Conversion

Conversion

“Live the dream. Join the conversion.” Randolph scoffed at the advertisement as a thick muscle man panned out from his shot at the gym. Sweat dripped off his chin as he stared into the camera after finishing a set. Of course, Randolph knew better. It was all staged. How anyone was supposed to actually fall for this obvious ploy was beyond him. Converse in the gym? Really? Those shoes had hardly any arch support. No gym goer in their right mind would actually choose to wear those things willingly to a workout, no matter how well they sold it with a bodybuilder model. He was soon disproven. Within the week, Twitter was aflame with the hashtag, #I_Joined_The_Conversion. Before and after images soon followed within the next month, showing the progress the buyers had made in their fitness. The news was alive with the phenomenon, reporting on just how successful this overnight competitor had become compared to other major brands like Nike, Adidas, and New Balance. When asked their secret, the owners simply said it laid in the quality of the wear. People try the shoes, and they never want to look back. Again, Randolph scoffed. Others might give into the hype. He would not.

Some months later, he sat among his friends at the cafe, drinking some cocoa and reading a new novel. Their little book club’s membership had dwindled over the last half a year. The mysterious movement known as The Conversion had spread far and wide. Even the barista had taken to the movement, investing in a sports counter specifically designed for protein shakes and other health-related beverages, like smoothies. The counter was decorated with bright red letters that boldly proclaimed, I Joined The Conversion. The store’s owner Salvatore seemed to bounce back and forth between the counters. His muscles had swollen to an immense size, and while he still conversed with his less fit customers, he took greater pleasure in conversing with the gym goers that had come for his shakes and smoothies. Even his employees had fallen to the dark side as the numbers of new hires and current employees gradually shifted over to the vascular end. Old friends who used to hold conversations regularly now stared unseeingly when conversation waxed philosophical. Sometimes pecs would bounce. Other times, an arm would flex, accompanied by encouraging hoots and hollers from the changing customer base. Dumbbell napkin holders and other gym-themed decorations had gradually replaced the traditional Italian pieces that once dignified the store. Sal had even gone so far as to invest in televisions to broadcast the most recent events in sports. Randolph rolled his eyes as one of the brutes he had watched pass through the joint so often now planted himself on one of the chairs at his table. “Excuse me. I think you have the wrong table,” he said. A familiar book landed on the surface with a heavy smack. “Pretty sure I’m in the right place. Sorry it’s been so long, guys. I’ve been busy.” The man’s chiseled jaw bulged with his neck. His broad shoulders barely fit into the tank top he wore. Titanic arms rippled and shifted with the slightest twitch. Heavily tanned skin shone under the light as a platinum-blond haircut jutted up from his head in a high-and-tight flat top that further accentuated the angularity of his jaw and chin. His calves and thighs were barely contained by the grey sweat pants that clung to his waist and legs. Randolph furrowed his brow. “Shawn?” he asked. The big man grinned. “The one and only,” he said in a voice that was far deeper than Randolph remembered. “You miss me, boys?” “What the hell happened to you?” one of the others demanded. Shawn shrugged and pointed to his shoes. “I joined the conversion,” he said simply. His shoulders rippled just as his arms had. The same red converse from the commercials now covered the man’s feet, which had clearly gone up a size or two. “And let me tell you, it’s one of the best fucking decisions I ever made.” “Shawn,” Randolph grated warningly. “Oh, lighten up, Randy. You always were a stick in the mud, even before I got big.” He flexed a bicep, then flipped his book open. “Now where are we? I got pretty far in, but I can flip back a few chapters, if you need.” “You read this?” Randolph asked incredulously. “Uh, ... yeah. Why wouldn’t I? It’s a book about a barbarian. Warriors, fighting, showing off that combination of strength and skill in combat; it’s all amazing.” A far-off look came into his eyes as he raised an arm and flexed it absently. “Anything else?” Randolph pressed. “Well, I was fascinated by the unique love triangle. Having to choose between a homosexual relationship or one that would guarantee his line of succession after conquering his clans to achieve proper leadership was a bold choice for the author to include. Depending on the culture, he could have lost everything, if he chose the former and his chiefs found out.” Randolph raised a brow in surprise. “The way things have been changing on your media profiles, I thought you’d just turned into another muscle zombie, like the rest over there. Shawn scowled. “Hey, they’re not zombies. They’re just really focused on their personal fitness.” He jabbed toward the hint of a belly that pushed subtly at Rudolph’s polo with a finger. “You could use a little focus there, yourself.” “Not at the expense of becoming a meathead,” he countered. “At least half the patrons here used to be average Joes. Then they got those stupid shoes, and suddenly it’s goodbye intellectualism and hello brutation.” “Brutation?” Shawn inquired with a half growl. “A brutish mutation,” Randolph clarified. “It’s been spreading like a plague.” Shawn rose slowly to his feet. “Then I guess I should go,” he said coolly. Wouldn’t want to risk giving you my contagion.” He turned deliberately to the counter. “Thanks for the great reception, Randy. You enjoy your session.” He strode to where Sal sat waiting. The man had already whipped up a huge metal cup and passed it to Shawn with a consoling smile. He patted him on the shoulder a few times. Shawn melted into the crowd of overwhelming muscle soon after, chugging his shake as he went. The group didn’t contribute much to the discussion. The others were too distracted staring at the book Shawn had left behind.

Randolph growled as he glared at his computer screen. Message upon message, be it email, PM, instant, or any other blared brazenly in bold flashing letters. You’ve been referred to JOIN THE CONVERSION. Access this link for a special deal. The contents of the accompanying messages ranged from Dude, you’ve got to try this! to Bro, it’s time to convert. Randolph snarled in disgust. Everywhere he looked, this conversion movement had spread. Ads flashed in his eyes whenever he passed over a site. Videos and testimonial clips now appeared on youtube in reviews and spliced between portions of the original ad he’d seen on television. “Just thought I’d try it, you know?” “I guess they’re comfortable?” “I’m pretty much trying these for the money and free shoes.” The camera panned onto the original muscle man. Then it faded to black with a white Six Months Later to indicate the transition. “Best fucking decision I ever made.” Randolph hardly recognized the man talking now. His voice had deepened. His hair had shortened. And hard muscle bulged and rippled with hints of veins showing under the skin. “I’ll never wear another brand again,” the second said effusively. He flexed a burgeoning bicep and grinned. The third one smiled sheepishly at the camera. “I feel pretty stupid for how I was before. I ... guess you could say I’ve seen the light.” He let out a bassoon of a guffaw as his tight pectorals clenched with his chiseled core. “My name is Michael Ortiz--” “Jared Carmel--” “--Aaron Parnell.” “And I’ve been converted,” their voices rang together. The camera transitioned to show all three men working out with the man from the first commercial. Then the screen faded to black with the simple words, JOIN THE CONVERSION. “Join the conversion,” Randolph scoffed. He rolled his eyes and logged off, flicking the middle finger at the screen to vent his frustrations as he got ready for bed.

A heavy clanking in his ears roused Randolph from his slumber. He blinked owlishly. Everything was a blur. The rhythmic clanking continued as his chest rose and fell. A pair of straps brushed gently against the crook between his shoulders and chest. Something was massaging his chest. His eyes rolled in pleasure at the gentle ministration. The brush would ease. His body would tense. The clank would sound. His body would relax under the gentle brush. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. He didn’t know what was going on. He just knew he felt good. Too good to care. Too good to wonder. Too good to-- Tense. Clank. Relax. Brush. Too good to think. Suddenly he was lumbering through the indistinct shapes. He could feel the figures brushing against him as he passed, but he didn’t seem to care. He’d just shoulder them aside. A big silver cup was waiting for him on a counter. An indistinct face stared back. He knocked back the cup and licked his lips. He turned. He lumbered back. A hand pulled him aside to stare at a mirror. Dull gray eyes stared back. A thick chiseled jaw slackened at the sight of the dark green tank top clinging to his torso. A pair birch-pattern shorts clung to his glutes and thighs. He eyed the veins in astonishment and raised his arms slowly into a flex as he watched them wriggle under the skin. A dark beard covered his cheeks, jaw, and lips. It had been carefully groomed for a rugged hard-cut look. Last, but not least, a black snapback cap had been turned around on his head, allowing just a hint of his hair to puff through the gap that now sat in front. He stared at the mirror a few seconds longer, then looked down to see a familiar pair of dark red converse shoes. It was small at first, a little chuff of air; just enough to cause the shirt to brush ever so gently against his shoulders and pectorals. Then the chuff became a puff, the puff a pant, the pant a guffaw, and the guffaw a full-throated laugh. His core tightened as the air rang with the deep, dull staccato. “Huhuhuhuhuh....”

Randolph started awake in a cold sweat. His shirt clung to his skin and pulled uncomfortably as he stared at the screen that had been logged off. “The hell was that...?” he murmured to himself. He rubbed his eyes and peered back at the screen. He didn’t recall falling asleep at the monitor, but ... maybe he had? ... Why was he staring at a bunch of muscle men? The word AFTER stood out boldly at the top of the screen. “What the...?” He tried another tab. Facebook stared at him. His latest status update left him feeling cold. I joined the conversion. He popped into twitter. The same haunting words stared back at him, hashtags and all. Telegram, Discord, Skype, Steam. Everywhere, the haunting sentence blared back at him. “But ... but I....” And then he became aware of the pressure on his feet. Something was pushing tightly against his socks, clinging to the top of the arch in his feet, where the tarsal bones resided. He rose quickly, toppling the rolling chair in his haste to look down and behold.... “No,” he rasped. His heart rate quickened. His breathing became heavy. There were the shoes. He suddenly felt lightheaded. The room began to spin. The only saving grace came in the form of his phone buzzing in the background. A text appeared under the image of a familiar smirking form flexing his bicep for Randolph to see. Shawn, he thought. Heat flushed his cheeks as he felt a tingling first in his feet, then his crotch as his mouth went dry. Welcome to the Conversion, Randy. Can’t wait to see you at the gym, bro. The phone dropped to the floor with a heavy thunk, saved only by the protective casing Randolph had bothered to install. He strode to the middle of the room, dropped to his knees, and immediately began to perform a series of pushups. His eyes stared blankly ahead as a sheen of sweat began to form on his brow. “Time to convert,” he said in a dull monotone.

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

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

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 3

Doctor Lee Chen Barton blew out his mouth like a whale as he surfaced from his breast stroke. They had studied the subjects for the last month with little success in isolating the disease. On top of this, a certain degree of worry gnawed at him. He peered over at the poolside, where Doctor Rante Simmons was just finishing another round of drawing blood samples. A pair of swim trunks hung somewhat loosely against his trimmer frame. The man’s eyes remained rigidly fixed on the vials, but Lee could see how Simmons would pass his gaze over the other men’s rapidly increasing musculature. His hands would squeeze and caress a little longer than necessary, and a bulge began to tent in the man’s crotch, pressing against the fabric. Lee knew what needed to be done. He waded confidently through the pool’s waters, heedless of the splashes that sounded behind as others bellyflopped or otherwise disturbed the waters. The air was heavy with the scent of chlorine and the humidity of the warmer waters. The resistance against his thighs was almost electric as he waded through the shallows and finally mounted the stairs. “Doctor Simmons, I can take over for now. Why don’t you take a dip in the pool? You look like you could use one.” Simmons blinked owlishly and gaped a moment, as if he’d only just noticed his colleague. “Sorry, what?” he finally managed to ask. Lee laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “The pool. You should take a dip. Cool off.” He looked pointedly down at Simmons’ crotch. The man at least had enough decorum to blush. “I’ll finish the samples and get them ready for shipping.” Simmons nodded and cleared his throat. “Right. Call me if you need me. I’ll be just over there.” He strode purposefully toward the pool’s steps and winced as he got up to his thighs in the water. Then he arced under and was lost beneath the surface. Lee sighed and looked up at his next patient, a more recent addition to the ranks. Kyle Lambridge was a former staff member under Malloy’s employ. The young man had been careful to avoid contact with the other men, and Lee had been hopeful the boy could be cleared to leave in due course, perhaps even prove to be a source for an inoculation to cure the disease. Unfortunately, Kyle had proven to the contrary. His reaction when he finally manifested symptoms had been so violent that he practically jettisoned into the Gym Rat stage. As a member of his staff, Malloy had taken full “responsibility” for the boy and now watched over him like a mother bear. He trained him in the weights section. He pushed him to eat more than his peers. And his mental faculties, well.... Lee had managed to catch the two of them chatting in the locker room once.

“It’s not that bad, really, once you get used to it,” Malloy had said. “You just have to sort of accept it, ya know?” “But I--”

“No buts. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” “But I don’t want to....” “Bullshit. Your body wants to, so you want to. It’s natural.” “... Natural....” Lee’s breath had begun to take on a labored tone. “Does it feel bad to you?” “N-no, but--” “What did I say about buts?” “S-sorry, Sir.” “Now listen to me. Your meat’s trying to talk to you. Listen to it.” “I--” “Don’t think. Just do.” A low moan escaped Kyle’s lips. “Just ... do....” “That’s right, bro. Do it.” “Fuck,” Kyle hissed. He grunted and his voice deepened. “Oh, fuck.” “Told ya, lil’bro. Best feeling in the world, except maybe for a good pump.” Kyle chuckled. His voice deepened with every husky guffaw. “Fuck yeah, it is.” “So, you scared about it anymore?” “Fuck no! Huhuhuh....” “That’s a good bro. Finish up. We’ve got a lot of reps to do today.” “Yes, Sir....” He grunted again and chuckled. “Dunno why I was so scared before. I’m such a dumbass. Mmm ... yeah, just a big, burly dumbass....”

Lee had been quick to make his escape. He didn’t want to see what had just transpired, though he could guess only too well the lesson Malloy had taught his new protege. The fact the boy’s body and privates had both experienced a growth spurt less than twenty-four hours later only helped to strengthen those suspicions. He would be remiss not to admit the discussion had caused a certain amount of arousal. That was part of his reasons for spending so much time in the pool. The cooler water helped to shock his more carnal nature and left him clear-headed to focus on their work. Malloy soon approached. A confident easy-going grin was plastered over his face. He quickly wrapped a burly arm around Kyle’s shoulders as Lee finished the last of the bandaging. “Doc,” he acknowledged. “I see you’re doing well today.” He glanced down at Lee’s trunks and the grin widened as knowing eyes gave his expression just a hint of a sneer. “I like the look.” Lee shrugged. “I like to balance modesty with sex appeal,” he said bluntly. “The time we’ve spent here studying you has given me plenty of time to make my body more ... presentable for these.” “Oh, sure. Sure,” Malloy agreed amicably. “What are you up to now, anyway, a hundred pounds?” Lee grit his teeth as the familiar tingle rose in his crotch. “One twenty, if you must know.” “Not bad,” Malloy approved. “Keep at it and you might be as strong as me one day.” Lee nodded as he attended to the next patient. “Perhaps. But then again, I thought a man of your stature didn’t like competition.” “I don’t.” He wrapped an arm around Lee’s shoulders and smirked. “But I always make exceptions for friends. We are friends, aren’t we, Doctor Barton? Or should I call you...?” “Lee.” The word was out of his mouth before he could even think, and a sense of vertigo suddenly assaulted his senses. He grunted as he shouldered the extra weight Malloy forced on him. The man had quite literally become a block head. Every aspect of his jaw and features had become sharpened by angles to mutate into a bizarre parody of a polyhedron. His bristly beard scratched against the side of Lee’s head as he breathed heavily into the doctor’s ear. “Lee, huh? I like that name.” He released his deadly press and choke hold, then turned to Kyle and sneered. “Come on, kid. Time for your protein shake.” He laid a guiding hand on Kyle’s back and steered him away, even as the boy began to bounce his pectorals, just for the sake of the spectacle. Malloy stopped only long enough to turn around and offer his last farewell. “I’m looking forward to seeing more of you, Lee. Much more of you.” He sneered openly. “See you around, stud.” Lee couldn’t tell if it was a compliment, tease, or insult. Then again, it might have been some of all three. He subtly cupped his package on the sly. The effects of his dive in the pool had worn off. “Damn it,” he swore. It had only been a few minutes, after all. He peered over at the pool. Simmons had taken a seat on the edge at the deep end. The water glistened on his dark skin and he rubbed a hand absently over his torso as he watched a trio of Meatheads pose and flex by the hot tub. The desiccated remains of large plastic bags and the red dye on the labels indicated what had once dwelled within those coils. That and the small chunks of ice that had been thrust out of their makeshift ice bath to rest on the floor. He was too far away to tell, but Lee was almost certain his colleague’s crotch was bulging. No more joking. No more mocking. No more mimicry. After the way Malloy had treated him, it was time to face facts. Somehow, some way, they had become infected.

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.”

A Well-tuned Machine

“On your way to the gym?” The young man looked down at you as you approached and pushed the button to call the elevator. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty. “Nah,” he responded. I’ve been pushing sups for the last six hours in a cramped booth. It’s time to get back to my room and unwind with a little me time.” “You can have me time at the gym, too, though, can’t you?” “It’s not the same.” He shook his head. “Of course it is. I’ve seen you there loads of times!” “You must be mistaken.” “No, I’m quite positive. Sounds like somebody needs a tuneup.” The light faded from the man’s eyes as his shoulders slumped and he stared ahead. “Muscle Machine 624 awaiting orders,” he said in a dim monotone. “Initiate maintenance tuneup protocol.” The man raised an arm and replicated a mechanical whirr with his mouth as he flexed it, showing off the many veins that stood out over the taut and ballooning muscle. Soon the second rose to join its sibling and he posed rigidly in place. “624, you will go the gym today and you will enjoy it. The gym is relaxing and exciting and fun. You love the gym. You will never miss the chance to go to the gym and keep earning more gains. Because that is your purpose as a muscle machine.” “New programming acknowledged. 624 will execute command prompt.” He nodded slightly and the doors opened with their usual chimes. “Come along, 624. Time to go. I’ll load you with programming on the way to the gym.” “Yes. I am a muscle machine. I obey....”

Muscle Cab

“Often referred to as an illness, what do you call the process by which a person undergoes a metamorphosis into a familiar gym stereotype?” the driver asked as they came to another light. The lights in the ceiling continued to flicker and pulse in a series of slow patterns ranging from ripples to spirals and more. The two passengers leaned close to each other to council over the matter. “I totally read a series about this,” the first whispered. “Chad, we already missed two questions.” The second passenger yawned. “I don’t know if ... if ... uhhh....” He furrowed his brow in confusion. “Damn, lost my train of thought.” “What’s to lose, Brett?” Chad asked. “Our smarts,” Brett countered. Chad rolled his eyes and let out a longsuffering sigh. “Brett, that can’t happen in real life. That’s for fiction.” He wiped his sweaty brow, oblivious to the stubble that had begun to grow in on his chin and upper lip. Brett’s head lolled and bobbed like a cork on water as his jaw slackened and his eyes became glassy. “Who’s Fiction...?” he asked in a low voice. Chad’s eyes darted over to his sleepy friend, then back at the driver. Bright white teeth were borne in a grin through the rear view mirror. “Would you care for a visual aid?” the driver asked. The strobes were getting brighter, faster. “Uhhhhh....” Brett’s head bobbed on a sudden speed bump. “All right, then!” the cabby boomed excitedly. “Turn your attention to your screens, and watch.” The screens flashed to life, first portraying the image of a smaller young man with a hint of a pudge and glasses. In a matter of seconds, that image morphed into a new shape. The boy’s torso was flat now, and he’d begun to gain some muscle definition. Next, the image morphed to show the kid wearing compression gear as he pumped a set of dumbbells. Veins had begun to bulge on his arms, and his face had become more defined and angular. His once longer hair had been cut back to bare stubble. Then it transitioned to the final stage, where a complete muscle stud stood with a vapid grin, posing for the camera. His chest was bare for all to see the chiseled six-pack and swollen pectorals. A bulge pressed at the crotch of his compression pants, and his legs were like carved marble slabs. His trapezius muscles had expanded to the point where they curved over his broad shoulders and transitioned smoothly into the deltoids and other muscle groups farther down the arms. Chad panted as a sudden wave of warmth washed over him. The cab felt so small. His head kept spinning. “Ten seconds, boys.” A gleaming trickle ran down from the corner of Brett’s mouth as he took deep, steady breaths and stared unseeingly at the screen. “Brett? Come on, man. This isn’t the time for sleeping.” He grabbed his friend’s arm. FLASH went the strobes. Chad’s mouth dropped open. His hands recoiled as his eyes widened and his pupils slowly began to expand, rather than contract as they adjusted to the lights. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “Five seconds,” the cabbie lowed. Brett’s arm swelled. His skin tightened as a vein began to snake its way along the anterior compartment of his forearm. His shirt creaked and strained as his shoulders began to expand and his frame grew inexorably out from his place behind the driver’s seat. “G-get me out of here! Let me off. I don’t wanna play anymore!” “What’s the matter, big shot?” the driver asked in a menacing tone. “Don’t know the answer?” He sneered. “Four....” Brett’s hands rested over his crotch as his body slumped back and his eyes began to close. Chad’s breathing grew labored. “I ... I don’t wanna be a meathead!” “Should’ve thought of that when you agreed to the game, kid,” the cabbie purred. “Three...” Everything began to slow as the rapid thumping of his heart matched the rapid strobe of the lights. Come on, Chad. Think! he thought. The door handle was locked, and he couldn’t engage the window. He pounded his fists against the window, but to his horror, his arms swelled with every blow. Even his pectorals puffed up as he tensed and released them. “Two...” The number crawled through the air, like a cheap movie sound effect. Only Chad knew he wasn’t in a movie. His cheeks flushed. He felt a sudden mass pressing between his thighs. He looked at his crotch as the bulge swelled. His eyes darted to the transitioning images and he gasped as he watched the same swelling taking place in the subject on screen as the photo morphed. Please. Please, God. No... No. N-- FLASH “One.” The voice was so slow, he could hardly understand it. His face, once contorted in anguish, now lay slack. His eyes, once alive with fear, now stared unerringly at the screen. His pupils dilated farther. “Uhhhh.....” “Zero.” A loud snap sound effect coincided the final flash as the panels died and Chad’s head slumped back automatically. His arm touched Brett’s, and Chad’s growth accelerated dramatically. Tears shredded through the air, coinciding with the loud pops of reinforced seams bursting, all while their arms, torsos, and legs inflated with dense muscle. The driver chuckled as the lights on the walls pulsed a dull white and the tattered remnants of his passenger’s clothing reassembled into a pair of tank tops: gray for Chad, blue for Brett. A darker tan suffused Brett’s skin with a healthy glow, while his hair retreated into his scalp to leave a simple buzz cut. Every piece of exposed skin was smooth, not a hair in sight. A pair of bluejeans manifested on Brett, while a set of black gym shorts appeared on Chad. “Sorry, gentlemen, but the answer was Meatheadosis.” The driver chuckled to himself as he watched his handiwork settle in. A few minutes later, he nudged the men. “We’re here, Sirs.” The two newly reborn men slowly came to and grumbled. “Uh ... wuh?” Chad lowed in a dull bass. “We’re here,” the cabby said again. A large gym stood outside with the illuminated figure of a muscular man flexing both arms on either side of his head as his legs spread out to brace him. The words Meathead Oasis glowed dully, and the A of Oasis flickered. “You didn’t win, but hey, you got a free ride. And besides that, as a consolation prize, the both of you get a month’s free gym membership.” He handed both men a gift certificate. “Have fun, boys.” Two identical grins widened on the boys’ faces. “Fuck yeah!” they roared together and slapped their hands in a high five. “Thanks, bro,” Brett said happily as they hauled their much larger frames out of the back seat. “Don’t worry about it. You two have a great day. Get a sweet pump for me.” “Huhuh. You’ve got it,” Chad guffawed. Then he slammed the door shut and the two advanced on the gym’s doors.The driver turned toward the hidden camera mounted by the rear view mirror. “These two failed, but you never know who might succeed to win that big money prize. Find out next time, folks, on the Muscle Cab, brought to you by Meathead Industries. See you then.”He winked, then turned off the camera.

Here's an idea for an inanimate TF story. A guy being 'recruited' by a bucket of green army men, slowly turning into plastic, shrinking, and become another indistinguishable soldier in the platoon, a loyal toy soldier in the end.

It certainly has possibilities. I’ll put that under my stockpile of maybes. I have a lot of other things that I’m writing/working on at the moment, so it’ll take time before I can work on this idea. I do have a potential inanimate transformation in mind for the future, though.