Previous Chapter:https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181232201117/endemic-evolution-chapter-4-there-you-see-its

Previous Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181232201117/endemic-evolution-chapter-4-there-you-see-its

Next Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/617378326229762048/on-further-review-of-the-original-photo-i-felt-it

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 5

Doctor Barton sighed as the man in the blue hazmat suit tapped his knee yet again. He didn’t even think about it when the muscle in his knee reacted and lifted his leg of its own accord. “Your reflexes have improved vastly from your last physical,” the physician told him through the respirator. It was almost comical how bulky the Grade A suit was. The helmet couldn’t help but remind Lee of Lord Helmet from Spaceballs The Movie. It was all necessary, though, and he knew it only too well. Lee looked down at his briefs and sighed forlornly. “I know.” A gloved hand rested on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. Nobody’s blaming you for what happened. We just didn’t have enough data.” “Yeah, but look what’s happened to Simmons. He’s a completely different person now. He’s not even trying to resist this anymore.” “Which is why we have you here in quarantine. You won’t have to worry about the others trying to influence you or force you into something else while we have all the key cards.” The doctor grimaced. “What happened to Doctor Simmons is ... unfortunate, but we’ve learned from that mistake.” “Has ... anyone told his family?” “We’ve told them what we’re allowed.” “So pretty much nothing, then,” Lee muttered angrily. “It’s protocol. Until we can understand exactly what this is, we have to keep it under wraps. Do you have any idea the number of men who would sell their souls to be exposed to this kind of shortcut to a perfect body?” “Yeah, ... I know....” He shook his head. “So, any idea why the disease took so long to manifest in Simmons and me?” “Nothing concrete just yet. It’s possible the initial pathogen was specifically designed for a particular racial background, as you theorized. However, if that is the case, then this virus has proven highly adaptive and mutative.” “Have you checked his brain yet?” “If you mean Doctor Simmons, then yes, we have. His pituitary gland has mutated. The anterior gland has grown and is somehow ... well, for lack of a better word, it’s infecting the rest of the brain.” “Explain,” Barton ordered as he narrowed his gaze. “We’d have to perform surgery to be absolutely certain, but it’s evident that the gland is swollen, not unlike a tumor. However, the remainder of the brain is actually adapting to compensate for this growth, rather than allowing the extra mass to push it against the skull like a tumor. And there are no signs of cancer cells that we’ve been able to detect with the usual means. The increased size would explain a great deal about how closely knit this group of men has become and how easily those who have progressed farther are able to influence those who are not so far along. “Vasopressin and Oxytocin levels rising are among some of the earlier manifestations of the mutation that we’ve been able to document. As you know, increase those two hormones enough, and it’s a simple matter for a subject to bond to one of the other patients. From what we’ve seen, activity in the lateral orbitofrontal cortex has also been slowing dramatically within subjects.” “That’s an easy one to explain.” Lee rolled his eyes. “They’re constantly indulging their libidos. They can’t or won’t stop. I can’t even begin to tell you the number of times I’ve heard someone muttering about how they need to ‘bust a nut’ or how they’d like some ‘pussy to plow.’“ He cut off his narration with a snarl of disgust as the bulge in his briefs responded to the memories. “As you can see, I am not immune to those urges either, though I have maintained strict control.” “It shows.” The doctor peered at Lee’s chiseled torso and the sheer vascularity the man had developed in his arms and thighs. “Curious that the veins are more prominent in locations where main arteries are located.” “Most likely to facilitate spread of the hormones to dull the mind,” Lee theorized. He sighed and ran a hand through his neatly combed hair. “Not to mention the rapid rate of growth in certain parts of anatomy. My body is probably priming itself for the next stage. I’ve been able to slow the process down somewhat, but not stop it.” The doctor peered at the various bottles that lay on a tray next to the bed. “And you’ve been taking your pills?” “Regularly,” Lee said vehemently. “Either these antivirals and biotics aren’t strong enough or this isn’t the result of a biological entity.” “Now you’re just being overdramatic.” “Am I? How many tests have we performed now with no results? There’s no sign of anything that could be deemed responsible. And all the while, we’re becoming more and more like walking factories of testosterone!” He slammed his fists against his mattress and took a few labored breaths. Then the breathing became more steady. “I ... apologize. The lack of progress is frustrating, to say the least, and my ... advancement in this affliction has left me in a more aggressive state of mind.” The doctor nodded behind his massive visor and turned to gather his materials, including the vials of blood he’d just harvested. “I understand. You should try to get some rest.” Lee smiled sadly after the doctor. When he heard his door close, he let out an explosive sigh. “I will, when my body lets me.” He finally released the yawn he’d been holding in and strode over to the coffee machine. He replaced the filter, opened the pouch with the grounds in it, poured, and activated the maker. Then he dragged himself back to the bed as the scent of the blend began to fill the room. He sighed and turned on the television, then scratched at his crotch, oblivious to the veins’ subtle advance with each abrasion. “I wonder how the Patriots did last night....”

The Word

Amazing, isn’t it, the power that a jumble of letters can carry? It is said that the pen is mightier than the sword. But it is what the pen creates that is so compelling. Words have held power and sway over the minds of men and women from the very beginning. If scripture is to believed, before there was anything else, there was The Word. In short, words have existed from before this world ever was. Words give voice to thoughts, shape to ideas and emotions. In short, words, much like an artist, have the power to create, to destroy, to mold, all at their creator’s whim. In politics the use of The Word is called propaganda. In journalism, it is called truth, though whose truth is a matter of intense debate. As for me, well, I’ve discovered my own manipulation of The Word. No, I am no novelist or journalist, no politician, though as you can see, I am a wordsmith of a sort. No, in this case, I have learned how to tap into the primal essence of The Word. In short, I am what you might call a wizard, a witch, a magician, a sorcerer. There are many names that seem to apply to what I am, though I don’t know how accurate they all are. It’s proven a most useful gift for me. I can do almost anything, provided I can put it to words. I could fly, breathe underwater, travel through time. Oh, the possibilities are far too vast for me to explain in one sitting, but I believe you get what I’m trying to say. As such, I’ve dedicated much of my life to the understanding of names and words. There’s a reason why they say power over the name is power over the thing itself. Take my neighbor over there. He asked if he could borrow some of my power tools for a big project of his. Naturally, I agreed, but doubtless, you can see how ... unfit he is for the task. Forgive the pun. Obviously, being that pale and overweight would make this endeavor exceptionally difficult for him. As such, being the kindly neighbor that I am, I decided it would be best to give him a little hand.  You’ll note that I only use some of the best products. I particularly enjoy this brand of jackhammer for its choice of wording. Now, watch. You see how difficult it is for him to wield at first. His whole body is shaking from the effort. Now keep watching. Note how his shirt is starting to droop. His biceps and pectorals are inflating. Surprised? I thought you might be. He’s becoming quite ... jacked, wouldn’t you say? Forgive the pun. It seemed appropriate at the time. You’ll note how his complexion is changing. His skin is gaining more color Dirt and dust are flying all over his shoes and pants. Ah, and there it is. See how the material shifts. No more sneakers for this worker. Thick, sturdy construction boots are the way to go. Steel toes glinting dully under the coat of dust. Ah, and there go the features. His jaw really is shaping up now, wouldn’t you say? So ... rugged. Ah, forgive me. It seems I may have crossed wires. Ah well. It plays into the role he’s taking, anyways, so it’s no true loss. Yes, that’s at least a month’s worth of beard growing in at once. What more did you expect? Ah, and there goes the shirt now. Note how it’s paling more and more, getting so tight against his skin. Ah, but it’s such a hot day, isn’t it? Why would a hard laborer burden himself with such long sleeves, especially when they’re so constricting on his arms? And there we go. The shirt is gone now, and much the better for it. I see you gaping now. Or is that perhaps a bit of drool? I’ll hail him, if you like. Just wait till you see how he reacts. Hey, Brute! Ah, and there it is, my favorite part. Look at that smile. See that bicep tense and swell as he flexes for us. He knows what he is now, and he revels in it. A worn snapback, some protective goggles, a pair of earmuffs to dampen the noise, and he’s finished. Tell me, do you like what you see? Do you enjoy his burly frame? Did you enjoy watching him change? I thought you might have. *Chuckle* Just wait until he starts it up again....

THE BOX

“Something wrong, Mark?”

“Uh, ... Idunno, Coach. It was ... something. Something important, but ... I can’t really think of it. Can ... can we maybe turn down the music? Just for a sec?” “You know we can’t do that, Mark. Music keeps you pumped. Music helps you keep time and rhythm. Music is supposed to keep playing in your head to push you, to remind you.” “But ... but I’m so close....” “Yes, you are. You’re nearly ready to graduate. And you have to graduate my program to leave. You do want to leave, don’t you?” “Well, yeah, Coach, but--” “No buts.” “I just ... I feel so different, y’know? Like ... Like I’m not even ... not even.... Augh. Fuck, I can’t think with those drums beating in my head.” “Mark, we’ve been over this. The drums are there to help you, not hurt you.” “But Coach, I ... I’m not ... I’m not who I ... used to be? Is ... does that make sense?” “Of course you’re not who you used to be anymore. Marcus was small, weak, pathetic. Mark is big, strong, confident.” “But--” “Look, you want to leave, right?” “Well, yeah. That’s ... kinda what I’ve been trying to do for....” He stroked his chin as his brow furrowed. “How long has it been now?” “Since you started this program, Mark. We don’t need to worry about the numbers. Besides, you know how easy it is for you to zone out when you count.” “S’not my fault....” the big man murmured. “Of course it isn’t, Mark. Of course it isn’t. Do you really think you’re the only one who has trouble with that? All your classmates did, too.” “They ... did?” “It’s perfectly natural to fall into that drumbeat when you’re doing your reps.

“One, two, three, four.

“Counting, beating so very steadily. Steadily through your head in that tribal thrumming. 

“Five, six.

“Repping up. Pumping up. Counting up as you fall into rhythm, fall into the beat, fall into that thrumming pumping rush as the drum beats with your heart and surges through your head to cloud it, making it so easy to just ... zone out as you count.” “Seven ... Eight....” Mark breathed heavily as his mouth began to open loosely. “Zoning out all except my voice, except for your training, because my voice is part of your training, and your training is part of my voice. They are one and the same. And it’s so easy to zone out because you’re a bit of a dumbass, aren’t you, Mark?” “Nine ... Ten....” “Say it, Mark.” “Eleven.... I’m a bit of a dumbass. Twelve....” “Tell me, do you believe that, Mark?” “Thirteen ... No. Fourteen....” “How come?” Marcus continued to count between comments. “Because I used to be smart,” he droned in a deep vapid tone. “No, Mark. Marcus used to be smart. You’re not Marcus anymore. Marcus is packed away in the box. All his bad habits are packed away in The Box. All those nerves, all those fears, all those worries are packed away in the BOX.” “Yes,” Mark acknowledged. “Yes, what?” “Yes, Sir ... Coach,” Mark sighed. “Suspicion, fear, and paranoia go where?” “... In the BOX.” “Questions to my authority?” “In the BOX.” “Thoughts outside the gym, weights, sports, and this program?” “In the BOX.” “That’s right. They go in the BOX. The BOX is where they belong. The BOX is for smartasses and smartass thoughts. Marcus was a wisecracking, disrespectful smartass. He didn’t understand the value of hard work and exercise. He thought it was wrong to be strong, wrong to build muscle, wrong to build your body, wrong to obey me, wrong not to think. He mocked those things. You’re not in the box with him, so you’re not a smartass, are you, Mark?” “No, Sir.” “So, since you’re not a smartass, then you must be a dumbass.” “Uhh....” The numbers had long since trailed off. “You know I’m right, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes. Coach is always right....” “That’s right. And my logic can’t be denied here. You must be a dumbass. Say it, Mark.” “I must be a dumbass.” “You are a dumbass.” “I am a dumbass...” “Just a dumbass jock.” “Yes...” “Tell me, Mark, where is the BOX?” Mark pointed down to his waist and crotch, where the word had been emblazoned in big black letters on the waistband. “That’s right. All of that goes into your body, into your muscle, into your meat.” “Yes, Coach....” “Good. Have you packed all those things away now?” “Yes, Coach.” “Is the BOX full?” “No, Coach. It can still hold more.” “And you know what goes there now, don’t you, Mark?” “Yes, Sir.” “Good. You can wake up now, Mark. And remember: What’s in the box is junk. And you have a lot of junk. Your junk is always growing, just like you. A growing, dumbass jock waiting to build more jocks for me.” Mark blinked slowly as his eyes came back into focus. “Uh, ... sorry, Coach. Must’ve zoned out. What’d you say?” The coach chuckled and flexed his massive muscles. His short blond flat cut shone in the gym’s lighting as he folded his arms over his black sleeveless shirt. “I said it’s time to get back to work, dumbass. You’ve got catching up to do if you’re gonna join your friends in the field.” Mark grinned and saluted. “Yes, Sir, Coach Stone!” “Good. Now get back to work. I want you to pose in front of a mirror like the cocky jock you are for at least five minutes before you get back to your weight routine. Am I clear?” Mark nodded and swaggered away to stand in a booth. The bright blue light of UV lamps soon buzzed to life as he continued to pose in his tight briefs and his gaze became distant again. Stone smirked as he pulled up his tablet and scrawled a few notes with his stylus. “Algorithm test successful. Median brainwave attunement achieved followed by synchronized sweeps for respective targets. Note to self: Consider investing in individual recyclable system designed for each subject....” He stroked his stubble on his block-like jaw and nodded. “Yes, that would likely be the best means to speed things along.” He walked off, leaving a command in his system to alert Mark when it was time to get out of the tanning booth and back to work.

Next: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/635700023353622528/credit-goes-to-musclecorps-is-for-this-image

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Endemic Evolution

“As you can see, we’ve quarantined the area, Doctor Simmons.”

The parking lot was completely empty. The garage doors for food deliveries were shut down and the back remained locked with blinds drawn.

Doctor Simmons pursed his dark lips. His carefully shaved scalp shone under the sun. “Then tell me, Barton, why are we in the back of a hotel parking lot, and why is that man by the garage shirtless?”

Barton looked up at the doctor in shock. His paler skin and slanted eyes spoke well of his Asian heritage. “You haven’t been briefed on the nature of the illness?”

“Barton, I was just swept from my home a few weeks before Christmas. I was then promptly shoved on a redeye with an armed escort and a series of highly advanced medical vehicles with equipment to bring he here. And while I do appreciate the warmth Florida has to offer, I am tired and feeling more than a little cranky. I would prefer to get back to my family as soon as possible, so tell me the symptoms.”

Barton flinched. “O-of course, Doctor. This is Joseph Malloy. He’s a newer patient.”

Simmons looked over the subject briefly, then returned his gaze to Barton. “I perceive nothing wrong with him. He appears to be in perfect health.”

Barton cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That’s ... sort of the point, Sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“The course of this illness is different from most. Rather than degrade the body, it enhances it to a rapid degree. Immune response, sight, hearing, heart health, it all improves drastically.”

“And this is a problem because...?”

“Because more than half of my clientele have devolved into musclebound idiots that only care about working out, flexing, and showing off,” Joseph growled. “And I’d rather not join them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Heh ... they’ve devolved into meatheads in every sense of the stereotype, including decreased IQ and a complete obsession with weights, fitness, sports, and their bodies that borders on narcissism.”

“Surely, you’re joking.”

“No, Sir. According to our data, the phenomenon appears to be endemic in nature.”

“Demographic?”

“White Caucasian. Gender: Male.”

“That’s a very large population,” Simmons mused. “Communication methods?”

“Unknown, Sir. But there are certain signs. Restlessness, increased libido, arousal, and a fantastic amount of testosterone.”

“I assume that’s why he’s wearing those compression pants?”

“That and they feel comfortable.” Barton shrugged. “Why not kill two birds with one stone?” Malloy reached down and scratched at his crotch casually. “So, how did you want to start this thing? Were you hoping to feel up my muscles or something? Take measurements?”

“We haven’t even reported as to what this is in the first place. Does it have a name?” the doctor asked.

“We’ve titled it Meatheadosis, after the old urban joke,” Barton explained.

A low moan escaped Malloy’s lips and the pair of physicians turned immediately to face him. They watched as thick powerful veins began to rise up from the skin on his arms. Four abdominals had taken shape in his core and were developing more definition by the second. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as a thin coating of hair grew over his chest.

“Oh, damn. That feels ... this feels....” Malloy groaned as a small lump began to grow slowly and steadily against the crotch of his pants.

“Damn it all,” Barton swore under his breath. “He’s breaking faster than I expected.”

A light stubble grew in over Malloy’s masculine jaw that slowly filled into a proper short beard complete with mustache. “Fuck,” he groaned. “This feels ... this feels ... so fucking good. A light smirk pulled at his lips that soon blossomed into a mellow sort of half-grin. Hands clenched and unclenched. Shoulders heaved and cracked as his torso began to expand. His gaze became glassy as his pectorals began to bounce back and forth, back and forth. “So, uh, we gonna do this or not, Coach?” he asked as his neck gradually expanded with muscle and his voice lowered into a deep bassoon. “I’ve got cardio in like, five minutes.”

Doctor Simmons swallowed heavily. “He just....”

“Yes,” Barton agreed.

“And there are ... how many of them?” “Sixty here alone. We minorities seem to be immune.” Simmons watched as Malloy raised his arms and began to pose. With every flex, the subject’s gaze became more distant. Then came the guffaws. A light flush rose in Simmons’ cheeks as they finished their examination, then sent the affected patient on his way.  “Have you identified the bacteria or germ responsible?” Barton shook his head. “That’s part of what’s puzzling us. There’s no sign of them. I’m worried what might happen if the virus or whatever this is mutates into something more.” A light sheen of sweat now reflected the sheen in his brow. Simmons suddenly found himself grateful for his Nubian heritage as he felt the blood flowing through his veins. “We’ll need samples, won’t we?” he asked. “Hm?” Barton’s head jolted up suddenly. “Oh, you mean blood, tissue, that sort of thing.” He smirked. “I’m sure it won’t take long to get those. The others have turned the main lobby into a football field. Simmons’ breath hitched as he gasped. “Ve-RR-y--.” He cleared his throat. “Very well. Let’s see what we can get. “Mmm ... yeah. This is gonna be good.” Barton casually laid his clipboard down over his crotch. “Plenty good.” Simmons started walking. “It will be fun to ... observe the proceedings,” he said, heedless of the tent that was starting to grow in his own crotch. He let out a low chuckle as his lab coat became just a little more snug. “You know, I always wanted to play football....”

Update and WARNING!

So, I conferred with a professional friend of mine, and he confirmed that YES, it was TREY who tried to put me under, assuming I’d been hypnotized before and could easily be triggered again. Obviously, he did not succeed. But be warned, guys. That’s a new name he tried making now. The tumblr account was deactivated, but it’s clear he’s still up to his old tricks. I repeat. Beware of Trey. BEWARE Alphapuphypnous or whatever other pseudonyms he’s taken on. He is a manipulator, an opportunist, and a selfish minor with no morals. Or it’s possible he may now be legally an adult. Either way, BEWARE OF HIM! DO NOT LET HIM HYPNOTIZE YOU. If someone sends you a hypno gif immediately in a message, don’t let it get to you. Type as fast as you can and get it out of your message box feed so you’re not staring at it. Then call him or whatever other person may be on the other end out. Be hypnotized on your own terms, not someone else’s. And don’t let a hypnotist change you any farther than you yourself wanted to be changed in the first place. Hypnosis is a great tool, but it can be dangerous in the wrong hands. Trance responsibly.

VIP Treatment

Michael had purchased the highest membership possible. This

Meathead Oasis

had the most consistent customer satisfaction reviews. It was ... surprising, given the shoddy appearance outside the building. Still, he supposed it was due to the nature of the trainers. Most people said it didn’t matter about the facilities, more about the person and the trainers.

The shirt they’d handed him draped like a nightgown, but they’d insisted he try it on for size, to “picture his goal.” He sighed and went along with it. They strode past all the roid bros and meatheads to a single door that led into a simple room with dark cushioned tiles and a radiator on the side to offer extra heat and induce sweating.

His trainer guided him to a large floor-length mirror.

“Now, then. I want you to imagine what you want to look like. Close your eyes. Visualize. Picture the form you want to take. Imagine your growth. Imagine how much your muscles are going to inflate as you pump those big, heavy weights. Imagine how sharp your focus becomes on those simple, repetitive exercises.”

Michael could practically hear the weights clanking as the plates knocked against one another. His muscles tensed. His breathing became sharper.

“Feel the heat, the burning heat causing you to sweat, burning outside, burning inside as your muscles continue to swell and expand. Expand as you repeat. Repeat those simple exercises, focus on simple exercises. Because weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing. Do me a favor and repeat that for me, won’t you?”

“Weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing.” Michael shuddered. It hadn’t sounded very convincing, but if this mental stuff was to help prime him for his first session, he might as well go along with it.

“Doing lifts, doing curls, doing squats, doing weights. Doing lifts, doing curls, doing squats, doing weights. It’s an endless cycle, an endless spiral, and endless climb of repetition. Over and over. Just like when you flex. Because lifting is flexing and flexing is lifting. Both strain your muscles. Both push them to pump, to swell, to grow....”

Michael let out a raspy breath as his muscles tensed. It felt ... so hot.

“Flexing and growing, growing bigger, growing hotter.”

Michael’s cheeks flushed. He’d wanted to keep that aspect out of the discussion.

“So very hot. So hot, burning away all those other thoughts you don’t need in the gym as you focus on that simple repetition. Because weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing.”

Michael felt dizzy. “Wh-wha--?”

“You’re not done with this exercise yet, Michael. Repeat,” the voice ordered.

The harshness startled him. “W-weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing,” he stumbled.

“Eyes closed,” the voice snapped again. “They open when I say for them to open. We start after this simple exercise is complete, and not until.”

Michael winced as he felt to massive hands engulf his shoulders and quickly closed slammed his eyes shut. Wrinkles of stress showed on either side as his muscles tensed with the force he used to close his lids.

“Good.” The hands came off. A single pat tapped gently on Michael’s shoulder. “Now back to the exercise. It’s designed to help you relax and accept the boredom that comes from lifting. Most of our regular customers either take to it or get disgusted by the need to endure. Since you’re our VIP, we’re here to make sure you’re able to do the former, not fail in the latter.”

“But how is talking supposed to--”

“Talking alone won’t. It requires more. In fact, most serious lifters hardly talk at all during their sessions. It’s listening that matters. Listening to the clack of the weights, the rhythm of your heartbeat, the ebb and flow of strain as your muscles push and pull and swell in time. Because lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.”

“Why do you keep--?”

“Because it’s true. And the more you lift, the truer it gets. Truer as your muscles get heavier, heavier because you’re lifting more weights. Lifting more weights, because your muscles are stronger. Stronger, because you repeat your exercises. Repeat your exercises, because they are simple. Simple, because lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.”

“I ... I don’t feel so--.”

“Doing more, thinking less. Less as you repeat your exercises. Less as you repeat your mantra. Repeat your mantra and flex.”

Michael groaned. So hot, so dizzy, so ... spinny as the voice swirled in his head, swirled and repeated, repeated like a spiral.

“Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights. Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....” the trainer repeated in his deep, smooth voice.

Repeating.

Repeated.

Repeat....

“Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....”

“Now flex, and repeat.”

Michael huffed as he felt his arms raise, his biceps tense, the fabric brush against his skin as it rode up. “Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....” Spiraling, repeating. Over and over. He ... couldn’t stop. Did he ... even want to?

“So simple to repeat. So simple to follow your exercises, follow my voice. So simple, so calm, so empty, because lifting....”

“Lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.” Lifting needs doing. Doing over. Over again. Repeat. Don’t think. Repeat. “Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....”

“No thinking now....”

“Lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing....” His voice had pitched so much lower, so relaxed, so repetitive, so ... simple. It felt ... good. Good to relax. Good to listen. Listen to his body. Listen to the pleasure. Pleasure in simple. Simple in repetition. Repetition in exercises. Exercises doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....

“Growing as you repeat. Growing bigger. Growing stronger. Growing simple. Growing dumber. Dumb is simple. Simple is good. Good is growing. Growing through repetition. Voice growing deeper. Muscle growing larger. Thoughts growing simpler. Simple, like your exercises. Simple, like your muscle. Just like your muscle. Because muscle is meat. Simple, like meat. Meat in your head, growing with every repetition.”

Simple. Repeat. Simple. Repeat. Simple. Repeat....

“Flex.”

Mike pulled his arms together. He felt his biceps brush against his sides, felt the fabric of his shirt rubbing against his pecs, felt the bristles of a rugged beard brushing against his neck.

“You can open your eyes now, Mikey.”

He didn’t even bother to object to the name. It was simpler. Simple was good. He opened and stared at his form with glassy eyes. Veins snaked up his arms. Swollen muscle curved and sloped in clearly defined spheres and mounds. The straps of his black tank top curved over his traps and strained against his pectorals. His hands obscured the Pass part of his shirt, leaving the VIP wide open to be read. His brow had become more prominent, his jaw thicker. His hair was a bleached blond. “You are a meathead, Mikey.” Mikey stared as he processed the information slowly, letting it fall into that spiral of repetition. “You are a paragon of meatheads, the perfect, greatest, best ideal.” Mikey continued to stare. “And that’s why you’re our VIP, our Vascular Immutable Paragon of meatheads. No one can break your course. No one can take you off your spiral. No one can prevent you from being the stubborn meathead that you are.” A smile pulled at Mikey’s face, and he let out a low deep chuckle that rumbled out of his newly expanded chest. His neck thickened, and his voice deepened even more. A bulge began to swell against the crotch of his gym shorts.“Can I work out now?” he asked in that same vapid tone. The trainer chuckled. “Yes, Mikey. Get to your exercises.” Mikey grinned. “Lifts and squats and curls and weights....” he muttered as he approached the racks.

The trainer grinned in turn. “Another satisfied customer.”