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.

I found this hilarious, especially considering how pretty much every post I’ve read from these people has been nothing but appropriate, if extremely punny/corny.

“Disliked and Loved”

(Reblog this if you enjoyed)

(Follow this page for more funny comics)

Sometimes the truth can be hilarious!

Thank you all for reading!

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s comic!

Real Men’s Journal: Part 1

~Day 1~

What the heck is going on? I woke up this morning to a blaring alarm that literally threw me out of bed. Seriously. A hydraulics system lifted it up to the point where I was thrown off. Let me start from the beginning. I’m your average high school student. Never caused a problem, never raised a fuss, just stuck to myself. I like to write, create artwork, read, and I even dabble a little in the occasional play or musical. What I did to deserve this, I’ll never know.

The last thing I remember is Summer Vacation starting. It was the last day of school. Freshmen year was finally over and it was time to celebrate. So I got onto my computer and did a little gaming. I’d just gotten the new patch for W.o.W. so I was testing it out. After a couple hours of gaming, I got onto the chat with my friends and talked with them for a while. We wrote some stories, role played a little, the usual thing, you know? Then I just went to bed like I always do. I remember settling under my covers and blacking out. Then … I woke up in this nightmare of a place.

I looked around to see that I was in some kind of barracks. Beds lined the walls. Blaring lights gleamed down from their tracks in the ceiling, practically blinding me. I looked around to see a variety of boys and men ranging from as early as middle school to as late as mid-twenties. They all looked like they’d had a horrible night. Then again, who wouldn’t look bad if they’d just been woken violently and shoved out of bed? I probably looked just as horrible. Everyone was asking what was going on, who everyone else was, pretty much like any movie scene you’d watch portraying a kidnapping scenario. A few people even got to the point of being violent. That was when they showed up.

I swear, these guys must be taking steroids or something. They were HUGE! A whole squadron of them in dark skintight shirts and pants. A strange sort of logo stood emblazoned on their chests. The biggest one in a referee’s outfit nodded his head to the others and they immediately broke up the squabbling, shoving the contenders apart like two stubborn sheets of paper in a textbook. And the way they laughed when some of us fell down, I swear, it was like those jerks Damien and Bryan back in school. They were the gods of the football team. Don’t know what I did to deserve it, but they decided to make me their personal nerd. In short, they make fun of me, I shoot back, they beat me up, repeat. I immediately distrusted these boys.

The guy introduced himself as Coach Abrams and said we were going to be his responsibility for the duration of our stay here. Each of us had been specially chosen to go through something he called “The Process,” whatever that means. I doubt it’s anything good. We were informed that clothing would be provided for us and could be found inside of our dressers next to our beds. We were instructed to get dressed as quickly as possible and make our way to the mess hall. We would be guided by our lovely little enforcer friends to make sure everyone got there “safely.” Good way to keep us from running too. The jerks. At least the tech was cool. They run on some sort of speech recognition software. I order it to open and it listens to my voice. What I found there though … didn’t exactly make me too happy. My reaction was something along these lines.

“No. Hell no. You are not making me wear this crap.” At least that’s what I thought in my mind. The stupid drawers opened to reveal a pair of white briefs, some baggy red shorts, and a T-shirt with a number on the back and front left breast. Mine read 56. It was bad enough having to deal with this kind of stuff in school with the teachers. Now they want us to wear this gym stuff on a regular basis? Still, the imposing meathead looking at me with folded arms left me little choice. (Seriously, are those footballs he has stuffed under that muscle tee?) I slid them on, albeit reluctantly, and then ordered the footlocker beneath to open. Much like the first drawer, it verified my voice patterns and registered me as its current user. Does that mean there were others before me? What is this mysterious process?

A set of New Balance sneakers waited for me to wear with a pair of simple, unmarked white socks. At least they looked like New Balance. They didn’t have the logo though. Their design was unremarkable at best. All white. No individual flare. Seriously, these guys have no style. At least they took my wide foot size into consideration when they got these for me. Pretty high number too based on the feel of them. Designed for good support. I think they had some sort of orthotic insert or something like that. How they knew that about me though … that creeped me out a bit. They must have done some heavy duty research into us.

I looked to see everyone else wearing a set of clothes exactly like mine fit to their sizes. They were all pretty baggy. Some were pressed out loosely by heavy guts. Mine was reasonably smaller, so it didn’t push out as much, but I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a stud by any means with my poor vision, asthma, and getting sick every time I try to so much as run it’s very difficult for me to try anything useful in the area of personal fitness. Still … the others are marked with numbers as well. Is that what they plan to do to us from now on? Designate us by numbers? It would seem so based on what the coach told us at the mess hall.

Once we finished getting dressed we were taken to the entrance of our little home. A large locking mechanism disengaged with a scan of some sort from the coach and his muscled followers. I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be retinal or some sort of code hidden on their uniforms somewhere. Maybe it was a little bit of both? I don’t know. It will warrant further investigation later. Though based on current attempts, it appears that we won’t be able to stage a breakout any time soon. The lock seems to be on a timer for “newcomers,” or so the system computer tells me when I ask to leave “after hours.” Plus it probably registers whenever a user accesses its coding and notifies the main compound and security offices. At least that’s how I’d do it if I were to design a system like this.

Anyways, we were taken on a “grand tour” of the compound. We seem to be in some sort of secluded forest. There are several walls a good two stories high with patrols of burly meatheads just like our escorts. They wore some kind of special armor complete with high tech weaponry. Though their uniforms were more of a silvery white, rather than the dark colors our escorts wore. I had never seen anything like it before. Others held what looked like tranquilizer guns, complete with ammo belts strapped to their torsos. Fortunately, we weren’t going anywhere near the wall. I’d rather not try to test what would happen if an escape attempt were made that way. We remained compliant, though my new big muscled “friend” held on to my arm just to be on the safe side.

The doors to the mess hall require a print to open. Now I understand why our muscular friends kept such tight hold on us. It was to force those who would not comply to press forward with their registration into the system. I happened to be one of those problem children. If I wasn’t about to bow down to those two jerks at school, I wasn’t about to bow down here. The scary part is the coach actually approved. When we got into the hall he informed us the compound was inescapable and in a remote location. So even if we did somehow manage to escape, we’d starve before we could reach help. He mocked us by making air quotations as he said it, like we were a bunch of babies. Somebody really needs to put this guy in his place. But for right now, it seems that brawn rules here. We aren’t organized, we aren’t strong, and frankly, even if we were unified, I don’t think we have the numbers to pull anything off at the moment.

So after a hearty breakfast, of which the coach decided to “reward” us fighters by giving us first spots in line, we made our way to the gym. I had just finished a nice breakfast of eggs with toast and a glass of water before my overly muscled, dimwitted pal picked me up and dragged me away. I do have to admit, their fitness facilities were state of the art. The levels on the compound stretched for miles underground from what I could tell on the map at the observation desk when we checked in. It seems that here, you check in with a scan of your number on your shirt. Uniforms required. How typical. Apparently, the farther along we get in “the process,” the more levels and buildings we can access. It would seem that the upper facilities are for show. The main body of this concentration camp appears to be underground.

After the basics were finished, Abrams took us back to the barracks. My overly muscled friend “politely” escorted me to stand next to my bunk, which I now realized had been personalized with a number as well. Well, as personalized as a number can get anyways. Abrams insists that we call him coach. Yeah, like that’s going to happen. Anyways, they had us stand in front of our footlockers. A giant rod with two prongs like a Forklift suddenly jutted out from slots in the floor. They sparked and a blue field sprung between. We were commanded to stand perfectly still. I did my best to resist, but once again, my escort was there to “apply a firm hand.” I had no choice in the end but to stand there and let the machine do its work. It turned out to be some sort of scanner. This kind of tech is supposed to be impossible. Life signs, bio feeds, the whole shebang appeared on a screen that jutted itself out from the wall above the drawer and footlocker. It tingled as it passed over, making me shudder.

Once the process was complete, a drawer jutted out from the dresser portion of my little footlocker and the holographic display monitor faded to become a mirror with projection functions included. Inside the drawer I found this journal. The name on the cover is a little weird though. “Real Men’s Journal: Tales of the Journey.” I thought it was some sort of book at first, but when I opened it up, the tech I found was unbelievable. I had holo-screen displays, a physical screen, a tablet mode, laptop mode, the works. This thing was, and I suppose is, state of the art. I’m using the personal journal function for now. It appears all others have been locked for the time being. I’m guessing I’ll be allowed to gain access to them the further along I go in “the process.” Cue eye roll. Like that’s ever going to happen. Anyways, I put it aside briefly so Abrams could show us the showers and changing rooms here. Hah! Changing room. That’s a good one. Try locker room. At least it doesn’t reek of B.O.

It seems our dressers have a range of options available to us. My “journal” has given me a view of the specs for what I can and cannot request. They have a variety of hygiene products including towels, deodorant, soap, whatever we may need. They even have shaving equipment for those of us who need to. Fortunately, I haven’t reached that point in my development yet. I … I’d hoped my father would be the one to teach me. Now I’m not sure if I’ll ever even get the chance to see him again.

I just got a notification here on my little tablet. It seems we have a curfew. Lights out will happen soon. I’m already dressed in bed clothes. They’re just your basic kind of wear. Sweat pants and a regular Tee. Kind of like my old ones from home. But no, they had to take those from us too while we were gone. Now my new number is labeled on my leg, my chest, and my back. Great. Based on the locked app titles I can read, it seems this place is focused on personal fitness. I have a feeling they won’t like me very much considering my health issues. Ah well. The sooner they see they can’t use me, the sooner they might send me home. Goodnight for now. I’ll write again later.

-Sincerely, Kyle Matthews

 ~Day 2~

Okay. So it turns out my journal here has both a writing function and a recording function. Heck, it even has video. I’ll probably try using a combination of the three to portray just what I’m going to be put through here. If I ever escape, I’ll need evidence of my claims to prove I’m not crazy.

So I woke up this morning with an annoying headache. Had difficulty getting up out of bed, but of course that lovely hydraulics system had no problem kicking me out on time. I seriously have to see if I can’t find a way to hack this system some time. I’m no expert, but maybe with this piece of tech I’ll stand a chance. We’ll see. For now I’m going to have to play along with my hosts.

Just got a message. Apparently, we can do that with our tablets. Some sort of schedule with information and requirements. I remember Abrams mentioning something like this about a schedule. Guess now we know what “the process” is going to be about. They want us to be stronger, grow bigger, be healthier. Not such a bad idea really if it weren’t for the fact that I bumped into one of their “successful recruits.” His number was 86. He claimed to have been brought in a while ago with a previous batch of “recruits” like us. The guy was so spacy, I could hardly hold a civilized conversation with him. Any time I asked him about what he did before, he usually avoided the subject. At least after my first go with him. He didn’t really start until that coach walked up behind us. … Strange. Still, the guy was your typical meathead. Tall, blonde hair, vacant green eyes, over six feet tall, and fairly well built. The only difference I could make out between this guy and the rest of his kind was he wasn’t so huge muscle wise. He still had some brains too. I’ve included an audio file so you can hear the conversation for yourselves when you get this. Best part though is I can include a little extra narration on a separate note display in parenthesis, so what you can’t see, I can describe to you when you view this.

ACCESSING #56 AUDIO FILE 001

“Hey, bro, what’s up?” (I could hear this guy stalking me a mile away. Seriously.)

“…”

“What? Giving me the cold shoulder?”

“…”

“Not cool, man. Not cool.” (He took a chair at this point, as you can tell with the screech you just heard. Metal legs.)

“Look, no offense, but I got kidnapped from my home, dragged into this place, and now you people are expecting me to be a perfect little peon and just do as I’m told after all that?” (Hey, I was pissed. Wouldn’t you be, if this happened to you?)

“Bro, it’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that!” (That clunking sound with a splash was my cup of water. I can’t drink juice. Makes me nauseated. But it sloshed all over my toast and my cereal. Not fun.) “Now look what you made me do.” (Naturally, I glared at this point.)

“… I’m not one of them.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not one of them.”

“Pshah. Could’ve fooled me.” (He frowned at this, of course.)

“Look. I was pulled into this place, just like you were, okay? I didn’t like it at first, but … well, look at me. I’m bigger and stronger than I ever thought I could be. This place made it possible.”

“And you think that should make me happy?”

“Well, … yes. It can do the same for you.”

“And what if I don’t want that?” (This was real cute. He furrowed his brow at this one, like he couldn’t wrap his head around why someone wouldn’t want to be a big thug.)

“Well … I uh … don’t know. I … ummmm …” (Here’s the weird part. Hear that? He started groaning, almost like he was struggling thinking. Can’t blame him. I doubt he had so much as one original thought in his life.)

“What did you do before you were brought here?” (He perked up after that, at least for a little bit.)

“Went to school. I was in college.”

“Sports scholarship?”

“No … yes … um … I can’t really remember, honestly. Just sort of been focusing on working out and getting bigger. I can check my journal, if you want. It’s been a while since I dusted the old girl off, but I put in my stats from when I started.” (Hear that? I spat. I was pretty disgusted at this poor attempt to befriend me. I mean, come on. How transparent can you be? The guy had to be some sort of spy or something. Still, I humored the man.)

“Don’t worry about it. What are some things you like to do?” (He really jumped on this one. You should’ve seen his face. He lit up like a firecracker on the fourth of July.)

“Bench press, cardio, squats, curls, pull ups. You know, work out stuff. I love to work out. I really love to work out.” (It was weird. When he said that, his gaze turned a little more … well, empty, I guess, almost like he was talking to someone else.) “Feeling that pump, that blood flowing through your veins and flexing … flexing and posing.”

“Okayyy. Hey. Hey, hello?”

“Mmmm … and the muscle. Massive … massive … manly … bulge … bulging …”

“Hey! Snap out of it!” (I snapped my fingers in front of his face here. That still didn’t work. It was … creepy. He stood up and started flexing his muscles while he talked, straining against his spandex uniform as best he could. I didn’t have a name to call him by, so I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I threw my water at his face and shouted his number.)

“86! Wake up!” (He spluttered a little, but then he came to again.)

“What …? What was I doing?”

“Flexing and posing like a fool. You kept saying the same stuff over and over, like you were some sort of tape recorder.”

“I … I was?” (I could see fear in his eyes now. Something was definitely going on with him. He mumbled to himself, but I couldn’t hear what he had to say. Something along the lines of impossible or oh no. Like I said, couldn’t make it out. Neither could the recording. He sprung on me pretty quick though.)

“Quick. Ask me something else about before.”

“Um … okay. What were some of your favorite hobbies?”

“I … I liked to …” (He groaned for a moment. You can hear that here.) “Draw! Yes, I was an anime artist. I … I drew all kinds of artwork. Even had an internship lined up. It was … I was, like, totally stoked. Anatomy was one of my *groan* specialties. I’d draw all kinds of people. Tall, skinny, short, fat, muscled. Yeah … muscled warriors. Real men.” (He started breaking off again here, so I had to head him off.)

“Hey! The internship. Tell me more about the internship.”

“I-internship?”

“Yes. You know, for the drawing you were doing. Where were you going to work?” (He looked at me kind of funny at that point. It was like he was trying to remember, but couldn’t believe what I was asking.)

“Jackson, what’re you doing over here? Shouldn’t you be with the others at practice?” (Another burly coach walked up and patted the man on the back. When contact was made, he shuddered and relaxed. It was like all the fear just … drained away. He was so calm. Unnaturally so. His shoulders just sort of slumped and his eyes … they turned blank again, like when he was mumbling before. I shuddered at that. He smiled vacantly. Then it turned into a cocky sneer.)

“Sorry, Coach. Guess I got a little distracted with the newbie. Wanted to welcome him in, ya know?” (He flexed his muscles and the coach just smiled. But that look. It was sinister somehow.)

“Good man.” (That sound was the coach smacking Eighty Six, or Jackson as he called him, on the butt. He laughed afterwards. And … I swear I heard the spandex in 86’s suit straining, almost like he was growing. But that’s impossible. It must’ve just been his muscles shifting as he walked away. Still, his parting comment scared the crap out of me.)

“Thanks, Coach. Looking forward to seeing you on the field, lil’bro.” (He winked at me after that. And that look. It was just … well, it was cocky. Like Damien and Brian. And I mean exactly like them. What’s going on here?)

(The coach chuckled here.) “Heh, he’s one of our best recruits. Really took to the field like a champ. Started training, and he never looked back.”

“… Right. Is that what we’re supposed to become?” (The man just sneered at me and winked while he wagged a finger.)

“Now, now. That’d go and spoil the surprise. You’ve got a fun time ahead of you, kid. Enjoy it.” (He laughed before he left. The door shut behind him and I shut off the recorder.)

END TRANSMISSION

The rest of today went off pretty much without a hitch. We got changed into our clothes, checked in to the gym, and started the regiment. Some of us did anyways. I opted to walk around the facilities and watch the others working out. See if I could find any other pertinent information. Unfortunately, I had no such luck. Abrams came in with a few of his helpers and was only too happy to complement those trying. He pointed out how to improve, unlocked a trainer app to direct the process and aid when errors occurred, you know. The machines even included a mount for our journals to connect to the system and display our results. Pretty high tech stuff. I wasn’t interested, of course, but he just smiled and said I could take my time. He unlocked the apps anyway, just to give me the chance “When [I’m] ready.” As if.

I found a few like-minded individuals, but the main one I seem to have gotten a good relationship with is Kevin. Nice kid. He’s from the Middle School, about to enter his freshman year. Kind of mousy in his appearance. Wears glasses, pretty thin, you know, the bookish type like me. He has really thin messy brown hair. Just sort of lets it hang around his head. Said he was due for a haircut soon before all this happened. I believe him. You should’ve seen the way his hair stuck up this morning before he showered. Cowlick central. Of course, I doubt mine was much better. We both got a couple laughs out of it. He decided he’d give this “process” a chance though. Said he always wanted to be big and strong, just that he never had the time to work out. The way he flinched I have a pretty good idea what really kept him from trying. Still, he must have a high metabolism or something to be that thin and not have to work out much. Lucky dog. What I wouldn’t give to be in his shoes. He has a chance to get stronger at least. As for me … well you already know about my problems, so there’s no need to go back there again.

He was pretty tired, after all was said and done, but he seemed happy enough. I’m glad the little guy has a chance. He deserves the right to kick those bullies’ asses, so other people like him can choose their path without judgement and without the pressure. If those piles of muscle would just remember where they first started out, maybe this world wouldn’t be such a messed up place in school. Well, time for lights out again. Probably going to have another rough night tonight. Oh well. At least I won’t be sore tomorrow morning. Some of the others here are going to be in a lot of pain, I think. Night.

Sincerely, Kyle Matthews

Daddy Roo����

Real Men’s Journal Part 11

SUBJECT 56 PERSONAL JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

COACH came back today. He’s not MY COACH anymore, but he is still a COACH. He put us through the ringer. Mile run, pull-ups, weights, you name it. Course, we crushed it. Me n’ the bros. My BIG MUSCLE bros. Just kept calling me bro so much, I let it go. Too much work tryin’ to tell em my name, ya know? We’re all in this together anyways, so we’re all bros.

Coach brought some newbie. Said we’d be put against him for our tests. Wut wuz the guy’s name again? Brook? Wookie? Uh … Rookie? Yeah, Rookie. Think that was it. Wish he’d just get a number. Numbers are easier to remember. 100. 56. 13. You know. Numbers. Numbers are better to remember. So uh … does that mean they’re better than names? Maybe? I guess. Hard to think. So hard to think. It hurts. I just wanna BLANK OUT. LET GO. Forget about that stupid test.

What test? You know, the one with the numbers and all the hard questions on science and shit. It was so fucking stupid. I told COACH so when I turned it in. He just laughed! I wanna punch him in the face so bad. The jackass. I just wanna hit and keep on hitting and bashing and tackling and wresting and … and … fight. It’s good to fight. The more I fight, the clearer my head. Don’t have to think. Just let it all go. And … I feel good when I do it. Like I’m GROWing. Getting SWOLE. Have to go. Time to fight. Then we lift weights. The others said something about a special surprise. Said I’d enjoy it. Doubt I will more than my bulge. Or my muscles. Just can’t help but FLEX and grin a STUPID grin every time. It comes so easy. Just FLEX and grin and BULGE and SWELL. Can’t hold back much longer. Gotta fight. Wrestle. WIN!

DOCTOR’S BRO LOG

~April 20th~

BIG FUCKIN’ ROOKIE (You know it)

‘Sup, bros? So yeah, I took that test COACH told me to take. He had me sit in front of some screen first, just sorta look at it while it flashed in my face. Said it’d help me fit in more if I uhhh … rewrote my language synapses? I … think that’s wut he said. Hell if I know. I just LISTEN like a good JOCK, like a good ROOKIE should. A ROOKIE LISTENs to his COACH and let’s face it, that’s what I am to COACH. I’m his ROOKIE and he’s my COACH. I like it that way. Makes things simpler. DUMBs things down. DUMB. Yeah …

Uh … wut wus I saying again? Been spellin kinda funny lately too. But COACH says I have to act the part. Just like the rest of them. So uh … yeah, I been doin’ that. You know, spying and all that. Collecting STATS. Making GAINS. Getting SWOLE. Every once in a while, COACH has me watching that screen. Every few days. Keeps me FOCUSed. FOCUS on the screen. FOCUS on MUSCLE. I’m watchin’ it now, actually. So easy to just BLANK OUT and LISTEN as I FOCUS. FOCUS on GROWing. FOCUS on the screen. FOCUS on words. FOCUS on SPIRAL. Flashing. Swirling. Down. Down. Down.

Yes, sir. Write what I say. Write what I see. Repeat.

I LISTEN.

I OBEY.

Love my MUSCLES. Yes, sir. MUSCLES are good. MUSCLES are great. MUSCLES mean everything.

Everything GROWS. BIGGER MUSCLES means BIGGER BULGE.

Yes, sir. I love my BULGE. Love my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Want to make it BIGGER.

Everything GROWs. I FOCUS on GROWing. Everything goes into my body.

Put my brain into my body. Yes, sir. Brains go to MUSCLE. Brains go to BULGE. Brain turn to BRAWN.

I OBEY.

I forget.

I OBEY.

I LIFT.

I OBEY.

I train.

I OBEY.

LISTEN.

OBEY.

JOCK.

OBEY.

CONFORM.

OBEY.

Don’t think.

OBEY.

Don’t question.

OBEY.

I don’t think. I OBEY. I don’t question. I OBEY.

OBEY my COACH.

ROOKIE obeys COACH.

COACH says FOCUS on sports. COACH says LOVE sports. I OBEY COACH.

I love sports.

Yes, JOCKs love sports. I love sports.

JOCKs love MUSCLE. I love MUSCLE.

JOCKs love bulge. I love my bulge. My MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE.

JOCKs OBEY COACH. I OBEY COACH.

JOCKs LIFT weights. I LIFT weights.

JOCKs get SWOLE. I get SWOLE.

Yes … JOCK. Becoming a JOCK.

More like a JOCK.

JOCKs work out. I work out.

Work out. JOCK out.

COACH trains JOCKs.

COACH trains me.

COACH trains me …

COACH turns me.

BIG COACH. Makes BIG JOCK.

COACH turn me. COACH make me.

COACH makes me BIG JOCK.

COACH turns me into JOCK.

COACH trains me into JOCK.

BIG ROOKIE wants to be a JOCK.

BIG DUMB JOCK as DUMB as rocks.

WEIGHTS and MUSCLE fill my head.

I’m BIG FUCKIN’ ROOKIE. Old doc is dead.

BIG shot doc to BIG FUCKIN’ JOCK.

BIG ROOKIE will report.

BIG ROOKIE will practice.

BIG ROOKIE OBEYs.

Just like the others.

Just like a JOCK.

Will remember nothing when I wake.

Yes, sir, COACH.

BIG ROOKIE OBEYs.

…

Lights out. Time to sleep. COACH says. I’ll tell ya about the test later. Night, BROs.

 ~June 24th~

‘Sup, BROs? Been a few days. Hard to write when there’s so much PUMP to get on, ya know? Been hangin’ out with my new BROs. We do everything together. LIFT together. PUMP together. TRAIN together. TRAIN with COACH. They don’t talk much. Hard to get em to start. But I’m getting’ used to it. Better at it. They like to flex a lot. Talk about their MUSCLEs. Admire their BULGE. Hell, I get in line with them, start to pose, I lose track of time. Watching my PUMP. My ABS. My fucking HUGE six-pack. My SWOLE biceps. … My BULGE. My MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Straining my JOCK strap. GROWing BIGGER. Feels so fucking good. Uh … wut wus I talking about again? I forget. But … I don’t mind. Huh.

Bin growin’ like a fuckin badass last few weeks. Feels so good. I feel … younger. So fucking heavy though. I could totally take anyone. Been thinkin’ bout wrestling. Guys do it all the time. 56 is champion right now. Think I’m SWOLE? Bros, he’s a FUCKING GIANT! Every time I’m near him I just sort of … BLANK OUT. I come to, we’re lifting. He’s spotting, and I’m rock hard. I smile. I don’t know why. He just looks dazed. His BULGE GROWs. My BULGE GROWs. And we both just smile. I’m still smiling. My BULGE is still growing. So much pl … pl … uh … can’t think of the word. Just … feels good. Real gud. Fuzzy up top. Getting fuzzier. But … I like it.

I wus gonna tell ya somethin’. Uh … lemme think a bit. Hard to think. SO hard. So fucking hard. So horny. All the time. Gives me an edge when I work out. I love working out. Love to GROW and SWELL my MUSCLES with my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Built like a FUCKING tank.

Built to FIGHT.

Built to LIFT.

Built to GROW.

Built to OBEY.

Yes, sir, COACH.

I’m your MAN, COACH.

Your young MAN.

Your boy.

Spy boy.

JOCK boy.

Your JOCK boy.

Time to LIFT.

I LIFT for COACH.

I GROW for COACH.

I OBEY COACH.

 ~June 30th~

Took a retest for COACH. Said the results were lost. I was pissed, but COACH said I had to to avoid suspicion. Test was so fucking BORING! I just stared at the page and I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t stop thinking about the GYM. About that PUMP surging through me. So much. Made it hard. Hard to think. Do I … even want to anymore? I don’t know. … Don’t know anything.

I wus gonna tell ya about that test, right? The first 1? I did pretty gud on it. Guys were jealous. Got out of the test early. I fucking crushed it AND the fitness exam. Wus a little harder first time, but retest wuz E Z. Exercises were nothing. COACH says I did gud. Makes me happy. COACH just laughed. The others. Guess I know how they feel now. BROS belong in a GYM, not a class. Desks are too fucking small. Felt too close. No room to stretch. No room to FLEX. How do those nerds stand it? How did I stand it? I don’t burn fucking bunsons, I burn calories. Gotta get SWOLE with my MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Each time I say that. Each time I write it. My head feels fuzzier. And I want 2 wurk out.

Spelling’s not 2 gud anymoar, but that’s O.K. BROs don’t mind. Don’t have a mind. I’m a BRO too. So … I don’t have a mind? Let me … th … th … fuck, head’s all fuzzy. Gotta … can’t … LIFT. Gotta LIFT. So DUMB. Can’t do nuthin’ else. Won’t do nuthin’ else. Just LISTEN to COACH. LIFT for COACH. OBEY COACH. Cause I’m a good JOCK boy.

SUBJECT 56 PERSONAL JOURNAL

~DAY ???~

I am the fucking KING! Aint no one can touch me. They try, I WRESTLE them til they SUBMIT. Every time I win I feel BIGGER. BUFFER. SWOLE.

My BROs respect me. Call me Q.B. Even get to help Lil’ BROs adjust. Plug em into their ear buds n’ listen with ‘em. They don’t mind so much after the first time.

I’m so fucking HUGE. Love my muscles. My bulge. Just posing in front of the mirror. Workin’ with the new guys. This one guy, Rookie, he’s pretty legit. COACH said he’s been trainin’ on fast track. Dunno Y, but I can’t stop trainin’ with the guy. Build him up. Make him SWOLE. BIG n’ DUMB. Just like me. I didn’t like it at first, ‘specially when I failed COACH’s test. Then I got used to it. Just sorta went numb up there. Numb n’ DUMB. Hey, that’s catchy. COACH says my I.Q. is down. I say screw I.Q. Who the hell needs it?

I want 28. I want Kevin. I miss him. COACH sez I’ll see him again soon if I TRAIN real hard. Sez he’s WEIGHTing for me. WEIGHTing at the final phase, whatever the fuck that is. COACH sez we’re nearly there. Me’n the team. Got some more shit 2 watch’n listen 2. COACH sez we graduate after phase 3. Then we gotta choose sumpthin’. Final play, I guess. Days have bin hard 2 keep track of. We moved to underground. Don’t see the sun much. Don’t really wanna anymore. I’m actually pretty happy here. Things’re smooth, like my reps. Get up, shower, LISTEN to COACH. Scan. Eat. Wurk out. Zone out. JOCK out. Showur agen. Scan. Eat. Wurk out. Listen to COACH. Eat. Showur. Scan. GROW. Sleep. Repeat.

Balls itch so much. More I scratch em’ the bigger they feel. That fucking weight between my fucking legs, like a bull, BRO. A HUGE fucking bull, ready to charge. Smash. Beat. FUCK! Head’s so dizzy. Can hardly rite. Barely reed. But … that don’t matter much, does it? I’m fucking HUGE. I do wut I want. But uh … wut do I want? I … I don’t know anymore. Don’t know. Don’t know anything. Just … weights. Clacking. Clanking. Wrestling. Grappling. Fight. Burn. GROW. GROWin’s gud. GROWin BIG. BIG balls. BIG dick. BIG bulge. BIG MUSCLES. BIG me. BIGgur is DUMBur. And I’m fucking MASSIVE! A MASSIVE, MANLY MAN with a MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Can’t wait for fase 3. COACH tells me I want it. COACH sez I need it. Need to be a BIG DUMB JOCK. Need to OBEY. Want to OBEY. Want to be a BIG DUMB JOCK for COACH.

Huhuhuh. Funny word, DUMB. Makes my mouth feel all teengly. Sounds funee 2. DUMB. DUMB. So fucking DUMB. All I become, so fucking DUMB. Time to scan. Then I wurk owt.

 ~DAY ???~

‘Sup. Over seven feet tall now. Weigh like … fucking four hundred’r sumpthin’. Owtgrew my clothes. COACH gave me nu 1s. Thair sooper tight. Cling to my bangin’ bod. COACH sez I luk gud. COACH sez I should lyk em. Ges I do. They make me feel gud. Tingly. COACH even put my name on it. 56. In fucking HUGE numburs, lyk me. COACH sez he was real happy wen I wrote it on his test. Dunno Y he made me take it agen, but he wuz happy so that’s all that maturs.

I look like 100 now. Like my BIG BRO. It made me smyl. COACH sez I’m gonna make it BIG in sports. I believe him. I just wanna LIFT n GROW n wrestle n tackle. Feels so gud wen I do. Like a real man. A real JOCK. COACH sez I’m so gud, he wants me to help the noobs. So I bin doin’ that. Bringin’ shakes n’ helpin them lift. You know, make ‘em my lil BROS. Make em TUFF. Make em BUFF. Get em SWOLE. Bring out their iner JOCK. COACH sez I gotta make em all like me. Some try 2 fite. I just put em’ in a sleeper hold, TACKLE em’ to their bed, then plug in their headphones. They try 2 pull em out, so I hold their teenee toothpick arms 2gethur. Lil’BROs struggle for a bit, then they just sorta go limp. The rest of the lil’BROs join me n’we chant with em. Takes a time or 2, but the lil’BROs come round. They start 2 listen to their COACH. The rest happens cuz they see they want it 2. Lil’BROs get SWOLE, like me. GROW that MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Don’t need ta think with the JOCK in control. Just LIFT. GROW. Get fucking SWOLE.

Time 2 LIFT.

 ~DAY ???~

COACH sez I’m a fucking natural. All my BROs look up to me. I lead em in everything. In the showers. LIFTin’ weights. OBEYing COACH. Just followin’ orders, ya know? Don’t need nuthin’ else.

COACH sez time for football. Can’t fucking wait to SMASH those fucking pansies to dust. The nerds call me Supreme Ky. I told em the name’s gay, asked em to call me Super Ky instead. They got into it after a few uh … persuasions from me n’ my fist. Give em a few throws n’ they fall in line real quick. I love knocking the nerd outta them. They call me Q.B. Then they bulk up. Then they’re with us in faze 2 with our MASSIVE, MANLY BULGE. Learning to OBEY the playbook. And LISTEN to COACH. Have to go. COACH is calling. COACH sez report now. Sure thing, COACH. I OBEY. I’m your JOCK. I’m your Q.B. 56 reporting for duty. 56 is part of the TEAM. 56 is yours. Let’s play some fucking ball.

 ~DAY ???~

NUMBER 56 reporting.

56 is redee.

56 is MASSIVE.

56 is 1 with the TEAM.

56 is all for COACH.

56 lives for COACH.

56 OBEYs his COACH.

56 is COACH’s boy.

56 is COACH’s JOCK.

MASSIVE, BURLY, BIG DUMB JOCK.

56 is just a JOCK.

56 is BRAWNY JOCK.

56 is just a JOCK.

56 is perfect JOCK.

56 is COACH’s JOCK.

…

…

…

56 is redee for faze 3.

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 8

~DAY???~

Coach says I need to keep writing. Dunno why. Writing makes me question and then the pain starts again. It’s easier just to let it all go, ya know? I’ve been working my tris and my quads today with my glutes and my calves. Everyone looks up at me now and it feels so good. Been just smiling and walking around, really enjoying it, you know? It feels good watching people look at me like that. 100 slapped me on the butt today. I just smirked and kept walking. Chuckled a little too. Turned back once to see him wave.

I like 100. He’s like a big brother. Nah, sounds too formal. Let’s just go with big bro. I like that better. Yeah, bros. Big balls bros. I like that. Mmmm … gonna have to visit the showers a little early tonight. Think I’ll bring that little guy, Clark, with me. He looks like he needs a good time with his bros. His big fucking bros with a massive, manly bulge. Mmmmm … God it feels so good to say that. Massive, manly bulge. Massive, manly bulge. Massive, manly bulge. Can’t fucking get enough of my fucking massive bulge. Getting bigger all the time. All the time. No wonder Dick and Tracy loved this. I feel like I can beat anything. Anyone. Like I can do whatever the fuck I want. Head’s getting fuzzy again. Better move on. Uh … what was I talking about again? Oh yeah, was gonna talk about the others.

Josh and Cooper are great buds. Coach says he put them on fast track to be with me. Now they’re nearly the same size. I must be around six foot four now. So fucking tall. I walk down the hall and the beds shake. I like that feeling. Let’s me know I’m nice and heavy. Coach says we’re nearly ready for the next step now. I uh … used to feel kinda bad about that, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s good after all? Don’t know. Don’t need to know. If Coach says it’s okay, it’s okay. Have to listen to coach. Have to obey coach. I obey. Kyle obeys. Kyle’s number is 56. Kyle is 56. 56 obeys. 

Doctor’s Log Entry

~October 24th, 2016~

This is Doctor Seroyan of the Specialist Division: Project DYNAMO A.K.A. “The Process”

I was most curious when I received an email from the Young Adult Underground Compound in Macaronesia regarding a certain test subject recommended by Numbers 1 and 5, former names: Damien Jones and Bryan Kent. This subject 56 appears to be a bright lad, very perceptive from what I can see. It’s a pity he has to go through The Process, but we do need a demographic from a variety of ranges and health conditions. This boy’s asthma is perfect to see the respiratory impact of the process, or so his medical records show. I don’t quite understand why I was called in as a consultant, but perhaps the boy’s journal entries will shed some light on the situation.

 ~October 26th~

Interesting. Typical treatments were not enough for the subject. He eats with the others, but his metabolism doesn’t appear to be increasing, despite the “special ingredients” inserted. His journal entries imply heavy sarcasm and wit alongside his sincere desire for freedom and family. Curious. The lack of hypnosis files are doubtless part of the problem, but I am curious if there might not be something in the boy’s blood that makes him resistant as well. We’ll need to run some tests.

 ~October 27th~

The boy’s blood panels have come back. I see no negative impact from the serum. In fact, when exposed, cells regenerated, growing healthier. White blood cells reproduced at a faster rate and red blood cell count skyrocketed. The Process never ceases to amaze me. Most cells die and then are replaced in the body, but the formula has made them self-sustaining. I’ve never seen the progression first hand before. Fascinating. If my theory is correct, then the power of the mind is indeed the key. The brain has to send signals to the body to accept The Process. Once it gets into the brain cells, there’s no going back and the subject will continue to follow the steps to their ultimate conclusion:  Physical Perfection. I’d best send my prognosis to Coach Abrams immediately. We’ll start with flooding the rooms with the gas form first, then go from there. I want to prove that mental commitment is required before recommending nocturnal binaural treatment. I haven’t been this excited about a special case in years.

 ~October 30th~

Interesting. The process does seem to be having some effect on the boy, but according to body scans, they’re minimal at best. Still, the gas does appear to be having an effect of sorts on him in his sleep, as it does for all subjects. Intense arousal triggered by surges of testosterone implies treatment is working. Given enough exposure, it is possible The Process could work without mental suggestions, but that would require an undue abuse of resources. No, best to stick with what works best. I will recommend nocturnal binaural treatment begin immediately for all subjects. I look forward to seeing the results.

 ~November 10th~

Subject 56 appears to be oblivious to the passing of time. The alterations to his clock tablet have been a success, and he continues to mark his days by numbers, rather than by date. I have noticed the impact of the binaurals on the subjects. Several are exhibiting more masculine traits and look longingly at the gym, according to the camera feeds. Others have already succumbed and begun a regular workout schedule. Scans show these subjects are using less brain power for their activities as more and more of the brain sends signals and chemicals to the rest of the body, reinforcing pleasure and desire for physical exertion. An unfortunate side effect of these changes is a drop in I.Q. Therefore, as part of the process, we include hypnosis sessions to make them not care about the loss. Once they experience their first growth spurts, many do not even require it, but to be safe, we include them anyways. They make better men and better soldiers that way. Note to self. Talk with maintenance about the lights. The bulbs need replacing.

 ~November 12th~

Further observation indicates the subject, Number 56, is beginning to falter. The boy is taking too long, though. Too much of a danger. I have consulted with my superiors. They recommended I speak with Coach Stone, one of the more … unorthodox of our trainers here, but he knows his stuff. He suggested letting the boy “accidentally” walk in on various hypnosis sessions, starting with the showers. It seems feasible. There is some risk of resistance arising once word spreads to the others, but Stone assures me things will be fine, especially now that we have a new acquisition in the form of number 56’s friend, number 28, Kevin Marugama.

He has taken remarkably well to the changes and adapted accordingly. He still loves to smile, but it occasionally dims when he works out. I believe it has to do with number 56 somehow. Most forget their relationships when they pass into this phase and only care about their new “bros” and their “fucking big dicks” with their new team mentality. 28 seems to want to wait. He is more hesitant. Perhaps he bears a lesser form of resistance than his friend, 56. The strange part is, he’s embraced the program more so than any other. He’s grown the largest, changed his hair, grew his “massive, manly bulge,” conformed to everything, and yet he still hangs on with his mind. Curious.

 ~November 13th~

Subject 56 has made contact in showers as planned. The boy was markedly surprised and the others reacted as projected. Their only idols will soon be their own reflections and muscle. Number 56 appears to be rattled, but unfazed otherwise. He wisely has chosen to keep his counsels to himself, though the arousal appears to be increasing and he is following the commands embedded in his subconscious as he sleeps. Surely it will only be a matter of time before he joins the rest of them, becomes the very thing he used to despise: a musclebound thrall obsessed with whatever his commanding officers tell him to be. For our purposes, that will be fitting the stereotype of a big, dumb jock with a massive, manly bulge.

Say these words, and the subjects fall into a trance loop until they fit the stereotype in every way. It’s most effective. Anyone exposed will experience intense and sudden arousal, followed by lightheadedness, and lastly, a sense of intense euphoria as they run and re-run the loop over and over in their minds, mass producing the key ingredient in The Process, causing their bodies to swell and distribute it through their systems until they reach maximum physical peak, or as they like to call it, being “fucking huge, big, buff, and swole with my fucking massive, manly bulge.” Crude, but effective. It has a nice ring to it. My compliments to the men at the recording department. The lyrical and rhythmic effect makes the command catchy and easy to repeat.

Once The Process gets far enough, the subjects often speak, record, write, and rewrite their commands and subliminals over and over again in their journals in a variety of forms, like “gotta get swole with my massive, manly bulge,” “muscles. So huge. Massive. Fucking massive. Bigger. Buffer. Grow. Just a big, dumb jock with a massive cock. My massive, manly bulge,” and “Yes, sir. All I care about. Grow big. Big dick. Only meat in my head. Think less. Grow more. More massive the bulge, the bigger I grow, the less that I know, with my massive, manly bulge.” And so they continue to repeat, and lose, and forget their old selves until they are a new person entirely with a new, distinct, set personality that’s completely loyal to Coach. That is to say, their coaches. Pardon me, it’s getting rather late. Focusing on Number 56 has caused me to neglect myself. I’d best take a lie down to clear my head. Until next time.

 ~November 23rd~

Datalog entry file 56. Case:  The Mysterious Resistance

56 is showing clear signs of wavering. We decided to kill two birds with one stone by finishing converting numbers 22 and 23. As a bonus, numbers 5, 10, and 13 were also present. Against my orders, the gas was deployed to fill the chamber, effecting all present and accelerating the changes until all five were ready. It was … quite the display. Number 56 has been feeling the results since. He is beginning to record the trigger and other words to begin erasing his old personality. As the other drones say, “out with the nerd and in with the jock.” I look forward to seeing the end result.

Coach Abrams came up with a fit over the gas flooding at first, but I managed to convince him it was for the best. Coach Stone was very pleased. I believe the two have a rivalry of sorts going on, but I can never be too certain. The boy is once again too frightened to speak, which is good. A few more events like this and he’ll likely tip over the edge. His will is formidable, however. Many of the others have already fallen in line, but this one still hangs on. He may just have to pass on to another class in the first phase.

The next day, we had an escape attempt. No use trying to hide the effects of the process now. The guard drones overdosed the poor boy, then flashed him with the accelerant. The boy never stood a chance. He’ll join the guards and patrol the interior walls of the facility while other workers maintain environmental controls to keep up the illusion of the outdoors. The boy in question would obey any order you gave him so long as he viewed you as a superior. Though I do have to admit I am the slightest bit jealous. Those abs, those quads, those biceps. He’s an Adonis and more. I attended his post examination. To get so close to one of them, to actually feel that power, it’s indescribable. Makes me dizzy just thinking about it. So built. I … I um … need to rest. Maybe run a tox screen. I wonder if the drones have begun to produce the chemical in their sweat. It’s possible, considering how much our recent addition was pumped full. So very full. Pumped. Um … yes, tox screen, then bed. Definitely.

 ~November 24th~

Tox screen shows normal. I appear to be fine. No signs of the chemical in my system. We arranged for the boy to “accidentally” catch his former leader in the middle of a hypnosis session. Coach Stone is most skilled. Number 100 fell under the moment he heard his voice. The prompt to leave one bud loose was genius. He lost the binaural effects, but at this stage, he was deep enough in control we could afford to let it slip this once. Number 56 reacted most strongly and demonstrated astounding memorization skills. I, myself was most moved by Coach Stone’s performance. He has a very powerful voice. Very deep. I actually have a meeting with him later this evening to discuss the next step in the boy’s progression. 56 is a threat until he completely gives in. He must give in. Must give in. Must listen. He must listen and obey. Only then will The Process be able to complete. The Process must complete. Must complete. Complete sets...

 ~November 25th~

Drone 56 appears to be falling well into place now. He worked out without a single question, just blank obedience. His weight loss is slower than projections indicate they should be, but he is progressing. That is what is important. Progress. Man’s greatest achievement. What sets apart the real men from the fakes. Coach Stone has recommended I stay a while longer. We talked over coffee and discussed the details. He’s concerned the boy will break trance. He’s done it before. His conscious mind is very powerful. After a long discussion, I agreed to stay, and drank several cups of coffee while I was at it. I’ve felt so tired of late, I needed the caffeine. The coffee was surprisingly good. What happened after is a little fuzzy, but I recall returning to my quarters and wishing Coach Stone good night. I’ll see him soon, I’m sure. Very soon.

 ~November 26th~

Number 56 continues to progress slowly as he works off his excess fat. His asthma seems to be non-existent now, a sure sign of clinical success. His body repaired itself. Astounding. I have visited with Coach Stone now, and he desires to help me get more fit while I am here. I appreciated the offer, but politely declined. I hear his training methods are rather brutal. I really need to see someone about these lights, they’re starting to get rather distracting. I think I’ll ask Coach Stone about them. He seems to hold some sway among the higher ups. Yes, I think I’ll visit him now.

 ~November 30th~

56 continues to practice his routine. He is beginning to show more progress now as his metabolism increases. The programming is working. We have Coach Abrams regularly ask him about his massive, manly bulge now. Each time we say it, the boy smiles and runs the program, but when he’s done, his body seems to remain mostly the same. His penis size and scrotum size have hardly increased at all. Coach Stone is concerned, as is Coach Abrams to an extent. 56 has been useful in helping to convert some of the stragglers, but he himself still clings on somehow. It’s incredibly frustrating.

I have agreed to meet with the coaches on a regular basis and keep them apprised of all that I find. I may have to observe 56 from a closer standpoint before I can really find out what’s wrong. That is a rather disturbing thought though. To observe him up close, I would have to join the program under the pretense of being a new recruit. To walk in as a scientist would be positively out of the question. Why? Because the boys and men would immediately seek to exploit the weakness, not to mention they would likely suspect the method of delivery and then we would be forced to overdose them like that other boy. I’ll talk it over with Coach Stone at the gym. He tells me that’s normally easier for him than meeting in his office.

 ~December 5th~

As I suspected, the coaches all agree it’s not possible for me to enter the program for a closer examination. They warned me it would be a one-way trip and that what doctors had tried before were now little more than testosterone-soaked, musclebound bodybuilders. Many of them have been sent to various contractors in professional football and bodybuilding competitions. Naturally, what funds they win are generously donated to help further our efforts here with The Process and their families are notified of their “deaths” with a supplemental check in the mail to keep them afloat for the rest of their lives.

I have gotten into the habit of going to the gym on a regular basis to talk things through with Stone. The majority of 56’s classmates have now moved on. A mere straggler or two and he’ll be all alone. Coach Stone informs me he’ll be visiting to finish their conversions so that we can move on to plan B. Coach Abrams is not happy, but I have recommended Coach Stone to take over after this class is finished. The boy is clearly a troubled case, and perhaps unorthodox is exactly what we need right now. The higher ups have agreed with my assessment. Abrams will stand down, or he will be removed.

 ~December 10th~

Coach Stone did as he said and 56 is now alone. He continues to exhibit behavior as a focused drone: obedient, hardworking, flexing, etc. He still hasn’t changed much, however. He continues to show signs of resistance, and it is my hypothesis the boy will wake tomorrow and return to full consciousness. He will also be met by a brand new class of students. Coach Stone will be able to take care of them just fine. I look forward to seeing how the boy reacts to Stone’s personality. Stone can be quite persuasive when he wants to be. Quite persuasive, indeed. I just wish he’d put that to use for my office space. The lights have gotten worse, not better. I’ll have to take this up with the facility director if I can’t get this resolved soon. But first I’ll try Coach Stone one last time. I scratched his back. Maybe he’ll scratch mine.