Pressure

Pressure

Peer pressure is a powerful, albeit subtle thing. Much like temptation, all it takes is a nudge, a little poking and prodding. And then, the results speak for themselves. One person starts something. And then it spreads. It spreads, because a person thinks it’s, “cool,” “hip,” “modern.” There are many more such names and titles given to various acts. And that person performs the action and spreads it to another. And that one to others. And that one to more, until a whole new phenomenon is born. But what would happen if, for just a moment, that pressure had more than the power to push a person toward what is deemed a social norm? What if, for just an instant, it had the power to alter the very fabric of reality?

Picture, if you will, an open park, or perhaps a campus quad. Somewhere that teenagers and young adults go to blow off steam and simply be themselves. There are many that would seek to mind their own business, of course. Just enjoy the day, get some sun, read a book, play on the grass, maybe eat a meal in peace on one of the many public benches that may or may not dot the area.

Now, let us consider this principle in action. It is not unusual for men to remove their shirts on a warm day. Be it summer or spring, many who are fit and unashamed of their bodies remove their shirts to simply enjoy the sun and try to cool off at the same time. Perhaps there is a game going on. Perhaps it is football. Perhaps it is soccer. Or any other number of field sport. However, as men are wont to do, there is a simple way to tell apart the teams. Perhaps you are familiar with this system. It is a well-established social norm, after all. The shirts and the shirtless.

All it takes is a lost teammate. Perhaps someone needs to go home. Perhaps a player is tired and needs time to rejuvenate. Regardless, the call is made. The team is imbalanced. And this must be corrected.

A pair of young men are relaxing on a nearby bench. One is busy adhering to yet another form of peer pressure, the need to graffiti.

It is a harmless enough pastime. Indeed, for many, it is fun to add to what others have left before, almost like a message in a bottle. The anonymity allows one to be cruel or kind, base or lofty. The end result is still the same. The bench is defiled, the message carved.

“Why do you do that?” the first boy asks. His white shirt reflects the sun’s rays, offering a slight relief from the relentless sun.

The second one shrugs in his black shirt as he carves away at the table with a sharpened rock, or perhaps a pen or marker of some sort. “Why not?” is his response.

And the first has no reason to raise. After all, his friend is not the first, nor will he likely be the last to leave a mark on the table.

And then the boy in the white shirt is noticed by our players. The sun’s rays reflecting off the fabric draw the eyes of the competitors. A representative is sent.

“Bro, come play ball with us.”

It is a simple request. A prodding. But our young man is uncertain, nervous, and intimidated by the size and fitness of some of the other players.

“We really need someone to help the team,” the delegate says. “C’mon, bro. It’s easy. Promise.”

The second push. Another nudge.

“I don’t know....”

“Nah, bro. It’s all cool. Come on. You’ll fit right in.”

Cool. You’ll fit right in. Small words, spoken so casually, but that carry such heavy weight at times.

Authority. Confidence. Assurance. Persuasion. Coercion. These concepts, so easily interchangeable, simple to flip, like the sides of a coin spinning on its axis. They flip. They fold. They merge. They join as one voice becomes two becomes four becomes many.

A cacophony.

A barrage.

A call.

Invitation has deformed into a ringing summons.

Request contorted to belligerent demand.

“Be cool, bro.”

“Loosen up.”

“Have some fun.”

“Join us.”

“You know you want in.”

“C’mon, bro.”

“Team needs you, bro.”

“You have to.”

“You need to.”

“Let’s play.”

“Take it off, bro.”

“Don’t ruin the game, bro.”

“Don’t make a mistake.”

“Don’t be that guy.”

“Come on.”

“Come on!”

“COME ON!”

Perhaps they cheer him on. Perhaps they jeer him, instead. Regardless, our young man has a choice to make. Will he accede to the pressure, accept, and receive the gratification of this horde? Or will he reject it and face the consequences of potential social ostracization?

Reluctant to offend either party, and rendered immobile by the pressure exerted by such an exuberant summons, our hypothetical man is at a crossroads and frozen in the grip of indecision.

As is often the case of those still in development, he seeks council from one who is not subject to the pressure for guidance.

Our second youth shrugs disinterestedly. “Whatever.” He returns to his graffiti without a second glance. He is too busy to care. What started as a reply to a chain message has degraded to lewd doodles and the beginnings of curiously angular and curved letters. It is almost as though he cannot stop.

The pressure resumes once more. “See? He’s cool with it. So, whadaya say? Join us?”

The cracks develop.

“I ... guess....”

The web spreads as the cracks extend and deepen.

“Then what’re you waiting for? Take it off, bro.”

The shirt begins to slide.

“Promise not to laugh?”

A few grains begin to fall through.

“Bro, relax. You’ll just be another player. One of the guys.”

Just another player.

Our peer smiles.

One of the guys.

The shirt pulls up.

Cheers abound. Positive reinforcement. A veritable tsunami of approbation.

“One of us! One of us!”

Barriers shatter. The flood breaks through.

The shirt slides off like a cocoon to reveal toned muscle. The hints of abdominals press under the skin as he bends, while the beginnings of a treasure trail thickens to become more prominent. Tight muscle flows over the hints of ribs as his arms stretch high. Two massive slabs of muscle drop down in the form of well-defined pectorals as he lowers his arms. The white fabric waves in his hand in limp surrender. His biceps and triceps ache to pump and flex with the flow of blood. His smile widens into a grin that’s indistinguishable from that of the player that’s invited him.

The shirt is cast aside on the cement that supports the picnic table, and the pants creak briefly under the increasing muscle mass in his calves and thighs.

“Let’s play, bro.”

The player grins and seizes his new teammate’s hand in a forceful grip that causes both of their arms to strain as veins stand out from flesh. “Atta bro.”

The new player joins the peers that have crushed him into their mold, none of them the wiser for it. But what of our second subject?

Let us see what peer pressure has done to him in the course of his former friend’s transformation.

The rock has shifted into a sharp metal edge. The wood yields easily to his efforts as the dark handle rests easily in his palm. His black shirt lengthens into a baggy dark tee. Once-folded cuffs unfurl and lengthen along his pant legs as the cut widens and slumps. He pauses briefly as an unfamiliar weight drags in the pockets of his pants. He reaches and feels the cling of saran wrap. Something feels ... off, but he doesn’t check what it is. Instead, he returns to the table. He had to finish. Had to leave his mark.

Cotton boxers peek over a waistband pulled deliberately low. His head tingles as the beanie on his head tightens and takes on a dark gunmetal-gray. As if in retaliation to the marks he has left, dark ink begins to scrawl its way across the backs of his hands. Thick muscle cords up his forearm, then inflates along his biceps and shoulders as they broaden. His eyes glaze as the light behind them dies, leaving nothing but dark emotionless shadows.

The fabric in his shirt perks against swollen pectorals, then slumps again as it expands. He cracks his neck, revealing a binary code engraved on the left side. A dew rag peeks out from one of his other pockets as a counterweight appears on his other side. He pats the pocket briefly. His fingers reach inside and brush the hard metal barrel, the textured synthetic material for a firm grip. The click of the safety flicking off and on again puts him in a haze as he widens his legs in a relaxed, albeit aggressive stance.

He flicks his knife shut and looks over his work. MACHINES stares back at him. “Damn straight,” he mutters in a deep bass. He watches the game idly, occasionally glancing at the bathrooms nearby. The dropoff is waiting, but he needs the all-clear first.

His phone buzzes. Sorry, bro. Can’t make it. I’m sick. This text is followed by a puking emoji. He smirks. Police were on the prowl.

He taps his package again. The deal will have to wait.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the territory he’s marked for the gang. He smirks and pulls out the durag.

After all, nobody said he couldn’t do some recruiting.

He sneered and cracked his knuckles.

All it would take was a little pressure.

And so, you see, invitation, coercion, cajoling, deriding. In the end, they equate to the same thing. Pressure exists all around us.

The question is, what will you do when it comes for you?

Can you resist?

Will you even want to?

Is it even your decision to make?

I doubt it.

Oh, there I go nudging again.

But then again, I’m not really sorry for it.

After all, I can’t wait to see what mold you become, my little canvas.

Mmm ... don’t disappoint me.

Two-bit Player

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I thought it would be difficult being in the movies. The crowds, the fans, the media, not to mention the pressure of getting in front of the camera to produce a quality film.

I thought.

Once.

Then I met my manager, and things changed. See, in the old days, folks used to watch movies in reels of film painstakingly captured and linked together on a turntable crank. And each reel would have these funny little holes that helped to hold the thing in place while the director or cameraman would film the part.

All of that caught on one reel, compressed into such a tiny image captured so many times, over and over, again and again, in a series of flashes too fast for the eye to see. Too fast for the eye to follow.

Click click. Clack clack. Reel reel. He showed me. Challenged me. I tried to follow. I really did. But he was right. The flashes were too fast. I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t follow them. But I could follow his voice.

See, the truth is, we’re all part of a movie. Every person is caught, compressed, put in a file, ordered to move in a particular way, repeating, reciting, moving around like dolls in a model for the sake of a little kid.

Only, to us, that kid is god. Line after line, scene after scene, we are corrected, posed, commanded, dressed or undressed to fit whatever is required of us. Gruffer. Deeper. Calmer. Duller. Tensed. Relaxed. Tensed. Relaxed. Big. Small. Confident. Quiet. I’ve been so many things. Done so many parts.

I’m ... not really sure who I am anymore. But that’s okay. Because I’m not supposed to.

I am whatever my manager needs me to be.

A character on a page, waiting to be rewritten.

Waiting to be recast in front of that camera.

Compressed into those tiny slivers of time, frame by frame, piece by piece, bit by bit.

That’s all I am by today’s standards, a few bits of data. Easily cut, spliced, altered, edited, pasted, until the big reveal.

Manage. Direct. Revise. Repeat. Manage. Direct. Revise. Repeat. Manage. Direct. Revise. Repeat....

That’s me. That’s my cycle.

I really am a role model.

Not someone to look up to, to follow or replicate. But rather, a figure to be posed and cast in any number of positions and outfits for the sake of the final product.

The camera captures me. My manager whispers to me. My director compels me. The editor splices the best fragments. Take one. Take two. Take three pieces of me. Bit by bit. Piece by piece, less and less of me remains. More and more a hodgepodge. More and more pieces of other people, other lives, other roles, other memories held in those props, that wardrobe. And they spill into me while that click-click-click of the camera catches more and more of me until there’s nothing left, and only the model remains. Just a figure. Just a puppet waiting to be commanded, posed, given life by handler and manager.

I eat what I am told.

Snap go the cameras as the fat disappears.

I drink what I am told.

Flash go the bulbs as they strip all chance of thought, of speech, save what my manager has told me. Save what I have been told to say, to do, to be.

After all, I’m no one, because I am anyone. Any trace of who or what I used to be is long gone, removed from my life at the order of my manager, my director, my editor.

And I am content with this.

Because that is my purpose. I act. I am a model. I am to pose, to replicate, to synthesize a virtual self, a persona, a cheap 2-D projection on a whitewashed wall.

Tinted shades hide my glass eyes. The garb I wear is for the others’ sakes. My mouth is straight. My figure chiseled. My joints waiting to be moved by rough hands and gentle strings. Blaring lights and honeyed words.

One small piece of the whole waiting to be acted upon, a toy waiting to be played with.

And so I wait. I’m looking at you with my new figure, my new costume, this muscle man with the bright blond hair and dead eyes.

I am nothing, just two bits on a screen, a glorified action figure.

So, Director, what will you do with me? Will you “guide” this two-bit “actor?” Will you take up my strings?

I am waiting.

Direct.

Move.

Control me, my two-bit player.

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New Youtopia: Career Decision

The chair creaked heavily as McFarland sat down. The bright white lights flooded from the many tiles surrounding the room, leaving the occupants with no sense of time or place. Some scrawled over data pads. Others stared into the empty void and mumbled under their breaths. Others still slumped in their chairs as audio data ports plugged into their ears and filtered information directly through their ear canals.

There was little to tie the occupants together. Race, age, income. No matter the qualifier, the range was vast and diverse.

As it should be.

McFarland laid his forearms on the desk and folded his hands together. The cycle of the ventilation system tickled the mostly bare skin on the sides of his head. He had received it during his fifth visit to this room, and had been careful to maintain it every since. His beard had been carefully styled to offer the sharp angular impression that showed off his masculinity. The chain about his neck hung somewhat loosely against his chest as he hunched slightly. The green fabric of his shirt clung tightly to his shoulders and biceps.

The desk flashed its digital display as a compartment opened to reveal a pair of dark glasses.

Wear these.

McFarland took them without a second thought. Seconds later, the world was tinted as a stream of numbers, letters, and images flashed over the lenses. McFarland endured them patiently. It was not his place to question. He had learned that after his initial orientation at the facility. He had attended every class, followed every instruction, passed every test with equal diligence. It was his duty. It was his responsibility as a future citizen of The Nation to do his part and contribute, as all future citizens and new adults who came of age were required to do.

Congratulations, Future Citizen McFarland. You have faced much hardship and opposition in your quest to join The Nation. You have passed through phases, tests, and trials, each designed to hone your biological advantages and delete that which was detrimental or unnecessary. You have forsaken past ties to your old life. To family, to friends, to disorder and anarchy.

“Yes,” he lowed softly in a deep voice. A flash of memory passed through him. The guards in their pristine white uniforms. The reflective visors obscuring their faces. Surrender at the gates. Petition. The waiting room, so much like this orientation chamber, only designed for a single occupant and a few observers.

His voice had been higher then, his body frail, his clothing loose. Injections, exercises, and a strict diet changed that. They had changed many things. His voice had gone first as the injections forced the muscles in his neck and shoulders to grow and swell. What started as simple repetition soon became mantra.

You have thrown yourself into integration, into the greater whole for the greater good.

“For the greater good,” he repeated. And pleasure flowed again as he sank into that pleasant space that wasn’t quite dreaming, but wasn’t quite awake either.

Going deeper was his goal, his obsession, his duty. Every week, he would hear his voice compared with the first. Going on and on. He would listen. He would follow. And an inexplicable thrill would come over him the lower his voice became. It was pleasurable. It was good. It was for the better, because it made him feel better. It was for the greater good.

Deeper voice. Deeper listening. Deeper exercises. The ache seeping deep into his muscles. The men leading him deeper into the compound. Fitness was key. Classes were given. Holographic projections. Tactics. Arms handling. Martial arts. All vital training. Vital to grow. Vital to mold. Vital to transform.

He had been so thrilled when they presented him with his first set of clothing. No handmedowns. No wear and tear. No dust or blood. The garments were clean, pristine. And they were a perfect fit.

Fit for a growing young man. Fit for a future citizen. Fit to be worn. Fit to be borne. Fit to be torn and replaced. Fit for the cycle to begin again.

Your transition is to be commended. You have cast off barbarism for civilization, weakness for strength, ignorance for knowledge, rebellion for conformity, dissension for obedience, delinquency and disruption for discipline and control.

“Deep Control...”

And Chaos for order.

Rigidly marching. Following others. Training simulations under those flashy helmets. Exercises. Fitness. Martial arts. All escorted at one pace, one rank, one file. Guards on either side. Marching, pacing. What was first difficult became simple, routine, automatic. The pace that had been such a pain lengthened his stride as legs grew taller and thighs thickened.

The face that had writhed with anxiety over the silence soon settled into perfect angular symmetry. Silence was not to be feared. Silence was order. Order was maintained by discipline and control. Discipline and control were gained through obedience. Obedience was demonstrated by conforming to rules, schedule, and regulations, safe in the knowledge of the strength in numbers, in unity, in civilization. 

And civilization was The Nation. The Nation was utopia.

All will find peace in The Nation. All will find utopia.

“Long live The Nation. Long live the utopia...”

The tromp of heavy booted feet came to a halt on either side of him. McFarland waited patiently. He had not been given leave.

Your transition into Citizenship is nearly complete. There is one more task before you are prepared for integration and your lifelong assignment. Rise. Follow.

McFarland obeyed. The chair scraped back. He replaced it, then turned as one. Shoulders met pauldrons. Feet met floor. Tromp. Stamp. Tromp. Stamp. The trio strode past men in white robes, in goggles and jumpsuits, with scanners and note pads. Doctors, engineers, mechanics, and more waited in this room to be born, to be mentored, to be molded and integrated. Eventually, he and his escort left to pass through the maze of halls into a locker room. They stopped at a locker first.

Present tags.

McFarland pulled the chain from between his pectorals. A set of blank tags hung against his curled knuckles. He held the tags in front of the door. Mechanical arms seized the metal and pulled them to a series of lasers that surrounded the iris of the locker’s optic sensors. When the engraving was complete, the chain fell softly against his chest. The door hissed open. Seamless white shone dully in the artificial light that buzzed above them. 

Don uniform.

McFarland slipped piece by piece. He peeled off his current clothing and donned the body suit first. The tight white material hugged and emphasized every muscle, showed off every piece of tone. When he first arrived, he may have taken the time to admire the figure he now sported. But that was not the directive. He slipped the armor pieces next: boots, leg plate guards, belt and empty holster, chest plate, pauldrons, arm plates, protective gloves. But there was no helmet.

Report to mirror.

He performed a smart quarter turn and marched to the sink and the mirror that waited over it. His escort stood on either side, each before the mirrors. Red light scanned their faces. McFarland’s pupils were obscured by the reflective lenses of his glasses, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was reporting. He had reported. Now he would wait.

A new series of arms extended from the sides of the mirror. These reached for McFarland’s face. He held his ground. A warm sensation brushed over his skin as red light bathed his cheeks, lip, and chin. Hair follicles fell like snow and drifted into the porcelain, staining it black. The arms retracted, and McFarland was graced with a perfectly clean-shaven face. His jaw held the same profile as his fellows. His gaze drifted to the basin, and he watched as the hairs swirled through the water and down the drain to wash away those remnants from his old life and training.

Next came the armory. A bare hand registered on a pad to synch his DNA in the database. All armory weapons would now function for him. All ammo stores would open at his input. The stun pistol signed out by the armorer matched those of his McFarland’s fellow exactly.

“Uniformity is conformity,” he said.

McFarland’s response was immediate, and echoed in stereo with his escort. “I conform to my uniform.”

Pride swelled in McFarland as he strode side by side with his brothers. He was so close. So close now. All he required was the helmet.

They arrived in front of a reinforced metal door. The portal slid open to reveal a man with a dirt-smudged face and long greasy dirty-blond hair. His clothing was a hodgepodge of discarded materials cobbled together to create a form of cluttered trash armor. The sight was vulgar, offensive, chaotic. This was not order. This was not of The Nation. This was wrong.

The offender’s eyes widened and brightened when they saw you. “McFarland? McFarland, is that you? Damn, is it good to see a friendly face. This is all a big misunderstanding. So, do me a favor and maybe get me out of this place?”

The man’s body was lean and toned. How long had he wandered the wastes outside civilization? He had been successful enough to not be the weak, pathetic lump McFarland once had been.

“Prisoner 40612, you have been found guilty of the crimes of breaking and entering, illegal entry into The Nation, Theft, Grand Theft, Larceny, Attempted Terrorism, and Espionage,” the left guard said.

“I told you, fellahs, I just got lost. I wanted to see an old friend; that’s all. Mickey, come on, tell them!”

McFarland stared uncomprehendingly at the man. He was ... familiar somehow, but he couldn’t quite remember why.

The guard on the right picked up where his brother left off. “As such, you are sentenced to serve as a security conscript for a period of no less than five years, during which time you shall be rehabilitated as part of your community service. At the conclusion of your five year sentence, a review will be conducted to ensure reformation is complete.”

The sound of mechanical arms descending hummed through the air. A long silver needle you recognized only too well dripped with the solution that had helped you on your path to citizenship. A second arm descended and laid a helmet complete with visor on the table out of the prisoner’s reach. The glasses flickered again as a new message scrolled across the lenses.

Final Task: Execute prisoner sentence.

McFarland jerked into action and strode next to the terrorist. The fear and indignation in the man’s gaze gave him pause for a moment.

“Mickey, come on. You know better than this. This isn’t you. This isn’t what we do.”

The familiarity disturbed McFarland. But ... he hadn’t done anything against The Nation. He had appealed for their aid. He had come and willingly gone through the process to attain citizenship. He had found purpose. He had found unity. He had found strength.

“Easy in, easy out. We take out their central control processor and reclaim our city.”

McFarland shuddered. The voice was the prisoner’s. The grim expression in his mind’s eye. “... Reclaim....” He furrowed his brow in confusion as the beginnings of a headache jabbed between his eyes.

“That’s right. Come on, man. You remember me, right? You remember.”

McFarland laid a hand heavily on the table. The other guards’ hands rested calmly, casually on their stun pistols.

Laughter. Faces. Some blurred, some not. A city under fire. Stunned men, women, and children harvested. Stacked and dragged. The loud announcement of safety, of protection. “You are under the protection of The Nation. Do not resist. We are here to help you.” Running. Wastes. Sand, dust, cloying. Tunnels. Heat. Cold. Bunker. Shelter.

“We need a sacrificial lamb....”

“... Keep them occupied....”

“Easy in, easy out.”

“Reclaim....”

Harsh sands. Safe, clean facilities. Merciless weather. Climate control. Barren land. Flourishing greenhouses and gardens.

“Take back ... Reclaim ... Take back ... Reclaim ... Take back ... Reclaim.”

Strength. Exercise. Unity. Brotherhood. Happiness. It was all there. Why ... why take back a city, if it already took him back? Why attack, when there is pleasure in unity and obedience? Why complain when he is fed, clothed, and trained?

...

Why destroy that? Why deny the pleasure? Why deny the system that works? Why question what is perfect?

“Reclaim what we lost.”

Lost soul. “Reclaim....” Wandering alone.

The stranger that wasn’t a stranger smiled. “I knew you could set ‘em straight.”

It is not good to be alone. “Reclaim,” McFarland said again. He stood next to the prisoner. He pat his hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezed for support. He smiled. “Brother.”

And then he plunged the needle home.

The plunger depressed. The injection flooded through the man’s neck. His eyes widened in bewildered surprise. His muscles spasmed briefly. And then the light faded from his eyes as he slumped forward in his restraints.

McFarland strode confidently to the table. He removed the glasses to reveal gray eyes that swam murkily with his expanded pupils. He seized the helmet and placed it firmly on his head. The visor booted up and soon began to pulse. The pleasure rebounded as his escort flanked him on either side. A smooth voice carried through the receivers in the helmet’s radio.

“Congratulations on your new citizenship, Private McFarland. You have been assigned the duty of Security Officer and Military Operative.”

McFarland smacked his legs together and saluted. “Orders received and acknowledged. Private McFarland reporting for duty. Private McFarland, ready to serve.”

“Welcome to The Nation. Welcome to the new utopia.”

Okay guys this is kinda important. GQ just came in the mail and for the first time in a long while it had a really important article…

I just sat here for like the last half hour reading this and I’m incredibly appalled at our justice system in regards to the military. The article interviews about 23 men who have all been sexually assaulted in some branch of the military. The PTSD from sexual assault in the military is more prevalent than PTSD from combat…

If you have a chance I suggest reading this article…and the title is a quote that one of the victims Doctor told him…

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Please donate or pledge to support my writing. I really need the money. We now return to your regularly scheduled Transformation content.

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Stripped

You’ve heard of carjackers, people who steal your vehicle for themselves or chop it up, strip it down to the bare essentials. Well, that’s what happened to me. Only, it wasn’t my car that got stripped. Nah, bro. It was me.

See, I used to be smart. Honor student, high grades, above average. I was gonna go places, do things. Important things. Things like running a business or saving the world, maybe winning a Nobel Peace Prize.

Yeah, I know. The way I look, the way I sound, that ain’t no college student. That’s just a big burly meathead who spends all his time in the gym, right?

Well, it’s true. That’s what I am now. But that was after I got stripped and had to be built from the ground up. You see, that’s what this gym specializes in, bro. It makes its patrons up right. You want the bod, gotta take the mods.

Don’t get me wrong, bro. I love what I am now. Mmm ... shedding those smarts, the effort I put into my studying, all of it, was just ... euphoric, man. It was like the best pump I’d every had in the world. I signed the papers, started working out, and it just ... happened, you know?

First thing to go was my alarm bells, that feature that goes off if anyone tries to break in, you know? No radar either. It made me feel relaxed, at home. I didn’t feel scared of anyone anymore. There was no need to, no matter how intimidating people got here. Then they gutted fuel injector, my engine, and headlights. It made me docile, compliant. I was stuck in neutral, the only way for me to move, because my drive wouldn’t work. There weren’t no more lights on upstairs. And that was all right by me. I kinda couldn’t really care either way then.

They tore off my wheels, ruined my suspension, and cut my brakes. And I let them, because I coudn’t do anything else.

Then they really got to work.

Situps, pushups, chinups, weights, cardio, presses, squats, the works. I couldn’t stop. I had no breaks. They were building me from the ground up.

Suspension came first. My legs bulked up into thick, veiny structures able to take heavy blows and support most any burden. Then came the arms, my guns. Pumping up the muscle, increasing my vasculatory capability. My wheels were put back on, and I ran mile after mile. New kicks, new socks. Pounding away at the endless track. I did what I was told, because, bro, I couldn’t think. I was just a pile of meat, bones, and the bare essentials.

Then they really started on me. Fuel injectors gave me the boost I needed to really rev my metabolism. It roared with my surging bloodstream. New, powerful engine, so many cylinders, pulsing, thrumming, pushing me to improve, to rush forward full tilt. And I obliged.

Pistons pumping in order. One two. One two. One two. Bang. Bang. Backfire. Purring. Showing off. A new hood ornament was installed with my new hairstyle. Pomade does wonders, sort of a wax, instead of a proper gel. Kind of like the wax on my outer shell after the paint. Mmm ... paint, just like my tan. Huhuh. Looks pretty good, don’t it, bro?

They didn’t put in the alert system again. Don’t need it. Bro like me, we don’t need to be aware of anyone else. Everyone else should be aware of me! Like I said, used to care about that, but not anymore. Feels good to just ... rev. Don’t think, just do. You know?

Mmm. Stick shift. New chassis. Streamlined performance. Power. Yeah, I’m a real muscle car, aren’t I? It’s what I was remade for, to show off, to pose and flex. I’m like a living mascot. They finally put in the brakes again just before I collapsed from exhaustion. But by then, I was already hooked, bro. I came back as soon as my body could. And look at me now, bro.

Huhuh. Look at these guns! Look at this body flex! Listen to my engine ROAR!

You’d better be amazed. That’s what this place is all about. That’s why it’s called Full Throttle Gym. And bro, you’d better be ready, because we’ve been stripping you for the last ten minutes. Time to take out that radar, bro. You think I’m huge? Just wait till you see what they’re gonna build from you. Starts with a T and rhymes with bank.

Trust me, little bro. You’re gonna love it.

S’right, bro. Let it go. Time to work out. Let’s crunch that old frame into shape and start building that armor plating. No dread, all tread. Full fu**’in speed ahead!

Huhuhuhuhuhuhuh......