Of Spies And Muscleheads Part 1

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 1

“Hunter? Do you read, Hunter?”

“I read you, Control. This is Hunter. How’s the image?”

“You’re broadcasting loud and clear; the image is clear as crystal. You are a go, Hunter.” A loud slurp followed in Agent Hunter’s earpiece.

“Still drinking that sludge, Control?”

“If you mean my coffee, then yes. Some of us have to stay up for days on end to make sure you agents don’t screw things up.”

“Please, you know none of those guys even come close to me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Casanova, dial it back a bit, alright? Your ego’s clogging up the lines.”

“I love you, too, Control.”

“Just get going already, Hunter. It’s going to be a long night. You know your objective. Get in, kill the target, download his data, and get out. I’ll keep an eye out for you. Now get into that compound, break those security codes, and crack some heads for me.”

Hunter smirked, his curly blonde hair glinting in the moonlight before he pulled the sleek black scuba mask over his face and inserted his air tube. Slowly slipping into the water, he pulled himself deeper and deeper into the lake. His tight rubber scuba suit clung to his broad frame as he swum through the murky deep. Fortunately, he had thermal and night vision to assist in his journey, along with a glow stick he pulled out from his tool belt. Cracking and shaking it, he soon found plenty of light to see by.

“You’ll find an old grate at the bottom of the castle on the east side, just beneath the bridge. Take your torch, blow it out, then get inside.”

“I know the drill, control. This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.”

“It may be your last if you don’t get moving already. I’m picking up a party crossing the bridge. Looks like … oh shit! It’s Muffati, Bugatti, Pakhtunkwa … looks like our whole top twenty on the terrorist watch list, plus entourage. This is serious, Hunter. I’m patching Director Skinner in now.”

“Hunter, this is Skinner. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“Hunter, your mission directive’s just changed. I want you to see what these people are planning. Assuming they’re coming to see the target, we might be able to get some more information on his objectives. Get all the information you can, then proceed with assassination protocol. Time to earn some big bucks, gentlemen. Keep me updated, Control. Skinner out.”

“Damnit, why’d they have to make things so complicated?” Hunter muttered under his breath.

“You know I can still hear you, right? Now quit sulking and get moving, Hunter. If they see your lights down there, you’re dead.”

“Relax, Control, I’m in.” Agent Hunter chuckled as he pulled the grate out from its position and swam up the pipe. The current was surprisingly easy to swim through. “What did you say came through this pipe again?”

“I didn’t. And trust me … you don’t want to know.”

“Seriously, control?”

“I told you you didn’t want to know.”

Hunter sighed, putting his palm to his facemask.

“It’s not like you can’t clean yourself up later. Your gear will take care of that no problem, once you’re inside, anyways.”

“Jason, do me a favor and just shut up, will you?”

“Oh you know I can’t do that, Hunter. After all, I’m your eye in the sky. Now suck it up. You can worry about kicking my ass later in the gym. And it’s Control over the comms, Hunter, remember?”

“Don’t think I’ll forget.”

“Well, with your record and all …”

“Jason,” Hunter said warningly.

“Alright, alright,” Control chuckled. “I’ll let you focus on your work. You should be coming up on a three-way split in the next twenty yards. Take the pipe on the right. It’ll lead you to an escape tunnel.”

“An escape tunnel through the sewage grate? Seriously?”

“Well, you have to admit, it is pretty smart compared to some of the other people we’ve been up against. A lot more conservative.”

“And you’re sure this guy isn’t ex-ops?”

“Positive. Weren’t you listening in the briefing?”

“There was a briefing?”

“Hunter.”

“Relax, Control. Just getting you riled up again is all.” Hunter chuckled as he kept swimming, keeping hold of the newer maintenance handlebars as he pulled himself along, just in case.

“You should be coming up on the security port momentarily. It’ll take me a few minutes to hack in, so sit tight.”

“As if I could do anything else?” Hunter asked as he approached the steel door in question. A thick combination pad sat beneath a large digital screen. A long green cursor blinked within the slots for a combination.

“Actually, you can. Take that ID you got off that guard in the last base and slide it over the pad. I need the system to think someone is accessing it before I can override it.”

“Won’t that send a signal to the target?”

“I’ll intercept it before it can get that far. I just need the in first.”

“Acknowledged, Control. Scanning ID now.”

“Welcome home, Meathead. You have been away for seventy … nine … hours. Input verification code,” a feminine voice said.

“Alright, Hunter, I’ve decrypted the device. The code is 9-15-2-5-25.”

“Got it.” Hunter tapped in the numbers. They lingered on the screen only briefly before the digital display flashed, numbers flickering in and out of control before they resolved into a new visual format: I-O-B-E-Y. “I obey? Seriously?” A yellow light began to flash.

“Shit. It requires a vocal response. Give me a sec. I’ll boot up your voice synthesizer.”

“Hurry up, Control, things are getting a little uncomfortable down here.” The water had begun to change color as pipes emerged from the sides of the tunnel, releasing a green substance.

“Wait for it … wait for it …”

“I don’t have time to wait, Control. Give it to me now!”

“I’ve got it! Quick, say ‘yes, sir, Coach. Meathead obeys.’”

“Seriously?” Hunter was surprised by the sudden change in his vocals as his tone of voice dropped, sounding more vapid.

“Just do it!”

Hunter activated his underwater speaker. “Yes, sir, Coach. Meathead obeys.” He shuddered at the sheer emptiness in his voice as the system read the synthetization. Memories of the giant thug who almost killed him played over and over in his mind. Over seven feet of height, near four hundred pounds of muscle, vacant expression as the thug smiled and tried to strangle him. And that bulging crotch. He just couldn’t get his mind off of it. How could a man be so large, and yet be so perfectly healthy? Perfect muscles. Perfect body. Perfect bulge. And he nearly won. His techniques were military grade, but there were no records of him in the system. Who was he?

“Bigger is better,” the feminine voice continued.

“Alright, the next line is–”

“Buffer is tougher,” Hunter replied. The machine chirped as a lock disengaged.

“Larger penis, larger testicles,” a higher pitched male voice intoned.

Hunter switched off the speakers. “Little help here, Control? I only got the last one because Subject Thirteen kept saying it.”

“Oh, um … right,” Control replied as the sound of rapidly typing keys echoed across the comms.

“Getting a little green down here, Control, and I don’t think it’s the sewage,” Hunter said.

“I know, I know, give me a minute!”

“We don’t have a minute, Control. I need those key words now.”

“Larger penis, larger testicles,” the computer chimed again.

“I … I can’t find it. Someone must’ve detected my hack. This command’s coming from another relay somewhere. I’m locked out. Get out of there, Hunter!”

Hunter stared at the screen. Everything looked so much the same now; the water was so murky. He could hear the poison flowing, the warning beep of the computer, the sound of the thug’s voice. What would he say? So big. So stupid. It wouldn’t be something complex. All that brawn.

“I said get out of there, Hunter.”

“That’s a negative, Control. I’m … I’m gonna try something. This test … it was designed for Thirteen, right? He’s … so dumb. He’d … need something to respond to. Those words … too complex.” The pipe was starting to wobble a little.

“Hunter, this is a direct order. Leave now.”

Hunter shut off his comms unit, and turned on his speakers, even as the pipe began to spin around him.

“Larger penis, larger testicles,” the computer said a third time.

Doing his best to sound as stupid as possible, he spoke. “Uhh … bigger balls, bigger dick.” He shuddered at the sound of his voice, and blushed as his wetsuit suddenly grew a little tighter down below. Of all the times. . ..

With a mechanical chunk, the door’s other lock disengaged, and a series of fans appeared around the tunnel, spinning to suck and filter the green substance out as fresh water was pumped in. Soon the pipe was back to normal. The door continued to repeat the phrase over and over again, alternating between the high sophisticated voice and the low dumb synthesized bass, even as it slowly swung open and Hunter desperately swam through. All the while, the computer kept playing in his head, chirping in the water, while static played across his speakers. Or was that just the water?

“… Bigger balls … bigger … dick …” he said again. Then everything went dark.

The Touch of a Hand

I’m dealing with some stuff right now. This is a vent poem I wrote, after the event happened. I suppose it’s more prose or free verse than the traditional variants, but it’s real, and it’s mine. Figured I’d post it. Let me know what you think.

I want to scream.

I want to fight.

I want to yell.

…

But I can’t.

I can’t, because I love her.

But it’s that love that hurts me now.

 People define love in their own ways.

Sonnets, anagrams, couplets, those lines that spell a message, when you read them top to bottom.

Alliteration, symbolism, personification, plot devices to express something that is undefinable and so all-encompassing that it’s unfathomable, no matter how deep you dive. Ambiguous, they call it.

 To me, right now, love is a hand that reaches out. It knocks at the door, and you have the choice to let it in or not.

That choice defines you, defines who you are, what you will become, because if you let it in, that hand touches you in that place where only a special few can reach.

That touch changes you.

…

It changed me.

 For the first time, I knew what romance was, not the casual acquaintance of a fun meeting with a girl, but a real, legitimate connection that bound us together.

I knew what it was to fear for the safety of a woman who wasn’t family.

I knew the raging desire to protect.

I knew the timidity that dogs the steps of a man afraid to lose something precious, or rather, someone precious.

I felt the pang of separation, and the desire to draw nearer, to spend every waking moment thinking of that person, because my brain was ablaze with cheerful, happy memories of laughter and smiles, of eating eggrolls, cooking dumplings, and sharing a warm bowl of curry with asparagus and butternut squash.

…

Of dancing under the mistletoe, followed by a chaste kiss on the cheek.

 I knew what it was to be a comforter, to be willing to do anything for her.

…

At least for a time.

 But then I had to leave her. And we tried to make it work.

For a time, it did.

…

But I couldn’t be what she needed, when I was away.

I floundered to find a way to support her, to earn my way in life, so I could have a place ready for her, so I could be the provider I thought I needed to be.

I wanted to be safe.

…

She wanted a risk.

 She waited patiently. So patiently. But I couldn’t catch a break.

Perhaps I was lazy. Perhaps I was too much of a risk. Perhaps I was too inexperienced. Perhaps I didn’t try hard enough.

Hindsight always seems to be filled with those. Perhapses and maybes and what-ifs.

 Bottom line: I didn’t give enough.

 And she couldn’t wait for me anymore.

 And that’s where the pain comes from, because that hand that touched you became a part of you, a part of that place where few can go, few can touch.

She took that hand back.

She did it gently.

The separation still hurt.

 I’m not bleeding inside. Not exactly.

A new hand is there, instead, one that doesn’t really belong to anyone. Think of it as a defense mechanism.

That’s the hand that hurts, because it squeezes the place where the other hand once was. It crushes to staunch the flow that could well be disastrous otherwise.

 Pardon my crude insertion. I know it’s overused, but it seems appropriate. To sum things up, it hurts like a bitch.

Actually, it hurts worse than that. A bite, even a deep one, is easy to recover from. We have painkillers and tourniquets and stitches and antibacterial creams for that, things designed to speed the healing and ease the pain.

You can’t do that for this.

All you can do is bear it. Hold it in. Let that grip hold tight, until time numbs you to that pain. Until this primal damage control is able to make sure you’re ready for that next hand to come along.

 And part of you wants to curl up and whisper over and over, “Never again.”

I know part of me does. Partly because I believe she was the one. Partly because I think a piece of me doesn’t want to risk the pain happening again.

 We’ve both made our choices, she and I.

And we both have to deal with this clawing hand now that holds to our chests, where each of our hands once touched.

 Where will we go from here?

Neither of us know.

All we can do is move forward on our paths and hope to find the answer somewhere along the way.

 That is love.

That is life.

That is living.

To hell with ambiguity.

Real Men’s Journal Part 12

Here it is, folks, the final chapter in our great meathead odyssey. It’s been quite the ride, and I’m glad to have shared this piece with you, grammatically flawed though it is (I was too lazy to go back and edit, after I’d learned how. :P). So, I hope you all enjoyed the characters. And don’t worry. Coach Stone will be back soon enough, with a new bevy of obedient meatheads at his beck and call. You’re not gonna want to miss it. ;)

MASSIVE MANLY BRO LOG

BIG FUCKING ROOKIE

~July 15th~

Bin workin’ hard every day. Wurkin’ for COACH. He put me with 56. Super Ky. He’s the fucking best partner a guy culd ask for when he LIFTS his WEIGHTS. COACH asks ‘bout 56 all the time in the showurs. I LISTEN to him there. Sit back. Report. OBEY. COACH sez higher-ups want me 2 stay. Keep watching 56. Keep working with him. Watch him GROW. GROWING’s gud. GROWING BIG. GROWING BRAWN. GROWING BUFF. GROWING BULGE. GROWING SWOLE. GROW 2 fit his DUMB JOCK role. They say I can leave after. I’m … not sure I want 2.

I luk at 56 and I feel … jelus. He’s so BIG. BIGgur than me. And I can’t stop listening 2 him. Evry1 calls him Q.B., so I do, 2. Cuz, U no. Spy. But … it feels gud when I say it. Lyk when I say I LISTEN to COACH. Makes me feel kinda fuzzee up top. Makes me smyl. The guys LISTEN to him lyk COACH. Lyk we’re a TEAM. Gess the brainwash WURKs. Not on me tho. I’m a spy. I act lyk the rest cuz I have 2. 2 blend. Fit in, ya no? Talk lyk them. Rite lyk them. LIFT lyk them. Act lyk them. Just like COACH sed. Then I report. Report in the showurs. I don’t remember much, but I don’t worry cuz COACH sez not to. Cuz I’m his ROOKIE. He’s my COACH. And ROOKIEs LISTEN to COACH. ROOKIEs OBEY COACH. I OBEY COACH.

I OBEY.

 ~July 30th~

DUDE! 56 is so fucking ripped! He just shredded his fucking clothes today, man! COACH had to give him new stuff. Sumpthin’ like a … suit of some kind? All black. Two piece. Shorts and top. Looked fam--uh … lyk I seen it B4, ya no? But … can’t think where. Can’t think. Head … 2 fuzzee. I … why? Supposed 2 B spy. But … don’t feel like 1. Feel lyk 1 of the guys. Wut wuz I saying again? So hard 2 think. Gear’s 2 tite. So fucking horny. Can’t concentr8. Feel so hevy. My BULGE … it’s GROWing. I … must record … sounds. COACH sez. … Rite wut I say … GROAN … COACH … wut’s happening 2 me?

Abrams … COACH Abrams … he … he wuz wearing … wut 56 is wearing. They … used 2 be … difrent. More smart. … I used 2 be more smarter 2. GROAN so fucking horny. Can’t think. But … have 2. Sumthin’ about … hypnosis. A … program? Some kinda … trigurr? Oh god it hurts to think. Hurts my dick. My huge … fucking dick. So huge … so DUMB … I … no. Have 2 focus. Sumpthin’ 2 do with my JOCK strap. My … BULGING … straining … BIG DUMB JOCK strap. For BIG DUMB JOCKs. JOCKs lyk 56. JOCKs lyk 28. JOCKs lyk me. Redy 2 snap. … snap. Snap? I … think (god that hurt to rite) has 2 do with snap. Sumpthin’ bout … uh … bout … no turnin’ back. Lyk uh … That’s it! Snap the strap n’ subjects furget! Makes em focus more. Snap the JOCK, unlock the JOCK. Become more JOCK. … Reinforce training. … Uh-oh … Shit, someone must’ve falsi … fals … fal … FUCKING FAKED MY RESULTS! But … who? Why? I wuz a gud JOCK … gud JOCK … SHIT! Didn’t mean 2 rite that.

Gud … gud … so fucking gud. BULGING. GROWING. STRAINING. I feel it. So close. Gonna BUST my fucking JOCK. Be a DUM JOCK. Gud DUM JOCK 4 COACH. Cuz that’s wut I am. All I am. BIG 4 COACH. FLEX 4 COACH. DUM 4 COACH. JOCK 4 COACH. Gud JOCK.

NO!

Can’t break my fucking JOCK if I take it off. Gotta hurry. Can’t let it …

…

…

…

REMOTE ACCESS INITIATED

SYSTEM OVERRIDE AUTHORIZATION CODE ACCEPTED

SYSTEM COMMAND: ACTIVATE RECORDING SYSTEMS

ACTIVATING RECORDING SYSTEMS

“Coach, wut’re you GROAN doin’ here? I … I gotta do something. Please. Go away.”

“I’m sorry, Rookie. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Coach. Please.” The voice catches.

“Just relax, Rookie. I’m right here. Calm down. We’ll work through this together, just like we always have.”

“No, coach, we can’t. I can’t let what happened to Abrams happen to me. I won’t. I can … can still … think. GROAN.”

Easy, Rookie. Let’s not be hasty here.”

“Coach, I’m almost out of time. I have to do this. If I don’t, I’ll … I’ll ...”

“Turn into a muscle head? Grow into a jock? Didn’t you want those things?”

“You knew? You knew what was happening to me?”

“Of course I know. You wanted it to happen. You told me so in our meetings. Don’t you remember?”

“M—meetings …”

“Yes. Our sessions. It was all you could talk about. Growing, getting bigger muscles, your bigger ‘equipment,’ all of it. And you sure as hell loved your new sex life.”

“I’d never … I … I wouldn’t …”

“You would. You did. Hell, you spent half a workout bragging about your conquests. I have your paperwork right here. You signed on to become a part of this program. You wanted this.”

“That’s a lie!”

“That’s the honest to god truth, Rookie. Look at you. Look how you’ve changed. The Process regenerated you. Rejuvenated you. You’re young. And thanks to your latent desires, you’ve unlocked your hidden genetic potential. You’re a perfect physical specimen. A teenager who has yet to hit his peak. Just like you wanted. If you don’t believe me, then read the papers yourself. I have them right here.”

“Why … can’t I remember?”

“Plausible deniability.”

“… What?”

“You volunteered for a new form of the process, a different formula. But you wanted to keep working, too, helping 56 progress. We agreed so long as you could remain professional. But the organization needed to be able to deny any charges you might make while you forgot. And it needed to be able to observe each stage as if you didn’t know about it. So we wiped your memory and left the subconscious commands intact. … I see you still don’t get it. Damn, that stuff works good. Basically, it was so we could say we didn’t do anything bad to you and had no idea what was happening.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because it acts as a distraction.”

“Distract—oh crap! Let go of me!”

“Sorry, Rookie, I can’t do that. Not until you’ve finished this phase.”

“Coach, stop!”

“Just let it happen, Rookie. Stop struggling. I know how badly you want this. How much you need this!”

“I need to stop this! I never wanted this! Let go! I don’t wanna be like them! You’re lying, you have to be!”

“Listen to me, Rookie! We know that’s not what you really want. What you need. You need muscle, power, strength. You need to be a jock. Cocky. Powerful. A man. A real man. A massive man with a massive bulge. Can’t you feel that? Feel it straining. Growing. Swelling. Just like your body. You reek testosterone. Why? Because you’re a jock!”

“St—stop it!”

“A huge jock.”

“Coach …”

“A massive, brawny, meathead obsessed with weights.”

“No…”

“You might as well let it happen, Rookie. It’s too late to turn back. You’re my Rookie and I’m your Coach, remember? And a Rookie always listens to his coach.”

“…”

“So listen to me now.”

“… Coach …”

“Just relax and listen to my voice, Rookie. Let it go.”

“Coach …”

“Let it go.”

“… Let it … go …”

“Relax.”

“Y-yes … sir.”

“Good boy.”

“…”

“Can you hear me, Rookie?”

“… Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“… Coach.”

“Do you know who you are?”

A breathy sigh is heard. “Rookie.”

“That’s right. You’re my Rookie.”

“Your Rookie.”

“And Rookies listen to their coach, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir. Rookie is listening.”

“Good boy. Everything I say is truth. Understand, Rookie?”

“Yes.”

“You will accept everything I say without question.”

“Yes, sir, Coach.”

“And you’ll obey everything I tell you to do, right?”

“Yes, sir. Rookie listens to Coach. Rookie obeys Coach.”

“Good boy. I’m going to get off of you now. I want you to stand up slowly and not run or do anything else. You’re just going to stand there and listen.”

“… Yes, sir.” There is the sound of shifting bodies and the heavy tromp of cleats on cement.

“That’s a good boy. Now, Rookie, tell me, do you like your muscles? Do you like how much you’ve grown?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You like how easy it is to lift?”

“Yes.”

“And you like watching those muscles grow in the mirror.”

“Yes.”

“You think about weights a lot, don’t you?”

“… Yes.”

“What do you think about most?”

“… Lifting. Getting swole. Muscles. Chicks. My dick. Fuck, It’s so massive. So tight. So … bulgy. Like me. Growing. So big. Fucking huge.”

“*Whistle* That thing is growing pretty fast, isn’t it?”

“*Grunt*”

“Now listen to me, Rookie. You want it to grow. You want to keep growing. Just like your training said.”

“… Yes, sir, Coach.”

“You love your size. You love your body. You love what you’ve become.”

“Love my size … love my body … love what I’ve become.”

“Good boy. Tell me, what is the square root of 81?”

“Uh … Give me a sec.”

“Take your time.”

“I … I know this. I … know … this … *Groan* … god, I can’t think!”

“Relax, Rookie. It’s not a problem.”

“It’s … not?”

“That was a test. You passed. You weren’t supposed to know.”

“I … wasn’t?”

“You don’t care about math, remember? The only time you use it is when you’re focusing on your stats.”

“… Yes. That’s right … I … I don’t care about math. Don’t care …”

“Math is stupid. You said so yourself.”

“Course it’s stupid. Math’s for nerds.”

“That’s right, Rookie. And you’re not much of a nerd anymore now, are you?”

“Fuck no … I mean … maybe a little.”

“*Chuckling* Don’t worry, that won’t last long. All you want is to keep growing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Growing boy. Growing body. Growing bulge. Growing brawn.”

“Yessssss …”

“Remember what happens the bigger you get?”

“Dumber I get.”

“That’s right. And you want to be big, so …?”

“I wanna be dumb.”

“That’s right. You want to be dumb. You were tired of being smart.”

“Tired of bein’ smart.”

“No room for smarts anymore. All that brain’s being filled with pure muscle. Pure brawn.”

“All muscle. All brawn.”

“That’s right. All those smarts are going to your manhood. Everything. Make you a massive, manly man with a massive, manly bulge.”

“*Groan* Massive, manly man … Massive … manly … bulge …” There is the sound of straining fabric.

“That’s right. You love this feeling. You love being big. And you want more. You always want more.”

“*Grunt* More massive … *Groan* More manly … *Grunt* More bulge.”

“Just like 56.”

“Just like 56.”

“Just like 28.”

“… Just like 28.”

“Just like Abrams.”

“… Just … like … Abrams.”

“Just like a jock.”

“… Just like a jock.”

“Because that’s what you’re becoming: a big, dumb jock. My big dumb jock. And you want that.”

“… Becoming a jock. A big, dumb jock. Want to be a big, dumb jock. … Your big dumb jock, sir.”

“That’s right. Good jock boy.”

“*Groan* Rookie is your jock boy, sir.” A sudden echoing snap breaks across the recording, followed by a deep, dull laughter. “Wanna be a big, dumb jock. Rookie will be Coach’s big, dumb jock. Getting’ buff n’ getting’ swole. I’m big fucking Rookie!” The sound of shredding fabric is heard.

“Big Rookie is right.” The coach’s voice echoes as he laughs. “At this rate, you’ll be ready for phase three in no time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s get you dressed, Rookie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Spandex, I think. Something tight to show off your body. Is that alright with you?”

“Fuck yeah. Who wouldn’t wanna see this jock bod?”

“Good jock.”

“Yes, sir, coach. Rookie listens. Rookie obeys.”

END TRANSMISSION

 ~August 30th~

Been LIFTING like a fucking BEAST, like COACH told me 2.

I see COACH in the showurs. Evury day.

COACH sez I’m speshul.

COACH sez see him 3 tymes a day.

ROOKIES LISTEN 2 COACH.

ROOKIES OBEY COACH.

So I OBEY.

COACH gives me special proteen. Sez it’ll make me SWOLE. I lyk SWOLE. WURKS OUT. I’m Fucking HUGE. BIGGur than 56.

BROS don’t talk much eneemore. Don’t need 2. We LISTEN. We OBEY. We LIFT. We GROW. We SWOLE.

Sum talk, but we GROW ther BULGE. Make them MASSIVE lyk us. They fall in lyn. They JOCK out lyk us. Don’t talk much after that. It’s bettur that way. Easyer 2 LISTEN 2 COACH. Easy 2 OBEY.

56 left. Coach sez he went 2 faze 3.

I’m in charj now.

New clothes feel so fucking gud. Wear em all the time.

Shows off all my MUSCLE.

I am MUSCLE.

MUSCLES do what they’re told.

MUSCLES OBEY commands.

I OBEY.

MUSCLES don’t think.

I don’t think.

MUSCLES GROW wen they WURK OUT.

I GROW wen I WURK OUT.

ROOKIE is MUSCLE.

MUSCLE is ROOKIE.

COACH gave ROOKIE a new name.

ROOKIE is Number O-000.

ROOKIE is Zero becuz ROOKIE is nothing.

Nothing but a JOCK.

A BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE is a BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE is COACH’s BIG, DUMB JOCK.

ROOKIE OBEYS COACH.

ROOKIE GROWS wen he OBEYS.

GROWS BIG. GROWS DUMB.

ROOKIE is STRONG wen he OBEYS.

ROOKIE OBEYS wen he is STRONG.

ROOKIE OBEYS.

Zero OBEYS.

I OBEY.

OBEY.

OBEY.

…

 ~September 5th~

Yes, sir, COACH.

ROOKIE is 0

0 OBEYS COACH.

0 does not think.

0 is DUMB.

0 has 0 brains.

0 is DUMB.

0 OBEYS.

0 is MUSCLE.

0 FLEXES.

0 OBEYS.

0 LIFTS.

0 OBEYS.

0 is SWOLE.

0 OBEYS.

0 is BIG.

0 OBEYS.

0 is JOCK.

0 is COACH’s JOCK.

0 is a BIG, DUMB JOCK.

0 OBEYS.

0 GROWS.

0 is MASSIVE MANLY MAN with MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

0 is just like the TEAM.

0 is 1 with TEAM.

Yes, COACH. 0 will go.

0 OBEYS.

0 will go to faze 3.

0 is redee for faze 3.

ACCESSING SUBJECT 56 FILES

~DAY???~

LIFTING gud.

Thinking bad.

56 wants to LIFT.

COACH sez 56 shuld rite tho.

56 OBEYS.

56 LIFTS with the TEAM.

56 rites with the TEAM.

56 chants with TEAM.

56 is 1 with TEAM.

28 WEIGHTed for 56.

28 and 56 were happee.

TEAM wuz happee.

Now 56 is just lyk 28.

56 and 28 R BROS.

Fucking HUGE.

GROW for COACH.

OBEY COACH.

LIFT.

DUMB.

LIFT.

BIG.

LIFT.

JOCK.

56 doesn’t need recordings.

56 heres COACH all the tym.

56 is part of TEAM.

56 OBEYS with TEAM.

56 doesn’t think.

COACH thinks 4 56.

COACH thinks 4 TEAM.

Yes, sir, COACH. 56 heres.

56 OBEYS.

I am 56.

56 is drone.

56 will GROW TEAM.

JOCK now. JOCK 4ever.

MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

56 will chant with TEAM.

TEAM is home.

Home is TEAM.

56 is home.

Lyk … wut’s the play, COACH?

SUBJECT O-000

~September 30th~

0 is part of TEAM.

0 WURKS OUT 4 COACH.

0 GROWS 4 COACH.

0 is COACH’S JOCK.

0 is BIG DUMB JOCK with MASSIVE MANLY BULGE.

0 knows his place.

0 is OFFENSE.

0 FIGHTS.

0 makes BROS.

0 OBEYS.

0 will make JOCK BROS.

0 will GROW the TEAM.

0 will be COACH’s point guard.

0 will be assistant COACH.

0 OBEYS.

END TRANSMISSION

RESEARCH NOTES: OMEGA PROJECT FORMULA

C.E.O. SIGN IN: VICTOR STONE

The program has been hitting some snags of late. Those with a high enough I.Q. have been able to resist The Process to the point where some have been able to hold on for several months to their original psyches. This was unacceptable. So, of course, I had to fix it.

Number 56, formerly known as Kyle Matthews was the last straw. Abrams had been failing for too long. He was too sympathetic, too gentle. I fixed that. Now he’s the most aggressive offensive lineman you’ll ever meet. As for 56, well, I simply pushed him in the right direction. Even with my skills though, the boy was still surprisingly resilient. It took me too long to break him for comfort. I immediately authorized initialization for The Omega Project.

This new and improved formula for The Process is specially designed for the higher I.Q. It drops the test subject down to a basic grunt. I called in Doctor Seroyan for testing and gave him his own office. Little did he realize the special ingredients I included in his food and drink. He didn’t take long to show signs of change. Within the month, he was already beginning to crack. The subliminals from the lights helped of course, but a lot of it had to come from the treatment itself. Notes from my other workers revealed similar results in isolated test subjects throughout the compounds.

I got him hooked on working out and the rest was history. I kept conditioning him alongside 56 so they could interact when the time came. I wanted to see if I could incorporate him into the system without him knowing. After all, that’s the whole point of the Omega Formula. That, and of course, it breeds a stronger, more obedient jock drone. Best of all, it’s completely undetectable. Seroyan became my subject zero. And he’s perfectly happy fitting his new role as my personal assistant. I’ve given him free reign over 56’s team while I’m away and designated a new coach to keep tabs on him while I’m gone. I’ve given specific orders not to interfere, though. Omega Zero has potential to be a great coach once I’ve taught him how. Until then, I’m having him run over exercises with the team as they practice and play their programmed sport. More than a few of them are going to enter the N.F.L., that’s for sure. I love seeing my boys making me money.

We’ve come such a long way from when my project first began. I’m so glad I blew up my lab all those years ago. Hell, the results were definitely worth it. I still haven’t been able to fully replicate the accident that made me this way, but that doesn’t matter much. I like being the alpha. And once I got our investors to try my … unique product, they were happy to fall in line. They signed over ownership to me, obviously, and pursued their own careers in their respective muscular fields. I still get a monthly check from them after they’ve won a big competition or something along those lines.

Next phase will be accelerating the process. I want to have nigh instant results. When I’m not working as a personal coach for my jock force, I get back to the lab to work with the boys on progression. Now that we’ve found a compound that breaks past the I.Q. barrier, it’s only a matter of time. Soon enough, I’ll be everybody’s coach in a perfectly healthy, masculine muscleman society. I can’t wait.

Real Men’s Journal Part 9

~December 11th~

The boy has returned to consciousness. As suspected, he was not pleased and proved to be rather disoriented. He appears to be far more susceptible to the subconscious commands we implanted now and is following the schedule fairly well. After a shower routine, he left in a dazed state to join the rest of his class at the mess hall. Coach Stone had a bit of fun with the subject after letting him meet with his former leader, Number 100. Files show his former name was Christopher Paulini. He now calls himself 100, or 100% Muscle. After he gave in, Number 100 progressed to be one of our best and “brightest” for his sheer will to obey and not think beyond our parameters. He has made a permanent home with us, here on the base, and is one of Coach Stone’s new favorites. The interaction and tests Coach Stone used were most enlightening, revealing that there must indeed be something unusual in the boy’s chemistry to allow him to resist, as shown by the return of subject’s genetalia to practically the same size. I will admit, the test was quite … provocative. I will discuss details with Coach Stone over recreation time at the staff gym. Perhaps during a treadmill run. I simply must get out there. If we can’t overcome the boy’s resistance, he may very well become immune before The Process is complete. Or perhaps I’m being paranoid. Either way, I need to de-stress. I will continue this log at a later time.

 ~December 12th~

Number 56 has fallen into trance again and is working out more regularly. As instructed, he listens to his files with his earbuds in and then returns to the gym to work out with support from 100 and 56’s hologram trainer, which has shifted to Coach Stone’s version. On top of being extremely fit, Coach Stone is also a surprisingly good programmer. He wrote the whole file for the boy’s personal use. I have recommended authorization to activate his other training components. Coach Stone said to wait a while longer. I attempted to disagree, but he convinced me. Coach Stone knows what he’s doing. I trust him.

 ~December 15th~

56 has woken up again and Coach Stone has deemed him ready for the measures I suggested. It appears he still faces trancing in the stalls of the bathroom and has even had a positive effect on some of the other trainees. Hopefully it’s only a matter of time now. Stone tells me he plans to earn the boy’s trust. How he plans to do so, I have no clue, but if he could convince me to let him take control, I’m sure he can convince 56 to trust him, too.

On a more personal note, I have filed a complaint with the head office, but still received no response. I have grown more used to the flickering buzz that comes from the lights, but it is still somewhat distracting to my work. I feel like I’m walking through a strobe-light sometimes. Coach Stone laughs and tells me the drones would love that. It’d be like a magazine photoshoot: perfect to pose in a frame by frame setting. Perhaps I should test that some time. They do listen to superiors and I am technically a superior. I never considered analyzing behavior after the changes were complete. Perhaps this might assist me in developing a method for those who demonstrate resistance like 56. I will consider this after my run with Coach Stone. We’re pushing three miles today.

 ~December 20th~

Subject 56 continues to resist, but it appears that he is weakening further. He has befriended three new recruits, the sons of the businessmen from our Industrial Retreat Program. We made them into industrial grade manual laborers and helped them to retreat from their worries and cares. Permanently. The results were quite interesting, to say the least. See files I.R.-666 through I.R.-668 for details.

56’s safeguards seem to be kicking in now. Based on the latest journal entry data, his subconscious is now blocking any attempts to delve too deeply into the idea of rebellion or the project itself. This has led to a certain amount of depression on his part, which has been made manifest in his video recordings, but he appears to still be keeping to regimen. We may very well break him soon. Excellent. Hopefully I’ll be able to break my own record for sit-ups today, too. Coach Stone bet me $200 dollars I’d fail. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when those bills enter my wallet.

 ~December 30th~

Number 56 is well on his way now. Even his dreams are working against him, or so his entries tell us. I must admit, the details he described would probably be arousing to many more if they read his narration. Watching and listening to him by night also shows he is falling into place. He listens to his recordings, repeats the trigger phrases regularly; all in all, I think my work here is done. Coach Stone has requested that I stay a while longer to see things through to the end, and if nothing else, then to give him a chance to win back his money. I admit, it pains me to leave. I’ve grown to like it here, and the atmosphere with these men is rather contagious. I still feel rather tired at times, but it’s a good kind of tired after a long day’s work. These coaches are almost as religious about their workouts as the drones are.

Speaking of coaches and drones, I notice that Coach Abrams seems to have gone missing. I hardly see him anymore. Anytime I try to say hello, he just grunts and continues on his way. What a curious alteration in behavior. He also appears to have packed on a few more pounds. I caught him once or twice measuring himself in front of a mirror. Coach Stone told me not to worry about it too much and that he’d take care of it. I trust Stone, so I’ll leave it in his hands.

 ~Personal Log: December 31st~

It appears I will be staying to the end after all. I just received orders from my superiors. They want me to make absolutely certain the boy, Subject 56, is completely converted to his new life before I return. I suppose I’ll be spending New Year’s Eve here with the coaches and other staff. For my resolution, I’ve been thinking of turning over a new leaf with my fitness. Having all this muscle around has made me want to build some of my own. Not that I haven’t made some gains over the last couple of months, but it never hurts to get better. I’ll discuss it with Coach Stone over drinks tonight at the party. He makes a mean cup of coffee, so I can’t wait to see what he can do with the other drinks.

 ~Personal Log: January 1st, 2017~

Oh, my aching head. Coach Stone really knows how to brew. I hardly remember what happened last night. We were laughing, I got a few solid thumps on the back. I … think I passed out or something. And Coach Abrams carried me in his arms. I think Coach Stone was with him. He said something, but I can’t remember what. Just a deep voice. Deep. And soft. I need a drink. These lights are doing a number on my skull right now. Maybe I’ll go on a run afterwards. Sweat off this hangover. Yeah. I should do that. 56 can wait. Stone says he’s almost won the boy’s trust, and I can’t work with this headache. I can work out though. Maybe just an hour.

 ~Doctor’s Log: January 10th, 2017~

Coach Stone has succeeded. And then some. The boy has begun to show signs of mental degradation, including memory loss and a more submissive and obedient nature. His last entry leaves me wondering where Coach Abrams may have gone, though. I haven’t seen him at all lately. Not even in the gym. I miss his presence. He helped me with my form on the weight bench. Coach Stone says not to worry and I’ll see Abrams again soon. I hope so. I liked watching him work out. Funny … I think I remember him in spandex? But coaches don’t wear spandex. Spandex is for the drones. It accents their muscles and stimulates further growth and circulation to their groin, causing their manhood to swell into a truly massive, manly bulge. There’s no going back after that. The subject is completely gone. But at least he’s happy by then.

 ~January 11th~

Number 56 is guzzling down protein shake after protein shake. He appears more dedicated to his work now and is starting to manifest more of a crude nature. It’s only a matter of time. Speaking of time, it’s time to meet Coach Stone in the gym again. Will report when new developments arise.

 ~January 13th~

Number 56 has begun the narcissus stage. He is looking at himself in mirrors and has begun to flex. At the end of his most recent entry, he has begun to use more crude language and focus on increasing size, especially his bulge. Subconscious commands alongside binaural sleep tracks are causing it to slowly grow larger each day. Soon the haze will begin to set in, followed by the euphoria. Coach Stone tells me he has a plan of some kind to determine how far their I.Q.s have dropped, but he wants to wait to put it into effect until later. He says he wants me to participate as well. I am most intrigued. Perhaps he will tell me more after our workout today. I always find myself in a better mood after a session with Coach Stone.

 ~January 18th~

Number 56 has made quite a bit of growth lately. He’s torn through his old set of clothing and was given a new set courtesy of Number 100. While it does cause the boy to appear smaller, he is merely entering a second stage in growth. The cursing is coming more naturally now, and he is beginning to find true pleasure in his increasing size. The haze has definitely come. He spoke specifically of fuzziness in his head. With the increase in muscle and testosterone has also come an increase in virility and a desire for dominance. He has grown more cocky and has developed a desire to show off, along with a persona that is slowly manifesting in the form of a cocky jock. The last portion of his entry left me rather … let’s just say it encourages a certain type of reaction in my system that I’m not entire certain that I like. It’s rather uncomfortable walking the halls and having everyone in the facility look at me with knowing smiles. It’s as if they’re all in on some joke while I’m stuck on the outside, and it makes me so angry!

Look, I need to work some of this aggression off. Before I hurt someone. I’ll be back later. After I work out.

 ~January 25th~

56 is obsessed with his size now and is taking actions to obey and follow orders. He is being rewarded accordingly by his body. The three other subjects he befriended are slowly joining him, well two of them were. The third required more pressing. We placed him in advanced conversion. Now he’s larger than 56 and obsessed with eating and muscle. His language centers have been heavily impacted, but the team mentality seems to have led to almost a pack type of situation where his fellows identify with how he feels and act accordingly. How curious.

56 will doubtless be ready for his test soon. Coach Stone tells me I’ve made great progress over the last month as well. It makes me glad to know I’ve found a place in this facility with people who are willing to talk with me and not judge when I’m dealing with man problems, you know? Though I admit I’m getting jealous of these kids. They’re growing so easily and I have to struggle for every inch I make. Perhaps I can work on a compound that doesn’t take away peoples’ brains. After I finish my workout with Stone though. Have to report to him.

 ~January 31st~

The boy is completely focused on obedience to his coach now. He didn’t even flinch after he made the connection to his last blackout, just that his coach needed him. And he’s right. His coach did. His coach will need him again before his changes are through. Need him to grow bigger. I wonder just how huge 56 will become. His resistance initially may well lead to him becoming one of the largest of all our candidates in the end. If his bulge is any indication, he’ll be a true giant. A pity he’ll have to become such an arrogant dick to go with it.

 ~February 5th~

Coach Stone has asked me to focus a little more on our workouts and dedicate further time to them. As fun as that may sound, I still have a duty to chart 56’s progress. Until his metamorphosis is complete, I have to chart every detail, every gain, every curl, every pump, every exercise. All of it. I have to do it. Just do it.  I have to do it. Do it. For my work(out).

Patient appears to be experiencing adverse effects as the enforcement triggers set in. When he thinks too much about what’s happening and his suspicion begins to grow, he experiences a mental block in the form of headaches and pain. 56 is growing much more compliant now. Soon he won’t be able to question orders at all, or anything for that matter. I’ll include an order to continue working out as much as he can in his recordings tonight, linking muscle mass and manhood size to the mental drain. Powerful subliminals.

Coach Stone and I have managed to create the ideal binaural for the boy. We tested it to be on the safe side. The effects were so potent, even Coach Stone and I felt dazed when we played it back. 56 won’t know what hit him. Instead, he’ll be hitting the weights himself like a man possessed. Speaking of which, I’d better get going. Stone is expecting me. Today we focus on squats and chin-ups. You know, where you pull up on the bar, strain the muscles, and build your upper body. Then after the workout, I have a date tonight with a lovely lady on the staff. The way things have been going for me lately, maybe I’ll get lucky tonight. A guy can dream.

 ~February 8th~

The date was amazing. We ate at a famous health restaurant she knows. The food was great, the music was relaxing, and the woman was beautiful. I can’t really remember what we talked about, but I know it was good. I woke up this morning and I still felt the buzz in my head. What a woman. Just thinking about her makes me dizzy … and I’ll admit a little aroused. Coach Stone just laughed and said he was glad I had it in me. Told me it’s good to just let things go sometimes. I’ll admit, a pleasant feeling does seem to be filling up my crotch this way. Coach Stone laughed at that too and simply said “welcome to manhood, rookie.” You know, I think I rather like the nickname.

ACCESSING SUBJECT #56 JOURNAL

~DAY???~

Posed in front of the mirror today. Damn I look good. Stripped down to my JOCK and just sorta let it flow, ya know? The more I FLEX, the BIGGER I feel. My muscles feel like a fucking powerhouse. The more I think about it, the better I feel and the easier it is just to BLANK OUT. Big muscles, big body, big dick, big bulge. Life’s good. And every time I show off, more people go to the bathroom. The more they go in there, the more they start to sound like me. And the more they sound like me, the better I feel. Like a real role model, ya know?

Coach says he’s proud of me. That makes me smile. Makes me feel like a man. He calls me Ky instead of Kyle, but I don’t mind too much. Kyle was for the old me, anyways. I’m bigger now. Better. Bigger is better. Buffer is tougher. I’m actually looking forward to working out now. I still think about home, but it’s not so bad as it used to be. I don’t worry too much about school anymore. I mean, I was kidnapped, right? So when they find me, they won’t try to make me do all that work at once, right? Right? I’ll just pick up on school after I finish here. No big deal. Well, I guess it is a BIG deal. For me. I stay. Listen to coach. Obey coach. Get HUGE!

Little Clark’s been gettin’ into it, too, ever since I hauled his ass to the showers. Little pansy stopped wearing his glasses, started acting like a REAL man. Turning into a real Super Man. See what I did there? Earned his JOCK strap today. The clothes make the man. That’s what coach says. And a fucking massive JOCK strap makes for a fucking massive, manly bulge. Huhuh, got so excited I shredded my sleeve. Gonna have to put a silencer on these guns. Voice has been cracking a lot, but Coach says by tonight it’ll be nice n’ deep, just the way I like it. So I can grunt like a real man as I PUSH my muscles to the max. Just gotta plug in my headphones and LISTEN to COACH. Sleep and LISTEN. OBEY.

SCAN. OBEY.

FLEX. OBEY.

LIFT. OBEY.

GROW. OBEY.

CONFORM. OBEY.

I LISTEN. I OBEY.

Yes, COACH.

BRAWN. OBEY.

BIGGER MUSCLE.

MUSCLE IN MY HEAD.

Yes, sir, COACH.

56. PUMP MUSCLE in my HEAD.

I OBEY. 56 OBEYS.

MUSCLE in HEAD.

Just MUSCLE.

MUSCLE HEAD.

YES, SIR. Just a MUSCLEHEAD.

BIG. DUMB. MUSCLE. OBEY. JOCK. FLEX. BRAWN. OBEY. MASSIVE. MANLY. BULGE. OBEY. MUSCLE is MEAT. MUSCLEHEAD is MEATHEAD. I’m a MUSCLEHEAD. So I’m a MEATHEAD. I OBEY. Yes, sir, COACH. Want to be a JOCK. Your JOCK. OBEY. I OBEY. BIG JOCK. DUMB JOCK. FOOTBALL JOCK … football jock? Wait … what’m I …?  Dude, what the hell? Coach? I FUCKING TRUSTED YOU, MAN! Well, FUCK YOU!

Fuck, why’d I have to be so damned stupid?

So stupid. Head’s all fuzzy. I … I gotta sleep. Sleep this off. Yeah. See you later.

Real Men’s Journal: Part 4

~Day 15~

           Our numbers are beginning to thin. Whatever’s been happening in our barracks, it’s spreading. I’m getting worried. They’ve started placing protein shakes by some of the beds in the morning for our heavy lifters to drink.

           “Gotta get my protein,” they keep saying. “Gotta bulk up, ya know? Relax, bro.” How can I relax when all these men are being brainwashed and they don’t even realize it? I warned the others who were left about what’s going on. Chris, our defacto leader, furrowed his brows, and many others didn’t want to believe me. They did after they went to the showers tonight. We’ve been trying to do mental games and things like that to keep our minds sharp and focused, but I’m worried for a couple of members:  senior level chess champions. They had a taste of whatever it is, I assume subliminals of some kind. Dick and Tracy, twin brothers. They’re both a little on the short and fat side, but you’ll never find a better opponent for such a strategic game. They were scratching in places that are better scratched in private, if you know what I mean. When confronted about it, they just said they itched and everyone else was doing it anyways, so it’s not like it mattered. It’s the eyes that worry me though. I thought I saw something wriggling way in the back. Something slow.

 ~Day 19~

           I’ve brought my concerns to Chris. He’s a lot like me, only taller and a little rounder. He’s got a good head of black hair that now hangs around his face like bangs. He normally would have styled it, but with everything going on here, he didn’t see much point. I’d say the guy is around six feet or so, like I said, husky build. He’s the head of some big company from what he told me. So he’s basically what I aspire to be, minus the massive pudge. His eyes burn when he chooses to glare at someone. That golden brown can be scary sometimes. Fortunately, that glare wasn’t directed at me today. He actually agreed with me.

           The twins themselves seem to have gotten worse. They act a little more distant now. When we eat our meals, they’re torn between who to sit with. They’ve made it a habit to scan themselves regularly and I notice the pair has started to put on some weight, the muscly kind. They swear up and down they’re not listening to the recordings, but still …

 ~Day 22~

           Dick and Tracy lost today … twelve consecutive times. When we left from our minimal workout requirements, usually just a once around the track at as slow a pace as we can manage, the twins stayed behind. Then later tonight, when we had our tournament, they just sort of moved their pieces wherever, their legs spread out on the chair as they leaned back. It was completely random, almost as if they didn’t care. And trust me, if you’d seen them when they first started here, you’d know that’s not normal. Once they’d lost for the final time, the pair just left and walked off. The way they splayed their legs though, that pose, that swagger … it didn’t look good. And did those two look a little taller? Crap, it’s lights out again. I’ll write tomorrow.

 ~Day 23~

           It’s official. Dick and Tracy have turned to the dark side. I woke up in the middle of the night and looked over to their beds. Then it hit me:  the chorus of mumbling. I didn’t make it out at first, but then it became clearer. My heart raced. I could hear their mattresses creaking and straining. I crept my way to their beds and there they were, flexing their muscles, their tablets glowing in their stands to highlight their bodies. Two wires sprouted from each of their ears, converging on the devices.

           “Yes, coach. I listen. I obey. Good not to think. Just grow. Like to work out. Love to work out. Love to sweat. Sweat it all out. Get big. Get swole. Sports rule. Massive. Yes, sir. Trigger. Will join whenever said. Fall deeper. Want a massive, manly bulge. I want a massive manly bulge. Want to be a big, dumb jock with a massive, manly bulge...” They spoke in unison and started to chant, just like in the bathroom with the others. And soon more joined in a whispering chorus. Even in their sleep they’re programmed to react. You can guess the rest. This is seriously scaring me. And the worst part is we’re trapped in this nightmare until they see to let us go or to force us to become … that.

           By morning, the two were swearing up a storm, slapping each other on the butt and calling everyone Bro while entering poses. We lost two good men. I’ve been avoiding them like the plague. So’s everyone else, though a few poor souls have been staying with them, doubtless trying to bring back the old Dick and Tracy. The twins took them to the bathroom and I heard the TVs running. I shook my head and checked off another couple names. I’d give those kids three days before they give in.

 ~Day 26~

           That gas must be hallucinogenic. It has to be. What I just saw can’t be real. I was just minding my business, deciding to try an audio recording since I had the barracks to myself and then … well, take a listen. I’ll insert my own commentary in the recording as a voice over in the file for how I felt and reacted at the time.

           ACCESSING # 56 AUDIO FILE 004

           Damn, what the hell are they feeding these guys? Are they pumping steroids or something? Dick and Tracy are growing far too quickly. By the time they were out of the barracks for another day of work, they’d gained a solid twenty pounds of muscle and they were growing taller by the day.  The number of times they’d scan themselves, you’d think they were afraid of not gaining. And every time, that stupid blue flash. It’s so annoying! It doesn’t help any with the two of them always showing off. They’re getting cruder by the day. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started jutting their brows out soon and hooting like monkeys.

           “You hear that, Bro? I think Kyle here’s tryin’ to insult us.”

           “I think you’re right. What’re we gonna do about it, Trace?”

           “Dunno, Dick. After all, a coupl’a animals like us can’t reach his level.”

           “Hey, give that back!”

           “What’s this? A diary?” *chuckling* “Fucking pansy. Hey, Dick, get a load of this.”

           *Air whistles through the mike*

           “Sweet! Let’s look at his stats.”

           “Give it back, Dick.”

           “Phew, you’re seriously still at the beginning? Dude, why’re you being such a newb?”

           “I dunno, why’re you being a couple of jackasses?”

           “Says the man who called us monkeys.”

           *Loud Ripping*

           “Well how do ya like them bananas, huh? I can rip my fuckin’ sleeve with a bicep. Can you do that?”

           “I can actually play chess. Can you do that?”

           “Chess is for losers. Football’s where it’s at.”

           “Yeah … football. Football’s the greatest.”

           “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

           “… Everything.”

           “But we’ll be better soon—”

           “—With coach’s help.”

           “Gotta get swole with a massive, manly bulge.”

           “What the hell, guys?!” (They were starting to pose and flex and … well, look, they were sporting erections, okay? And shoving them around like they should be proud of them. I may be a teen, but I have my standards. I was kinda getting worried for my tablet, but Dick the dick managed to hang on to it. See what I did there? He kept on flexing with his brother and chanting and then some of the others walked in. I watched as one of them went rigid and his two friends looked on in concern.)

           “Chad? Chad, are you alright?” (The red head on the left asked. I watched as the one called Chad broke into a smile as the brightness in his eyes dimmed.)

           “I … I’m uh … yeah, fine. Just … fine.” (He was practically drooling as he watched Dick and Tracy. The longer he stood there and the more he listened, the dimmer his eyes became.) “They’re so big, aren’t they?” (he remarked dreamily as he stared at the twins.)

           “Well yeah, they’ve been following the program, remember? Working out … getting … swole?” (the blonde one to his right asked. He blinked a few times and shook his head. I’m actually surprised my mike caught this. This thing must have some seriously good reception. Meanwhile, the twins were still at it with their stupid chant. You can hear it loudest in this thing, of course.)

           “They’re just being a bunch of showoffs, Chad. Come on. Let’s hit the showers.” (The red one said as he grabbed Chad’s shoulder.)

           “I … I think I’ll hang around a while longer, Ryan. I … wanna watch.” (The twins smirked here and broke off their chant as they finally realized they had an audience.)

           “Like what you see?” (Dick asked as he flexed a meaty bicep.)

           “Bet you wish you had a dick like mine. Chuckle.” (Tracy patted his bulge and went back to posing.)

           “Work out just like us, follow the program just like us, and you’ll be just like us.”

           “Just like us.” (Tracy echoed his brother as they mirrored one another in their sets before breaking up into more meatheaded laughter.)

           “With a massive, manly bulge.” (This time it was Dick who patted, well, his dick. Then he shuddered as he looked at his brother with those same murky eyes. Tracy returned the favor.)

           “Gotta bulk up. Gotta get swole. Become with your massive, manly bulge.” (The two went back into their muscle show as they returned to the mantra once again of “massive, manly bulge.” They were practically spewing their brains out with every line.)

           “Come on, guys, this is creeping me out.” (Ryan said this as he turned away from the display. His cheeks were flushed.)

           “But … look at them.” (Chad said.) “So … huge.” (He stood there like a statue, his eyes locked on the twins.)

           “I agree with Ryan, Chad. This has … uh … gotten a little … strange. Even if they are kinda big … and buff … and … strong …” (Even as the blondie moved to follow Ryan, he still looked back, almost longingly. His steps slowed and he swayed on his feet.)

           “Chris, Chad, come on. Let’s get to the showers. We’re missing the game.” (Ryan urged, though fear flickered on his face.)

           “So bulky … and bulgy.” (Chad was long gone, his voice distant as he stared, flushed. A small bump pushed against his shorts as the muscleheads continued to repeat.)

           “Chad … this isn’t … it’s not … we have to … to watch the. …the game. Watch … Uh … watch … the game with … players.” (Even as Chris protested, he walked away from Ryan and the showers to stand next to Chad.)

           “Bulge … bigger … buffer … so huge…” (That rip you just heard was the other twin’s sleeves breaking. With an audience like this, the twins have grown more bold … and more stupid.)

           “Huge players … manly … crashing … smashing … bulging … bashing … posing … flexing … just … like … them …”

           “… Just like them.” (Chad echoed Chris as they eyed the pair of nerds turned jocks. They were both gone now.)

           “Chad? Chris?” (Ryan approached them tentatively and tapped them on their shoulders.) “Guys, this isn’t funny.” (I watched the pair spasm as they resolutely kept eye on Dick and Tracey. Soon their lips twitched, then they slowly pulled into dimwitted smiles. They parted their legs into a wide stance and started to mimic Tracey and Dick, posing and straining in their clothes. It was kindof cute in its own way. If it weren’t so pathetic and creepy, I might have laughed. But this was serious. They were basically flexing their brains away.)

           “Work out … just like us …” (Chad said.)

           “Follow the program … just like us …” (Chris said)

           “Be just like us. Yes. Be just like them …Wanna be … just like them.” (The pair said together.)

           “Guys, come on. This isn’t funny.”

           “Just like us … just like them … BE just like us … BE just like them…”

           (Ryan backed warily) “Look, guys, I want to be big too. Muscles are great. They make you strong, big, burly … powerful and … uh …” (He shook his head. The chanting must’ve been getting to him.) “But I don’t want to be just like them, ya know? I want to be buff, sure. And maybe a little ripped. I want to play football one day, sure. But-”

           “Just like us … just like us …” (They never stopped smiling.)

           “Guys, I don’t want to be just like you, okay? I want to be … well, I want to be—”

           “Big … just like them,” (Chad said.)

           “Strong … just like them,” (Chris said.)

           “Buff … just like them.”

           “Guys, please.” (The pair were relentless.)

           “Swole … just like them.” (Chris continued.)

           “Well … maybe I–um …” (Ryan flushed as he took a guilty glance towards the twins.)

           “Bulging muscle … just like them.” (Chad said.)

           “Yes, but so much … bigger …” (Ryan sighed.)

           “Massive size … just like them …” (That one was Chris.)

           “I want … more …”

           “Just … like … us …” (Chad and Chris grinned at their friend)

           “I … no, I just … want to be … I want … want to feel … feel … I wanna--”

           “Be just like them … Be Just like us …”

           “I want to be … big … like them … and uh … manly. … like them … like them … just … like … them--” (Aaaaand there went number three. He immediately stood next to them, all three with their little bulges in a row as they stared adoringly at the twins.)

           “Just like them … Just like us … Big … buff … Massive …”

           “Massive. Manly. Bulge. Massive. Manly. Bulge. Be just like us. Don’t think. Don’t fuss. Massive. Manly. Bulge.

           “Just like them … don’t think. Don’t fuss … Massive. Manly. Bulge.” (I watched them parrot the twins’ movements. Soon they were showing off their own erections with cocky sneers, just like their “role models.”)

           “More big. More buff. More dumb. More swole. The more massive we make our manly bulge.”

           “More big. More buff. More dumb. More swole. The more massive we make our manly bulge.” (I … don’t believe what I’m seeing. I swear, those three were already at full mast. It’s obvious. And so were the twins. But … they’re expanding! What the hell?)

           “Grow your massive, manly bulge. Laugh out the nerd. Put the jock in control.”

           “Massive. Manly. Bulge. Massive. Manly. Bulge. Massive. *Snark* Manly. *eheh* Bulge. *GURK* M-m-m-massive, *huhu* Manly *uuhuuhuuu* B-b-b-bulge-AAahahahaha—” (They laughed like they couldn’t control it. And all the while the twins looked on blankly and just smiled like the idiots they’d become, flexing, posing, and chanting that same mantra about their massive, manly bulges. Those big, fucking annoying, massive, manly bulges that grow and swell and … so huge … so … manly … bigger … must be … Massive … so … so massive … I …I’ll be right back. I have to *GROAN* t-t-take care of … my bulge … my … bulgey … Growing … Massive, manly bulge. Growing … always growing. Make bigger. Bulge ……………...) [Warning: Recording reaching maximum capacity. Closing application in 3 … 2 … 1 … 0--]

           (Okay, okay, I’m back. Sorry about that. I um … had some business to take care of again. It’s lights out here, but I should be okay finishing this recording as long as I whisper. Anyways, where was I? No, been there, fast forward … Ah, there we are. So as you can hear, the jocks are still chanting and the nerds are still laughing. And well, what happened next scared the crap out of me. No joking, their junk must’ve grown like three times in size. And the longer they laughed, the deeper their voices went. It switched from a light, happy laughter to a low, deep, dull kind of boom.)

           “Huhuhuhuuuuu … Massive. Manly. Bulge.” (And as they laughed, I watched them start to bulk up. I kid you not, I watched them physically grow taller. I saw the bumps pressing against the fabric of their shoes as their feet grew by at least half a size, then continued to swell and extend. The fabric burst on the sides as their socks tore. I watched them flexing as they laughed and their shirts started to grow snug. Their arms lengthened and expanded, their legs thickened, their calves became like carved marble. And just as their bodies thickened, so did their heads. I could practically hear the pressure their skulls put on their brains as they expanded.)

           “I feel … funny, uhuu … like uhhhhh … like … *Deep Laughter*

           “I think the word you’re looking for is dumb.” (I said scornfully. And the worst part was the guy, Chris, grinned at me, his blonde hair shining as he posed.) “Dude, I’m so fuckin’ pumped. Like … I never felt this way before, ya know?”

           “Like, so ripped. Dudes, we like, totally need to work out!” (Ryan, the redhead said as his jaw started to jut out and a bit of stubble presented itself on his chin. I kid you not; that’s what happened. Or at least what I saw. I felt so light-headed and the smell from the bathrooms was so strong. But no one was showering. How could it be here too? And now of all times? It … made it hard to focus. It was just so easy to just watch and let things happen, you know? Just sit back, relax and just … listen. So good to listen.)

           “Gotta get swole, bros.” (Gotta get swole. Yeah, they uh … that’s what they said, I mean Chad said. And … he’s laughing. So yeah. Aaaand there goes their compression underwear. You do hear that, right? But … this was a hallucination. Or … was it real and the process just … makes … dumb jocks … big … dumb … jocks. Make more … dumb jocks … more massive men. Massive men. Massive me. I um … I gotta focus here. Focus on … the recording.)

           “Fucking ‘A man, I feel fucking awesome!” (That one was uh … Chris again. They were so … out of it. And … flexing so much. So much flexing. Posing. Swelling. I … I don’t know where everyone else was. M-maybe that’s why … why this happened. Let them flood the place with … with the gas …)

           “*SHRED* Uhuuuuu … look at my fuckin’ bicep, bros.”

           “Chad, that’s like … so fuckin’ cool.” (That one was Ryan. He’s still a little behind the others, but that’ll change soon.)

           “Bro, like … call me Thirteen.” (They call eachother by numbers now? I … guess that makes sense. Takes away their individuality. Makes them more compliant, more like a group. Less like a person.)

           “Dudes, like, only coach calls us that, remember?” (That one was Dick.)

           “But, it’s so fuckin’ boss, bro.”

           “I know, but we can’t yet. Not till coach tells us we can.”

           “Gotta obey coach.” (This one was Tracey. Then they all just sort of went rigid.)

           “Obey coach. Listen to coach. Coach makes us bigger. Coach makes us better. Coach makes us men. Massive, manly men. Massive, manly bulge.” (There they go again with their chanting. I had to look away after a point. Their bodies grew so much, they *GROAN* shredded their clothes with their muscles … their massive muscles. So … massive … manly … bulging. I uh … don’t have much more to report on this. Just … they changed in a few minutes. That’s … that’s powerful stuff. I … I don’t think I should say anything about this to the others. Nobody’d believe me. But yeah … there were basically … three naked studs left and *PANT* two more next to them. Studs like horses, I mean. Hung like horses. Dumb as horses, too. Big, dumb jocks. So big. So dumb. Uh … yeah, let’s just move on before I keep repeating myself.)

           “Big. Dumb. Jock. Massive. Manly. Bulge.” (And so they continued. At least until Coach Abrams came in. He took one look at the five of them, then at me. He gave me a creepy smile, then turned to the others and barked an order.)

“Twenty-two, Twenty-three, Thirteen, Five, Ten, fall in!”

           “Yes, sir.”

           *Loud Clattering*

           END TRANSMISSION

 ~Day 27~

           My head’s a lot clearer today. Sorry about that from last night. Anyways, time for my rant, so hold on to something.

Those stupid grunts broke my tablet! Abrams said they won’t be able to get me a new one for a while, so I’m stuck with this old one for now and its stupid flickering screen. Good thing I already know how to touch type. As I suspected, the twins are gone now, along with their three … I don’t know what to call them. Brainwashees? Fellow jocks? Former nerds? Something. Anyways, they’ve been promoted to the next step in their process. That’s what Abrams came to do when they messed with my tablet. The ones who were gullible enough to follow them in the showers and gym are showing the signs, too. The ones that are left anyways. We’re dropping like flies. Jake, one of our overdramatic members went through a nervous breakdown today. I had to try to comfort him. Man, can that guy cry. Guess that’s all for now. I’ll write again tomorrow.

�6��c

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 3

It’s been a long day, very exhausting as I drove to my sister’s college to move her out of her dorm and then drove back and unloaded. We had a little help, but it was still a full day where I didn’t get home till very late. So sorry for my post coming so late. Anyways, here’s part 3, and I hope you all enjoy it. Oh, and in this part, we get to welcome back an old friend. I know you all have missed him. *Insert wink followed by evil grin here*

“Come on, wake up, damn you!”

           Suspended. Floating. Was he still dreaming? What … what was that? He just blacked out and then … then …

           “Hunter, you son of a bitch, I swear if you don’t respond soon, I’ll put you through hell when you get back; I swear to god.”

           Control … that was Control. He … he was back. How long was he out? The stuff in the pipes. Must have been some form of sedative. But … he was still safe. Still on the other side. Alive. No one had come for him. At least not yet. He might still be able to manage this mission after all. “Control?” Hunter asked as he slowly shook his head to clear it. The dream was all a blur. Doesn’t matter anyways. Not important.

           A sigh of relief. “Thank god, Hunter. Your brain activity dropped for a while there.”

           “How long was I out?” Hunter adjusted his package absently as he took in his surroundings. He really needed to talk with ops about getting some tailored dive suits. This one could barely hold his massive meat. He allowed himself a mischievous smirk as he remembered a few of his more enjoyable conquests. Mmm, that brunette was a fine woman. He shook his head again. Stop that. Focus on the mission. Take in surroundings. Clear water, check. Underground lighting, check. Clear pipe, check. Upward slope, check. Big steel door behind him, check.

           “About five minutes. Hunter, you damned idiot, do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

           “For guessing the proper combination and saving myself? If I hadn’t guessed that code, do you seriously think I would’ve been able to swim out of here in time before I went under, Control? Come on. The whole pipe was probably flooded with the stuff, whatever it was.”

           “Hunter, your orders are clear. Abandon the mission. The enemy knows you’re coming. We can try again another time.”

           Hunter rolled his eyes, then smirked. “Never going to let you live this one down, Control. For once it’s not my fault.”

           “Just get out of there, lover boy. And do try to keep it in your pants. I can see your vitals. Your heart rate’s up and your dopamine levels are starting to increase.”

           “You know you’re just jealous,” Hunter jabbed back as he swam towards the vault door of a hatch. A red light flashed from the screen. “Any chances of an override, Control?”

           “Just slide the ID across the door, meathead.”

           Hunter shuddered. His bulge grew more insistent. He needed to let off some steam when he was done with this mission. Maybe a nice vacation somewhere in the Bahamas. Yeah, that’d be good. Take on a few ladies, then work on bulking up for his next mission. If he only barely beat Thirteen, then he’d need to be better prepared for any others like that hulk. He took out the card, and swiped it over the reader.

           “Access denied,” the computer chirped

           He tried again.

           “Access denied.”

           “Control, a little help here?”

           “What did you do?”

           “Nothing,” Hunter growled in Meathead’s voice. “I did just what you told me to. Now get me out of here. And shut off this damn synthesizer!” he barked angrily.

           “Alright, alright. Sheesh. Don’t get your wetsuit in a knot.” The sound of rapidly typing keys played across the comms unit for a good minute or so.

           “By the way, Control, how did you get my comms back on? You don’t have some sort of emergency override switch on your end, do you?”

           “You’re talking to one of the best hackers in the business, Hunter, remember? Now stow it. I have work to do.”

           “Yes, sir. I obey,” Hunter said in an exaggerated monotone, only for another shudder to rock his body. This time he felt more than just a mild discomfort in the tight-fitting suit. He grunted. “Come on, Control.”

           “When I’m good and ready, Hunter. Try to distract yourself of something. Calm down a little.”

Hunter shifted position in the water, trying to keep himself occupied. He absently checked his oxygen supply. Still three quarters of a tank. He’d be fine. He breathed deeply, controlling his intake as he struggled to calm his body down. A good five minutes passed. Unfortunately, the erection hadn’t.

           “… Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Control asked.

           “Hit me.”

           “I can’t override the door. According to the coding, any employee that checks in needs to go to a second checkpoint and swipe the card there before he can leave through the pipe again. If I worked at it a while, I might be able to open it, but that would set off even an amateur’s radar. As it is, you’ll have to follow standard protocol for Stone’s employees.

           “Which is?”

           “How the hell should I know? Nobody we’ve sent to infiltrate reported back in, and you, of all people, know how difficult Thirteen is to interrogate.”

           “As it is, he knows we’re coming. He’s not stupid. I’ve handled worse.”

           “Just be careful, all right?”

           “All right, all right. I will. And Control, you might want to keep my voice changer on for now. Don’t know when I might run into some guards or something I’ll need to fool, so I might as well keep it going.”

           The computer chimed from its pad. “Meathead will report to the gym for immediate workout and debriefing. Acknowledge.”

           “Hunter, I–”

           “Meathead will report to gym. Meathead will obey. I obey.” Hunter shuddered as he said the words. He felt strangely lightheaded. The red screen cleared to yellow, and he turned around to swim up the pipeline.

           “Hunter …”

           “Relax, Control. I’m fine. I just need to–” he grunted “–get out of this suit. Besides, the computer mentioned debriefing. I’m guessing that means Thirteen’s master is going to make an appearance after he reports in. It’s the perfect place to kill Stone. I’ll stick to my mission first, drop in on the meeting, then pop on down to the gym for a little work out and kill him while I’m there.” Flashing lights guided the way up, shining in a multitude of colors as they strobed in their lines. Hunter swam up and above until he finally broke the surface, pulling his oxygen mask off and closing off the tank. He’d need it for his getaway. The room was surprisingly well lit as he made his way to the stairs, and he smiled as he passed the various screens the lined the walls.

           “Welcome home, Meathead.”

           “Report, meathead.”

           “The gym is waiting.”

           “Report to the gym, Meathead.”

           “Obey, Meathead.”

           A strangely annoying buzzing accompanied the messages as he passed, but he had no time to focus on that. His erection was killing him. Hunter quickly raced past the screens and into what appeared to be a massive changing room. An empty stall clearly indicated where he was meant to hang his suit, and seeing as his suit was so much smaller than the others, there was no need to worry about losing it. Spare tanks lined the walls, promising plenty of oxygen should he need a replacement. They were thicker and bulkier, most likely holding more air in higher concentrations. If Meathead was anything to go by, not to mention the sheer size of these other wet suits, Stone must have hundreds of these behemoths on staff. Where did he find them? What did he use to make them so large? Steroids? So many questions. With a heavy sigh of relief, Hunter stripped out of the wetsuit, releasing his body and the culprit of his misery in one go. Now he felt only pleasure. Pleasure, relief, the buzzing, and a nagging computer ordering him to report in, yet again. Of course, knowing Thirteen, it wasn’t that hard to understand. The big lug probably needed repeated instructions to get it through his thick, meaty skull.

           “Understood. Will report. Meathead obeys. I obey,” he murmured, standing there in his shorts as the cool air washed over his hot body. He sighed heavily. That deep voice didn’t sound so bad anymore. As a matter of fact, he kind of liked it.

           “Hunter, you’re past the monitors. I think you can drop the act now. Calm down. Your dopamine levels are running through the roof. … Actually, so’s your testosterone. No wonder you feel so horny. Either way, you need to find a way to stop it and focus on the mission.”

           Hunter shuddered again. “Sorry, Control. I, uh, think it might be a side effect from the chemical, or whatever it was the pipe got flushed with.” He hastily returned to the pipe, where his waterproof satchel sat waiting. He pulled it out midst the flashing bulbs and passed the screens yet again in his tight compression shorts. He firmly clamped his mouth shut, refusing to look at the screens as he raced past. He couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted. After all, he had to report. That is, spy, then kill, then report. He smirked. “Getting a little ahead of yourself there, big guy,” he murmured as he chuckled, shifting into his stealth suit. Fortunately, it wasn’t quite so tight as the wet suit, and he was able to change without much difficulty. As a last addition, he placed a form-fitted set of display goggles over his eyes, before making his way through the tunnel and up into the castle proper.

           The halls were a bit on the chilly side, but Hunter was able to adapt quickly enough. Slinking by along the walls, he heard the distinct sound of hissing over loud speakers. Following the trail of wires, he eventually found the source. Interspersed a good ten feet or so apart, a series of loud speakers trailed. He heard deep voices and the sound of insipid laughter, and pulled against the side of the wall. His stealth suit flickered briefly, before his body blended perfectly with the stone work.

           “Yes, sir. Report to main hall.”

           “Must report.”

           “Must obey.”

           The sound of tromping feet echoed and redoubled, vibrating Hunter’s soles as twenty nigh-identical muscle men almost as big as Thirteen marched past in an orderly manner. They wore Tight black spandex outfits and matching helmets with bright green visors on their heads. A pulsing green light from the visors indicated potential cerebral programming as the men tromped along in dual file. Hunter pressed himself as hard as he possibly could against the wall. He barely managed to avoid being touched as the men filed on. “I’m in luck, Control,” Hunter whispered after they were gone. “They’ll lead me right to the main hall. I’m guessing they’re going to be part of some kind of display. Can you get me a route into the upper balcony?”

           “Easy as pie.”

           “Good. Lead on, good sir, that I may sally forth, and complete my quest.”

           “Shut up, Hunter, and just take the next left.” What followed was a series of directions guided by a projected layout on the display screen that was Hunter’s goggles. Eventually, the spy was led to a set of stairs, which in turn took him to a shadowy and dusty balustrade. He proceeded to duck behind it as he observed the proceedings of the meeting below.

A series of large display units hung above the long table where each of the twenty men and their escorts had been seated. At the head of the table, a great hulk of a man sat. His hair was a bright platinum blonde, his eyes a stormy grey. He must have been at least a good eight feet tall, maybe even nine. The mountain of muscle flexed calmly, his arms rippling as he cut at the steak that had been prepared. His business suit clung tightly to his body, but not so much as to overstrain it. Clearly he had a tailor.

“Now, I know you gentlemen view America as an affront to your beliefs. I admit, I have no great love for this nation myself. The financial system is flawed, men and women are left starving on the streets to fend for themselves for lack of an education they can’t afford, or worse yet, a corrupt business field where they’ve been systematically cut out of the picture.” He chewed his meat viciously for a time, gauging the men before him, before patting his lips with a napkin and continuing his speech. “I have been wronged by this system, gentlemen, but that didn’t stop me from trying to better my situation.” He chuckled. “As you can see, I succeeded. … I am one of the few.

“Much like me, you, and those who follow your causes, feel that you have also been wronged. Whether your sacred lands are being trampled and torn underfoot, or you have lost your homes to corrupt businessmen, or simply because you feel that your religious rights have been taken away from you and you must take arms to defend that right. Whatever the reason may be, in that sense at least, we are brothers. In that sense, at least, we have a common ground. Much like you, I want to change the world, to make it a better place. That is why I sent my men to contact you, and that is why you are here tonight. I have called you here so that, together, we can make the world a better place for all.”

“And just how do you propose, Mister Stone, to further our … common interests?” Muffati, a short and portly man with a heavy robe and a bright white turban said. His beard had grown long, and was well trimmed with the salt and pepper coloration that was typical of his racial background at that age. His accent was thick, but his English was well pronounced. The other men nodded in agreement, even as they finished their respective meals.

“As I said, I can offer you a weapon that no man could possibly expect.”

“And that is?” Muffati asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

“The perfect soldiers, of course.”

What followed was fairly predictable. The laughter carried for quite some time, though a few of the men simply settled with glowering. “You have us come to this abominable country for a fable, Mister Stone? We do not take kindly to such jests.”

“And I do not take kindly to idle threats,” Stone responded in an equally flat tone. The silverware on the table began to clatter. Soon the goblets were jumping, the liquid rippling from unseen vibrations. The screens flashed into life as a military anthem began to play. From every doorway, they poured in. Tall, muscled, masculine, and armed to the teeth, the towers of muscle marched in unison, eyes fixed ahead as they formed ranks around the table and the hall. Their helmets still remained firmly fastened to their block-like skulls.

As the anthem played, Hunter felt a distinct sense of dejavous. He’d heard this music somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite place it. It seemed to play over and over in his head, even as the song finished and the men cocked their guns at the guests.

“As I was saying, gentlemen, I’ve developed the perfect soldiers. Large, fast, powerful, experts in multiple forms of combat, skilled marksmen, lightning reflexes, superhuman endurance, and best of all, they are completely obedient. Isn’t that right, boys?”

A resounding, “Yes, sir, coach!” echoed through the hall. The men saluted, lowering the butts of their guns.

“You would lend out mercenaries? This is your, as you Americans say, sales pitch?”

“No. What I offer is the ability to make soldiers of your own, just as obedient, just as powerful, just as well trained, all under your command.”

“I do not believe it,” a skeptical leader said. His frame was lean and well-muscled beneath his robes, and the guard who stood behind him was taller still, and lither.

“If you doubt their skills, then why not pit your own guards against them?”

“It is a hoax. These few could easily have been trained in advance. Where is your proof?”

“My process, as I like to call it, takes place over various stages, each a vital part in the conversion to become what you see before you now.” He lifted a remote to the screens and they shifted to reveal a CGI of an average human male. “I admit, I prefer this method because it ensures a closer connection between me and my men, or meatheads, as they like to call themselves. However, I have also developed a more streamlined method of application for you men to make use of back in your various war fronts.”

Stone held up a vial while the screen portrayed the same. “A few drops of this incorporated into a man’s body by any means leads to a dramatic increase in testosterone production, human growth hormone production, and a variety of other natural chemicals in the body related to masculinity and growth, along with great pleasure and arousal.” The model on the screens was injected with a syringe, and the man began to experience a growth in muscle mass, along with a large tent pressing against his shorts. “Given enough time to work, this substance incorporates itself into the human body’s natural functions, reprogramming the brain to produce the chemical naturally, and send it coursing through the entire body’s circulatory system twenty-four seven.” The image paled to reveal the circulatory system and the brain. As the body continued to change and work, it revealed the brain slowly changing color and that color spreading through the veins as the image continued to grow in breadth, height, and muscle mass, among other things.

“The end result is what you see before you: perfectly built soldiers. As for their training, admittedly, that requires some small amount of effort, though we’ve streamlined the process significantly. Making use of the pleasure centers of the brain, we take advantage of the surges of hormones to rewrite their minds, inserting a desire for unquestioning obedience to an authority figure.” An image of another man entered and began giving instructions to the other. “The more they obey, the greater the pleasure they experience, and the faster they are able to reach their final stages.” Each task the image that received the injection completed resulted in a surge of growth. “During this time of rapid intake and obedience, we expose them to a variety of stimuli that will train their bodies in the various arts they need to know, and have them exercise it in practice shortly after to make sure their bodies have transferred it into all forms of memory, including subconscious, conscious, and muscle.” The screens shut off. “Any questions?”

“How is this training accomplished?”

“So glad you asked that.” Stone pressed another button on the remote and a wall pulled up to reveal six men standing side by side in perfect formation. Their square jaws rippled with muscle in their necks, and their giant chests barely were contained by the button up shirts they wore. They stared vapidly ahead, their legs spread in a parade rest. Their burly arms were held behind their backs. Their broad shoulders gave them a square-cut appearance, and their stance was so identical they seemed almost like a paper chain.

“Meet Grunt, Crush, Thrasher, Masher, Pounder, and Grinder. Before these men saw the light and joined my soldiers’ ranks, they were sent here to infiltrate and spy on my organization. It took many of my meatheads to successfully capture them, but once I had them in hand, we immediately began putting them through the process. Once they had officially converted to muscle, I had every piece of information copied and downloaded from their brains through a unique neural probe one of my think tanks came up with. Completely harmless, and minimally invasive. A nice touch when you want to keep your subjects alive, wouldn’t you say? Taking the base neurological makeup of each subject’s brain, we combined them to create an ultimate design for our subjects’ brains to reach in their training. We then expose them to the proper stimuli throughout the process to ensure their brains develop the necessary pathways, and thus, the skills for the job. Our six professionals then spar with each soldier to ensure the subject has learned properly. Boys, come here.”

The six men immediately marched in unison, and took their places, three on either side.

“What are you?” Stone shouted.

The resounding cry was deafening. “Meatheads!”

Who do you all serve?”

“Coach!”

Who do you obey?”

“Coach!”

“Who do you fight for?”

“Coach!”

“Who do you live for?”

“Coach!”

Not a soul moved. The room was silent. Stone looked around the room. This time, his voice was softer, calmer, but filled with more intensity than any of the questions he had asked before. His eyes had turned cold, his pupils hard as agates. “And who is your coach?”

“Stone.” It started out small, a single voice, barely a whisper. “Stone.” It came again. This time two spoke. It continued to build one at a time, increasing in intensity, speed, and fervor until they reached fever pitch. The screens blazed to life as images and words flickered across in a virtual blur that verged on pure white. The green visors sprung to life, flickering on the drones that wore them. “Obey Stone. Serve Stone. Coach is Stone.” And so it continued, until the chanting fell into a mindless cheer. One name. One focus. The guards who had come with the terrorists clutched at their heads, and groaned in pain. In a matter of seconds, they had grown as large as the men who now surrounded the hall.

“Oh yeah, one thing I forgot to mention. The closer proximity to others who have been dosed with the compound hastens the process.” The new thick, burly men rose to their feet and placed their meaty hands over their former masters’ shoulders, securing them in place. “They have almost a hive sort of mentality sometimes, so a little affirmation here, a little obedience there, and then they’re just like the rest.”

Stone snapped his fingers, and more of the meatheads came from the doors, each holding a helmet similar to the ones the soldiers wore. “So here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to turn all of your funds over to me. You’ll liquidate your assets and resources, and leave your stupid struggle in the Middle East. Don’t worry, it won’t happen all at once. After all, I have to make sure that you and your men all become part of my little experiment, and we need to make it look like the troops you’re fighting against are winning. You’re only too happy to help, aren’t you, boys?”

The new giants shuddered, and grinned as they grabbed the proffered helmets in their hands. Then they shoved them on the various leaders. In a matter of minutes, their former masters had slumped in their chairs, while their helmets flashed. Stone had completely neutralized the threat, and now had every well-known terrorist in thrall. Up by the balustrade, Hunter gaped.

“Control, are you getting this?” he whispered.

“We’re getting it, Hunter. And … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me. Those men–”

“–Interceptor, Recon, Camo, Berserker, Napoleon, and Narcissus. We confirmed via retinal identification. If Stone’s telling the truth–”

“–Then he already knows about us and all of our operations regarding him and his men. All the more reason to kill the son of a bitch.”

“They were some of our best, Hunter. If he’s really trained every one of his men to be just as skilled, you’re up against some long odds. So am I for that matter. I thought the hack was too easy. He’s trying to play us.”

Hunter Smirked. “Then let’s play him. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“Gentlemen, I’ll leave our new recruits in your capable hands. I have some business to attend to at the gym. Keep running the program for the next six hours at least. I want these men well oriented by the time I’m finished,” Stone said.

The men saluted. “Yes, sir.” A low murmur of agreement ran through the room as the other soldiers stared ahead. Their own helmets were flickering, indicating that they, too, were experiencing this orientation, even as these new men were. Content, Stone left the same way he had come, flanked by his guard of six. The rest of the men stood obediently as they watched the presentation. Hunter was careful to avert his eyes as he backed away from his hiding spot.

“Control, I need directions to that gym, and I need them now.”

“Already uploading. Get your ass out of there, Hunter. You’ve got a job to do.”