Of Spies And Muscleheads Epilogue

Of Spies and Muscleheads Epilogue

Brute grinned as he walked up and down the aisles, carefully examining each of the men as they worked out. They stared blankly at the ceiling as they lifted in time to the music blaring over the speakers. Towering at Nine and a half feet tall, he watched as each man stared up with vacant eyes into pulsing green screens. His eyes were drawn to a blinking cursor at the edge of his helmet’s visor as a message began to scroll across.

Meathead Brute

Designation: Trainer 010

Controller Order: Initiate Final Lift Program. Full Conversion.

Future Subject Designation: Meathead Patrolmen 500-520.

Prepare meatheads for deployment in conversion project FAT Camp. Send to armory and wait for new potential meatheads.

Meathead Brute will obey.

Brute walked up to the control console and placed his palm on the biometric scanner. In a matter of moments, he had changed the settings to match his orders. A shudder of pleasure ran through him as he watched the new meatheads. It always felt so good to make more meatheads, to be more meathead. He watched as they pushed, watched as they swelled, watched as they repeated their mantra of meat, muscle, and obedience. He watched as the men rose as one, blank-eyed, focused, obedient. He watched as the helmets slowly descended from the dispenser unit and mounted on their heads. He watched as the green screens flashed to life. He watched twenty true muscle men slam their legs together ram-rod straight and salute in perfect unison as the green lights pulsed behind their visors. He watched as twenty new interfaces downloaded into his own helmet.

“We are meatheads. We obey,” came the crisp confirmation as twenty new meatheads gave themselves over completely to their new lives.

Brute sent the order.

The men turned immediately and followed the automated instructions in their helmets, droning all the while. Brute would have smirked, amused at the expressions of fear the potential meatheads had on their faces when they saw the new meatheads leaving. They were escorted into the gym by Patrolmen 210-215. Brute had trained them himself, and could not help but feel a little pride at their focus and attention to duty, while their interfaces connected to his network of control.

“Good meatheads,” he thought. The interface immediately communicated the message.

The men saluted. “We are good meatheads. We obey.”

A new set of orders flickered across his visor.

Meathead Brute

Designation: Trainer 010

Controller Order: Initiate Conversion Program M-BDJ. Process Subjects: Juvenile Delinquents. Potential meatheads will be converted to muscle and return reformed to society.

Future Subject Designations: Numbers 00-56, Team Sparta.

Beta Tester Team Gamma Number 54, Public Designation: Trav, will join you.

A brief flicker of something sparked at the designation, for some reason. Brute immediately crushed it. It was not his place to think. He would train. He would obey. And Gamma 54 would help him convert these potential meatheads to muscle, just as he had once been helped by Brute.

The loud swish of the heavy metal doors sliding open indicated the arrival of the new assistant. Brute immediately interfaced with the young meathead’s helmet, then turned to see the giant of a jock. His grin proved unsettling to the gathered crowd of future meatheads, and his form towered over them at seven foot five. Gamma 54 was well on his way to becoming a true and proper meathead. Perhaps he could even be a trainer someday, with the proper coaching. Stone looked with disdain on the little runts. Every meathead towered over potential meatheads at first, and it disgusted him.

Gamma 54’s football pads clung to his frame, the lycra-spandex fabric straining and holding against his perfectly sculpted muscles. Again, the same green glow in all helmets shone beneath the visor’s cover as the green-eyed jock stared out at the gathered youth. For the most part, they appeared to be gangsters and runaways, their clothing shabby and disheveled. They were not organized. They were not disciplined. They were not a team. Yet.

“’Sup, bros?” Gamma 54 greeted, grinning still. A few in the group swayed on their feet. Brute immediately took note of them. They would convert first. Then he would use them to force the others.

“This is Trav from team unit Gamma. His team number, as you can see, is 54.” Brute hated talking like this, but the potential meatheads were not ready to hear proper speech yet. They would need to be trained and conditioned, and increasing their fear would only serve to delay the conversion. “He will be assisting me as we take you on a journey to better yourselves.”

“Yeah, right,” came a snarky comment from farther back. A nervous chuckle ran through the gathered miscreants.

Brute continued as the script played out over his visor. He bored into the teens. “We’re here to work you to the bone. This isn’t high school; this isn’t a penitentiary. Do what you’re told, and you won’t have any problems. Don’t do what you’re told, and you will be punished. We’re not afraid to hit here, and we hit hard,” he said, tensing his muscles as he glared. The show proved more than effective as more than half the group recoiled. Good. They would acknowledge his authority. “You will follow a set schedule and report on time. If you choose to disobey, a guard will make you obey. If you rebel, the guards will retaliate in kind. Submit to our authority, and by the time you leave this facility, you will be as strong, fast, and disciplined as Trav.

“Fuck you!” one of the delinquents shouted, shoving his middle finger up in the air.

The reaction was swift and painful as Gamma 54 lunged into the crowd and immediately punched the offending young man in the stomach. The kid was on the floor, coughing and struggling to get his breath as Gamma 54 glared, then smashed his foot down on the kid’s back, and ground with the spikes of his cleats. “Nobody disrespects Coach Brute.” The rest of the group recoiled as Gamma 54 picked up the currently sorry excuse for a human being and held him in the air by the scruff of his shirt.

Brute beamed with pride.

“What do I do with him, Sir?” Gamma 54 asked.

“Hand him off to 211. He’ll take the boy to solitary. You didn’t break anything?”

Gamma 54 sneered. “Just his pride. He’ll bruise, and it’ll hurt like hell, but he’s fine.”

“Good. 211, take this kid to solitary. I’ll designate a trainer for him later.”

211 nodded, and curtly grabbed the kid by both arms, lifting him above the ground as he marched out from the room.

Brute’s comms link suddenly sparked to life as static filtered through his helmet and into his ears.

“Brute, report to my office immediately.”

Brute’s body went rigid. “Yes, Sir.” The signal cut off, and he immediately turned on the party. “Trav, I have to go see Coach Stone. I’m leaving you in charge in the meantime. You know what to do. Get them geared up and start their training.”

“Convert the swayers as soon as possible. 54 will initiate BDJ orientation file Sleep and Obey. 54 will then follow up with BDJ files Weight Trance paired with Pleasure Daze as they work. 54 will reinforce training, and follow prompts while Brute is away. 54 will take command, until Brute returns. 54 will obey,” the hidden orders flashed over Gamma 54’s display.

“54 is a good, dumb jock. 54 obeys,” the response read.

Brute smiled, patted Gamma 54 firmly on the shoulder pad, then marched out of the room with a purpose. The youths parted for him, keeping a wide berth, until he was gone. Good. They were learning. They would obey soon enough.

Stone’s office was a strange place. It sounded too quiet, and the music Coach played was too fancy. Just a bunch of low, slow strings with a few high-pitched squeaks. Brute didn’t like it too much. The wall-to-wall bookshelves also left him feeling uneasy. Where were the mirrors? Where was the metal? Where was all the workout equipment? Where were the pads? All he could see was a single bench with a few piles of hundred-pound weights to lift. Still, he was a meathead, and meatheads always obey Coach Stone. And so, he stood at attention, and awaited his new orders.

“Sit down, Brute,” Stone said from his place behind his desk. He lowered a book by some guy named Dickens. Maybe he was a meathead, too? Bigger balls, bigger dick. Makes sense.

Brute obeyed, even as he stared and observed.

“I’m going to show you something, Brute, and I want you to look over it very carefully, before you answer my question.” Coach Stone pulled open a locked drawer and clenched his fist. There was the sound of metal sliding across wood, before the glint of tiny chain links became visible, just barely poking out from between Stone’s fingers. He smacked his hand down on the desk, causing the floor to tremble beneath their feet. Then he slid the object over and revealed what had been hidden. “Go ahead. Pick it up.”

Brute reached down to touch the strange metal plates. They were small, no more than maybe an inch or two in length. The thin metal had been carefully pressed by a machine with a series of numbers and a name the meathead didn’t recognize. By the time he’d gotten half way through the name, he’d already lost interest. The shorter name on the other tag caught his attention, though. “… Hunter,” he read aloud.

“Yes. Do you recognize the name?”

Brute stared at the tags. He furrowed his blocky brow. “Chains’re broken.”

“Do you recognize the name?” Coach Stone pressed.

Brute slowly lowered the dog tags back down to the table and stared with his hollow eyes. “No, sir, Coach. Should I?”

Coach Stone smiled. “No, Brute, you shouldn’t.” He slid the tags back over to his side. “Just an old relic ready to be forgotten. That name’s served its purpose for now. I might recycle it later for a new meathead. How are the new recruits?”

“Dumb Jock Unit Gamma 54 activating initiation and reinforcement protocols.” Brute paused as he accessed the interface, using his clearance to put up a security feed and statistical report on his visor. Some few of the boys had tents already standing out in their jeans as they stared at the video. Blushing, they struggled to cover them. Some blinked owlishly, and swayed in their chairs, erections forgotten. A few more had slumped forward in their chairs, and were slowly mouthing under their breaths. One of the guards casually approached such a youth, and pulled him up and aside, pointing to a bench. The boy walked over, glassy-eyed as he sat, continued to stare ahead, and mumbled along. The other mumblers soon followed. “Three units ready for instruction. Ten aroused. Five entering trance. The rest are still watching. Some youth are closing their ears. Others are frightened. Potential units will take time to process.”

“No need to worry, Brute. Time is something we have plenty of. That’s what these tests are for. We need to find more efficient ways to hasten the process. Hit them with the new experimental subliminals as soon as they go to sleep tonight. As for today,” Stone sneered, “work them till they drop.”

Brute straightened and saluted to his coach. “I am a meathead. I obey.”

“Good. Now go,” Stone said, dismissing him with the wave of a hand. “I want at least five new jocks by the end of the week.”

Brute left the office with one last affirmation of his obedience and smiled as he marched down the halls. It was good to be a meathead. It was good to obey.

Stone grinned as he looked over the old tags, then laughed. “Who’d have thought taking over a spy agency would have been so easy?” He reached down and pressed his thumb to a fingerprint scanner. With a chirp and a ka-chunk, the drawer came free and slowly emerged to reveal an ever-growing pile of dog tags. “Last one,” he murmured as he slowly tipped his hand. The name fell with a metallic clink and the slither of metal chain on metal chain as the pile writhed, before settling once more. The drawer slowly drew shut, and Hunter was swallowed forever, never to emerge.

Without a second glance, Stone rose and turned to an old set of binoculars resting on one of the higher bookshelves. He placed his head against them and waited as a familiar red light ran over his eyes. The book case to his left drew open with a steely hiss and he entered into his personal weight room, filled to the brim with every workout machine on the market.

Stone shuddered as he hastily removed his suit, tearing a few of the buttons off, before tossing it onto a side bin and sliding on the familiar black sleeveless muscle shirt and shorts. The word Coach had been embossed on the back, and the front read JUST LIFT in big white letters. He allowed himself a flex in the mirrors, before smirking and turning to the squat rack. His hands twitched in anticipation. His legs ached to flex, to move, to fill with blood pumping through his veins. “It’s been too long,” he moaned. Then he set to work.

As the haze of the workout slowly descended over him, he grinned. “Gotta work out. Gotta get swole.” A deep bass drum played in the background, beating in time to his heart as music filled the room, and his silvery grey eyes slowly shifted to an emerald green. He took two hundred pounds for each side of the bar, and secured them in place, then picked the bar up, and began to squat. “Meatheads will spread with their coach in control.” He shuddered, then sneered. “Yes. Maybe I should be more of a coach.”

Finding Common Ground

Forgive me, if this sounds preachy. It’s my first time trying to tackle this concept in a written format, whether prose, letter, or something else. I’ve just had cause to reflect recently on our current situation in the nation (United States), and on differences as a whole that often lead to conflict. Different ideals. Different cultures. Different religions. And, yes, in some cases (though I do hate that these cases exist) different skin color. There’s opposition and conflict in just about every situation in the world. Even when we’re doing something as simple as moving one object to another place, opposition is in effect as we enact a force on that object to make it move against the laws of gravity. It seems in all this disparity that often, the only similarity between extremes that I can find is an intense dislike, if not outright hatred on both far sides of these conflicts. I hear conversations where men and women defame Donald Trump as a liar, a con man, and someone who is out to only better the wealthy and the rich. And yet, I don’t hear anything about his accomplishments that he’s made in his time as president from many of them. Likewise, I hear those who have praised Trump for his good works without acknowledging the past mistakes, sins, misdeeds, or misconducts that he has committed, before taking office. (I wasn’t sure which word would best apply. Hence, why I used multiples that could be deemed as synonyms.) Please note, this is not a political commentary, or at least it’s not intended as one. I’m simply stating this as an example. Another would be the whole debate that rages between homosexuality and heterosexuality (forgive me, if these terms seem outdated. I don’t keep up with all these new terms scientists and culture has come up with. Heck, I didn’t know they’d changed LGBT to LGBTQ, until I had to do research on it for an article I was writing.) It seems that people are forgetting what it is to be willing to respect that others have different beliefs on both sides, whether it be over religion, sexuality, politics, culture, or any number of other topics. As a Christian, I found myself under attack for saying that I couldn’t support someone’s decision to go through a transgender operation, but that I could and did respect their decision to go through with it, because it’s their choice. The funny thing of it, the person I was addressing didn’t blow up at all. It was a boatload of other people from all across the spectrum. Other Christians, atheists, and who knows what else. I don’t know what classifications or identifications these people take. It was online, after all. I understand the importance of free speech, of letting one’s opinion be known. I just miss the time when we could be willing to look at one another, and while we saw differences, could still see a common ground of humanity, of the fact that we each have our own choices to make, and that while we may not agree with each other, we can still have civil conversation and even develop great friendships, despite our differences. What happened to the age of compromise? What happened to the time of understanding between one another? I don’t know. All I know is that I wake up and look at the news, and all I see is more disparity, more anger, more violence, and not much dialogue. Maybe it’s happening behind the scenes. I don’t know. I just wish people would be willing to look more at one another and say, “Hey, I don’t agree with your choices, but I like you as a person. Wanna hang out?” I know there’s no cookie cutter solution to differences. Every situation is different, and I most certainly will never claim to have an answer to the conflict in the first place. But I do think it would help, if people stopped pointing fingers or making mobs or yelling or screaming against other points of view. Compromise and change require peaceful discussion. It’s like Doctor Who said in his famous speech during the Zygon war. You can get up, fight the battles, lose thousands of lives on both sides, or you can do what you always have to do in the end, what inevitably happens, no matter what the end result may be. You sit down, and you talk. I wish people would do that again. It’s so much easier to find that common ground, when you’re actually willing to look for it.

Full Body Devo

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Dustin?” the tubby black angus asked as he shifted his hooves nervously and looked up at the gym sign again. The words CRO-MAGNON DEVO flickered red and yellow in the evening light. “I’m not really that big of a lifter. You know that. And I really don’t need another round of slights thrown my way for my horn size.” The shoulder strap on his gym bag creaked as he wrung it, and another puff of dust rose from the old burlap as it smacked against his waist.

“Charles, if we don’t, we may never find out what happened to Ben in the first place,” Dustin replied. His pale white skin was evidence of the lack of outdoor activity in his life, but he’d managed to at least maintain a certain amount of fitness with a lean figure and well-toned muscle. A slightly darker shade of blue switched with lighter tones in intermittent stripes that stretched like rungs down his shirt, highlighting the definition he’d put into his pectorals. A pair of simple black shorts complemented the shirt and rounded out the overall gym look he was going for. A mop of voluminous brown hair framed his young face, giving him an almost boyish appearance. The blue in his shirt contrasted with the hazel in his eyes, which seemed almost to glow with determination as he glared at the gym. “I can teach you the basics. And besides that, Ben invited us here. He still likes us on some level. Otherwise, he would have cut ties altogether. And if he still likes us, then he won’t take anyone making fun of you either.” He reached up and patted the broad-shouldered bull comfortingly on the back.

“Let’s just … get this over with,” Charles said. He snorted nervously as he raised his bag over a shoulder. His dress shirt strained against his stomach as they passed through the door, and his dress slacks raised more than a few skeptical eyebrows from exiting patrons.

The two friends suddenly found themselves positively crushed by two titanic arms as a deep voice growled out in an exultant laugh. “Guys, you made it!”

“Grip … too tight,” Dustin gasped.

“Can’t … breathe,” Charles finished in a greeting as old as their friendship.

The arms released their grip and the laughter rumbled through the two friends as they stared at a towering tan-furred cat with a thick lantern jaw and scruffy hair that seemed almost to blend in with his fur coat. The feline was bare-chested with a set of tight-fitting compression shorts to help wick away any sweat from below. Two frigid ice-blue eyes stared them down, even as Ben smiled warmly, exposing his sharp canines. “Man, did I miss that sass,” he boomed as he curled an arm around either friend’s shoulder. “These guys are fun enough to lift with, but it’s just not the same without someone you really know, ya know?”

“Yo, Ben!” A massive Bengal tiger in a tight-fitting forest-green singlet thudded up to the trio. “Get your ass back on the floor. Class is about to start!”

“In a minute, Pad! I’ve gotta get my friends settled in first.”

The Bengal eyed the pair and licked his lips. “New meat, hmm?”

“I told you I’d bring some new blood, didn’t I?” For a moment, Ben’s smile flickered into a wicked sneer and Pad smirked.

“We’ll see if they have what it takes.”

Ben smacked his forehead and the flicker was gone. “Man, I can’t believe I’m so stupid! Guys, this here’s Padaavanati. You can see why we just call him Pad.”

The tiger shrugged. “It’s simpler that way, and I like simple.”

“Pad here’s the gym’s owner, and one of the best damned trainers a man could ask for.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Pad said. Dustin shuddered at the slight prick from the feline’s claws as Pad seized his hand in his much larger mitt. The tiger’s eyes seemed inquiring, almost probing. He held that gaze for a few moments as he searched Dustin’s face. Then Pad bore his fangs in an unsettling grin. “Yes, I think we’ll get along very well.”

Charles did his best to maintain a neutral expression as he took the tiger’s hand in his own. The two were somewhat closer in height, but the sheer predatory presence was enough to get the bull’s heart racing. His nostrils flared instinctively as he took in the tiger’s scent. He squeezed. “We’re looking forward to seeing how you work. If you could do that much to Ben, I wonder what you could do for me.”

“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” The tiger’s smile was smug as he tightened his grip on Charles’ hand. Surprisingly enough, the bull didn’t let go, despite the shaking in his arm.

“Yes, we will.” Charles furrowed his brow as he glared up at the tiger.

Ben coughed uncomfortably. “He’ll be needing that hand, Pad.”

Pad let go, albeit reluctantly, and Charles nursed his hand as he worked out the pain.

“You’ll find the lockers through those doors over there. We can talk paperwork after your sessions. I like to give my customers a taste of their future, before they sign on.” Pad sneered again. “I haven’t had a refusal yet.”

“You go ahead and get changed, Charles. I’ll take Dustin to the floor for class. You just have to follow the markers. Rentals are in the back.” Ben leaned over to wrap his arm around Dustin’s shoulder. “Man, you’re gonna have a blast here, I’m telling you….” he said as he led Dustin over towards the main floor.

“Will you require any assistance, Charles?” Pad asked with that same infuriating smirk.

“No, thank you,” Charles said coldly as he turned aside. A large water fountain stood next to a massive entry hall divided by two guiding lines, one setting out a path in bright green, the other in a deep scarlet. He took the left entrance, only to smack into a much taller and well-built elephant with thick eyebrows and a dusting of hairs along his body. A tight white tank top and massive pair of workout shorts held firmly to his sculpted waist and jutting pectorals.

“Watch where you’re going!” he snarled. “This is the exit, newbie. Follow the lines.” He shoved Charles unapologetically, then sounded a loud trumpet through his trunk to vent his frustration. A muffled conversation followed that sounded more like grunts and growls than it did a proper discussion. Then the ground shook with the elephant’s angry steps as Pad stepped around the corner to pull the bull up.

“I was about to say you should stick to the green. You can see why. My more … passionate patrons are a little rough around the edges. Follow the track to the back of the locker room. You’ll see the kiosk there for key dispersal. Just follow the lines and obey the instructions to the letter. You’ll be all right.”

Charles glared at the tiger for a short while, then let out a grudging, “Thanks,” as he turned and entered the locker room.

Padaavanati chuckled as he turned to walk towards the gym’s main floor and the waiting class. “Don’t thank me just yet, little bull.” He licked his lips as his eyes flashed and his hands cracked slightly as they expanded with muscle and sinew. His claws shot out, and he cracked his neck as he bore sharper, thicker teeth in a feral grin. “Not yet.”

  “Here.” Ben tossed a bottle to Dustin. “The workouts here can get pretty intense. Better to run on a full tank.” Then he pulled out his own bottle and started squirting a brown liquid into his mouth.

“What is this stuff?” Dustin asked.

“New pre-workout mix. It’s good stuff, really helps prime the pump. I found it just before I switched gyms.”

“Did Padaa–pa–pa–”

“Dude, it’s just Pad. Trust me, it’s a lot easier that way,” Ben chuckled, then took another drag from his bottle.

“Well, did he turn you onto it?”

“Nah. Found it on my own.” He shrugged. “You know how into keeping fit I am. The supplement seemed legit, I tried it, and here I am. It’s not the only thing that helped me bulk up, but it sure was a factor.” He chuckled as he planted his bottle on a bench and smacked his free hand against a tensed bicep. “And I can’t really argue with the results. Nah. I think it was really the gym change that started things for me.” He shrugged again. “That is why you guys came here, isn’t it?”

Dustin blushed. “That obvious?”

“You, I could understand coming, but I know Charles. That man wouldn’t go anywhere near a gym, if his life depended on it. Too many body image issues. I’m a construction worker, Dustin, not stupid.” Then he smiled softly. “I really appreciate the concern, though. I meant it, when I said I missed you guys.”

“What happened to you there, anyways? You used to be one of the best accountants in the business. Why’d you shift to manual?”

Ben shrugged. “I was tired of crunching numbers all the time. It’s mind-numbing work, Dustin. I felt too cooped up. And besides that, it was tough balancing between the hours at work and my personal life. Now I’ve got union protections, all the sun I could ask for, and a body that would make most of my fellow coworkers jealous. Sure, I’ll take the occasional booking request from time to time, but this actually makes me happier.” He shrugged. “Don’t really know why. It just … does. I guess it’s just … simpler. No office politics, no throwing people under the bus, no managers breathing down my neck. I work, talk with the guys about whatever’s on our minds, and we all get the job done. It’s sort of like a pack, I guess, or a pride.” He shrugged again. “That’s just how it is.”

“And you don’t mind it?”

“Not in the slightest.” He chuckled again. “I guess you could say I’m living the dream. Being a barbarian in real life is kinda sweet,” he said with a mischievous wink. “You should try it.”

“Ha ha. Very funny, Ben.” Dustin rolled his eyes. “But seriously, man, you’ve been way too distant with us lately. You hardly answer our calls, you’ve flaked on most of our campaigns. You’re basically like a ghost. You really expect us not to worry about you, after that?”

“I’m not that bad, am I?”

“Five months of no contact, followed by an out of the blue invitation to join you at the gym. Yeah, totally not bad at all.”

“I was away at another site. What did you expect me to do, book a roundtrip ticket back here for the night, then fly back out as soon as we finished?”

“You could’ve at least texted us.”

“I was in another time zone. I didn’t want to risk waking you guys up.”

Dustin sighed as he took a few swigs from his bottle. “I guess some things never change.”

Ben smacked Dustin on the back and smiled apologetically as Dustin winced from the force of the blow. “Come on. Class is about to start.”

The gym had grown surprisingly quiet. The heavy clank of weights and familiar grunts had died away to leave only the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional grunt or jab between friends as they stood on the main floor on a set of mats in front of a big set of studio mirrors.

“Does everyone stop for these classes?” Dustin asked.

“Yeah.” Ben grunted as he stretched his back and torso, before shifting to his legs. “Don’t know why it works, but it does. I was making less gains on my own. Then, when I started with the rest of the guys here, BANG!” he smacked his hands together, “plateaus shattered.” He grinned and rumbled in anticipation. “Trust me. You’ll see.”

And then Pad was on the scene. He strode confidently to the front of the class as his corded muscles strained beneath his fur and singlet. A sort of hardness had replaced the kindlier demeanor he’d carried before. His low growl rumbled through the room and everyone went quiet. “All right, time to get started. We’ve got some newbies here, so we’re going to simplify today’s course and go back to basics.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dustin could see Ben shudder as he bore his teeth in a grin. That shudder spread like a wave over the rest of the class, and Dustin felt a certain sense of revulsion as he noted the tents starting to form in some of the attendees’ crotches. He caught a flicker of movement, and his gaze darted to the side, where he saw a still-grinning Ben reach down to scratch at his own crotch without even so much as a hint of shame. Pad reached over to grab a remote and pressed a button. Music poured out from the speakers, filled with chanting voices and the familiar instruments of the middle east.

“All right, boys, let’s get started. Cardio first. Let’s move those legs!”

As Pad had promised, the session proved to be pretty basic. The steady drum beats rolled sweetly with the sitar and a reedy woodwind that swam effortlessly through the air. While it wasn’t his track of choice, Dustin had to admit the tune was catchy, and it was easy to fall into the rhythm the track set. Pushups and crunches rolled by easily, followed by a few basic exercises using lighter weights to work the muscle groups and warm them up for the bigger workouts to come later.

Pad clapped his hands together. “All right, water break. Get moving, boys. We don’t want to lose that pump,” he barked.

“A water break?” Dustin asked in surprise. It hadn’t been that long, had it? But … his throat did feel surprisingly parched.

“Gotta stay hydrated,” Ben replied gruffly. Sweat matted his fur as he turned and strode towards one of the many fountains that dotted the gym. His steps seemed heavier as he moved, and his upper lip pulled up into a sort of snarl as he approached to drink deeply.

The gym was mostly quiet as the gym goers each took their turns in line. Dustin did his best to keep his face neutral as he noted how most of the men scratched at their privates either just before or just after drinking. He knew gymgoers could be more casual about things, but that was just plain old unsanitary.

“One side.”

Dustin suddenly found himself looking up from the floor at a heavily built elephant with massive tusks and a thick coating of body hair. His hip ached from the impact, even as a feral snarl tore across the otherwise peaceful music. And then Ben was there. His legs spread out as his whole body tensed. His tail whipped wildly behind him as he curled his hands and sharpened claws shot out from his fingers. His broad shoulders heaved in indignation as the hackles rose on his back and the deltoids along the top of his shoulders tensed, seeming almost to expand as he glared the pachyderm down.

He turned his head briefly to look at Dustin. “You all right?”

Dustin nodded, at a loss for words at the sudden change in his friend.

“Apologize,” Ben growled as he bore his teeth in a snarl.

“Make me, pussy cat,” the elephant said as he glared down at Ben. His trunk was raised high and his muscles rippled as he tensed. This was a man itching for a fight.

“Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” Dustin hadn’t even noticed Pad’s arrival. The tiger took one look at the scene and sighed. “We’ve talked about this before, Wooly.” He picked Dustin up easily and placed him back on his feet. “No roughhousing, unless it’s in your own class. Dustin here is a guest, and you’re reflecting very poorly on my gym.” His eyes glinted dangerously. “That’s strike two.”

“But he–.”

“Was in line first,” Padaavanti cut him off with a raised hand. “I let the locker incident slide, because the patron didn’t stop to listen to my explanation, but you know better than this.” He shook his head and sighed. “Take a few minutes to cool off in the rest area. You know the place.”

“But–.”

“Or did you want me to suspend your membership right now?”

“But–.”

“Go, Wooly,” Pad said sternly as he pointed back to the locker room.

Wooly’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he pounded off the floor.

Pad turned and stared apologetically at the human. “I’m so sorry about that, Dustin. Wally was such a good egg when he first started here.”

“Wally? I thought his name was Wooly.”

“A joke we use here at the gym. Everyone gives each other a nickname of sorts. Since Wally was so hairy, people decided he looked more like his ancestors, and named him accordingly.” He clasped Dustin’s hand firmly as he looked sincerely into the man’s eyes. “I promise it won’t happen again.” He smiled weakly. “Well, not unless you want it to.”

“Why the heck would I want something like that?”

Pad shrugged. “Many of my patrons do, once they’ve had the chance to grow enough. I have a place set aside for such disputes, where I won’t have to worry about collateral damage. Ben’s actually a bit of a rising star in that regard.”

Ben winced. “Did you really have to mention that?”

“First rule of fight club doesn’t apply to me,” Pad said cheekily.

Ben rolled his eyes. “It’s a boxing ring,” he explained. “If we have any problems, we go there to settle them. Pad’s got a lot of trainers there to teach proper form and keep things fair.”

“It gives patrons a chance to indulge their more … primal sides. Honestly, that’s what sets this gym apart from most others, I think.” Pad shrugged. “Anyways, carry on. The fountain’s all yours.” He turned to face the rest of the patrons. “And I expect the rest of you to be on your best behavior.” The men shrank back visibly from Pad’s gaze and Pad nodded in response.

Dustin took his drink and rubbed his side gingerly. “Haven’t taken a hit like that since that time I took a swan dive off the front steps back in high school.” He chuckled. “So, what now?”

Ben smirked. “Now the fun part starts.”

“Fun part?”

“Free exercise, of course.” Ben wrapped a shaggy arm around Dustin’s shoulders. “Come on. I’ll show you the ropes. This place literally has everything you could think of.”

“Um, Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s Charles?”

“Probably somewhere else on the floor.” Ben shrugged. “It’s a big gym.”

“So why didn’t he come over when we were in trouble?”

Ben let out a confused grunt.

“Charles. He’s our friend, right? So why didn’t he come, after what happened with Wooly?”

Ben shrugged. “Maybe he got an emergency call from the pharmacy. You know how he gets when something comes up. And it’s not like you’ve got a cell on you, if he had to go.”

“Are you s–?”

“Relax, Dustin. You worry too much. It’ll make you tense. You know that’s not good for working out.”

Dustin coughed uncomfortably as a bout of lightheadedness struck him. “Getting a little bit fragrant there, Ben.”

Ben just laughed. “Said the pot to the kettle.”

Dustin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s just get to work already.”

Ben rumbled in pleasure. “Work good,” he said as he thumped his chest with his free fist, then grinned teasingly at his companion.

“Okay, now you’re pushing it,” Dustin laughed as he shoved his friend aside, not that he managed to push him very far. Ben’s muscle was too dense.

“Bet you can’t beat my record,” Ben challenged.

“Watch me.”

  Dustin groaned as he strained through his tenth rep. Blood surged through his ears and a heavy sweat had left his hair hanging limply against the bench press. Any time he tried talking, Ben would cut him off with a teasing barb, and Dustin would return to work with gritted teeth and greater focus. His arms tingled as he strained to push through the next thrust up, and he let out a shout, despite himself.

Ben grinned down at him as he continued to spot. “Almost there.”

“How remarkable,” Pad mused as he lowered a cup and straw. “Here. Take a sip.”

Dustin did so gratefully, then exhaled explosively as he finished another press. His head was starting to spin, but he wasn’t about to quit yet. He roared as he blasted through the last of the set, then slammed the weights down on their rest. He rose shakily to sit up, then guzzled down the rest of the cup. “What a rush,” he panted.

“Oh, but you’ve only just begun. Squats are next.” Pad smirked. “Unless you don’t think you’re up to the task.”

Blood rushed through Dustin’s ears. “What did you say?” he growled. A thick hand squeezed his shoulder, and he looked up at an equally scowling Ben. The cat’s lip had curled back again, exposing fuller lips and his thick canines.

“He has what it takes,” Ben said gruffly.

“Prove it,” Pad countered. “I only take the committed ones, you know.”

Dustin locked eyes with Padaavanati and something snapped. He rose to his full height, and thrust out his chest. “Show me the weights,” he said huskily. He felt a tingling rush throughout his system as he stared the tiger down. So focused was he that he barely noticed the sudden wisps of hair sprouting out from the collar of his shirt by his chest or how the shirt now clung to his pectorals.

Padaavanati smiled. “Right this way.” He gestured smoothly to an open squat rack.

Dustin walked past, brushing shoulders with the gym’s owner as he made his way single-mindedly to the next exercise. His brow furrowed in a scowl as his pride burned. He wouldn’t take this lying down. He would prove he was strong, prove he was better, prove he was alpha.

Padaavanti smirked as he watched hair after hair sprout along Dustin’s brow ridge, until a thick unibrow was all that remained. The music continued its inexorable, repetitive march, and Dustin lifted in time, after Ben had laid the appropriate weight. The tiger nodded his approval, his eyes flashed, and Ben shuddered as his upper canines thickened and began to grow down, out of his mouth, forcing his lip to rise.

Dustin grunted as he glared into those eyes. He dipped and rose flawlessly. After all, this was an exercise he was quite familiar with. Squat down. Rise up. Keep form. Hold the bar. Stare. Repeat. Blood surged through his core and legs, causing a familiar stirring below, but Dustin didn’t care about that. He had a point to prove. He was strong. Strong … stronger … strong and … and … and ….

Padaavanti winked at Dustin and Dustin growled in response. That tiger was mocking him. He would show. He would prove. Sweat ran down his face and soaked his clothes. He didn’t care. He didn’t care when he heard the twin pops and the cool air brushed against his toes. He didn’t care when he heard the protesting creak of elastic at its limit. A thick, meaty paw of a hand with wicked claws thrust something in his face. He sniffed at it once, but nothing seemed odd about it, so he locked his mouth around it and sucked.

Fire burned through his muscles as the haze of anger thickened, pushing against the insides of his skull. He let out a gruff grunt in reluctant thanks for the refreshment as his nostrils flared and he took in the scent of the one who’d helped him. It was … familiar. Sweat coursed down his hairy arms and chest, and the material on his shirt began to tug uncomfortably as he continued to press. A loud tearing nearly broke his concentration, but he wouldn’t let it. Cool air brushed against his meaty thighs, but the heat within him would not be subdued so easily. He hooted just once, grunted gruffly as he grit his teeth, and kept on going.

“Mmmm … yes,” Padaavanti purred in delight. “I haven’t had one of your kind in my gym before. He licked his lips. “Delicious….” He took a deep breath, and as he did so, a horrendous crunch emanated from Dustin’s chest as his ribcage expanded. “Such aggression, such singlemindedness, such pride.” He bore his fangs in a sneer. “Perfect.”

“Strong,” Dustin puffed huskily as he tensed his upper body. The sleeves on his shirt shredded open to reveal long hairy arms with thickly corded muscle. He grunted as he adjusted his hands on the bar to fit proper form again. So quick was the adjustment, he didn’t even notice how the skin had thickened into dark, leathery hide.

“Yes. Strong, bulky, husky, virile. You’ll do very nicely here, I think.” Padaavanti strode around Dustin and took another long breath inward, this time through his mouth. As he sucked, Dustin’s jaw cracked, and the top of his skull began to rise into a dome-like crown. The man’s thick curly locks retracted into short, straight wisps that draped only slightly from the top as their color drained to be replaced with brilliant silver.

“Strong. Me … strong,” Dustin grated through his new mouth as his lips puffed up and out to form a sort of muzzle that merged with his widening snout. His eyes sunk into the rapidly building ridges on his face. The hazel in his eyes darkened, almost merging with his pupils as his newly reformed face looked out in a perpetual scowl. He hooted absently as the music bounced around in his brain, mingling with the tiger’s whispers.

“Mmm … yes, you are. You both are, aren’t you?” Padaavanti asked as he strolled back into sight, this time with a bulky creature with two long, sharp fangs that draped down over his lower jaw. It towered over the tiger, but Padaavanti simply caressed its huge, blocky muzzle, and it nuzzled back affectionately. Its shorts barely fit over its trunk-like legs, and a massive bulge pressed against the crotch, pulling the waistband down enough to expose the lower parts of his chiseled core. “And it feels so good to be strong, doesn’t it?”

Dustin grunted as he nodded and kept squatting.

Padaavanti chuckled. “You see, my friend, there’s a funny little secret about my name. When you translate it into your language, it essentially means to downgrade, demote, revert, … regress.” He smirked then. “I’ve found over the years that, if you really want to be stronger, sometimes, you have to be willing to take a few steps back. You do want to be stronger, don’t you, Dustin?”

Dustin grunted as he nodded and bore his teeth.

“Then it’s time for you to step back, isn’t it? Step back and join your friend at my gym. Step back into that simple role of the barbarian, a primal creature craving power, craving strength, craving dominance,” he whispered, and his voice seemed almost to echo through the gym.

“Back….” Dustin slurred slowly in his deep, gravelly voice. He rose up from his squat and stood on thick, hand-like feet. The light in his eyes dimmed. His waistband snapped.

Padaavanti sneered as his eyes glowed like golden flames. “That’s right, my little ape man.” He strode forward, and as he did, his body swelled until he stood a full three feet taller than anyone else in the room. His claws were like sickles, his mouth filled with fangs, his muscles bunched and ready to pounce. A powerful musk filled the room as the steady clanking of weights stopped. The ground trembled as every gym goer dropped to his knees. Padaavanti’s sneer widened. “Now, let’s keep things … simple. After all, you like simple now, don’t you? So here is your simple order: finish your journey back and submit to me.”

Dustin’s eyes reflected the same gold as he easily lowered the bar with one massive hand to rest on the floor. Then he hunched over as his spine adjusted and walked naturally on his knuckled hands to approach the tiger. He hooted gently, before lowering his head and sitting meekly.

Padaavanti reached down and stroked Dustin along his back. As he did so, the thick black hairs turned silver and the former man’s frame expanded to the point where he was a good ten feet tall. Dustin let out a deep, rumbling sigh as his eyes rolled back in his head and a puff of silvery mist flowed out from his nose and mouth. Padaavanti smiled then as he took a deep breath and sucked the little cloud up. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The giant ape nuzzled the tiger’s arm, and Padaavanti chuckled. “Welcome to my gym, Dust.”

The massive sabretooth cat approached and rumbled welcomingly as he sniffed at the gorilla, then brushed against him multiple times in affection. When the newly named Dust finally reciprocated, the big cat turned his eyes on Padaavanti and let out a questioning growl.

“Oh, he’s around here somewhere,” Padaavanti replied with a knowing smirk as he shrank back down to his original size. “Follow me.”

They crossed the gym’s floor, passing all manner of creatures: raptors, T-rexes, strange scaled birds with a rainbow of colors for feathers, aerosteons, massive piranhas, monstrous whales, gigantic snakes, and so many more. “Go on. Back to work, all of you,” Padaavanti ordered. The creatures obeyed. The trio passed through a pair of double doors to a massive arena. The room was filled with the roars, screeches, and cries of beasts cheering excitedly at the match taking place below.

A titanic wooly mammoth flailed wildly in the air above a thick, powerfully built creature. His black fur glinted in the light and his eyes burned with unreasoning rage. Blood dripped slowly from a few minor cuts along his arms and head. His brow was thick and overexaggerated, his muzzle chiseled and blocky. His massive chest heaved as he snorted in rage. Titanic muscles rippled cleanly like thick slabs of meat. They shone like polished marble under the lights mounted to the ceiling. A long ropey tail whipped violently behind him, and he let loose a powerful bellow. The trio watched as the bull’s tiny horns suddenly surged out, growing longer and thicker, until they were nigh on three feet long and a good half a foot in diameter. The rounded parts at the top of his head crunched down under the new weight, complementing the sharp angles of his jaw and muzzle and giving the casual observer the impression of a literal blockhead.

He pawed at the stage with his thick hooved feet as a tiny bulge swelled to the point of obscenity in the last remains of a pair of navy briefs with red accents. The stage was littered with the tattered remnants of his other clothing. The beast bellowed again as his body surged with growth to match the flood of testosterone and other hormones that now pumped rapidly through his body. His neck thickened into a pyramid that held his massive head aloft. Muscles expanded to the size of bowling balls as he grew taller and broader to accommodate the increase in muscle mass. The beast’s waistband snapped, letting everything hang freely as he cried his dominance once again.

It’s not entirely clear who started the chant. The room was filled with a mass of devolved beasts, but they had demonstrated the occasional spurt of speech from time to time, when excited enough and unable to express in their usual fashion. This was such a time, and in a manner as old as the ring, as old as packs or prides, perhaps as old as time itself, one voice became many, and the many exerted their will on the combatants.

“Chuck!” they cried over and over again. Padaavanti sneered as he watched his two followers join the motley cry. His glowing eyes locked with the raging beast, and the creature’s eyes also flashed gold as a thick red cloud rushed from the rafters to the waiting tiger. Padaavanti inhaled it all and shuddered in pleasure, then bore his fangs in a grin. “Well, go on. Don’t keep them waiting, Chuck.”

There was no way for the bull to have heard the command, but the beast stiffened all the same, then bellowed one last time, before his muscles tensed and he threw the mammoth out of the ring to crash into the padded floor. The black behemoth smashed his chest with his fists and bellowed at the crowd, and the crowd responded with cries of adulation. The new auroch stopped cold, however, when Padaavanti stepped onto the ring. He approached the titan, and the room was suddenly silent.

“Do you know me?” Padaavanti asked.

The auroch crashed onto his knees and bent his head. “Master,” he lowed deeply, slowly.

Padaavanti smiled then, and ran his hand over the creature’s short, bristly mane. “That is right. And what is your name?”

“Chuck,” he snorted.

“Does Chuck like his new body?”

The auroch mooed gently and nodded.

“Will Chuck join Master’s gym?”

“Yes.”

Padaavanti smirked. “Good boy.”

  “That was incredible!” Dustin cried as the trio left the gym’s doors. “I haven’t felt this good of a pump in ages!” His long curly hair flopped weakly after the shower and quick towel down he’d gone through before they left. A brand new shirt and shorts, each with the gym’s logo sewn or dyed in, spoke proudly to the world that he had chosen to join.

“I, um … never really liked weight lifting, but … that was actually kind of nice. The guys at the gym seemed pretty supportive.”

“I still can’t believe you stood up to that elephant, though,” Dustin jibed as he nudged his friend in the ribs.

Charles winced. “I can’t really, either.” He chuckled. “I guess a guy can only take so much, before he snaps. You … don’t think he’ll try to get back at me later, do you?” he asked nervously.

Ben chuckled as he laid his arms about either friends’ shoulders, the gym’s logo straining against his massive pecs. “Not a chance. And if he does, we’ll be there to stop him.”

“The three musketeers ride again!” Dustin cried exultantly.

“All for one,” Ben started.

“And one for all!” they finished together, then laughed.

“So, what do you say we move our game nights over to the gym?” Ben asked. “I’m sure Pad won’t mind too much. It might be a good way for some hot heads to cool off.”

“A-are you sure that’s a good idea?” Charles asked.

“One way to find out. Meet up to ask him tomorrow?”

“Bit quick on the draw there, big guy. We’re not that far into bodybuilding yet,” Dustin laughed. “How about the next day?”

“Th-that’s good for me. That is, if you two really want to,” Charles said sheepishly.

Ben bore his teeth in a huge grin. “Saturday it is.”

“You know, I’ve got a real hankering for a banana smoothie. You guys wanna come with? My treat.” Dustin smiled at the pair.

“Hmm … go home and sit alone or spend more time with my two best friends. Let me think about it for a minute,” Ben snarked.

Dustin chuckled as he shoved Ben into Charles. “Jerk.”

“Guilty as charged. What is your sentence, your honor?”

“It is the judgement of the court that you be sentenced to drink one super chugger whole without leaving the premises of the smoothie shop.”

Ben gasped. “The horror!”

Charles smiled silently at his friends’ antics. It was good to be back together again, even if it did mean he had to deal with a little roughhousing. He scratched covertly at his crotch as the two exchanged blows in their battle of sarcasm. An odd tingling sensation that wasn’t entirely unpleasant had taken root there, and his head itched near the base of his horns. As he reached up to scratch the spot again, he sighed in contentment. Perhaps this new gym thing wouldn’t be such a bad thing, after all.

  Padaavanti smiled as he watched the trio depart, then meandered over to the locker room, where two newly engraved plaques had been set up on either side of another, each reading Chuck, Brawn, and Dust. “I’ll see you three again soon.” He purred in contentment as he moved on to a trio of doors, each with the same names engraved.

He opened the left one and a blast of warm moist air blew in his face. The floor was mostly bare and coated in rich soil. A few small saplings and ferns had begun to sprout, but nothing of any great note. The space beyond was mostly blank, with no end in sight. Padaavanti nodded approvingly, then closed the door and made his way to the one on the right.

A large wooden stall stood before him. The rich scent of hay and pasture wafted to his nose, and he noted a seam starting to form in the back portion of the stall. He investigated it briefly, took a quick whiff at the corner, and nodded approvingly as the moist scent of wet grass caressed his nose. He knew better than to rush construction. When the pair were far enough along, the rooms would be prepared, with all the amenities their primitive little brains could desire. He was certain Chuck would appreciate a pasture to roam around in, especially if he found a mate there. And as for Dust, well, silverbacks liked to live alone at first, anyways. He was confident the boy would build a troop of his own in due time, once the forest was ready to greet him.

Lastly, Padaavanti opened the middle door to expose a thick stone cave complete with crackling fire, a bed of animal skins, and crude hunting materials. A long red stain had been included on the floor near the fire, and the tiger nodded approvingly at the clear signs of spatter from the meat being carried to the flames. Another spatter stain lay by the bed of furs, and he sneered at the sight. He chuckled to himself as he shut this final door, then licked his lips. “Just a matter of time.”

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 6

“They’re swarming the compound, Hunter. More than half have been converted already.”

“Why hasn’t anybody shot them, damnit?” Hunter growled.

“We’ve tried. Somebody rigged munitions. It’s all blanks.”

“How the hell can our entire armory have been compromised?”

“Very, very carefully,” Stone said. “I’ll have to thank Arsenal later. He should be waking any moment now. He’s such a good meathead.”

Hunter groaned.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Agent Hunter? Feeling a little heavy? Oh, but I bet it feels so good, doesn’t it? It’s hard to resist all that growth, all that power. Why don’t you just … let it go?”

“F–Fuck you,” Hunter said through gritted teeth. Then he shuddered as the bulge in crotch increased.

“Ooh, you’re coming along nicely. Just a matter of time now, Agent Hunter.”

“Hunter, they’re … they’re beating at the doors. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep them out. They’ve sent a platoon to Skinner’s office. If they get him, they’ll have the override and all of our access codes. Wait, they’re … knocking? Holy shit!”

“Jason, what is it?”

“I-it’s Director Skinner. He’s already turned. He’s as big as Thirteen, if not bigger. He must be another overseer class, but … how did he change?”

Hunter snarled. “The damn bastard’s been playing us from the beginning. He kept authorizing the missions. He kept pushing that we had to find Stone. It all makes sense.”

“And the light begins to dawn at last.” Stone chuckled. “Your director was not an easy target, Agent Hunter, but given enough time and more than a few spiked coffees, he was only too happy to join us in his proper rank. Such a good trainer, wouldn’t you say? He really knows how to take charge of his meatheads and make them totally mindless. Never questioning, never thinking. Just endless pleasure and obedience. Obedience to their trainer. Obedience to me.”

“Obey Coach Stone. Serve Coach Stone. Obedience is pleasure. Obedience is strength. Obedience is muscle. Obedience is growth. Meatheads must grow. Meatheads must obey. We are Coach’s big, dumb meatheads,” the guards said.

Hunter heard a groan. “They … they’re gathering at the door, Hunter. So … so many meatheads. I … I don’t know if I can keep them out long.”

“Control? You okay?”

“I … just a little dizzy. Hunter. Skinner is coming.” Another grunt. “I don’t know how long I have. Before they … get to me. Before they … make me like them.” A tiny rip sounded across the microphone.

“Control? Jason? Jason, stay with me!”

“Hunter? I … I can’t hear you very well, Hunter. I … something … isn’t right. You sound … far away. So far away. So far. So faint.

“Jason!”

“…”

“Jason, don’t you do this to me. Answer me, damn it!”

Hunter heard the sound of a door hissing open, the faint clacking of keys on the keyboard, the heavy clomp of many thick boots, and the weight behind them. The clacking grew slower, heavier, then stopped. A heavy breathing was all that Hunter could hear. The whirr of wheels rolling further away from the mike. More heavy boots approaching.

“Sorry, Lil’bro, Jason’s busy. But Meathead’s here for ya,” the Neanderthal of a man chuckled.

“What the hell did you do to him?” Hunter roared. He felt his neck tense, the muscles cording and growing, his jaw expanding, growing more defined. He didn’t care. “Answer me, Meathead!”

Tearing fabric. Thumping limbs. A few well-placed grunts. “Meathead didn’t do nothin’ to him.” Again, that infuriatingly dull chuckle. “Meathead was brought to wake his bros up. Skinner’s the one who brought out the meatheads in ‘em. Good job, Skinner.”

A deep, booming voice responded. “Skinner is a good meathead. Skinner obeys. Make more meatheads. I obey.”

“See? He’s fuckin’ awesome, lil’bro.” He laughed. “Knows to obey Coach n’everything. Just like me. We’re all a bunch of big, dumb meatheads, aren’t we, bros?”

Hunter heard the solid thump of legs coming sharply to attention. “Yes, sir. We are meatheads. Big, dumb meatheads. Meatheads obey. We obey. Obey and grow. Grow and obey. Obey Coach Stone. Lift. Grow. Flex. Obey. Grow big. Grow dumb. Grow into bigger, dumber meatheads.”

Stone laughed. “You see, Hunter, my little supplement is what you might call a bit of a drug. Once it gets worked enough into your system, it makes the user a little more … susceptible to suggestion. It builds the muscles in the body so quickly that you literally become addicted to the feeling of your own physical perfection. Every flex, every workout, every breath, every movement becomes … stimulating. And the best part is that the more they grow, the more dependent they become.

“Now don’t get me wrong here. The supplement doesn’t require you to constantly take more. On the contrary, given enough time, the supplement rewires your brain and your body to produce it naturally. Unfortunately, a common side effect is for the brain to suffer certain … alterations. These alterations, unfortunately, inhibit certain higher reasoning functions. Perhaps it’s better to say that it overrides them. Or maybe the person really just doesn’t care anymore, and so they choose to forget on their own. Whatever the case may be, those who reach that stage show a major loss in intelligence. Perhaps you’ve felt that loss, Agent Hunter. That hazy cloud forming over your mind like a calming blanket. So difficult to focus, to think clearly. The urge to just sit there and let your mind go blank, and let your body do the talking. To let it move for you, let it think for you, let it act for you, and just smile the whole time, because of the pleasure you feel.”

“S–stop it,” Hunter growled as he swayed on his feet.

“So you do feel it. Doesn’t it seem a little familiar, Agent Hunter, even the slightest bit?” Stone asked as he approached one of his guards. “That emptiness, that lack of thought that they accept so readily, makes them moldable. It makes them want to listen. Isn’t that right, Grinder?”

The hulk closest to him grunted and nodded. “Listen to Coach. Obey Coach. Grinder is a mindless meathead. Grinder listens. Grinder obeys.”

“Good meathead,” Stone said as he smacked Grinder on the back. “You see, Agent Hunter?”

“How long?” Hunter growled.

“The subliminal treatments, you mean? It varies from meathead to meathead. Sometimes we prime our candidates before exposing them to the supplement. Other times we perform the work simultaneously. We’re still figuring out which works best. Though I have made some headway with applications for the formula. Unfortunately, the gaseous state isn’t quite ready yet, but we’ll get there eventually.”

“And what happens, if they break the enforcement?”

“They can’t. That’s the best part. They constantly enforce themselves every time they work out, every time they follow an order. It literally becomes an endless loop of enforcement, growth, and obedience. And the best part is they want it. They love it.” He laughed again. “Isn’t that right, Controller?” he asked.

“Controller? Who’re you–?”

Hunter heard a loud groan of pleasure over his earpiece. “I … I … can’t stop. Growing … fuzzy. So fuzzy.” The voice warbled between the familiar tenor of Hunter’s friend to a deep baritone.

“Jason? Jason, you’ve got to fight it! Snap out of it!”

“Jason?” the warped voice asked slowly. “Wh–who is … Jason? So … so hard to think. So hard. Hard … hard muscles. Feel … feel nice.” A loud rip followed that sentence.

“Jason, whatever you do, don’t listen to them. You have to stop. Don’t let them influence your mind.”

“Mind …” he repeated dreamily. Then he laughed. The longer the laugh went, the deeper the voice became.

“Jason? Jason, listen to me. Jason!”

“Meatheads have no mind,” Meathead’s voice boomed in.

“Meatheads love muscle,” Skinner’s voice added.

“I like muscle,” Jason’s deeper voice said. “My muscles feel good.”

“Meatheads love to flex,” Meathead said.

“Flex … feels good.” Another loud tear. “I like flexing,” he said exuberantly.

“Meatheads don’t think,” Skinner pressed.

“… Think?” Jason asked. He sounded confused by the term. “I don’t … can’t … what … what were we talking about again?”

“Muscles, flexing, and being a big, dumb meathead. ‘Cause that’s what we are, lil’bro,” Meathead said.

“… We?”

“Yes, we. Skinner is a big, dumb meathead. Skinner does not think. Skinner flexes. Skinner obeys. Skinner is a good meathead.”

“Good … meathead.”

“Time to wake up, Controller,” Meathead said.

No.

“Wake … up.”

Stone wouldn’t.

“Flex deeper. Grow bigger. Become. You are a massive, burly, mindless meathead, just like us,” Skinner said.

“Like you.…” A guttural grunt. Loud cracks. Something bursting, snapping. Ricocheting metal. More shredding fabric. A rumbling bass. “Just like you.”

“Good meathead,” Stone said, laughing. “And good meatheads obey.”

“Damn you!” Hunter roared as he lunged for the man, his mysterious restraints suddenly broken. Thick hands threw off his balance. He grabbed for an overhead throw, only to be taken out from beneath by a rolling form. The added weight on his shoulders was his downfall as he dropped to his knees, then to his face as ten muscular hands and arms restrained him on the ground.

“Impressive, Agent Hunter. Very impressive. To break out of conditioning like that takes a lot of mental strength. You and Controller must have been very close.”

Hunter squirmed beneath his captors. “His name,” he panted, “is Jason.” He spat at Stone’s feet.

“Not anymore.” Stone chuckled. “Not for much longer, anyways. Would you like to see him, Agent Hunter? Would you like to watch him finish his awakening?” He sneered. “That can easily be arranged.” He raised his voice. “Meathead! Take the flash drive from Skinner and upload its contents into the server. It’s time to convert the facility.”

“Yes, Sir. Meathead is a good meathead. Meathead obeys,” the thug’s voice droned into Hunter’s ears.

A few moments later, Hunter found himself staring into a screen on a data pad Stone had taken from one of his lackeys. He tapped a new icon, and the light on the camera flashed, indicating it had become active. A large screen popped up, revealing a good twenty men in shredded uniforms flanking three bigger men. Even converted, Skinner was easy to pick out with his silver hair and piercing green eyes. Meathead grinned vacantly at the screen, his black spandex uniform still clinging tightly to his frame as he idly bounced his pecs. His dark brown hair had an almost unusual sheen to it, despite its flat cropping. He was just as huge as Hunter remembered him. The hulk’s shoulders had to be at least a good three feet across. His square jaw and jutting brow were slightly more pronounced than the other meatheads. His muscles quivered in anticipation as he gaped into the camera. “Interface complete. Meathead has obeyed. Meathead is a good meathead.”

“Yes you are, Meathead. Now stand by a moment. I want to be able to enjoy this. Gentlemen, lift our prisoner up, and help him take a seat.”

Hunter soon found himself forcibly seated at a rounded metal table near a fitness bar. The tightness of his stealth suit, or what remained of it, clung to his waist and crotch, a constant reminder of his change in size. And he was still growing. He could feel it, throbbing through him like some disease, the tingling on his face heralding the growing facial hair. Looking to either side, he could see the hair thickening on his arms, even as they strained beneath the collective grips of his captors. Stone dropped in next to him and put the pad down on a stand attachment.

“All right, Meathead, move aside. Show us Controller.”

“Controller isn’t ready, Coach.”

“That’s an order, Meathead.”

Meathead stiffened and saluted as the lycra of his suit strained to contain his body’s bulk. “Yes, sir, Coach. Meathead obeys.” He stepped aside to reveal a hunched figure. The man was breathing heavily. Instead of the rags and remnants the other meatheads wore, a new gigantic heavy jockstrap held loosely to his frame, its pouch sagging. His hair was slick with sweat, and had been pulled messily back by a hastily styled hand job. His broad shoulders shone with the sweat of his changes as he continued to pant, and his thick hands clenched and unclenched intermittently. Skinner stood next to him, hair gel in hand as he grinned at the new hairstyle.

“Excellent choice, Skinner,” Stone complimented.

“Thank you, Sir,” Skinner said. “Sleeper meathead, designation: Controller, is coming along nicely.”

“How close is he to finishing?”

“This meathead believes awakening will be complete within the next ten minutes, Sir.”

“Excellent. You may stand down now, Skinner. I want to finish him myself.”

“Yes, sir, Coach.” Skinner bowed, then stepped back to join Meathead.

“Jason, listen to me! Your name is Jason Bowman. You work as a technology supporter. You’re a genius with machines and electronics! You’re not–.” Hunter felt the giant hand covering his mouth. He struggled, screamed, yelled, and tried to bite to no avail.

“Potential meathead will not interrupt meathead re-conversion to muscle. Potential meathead will watch. Potential meathead will listen. Potential meathead will remain silent. Potential meathead will not struggle. Potential meathead will obey. Sit still. Obey. Listen. Obey. Watch. Obey. Be silent. Obey. Meatheads must obey.”

“Meatheads must obey,” the others droned, both behind Hunter and through the viewing monitor.

The hand came away from his face. “Fuck y–obey.” Wait, what? He watched as Stone smirked. That bastard. He had to try again. “I obey.” No, no, no, he does not obey. Damn it, not again. Not again. And yet it was happening again. He felt a pair of hands direct his head toward the screen. He felt them leave. And try though he might, his body would not look away.

“Much better, Agent Hunter. Much better,” Stone purred. “And the best part is, you’re feeling so much pleasure from this, too. I can tell, you know. So why deny yourself?” He sighed. “Ah well. You’ll come around soon enough, Agent Hunter. They all do.”

Hunter heard the clomping of heavy feet. He felt two thick hands smack down on either of his shoulders, heard the rasp of the Stone’s whispering voice. “Now watch me work my magic.” He felt the heavy bulk of Stone sit down next to him. Felt the heat radiating from the giant body. Felt the titanic bicep touch his own smaller one. He could tell it was bigger. And as much as he hated to admit it, some part of him felt … jealous of that. He watched Stone’s giant hands shift the screen, so both would have a proper vantage point. Saw those bulky arms twitch with every shift of wrists and fingers. And then they were gone.

Nobody had moved on the screen. The huddled form that had to be Jason continued panting. Though as they listened, the pants turned into more of a series of guttural grunts.

“You there,” Stone said in a commanding tone of voice. “The one in the middle panting and sweating. What’s your name?”

The head lunged up. Jason’s eyes had sunken beneath a shelf-like brow. His lower jaw bulged unnaturally, and his chin had become particularly prominent. The brown of his eyes had dulled and taken on a murky greenish tint, like swamp water. His pecs had developed into two perfectly sculpted slabs that hung round and taut, waiting to go off. “Me?” he asked.

“Yes, you. What is your name?” Stone asked.

“Name … name … my … name.…” His brow furrowed. His mouth gaped open slightly. He reached down passively and scratched at the pouch. “Can’t … I can’t … think. Fuzzy. In head. Don’t … I don’t … I … can’t....”

Stone pressed an icon shaped like a flexing bicep in the corner of the screen. A wave of slow, pulsing light flowed across the control room. Jason’s mammoth shoulders slumped as he stared at the screen in front of him.

“Don’t think, then. Just listen. Listen to my voice, and watch the screen. Just flex, and stare, and listen. The longer you stare, the more you listen. The longer you flex, the more focused you become on my voice. Listen, and flex. Watch, and flex.”

It started small at first, a faint twitch, the quiver of a pectoral. Then the other twitched. Then the first. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then he raised an arm and looked it at dreamily. He tensed it, flexing the bicep, and watched as the mound slowly rose. His face pulled into a vapid grin. “Flexing feels good,” he said again. “Good to flex. Good to listen.”

“That’s right. Keep flexing. Keep listening. And while you do that, why don’t you tell me what you are? That’s so much easier than who, wouldn’t you say?”

“Easy,” he grunted in agreement, shifting to a double bicep pose, then into a lateral spread as he turned to look at the other muscle men. “Like them.” He continued to flex, and as he did so, his waist began to expand. The straps on the jockstrap tightened as he gained in height. His muscle tone increased, and a washboard of abdominals slowly carved itself out of his core, like a stoneworker had been busy chipping away at Jason’s old self. Then again, that may not have been far from the truth.

“And what are they?” Stone pressed. Hunter hissed, taking deep breaths, but could do little more.

Jason shrugged as his forehead expanded and his teeth became perfectly aligned. He chuckled as he flexed some more. “Dunno. Just like ‘em is all. Like to flex. Like … my muscles flexing.”

“Growing,” Stone prompted.

“Yes … growing. Growing muscles. Growing me.” He chuckled.

“They like growing, too. Growing bigger and stronger all the time. They just care about their bodies, and flexing, and listening, and growing, and listening, and obeying.”

“Growing,” he said dreamily as his neck expanded.

“Growing into big, dumb meatheads,” Stone said.

“Meatheads. Yes. Like … meatheads.”

“So big. So dumb. Just following their orders, like a good meathead should.”

“We are meatheads. Meatheads obey Coach. We obey,” the men droned together.

“Tell me who I am, meatheads,” Stone ordered.

“Coach Stone,” they droned together.

“Good meatheads.”

The men shuddered, and grinned. “We are good meatheads. We obey.” They began to pose and flex as they eyed the screen.

“You’re becoming like them, too. Tell me, do you like that, the idea of being a big, dumb meathead?”

“… Like muscles. Like growing. Feels good.” Another loud crack, and his hands grew into massive mitts of bone and sinew. He stared at them in wonder, and his grin widened. “Big hands. Good to be big. Like being big.”

Stone pressed an icon shaped like a brain with IQ stamped in white letters. A display popped up to the left. Its number read 110. Above it, another display popped up showing the number 150. Behind these numbers, two different sized transparent pink brain backdrops appeared. He tapped the larger of the two, and a loading ring took shape around it, its pulsing light running around and around in a counterclockwise motion. He then selected the muscle icon, and dragged it next to the brain. This time the outline of a body formed around it, creating a perfect silhouette, complete with sagging jock strap.

“I have to give you credit where credit is due. You really are a genius,” Stone complimented. But you see, we have an issue here. You put so much effort into here,” he said, tapping the silhouette’s brain, and causing it to pulse, “that you’ve lost so much down here.” He dragged several lines leading from the brain into the arms, legs, torso, crotch, and shoulders. “But to really be like them, you need to not only be big, not only obey my voice, but you need to be a total meathead. Your head. Focused on nothing but muscle and meat. Building your body. Building your muscles. Building your manhood, your meat.

“Build.…”

“That’s right, my little meathead-to-be. You build those muscles, and you build that meat. But to do that, you have to feed them, fill them with something.” Stone smirked. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do with all those troublesome brains of yours. You’re going to use that muscle to build your other muscles.” He tapped on the brain icon. The loading circle broke off, and began to spiral into the brain. Each pulse of light followed the trail, then coursed down the lines to each of the body parts Stone had highlighted previously. Now flex for me. Obey me. Watch the screen, and pump those muscles up. Watch the screen, and focus on your muscles. Focus on your meat. Focus on letting it grow and swell. Let it fill you. Fill everything about you. Making you massive. A massive, manly man with a massive, manly bulge, just like the other meatheads.”

“Big, dumb meatheads. Just like us. We flex. We obey,” the men said in unison.

Jason shuddered as he stared up at the screen. Light continued to pulse. He slowly shifted into a side chest pose. The silhouette did the same, shifting onto his form to match him movement for movement. The brain superimposed itself over his head, and the number appeared above. His pectorals throbbed as he bounced them in time to the rhythm of the lights on the viewing monitor. A tiny chime sounded as a little white arrow appeared beneath the numbers pointing down. The flexing continued, the throbbing increased, and so did the size of his muscles as they grew wider, broader, and more well defined. The number dropped by a point. He shuddered, and grinned wider.

“Big me on screen.” Jason laughed.

“Yes. And the more you grow, the better you’ll feel. Grow for me. Flex for me. Fill that head with nothing but meat.”

“Meat.” Jason grew another few inches as his feet expanded in size. The display dropped to 130.

“Massive muscles. Massive meat. Massive, manly bulge.” Stone sneered as he tapped the outline of the jockstrap on the screen. A new spiral formed over it, this time spinning clockwise as the line pulsing from the brain connected to the spiral on the crotch.

Hunter groaned as he felt the crotch of his pants tighten further. He watched as the sagging pouch of Jason’s new jock strap slowly began to inflate.

Jason gaped at the screen as he continued to flex and grow. “Massive, manly bulge. Massive, manly, huge. Grow. Grow for … for …” He scrunched his face up, looking confused.

“Grow for Sir,” Skinner said as he lumbered next to Jason, and started to flex with him.

“Obey Sir,” Meathead said as he moved in on the other side. “Meatheads obey.”

“Meatheads … obey. I … obey … must … obey … and watch … flex … listen. Yes, Sir.” The numbers dropped significantly, and the pink mass shrunk. Soon the display read 90. A slight outline began to press against the pouch of the jockstrap.

“Meatheads obey, you obey. Meatheads grow muscles, you grow muscles.”

“Like … meatheads.”

“Because you are a meathead,” Stone said. “My meathead.”

“I … am a meathead. Meathead. Meathead.” With each repeat of the word, his voice grew deeper, the bulge in his strap grew more distinct, another surge of growth struck, and his eyes grew more vacant as the brown in his iris became less prominent and the green more prominent.

“A big, dumb meathead, just like them,” Stone pressed. “You want to be a big, dumb meathead, just like them. You love being a big, dumb meathead, just like them. You are nothing but a big, dumb, obedient meathead.”

“Big,” Jason flexed. “Dumb.” He grinned as he watched the pulsing screen on his end. His body expanded yet again. He towered at eight feet now. “Meathead.” The pouch in his jockstrap now clung to his swollen manhood. His grin widened as he stared at a part of the screen. “Big meat. Like big meat. Me … I … uh …” He grunted, and held a hand over his pouch briefly. “Feelin’ funny. Sorta … dumber.” He chuckled. “Dumber. Dumber. Meatier. Dumber. Fuckin’ hung, and fuckin’ dumb.” The numbers dropped again, this time to 84.

“You are a meathead, part of a collective, one of many,” Stone said.

“One of many. Same. This meathead understands. This meathead obeys,” he droned.

“Tell me your name, meathead.”

He wasn’t flexing anymore. He stared perfectly straight as he addressed the screen, like a little toy soldier. “This meathead has no name, Sir. This meathead has obeyed his programming. This meathead awaits his orders.” The number dropped to 80. “This meathead is too stupid to think.” 78. “Nothing but meat and muscle for Coach to command.” 76. “The bigger meathead grows, the dumber he becomes. This meathead will grow for Coach Stone. This meathead will forget. This meathead will be dumb. This meathead obeys.” 74.

“You will wake up, meathead. And you will wake every other meathead in the organization, understand? Wake up, and remember, Controller.”

70.

The new meathead’s eyes went completely blank, as if the pupils had disappeared. The pulsing lights phased in and out, in and out. He breathed in time, even as his body expanded yet again, this time with longer arms and a broader back. The jockstrap creaked in protest, but he paid it no mind. “Meathead designation Controller received,” he said. Turning smartly at ninety degrees, just like the drones Hunter had watched, the newly-dubbed Controller advanced to a console. “Implementing control protocol C. This meathead obeys. This meathead will wake other meatheads.”

Stone sneered triumphantly. “Good meathead.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 3

Your first session with Hank may not have been deadly, but it was far from unpleasant. He meant it, when he said he would test your limits. He took you through the whole range of exercises from cardio to calisthenics to strength and endurance training. To establish a base line, he’d said. A part of you wondered if it was just because he took pleasure in seeing you sweat. Then again, that was kind of his job, so he probably did. A purple turtle neck clung to your upper body, helping to keep you warm as you gingerly removed your coat to hang in the closet. The workout may not have been intense, but you still felt the after-effects, and you were not looking forward to day two. It always hurt more on day two. The waiting room was a small one, but incredibly warm. Harry had said he wouldn’t be able to make it to the meeting, but it wasn’t like you couldn’t handle it yourself. It was a vocal coach, after all, and you only had to say the one line. A few sessions, and you’d have that part ready to go for the cameras. You twiddled your thumbs idly as you waited in the leather chair. Finally, a good five or so minutes later, the door opened and a tall man with dark hair and green eyes walked out with a smile across his face as he put on his glasses. “Thank you so much for the help, Miss Schroder. Your training is an absolute life saver.” “It’s no problem, I assure you,” a woman’s voice carried out from behind the man. A few moments later, you caught your first look at her. Her skin was pale and flawless as marble, and she strode out confidently in high heels. Her hair fell in rich red curling waves that cascaded down her shoulders and back like the fronds of a willow tree, and her pale blue business suit was accented by light pink lipstick. “Just make sure to remember those dialects. Just because it’s one nation doesn’t mean they won’t have different accents.” “Ah, but how could oi be forgettin’ sumpin’ so positively voital ta me craft, yer ladyship?” he asked as a sly smile pulled at his lips. Miss Schroder laughed. “Oh, stop it, you. Save it for the character.” “All right. All right,” the man acquiesced as he raised his hands in defeat. “But it is fun, you know.” “Naturally. Just make sure to be careful, Scott. I find that the roles my customers play tend to take a life all their own.” Scott laughed. “Well, I don’t think that’d hurt all that much, in my case. See you around.” He waved, nodded to you, then retrieved his coat, before making his way out the door. Then Miss Schroder turned her attention to you. She called you by name, then motioned curtly with a finger as she strode back to her office. You followed her her with little prompting. “I’ll have you know that I take my craft very seriously,” she started. “I meant what I said when I warned Scott back there. My lessons can be very much like role playing, and like all role playing, there is a chance that the character can spill over into your everyday life. I would advise you to keep things as separate as possible.” She handed a sheaf of papers to you. “Please make sure to sign these, before we continue. They’re release forms, among a few other necessary documents. By signing them, you agree that I am not to be held responsible for any changes or repercussions that should occur during your time here. You are taking my courses of your own free will, and are willing to accept the consequences of whatever may result from these courses. As a part of the process, some hypnosis may be applied. In signing these papers, you consent to allow me to hypnotize you for the sake of understanding the role you are to take. If you do not wish to be hypnotized, you may so indicate in the necessary boxes; however, it will take longer for you to accomplish your role to satisfaction this way, and the commercial will not move forward, until I give my official seal of approval.” “What?” you balk. “They trust me. I’m good at what I do. If I say someone isn’t ready, they aren’t ready. Each time I’ve warned a client, my predictions came true. After a time, people learn to listen.” She shrugged as she planted herself in a tall stool with a high back to support her lithe frame. “Now, then, assuming you’ve finished the paperwork, let’s get started.” You gulp, then sigh as your shoulders slump in defeat. It’s not like she’d be able to do much to you, anyways, even if she did manage to put you under. And you needed this part. You scrawl quickly across the necessary lines, after a swift perusal of each of the segments for any hidden language or gimmicks. “All right. Let’s get started,” you sigh. “Good.” She seized the paperwork and shoved it into a file with your name on it. “Now, then. According to the paperwork, you are to play the role of a stereotypical bodybuilder with just one thing on his mind.” “Lifting weights. Yes,” you say as you roll your eyes. “I take it you’re not too keen on the role.” You shrug. “I take what I can get.” She pursed her lips. “Hmm. You’re going to be an interesting one. It’s more difficult working with a client who isn’t enthusiastic about his part. Not impossible, mind you. Just more difficult.” She perused the file once more, then pulled out her phone. “Let’s start off with various accents, shall we? I want to see what kind of range fits you best. There are a few that come more prominently to mind. You have German/Austrian, surfer beach bum, frat boy jock, and a few others. Each of them may sound similar, but there is a certain subtlety that designates each vocalization as its own unique sort of language. The only difference here is, rather than a language of words and letters, you have a language of sounds and inflections. Now then. Let’s begin.” You run through each of the various accents and styles, trying your best to replicate each. She shook her head and tutted at each separate attempt to mimic the recordings. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,” she sighed. “Let’s start off with the basics.” She flicked to another track, and white noise started playing gently behind the sound of a metronome. “I want you to listen to the beat and follow it. Emphasize the key words of your line with each stroke. ‘I lift things UP and put them DOWN.’ Got it? Up,” her voice climbed higher, “and down.” Her voice glided down into the lower register.

You sigh, then set your shoulders as you listen to the recording. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say lamely. “With feeling. Emphasize. You have to draw the audience into what you’re saying. Again,” she ordered. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say. “Again. Hit the beat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Again.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Repeat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Good. Keep going.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “That’s right. Follow the beat. Up. Down. Up. Down.” “I lift things up and put them down.” Click up. Click down. Tick. Up. Tock. Down. It’s so boring, but you continue to follow the pattern. “Cadence is everything. Flying high, then dropping low.”

Up. Down.

“Lower.”

“I lift things up and put them down.” Did ... your voice sound huskier? “Deeper. Don’t stop now. Repeat. Follow the rhythm.” Follow UP. Follow DOWN. Follow.... “I ... feel funny....” “Relax. You were just starting to get it right. Try again,” she urged gently. “You want to nail this part, don’t you? So you have to try again. Relax. Try again. Listen. Try again. Follow the beat. Try again.” Her tone was so soft, so low. You had to strain to hear. Had to listen. ... Had to try again. “I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down....”

“That’s right.” You feel something in your hand. A ... paperweight, maybe? “You lift things up and put them down. Up. Down. Up. Down.” And suddenly your arm is moving. Up and down. Up and down. You lift things up. You put them down. Lift up. Put down. Up. ... Down. “Good boy.” Then everything went dark.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 5

You look down at the bag of silver packets Hank had shoved into your hands at the end of your workout as you open your door limply. Your arms feel like they’re ready to fall off. “One cup, twice daily. No exceptions,” Hank had growled. You nearly gag at the thought of drinking that slop so often, but you’re too tired for your body to really even put the effort into the involuntary reflex in the first place. The living room is the same as it was when you left. You kick your shoes off on the small tile patch, then trudge your way over to the kitchen across the way. You pass the flat screen TV on your left with no thought of your usual entertainment. Instead, you smack the bag onto the counter and listen to the sharp retort of the thick plastic cup smacking the granite surface. Then you roll your eyes and stumble over to the drawers beneath the counter, where you keep your scissors and other miscellaneous tools and utensils. A few seconds later, you’re running the blades over the thick plastic of a packet. That overpowering aroma assaulted your nose once again as you finished cutting a neat line across, and you proceed to dump the contents of the package into the waiting cup. Next, you fill it with some milk from the fridge. You watch in disgust as undissolved clumps of the mix float to the surface and bob like chunks of decaying meat. The blade cap couldn’t go on fast enough as you twist it shut and attach the cup to your blender. A couple of minutes later, you’re forcing the swill back down your throat again. It’s still just as cloying. “Acquired taste my ass,” you mutter darkly as you take another sip. When you finally finish the cup off, you take it back to the sink and rinse it out, before leaving it to soak. You shuffle back to the door to lock it, then shut off your lights and power to the bathroom, where warm steam and soap wait to wash away the caked sweat you’ve accumulated over your skin. The water soothed your muscles, relieving the tension as it pelted against your skin in a pantomime of a massage. You sigh dreamily, spending a good forty minutes savoring the sensation of that strange in-between state when you’re not fully awake, but not fully asleep. Your hand holds loosely to the towel as you walk to the mirror and comb your hair. No need to style today, when you’re about to go to bed. You take another deep breath, and even that feels like an effort as your chest stretches against the stiffness your upper body workout has caused. You stride casually to your dresser and withdraw a clean set of boxers from your last modeling gig. It was always nice when they let you keep the clothes you liked. Free advertisement, you suppose. Then you head to your queen size bed, where your folded pajamas are waiting to be worn again. You pull on the sweat pants easily, tying the knot tight once more to ensure they don’t slip off as you dream. Finally, you pull on a long silk cotton night shirt that drapes down to your knees. A familiar manila envelope catches your eyes as you settle beneath the covers, and you reach over lazily to pull it towards you as you lay back against your pillow. Curious to see just what materials and slogans Miss Schroder prepared for you, and not quite feeling ready to drop off to sleep, you decide to take a peek. “‘Be a bro,’” you read as you pull out the first motivational card. “’Pop a flex’?” You continue to cycle through. Phrases like, Don’t think, just LIFT! and Do It mix with If the bar ain’t bending, you’re just pretending and Do you even lift? You couldn’t help but chuckle as you read, Healthy Body, Big Muscles! “So much for healthy minds. These things are crazy.” You shake your head out of mirth as you pull out the sheet she shoved in last and read a few phrases aloud. “‘I like muscles,’” you say in as close an imitation to Arnold Schwarzenegger you can manage. “‘The gym is my home.’ ‘I love to lift.’ ‘I love working out.’” The list continued for some time, and your eyes slowly drifted closed as that tiredness began to settle in, the last words painted clear in your mind: CHANGE IS GOOD.