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The Game

You’ve heard of video games and drinking games, but bro, you haven’t lived until you’ve played the lifting game. It’s so fucking addicting!

How’s it work? You’ve just gotta join the Gaming Gym, bro. Dumb bros keep saying muscleheads and nerds can’t get along. That’s bullshit. Got recommended to this place by one of my bros, and I’ve never turned back. They’ve got this sweet gaming room. Tabletop, cardgames, videogames, consoles. You name it, they’ve got it. There’s just one rule to get in. You’ve gotta spend at least a half hour doing fitness. Cardio, weights, doesn’t matter as long as you put in the work. And they have the best fucking save system! I don’t know how they do it, but there’s this reader they put in at all the game consoles. You just insert your membership card, and it’ll pull up your save files for whatever game you’re playing, no questions asked. I don’t know what kinda deal they had to pull with the manufacturers to pull it off, but bro, it’s sweet.

The lifting game? Oh. Oh, yeah! Huhuh. Sorry ’bout that, bro. Kinda nerded out for a second there. I can be kind of a dumbass like that, sometimes. The lifting game’s got its own space aside from the rest of the gaming room. There are stations all over one of the walls, and it still has lines. The name says it all. It’s a game about lifting stuff.

Hey, don’t knock it till you try it! It’s harder than it sounds. You know VR, right? S’kinda like that. The more points you earn in the game, the higher your rank gets in the gym, and the more benefits you can earn, like VIP access to some of the games, special training programs, free health drinks from the bar once a month (or even once a week, if you’re really good), that sort of thing. It takes some getting used to at first, but bro, once you get into it, you won’t want to stop.

Don’t believe me? I used to weigh 130 when I started here. Now look at me. I’ve more than doubled that weight. I fucking love to lift, bro. And it’s all thanks to that game.

What’s my rank now? Bro, can’t you tell? I’m an NPC!

Well, of course we’re gonna have gaming references for ranks! It’s the Gaming Gym, bro, where you come to game and gain!

Come on. Let me give you the tour. Nah, bro. It’s no trouble. After all, I’m the welcoming NPC.

Gotta give those tutorials, m’I right, lil’bro?

The Builder

“Framework is coming along very nicely,” you complimented your foreman as you looked over the joists and beams that had been nailed together and inserted into the foundation. “Wiring and plumbing seem to be going well. How soon until the basics are finished?”

“Another couple of weeks. Had to get a special distributor to fit the client’s specifications for a green building.”

“Let me guess, recycled material?”

He nodded. “You know how people want to focus on the environment now.”

“Protecting the environment, I understand. Insisting on using materials that may not be the same quality, however, just seems like a crime to me.”

“Sometimes, you just have to work with what you have. Speaking of which, I think someone wants a word with you.” The foreman motioned curtly with his head.

You turned around to stare at your latest work in progress. The lad had grown a great deal since he helped with the last house. A sleeveless tank clung to his bulky frame as his nipples stood out against the tight material. Veins ran down his arms in rivers as a set of dog tags jingled and clinked in the gap between his pectorals. A shiny white helmet obscured all signs of the lad’s hair, but you already knew he’d buzzed it down at your request.

“What did you do to me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“What the hell did you do?”

You shrugged. “Employ you, train you, pay you. Was there anything else you wanted to accuse me of?”

“What did you use on me, steroids or something?” he growled as he stepped closer.

You rolled your eyes. “Please. I’m a builder, not a drug lord. All I did was remodel you for the job, the same way I would any house. It did the trick. You’re adhering to the rules of the site and performing your job admirably. Thank you for actually wearing your hardhat today, by the way. It suits your hard head, a head so thick and square, so well defined. Why, I’d even go so far as to call it a block. Yes, a hard hat on a block head.”

“Wh-what’re you--?”

“A hard hat making it so hard to think. A block head blocking those pesky thoughts. Built like a brick, built like a wall, a wall that only I can pass with my words, my key.”

He stumbled and swayed. “S-stop--.”

“Yes, stop talking. Stop thinking.”

His hands clenched as he trembled. “No,” he practically whimpered.

“No thoughts, no worries,” you continued relentlessly. “No pesky doubts. Just my voice. It’s time for an inspection, Blockhead.”

His shoulders slumped. His arms rested lazily at his sides as he stared blankly ahead at you. “Ready for inspection,” he said in a dull monotone.

Your foreman whistled. “Damn. I never get tired of seeing that.”

“You think that’s special, wait till you see what I have in store next.” You smirk as you look at the young man. “You’ve been building nicely. A strong foundation is important in any building project.” You brush over each of the man’s muscles, testing for resistance, mass, and fat index. “Strong walls,” you note. “You built them sturdily and well. A little more strength never hurts, though. Let’s make them a little bigger, shall we?”

The workman rasped as his jaw snapped and cracked to gain greater definition, while the tanktop rode up higher and tighter under his armpits. His shoulders broadened as his biceps, triceps, and flexors swelled alongside his pectorals.

“Those walls need a firm foundation.”

A few seconds later, the workman grunted as a bulge began to press against the toes of his work boots. A brush of your hands over the footwear, and they expanded by two more sizes to fit the new broad feet they housed.

“Now for the plumbing. A proper house needs good strong pipes and a powerful pump for the well.”

The worker’s eyes rolled in the back of his head as he groaned. More veins spread over his musculature, creating a vascular spectacle.

“Such a deep, deep well. So full. So deep.”

The muscles in the workman’s neck thickened as heavy cords became more apparent. A thick lump jutted out midway down his neck, while a bulge pressed slowly against the crotch of his jeans and continued to expand with every breath.

You nod in satisfaction. “Now, more importantly, it’s clear we need to work on that faulty wiring. You’re too suspicious of me. That needs to change. After all, I’m your boss. I want my workmen to trust me. No more worry about changes. All you need know is that I’m the boss. You do what I tell you, because of that. From now on, you’re a proper member of my work crew, understand? No need to question the builder’s renovations. He knows what he’s doing, and I’m a builder, so i know what I’m doing. I’ll even install a dimmer switch for the lights upstairs, so you can think more clearly on the important tasks with my permission. Aside from that, though, you’re going to stay my big lumbering blockhead, got it?”

“Yes, Sir, Boss....”

“Good boy.” You snap your fingers and watch as he blinks. There’s a definite dullness about his eyes as he stares at you for a few moments. “Yeah, Blockhead?” you ask.

He reached up and scratched the back of his head. “Uh ... you need me to carry more stuff today, Boss?”

You shake your head. “No, but Taft here bet me fifty dollars you won’t be willing to put on a gun show for us.”

He blinked slowly, then raised an arm and flexed it as he furrowed his brow. A subtle protrusion began to form in the bone structure over his eye sockets as he did. A few seconds later, he beamed at you. “Do I get to split it with you?”

You smirk. “Sure, big guy.”

He chuckled. “Then let’s do this.” And with that, he began to flex, straining his clothing to its absolute limits against his new physique. The whole time, he bassooned a deep husky chuckle. “Huhuhuhuh....”

It didn’t take long for the other workers to respond in kind. You sigh contentedly at the sound.

“I do love my blockheads,” you say. Then you chuckle. “And that’s why you never mess with the builder, Taft.”

Taft chuckled. “Don’t gotta tell me twice, boss.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to remodel you, too.”

This deserves a reblog. What an excellent beginning of a deeper introspection to his original meathead tattoo story. I can’t wait to see where it goes. Well done, BODriver! Well done!

It was a stupid dare, and you were a dumbass to go through with it… But college is the time to do stupid shit, right?

“Are you serious?” said Rhys, giving your unassuming, un-inked body a once-over. “Sorry, I don’t touch the face, neck, or hands unless you have at least a few pieces already. And honestly, you’re gonna have a hard time finding any artist who would.”

“Wait,” said your friend Jake, who was sitting beside you. “Would you change your mind if we told you it’s for a dare, and he’s gonna get it lasered off after a month?”

“That makes it even worse, dude,” said Rhys, as he started getting up. “I’m serious about my art, and I’m not gonna purposefully give someone a tat he doesn’t really want—”

“—How about I throw in an extra two thousand above your normal fee?” said Jake, nonchalantly.

Before Rhys could even protest, Jake threw two thick stacks of 20s onto the table. You saw the tattooist mouth something in bewilderment before he sat back down. After a few seconds of pondering Jake’s offer, he looked back at you.

“You and your friend have more money than sense, but I need a new set of tires, so… I’m just gonna take this,” he said.

“Oh it’s all Jake’s,” you replied.



“Just to make sure I got this right… You want a thumb-sized tattoo—chosen by your bougie friend—right on your forehead… And you don’t want to see it until it’s done?”



“That’s right,” you responded. Nerves had your stomach feeling all knotted up, but in your head you knew Jake’s crazy shenanigans always turned out fine in the end. College had been a blast ever since Jake had entered your life.

“And even though you’ve never gotten a tattoo before, you’re gonna be fine with the pain of me repeatedly jabbing needles into your face, and you promise that you’re not gonna bitch out?”

“I promise.”

Rhys sighed.

“Fine, I’ll do it. But if your friend asks me for any hate symbols, I’m gonna kick his ass. Also, he can’t ask for any colors since those are harder to erase. And I’m diluting the black to about a 75% grey. And I’m using a light touch. It’ll start fading right away and probably end up looking like shit, so don’t you ever tag me or this place in any pics online, and don’t tell anyone I did this for you.”

“Deal,” said Jake, before you could respond. “Now let me show you the design…”

After looking at whatever was on Jake’s phone, Rhys quickly led you and Jake to the back and sat you on a chair. After disappearing for a few minutes, Rhys came back with a stencil.

The first 15 minutes of inking felt like an eternity. You focused on keeping your breath steady as the searing pain and the buzzing of the gun pounded your skull. You remained silent as you listened to Jake and Rhys chat on how exactly did you end up in that tattoo shop, on the last Sunday before classes started, with this crazy idea.

Jake, being his over-talkative self, started by explaining how, way back last year, he’d gotten himself an entire house right off campus, where he’d first met you during one of his infamous keggers (the next of which Rhys was totally invited to, by the way). It didn’t take long for Jake to bring you into his crew, and take you on as his next “project.” To like, get you to come out of your shell. Eventually his housemate would move out, which was a bummer, but that meant the room was wide open for you this year.

And it was yesterday morning while you were moving in, when another of Jake’s friends mentioned the new tattoo removal clinic that had opened over the summer. And you guys were curious about it, even though no one in the group had any tats. (But Jake totally would’ve tatted up by now if his dad wouldn’t disown him.)

So you volunteered to get some ink. And not just anywhere, but right on your forehead, and you’d keep it there for four weeks until you started getting laser treatments to get rid of it. Cuz you’re crazy like that.

Wait, was that really how the conversation went? You could’ve sworn it was Jake’s idea…

Jake—being in his “comfortable” financial situation—would pay for the tattoo, and then for the removal. And if you went about your college life without covering up the tat or holing up in your room while you had it, you could choose any tattoo that would stay on Jake’s ass until graduation. Sure, the whole plan sounded like something straight out of Jackass, but college is the time to do stupid shit, and maybe this shit could get you famous on Youtube or something.

You broke your silence by telling Rhys you needed a breather. The pain had been making you clench all over.

After Rhys stepped out of the space, Jake took out a pair of wireless Beats from his bag.

“Hey, champ, you did great. You’re a beast,” Jake said, flashing a mischievous grin.

“Thanks Jaker. I had no idea it was gonna hurt that much. I was afraid I was gonna move… What’s that for?” You pointed to the headphones.

“I just remembered I brought these, so maybe you should listen to that playlist you like so much… You know, to distract from the pain.”



“You mean your weird take on ‘lo-fi chill beats to study and relax to?’ Don’t get so full of yourself, I don’t like it that much, haha.”

“Woww…” Jake pulled back his wavy dark brown bangs as he feigned offense.

“That hurts, bro. You know how much of my heart and soul I put into updating my playlist… Actually, I’m not at all hurt cuz I know you’ll beg me to put it on for you, and you’re gonna love it and thank me for its healing power—”

“—OK, OK, that’s enough. Just put the headphones on me. My hands are all clammy and gross.”

“Sure thing, bro,” said Jake, with a strange twinkle in his hazel eyes.

As soon as Jake sat back down from putting the headphones on you, you saw Rhys return, donning fresh gloves. You closed your eyes as the familiar music enveloped you. It was the soundtrack of the many late nights you spent with Jake in his room. Sometimes you really did your studying to it. But other times, you’d *relax*, talking with Jake about everything and anything, but mostly you and the potential he saw in you. Listening to the playlist often took you back to the first time you’d met him, during that fateful party almost exactly a year ago.

He’d been standing out on the balcony, watching the full moon. You’d asked him what he was listening to, and with a smirk, he’d wordlessly stuck both earbuds into your ears. At first you were confused by the silence but then you picked up on the beat… And the two different voices, split between both ears:



“Trust me,” sang the left, with heavy distortion.

“Lose control,” sang the right, sounding slowed down.

“TRUST ME.”



“LOSE CONTROL.”

“TRUST ME.”



“LOSE CONTROL.” The music started to speed up.

“TRUST ME. LOSE CONTROL. TRUST ME. LOSE CONTROL…”

This song always took you back… But this time, as you were listening to it in the tattoo parlor, something was different. A third voice, evenly spread to sound like it was stalking you from behind:

“This is the next phase. Become the new meat.”

“This is the next phase. Become the new meat.”

“You are the meathead,” the voice approached closer.

“You are the meathead,” closer.

“You are the meathead,” closer.



I AM THE MEATHEAD, you replied with the whole of your being, before being awoken by a hand tapping your shoulder.


“Hey, wake up, Champ,” Jake said as he took off the headphones. “You’re all done.”

You were confused.

You’d thought the tattoo was gonna take at least an hour, but after just one song on Jake’s playlist, you were done already. At first you were tempted to feel concerned, but you remembered that Jake had said it would distract from the pain, and he was right. He was always looking out for you.

“Well,” said Rhys, handing you a mirror. “What do you think?”

You looked at your reflection. There, right in the middle of your forehead:

🍖

The meat emoji. A cylinder with two ends of a bone sticking out of it. Really? You were surprised, but relieved that it wasn’t something obscene or gross. Little did you know that it unlocked the next phase of Jake’s plans for your development…

The House of the Rising Guns

“You think he’s gonna come out?” the first of the bullies asked.

Grant rolled his eyes as he folded his toned arms and stared at the white door. The old house had been abandoned for years, and they’d seen to it that their little freshie would be scared out of his mind, thanks to all the little surprises they’d cooked up. “Little nerd probably cried himself to sleep last night.” He strode out to the porch and thumped heavily on the door. “Yo, Jackson! You can come out now!” he shouted.

The door slowly creaked open to reveal the barest trappings of a cloth over a long rectangular surface that most likely was a mirror. Grant’s eyes widened when a wall of muscle lumbered out onto the porch, instead of the weak asthmatic he had come to enjoy teasing. The brim of the boy’s cap cast a shadow over his chiseled square jaw, and a sleeveless tanktop that read FOX with a fox head next to it on its front had replaced the hoodie he’d worn the night before.

The muscle man’s arms rose in a double bicep flex to expose the patches of hair that had grown out his armpits. The bullies watched in awe and surprise as that hair lightened before their eyes from a dark auburn to a bright gold. Veins snaked out over the sculpted curves and ridges of his arms, while his pectorals and lats bulged and expanded in the morning light.

He didn’t seem to recognize them as he looked down on the bullies. “’Sup, bros?” he lowed in a deep stuffy voice.

“Jackson?” Grant asked disbelievingly.

“The one n’only.” He let out a low deep guffaw as he posed and flexed in front of the boys. “This place is fucking ace! You guys should totally join me for my morning workout. They’ve got a whole gym in here! Treadmills, weights, rowing machines, the works!” He groaned in pleasure and rolled his eyes. “And the kitchen! All the supps a bro could ask for. You’ve gotta come see, guys,” he gushed.

“Come ... see....”

Jackson recoiled as he felt one of his possy shoulder past him to step heavily onto the porch. The kid’s eyes were glassy as he stared into Jackson’s own, and he swayed on his feet.

Jackson sneered. “Knew I’d get at least one of you to wanna come.” He clapped his thick hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Welcome to the House of the Rising Guns, bro.”

Grant gaped as he watched the shirt starting to ride up on his former crony, followed by the sound of creaking denim. The kid’s arms rose to mirror Jackson’s.

“Sun’s out, guns out,” he said with a chuckle.

“That’s right, bro. Come on in. Let me give you the grand tour.”

Grant gaped after the pair as the door creaked shut with a heavy slam.

After three solid minutes of gaping and running through the conversation in his head, he finally managed to say, “... What the fuck just happened?” He scratched a pectoral absently as he turned to his remaining two underlings. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. The other two nodded numbly as they strode away from the building. They didn’t notice how tight their shoes had become, nor the way their shirts had begun to cling to their torsos.

Jackson smirked as he watched them depart from behind one of the tinted windows. “They’ll be back,” he said to his new companion.

“Bro....” the other replied as he pumped a set of heavy dumbbells in either hand and watched his shirt slowly get torn apart in the process.

Jackson chuckled. “That’s a good little bro.”

Mister Universe

Oh, hello there. What, were you expecting to meet some gigantic muscle man in a posing thong strutting his stuff? That’s all for show. The name’s Isaac. Nice to meet you. Please, have a seat.

I’m afraid I really do have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s a chair right there.

Ah, I love it when I see that confused look. People always wonder how I do it. It’s funny, really. Go ahead, take a seat. I prefer to stand a while longer. I agreed to this interview because you seem legitimately interested in the truth of my story, and I don’t mind telling it, provided that truth is known without embellishment.

You see, I started off as all young men do. Small, weak, inexperienced, and vastly ignorant of the way things work in the world. In that way, I was no different than any other child. I would imagine great adventures sailing across the high seas or plunging into the depths of the earth after hidden treasure and ancient civilizations. Sometimes I would slay a dragon. Other times, I would be a great barbarian fighting for his people to conquer and spread his influence. Sometimes I would be the good guy, others the bad. And it was fun for a time, just being like that. My friends told me it was some of the most real pretend they’d ever experienced.

I suppose I always was good at weaving a good story. In that way, you might say I could create whole worlds. But in due time, that gift was set aside and forgotten. I grew older, and I had to deal with the harshness the life has to offer a young man entering his teens. Cliques began to form, and the cutthroat nature of the teenager that rears its head in puberty began to blossom in its fullness.

I watched these things unfold, and I looked at them from the perspective of every frightened teen who wants to fit in. Jocks and fit people with aesthetic looks and charismatic personalities became popular. Those who didn’t fit that mold would fall behind.

I didn’t want to fall behind, so I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I dusted off my old gift and fashioned a story for myself. I imagined myself as the perfect ideal for popularity in school: Fit, buff, rugged, with piercing eyes and a winning smile.

I would indulge in this fantasy every day. I would flex in my mirror and picture muscles growing. I would push myself at the gym and lift weights under tutelage from the fitness teachers. I pictured myself growing bigger and faster than any of my peers. And as time went on, that’s exactly what happened. I outgrew my fellows in every physical aspect. Girls would fawn over me. I became popular, even joined the football team. Everything was perfect. And when I flexed and grinned in the mirror, I would say, “I’m just a stereotypical jock.”

And that’s what I became. I lived on the high of popularity and social superiority. And then I brought my old friends with me. It was easy to strongarm them into the roll. A few words here and there, a little reluctant role playing session, and suddenly they seemed to fall right in line. I was their great barbarian leader again, and they my loyal horde. The metamorphosis was astounding to the teachers and aides.

Naturally, I became captain of the team. I pushed every one of my teammates to be their very best. I’d add the occasional affirmation with talk of being the perfect jocks, one team, one unit, working as one, that sort of thing. For a time, I think we actually did. It was strange to lead such a group. One minute, I’d scratch an itch or flex a muscle, and suddenly I’d feel that strange sort of tingle, and I’d turn to see the rest of my ‘bros’ had done the same. Every time it happened, we’d just stare at each other, blink, and laugh that deep husky chuckle that came so naturally now.

School hardly mattered to any of us. We’d pass, and that was all that mattered. But, of course, in due time, reality began to set in. College was coming up, and while many of us were scouted for our incredible skill in sports, we all knew somewhere in the backs of our heads that being the dumb jocks we were couldn’t last for much longer.

Coming out of that fantasy had to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. My first semester of college was brutal, and my friends felt much the same. One or two of them never could bring themselves out of the world I’d woven for them. They still play in the NFL, though one of them, unfortunately, is dealing with some very serious charges. I feel responsible for that to an extent. True, his will is his own, but I molded him into what he is. I pushed him to be competitive, to grow, to become so aggressive and violent. You have to be, if you want to play professionally. I just never thought he’d take it this far.

*Sigh*

Once I’d finally stumbled out from that cloud of being the dumb jock, I realized I still hadn’t truly found out who I am, what I could do and be. I’d limited myself, because of this dream I’d been living for so many years. I was attractive and muscular, but those traits weren’t going to be assets in a college classroom. They were only a hindrance in this new and alien world that I’d suddenly found myself in.

High school is meant to prepare you for college, but since I didn’t pay attention in high school, I didn’t develop the skills necessary for my work. I had to get a tutor to catch up.

That tutor and my lit professors saved me from what could have been a terrible fate. Lucrative, perhaps, but certainly terrible. I would’ve been stuck either as a model or possibly a male escort with the way I was going. I didn’t want to be a stripper. I could’ve gotten into manual labor, if I’d wanted to take that route, I suppose. As for professionals, the odds of making pro were infinitesimally small, and I didn’t want to risk it, once we’d had that first sobering talk.

It’s amazing how quickly my imaginary world was torn down by this one person’s words. I actually cried when it happened, you know, but it was necessary for me to see the world for what it was, if I was ever going to grow enough to find my place in it. I’ll always be grateful to him for that, because without that sight, I never would have awakened the academic in me.

I devoured all manner of literature and works ranging from fiction to non-fiction. The classics, the advanced, theses, journals, fantasy. You name it, I would read it. I learned, and as I learned, I found my mind expanding faster than I could have ever imagined. A whole new universe had opened itself up to me, and I drank it greedily.

Sleep didn’t really seem to be a bother to me. I just kept thinking to myself that I didn’t need sleep, and I found that I didn’t. It was nice from time to time for the sake of dreams, but it wasn’t really necessary. *Chuckle* You wouldn’t believe the number of studies doctors had me participate in when they found out.

I found myself in need of glasses, eventually, as my eye sight began to strain and I became near-sighted. It wasn’t a major loss, though. Glasses were great to use off-field, and I could use contacts when I played. Yes, I still played sports. I had to, if I was going to keep up my scholarship.

As you’re aware, I graduated with honors. While I did grow past most of my old self, there is one thing that did remain with me, a sense of competition. I drove myself to be the very best I could be in every field I participated in. And as a result, I eventually received doctorates and degrees in a variety of them. I crafted a new world for myself, one where I could indeed be the very best. And I realized that the best in academics and the best in sports didn’t have to be mutually exclusive.

And where does that leave me now? Well, as you know, I participated in a variety of contests for bodybuilding and strength testing. And I was fortunate enough to win this year’s Mister Universe. Some call me a muscle god. That’s half true.

You see, I’ve discovered that these stories I weave have a ... well, for lack of a better word, power behind them. Each time I tell one, it seems to come true. I dreamed of becoming Mister Universe, told a story, and then achieved the reality. I wove the tale of both worlds coexisting, and here I stand before you, the proper balance between the great muscular man and the inner nerd.

I can perceive whole galaxies and picture the worlds that reside within them. I craft a tale of travelling, and suddenly I’m there. I walk among men and I can see their hearts, what makes them tick, their desires, their fears, their worlds that they’ve built. And I’ve found that I can alter them on a whim.

All the research I’ve performed indicates that these are the attributes attributed specifically to two entities: either superheroes or gods. Considering nothing about me seems to feel super, and the fact I haven’t seemed to age all that much in the last couple of decades, I’m fairly certain that I’m closer to the latter. Fantasy would likely classify me as a younger god. I’m not certain how it happened, nor am I sure why. I simply know that it is. And I’m grateful for that gift.

Now I’m content to simply live my life with the prize money I’ve earned and focus on learning and growing. I love analyzing a person’s story, picking it apart and putting it back together again, so I can understand how they tick. And, occasionally, if I should happen to feel particularly generous, I add a little to that story.

Now, seeing as I’ve been so open with my story, how about we take a look at yours?

Maybe I’ll give you a gift, too.

What are you?

“A lowly recruit, Sir.”

And why are you here?

“I am here to train.”

For what purpose?

“To be the perfect soldier.”

And soldiers follow orders, don’t they?

“Yes, Sir.”

It is good to follow the orders of a superior.

“Yes, Sir.”

Good to obey, like a good soldier.

“Yes, Sir.”

And I am your superior, aren’t I?

“Yes.”

So that means you obey me, soldier.

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

Good recruit. Welcome to the Spartan Program, where Strength, Obedience, and Discipline are all that matter. You will be molded. You will become the perfect warrior, the first of many. Sparta will live again.

“*Groan* Yes, Sir....”

You feel the first effects of my blessing, Spartan. This is but a taste of what I have to offer you, should you prove worthy.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Come now. You know me better than that. Address me properly, Recruit.

“Yes, ... Lord Ares.”

Good, good. Keep that up, and you’ll reach Captain in no time. I expect great things from you, Recruit. You are to lead a new generation of Spartans. Fill these barracks again. Return my troops to me, and I shall reward you handsomely.

“As my god commands.”

Good boy. Now go work out. I expect you to put on another five pounds of muscle by the end of today’s workout.

“SIR, YES, SIR!”