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.

Brad sighed as he drank from his cup and approached the mirror in his hotel room. The summer fitness program had promised results. And he’d definitely gotten his money’s worth. He hardly even recognized himself anymore. That green tea really did wonders. The pounds melted away, yielding solid, hard muscle that practically exploded under the carefully controlled diet and exercise regimen his coach had provided for himself and his fellow classmates. He could actually see his cheekbones. His traps formed small hills that rolled up off his shoulders and merged into his neck. A well-developed six pack had taken shape over his abdominals as his muscles grew to become chiseled and well-defined. The barest foundation for two more had begun to show just below his navel. His briefs clung in all the right places now, and he felt comfortable standing practically naked. “Lookin’ good, bro,” his reflection complimented as he took another sip of the drink. Brad smiled. The reflection smiled with him. “Thanks.” It had taken a while to get used to the idea of using hypnosis as part of his regimen, and even longer to get used to having regular conversations with himself afterwards. He couldn’t even remember going under the first time. It was weird talking with himself in the mirror next to everyone else. Just a bunch of one-sided conversations. One plus side, though: No need to worry about rude social circles trying to kick you out. Everyone just knew to sort of respect each other’s boundaries. If they wanted to share their talks, they would. Otherwise, it was just cool to relax and listen to the tips and compliments coach and the reflection provided. It was ... kinda nice, actually. Sure, the persona his reflection had taken didn’t exactly reflect its owner, no pun intended, but he wasn’t rude or anything. Honestly, the way things had progressed, Brad’s other self had become a valued companion. A lot of his classmates had gone sort of quiet. They’d exchange a few greetings, the basics social ethics required. The rest was mostly grunts and body language. They’d pose and flex in front of the mirrors after getting a good pump on and then chuckle, like they’d just heard some incredible joke. Sometimes they let him join them, but he didn’t really feel part of the group. The flexing was fun, but kind of boring in a sense. “Bro, not cool,” the reflection chided. That’s right, it knew what he was thinking. After all, it was a mental projection from his own head. He sighed. “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t like the new shape of my ... our body, I suppose. I just don’t feel so excited about flexing as everyone else does, you know? They all light up at the chance to show off. Me? I don’t feel like that.” “Do you want to?” Brad took another sip. A pleasurable warmth spread out through his chest and stomach as the brew passed through his system. “Honestly? I don’t know. That whole cocky alpha shit is part of the reason I joined this program in the first place. I was tired of dealing with people looking down on me. You know that.” The reflection nodded. “At the same time, I can understand a little about their thought processes now, why they execute some of their behaviors. I mean, look at us!” He raised his free arm and clenched his hand into a fist to rouse the sleeping bicep. “Every time I flex, I feel ... I don’t know, awed? Happy? I can’t really put it into words. It’s just ... different.” He shrugged his shoulders and watched his trapezius muscles roll. “And I can’t take my eyes off of me. At least, not without a little regret.” “You’re overthinking it, bro. You’re turning into a sexy masculine beast. Nothing wrong with a little self-indulgence.” He smirked. “Maybe....” “No maybes about it, bro. Remember how you feel when you’re pumping those weights at the gym?” Brad fought hard to suppress the reflexive shudder as a tingle of pleasure washed over him and goosebumps raised on his skin. “See? There’s your problem. You’re not willing to let go. You don’t want to let yourself enjoy this. All the others, they are. So what’s going on? What are you so ashamed of? It’s just us, bro. Just the two of us. Tell me.” “... You already know.” “No shit, Sherlock. But I want you to say it. Gotta confront the problem, if you wanna beat it. S’what you did when you came here, wasn’t it? You put in the work, followed the program, and look at you! Now you’re stuck on a plateau. Only way you’re gonna break through it is if you pull a Nike and just do it. Now tell me.” Brad sighed. “I don’t want to lose who I am,” he finally admitted. “Things have been ... changing for me. It’s been subtle, but I’ve noticed. I think more about diets and exercise plans than I do about the news. I flip on the TV before bed and instead of Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune, I want to check out ESPN or Ninja Warrior.” This time, he didn’t suppress the shudder. “I close my eyes and I keep seeing you--me--us flexing. I hear the others, and listening to them talk, their grunts, their growls, I want to sound like that. I want to pitch my voice deeper. I want my voice to be husky and bovid. I want to laugh at how much I’ve accomplished until I don’t even have to think about it. It just ... comes in that stupid guffaw.” He glanced over to the desk, where a heavy duty laptop and noise-cancelling headphones sat next to a pair of wireless earbuds and a digital i-watch knockoff. “And the computer, Coach’s files, the screensaver.” His hand gave an involuntary twitch as he half-reached for them. His body swayed, but then he pulled himself away and stared back at the reflection. “I ... I could spend hours on those things,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I ... I like not having to think, just ... just being there in the moment, listening, following through....” “Following Coach’s play,” the reflection said. “Just doing.” Brad looked helplessly at his reflection. “Can’t I just be both?” “You and I both know the answer to that one.” “... Yeah.” “So, you gonna say it?” Brad sighed in defeat. “All right, all right.” He took another deep breath, then let out a low, “Nah, bro.” He shuddered again. “See? It wasn’t that bad.” Brad shook his head. “I don’t want to be an asshole.” “It’s part of the package, bro. But you control when you are. Don’t gotta be one all the time, after all. Just save it for when you’re shittin’ around with your bros. You know what we call that?” Brad nodded. “Being a dumbass,” both intoned together. “That’s the price you pay for all that testosterone swelling you up, bro.” “I am getting kinda hung, aren’t I?” He chuckled and his cheeks flushed. “You know what you wanna say,” his reflection chided playfully. “Just ... just give me a minute, okay?” He downed the rest of his mug in one go to brace himself. “Okay.” He sighed, then put on a smirk. “Damn, bro. I look fucking hot.” A surge of pleasure shot through him. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck yeah, bro,” his reflection said approvingly. “Fuck yeah....” “Feelin’ better now, bro?” Brad let out a low moan. His eyes glazed over as he looked into his reflection. “Y-yeah. “Think you’re ready to lift with your bros?” “Uh, ... yeah.” He flexed a bicep and grinned. “Yeah, I think so.” “Good. Now I’ve got one more suggestion for you before you go.” “Lay it on me, bro.” “Lose the glasses.” Brad blinked in surprise and stared for a good minute or so in befuddled silence. “The fuck’m I wearing those for?” He grunted as he pulled them off his face and looked back at his reflection again. Everything in the room was crisp and clear. “Much better,” they intoned together. “You look like a real musclehead now.” “Huhuhuh. Shut up. M’not a musclehead yet.” He turned from the mirror to the dresser, where his new gym uniform sat waiting to be worn. Somewhere behind the raucus guffaw that was his other self’s response, a tiny voice whispered, “But you will be....”

Nerd turned Jock

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....”

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.

Clocking Out

Manny sighed as he input the last data from the computer for today’s sales. The department store was finally ready to close down. The long haul was over, and boy did he feel its effects. Still, they’d come out with a good profit this week, and the boss paid him well for his computing skills. Having a photographic memory certainly helped. That, and his model build. Men and women alike took one look at his garb and asked for fashion advice. Whether to flirt or out of a legitimate desire to improve their appearance, Manny didn’t know. He didn’t really care either. All that mattered was the bottom line. So what if someone wanted to flirt with him? He checked his watch. Ten minutes under time. It was a new record. He smiled as his vascular arms bunched and tensed with each fluid step he took toward the alarm system. A rectangular impression sat on the lower corner of the interface. He strode forward and jutted his left pectoral at the slot, clicking the black-and-silver badge neatly into place. He really had no idea why the company thought it was such a good idea to stick a key card in a place so-- A jolt passed through his system as his eyes went blank. “Unit 001 clocking out,” he said in a low monotone. Flickers of light emanated from the point of connection as he stood perfectly still and waited. Finally, the system let out a loud chirp and 001 disengaged. Its data port flickered as it processed its new instructions. 001 strode purposefully to the back room, where extra mannequins and stock were stored. An empty woman’s torso stood just a few feet to his side as he shoved one hand artfully into his left pocket. The face of the watch he wore on his wrist glinted in the blaring lights.He tilted his head and rested a hand on top, as if he were about to scratch. His biceps popped as the green shirt clung tightly to his frame. The sheen had grown brighter on his face as he stared into a mirror and watched his hair retract into his skull.The veins along his arms depressed as skin became pale and glossy. The softer appearance of his pectorals firmed and pushed out against the top of the shirt, while the lower end of his torso expanded to hug neatly against the sides of his shirt and show off a chiseled six pack. And chiseled was becoming more accurate by the moment. Keen features became less and less distinct as eyelids merged with eyes and color faded to reveal little more than slight depressions against an amorphous face. A few seconds later, even those were gone, and a smooth ovular shape with more defined curves to simulate a jaw line were all that remained of the former employee. The other mannequin jerked to life, strolling over with creaking joints. It lifted the shirt on 001 and tapped its back. A panel popped open and it pulled to reveal a charging cable. It strode to the nearest outlet and plugged 001 in, then resumed its position.The store owner smiled as he looked through the security feeds to watch the robot as it dropped its persona and resumed its true function. “All right, I’m convinced,” he said to a shadowy counterpart. “How much?” White teeth bore themselves in a grin. “Let’s discuss that....”

@davidphysique_

Losing Self

Look at the watch, the watch that is ticking, ticking down, down into the ages, down the corridors of time. Down. Down. Counting down.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The voice plays over the speakers as I lay on my bed, staring up at the massive mirror mounted to the ceiling overhead. It is a familiar voice, albeit a little higher range than I remember.

Deeper and deeper.

I’m clutching my shirt, keeping my watch in plain sight. My pupils are shrinking. I can see them as I watch the watch. That means it won’t be long now. Maybe a few seconds, maybe a few minutes. They’ll expand soon enough.

Tick ... Tock ....

The subtle click of my own watch’s hands seem magnified as I listen. Of course, it’s just the recording, but my unconscious mind doesn’t know that. I even went so far as to magnify the sound of the watch hand to ensure it was exactly the same.

Counting down the seconds. Counting down the moments. Counting down to that deep, deep sleep.

Tick ... Tock ... Tick ... Tock....

Whoa. That was a rush. Forgot how good this felt. I can see my lips twitching into a hint of a smile.

The sleep that lets you change. The sleep that lets you listen to my voice, listen as it whispers and fixes and repairs. You remember, don’t you? You remember what we talked about last time.

Oh, yes....

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. That little click sounds so much like a hammer, doesn’t it? The hammer of my voice, striking the chisel, the chisel that chips the stone, the stone that gives way so effortlessly under the hands of a master crafter....

Master ... crafter....

You are that stone.

I am the stone.

I am the master crafter.

Yes....

Time to sculpt, my little blockhead.

I am ready to be sculpted, Master Crafter....

Last time, we agreed you would look better with some stubble, and would maybe grow a proper beard to complement your features. Have you done this?

Yes, Master Crafter....

Good. That is good. You have modified your diet. You have changed the clothing you wear. Now is the time to focus, to focus on my voice, to focus on the instructions I am to give you next.

Focus....

It is time to move on to the next phase. Remember, you asked for this. You wished me to change you, to mold you, to remake you. That is my purpose as the master crafter. It is your purpose to accept my changes.

Yes, Master Crafter....

Now that you are trim, it is time to get fit. You will go the gym and work out three days a week to start. You will seek assistance from a trainer if the need arises. You will push to grow stronger, grow bigger, grow buffer.

Yes.

And the more progress you make, the more you will become entranced by the gym. You will want to spend more time there. You will want to continue to make progress, continue to grow. And the more you grow, the more time you spend there, the slower your thinking will become. Slower and slower, dimmer and dimmer, dumber and dumber....

Dumber....

The only exceptions to this part of your change will apply to the gym, fitness, anatomy, and other masculine things of the musclehead stereotype, including exercises, diet, plans, sports, weights, manual labor, and other affiliated items.

Yes, Master Crafter....

Your body will react positively. Your muscles will expand quickly with mass and strength. Your manhood will increase in size with the rest of you. Your voice will continue to deepen, because of the growth you will experience. And it will all feel so very good, so good to let these things happen, to make them happen, because you are being molded, sculpted by my voice, by my hammer, by me, your master crafter.

Yes.

Sculpted into a true meathead in every sense of the word.

Yes!

Good blockhead. You will not remember our conversation, only that we had success in this session. You will follow the instructions I have given you, despite not remembering them. And as always, you will have found great pleasure in our sessions. You will become a musclehead. You will become a meathead. You will become.

I will become....

Good boy. Now, it’s time to wake up. Remember, blockhead. The clock is ticking. Time to get to work.

...

...

...

Wake up, blockhead.

...

Whoa. That was ... wow. I ... I really outdid myself, didn’t I? I really don’t remember it. Haha!

Yes!

 Complete success! Can’t wait to upload this one online! ... Hmm. And maybe start searching for a gym, while I’m at it....