Totally Worth The Reblog. Hands Off To The Artist And Whoever Invented The Concept For This Series. *Applauds

Totally worth the reblog. Hands off to the artist and whoever invented the concept for this series. *Applauds loudly*

Created by Dragonart

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 7

Hey, guys. Just one more part to go after this, and Of Spies and Muscleheads will be complete. It’s been awesome sharing this story with you, and I look forward to sharing more in times to come, but after this, Coach Stone may end up disappearing for a time as I work on the next arc involving him. My apologies for having to make you wait, but rest assured, there will be more transformations to come across a variety of paths, including muscle growth and mental changes, so don’t worry. You’ll see more of the themes you love. I promise. ~Omni

The newly dubbed Controller chuckled. “Time to wake up, bros.” His fingers whisked over the keys faster than they had, even when he had been his old self. “Meatheads will wake. Meatheads will respond. Meatheads will obey.”

The smaller men behind suddenly stiffened, as if a bolt of electricity had run through them. They doubled in size and muscle mass, grinning like the idiots they now were. A metal storage closet door buckled and shrieked in protest, before bursting open to reveal the torn lab coat of a technical assistant beneath a tower of muscle. A headpiece that was far too small for this man’s new form barely clung to his ear as he strode out of the tiny and much deformed space to join the others. And still all Hunter could do was stare.

“How far along are we, Controller?”

“Conversion at fifty percent, Sir,” he droned.

“Good. Meatheads, go round up any stragglers in the building who haven’t been hooked to the communications network. Controller, keep up the work here. Meathead, Skinner, guard Controller.”

A resounding, “Yes, sir, Coach. We are meatheads. We obey,” echoed in stereo over the screen, before the column of men filed out in search of stragglers.

“I do so love my meatheads. Don’t you, Agent Hunter?” Stone asked.

“Go to hell,” Hunter growled.

“That would make an interesting vacation spot, but I think I much prefer Florida,” Stone quipped.

“Let me go, damnit!”

“In due time, Agent Hunter. In due time.”

“All field agents accounted for, coach,” Controller said. “They have begun the process, and will soon convert to muscle.”

Various screens began popping up over the main one on the tablet.

“Agent Butcher reporting. Butcher is a good meathead.”

“Agent Iron Skull reporting. I am a good meathead.”

“Agent Quicksilver reporting. I am a good meathead.”

And so it continued one after another. Each new agent reporting in was another blow to Hunter’s heart as he watched his comrades in arms fall to little more than thugs for hire swearing their loyalty to a maniac.

“Meatheads, continue your assignments as normal, then contact Controller for your next instructions when they’re complete.”

A collective, “Yes, Sir,” followed, and the communications cut off, leaving just Controller and the meatheads there, and Stone with his meatheads and captive.

“Meathead conversion ninety-nine percent complete, Sir,” Controller said. “Meathead Gym Titan waits for its coaches.”

“And your gym will have them. But first, we should take care of that last percent, wouldn’t you say, Controller?”

“Whatever you say, Coach. This meathead does not think. This meathead obeys.”

“Good meathead. Now put on your helmet, and trigger our last sleeper agent.”

“Yes, sir. Controller is a meathead. Controller obeys.”

The giant known as Meathead approached with a helmet similar to the ones Hunter had seen on the drones as he snuck through the castle, and placed it solidly on Controller’s head. The green plexiglass covering flickered and glowed, and soon enough, he looked just like the rest of the drones.

“Connection restored. Reinforcement protocols initiated.” He flexed, and made his way to the console, his pupils dilating and contracting in time to the pulses from his helmet.

Hunter groaned as he watched those pulses. Jason’s … no, he’s not Jason anymore. It’s Controller’s jockstrap. Controller’s body. He watched the jockstrap straining to hold up. He saw those curved muscles, watched those pectorals as they twitched and bounced. Bouncing. Huge. Swollen. His thickened brow furrowed. Why was he so upset again? Something … wrong?  But bouncing. Pecs. Muscles. They’re nice, aren’t they?

“Not yet, Hunter,” Stone said. Hunter felt a sudden pain burning through his arm. One of the former agents was clinging to it, twisting the skin. “You need to watch and listen.” Stone sneered then, and pointed to the other brain that had been left off at the side. Hunter’s eyes widened as he saw the number had dropped down to 90.

“That’s–.”

“Your IQ, yes. Strange how susceptible you are to my little tricks, wouldn’t you say? Already, you’ve lost so much,” Stone mocked. “Then again, you’ve been exposed for quite a while now, haven’t you?” He turned back to the screen. “You’ll initiate contact on my mark, Controller. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir, Coach,” Controller replied.

“If you’re going to turn me into one of your–” Hunter grunted, swearing in his mind. Why did his clothes have to be so tight? “–Mindless meathead drones, then the least you can do is show me the agent responsible.” His number had dropped to 85, and it was getting harder to stay himself. Harder not to want to flex, to sit and stare, to watch it all go away, far away. Wrapped up deep inside. Deep in his massive meat. But no. He couldn’t … not yet. Not … not yet. Have to focus. Have to stay strong. Stay strong. Strong.… “Who … who helped you? Who betrayed us?” So hard to focus. So hard. Hard muscles. Stronger. 82. Pulsing deeper. 81. Deeper is dumber. Dumbing down. 80. Like a good meathead shoul–NO! He was not a meathead. Want to be a meathead. He would resist. Convert. Obey.

“Wait and see. It won’t take all that long, before Controller makes contact, once I give the order. Just relax, enjoy the ride. I see you’re already starting to, anyways. It’s a real rush, isn’t it, all that power? I felt much the same way when I first changed. The swelling muscles; the surge of the testosterone; the heft of my penis and testicles as they hung, swelled, expanded. I nearly lost myself to my body then, became little more than another one of the brutes you’ve seen. For a short while, I was.

“All I wanted, all I cared about was gym, eat, sleep, and the occasional sexual intercourse. I found employment at a local gym, and for almost a year, I worked and lived as nothing more than a musclebound, weight-obsessed, protein-chugging meathead. Made a nice mint as a model, too, from time to time.” Stone smirked. “To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure what it was that snapped me out of it, and back to my old self. Possibly a delayed reaction in the compound, or maybe it was sheer dumb luck. Whatever the case, when I finally came to myself, and returned to my little lab, the compound had degraded too far for recreation, and, unfortunately, during my little stint in the land of the meatheads, I’d carelessly used my research notes as towels and placeholders for my protein shakes and beer. I had to start from scratch.

“As you can see, I’ve managed to recreate the growth in muscle and body mass, but I have yet to figure out how to preserve my targets’ intelligence. Of course, that’s not an entirely bad thing. And since I was the first, in an ironic twist of fate, everyone automatically perceives me as the alpha, or coach, if you will. Even without proper mental conditioning, I just have to approach them, bark an order at them, and they obey. For example, I could say something like ON YOUR FEET, MEATHEAD, AND GIVE ME TWENTY PUSHUPS NOW!”

Hunter felt a sudden surge of vertigo, and before he knew it, he was on the floor, pushing silently with brutal efficiency. Half a minute later, he was back on his feet again. This was his chance. He could–

“BACK TO YOUR STATION, MEATHEAD. NOW!” Stone barked.

Again, the spinning sensation, the loss of balance or connection with the world. Then the world righted itself. Hunter was staring back at the screen again. He shook his head in disbelief. Stone had to be bluffing. It was the conditioning. Something that traitor Skinner did. He had to be the agent, he had to be. Stone was just trying to keep him distracted, so he couldn’t break free and finish the job. He had to fight this somehow, had to beat it. Smash. Crush. Dumb down. Obey.

“Good boy.” Stone smirked as he watched Hunter’s number drop to 78. “I’d say you’re ready. Controller, contact our agent.”

“Yes, sir. Controller is a good meathead. Controller obeys.”

A high-pitched whine, and the sound of harsh, grating static assaulted Hunter’s ears. He winced.

“’Sup, bro?” Controller’s voice said over the earpiece. “Time to wake up.”

“No … hell no!” Hunter growled. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Stone smirked. “Controller, override sleeper programming. Authorization key: Full Restore.”

“I obey,” Hunter heard in stereo as the meathead that was once Jason pressed into the console. A familiar workout tune beat into his eardrums. “Controller is a meathead. Controller obeys his coach.”

“Jason, if there’s even so much as a scrap of you left in there, now would be the time to fight back,” Hunter said. “Please.”

Controller paused for a moment, as if considering what Hunter had just said. The music pulsed in Hunter’s brain, making it harder to focus. The heavy clank of weights echoed down the corridors of his mind. He remembered the men so mindlessly at work on those benches, pushing, swelling, growing. He recalled that giant among the meatheads, his helmet, his face, those blank glassy eyes. He remembered the one drone that had offered his helmet, and the intense regret that had run through his mind when he rejected it. Then Controller reached for a particular button, and pressed it. The volume turned up. “Controller is a meathead. Controller obeys. Time to remember, meathead. Time to obey.”

Pain arced through Hunter’s skull. He screamed, and the last thing he heard was the endless laughter of Stone and his army of mindless drones.

Feast of Fools

This is a commission I wrote for a person on Furaffinity.net by the name of Vaughnblondetail. It’s the tale of a homeless person who’s given a chance at living a normal life again, at least for a day. But as many people already know, these sorts of things always come with a price.

Timothy sighed as he soaked in the warmth of one of the fanciest showers he’d ever seen in his life. The jets shot from every angle, ensuring total coverage as the water flowed down his body from either side, and from above. The shampoo smelled of a mixture of lavender and melon, giving sweet, flowery scent to replace the stink weeks of grease had given his unwashed hair. The body wash felt even better with its mixture of herb and essential oils to soften his skin as he used the loofa provided to scrub off the dirt, grime, and dead skin he’d accumulated over his time on the streets. The rack even came with a back scrubber to reach the parts of his body he couldn’t reach normally. When his body was clean, he was loathe to leave the comforting stream. It had been so long since he’d been afforded this sort of luxury. But, sadly, all good things must come to an end, and he knew that his benefactor was waiting.

In an effort that seemed almost to cause him physical pain, Timothy reached over to the control pad, and tapped the buttons that would shut off the water pressure. The steam lingered with the refreshing scents of the wash he’d just had, combined with the scents of an automatic air freshening device and scented candles that seemed to shift the scents every five minutes. What kind of technology must this man have purchased to be able to manage such a feat? Tim sighed again as the scent shifted to that familiar blend of sugar, cinnamon, and spice one only smelled when fresh snickerdoodles were coming out of the oven. His mouth began to water, and his stomach growled as he reached for the body towel.

After the cold, rough nights spent in his little hovel in the back alley (or a park bench, if he was lucky), the towel felt like a down comforter. It smelled of wildflowers and honey, calling back memories of his childhood when his mother used to towel him off after a warm bath. He smiled, even as he felt a tear streaming down his cheek. If she could only see him now. She’d hardly recognize him. He hardly recognized himself as he wiped the fog off the bathroom mirror.

Long, shoulder-length blond hair clung to him like sea-kelp. His beard had grown thick, and bushy, obscuring the man beneath in a mat of dripping hair. His vivid green eyes had been subdued by the bloodshot red that came from lack of sleep and proper nourishment. Even to his own eyes, he looked like a tramp.

“Not anymore,” he whispered to himself as he reached for the scissors and electric razor the staff had provided while he’d been in the shower. His hands trembled as he slid his fingers through the loops of the scissors and brought them to the edge of his wet beard. For the first time in months, he would have a proper shave.

When he’d finished, at last, he looked on his handiwork from the mirror. His hair had begun to dry, so he quickly took the thick silver brush, and rushed to get his hair properly taken care of, before it had the chance to harden into painful snarls. When the work was complete, his hair shone in the fluorescent lights, and seemed almost to dance, as though it were happy. Tim chuckled. After all this fine treatment, how could he be anything else?

He looked down at the brush and couldn’t help but admire its craftsmanship. The handle had been crafted out of the finest silver and brass that flowed upwards around the bristles of the brush. He casually fingered the rough bristles and smiled at the familiar sound of hairs snapping like playing cards in a bridge shuffle. A boar’s head had been painstakingly etched into the metal. Tim ran a gentle finger over the carving, marveling at the time and money it must have taken to achieve something like this. It was a real piece of art.

Almost reluctantly, he put the brush down, and gazed at himself in the mirror. His once-trim figure had now turned gaunt. The bones of his ribcage had begun to show, and his arms, once strong and determined, had grown thin and frail. He leaned heavily on the rose-colored marble as he stared at himself and shook his head. This was a mockery. One night, he’d been promised. One night to have a home, a place to stay, to clean up, to eat real food again, to rest. Just one night. Then he’d have to return to the streets and the harshness of a reality that didn’t care how hard he tried to provide for himself.

“Sir.”

Timothy was jarred from his self-pity as the smooth voice of his benefactor’s butler carried through the intercom.

“If you are ready, Sir, the hair stylist is waiting. I’ve placed a set of clothing for you on the bed. After that, will come your fitting, and then the dinner.”

Timothy sighed and made his way to the bathroom’s door. He pulled it open and stared up at the butler’s protruding brow and thick jaw. His silver-fringed black hair had been carefully parted to the side. His gloves looked closer to baseball mitts, and his back and shoulders remained hunched, whether in an effort to look less imposing or simply out of habit, Timothy couldn’t tell.

“Thank you,” Timothy said as he inched his way towards the bed.

“Any time, Master Timothy,” the butler rumbled. “Master Collin was most insistent that you receive every courtesy. And considering your–” he cleared his throat “–unique background, I can understand why.” In a move that was very un-butlerlike, he rested one of his heavy gloved hands on Timothy’s shoulder and gave a kindly smile. “I was there once, myself. You’ll find your way. Most of the master’s guests do, one way or the other.”

“Um . . . thanks, I guess.” Timothy blushed as he broke contact and made his way towards the bed. The gesture had been nice, but rather awkward.

“You needn’t worry about the bathroom. The staff can take care of that.”

“Um, okay, Mister. . ..”

“Simian, Sir. Just Simian.”

“Well, thanks again, Simian.” Timothy smiled weakly. “It’s nice to hear things aren’t completely hopeless. And hey, who knows, with this new haircut, maybe I’ll actually stand a chance of getting a job again.”

Simian smiled. “That’s the spirit. Now off with you, Master Timothy. Your appointment is waiting.”

Timothy smiled more sincerely this time as he made his way towards the door. “Thanks again, Simian.” He waved at the butler, then shut the door behind him.

Simian frowned as he furrowed his brow, and the creases became more pronounced on his forehead. “Odd. He doesn’t act much like a pig. Could something have gone wrong with Master Collin’s scrying?” He shook his massive head. “Preposterous,” he rumbled as he shuffled towards the bathroom, and picked up the brush Timothy had used. It glowed a light blue, and sparked against his gloves, causing them to singe. Simian frowned and bore his teeth in a snarl.

“Now, now, none of that,” he growled as he waved his hand over one of the side drawers. The handle glowed briefly, then returned to normal. He pulled it open to reveal a plethora of brushes, all neatly laid with bristles down and handles up. Horses, dogs, wolves, cats, lions, the collection seemed nearly endless, and even as Simian returned the brush, and strapped it in place, he looked into the space within, and smiled as the drawer continued to stretch far beyond the confines of the counterspace, revealing brush upon brush, each with its own animal carvings. He chuckled to himself. “That never gets old, no matter how many times I see it. I really do have to see about brushing up on spacial distortion some time. It could prove quite useful,” he muttered to himself as he slowly shut the drawer again and waved his hand over the handle. When he pulled the drawer out again, a series of ordinary bathroom supplies cluttered a finite space. He nodded in satisfaction as he shut the drawer, then brought his hand up to view the burns properly. He tutted in frustration at the damage as he saw through the white material to the thick black hide beneath.

“I really do need to speak with Master Collin about those artifacts. Honestly, it’s almost as if he’s testing my resistance.” Simian snorted in disgust as he checked himself in the mirror. He shoved his jaw outwards to get a better view of his sharper canines and flared his nostrils in frustration, then sighed in relief as the scents in the bathroom shifted to the familiar smell of a wet forest just after a storm and tropical fruits just waiting to be picked. His stomach growled as he looked up at his rapidly thickening five o’clock shadow and bushier sideburns.

“The audacity of it all,” he said as his brow ridge extended to form a permanent scowl. He walked over to a large double-door slatted closet and pulled it open as he squatted down on his thick legs. Instead of the usual monogrammed towels that he had been expecting, a bright golden light shone in his eyes. When the light faded, he beheld a cornucopia of bright yellow banana clusters. His mouth watered, and he smiled as he reached in to pluck one of the delicious fruits, while he leaned forward on his fist for support. “Then again, Master does reward rather well, when I succeed.” He expertly peeled the banana, and immediately began to chew contentedly as he felt his collar expand with his neck. He sighed in pleasure as the suit merged into his swelling frame to become shining black fur with a single patch of silver on his back. “I must remember to thank him later,” he said as he pulled out the bushels, took his seat on the heated tiles, and began his meal in earnest, peeling with his large gorilla feet as he feasted on the fruit with his hands.

              The soft lull of the string quartet music filtering through the doors did little to alleviate the sudden discomfort in Timothy’s stomach as he stood before the dining hall’s entrance. His bow tie had been carefully selected, along with every other article of clothing, including the cuff links and button hole. Mister Collin had spared no expense. His hair had been carefully cut to a respectable length, then parted down the middle in homage to the older styles of the Victorian era, before solidifying into place with the assistance of gel, pomade, and more than a little hair spray. He doubted even a steam roller could shift so much as a hair out of place. He gulped again. His throat felt dry. How could he stand here, in this place, to dine with all these men? Surely, Mister Collin’s friends were all just as rich and influential. If he’d known this was going to be a party, he might not have come at all. He nearly bolted when he felt a light hand resting on his shoulder.

           “Feeling a little skittish, are we?” Mister Collin smiled kindly as he squeezed Timothy on the shoulder. He leaned casually on a gold-tipped cane, and chuckled as he ran a hand through his silver hair. His ice-blue eyes were filled with warmth, and just a hint of mischief as he chuckled, then clapped Timothy on the arm. For a man so far in his years, he was surprisingly vivacious, and the implacable hand of age had yet to pluck the fit build his muscles had offered him in his youth. His olive-green suit matched his skin tone quite well as it emphasized his frame without being too tight. “Relax, my boy. Nobody is here to judge you. Far from it, in fact. It’s just a little dinner, and some entertainment afterwards. Who knows. Perhaps you could make some connections here that will help you find the employment you seek?”

           “I don’t know,” Timothy said nervously.

“Trust me, my boy. By the end of this night, I guarantee you’ll be happy as a pig in the mud.”

“You’re sure?” Timothy said as he fiddled with the crystal boar links he’d been given. “And, if you don’t mind my asking, what’s with the whole boar theme? I keep seeing it all over the place.”

Mister Collin chuckled. “Let’s just say it has to do with a bet I made.”

“A bet, huh? This isn’t going to be some kind of joke at my expense, is it?”

“No, no, nothing of the kind,” Mister Collin promised. “My friends and I do this at least once a year. We just like to keep it hush hush.”

“And what happens after?”

“That’s up to you and the others to decide. I’ll leave you with enough to get up on your feet again, if that’s what you wish. Perhaps a recommendation to assist you. My friends and I have a great deal of pull in certain circles.”

“You’re not talking illegal stuff, I hope.”

Mister Collin laughed. “Certainly not, my boy. No need to be so underhanded to get what you want, when you have the American dream. I just happened to achieve the dream a little differently than most.”

“Why does that make me feel less assured?”

“Because I’m a mysterious man who plucked you up off the streets, and nobody acts that way anymore without an angle?”

“Yeah, I’d say that about sums it up,” Timothy said as the two maintained eye contact for several seconds. Then they both burst into a fit of laughter.

“Come along, now. Your dinner awaits.”

The doors swung open slowly to reveal a long oak table that had been expertly varnished and polished to a shine. The carvings depicted various scenes and creatures from nature, including lush forests and vines, thick claws clutching at the legs, lions roaring, and many more. A series of etched grooves came together in the center of the table’s surface to create what looked to be some sort of a star reaching outwards with its flares to touch the edges of the table with vines that blossomed from them.

The table had been occupied by twelve other men of varying ages and builds. Some were completely bald, and covered in tattoos. Others had been carefully preened to give a lofty appearance, including the dirty looks they often gave towards their neighbors. One couple appeared to be college students, though the way they gazed so hatefully towards Mister Collin and the other men standing in the room, one would think they wanted to bite their benefactors’ heads off, rather than thank them.

“Ah, Collin. It’s about time you showed up.” A taller man with black-and-white streaks in his hair smiled, drawing his tight skin up his egg-shaped face. “We were worried we’d have to start without you, you know.”

“Cedric, you know that’s not very fair. As I recall, last year, you made us wait a good two or three hours.”

Cedric blushed, then raised a gloved hand to clear his throat. “Be that as it may, we’re all here now, so I suppose we should begin, shouldn’t we?”

“Do, lets,” Collin said with just a hint of a smirk. “Gentlemen, let’s take our seats. Timothy, you’ll find your chair waiting for you over there, next to . . . my goodness. Is that one of the Jameson boys?”

Cedric shrugged. “He embezzled from his family and got caught. He’s dead to them now. You know how it goes.”

Collin shook his head. “Such a shame. Such a shame.” He sighed as he led Timothy over to the chair. The dark-haired Jameson remained staunchly silent as he stared ahead, not even deigning to acknowledge Timothy’s presence. His hand clenched tightly around the fabric of his pant leg, and his jaw showed clear evidence of gritting teeth as the muscles near his cheek bones strained.

“Pay him no mind, Timothy. You’re my guest. If he has objections he will have to take it up with me, and with his host.”

Jameson’s arm began to tremble as he struggled to control some clearly evident rage. Timothy took his seat hesitantly and did his best to avoid eye contact.

The remainder of the men took their seats, and Mister Collin took the gilded chair at the head of the table. “Gentlemen, welcome to our little gathering. Each of you was chosen for a particular reason to join us this evening. The events that led to your circumstances vary, but the result is the same. It is our hope that, as our guests, you will enjoy this meal we’ve had prepared in your honor, and that you will find yourselves significantly heartened by the end of this evening’s activities. We’re not ones to stand on ceremony, so, please, feel free to begin. If you have need of anything, you need but ask the servants. They’ll gladly assist you in any way they can. Bon appétit, gentlemen.”

In a flurry of motion, decanters were poured, bottles emptied, trays and platters left open on the table, and so much more. The alluring scent of rich food caused all thirteen guests’ stomachs to growl in anticipation. Steak, pork, beans, chicken, fried foods, gravy, sausage, bacon, salad, Asian, Italian, Mediterranean, and so much more. How the table managed to hold it all, Timothy couldn’t understand, but it did, and he couldn’t wait to try it.

Some of the men managed to show proper restraint, exercising manners as they reached to serve themselves, before offering to pass to the others. Unfortunately, some of the men weren’t so kind. Grease and juices clung to their hands as they reached, and grabbed what they could, and stared suspiciously at their fellows as they hovered protectively over their plates. A veritable mountain had begun to form on more than one as the men tore into their meals, and let their appetites do the talking.

Jameson shook his head, and took a casual sip from his wine glass. “Shameful,” he muttered to himself as he lowered the glass, and picked up the corresponding fork and knife, before cutting into his filet mignon.

Timothy blushed as he took his own first bite, and did his best to avoid eye contact. The fried chicken was surprisingly good, and the barbeque even more so. He winced as he watched further down the table, where several grease and sauce stains had already begun to spatter the men’s shirts and suits. How could they do that when their hosts had gone through such trouble just to tailor the suits for them in the first place? He continued to use his fork and knife, being careful to avoid dripping.

“Well, at least you have some class,” Jameson grumbled as he reached for a dinner roll. The bread was warm, and flaky, almost falling apart in the man’s hands as steam rose from its interior. He slathered them artfully with soft butter and took a small bite. A heavy sigh left him as he closed his eyes in pleasure.

“My family taught me how to eat.” Timothy shrugged. “I may not be upper class, but good manners are universal,” he said as he polished off his fifth drum stick and started into the mashed potatoes and gravy.

“So you would think,” Jameson said with a smirk as he chewed further on his steak. “But I think they are inclined to disagree.”

Timothy gaped. “Did that man just take–?”

“A whole hock of ham? Yes, yes he did.”

“Hey, you, rich boy!” the bald one with the tattoos barked over the table, even as he continued to chew. “Toss me some rolls!”

“Honestly,” Jameson growled as he picked up the basket and passed it across the way. It was snatched faster than Jameson had time to react. In a matter of moments, half the rolls were gone, and the men were biting into them like apples, chewing and laughing as they guzzled their drinks to wash the food down.

“Barbarians,” Jameson scoffed as he finished his glass. He raised it and motioned for one of the servants to refill it. “And leave the bottle here. I think it’s going to be a long night, and I’m not sure I have the constitution to face it without a little assistance.”

The servant nodded and relinquished the wine.

Timothy did his best to keep on Jameson’s good side, though it wasn’t that hard as the dinner progressed. Soon one bottle turned to two, then three, then five. Jameson’s cheeks were thoroughly flushed as he drained his glass. “Aw, to hell with it,” he snarled at last, “give me those ribs.” A half rack was promptly dropped onto his plate, and he dug in with gusto, gnawing at the bones as he got every piece of meat he could, while the sauce slathered his face and hands. A collective cheer rose up from farther down the table, followed by a rally of belches and laughter.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, rich boy.” The bald man from earlier chuckled as he downed another glass. “How’s it feel to eat like the rest of us, hmm?”

Jameson didn’t seem to hear him. He continued to scarf at his food, reaching for whatever he could serve, and consuming more, downing another few gulps of wine or sherry as the mood took him. A rather loud series of pops ripped through the air, followed immediately by crude laughter. It would seem some of the men had gas, and they didn’t care who knew it.

Timothy shifted his legs uncomfortably. His suit felt strangely constrictive as he took another bite, this time from an egg roll dipped in orange sauce and stuffed with a piece of orange chicken he’d taken from his plate. Everything tasted so delicious, yet he still felt like he could eat more. His stomach growled, even as he fed it. How was this possible? He stared down the table. The others had been stained and smeared almost beyond recognition. Buttons had been undone, ties torn away or hanging loosely on their chests as their mouths bulged with food. All the grease and sauces had left a dark, sticky stain on their fingers and nails, even as servants removed the old plates and replaced them, so the men could keep eating. He winced as he rubbed his sore jaw. He’d been eating so fast, he hadn’t given it time to rest. Everything felt so swollen. He took a moment to sit back and get his second wind.

Another titanic belch sounded, this time from right next to him. Timothy gaped as he turned to Jameson. In the few moments he’d turned away, the man had undone his tie and the first couple of buttons on his dress shirt. A loud tear sounded as he spread his legs as wide as he could manage and leaned closer to his plate, using his elbows and upper arms for support. “When in Rome,” he grunted in response to Timothy’s stare, and then returned to his plate. His bare legs were exposed beneath the torn material of the suit, and he didn’t even seem to care as a bassoon sounded from beneath his chair.

Timothy blushed and did his best to avoid eye contact, even as he felt his own gut rumbling for release.

“Thanks, sweet cakes. Why don’t you stay a little longer? We could have some fun,” the bald man said as he leered at the waitress refilling his glass. Rather than act offended, she giggled.

“Maybe later,” she said as she caressed his beard stubble. “I like my men thick and meaty.” The man’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath of what Timothy could only assume was perfume. His eyes rolled in the back of his head, and he panted as the buttons on his suit coat burst, spraying the table with plastic. His throat bobbed, like he was trying to swallow something, but all Timothy could make out was some sort of grunting. Was he trying to clear his throat?

“Muriel,” Cedric said warningly, “this is neither the time nor the place.”

The girl sighed. “Yes, Sir,” she said sadly as she made her way back towards the kitchen.

Timothy coughed. Come to think of it, his throat was feeling rather dry. Maybe it was all the alcohol. He waved one of the serving folk over. “Could I maybe get some water, please?” he rasped. Things really must have been getting bad for him to have that much difficulty. He could swear his voice nearly cracked.

“Of course, Sir,” the servant said obligingly. He soon returned with a crystal pitcher and poured the liquid into a new glass. “Will that be all, Sir?”

“Y-yes. For now. Thank you,” Timothy said. Then he started to cough, and quickly downed several gulps of the life-giving substance. Cool relief flooded his throat, and he sighed contentedly as he did his best to clear it of any obstruction.

“I say, Timothy, are you doing all right?” Mister Collin asked. It was the first time that evening anyone from the head of the table had spoken to him.

“Fine,” Timothy managed to say. Just . . . a little dry,” he grunted as he took a few more gulps. Was he coming down with a cold?

“I recommend you try the chow mein next. The pork is excellently cooked, and the sauce is positively addicting.”

Timothy’s stomach rumbled, even as the suit seemed to cut into his waist. But how could that be? It fit just fine when the tailor had taken his measurements before. He struggled to keep his focus on Mister Collin, rather than the food, even as he tried to keep his rumbling gut from expelling the gas that doubtless waited for release. “Um . . . Mister Collin.”

“Yes?”

“Something feels . . . off. I . . . I think I must’ve eaten at least five or six plates by now, but I still feel hungry. It’s like I haven’t eaten anything. And . . . and the suit you gave me. It’s–.”

“Perfectly understandable for you to eat so much. You’ve been malnourished for far too long. Your body is simply replenishing lost nutrition. As for the suit itself, of course you can keep it. That is what you were going to ask, wasn’t it, my boy?”

Timothy felt so hot. It was hard to think, especially as the churning increased. Was that what he wanted to ask? Everything felt so dizzy.

“Eat, boy. Eat. Put some meat on those bones,” Mister Collins insisted.

Timothy couldn’t breathe. He clawed at his collar and the black silk bow tie came free, followed by the first button. Cool air washed over his neck and chest as he breathed deeply, filling his nose with the delectable scent of the feast. A heaping helping of pork chow mein now sat on his plate. He couldn’t quite recall serving it, though. Had one of the servants done it while he was adjusting?

Eat.

His stomach growled.

Eat.

His mouth watered.

Eat.

His throat bobbed as he gulped. He was so hungry.

“You gonna eat that?” Jameson’s cheeks bulged with food to the point they seemed almost to hang like jowls. His dark eyes stared greedily at the mixture of vegetables, shredded pork, and fried noodles on top. His lips smacked together as he chewed and swallowed whatever swill of wine and food he’d been nursing in his mouth. His ruby-studded cuff links remained surprisingly untouched by the filth he’d brought onto himself, their boar eyes reflecting the candlelight and flashing into their eyes.

“I . . . I, uh . . ..”

That strange sound came again, this time from Jameson as he cleared his own throat. “Damn itching,” he growled as he reached towards Timothy’s plate. Makin’ me–” a mixture of a snort and a grunt eeked out from his throat as he closed in on his prize “–sound all funny.”

Everything seemed to spin for a moment as Timothy lost track of the room. The next thing he knew, he tasted pork and salt, and felt the familiar crunch of fried noodles in his mouth. He shuddered as he felt a warm, moist sensation surrounding his mouth and dripping down his chin. He swallowed and stuck out his tongue to taste it. As he suspected, his face was now covered in chow mein sauce. But when had he gone for it like that?

Jameson scowled. “Fine,” he grunted as he took a handful of wings and ribs and began to lay into them. His lower canines flashed as he continued to eat, and he soon grinned as he was lost in the euphoria of stuffing his face again.

The bald man pointed to some corn on the cob and grunted, not even deigning to ask as one of the other men reached over and smacked the platter down in front. The man immediately grabbed the cobs and stood up, pushing his chair back, before he dove in face-first and started chomping the corn cob like a typewriter does paper, one row at a time. Flecks of the corn clung to his bristles as he continued to grunt and eat. His shirt sleeves now flowed down onto the table, and his chest was bare to the world as he continued to feast. The others soon followed his example, leaning on the table as their rears strained against the seats of their pants with the occasional fart mixed with their snorts as they scarfed their food.

Jameson laughed as he licked his lips. His stubble had grown significantly, spreading down his neck and over his face as he relished in his slovenly behavior. He let out another belch, and as he did, his pants burst against his thickening thighs, revealing the silk underwear he’d been given and a significantly heavy bulge that lay beneath.

Timothy blinked owlishly at the other diners. They all seemed to be stripping, their clothing tearing like so much tissue paper on Christmas day. A pleasant tingle ran through his ears, hands, feet, and crotch as he watched.

Eat.

He didn’t even know what he was chewing on. He just had to eat. Every time he finished, more food was shoveled on top.

Grow.

He was hardly aware as the button on his pants burst off, and his belt buckle slammed against the underside of the table. He had to eat. The more he shoveled down, the hungrier he became. It was like all the food was being taken, even as it dropped down his throat. He snorted, then coughed as he drank too much and felt it rush up his nostrils. That didn’t stop him, though. He just exhaled violently through his nose and kept right on eating.

Swell.

Timothy grunted as he felt the tingling intensify below. He groaned in pleasure, and couldn’t help but stand as his glutes twitched. Something heavy and warm expanded between his legs, amplifying the sensation as he bowed the limbs to accommodate it.

Release.

Without a second thought, Timothy relaxed his bowels. The sudden expulsion of gas was nigh-on explosive, detonating like a firecracker. He blushed at the others’ reactions as laughter filled the room, and the men continued to point, eat, and spray their food and drink over the table.

Eat.

Expand.

Feed.

Feast.

In a matter of seconds, Timothy found himself buried in his food again as his stomach roared, and his senses cried out for more. The seat of his pants had constricted, causing greater discomfort, but he was too lost in the need to eat to care. The euphoria was too intoxicating.

Eventually, the big fellow with the tattoos interrupted again, and pointed with darkened fingers, even as he lifted a leg to release another spurt of gas, then scratch his crotch with his other hand. “Hey, everybody, look at Richie over there!”

Jameson’s eyes had become unfocused, his face painted in a cocktail of barbeque sauce, hot sauce, gravy, and all manner of substances both liquid and semi-solid. One of the servants had replaced his wineglass with a bowl that he sloshed his face in from time to time to drink, before returning to his meal. He continually grunted, clearing his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed between swallows. His beard had consumed his face, and his hair had grown disheveled as he slopped through who knew which serving. His nose was so heavily caked with mashed potatoes and other starchy products, it looked more like a snout, even twitching as he flared his nostrils from within. His lower lip bulged, and two tiny points were visible from time to time as he smacked and chewed his food as noisily as possible. He didn’t seem to care about what he looked like anymore, or even if anyone was staring, for that matter.

“Food,” he grunted between. “Feed me.” The server obliged, shoveling a thick helping of beef stroganoff onto the man’s plate.

Timothy furrowed his brows in confusion as he looked more closely at Jameson. His body looked . . . thicker somehow. Tiny bristles glinted in the light from his legs and torso. As he squinted his eyes to take a closer look, he noticed the cuff links on Jameson’s wrists. With each movement, something caught in the light, almost like a sort of spider web.

Must eat.

The instinct was so strong. Timothy wanted to return to his own feasting, but he had to figure out what that was. Something didn’t seem right. He pulled his thoughts from the mire of his tenth helping of mashed potatoes and fried chicken to watch Jameson. A few moments later, he managed to hone in on the glint. It looked . . . yes, it was, a golden thread. It stretched from the cuff links, joining the two together, and then stretching up to his nose. Occasional spurts of the stuff would glint from Jameson’s food and drink, almost like they were discharging it. Just what was he seeing, some sort of gluttony-induced hallucination? He turned to look at the others. Each of them had their own threads, some reaching to their mouths, some stretching over the edge of the table, and down beneath. One man’s hands were completely encased in them. Just what was going on here?

“Sir, might I interest you in some mud pie?”

Must consume.

Timothy turned, and the room seemed to spin as he did so. His throat bobbed naturally now, scratching itself as he let out a confused grunt.

“Pie, Sir. Would you care for some?”

The scent of chocolate, cream, and bananas assaulted Timothy’s nose as the server brought it closer. The golden threads writhed from its perfect, glinting surface, as if to entice him. His mouth watered.

“I . . . I–.”

EAT!

The threads snapped, latching to his cufflinks, his nostrils, his mouth. His tongue felt so thick, so heavy. It wanted more. He could practically taste the graham cracker crust, the caramelized bananas, the rich, creamy chocolate. There wasn’t room in his mouth anymore. He had to let it out. And then, he did taste it as the pie was pushed against his tongue, his mouth, his face covered in cool chocolate filling. Everything was chocolate. Everything sugar, and filling, and food. So much food. So good.

He snorted through the chocolate filling, till he reached the bottom, and inhaled the smell as he scraped against the crust, licking, chewing, crushing, until he could gain proper purchase to lever it up with his thicker, longer tongue, and into his mouth. He felt a slight tug on his jaw and grunted in appreciation as the leverage grew easier. He adjusted his mouth to dig his canines under the crust, breaking it up, so he could shovel it in.

More.

“More. More. MOR–” the demand was broken off by a sort of a hiccupping sound that carried for the next few seconds. Timothy looked up, resting his cheeks in the crater he’d formed in the pie tin to see Jameson scrabbling at the table with his hands. His fingers had been stuck together by the combined sugary substances he’d been consuming practically non-stop, and he fumbled ineptly with the trays and saucers as he struggled to get more of the delicacies. The threads had wrapped over his arms and hands now, and were starting to thicken along his torso and legs as they inched their way along. Jameson reiterated the sound over and over again as he ate, sustaining it longer and longer each time between snorts and grunts. His swollen nose twitched as he guzzled his plates for all they were worth, even going so far as to lick them, before the servants came with new additions.

Grunt.

Squeal.

The noise was soon reiterated across the table as the other men joined in. The threads throbbed around their throats, thrusting up and down, forcing the grunts out, until they left, and the bobbing continued on its own. The threads reached up to the eyes and dipped through the tear layers. Then they pulsed like pumps as the color slowly drained away, darkening, shifting to the point where one could hardly tell the difference between the rich dark brown of the iris and the black of the pupil. As the tendrils withdrew, the grunting intensified, and the hiccups turned into squeals.

Next came the ears as the threads reached up, latching onto the cartilage, and pulling it, stretching it to flop down over their ear canals. Timothy watched as they rose and surged into the men’s newly-shaped ears, pulsing and throbbing as the men ate. Their fingers slowly shifted into lumps as their eyes glowed and the grunting increased.

Let go.

Forget.

Timothy watched all of this, and his heart began to race. Something was wrong. He pushed himself away from the table, but as he tried to stand, he felt off balance, top heavy. He felt a set of hands brace him, and turned to look at his server.

“Easy, Sir. You’ll fall, if you aren’t careful,” he said. His nostrils flared, and his uniform strained against his muscles. Two nubs pressed out from his forehead and slowly expanded as he shifted along the floor. The clip-clopping cadence of heavy hooves met Timothy’s ears, and his eyes widened in fear as he watched the servant grow all the taller. Cool, hard hoof-tips pressed into Timothy’s soft flesh as the man’s vascular arms lifted him towards the table again. A powerful animal scent cut through the aroma of the food, dispelling the fog.

Timothy tried to scream, only for a loud squeal to leave his throat. He thrashed and struggled, but to no avail as the glamour faded from his server to reveal a giant black-furred minotaur. He looked down to see, not the stains of food, but three massive fingers with black tips slowly drawing together. He crossed his eyes to see the much longer bridge of his nose as he snuffled and snorted. The tips of a pair of tusks were slowly growing more prominent, and that filled him with adrenaline as he squirmed in his captor’s grip.

The minotaur turned to the head of the table. “My apologies, Masters. I’m afraid this one became aware, before the binding could complete itself.”

The twelve laughed as they pointed to Mister Collin.

“Looks like you were a little sloppy there, Collin,” Cedric gloated. “Mine’s already nearly finished.” He patted his stomach contentedly as he looked down the table to where Jameson, or rather, the hog that had once been Jameson, blinked sleepily. The tendrils pulsed around his form, squeezing, teasing, shaping as the pig expanded to prize-winning proportions. “Ah. There it is.” Cedric chuckled darkly as the tendrils constricted, then pulled violently. A glowing apparition of Jameson floated limply as it drew closer and closer towards Cedric and a large silver ring he wore. Meanwhile, the two cuff links that had been around the pig’s hooves snapped onto its neck, and energy arced outwards from them to surround the swine’s neck, creating a thick leather collar that soon became etched with runes and other patterns. The pig grunted and snuffled at the table for a little longer, before dropping down to the floor and settling to sleep. The apparition dissolved into a golden mist that slipped into the grooves of the ring as the runic engravings pulsed.

“Much better,” Cedric said with a smile. “Not the best magic I’ve had, but it will suffice. And besides, the boy will make much more money now than he would have in his former state.

“I’m sure it helps that his family paid you,” another of the twelve said with a chuckle.

“Well, every contribution is most gratefully received. It seems only right to pay back one’s friends, wouldn’t you say?” Cedric asked with a sneer.

Timothy continued to struggle as he watched the others fall one after the other, leaving nothing more than hogs and boars snuffling at food, before taking their places on the ground to sleep. Mister Collin watched with a hint of curiosity as he folded his hands and stared at Timothy. His cane’s head glowed as the golden threads attached to Timothy fed whatever it was these men were taking into the alloy.

“Bring him here, Minos. Gently,” Mister Collin instructed as he continued to stare.

Timothy tried to shout something, anything, but his vocal chords wouldn’t let him. All he could manage were guttural grunts and squeals. His nose twitched against his will as he snuffled, sampling new scents and smells he never could register before. He could smell the other hogs, the expensive cologne the men wore, the scents of the various servants as they shifted to become centaurs, satyrs, and a variety of other forms both animal and mythical. He knew each one, and could even identify what some were feeling, because of the smell. He shuddered back from that. Though the ability would doubtless be useful, it also meant thinking more like a boar, and he didn’t want that.

At last, Timothy flailed helplessly in front of his former benefactor. His malformed limbs continued to twitch as the threads did their work. He felt his hips shifting into proper hindquarters as a long tail began to twitch and expand. His spine tingled as it extended, and he looked fearfully at the man who had been so kind before.

“You intrigue me, young man,” Mister Collin finally said. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve encountered someone so resilient, so in-tune with the world around him. Most of the people I’ve changed hardly put up a fight. You saw through our spellcraft. That’s a feat few, if any beginners can manage, let alone a person who’s never so much as touched their gift before.” He reached out, and stroked Timothy under his chin. Despite himself, Timothy couldn’t hold back the grunts of pleasure that rose from the sensation of the fingers on his bristles.

“Get on with it already, Collin. We have work to do.”

Mister Collin turned with blazing eyes on the man at the edge of the table. “I’d watch my tongue, if I were you, Wryma,” he snarled. “Or have you so easily forgotten just how close you were to joining the ranks of the animal kingdom yourself?”

Wryma gulped.

“I raised every one of you from your miserable condition to be what you are today, and I am grateful to call many of you colleagues, even friends, but don’t you dare to assume that I’ll broke impertinence in this circle.” Satisfied with the tongue lashing he’d given, Mister Collin turned his attention back to Timothy. “Now then, young man, I see potential in you. And it seems quite clear to me that you’d rather retain your intelligence and sapience. Is that not so?”

Timothy nodded vigorously, even as he felt the tears starting to run into his . . . his fur. Even as he listened, it was getting harder and harder to put the words together into proper sentences in his mind.

Mister Collin noticed this, and quickly snapped his fingers. The tingling stopped, and the pulsing from the threads ceased. “Your mana is too valuable a resource for me to simply let go, especially since there are those who still hunt our kind, even if they’re ignorant of our true desires.” He sighed and slumped in his chair as the weight of years past pressed on his shoulders. “So, the question is, what to do with you? The way I see it, you have two options. I can either finish what I started with you and take all of your mana and potential for myself, which, as you can see, effectively leaves you little more than a beast of the field. You wouldn’t even be aware of your loss, and you would be well taken care of for the rest of your days, however long or short they may be.”

Timothy let loose a series of grunts and snorts with a single drawn-out squeal.

“The other option?”

Timothy nodded.

“Well, the other option is to agree to a contract with me. You get to keep your mind and your mana, but you lend me that power when I stand in need of it. You won’t be human, of course. Not at first, anyways. That form is earned over time, through hard work and dedication, but you might find you prefer this form to that, by the time you reach that point.” He chuckled. “Most of my servants do. So, what do you say? Grunt once for the first option, twice for the second.”

Timothy grunted twice, then nodded vigorously.

Mister Collin grinned viciously. “Excellent. Put him down, Minos.”

“Yes, Master,” Minos said as he gently placed Timothy on the floor.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the next few weeks in a more porcine state of mind, friend. You have to learn how to use your body properly, and to accept the animal side of you. But don’t worry, it’s not permanent. You may even come to enjoy it.”

Timothy felt a strange yanking sensation somewhere in his gut and his head as the collar began to form along his neck. One of his hocks tingled, and as he turned his head to view it, he noticed a brand taking shape in the form of an archaic C with a nail piercing through it. He tried to protest, but suddenly things felt fuzzy. He couldn’t quite piece together why he was upset. His tusks felt in place, he had just been well fed by the man-things, his . . . owners? Yes, that felt right. He grunted in pleasure as he felt a strong surge of energy flowing through his body and walked forward. He felt strangely unsteady at first, but things soon righted themselves again as he drew closer to his master. Yes, that’s what he was. If he could smile, he would have as he approached the extended object. He snuffled the cool metal head of the cane, and it glowed brightly, blinding him for a time, but he didn’t feel alarmed. When the light was gone, and he could see again, he felt the gentle hand of his master stroking his mane. It felt good to be next to his master. The other man-things gaped at him, but he didn’t care. He was there to be with his master. He rested his massive head on the arm of the chair as the gentle strokes continued.

“Gods, man, that thing is massive!” one of them exclaimed.

“It has to be at least four feet high!”

“Four feet, nine inches, I believe, Mister Edwards, and a good three hundred pounds, I should think, possibly a little more. He makes quite a stunning wild boar, wouldn’t you say?” Mister Collin chuckled as he ran his hands through the boar’s thick gold mane. Its green eyes had remained, and deep mahogany bristles coated the rest of his hide with just a hint of lighter brown speckles near the mane.

“If that’s his size when he’s feral, how large will he be when he regains his humanity?”

“If you’re referring to his partial form, I would assume a good seven or eight feet at least.” Mister Collin laughed. “It seems I win, after all, gentlemen. And I get a new servant out of the deal to boot. I’d say our little feast of fools was quite the success.” He handed a truffle to the new wild boar. “Wouldn’t you say so, Vaughn?”

The newly-named Vaughn grunted happily as he snapped up the truffle. Master was so good to him.

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.”

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.

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 5

“Work out. Grow. I grow with the team. Obey. Must obey. Yes, Coach….”

Hunter looked pityingly at Trav, even as he did his best not to take in the hissing speakers around the halls. “Hopefully, we can help these kids get back to their old selves, when this is over.

“And you, too.”

“… Yeah. Me, too.”

The pair finally arrived at the door Control had indicated, and Hunter swiped the card.

“Acknowledged: Meathead. Access granted. Report to Sector M-BDJ.”

Hunter grunted. “Meathead obeys. Meathead will report.”

“Good meathead.”

“I am a good meathead. I obey.” He grunted again as another tear sounded. This time, he could feel the air against part of his back. As the door opened, he gaped at the sheer size of the facility that greeted him. Weights, machines, terminals, screens. All as far as the eye could see. The steady white light flickered and pulsed gently as a familiar drum beat played across the air. He slowly pressed forward, his strides matching the rhythm of the drums.

“Keep growing, Hunter.”

“What was that?” Hunter snapped.

“I said keep going, Hunter. You’ll reach a large elevator at the other end of the gym. Get in, then select M. That’ll take you to the floor you need to go to,” Control said.

“… Got it.” Hunter shook his head. This place was getting to him. “Come on, kid. This way,” he said, waving toward the other side of the gym. Trav followed closely behind, his pace easily matching his guide’s as they passed along the wide walkway. As they reached the doors, a loud metallic ping sounded, followed by the dim impact of something landing and skittering across the floor before meeting its demise with a solid crunch under Trav’s tough heel. Looking into the dull metal, Hunter barely made out the collar of his uniform. It had torn, bursting open to fit his expanding neck and pectorals. A large Adam’s apple now pressed prominently. “Control? Uh … we’ve got a problem,” he rumbled.

There was a stunned silence. “Hunter, just how big are you right now?”

“Let’s just say if I move too much, it’s going to be my birthday a little early this year.”

“Then you’d better take out Stone as fast as you can. If you’re already that blown up, your mind can’t be that far behind.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “Thanks so much for that cheerful thought.” With that, the elevator doors opened, and the pair walked in. Hunter jabbed the M button, then turned to face Trav. His brow furrowed. “Kid, have you gotten … bigger?”

Trav chuckled. “Bigger is better, bro.” He flexed, and kissed a bicep as he posed in front of one of the mirror walls. The kid had to be over seven feet now. “Bigger, dumber jock. Just a big, dumb jock for Coach.”

“I know, kid. I know. Just go on back to what you were doing. We’ll see your coach soon.”

“Report to Coach. Obey Coach. Grow for Coach. Be a good dumb jock. I am a good dumb jock. Obey … I obey. I flex. I obey. Flex. Obey. Yes, Sir. Flex deeper. I flex for Coach. Flex and forget. Flex and obey….”

Hunter did his best to keep focused on the elevator’s display, but he couldn’t keep Trav’s deep teen voice completely out of his head. He blushed violently as he looked down to his crotch. His suit had grown so tight there was little left to the imagination. He bit off the rising, “Fuck yeah,” that was building in his throat. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t some dumb meathead who thought with his dick. His huge dick. His massive meat. His–

Hunter shuddered, and did his best to cut off that train of thought.

The door opened, and Hunter gave a silent word of thanks to whatever gods got him out of that space. “Come on, kid,” he said with a curt motion. “Follow. Obey.”

Trav did so, still grinning as he continued to flex. Unlike the other gym, this level was filled with men. Some were sitting on benches staring blankly ahead as their security helmet visors flickered. Others grunted and groaned as they worked to shove some of the heaviest barbells Hunter had ever seen up and down over and over as they followed the rhythm of the drums. “’Sup, bros?” Trav said as they walked past. Most of the meatheads grunted in reply, before getting back to work. Others simply ignored him, too lost in their own sets and workouts to notice or care. With no one to interact with, Trav returned to simply flexing and staring blankly at his visor.

The pair suddenly found themselves blocked off by a virtual Goliath. The giant of a man stared down out of his flickering visor, his vascular arms folded over two meaty pecs that strained against his tight black lycra spandex uniform. “Halt, meathead,” he ordered in the same dull tone Hunter had come to accept as normal amongst these muscle men.

The pair had no choice but to obey. Trav stared blankly ahead as his program continued to run, feeding the stream of information that would make him a permanent member of Stone’s menagerie. Hunter gritted his teeth at the delay.

“Meathead will explain why he is out of uniform with prospective meathead.”

Hunter shuddered and did his best to make his voice sound as vapid as possible. “Meathead obeys,” he began. “This meathead has been recently inducted.” He flexed a bicep, tearing through the sleeve, and leaving it to hang limply at his side. He struggled against the dopy smile that was trying to push itself onto his face, even as the material of his suit grew tighter still. “This meathead is a happy meathead. While reporting for orientation and assignment, this meathead received orders from Coach Stone. This meathead is to take prospective meathead to sector M-BDJ for training. I am a meathead. I obey.”

“I obey,” Trav echoed as he stared blankly ahead.

The man looked at each of them, carefully scrutinizing them with his empty eyes. After about five minutes of staring, he finally spoke. “This meathead will escort you. Meathead will follow. Meathead will listen. Meathead will obey.”

Hunter repeated the mantra as the man twisted and began leading them through the facility.

“Curious. They appear to have a type of command structure after all. The bigger they are, the higher up on the chain. This must be some type of overseer class, like a captain or colonel, or perhaps a trainer,” Control said.

Hunter grunted his acknowledgement as they passed on. Both knew it was too dangerous to speak while the overseer was leading.

About a minute later, they had passed through another door, and made their way through a widened hallway. “Obey,” came the sudden order. “Flex.”

Trav’s visor flashed in his eyes, and he chuckled dimly as he began to pose while he walked. Hunter was a little taken aback, but not seeing any way around it, he flexed soon after. He felt the material give way as the upper part of his suit tore apart and fell to hang from his waist. Cool air flowed over his upper torso as he continued to march along.

The giant stopped, and spun rapidly, shoving Hunter back with his massive arms. “Meathead did not obey.” A security feed played over the visor, paired with the green flashes that every one of them seemed to hold. There was Hunter, hesitating as Trav posed without so much as breaking his stride. The overseer grabbed Hunter by both shoulders, and shoved him down to his knees. “Prospective meathead will wait against the wall and run his programming. Prospective meathead will obey,” he ordered.

Trav had continued walking like nothing was wrong, until the order was given. His visor flashed, and he suddenly jerked to a halt just a few feet down the hall. He performed a perfect right angle turn, and marched to the side of the wall, before turning smartly and standing perfectly straight. “Yes, sir. Coach tells me to obey. I obey,” he droned, then stood still as the flickers continued to run across his blank eyes.

The overseer smirked, then turned back to Hunter with a grim expression. “Meathead is not complete. Meathead hesitated. Meathead has not completed his induction. Meathead lied. Meathead needs more training.”

Hunter groaned. “Shit,” he cursed as he looked up at the man. The giant’s grip burned his muscles as the pressure increased.

“This meathead will incapacitate you, and report to–.” A loud snap filled the air, followed by the crashing sound of the overseer’s corpse landing on the floor. His head was turned at an unhealthy angle.

Hunter sighed. “Sorry, friend, but you left me no choice.” A light prickling sensation ran across his chin. As he reached up, he felt the stubble that had grown in. “Great. Just great,” he muttered. He walked up to Trav. “Unit Trav will walk with this meathead. Unit Trav will access compound layout and walk to subunit BDJ to join his team. You are a big, dumb jock. You will obey.”

“I obey,” he droned as the lights flashed across his eyes. “Must obey. Must report. Report to Coach Stone.”

“Report to Coach Stone,” Hunter repeated as he fell into stride next to Trav.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the room. Trav turned to the door, and the lights flickered off on his visor as he raised it. He shoved his eyes into a scanner. A musical chime sounded from a speaker above the door.

“What are you?” a familiar feminine voice clipped.

“Big, fucking dumb jock,” Trav droned.

“Who is your coach?”

“Coach Stone.”

“Who do you serve?”

“Coach Stone.”

“Who do you obey?”

“Coach Stone.”

“State your position.”

“Defensive tackle, beta test group Gamma: identification number fifty-four. Must report. Must obey. Must join the team.”

“Acknowledged: BDJ Beta Test Subject Number Gamma Fifty-Four. Designation, Trav. Voice analysis confirmed. Retinal scan positive. Access granted.”

The door opened with a hiss, and the pair passed through without incident. The room was pristine, covered from wall to wall with floor-length mirrors. The drums continued to beat here as they had back in the test subject room. Trav immediately made for the machines as he lowered his visor, and the lights flickered on once again. An empty weight bench awaited him with a towering guard standing by. Without so much as a grunt to acknowledge the giant man’s presence, the boy went to work, lifting in time to the music. The guard spotted the kid briefly before nodding, satisfied that Trav would continue his workout without breaking out of the cycle. Then he turned to face Hunter. Surprisingly, he did nothing. His bulky helmet flashed, just like the other overseer’s had. The former agent must have been relegated to observe the boys and keep them in line. Good. That was one less guard to worry about.

“I’d wondered when you’d get here,” a familiar voice rumbled. Hunter turned to face the source of all his anger. Stone stood a good foot and a half above him. He still wore the same tailor-made business suit he’d worn to the dinner. His five guards stood in thrall behind him as he casually adjusted his wrist watch, and pressed a button. He examined the screen. “It took you about an hour to get to me, agent. Very sloppy,” he chided absently. “Grunt only took about ten minutes. Of course, he was trying to hack my files, not kill me. It was so cute watching him stare all blank-faced at the monitor as his training took over.” He laughed. “The whole time he was working at my office, and he never even knew he was being converted.” He walked to the far end of the line of his guard and patted Grunt on the cheek. “But you enjoyed it, didn’t you, Grunt? You like being a meathead.”

“Yes, sir,” Grunt droned. “Love being a meathead. Love to obey.”

“Good boy.”

Grunt shuddered in pleasure as he continued to stare ahead.

“All of them enjoyed it, actually. They realized what I was doing was actually a good thing. After all, I’m ending war. I’m bringing peace. And better yet, I’m bringing physical perfection to the world.”

“You’re turning innocent men and boys into mindless slaves.”

Stone shrugged. “To make a good omelet, you’ve got to break a few eggs, and a few egg heads.” He chuckled. “They still retain their skills. Well, mostly. They simply … think differently than they did before. Surely, you’ve noticed, Agent Hunter, how easy it is to just stand there, and do nothing, like a good boy, and obey.”

Suddenly Hunter couldn’t move. He strained, flexing his muscles, grunting and struggling to shift to no avail.

Stone chuckled. “I’m afraid that won’t do you any good, Agent. You’re as good as trapped. Soon enough, you and your fellow agents will be working for my team.”

Hunter snarled. “Never.”

“Never is a very long time, my little meathead. Your little organization has been preparing to join me for a long while now anyways. You just haven’t known it.” He grinned, baring his teeth in a sadistic sneer.

“Red alert. Red alert. Subject Thirteen is loose. I repeat, Subject Thirteen is loose in the compound. All available units converge and neutralize the threat,” Control’s voice said over the earpiece.

“Is something the matter, Hunter?” Stone chuckled as his voice rumbled through the gym. “Why, I wonder, whatever could it be?”

Hunter grit his teeth, straining the muscles in his neck as he struggled to raise his hands. He’d strangle him. But it was to no avail. His body still wouldn’t respond. “What did you do?” he spat as his vision began to tinge with red. His breathing grew labored, and he could feel his body expanding again.

Stone laughed. “That’s right, Hunter, get mad. Let that rage fill your body. More strength, more muscle, more meat to fill that thickening head of yours.”

“Stone!” Hunter roared.

“It was a simple enough matter. I just planted a few agents of my own in your little organization. You didn’t really think Meathead could be captured so easily, did you? I designed him to be a tank. I programmed that fight into him using his helmet. After you reclaimed the tech, well, it was only a matter of activating its preset signal to trigger my meathead agents to carry out their orders. You see, Hunter, my meatheads can function in society. It’s just that they prefer being their dumb selves. They like thinking simply. They like not worrying or questioning. They like clearing their heads as they lift and work out. Hell, I had to program a subroutine in their brains just to keep them from falling back in too soon when they went to a gym or did something else their old selves associated with.”

“Why?”

“Because this world is messed up, with no opportunities for the little guy. It’s always been survival of the fittest, dog eat dog, and whatever other metaphors you want to come up with. The strong take what they want, and leave the weaker parts to die. It’s a flawed system, Hunter. Society is broken, because jerkwads like Meathead used to be only let people grow so far, before cutting them down, chewing them up, and spitting them back out.” His face began to turn red. “Well, it’s time for a new predator to take command, and this time, he’s bringing everyone along for the ride!”

A loud tear sounded as the sleeves on Stone’s suit tore open. “Great. Now look what you made me do.” He rolled his eyes as he pulled off the sleeves, and shredded through the rest of the suit to reveal his full torso. “These suits are expensive, you know,” he said as he strode to the other guards. They followed their master’s example, and began to flex where they stood, which made Stone laugh all the more.

“It’s just a matter of time now, Hunter. I know your body is itching to join them. Maybe just one little flex, hmm? After all, a hunter needs his meat.” He laughed again.

“You sick bastard!” Hunter groaned as he felt his feet strain against his shoes.

“I’m the sick one? When I give all these people what they’ve secretly wanted, and I’ve singlehandedly dealt with an organization your corrupt government has been trying to take down for over twenty years now? Wake up, Hunter. You and your organization have been nothing but hired muscle from the beginning. You’re just like them. You take your orders, you carry them out, and you do your very best to remain in peak physical condition, so you can carry out your next mission to please your superiors and get a reward. You and your fellow agents were made for the meathead life, even your precious Control. Yes, I know you’re listening, Jason.” He smirked. Tell me, Hunter, what would you do, if you were to lose him, hmm?”

Hunter’s eyes widened. “Control, get out of there.”

“I’m not leaving you behind, Hunter.”

“You’ve been designated as a target. Get out of there right now!”

“I told you. I’m not leaving!”

“Damn it, Jason, this isn’t a time for playing the hero. Get the hell out of ops, and get some help!”

“They have weapons! And … oh my god, Greyson.”

“Is he dead?”

All Hunter heard was silence.

“Control. Jason! Is Greyson dead?”

“… Worse, Hunter. He … he’s one of them now. Hunter, they’re targeting the agents one by one. It’s … it’s some sort of rifle or something. Just one hit, then … they’re gone. I’m initiating lockdown procedure.”

Hunter glowered at Stone. “What did you do to them?”

Stone chuckled. “Nothing, really. I’ve had sleeper agents in your organization for ages. It was just time for them to wake up, and carry out their final orders. And the best part is they didn’t even remember carrying them out. Soon, Agent Hunter, your little organization will be working for me. Your friend, Jason; your precious Director Skinner; even you will gladly obey me in time.”

“Never!”

Stone smirked knowingly. “You’ll see.”