so easy to zone out because you’re a bit of a dumbass, aren’t you, Mark?” “Nine ... Ten....” “Say it, Mark.” “Eleven.... I’m a bit of a dumbass. Twelve....” “Tell me, do you believe that, Mark?” “Thirteen ... No. Fourteen....” “How come?” Marcus continued to count between comments. “Because I used to be smart,” he droned in a deep vapid tone. “No, Mark. Marcus used to be smart. You’re not Marcus anymore. Marcus is packed away in the box. All his bad habits are packed away in The Box. All those nerves, all those fears, all those worries are packed away in the BOX.” “Yes,” Mark acknowledged. “Yes, what?” “Yes, Sir ... Coach,” Mark sighed. “Suspicion, fear, and paranoia go where?” “... In the BOX.” “Questions to my authority?” “In the BOX.” “Thoughts outside the gym, weights, sports, and this program?” “In the BOX.” “That’s right. They go in the BOX. The BOX is where they belong. The BOX is for smartasses and smartass thoughts. Marcus was a wisecracking, disrespectful smartass. He didn’t understand the value of hard work and exercise. He thought it was wrong to be strong, wrong to build muscle, wrong to build your body, wrong to obey me, wrong not to think. He mocked those things. You’re not in the box with him, so you’re not a smartass, are you, Mark?” “No, Sir.” “So, since you’re not a smartass, then you must be a dumbass.” “Uhh....” The numbers had long since trailed off. “You know I’m right, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes. Coach is always right....” “That’s right. And my logic can’t be denied here. You must be a dumbass. Say it, Mark.” “I must be a dumbass.” “You are a dumbass.” “I am a dumbass...” “Just a dumbass jock.” “Yes...” “Tell me, Mark, where is the BOX?” Mark pointed down to his waist and crotch, where the word had been emblazoned in big black letters on the waistband. “That’s right. All of that goes into your body, into your muscle, into your meat.” “Yes, Coach....” “Good. Have you packed all those things away now?” “Yes, Coach.” “Is the BOX full?” “No, Coach. It can still hold more.” “And you know what goes there now, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes, Sir.” “Good. You can wake up now, Mark. And remember: What’s in the box is junk. And you have a lot of junk. Your junk is always growing, just like you. A growing, dumbass jock waiting to build more jocks for me.” Mark blinked slowly as his eyes came back into focus. “Uh, ... sorry, Coach. Must’ve zoned out. What’d you say?” The coach chuckled and flexed his massive muscles. His short blond flat cut shone in the gym’s lighting as he folded his arms over his black sleeveless shirt. “I said it’s time to get back to work, dumbass. You’ve got catching up to do if you’re gonna join your friends in the field.” Mark grinned and saluted. “Yes, Sir, Coach Stone!” “Good. Now get back to work. I want you to pose in front of a mirror like the cocky jock you are for at least five minutes before you get back to your weight routine. Am I clear?” Mark nodded and swaggered away to stand in a booth. The bright blue light of UV lamps soon buzzed to life as he continued to pose in his tight briefs and his gaze became distant again. Stone smirked as he pulled up his tablet and scrawled a few notes with his stylus. “Algorithm test successful. Median brainwave attunement achieved followed by synchronized sweeps for respective targets. Note to self: Consider investing in individual recyclable system designed for each subject....” He stroked his stubble on his block-like jaw and nodded. “Yes, that would likely be the best means to speed things along.” He walked off, leaving a command in his system to alert Mark when it was time to get out of the tanning booth and back to work.

Brad sighed as he drank from his cup and approached the mirror in his hotel room. The summer fitness program had promised results. And he’d definitely gotten his money’s worth. He hardly even recognized himself anymore. That green tea really did wonders. The pounds melted away, yielding solid, hard muscle that practically exploded under the carefully controlled diet and exercise regimen his coach had provided for himself and his fellow classmates. He could actually see his cheekbones. His traps formed small hills that rolled up off his shoulders and merged into his neck. A well-developed six pack had taken shape over his abdominals as his muscles grew to become chiseled and well-defined. The barest foundation for two more had begun to show just below his navel. His briefs clung in all the right places now, and he felt comfortable standing practically naked. “Lookin’ good, bro,” his reflection complimented as he took another sip of the drink. Brad smiled. The reflection smiled with him. “Thanks.” It had taken a while to get used to the idea of using hypnosis as part of his regimen, and even longer to get used to having regular conversations with himself afterwards. He couldn’t even remember going under the first time. It was weird talking with himself in the mirror next to everyone else. Just a bunch of one-sided conversations. One plus side, though: No need to worry about rude social circles trying to kick you out. Everyone just knew to sort of respect each other’s boundaries. If they wanted to share their talks, they would. Otherwise, it was just cool to relax and listen to the tips and compliments coach and the reflection provided. It was ... kinda nice, actually. Sure, the persona his reflection had taken didn’t exactly reflect its owner, no pun intended, but he wasn’t rude or anything. Honestly, the way things had progressed, Brad’s other self had become a valued companion. A lot of his classmates had gone sort of quiet. They’d exchange a few greetings, the basics social ethics required. The rest was mostly grunts and body language. They’d pose and flex in front of the mirrors after getting a good pump on and then chuckle, like they’d just heard some incredible joke. Sometimes they let him join them, but he didn’t really feel part of the group. The flexing was fun, but kind of boring in a sense. “Bro, not cool,” the reflection chided. That’s right, it knew what he was thinking. After all, it was a mental projection from his own head. He sighed. “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t like the new shape of my ... our body, I suppose. I just don’t feel so excited about flexing as everyone else does, you know? They all light up at the chance to show off. Me? I don’t feel like that.” “Do you want to?” Brad took another sip. A pleasurable warmth spread out through his chest and stomach as the brew passed through his system. “Honestly? I don’t know. That whole cocky alpha shit is part of the reason I joined this program in the first place. I was tired of dealing with people looking down on me. You know that.” The reflection nodded. “At the same time, I can understand a little about their thought processes now, why they execute some of their behaviors. I mean, look at us!” He raised his free arm and clenched his hand into a fist to rouse the sleeping bicep. “Every time I flex, I feel ... I don’t know, awed? Happy? I can’t really put it into words. It’s just ... different.” He shrugged his shoulders and watched his trapezius muscles roll. “And I can’t take my eyes off of me. At least, not without a little regret.” “You’re overthinking it, bro. You’re turning into a sexy masculine beast. Nothing wrong with a little self-indulgence.” He smirked. “Maybe....” “No maybes about it, bro. Remember how you feel when you’re pumping those weights at the gym?” Brad fought hard to suppress the reflexive shudder as a tingle of pleasure washed over him and goosebumps raised on his skin. “See? There’s your problem. You’re not willing to let go. You don’t want to let yourself enjoy this. All the others, they are. So what’s going on? What are you so ashamed of? It’s just us, bro. Just the two of us. Tell me.” “... You already know.” “No shit, Sherlock. But I want you to say it. Gotta confront the problem, if you wanna beat it. S’what you did when you came here, wasn’t it? You put in the work, followed the program, and look at you! Now you’re stuck on a plateau. Only way you’re gonna break through it is if you pull a Nike and just do it. Now tell me.” Brad sighed. “I don’t want to lose who I am,” he finally admitted. “Things have been ... changing for me. It’s been subtle, but I’ve noticed. I think more about diets and exercise plans than I do about the news. I flip on the TV before bed and instead of Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune, I want to check out ESPN or Ninja Warrior.” This time, he didn’t suppress the shudder. “I close my eyes and I keep seeing you--me--us flexing. I hear the others, and listening to them talk, their grunts, their growls, I want to sound like that. I want to pitch my voice deeper. I want my voice to be husky and bovid. I want to laugh at how much I’ve accomplished until I don’t even have to think about it. It just ... comes in that stupid guffaw.” He glanced over to the desk, where a heavy duty laptop and noise-cancelling headphones sat next to a pair of wireless earbuds and a digital i-watch knockoff. “And the computer, Coach’s files, the screensaver.” His hand gave an involuntary twitch as he half-reached for them. His body swayed, but then he pulled himself away and stared back at the reflection. “I ... I could spend hours on those things,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I ... I like not having to think, just ... just being there in the moment, listening, following through....” “Following Coach’s play,” the reflection said. “Just doing.” Brad looked helplessly at his reflection. “Can’t I just be both?” “You and I both know the answer to that one.” “... Yeah.” “So, you gonna say it?” Brad sighed in defeat. “All right, all right.” He took another deep breath, then let out a low, “Nah, bro.” He shuddered again. “See? It wasn’t that bad.” Brad shook his head. “I don’t want to be an asshole.” “It’s part of the package, bro. But you control when you are. Don’t gotta be one all the time, after all. Just save it for when you’re shittin’ around with your bros. You know what we call that?” Brad nodded. “Being a dumbass,” both intoned together. “That’s the price you pay for all that testosterone swelling you up, bro.” “I am getting kinda hung, aren’t I?” He chuckled and his cheeks flushed. “You know what you wanna say,” his reflection chided playfully. “Just ... just give me a minute, okay?” He downed the rest of his mug in one go to brace himself. “Okay.” He sighed, then put on a smirk. “Damn, bro. I look fucking hot.” A surge of pleasure shot through him. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck yeah, bro,” his reflection said approvingly. “Fuck yeah....” “Feelin’ better now, bro?” Brad let out a low moan. His eyes glazed over as he looked into his reflection. “Y-yeah. “Think you’re ready to lift with your bros?” “Uh, ... yeah.” He flexed a bicep and grinned. “Yeah, I think so.” “Good. Now I’ve got one more suggestion for you before you go.” “Lay it on me, bro.” “Lose the glasses.” Brad blinked in surprise and stared for a good minute or so in befuddled silence. “The fuck’m I wearing those for?” He grunted as he pulled them off his face and looked back at his reflection again. Everything in the room was crisp and clear. “Much better,” they intoned together. “You look like a real musclehead now.” “Huhuhuh. Shut up. M’not a musclehead yet.” He turned from the mirror to the dresser, where his new gym uniform sat waiting to be worn. Somewhere behind the raucus guffaw that was his other self’s response, a tiny voice whispered, “But you will be....”

Nerd turned Jock

Next: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/635700023353622528/credit-goes-to-musclecorps-is-for-this-image

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Endemic Evolution

“As you can see, we’ve quarantined the area, Doctor Simmons.”

The parking lot was completely empty. The garage doors for food deliveries were shut down and the back remained locked with blinds drawn.

Doctor Simmons pursed his dark lips. His carefully shaved scalp shone under the sun. “Then tell me, Barton, why are we in the back of a hotel parking lot, and why is that man by the garage shirtless?”

Barton looked up at the doctor in shock. His paler skin and slanted eyes spoke well of his Asian heritage. “You haven’t been briefed on the nature of the illness?”

“Barton, I was just swept from my home a few weeks before Christmas. I was then promptly shoved on a redeye with an armed escort and a series of highly advanced medical vehicles with equipment to bring he here. And while I do appreciate the warmth Florida has to offer, I am tired and feeling more than a little cranky. I would prefer to get back to my family as soon as possible, so tell me the symptoms.”

Barton flinched. “O-of course, Doctor. This is Joseph Malloy. He’s a newer patient.”

Simmons looked over the subject briefly, then returned his gaze to Barton. “I perceive nothing wrong with him. He appears to be in perfect health.”

Barton cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That’s ... sort of the point, Sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“The course of this illness is different from most. Rather than degrade the body, it enhances it to a rapid degree. Immune response, sight, hearing, heart health, it all improves drastically.”

“And this is a problem because...?”

“Because more than half of my clientele have devolved into musclebound idiots that only care about working out, flexing, and showing off,” Joseph growled. “And I’d rather not join them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Heh ... they’ve devolved into meatheads in every sense of the stereotype, including decreased IQ and a complete obsession with weights, fitness, sports, and their bodies that borders on narcissism.”

“Surely, you’re joking.”

“No, Sir. According to our data, the phenomenon appears to be endemic in nature.”

“Demographic?”

“White Caucasian. Gender: Male.”

“That’s a very large population,” Simmons mused. “Communication methods?”

“Unknown, Sir. But there are certain signs. Restlessness, increased libido, arousal, and a fantastic amount of testosterone.”

“I assume that’s why he’s wearing those compression pants?”

“That and they feel comfortable.” Barton shrugged. “Why not kill two birds with one stone?” Malloy reached down and scratched at his crotch casually. “So, how did you want to start this thing? Were you hoping to feel up my muscles or something? Take measurements?”

“We haven’t even reported as to what this is in the first place. Does it have a name?” the doctor asked.

“We’ve titled it Meatheadosis, after the old urban joke,” Barton explained.

A low moan escaped Malloy’s lips and the pair of physicians turned immediately to face him. They watched as thick powerful veins began to rise up from the skin on his arms. Four abdominals had taken shape in his core and were developing more definition by the second. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as a thin coating of hair grew over his chest.

“Oh, damn. That feels ... this feels....” Malloy groaned as a small lump began to grow slowly and steadily against the crotch of his pants.

“Damn it all,” Barton swore under his breath. “He’s breaking faster than I expected.”

A light stubble grew in over Malloy’s masculine jaw that slowly filled into a proper short beard complete with mustache. “Fuck,” he groaned. “This feels ... this feels ... so fucking good. A light smirk pulled at his lips that soon blossomed into a mellow sort of half-grin. Hands clenched and unclenched. Shoulders heaved and cracked as his torso began to expand. His gaze became glassy as his pectorals began to bounce back and forth, back and forth. “So, uh, we gonna do this or not, Coach?” he asked as his neck gradually expanded with muscle and his voice lowered into a deep bassoon. “I’ve got cardio in like, five minutes.”

Doctor Simmons swallowed heavily. “He just....”

“Yes,” Barton agreed.

“And there are ... how many of them?” “Sixty here alone. We minorities seem to be immune.” Simmons watched as Malloy raised his arms and began to pose. With every flex, the subject’s gaze became more distant. Then came the guffaws. A light flush rose in Simmons’ cheeks as they finished their examination, then sent the affected patient on his way.  “Have you identified the bacteria or germ responsible?” Barton shook his head. “That’s part of what’s puzzling us. There’s no sign of them. I’m worried what might happen if the virus or whatever this is mutates into something more.” A light sheen of sweat now reflected the sheen in his brow. Simmons suddenly found himself grateful for his Nubian heritage as he felt the blood flowing through his veins. “We’ll need samples, won’t we?” he asked. “Hm?” Barton’s head jolted up suddenly. “Oh, you mean blood, tissue, that sort of thing.” He smirked. “I’m sure it won’t take long to get those. The others have turned the main lobby into a football field. Simmons’ breath hitched as he gasped. “Ve-RR-y--.” He cleared his throat. “Very well. Let’s see what we can get. “Mmm ... yeah. This is gonna be good.” Barton casually laid his clipboard down over his crotch. “Plenty good.” Simmons started walking. “It will be fun to ... observe the proceedings,” he said, heedless of the tent that was starting to grow in his own crotch. He let out a low chuckle as his lab coat became just a little more snug. “You know, I always wanted to play football....”

Previous Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181128775917/endemic-evolution-chapter-3-doctor-lee-chen-barton

Next Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181323718642/endemic-evolution-chapter-5-doctor-barton-sighed

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 4

“There, you see? It’s not all that bad, Rante.” The doctor blushed as he gazed at his reflection in the mirror. Two black Under Armour wrist bands donned his otherwise bare arms. The familiar Nike swoosh marked the side of his calf and his left thigh for the shorts and compression gear he wore beneath them. “Did you seriously have to give them the keycard to my room, though?” Simmons ran his hands over his scalp again and winced at the sharp scraping bristle his hairs made. The new hair style was a striking difference from his original cut. Malloy grinned. “We had to greet you properly, now that you’re staying as one of our guests.” “By shaving my head and getting rid of my clothes?” “Dude, you were outgrowing them anyway. Did you see how tight that dress shirt was getting? And those lab sleeves wouldn’t have lasted long against those guns of yours.” “I guess they were getting kind of small. And my arms do look kind of nice,” Simmons admitted. “Bro, you haven’t even reached your peak yet.” “I ... haven’t?” “Nah, bro. Here. Try this on. It’ll cover up your head till your hair grows back.” “Oh, uh, thanks.” “No prob.” Malloy sneered as Rante put on the snapback hat. He strode forward and twisted it around, so the brim sloped down Rante’s neck. “Much better.” “I don’t know....” Trust me, Rante. You look like a stud.” He wrapped his arm around the doctor’s shoulders and led him back to the mirror. “Go on. Take a minute. Just look at yourself.” Rante averted his gaze. “I said look at yourself, Rante.” Malloy glared at the man and moved with a swiftness that belied the mass he’d accumulated as an Alpha. His hand was on Simmons’ head almost instantly. His other hand braced his chin as he forced the man to look into the mirror. Rante’s pupils shrunk briefly, then dilated as his breathing came in shorter bursts. “See? Doesn’t this highlight your body so much better than those stupid lab coats? All they do is hide your muscles.” Malloy flexed a bicep as his sneer returned. “And why would you want to hide this, hmm?” The doctor trembled as his breathing became more labored and forceful. “C’mon, bro. I’ve seen you at the pool. I know how much you’ve been watching us, how you flex when you think nobody’s watching.” Rante flinched and Malloy smirked. “Wanna know a secret?” Malloy asked, almost whispered as he struck a double bicep pose and forced a pump into his muscles. A low groan escaped Rante’s lips. Malloy bore his teeth in a vicious grin. “It feels even better when there’s an audience.” A strangled gurgle, a heaving chest, clenching fists and teeth. But, of course, that was his mistake. Clenching meant flexing. Rante groaned. He didn’t try to hold it back this time. It rolled in a grating sort of rumble that faded off into a sigh as his shoulders slumped and his arms relaxed. He stood there silently for a time, just breathing deeply as he stared into his reflection with a vacant expression and it stared back. Then came the twitch. It was the barest hint of motion. His right pectoral trembled. It may have been a trick of the eye. The motion carried into the left, that same trembling. The breathing quickened. Then, slowly, like an engine turning over, his pectorals began to bounce. Right, then left. Right, then left. Back and forth. His skin glowed in the room’s light. “That’s it, Rante. Just like a machine starting up. You know what comes next.” Rante leaned forward and curled both arms in front of his torso. His trapezius muscles flared. His biceps tingled and rose. The barest hints of veins began to show under the skin as muscle strained. The four-pack abdominals sharpened to reveal two more slabs that were slowly being carved from his lower torso. He held that pose for ten seconds before releasing and straightening with a blissful grin on his face that gradually faded into just a hint of a smirk. “Bro....” Malloy ran a hand over Rante’s torso. The sixth pair of muscles hadn’t completely retracted. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you, bro?” “Oh, fuck yes,” Rante moaned. “Just imagine how much better that’ll feel in a whole gym of muscled studs just waiting to watch you grow....” Rante’s shoulders slumped. His jaw went slack. His chest thrust out as he gazed sightlessly at his reflection. His mind was elsewhere. “See you at the gym, little bro,” Malloy said as he made his way to the hotel room’s door. The Alpha chuckled to himself as it shut behind him. He let loose a vicious triumphal grin. “Just try to stay away now.”

Previous Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181232201117/endemic-evolution-chapter-4-there-you-see-its

Next Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/617378326229762048/on-further-review-of-the-original-photo-i-felt-it

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 5

Doctor Barton sighed as the man in the blue hazmat suit tapped his knee yet again. He didn’t even think about it when the muscle in his knee reacted and lifted his leg of its own accord. “Your reflexes have improved vastly from your last physical,” the physician told him through the respirator. It was almost comical how bulky the Grade A suit was. The helmet couldn’t help but remind Lee of Lord Helmet from Spaceballs The Movie. It was all necessary, though, and he knew it only too well. Lee looked down at his briefs and sighed forlornly. “I know.” A gloved hand rested on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. Nobody’s blaming you for what happened. We just didn’t have enough data.” “Yeah, but look what’s happened to Simmons. He’s a completely different person now. He’s not even trying to resist this anymore.” “Which is why we have you here in quarantine. You won’t have to worry about the others trying to influence you or force you into something else while we have all the key cards.” The doctor grimaced. “What happened to Doctor Simmons is ... unfortunate, but we’ve learned from that mistake.” “Has ... anyone told his family?” “We’ve told them what we’re allowed.” “So pretty much nothing, then,” Lee muttered angrily. “It’s protocol. Until we can understand exactly what this is, we have to keep it under wraps. Do you have any idea the number of men who would sell their souls to be exposed to this kind of shortcut to a perfect body?” “Yeah, ... I know....” He shook his head. “So, any idea why the disease took so long to manifest in Simmons and me?” “Nothing concrete just yet. It’s possible the initial pathogen was specifically designed for a particular racial background, as you theorized. However, if that is the case, then this virus has proven highly adaptive and mutative.” “Have you checked his brain yet?” “If you mean Doctor Simmons, then yes, we have. His pituitary gland has mutated. The anterior gland has grown and is somehow ... well, for lack of a better word, it’s infecting the rest of the brain.” “Explain,” Barton ordered as he narrowed his gaze. “We’d have to perform surgery to be absolutely certain, but it’s evident that the gland is swollen, not unlike a tumor. However, the remainder of the brain is actually adapting to compensate for this growth, rather than allowing the extra mass to push it against the skull like a tumor. And there are no signs of cancer cells that we’ve been able to detect with the usual means. The increased size would explain a great deal about how closely knit this group of men has become and how easily those who have progressed farther are able to influence those who are not so far along. “Vasopressin and Oxytocin levels rising are among some of the earlier manifestations of the mutation that we’ve been able to document. As you know, increase those two hormones enough, and it’s a simple matter for a subject to bond to one of the other patients. From what we’ve seen, activity in the lateral orbitofrontal cortex has also been slowing dramatically within subjects.” “That’s an easy one to explain.” Lee rolled his eyes. “They’re constantly indulging their libidos. They can’t or won’t stop. I can’t even begin to tell you the number of times I’ve heard someone muttering about how they need to ‘bust a nut’ or how they’d like some ‘pussy to plow.’“ He cut off his narration with a snarl of disgust as the bulge in his briefs responded to the memories. “As you can see, I am not immune to those urges either, though I have maintained strict control.” “It shows.” The doctor peered at Lee’s chiseled torso and the sheer vascularity the man had developed in his arms and thighs. “Curious that the veins are more prominent in locations where main arteries are located.” “Most likely to facilitate spread of the hormones to dull the mind,” Lee theorized. He sighed and ran a hand through his neatly combed hair. “Not to mention the rapid rate of growth in certain parts of anatomy. My body is probably priming itself for the next stage. I’ve been able to slow the process down somewhat, but not stop it.” The doctor peered at the various bottles that lay on a tray next to the bed. “And you’ve been taking your pills?” “Regularly,” Lee said vehemently. “Either these antivirals and biotics aren’t strong enough or this isn’t the result of a biological entity.” “Now you’re just being overdramatic.” “Am I? How many tests have we performed now with no results? There’s no sign of anything that could be deemed responsible. And all the while, we’re becoming more and more like walking factories of testosterone!” He slammed his fists against his mattress and took a few labored breaths. Then the breathing became more steady. “I ... apologize. The lack of progress is frustrating, to say the least, and my ... advancement in this affliction has left me in a more aggressive state of mind.” The doctor nodded behind his massive visor and turned to gather his materials, including the vials of blood he’d just harvested. “I understand. You should try to get some rest.” Lee smiled sadly after the doctor. When he heard his door close, he let out an explosive sigh. “I will, when my body lets me.” He finally released the yawn he’d been holding in and strode over to the coffee machine. He replaced the filter, opened the pouch with the grounds in it, poured, and activated the maker. Then he dragged himself back to the bed as the scent of the blend began to fill the room. He sighed and turned on the television, then scratched at his crotch, oblivious to the veins’ subtle advance with each abrasion. “I wonder how the Patriots did last night....”

It was so weird. Ever since Adrian put on those shoes from check-in, things just ... went weird. He kept following the locker room, but no matter how far he went, he always wound up back at the same place: A massive floor-length mirror. The next walk he took left a tingling on his head. He frowned as he stared at the mirror. Was ... something different? He brushed a hand over the high and tight sides and felt the comforting bristles. No, everything was fine. He turned to try again. Once more, he passed through the endless line of lockers. No dice. He spun around on the poles, gripping with his hands and tensing the muscles in his arms and torso, then let go. Anything was better than repeating the same thing over and over again. Perhaps random turns would prevail better than reason. He stared at the mirror again. Had ... he come in shirtless? He couldn’t remember. It ... was pretty warm. Maybe he ... left the shirt behind? A few of the gym goers had done that. Yeah. He ... remembered seeing that. And it wasn’t like he had that much to be ashamed of. He was fit. No Adonis, but certainly toned enough not to raise any suspicion or antagonism. He furrowed his brow and stroked his beard. One more time? he wondered. Every step echoed hollowly through the vacuous locker room. His feet smacked heavily on the tile floor. His thighs felt tense as they brushed against one another and he adjusted his pace accordingly, swinging his legs from side to side in an unconscious swagger. The smacks sounded like hammer blows falling one after the other. One. Two. Three. Four. The rhythm beat into his head as he counted one after the other. Suddenly he stood before the mirror again. He felt the brush of fabric falling and blinked slowly as he gaped ahead at the tall muscle man in the mirror. A camera phone was in his hand. A camera phone was in Adrian’s hand. He furrowed at the sight, then clecked the button. The flash went off. He looked down. There was the man in the screen. He looked up. There was the man staring at him again with a puzzled expression. He clicked again. FLASH His cheeks became more sharply angled, his jaw thick, his traps swollen, shoulders broad. He looked good. “Damn,” he rumbled. “Wish I could be like that.” He chuckled and flexed his free arm. The man in his way did likewise. FLASH “Huhuhuh...” That felt good. He grinned as he stepped out of the shorts and strode out in his posing briefs. The weight room was awash with swollen muscle men, each wearing a pair of bright red shoes. “Uh ... is this where I audition for the weight team?” he asked. A strange sense of deja vous struck him as a titan of a man in a straining sleeveless muscle tee grinned down at him. Hadn’t he been at the desk before? And, like ... uh..... short or ... someth..... A sudden surge of warmth filled his crotch and Adrian lost track of his thoughts. A guiding hand helped him to one of the weight machines. “Right this way, bro,” a deep husky voice assured him. Then he felt his arms tensing, felt his chest seizing, heard the weight clacking heavily behind him. One. Two. Three. Four.... His head cleared. His thoughts emptied. His mouth gaped open. All that mattered were the weights now. ... Just the weights.... He let out a husky dimwitted laugh, heedless of the pulsing glow in his bright red sneakers as his muscles inflated. “Welcome to the team, bro,” the behemoth said. Adrian grunted. No time to talk. He had to lift.

Conversion

“Live the dream. Join the conversion.” Randolph scoffed at the advertisement as a thick muscle man panned out from his shot at the gym. Sweat dripped off his chin as he stared into the camera after finishing a set. Of course, Randolph knew better. It was all staged. How anyone was supposed to actually fall for this obvious ploy was beyond him. Converse in the gym? Really? Those shoes had hardly any arch support. No gym goer in their right mind would actually choose to wear those things willingly to a workout, no matter how well they sold it with a bodybuilder model. He was soon disproven. Within the week, Twitter was aflame with the hashtag, #I_Joined_The_Conversion. Before and after images soon followed within the next month, showing the progress the buyers had made in their fitness. The news was alive with the phenomenon, reporting on just how successful this overnight competitor had become compared to other major brands like Nike, Adidas, and New Balance. When asked their secret, the owners simply said it laid in the quality of the wear. People try the shoes, and they never want to look back. Again, Randolph scoffed. Others might give into the hype. He would not.

Some months later, he sat among his friends at the cafe, drinking some cocoa and reading a new novel. Their little book club’s membership had dwindled over the last half a year. The mysterious movement known as The Conversion had spread far and wide. Even the barista had taken to the movement, investing in a sports counter specifically designed for protein shakes and other health-related beverages, like smoothies. The counter was decorated with bright red letters that boldly proclaimed, I Joined The Conversion. The store’s owner Salvatore seemed to bounce back and forth between the counters. His muscles had swollen to an immense size, and while he still conversed with his less fit customers, he took greater pleasure in conversing with the gym goers that had come for his shakes and smoothies. Even his employees had fallen to the dark side as the numbers of new hires and current employees gradually shifted over to the vascular end. Old friends who used to hold conversations regularly now stared unseeingly when conversation waxed philosophical. Sometimes pecs would bounce. Other times, an arm would flex, accompanied by encouraging hoots and hollers from the changing customer base. Dumbbell napkin holders and other gym-themed decorations had gradually replaced the traditional Italian pieces that once dignified the store. Sal had even gone so far as to invest in televisions to broadcast the most recent events in sports. Randolph rolled his eyes as one of the brutes he had watched pass through the joint so often now planted himself on one of the chairs at his table. “Excuse me. I think you have the wrong table,” he said. A familiar book landed on the surface with a heavy smack. “Pretty sure I’m in the right place. Sorry it’s been so long, guys. I’ve been busy.” The man’s chiseled jaw bulged with his neck. His broad shoulders barely fit into the tank top he wore. Titanic arms rippled and shifted with the slightest twitch. Heavily tanned skin shone under the light as a platinum-blond haircut jutted up from his head in a high-and-tight flat top that further accentuated the angularity of his jaw and chin. His calves and thighs were barely contained by the grey sweat pants that clung to his waist and legs. Randolph furrowed his brow. “Shawn?” he asked. The big man grinned. “The one and only,” he said in a voice that was far deeper than Randolph remembered. “You miss me, boys?” “What the hell happened to you?” one of the others demanded. Shawn shrugged and pointed to his shoes. “I joined the conversion,” he said simply. His shoulders rippled just as his arms had. The same red converse from the commercials now covered the man’s feet, which had clearly gone up a size or two. “And let me tell you, it’s one of the best fucking decisions I ever made.” “Shawn,” Randolph grated warningly. “Oh, lighten up, Randy. You always were a stick in the mud, even before I got big.” He flexed a bicep, then flipped his book open. “Now where are we? I got pretty far in, but I can flip back a few chapters, if you need.” “You read this?” Randolph asked incredulously. “Uh, ... yeah. Why wouldn’t I? It’s a book about a barbarian. Warriors, fighting, showing off that combination of strength and skill in combat; it’s all amazing.” A far-off look came into his eyes as he raised an arm and flexed it absently. “Anything else?” Randolph pressed. “Well, I was fascinated by the unique love triangle. Having to choose between a homosexual relationship or one that would guarantee his line of succession after conquering his clans to achieve proper leadership was a bold choice for the author to include. Depending on the culture, he could have lost everything, if he chose the former and his chiefs found out.” Randolph raised a brow in surprise. “The way things have been changing on your media profiles, I thought you’d just turned into another muscle zombie, like the rest over there. Shawn scowled. “Hey, they’re not zombies. They’re just really focused on their personal fitness.” He jabbed toward the hint of a belly that pushed subtly at Rudolph’s polo with a finger. “You could use a little focus there, yourself.” “Not at the expense of becoming a meathead,” he countered. “At least half the patrons here used to be average Joes. Then they got those stupid shoes, and suddenly it’s goodbye intellectualism and hello brutation.” “Brutation?” Shawn inquired with a half growl. “A brutish mutation,” Randolph clarified. “It’s been spreading like a plague.” Shawn rose slowly to his feet. “Then I guess I should go,” he said coolly. Wouldn’t want to risk giving you my contagion.” He turned deliberately to the counter. “Thanks for the great reception, Randy. You enjoy your session.” He strode to where Sal sat waiting. The man had already whipped up a huge metal cup and passed it to Shawn with a consoling smile. He patted him on the shoulder a few times. Shawn melted into the crowd of overwhelming muscle soon after, chugging his shake as he went. The group didn’t contribute much to the discussion. The others were too distracted staring at the book Shawn had left behind.

Randolph growled as he glared at his computer screen. Message upon message, be it email, PM, instant, or any other blared brazenly in bold flashing letters. You’ve been referred to JOIN THE CONVERSION. Access this link for a special deal. The contents of the accompanying messages ranged from Dude, you’ve got to try this! to Bro, it’s time to convert. Randolph snarled in disgust. Everywhere he looked, this conversion movement had spread. Ads flashed in his eyes whenever he passed over a site. Videos and testimonial clips now appeared on youtube in reviews and spliced between portions of the original ad he’d seen on television. “Just thought I’d try it, you know?” “I guess they’re comfortable?” “I’m pretty much trying these for the money and free shoes.” The camera panned onto the original muscle man. Then it faded to black with a white Six Months Later to indicate the transition. “Best fucking decision I ever made.” Randolph hardly recognized the man talking now. His voice had deepened. His hair had shortened. And hard muscle bulged and rippled with hints of veins showing under the skin. “I’ll never wear another brand again,” the second said effusively. He flexed a burgeoning bicep and grinned. The third one smiled sheepishly at the camera. “I feel pretty stupid for how I was before. I ... guess you could say I’ve seen the light.” He let out a bassoon of a guffaw as his tight pectorals clenched with his chiseled core. “My name is Michael Ortiz--” “Jared Carmel--” “--Aaron Parnell.” “And I’ve been converted,” their voices rang together. The camera transitioned to show all three men working out with the man from the first commercial. Then the screen faded to black with the simple words, JOIN THE CONVERSION. “Join the conversion,” Randolph scoffed. He rolled his eyes and logged off, flicking the middle finger at the screen to vent his frustrations as he got ready for bed.

A heavy clanking in his ears roused Randolph from his slumber. He blinked owlishly. Everything was a blur. The rhythmic clanking continued as his chest rose and fell. A pair of straps brushed gently against the crook between his shoulders and chest. Something was massaging his chest. His eyes rolled in pleasure at the gentle ministration. The brush would ease. His body would tense. The clank would sound. His body would relax under the gentle brush. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. He didn’t know what was going on. He just knew he felt good. Too good to care. Too good to wonder. Too good to-- Tense. Clank. Relax. Brush. Too good to think. Suddenly he was lumbering through the indistinct shapes. He could feel the figures brushing against him as he passed, but he didn’t seem to care. He’d just shoulder them aside. A big silver cup was waiting for him on a counter. An indistinct face stared back. He knocked back the cup and licked his lips. He turned. He lumbered back. A hand pulled him aside to stare at a mirror. Dull gray eyes stared back. A thick chiseled jaw slackened at the sight of the dark green tank top clinging to his torso. A pair birch-pattern shorts clung to his glutes and thighs. He eyed the veins in astonishment and raised his arms slowly into a flex as he watched them wriggle under the skin. A dark beard covered his cheeks, jaw, and lips. It had been carefully groomed for a rugged hard-cut look. Last, but not least, a black snapback cap had been turned around on his head, allowing just a hint of his hair to puff through the gap that now sat in front. He stared at the mirror a few seconds longer, then looked down to see a familiar pair of dark red converse shoes. It was small at first, a little chuff of air; just enough to cause the shirt to brush ever so gently against his shoulders and pectorals. Then the chuff became a puff, the puff a pant, the pant a guffaw, and the guffaw a full-throated laugh. His core tightened as the air rang with the deep, dull staccato. “Huhuhuhuhuh....”

Randolph started awake in a cold sweat. His shirt clung to his skin and pulled uncomfortably as he stared at the screen that had been logged off. “The hell was that...?” he murmured to himself. He rubbed his eyes and peered back at the screen. He didn’t recall falling asleep at the monitor, but ... maybe he had? ... Why was he staring at a bunch of muscle men? The word AFTER stood out boldly at the top of the screen. “What the...?” He tried another tab. Facebook stared at him. His latest status update left him feeling cold. I joined the conversion. He popped into twitter. The same haunting words stared back at him, hashtags and all. Telegram, Discord, Skype, Steam. Everywhere, the haunting sentence blared back at him. “But ... but I....” And then he became aware of the pressure on his feet. Something was pushing tightly against his socks, clinging to the top of the arch in his feet, where the tarsal bones resided. He rose quickly, toppling the rolling chair in his haste to look down and behold.... “No,” he rasped. His heart rate quickened. His breathing became heavy. There were the shoes. He suddenly felt lightheaded. The room began to spin. The only saving grace came in the form of his phone buzzing in the background. A text appeared under the image of a familiar smirking form flexing his bicep for Randolph to see. Shawn, he thought. Heat flushed his cheeks as he felt a tingling first in his feet, then his crotch as his mouth went dry. Welcome to the Conversion, Randy. Can’t wait to see you at the gym, bro. The phone dropped to the floor with a heavy thunk, saved only by the protective casing Randolph had bothered to install. He strode to the middle of the room, dropped to his knees, and immediately began to perform a series of pushups. His eyes stared blankly ahead as a sheen of sweat began to form on his brow. “Time to convert,” he said in a dull monotone.

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.