Getting Taught A Lesson

Getting taught a lesson

Ethan Campbell sat in his car, staring at his phone with a sense of resignation. His fingers scrolled through job boards as he contemplated his future, the morning sunlight casting a dull glow inside the car. Another day of teaching loomed ahead, an event he approached with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment. The prospect of facing another day teaching the morons on this campus and dealing with their behavior was daunting enough to make him consider bringing a flask to work.

"God, I hate my life," he muttered, the words carrying more weight than he intended. His gaze flickered to his phone screen where a notification from Grindr blinked insistently, but he brushed it aside. The loneliness that had settled into his routine was a constant, punctuated only by sporadic, unsatisfying encounters.

Ethan navigated through the throng, feeling out of place in his own workplace. He questioned his decision to stay, debating whether feigning illness and leaving might have been the wiser choice.

Ethan Campbell's career as an adjunct professor of English had been marked by a distinct air of intellectual superiority, one that often set him apart from his students and even some of his colleagues. He prided himself on his erudition and discerning taste in literature, often dismissing popular fiction in favor of dense philosophical treatises and obscure literary works.

Ethan's teaching style and choice of literature often clashed with the expectations of his students. He favored novels that dissected societal norms, questioned authority, and probed the complexities of human nature. His syllabus included works by authors like Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, and Virginia Woolf—writers whose narratives challenged the status quo and delved into issues of race, gender, and identity.

To his students, Ethan's reading list was derisively labeled a "woke reading list," a term that sparked eye rolls and muttered comments among those who preferred lighter fare or more traditional classics. They found his lectures dense, his interpretations overly critical, and his insistence on unpacking every nuance of a text exhausting.

"He acts like we're supposed to dissect every sentence like it's Shakespeare," one student quipped to his friend after class, echoing a sentiment shared by many. Ethan's lectures were punctuated by impassioned monologues on intersectionality, postmodernism, and the deconstruction of literary canon—an approach that left some students feeling alienated and others intellectually stimulated.

For Ethan, teaching wasn't just about imparting knowledge; it was about sparking intellectual curiosity and fostering critical thinking. He saw himself as a gatekeeper to a realm of ideas that could reshape the way his students viewed the world—a responsibility he took seriously, even if it sometimes earned him the reputation of being pretentious or out of touch with the practical concerns of his students' lives.

In the quiet corridors of the college campus, a clandestine plan began to take shape among a group of unlikely allies—jocks and science nerds who shared a common disdain for Professor Ethan Campbell. They had grown tired of his lofty lectures, his condescending demeanor, and what they perceived as his out-of-touch worldview. As they idly bantered in the campus cafe, an idea was born—one that would turn Ethan Campbell into the very caricature of a college guy he'd disdain.

It started innocuously enough with a casual conversation over lunch. Chad, the star quarterback with a mischievous glint in his eye, suggested a prank that would teach Professor Campbell a lesson. The math nerds, led by Brian, contributed their expertise in chemistry to concoct a plan that would alter Ethan's reality.

Late one evening, under the cover of darkness in the campus chemistry lab, the group huddled around a workbench littered with beakers and vials. With meticulous precision, they synthesized a chemical compound that, when ingested, would temporarily alter the fabric of Ethan's reality based on suggestions fed to him—suggestions carefully crafted by the jocks to mold him into the exact guy Ethan hated, "typical college guy."

The plan crystallized around an innocent apple, carefully chosen to be Ethan's mid-morning snack during his next lecture. Brian, the brains behind the operation, carefully injected the compound into the fruit, ensuring it was undetectable to the naked eye.

On the appointed day, as Professor Campbell droned on about existentialism in modern literature, the unsuspecting target reached for the poisoned apple during a brief break in his lecture. Oblivious to the eyes watching him, he took a crisp bite, unknowingly ingesting the chemical that would soon alter his perception.

"James Baldwin didn't just observe; he dissected the human condition with a raw, unapologetic clarity that forces us to confront uncomfortable truths," Ethan reiterated, his voice carrying the weight of conviction that had long defined his lectures. His gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of students who had grown accustomed to his impassioned discourses.

Amid the expectant silence, Trey's meaty arm abruptly shot up, breaking the reverie. "Yo teach!" Trey grunted, his voice resonating with an unusual intensity. Ethan stifled a sigh, the flicker of annoyance evident in his eyes as he responded, "Trey— I'm in the middle of my lecture. Can't this wait?"

"Naw, professor," Trey persisted, his words laced with a disarming sincerity. "I got some uncomfortable truths for ya'. Don't you think all this woke liberal stuff is a bunch of crap?"

Ethan's fingers instinctively moved to massage his temples, a dull throbbing beginning to pulse behind his eyes. It was as though a haze was settling over his thoughts, obscuring the clarity that had once defined his intellectual pursuits. Ayn Rand's name surfaced in his mind, her ideas on rational self-interest and individualism now appearing more coherent, more compelling than they had ever been.

"As I was saying," Ethan resumed, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. "Ayn Rand believed in rational self-interest, the pursuit of one's own happiness…"

His voice faltered, the words hanging in the air like a fragile thread. The pain in his head intensified, a relentless pressure that seemed to coincide with the erosion of his once-firm beliefs. Memories of spirited debates on social justice and systemic inequality fragmented and slipped away, replaced by a growing inclination toward perspectives that he had once dismissed with righteous fervor.

Ethan's ideological landscape shifted, reshaped by the unseen influence of the chemical compound now coursing through his system. Concepts that had once anchored his worldview—equality, justice, solidarity—began to recede into the background, supplanted by a burgeoning affinity for viewpoints that echoed the sentiments of those he had often scorned.

As the lecture hall buzzed with whispered conversations and suppressed laughter, Ethan Campbell struggled to reconcile the fragments of his shifting consciousness. His head still throbbing, Ethan's focus wavered as he attempted to maintain control over the deteriorating situation.

"Bro! Yo, Bro!" Hunter, a burly figure from the wrestling team, called out, his voice tinged with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Ethan winced at the familiar address, his patience fraying. "I'm not your bro, Hunter—I'm," Ethan started, his words interrupted by a sudden surge of discomfort in his chest.

"I'm your—your professor, and you should address me as such."

"Okay—uh, Professor Bro, hahaha—uh, have you been working out 'cause you're looking ripped," Hunter rumbled, barely concealing a smirk. Ethan's hand instinctively gripped his chest, a sharp pain spreading through his muscles. His shirt strained against an unexpected expansion as his once-modest pectorals ballooned into hefty mounds of muscle.

Ethan staggered, his balance faltering as a sudden heat surged through his abdomen. His shirt stretched and strained as six tight-packed abdominal muscles emerged, carving themselves into prominence over his previously flabby gut. Each muscle group defined itself with startling clarity, a stark contrast to the softer contours that had defined Ethan's physique until now.

As Ethan struggled to comprehend the rapid changes overtaking his body, his legs began to thicken, quads bulging with newfound mass. His feet, confined within shoes too small to accommodate the burgeoning growth, burst through the seams as they expanded to size 14. The sensation was alien and overwhelming, his lower body morphing into a shape that bore little resemblance to his former self.

Simultaneously, Ethan felt his biceps throb with an unfamiliar sensation. The muscles swelled to the size of footballs, straining against the sleeves of his shirt. His arms, once slender and unassuming, now boasted a formidable strength that belied their previous appearance. The transformation extended to his neck, where his Adam's apple grew more pronounced, signaling a deeper, more resonant voice emerging from within.

"Well, yeah—Pride is coming up and I have to look good for—" Ethan's feminine voice faltered, the words catching in his throat as he struggled to reconcile the alien masculinity that now coursed through him. The jocks exchanged knowing glances, their mischievous grins widening as they witnessed the extent of their prank's success.

"Bro," one of them muttered under his breath, a smirk playing on his lips as Ethan's transformation continued unabated. The professor who had once commanded intellectual respect now stood amidst a chorus of laughter and incredulity, his physical and vocal metamorphosis a testament to the power of unintended consequences.

Tucker, the quarterback for the football team, couldn't help but be a prick in class. With his feet propped up on the desk and a smug expression plastered across his face, he had no qualms about disrupting Ethan's presentation. "Yo bro, what are you talking about pride for? You always tell us you hate fags, you're always telling about how much pussy you've scored over the weekend, bro!"

When Ethan heard Tucker's words, he felt a mix of embarrassment and anger welling up inside him. "I-I was just kidding," he stammered, trying to recover from the awkward situation. But as he looked around at the shocked faces of his classmates and saw Tucker grinning cockily at him from across the room, something shifted within Ethan. As Ethan tried to explain himself, a cocky grin washed over his face.

Ethan's face contorted into a snarl as a long-festering wave of homophobia washed over him. The mere mention of Pride and fags sent his blood boiling with disgust. Memories of making fun of loser gays filled his mind, and he couldn't help but let out a cruel laugh.

"Fucking fags," he spat, glaring at Tucker. "You think I give a shit about some gay pride parade? I don't care if you like dick or not - just keep it to yourself."

Ethan launched into a long rant about feminist bullshit and how it was ruining the world. "You know, I'm sick of all this political correctness," he said, gesturing wildly with his hands. "I mean, come on! We're men! We should be able to say what we want without having to worry about offending some snowflake."

He paused for effect before continuing. "But enough about that nonsense," he said with a smirk. "Let me tell you about the hot blonde bimbo I scored with over the weekend." Ethan recounted in vivid detail how he had fucked that chick's brain out - describing every moan and groan she made as if it were happening right then and there in front of his students

"Haha, teach that was epic! You'll be a perfect fit for the frat," Topher, the baseball pitcher, chimed in, his voice filled with a mixture of admiration and amusement. Ethan's head throbbed with each word, the impact of the chemical prank continuing to wreak havoc on his once-sharp intellect.

"You're the dumbest, loudest, most obnoxious bro on campus," another voice added, laughter rippling through the lecture hall. Ethan struggled to focus, his thoughts slipping like sand through his fingers. The weight of academic discourse and literary analysis dissolved into a haze, replaced by a flood of trivialities and frat-boy banter.

Like a wrecking ball to his mind, Ethan felt himself growing dumber, his mental acuity fading with each passing moment. The intricate plots of novels and the nuanced critiques of societal norms were replaced with useless sports trivia and memories of pulling pranks with his bros. The lines on his face seemed to smooth out, the clock of his life winding back until he felt like a carefree 20-year-old college sophomore once again.

He remembered the struggle of his freshman year, nearly flunking out until he switched to Econ to fit in with his frat brothers. Memories flooded back—a wild party last night, the taste of cheap beer still lingering on his tongue. A wave of nausea hit him, and he let out an unapologetic buuuuurrrrp, the sound echoing through the now rowdy classroom.

"You bros—what are we doing in this boring class, let's party! Let's get wasted!" Ethan hollered, his voice now unrecognizably boisterous and carefree. The words slipped from his mouth effortlessly, devoid of the eloquence and depth that had once defined his speech.

The entire class erupted in cheers, the students joining in the revelry of Ethan's transformation. Gone was the professor who had challenged their intellects with complex theories and philosophical debates. In his place stood a caricature of collegiate stereotype—a figure of amusement and camaraderie among his peers.

Ethan's name slipped away from him, lost in the tumult of cheers and laughter. He was no longer Ethan Campbell, esteemed professor of English. As the echoes of applause filled the lecture hall. And as he looked around at the faces of his cheering students, he was ready to party.

As the group entered the local college pub, Ethan's face underwent a subtle transformation. His jawline, already strong, seemed to chisel itself into sharper relief, giving his face an air of calculated confidence. His lips curled into a perpetually cocky grin, one that exuded a blend of charm and entitlement.

His eyes, normally warm and inviting, now sparkled with a glint of mischief and bravado. They scanned the room with a self-assuredness that bordered on arrogance, taking in the attention from others with a satisfied nod. Ethan's posture subtly adjusted, his shoulders squared confidently, as if he owned the space around him. As soon as Ethan stepped into the bar, he assumed a persona that was a stark departure from the reserved professor he had once been. He swaggered through the crowd with an air of entitlement, exuding the brash confidence of someone who believed the world revolved around him.

At the bar, surrounded by his bros, Ethan's behavior escalated to the epitome of obnoxiousness. He loudly heckled the players on the screen, critiquing every move with an exaggerated bravado. His voice carried over the din of the bar, drawing attention to himself with every shouted comment.

As he stood at the bar, Ethan's eyes were glued to the sorority chick with big tits and blonde hair across the room. Ethan's demeanor shifted into overdrive. He flexed his muscles, struck exaggerated poses, and flashed a grin that oozed harm. A sudden tan seemed to wash over his body, adding to the illusion of athleticism and vitality.

Ethan turned to his bro Topher and yelled out loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear: "I'm plowing that bitch tonight! Bet!"

"Dude, you're like the biggest party animal on the team," Spencer shouted over the cheers, slapping Ethan on the back with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Coach was right to make you the captain, Zayne!"

In that moment, everything clicked for Ethan—or rather, Zayne. He was no longer the boring college professor burdened with intellectual pursuits. He had transformed into Zayne, the embodiment of every fratbro stereotype—dumb, obnoxious, and self-assured. Captain of the college football team, his path was clear: lead his team to state victory and revel in the adoration of his peers.

Zayne was the loudest, most obnoxious bro at the bar that night. His muscles bulged under his tight t-shirt, and he downed shots like they were water. He grunted to his bros Topher and Spencer about his "sick gains" at the gym earlier in the day, flexing for them whenever he could get away with it.

Zayne caught sight of himself in the mirror at the bar, and he couldn't help but check himself out. His huge muscles were on full display, and he felt an undeniable sense of pride swell within him.

As he flexed for the mirror, admiring his chin strap beard and tight t-shirt, Zayne became more vain and vapid by the second. He couldn't believe how hot he looked; it was like all those hours spent pumping iron had paid off tenfold. With each passing moment, Zayne sank deeper into a state of self-absorption - lost in his own reflection.

The energy in the room was electric as Zayne, Tucker, Topher and the rest of the frat house down they're shots. They had just come from a grueling workout at the gym, and they were amped to let loose and party.

"Dude, I just hit the gym and killed it!" Zayne exclaimed excitedly. "I'm so pumped for tonight." His eyes scanned the room hungrily, searching for any signs of hot chicks who might be interested in joining them.

Topher nodded in agreement. "It's about to get lit af in here," he said confidently. "Damn right fam. Let's go find some babes to party with." Zayne hollered. With that, they made their way over to the bar where a group of girls were already gathered around another table laughing loudly.

Zayne spotted a drunk sorority chick from across the bar and grunted to his bros, "Yo, let me show you how it's done." He made his way over to the blonde bimbo and shamelessly flexed his muscles. She giggled vapidly in response.

"Hey babes, check out this fine piece of ass," Zayne said with a dumb laugh. His hands began roaming her perky ass and tits as he continued talking about football and gym sessions with with the blonde chick. Flexing his biceps as regaled her about today's football pratice. The girl seemed entranced by Zayne's bravado; she didn't even notice when he slipped his hand down her pants.

The night became a drunken blur of partying, drinking, and hitting on dumb bitches. Zayne lost track of time as he moved from one girl to the next, flexing his muscles and telling stories about football and gym sessions. His frat brothers hollered in approval from across the room while they downed shots of tequila.

In between making out with various girls, Zayne would occasionally glance over at Tucker who was deep in conversation with a brunette beauty at another table. Topher had disappeared somewhere into the crowd but could be heard cheering every now and then when someone scored a touchdown or did something particularly impressive on stage during karaoke night.

Zayne met up with a hot cheerleader chick who had the biggest rack he had ever seen. They ordered shots and grinded and danced throughout the night. He knew he had found the chick he was going to plow that night.

As they continued drinking, she began stroking his firm pecs and squeezing his huge biceps. She was dumb, blonde, and drunk - just the way Zayne liked it. He couldn't help but laugh at her inane comments as they made their way back to his place later that night.

Zayne was the most obnoxious, dumb, crude conservative asshole in the frat house. He loved to flex his muscles and brag about his "sick gains" at the gym. His favorite pastime was hooking up drunk sorority girls and taking them back to his place for a good time and working out.

Despite being a total douchebag, Zayne had an undeniable charm that drew people towards him. His bros Topher and Tucker looked up to him as their fearless leader - someone who could always be counted on for a good time or an epic prank. Zayne has become the epitome of an obnoxious, dumb republican bro in the frat house. He's always flexing his muscles and showing off his latest workout routine, which consists mostly of bench presses and bicep curls. His wardrobe consists mainly of tight t-shirts that showcase his pecs and abs, paired with baggy shorts or jeans that hang low on his hips.

His hair is styled into a messy quiff that he thinks makes him look like a "total stud," but it just ends up looking greasy most of the time. Zayne is constantly talking about how hot he is and how all the girls at the bar can't resist him. Zayne is just another spoiled, entitled rich white frat boy. He comes from old money and has never had to work a day in his life. His parents have always given him whatever he wants, so it's no surprise that he expects the same treatment from everyone else. He loves nothing more than throwing his weight around at bars and clubs, buying rounds for everyone just because he can afford it.

Whenever someone disagrees with him politically or challenges one of his opinions, Zayne gets extremely defensive and starts shouting about how great America is and how liberals are ruining everything. He loves to start fights at bars just so he can prove how tough he is by throwing punches.

Zayne is the epitome of what people hate about frat boys. He's the most obnoxious, dumb conservative bro in the house, and he knows it. His muscles are sculpted from hours spent at the gym, and his clothes scream "I'm hot stuff." He loves to show off his physique whenever possible, often wearing tight shirts that reveal his chiseled abs and flexing for anyone who looks his way.

His personality is just as big as his ego; Zayne thinks he's God's gift to women. At bars, he loves to order rounds of shots for everyone around him while shouting out cheers like a drill sergeant leading troops into battle. His favorite pastime is pulling gross pranks on unsuspecting victims with his bros –

When it comes time for scoring with drunken sorority chicks at bars (which happens often), Zayne goes all-in by buying them drink after drink until they can barely stand up straight anymore before making his move on them later in private rooms or dark corners of the bar.

In shot: if there were ever an award given out for being "Biggest Douchebag on Campus," then without a doubt that trophy would belong solely on Zayne’s mantlepiece because this guy truly embodies everything people despise about frat boys – but somehow still manages remain the most popular bro on campus. Zayne is the quintessential douchebag, and he knows it. He struts around campus with an air of confidence that only comes from being completely oblivious to his own shortcomings. His muscles are always pumped up from hours spent at the gym, but his brain is as soft as marshmallow fluff.

As he flexes in front of the mirror at the bar, admiring his reflection, he can't help but feel a surge of testosterone coursing through his veins. It's not just because he looks good; it's because he knows that every girl on campus wants him. And tonight, he has one lucky lady all to himself.

His date for the evening giggles vapidly as Zayne whispers into his ear "Why don't we had back to the frathouse and you can show me what a slut you really are". Zayne drunkly grunts. She doesn't even know what she did to deserve this guy; all she knows is that she wants him more than anything else in the world right now. As they make their way back to his place, Zayne can feel himself growing harder by the second… until finally, out pops a massive 10-inch cock! He grins like an idiot and starts thrusting against her without even bothering with foreplay or lube – after all, who needs those when you have such incredible stamina?

I'm a pretty weak and small nerd fresh out of college. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like as a huge burly lumberjack in my prime of life. Can you transform me into one?

You sit slouched on the couch, the glow of the TV casting a flickering light in the dim room. The documentary about the Appalachian mountains plays in the background, showcasing rugged landscapes and dense forests that seem worlds away from your current reality. It's been months since graduation, and the weight of unemployment presses heavily on your shoulders. Living back with your parents wasn't how you envisioned your post-college life.

As fatigue pulls at your eyelids, you surrender to sleep. Suddenly, you find yourself standing at the edge of a vast, untamed forest. The air is crisp with the scent of pine and damp earth, and an inexplicable sense of familiarity washes over you. You step forward, and with each stride, you feel a subtle transformation taking place—a gradual aging that mirrors the passing of years.

At 25, you navigate the forest with youthful vigor, your movements agile and curious. You learn the rhythms of the woods, tracking animals and marveling at the beauty of untouched nature.

By 28, you've honed your skills. Hunting becomes more than a pursuit of prey; it becomes a communion with the wild. You understand the patterns of life and death, survival and adaptation.

At 30, a sense of mastery settles within you. You no longer just hunt; you become a steward of the land. You learn to read the forest's whispers, to tame its challenges with patience and respect.

Approaching 35, you feel a deep connection to the wilderness. It's not about conquest but about harmony. You forge alliances with the creatures of the forest, earning their trust through mutual understanding.

Then, at 37, a profound shift occurs. A surge of power surges through you, and you begin to grow taller—not in physical stature, but in presence. The trees around you shrink beneath your newfound height, their canopies bowing in reverence. Your senses expand, attuned to the heartbeat of the forest, the flow of rivers, the rustle of leaves.

From this elevated perspective, you see the interconnectedness of all life. You witness the delicate balance that sustains the forest, each creature playing its part in the grand symphony of nature. You are no longer merely a participant; you are a guardian, a sentinel of the wild.

As you stand there, bathed in the ethereal light of the dream, you understand that this transformation is more than a fleeting vision—it's a revelation of your true self. A call to embrace your role in the intricate tapestry of life, to protect and preserve the beauty that surrounds you.

And as the dream gently fades, returning you to the couch with the soft glow of the TV illuminating the room, you carry with you a profound sense of purpose and a newfound connection to the wild places that stir within your soul.

As you stride deeper into the heart of the forest, the trees part to reveal a quaint cabin nestled among the ancient pines. Each step you take seems to reverberate with newfound strength, muscles bulging and veins pulsating beneath your skin. There's a raw power coursing through you, transforming your physique with each passing moment.

Your thick gut of muscle expands, filling out as if sculpted by the very essence of the wilderness itself. Every fiber of your being burns with a primal fire, shedding away the remnants of city life and academic knowledge that once cluttered your mind. In its place, a rugged simplicity takes hold—a deep-seated connection to the land, to the rhythms of nature that dictate your every breath and movement.

Memories flood your mind, transporting you back to your upbringing in the rugged Appalachian mountains. You recall the simplicity of those days, where good Christian values and self-sufficiency were the cornerstones of life. Hunting for your food, chopping wood for warmth—these were not chores but rituals that connected you to the earth and defined your existence.

In your memories, you were a burly, manly figure—a true lumberjack of the mountains, living a life of hard work and simple pleasures. The echoes of your father's teachings ring in your ears, guiding your hands as they wield an axe or mend a fence. You remember the proud, confident stride of your youth, tempered by the wisdom and experience of years spent living close to the land.

And beside you, in your thoughts and dreams, is your hot southern wife—a woman as strong and resilient as the mountains themselves. Together, you inhabit the cabin in the woods, where the smoke from the chimney mingles with the scent of pine and earth. She stands by your side, sharing in the joys and challenges of a life lived in harmony with nature.

As the sun sets, casting a warm glow over the mountains, you find yourself lost in thought about your wife. The memories of her beauty and strength fill your mind, and suddenly you can't resist any longer. You take her by the lips and passionately kiss her under the stars. Her soft blonde hair whispers against your skin as she responds to your advances with equal fervor.

Your hands roam over her curves, feeling every inch of her body that has become so familiar yet still excites you beyond measure. She moans into your mouth, arching into your touch as if begging for more. You both stumble back towards the cabin together, driven by an irresistible desire that only grows stronger with each passing moment.

As you enter the cabin, the warmth of the fireplace greets you both. Without breaking eye contact or losing momentum, you guide her towards it and lower her gently onto the rug in front of it. The flames dance across her skin as she lies there before you, eager for what comes next.

You undress each other slowly but surely, taking your time to savor every touch and glance between one another. When at last you stand naked together by the fireplace, there's no denying how much heat has built up between them—both literally from its warmth and figuratively from their passionate connection.

Without further ado, you climb on top of your wife and position yourself at her entrance; she meets your gaze with a mix of anticipation and love as she wraps her legs around yours tightly while arching up into your touch even more fervently than before.

You stand tall and formidable, a testament to the rugged life you've embraced in the heart of the wilderness. Your frame is broad and muscular, shaped by years of hard work and a deep connection to the land. Every movement exudes strength and purpose, from the deliberate swing of your axe to the confident stride that carries you through the dense underbrush.

Your face is weathered, etched with lines that tell stories of resilience and endurance. A scruffy beard frames your jaw, flecked with hints of grey that speak to the passage of time and the wisdom it has brought. Deep-set eyes, sharp and observant, reflect the keen awareness honed through years of navigating the intricate patterns of the forest.

My roommate Spencer has always been the nice scrawny nerdy type. A bit of an activist, straight ally, always in his books when he's not making a sign, always empathetic. The only thing is that he's taken up an interest in the frats on campus after he met this bro during one of his usual runs in the gym.

The guy came from some fraternity that practically stands against everything Spencer stands for! I told him about it, but he said I shouldn't judge a book based on its cover and that the guy was really friendly. I really hope nothing changes between us...

As you enter your apartment, Spencer's presence immediately captures your attention. He's sprawled out on the couch, legs wide apart in an exaggerated manspread, sipping on a beer—a sight that surprises you since you can't recall the last time you saw him drink. The TV blares at its highest volume, broadcasting a football game, and Spencer is fully engrossed, chanting loudly, "Let's go Philly! Let's goooooo!" with his fist pumping in the air.

Taking a closer look, you notice something unsettling about him. Spencer seems larger than before, his muscles more defined, his shoulders broader like that of a linebacker. But it's not just his physical appearance that strikes you; there's a noticeable change in his demeanor too. He appears… simpler, less sharp-witted than usual.

"Hey, man. What's up?" you greet him, setting down your bag.

"Watching the game, bro. You should join. Beers in the fridge," he grunts in response.

You sigh, shaking your head slightly. "Oh, that's fine. I'm not really into football—or beer. I didn't think you were either."

"Dude, what are you talking about? I love football and beer, bro! Especially my man Zeke's home brew. It's sick. You should try it," he insists, his tone unusually forceful.

"I don't know," you reply, unsure of how to respond to his insistence.

Spencer suddenly stands up, towering over you at least 6'4" now, his demeanor more imposing than you remember. "That wasn't a question, dude," he says, walking towards you. You feel a knot of unease forming in your stomach. "Open up, bro," he commands, grabbing you and forcefully pouring the beer down your throat.

You choke and gag as the liquid hits your throat, and you involuntarily let out a loud burp right in Spencer's face.

"That was sick, dude," he says, laughing as if it's all a big joke.

"What—what—why do I feel so weird?" you manage to say, feeling disoriented and dizzy.

"It's the brew, man," Spencer replies casually, though his words seem muffled and distant to you. "It's going to help you fit in."

As he speaks, an intense headache suddenly grips you, as if someone has slammed a football helmet into your head repeatedly. The pain is overwhelming, and you struggle to focus. Football plays, statistics, and scores flood your mind, pushing aside your usual clarity of thought. It feels like your brain is being reshaped, rewired into something… different.

You stumble back, trying to make sense of the confusion swirling in your mind. Spencer's words continue to echo faintly, but you can barely comprehend them. The headache throbs relentlessly, and despite your efforts to resist, you feel yourself succumbing to whatever strange influence that beer seems to wield.

A sensation starts to wash over your body. It begins with a subtle warmth spreading from your core, as if a furnace has been ignited within you. This warmth intensifies into a radiant heat, enveloping your muscles and skin, making you acutely aware of every inch of your body.

Your chest tightens slightly as you feel it begin to expand, muscles beneath your skin pulsating and growing with newfound strength. Each breath feels deeper, more powerful, as if your lungs are expanding to accommodate the changes happening within. Your abs tighten and firm up, the muscles contracting and defining themselves with a chiseled precision you've never experienced before.

Moving down your arms, your biceps and triceps swell noticeably, filling out with solid, sinewy mass. As you flex your arms, you can see the veins standing out prominently beneath the surface, a testament to the increased blood flow and muscle development. It's as if every fiber of your being is responding to an unseen command, transforming your physique into something more robust, more powerful.

Simultaneously, your legs grow thicker and more muscular, each muscle group defined and strengthened. The sensation of power surges through your thighs and calves, making you feel grounded and steady. Your legs feel like they could propel you forward with incredible force, a newfound agility and strength coursing through them. Your mind is bombarded with memories—vivid recollections of intense workouts with Spencer. You remember the sweat-soaked gym sessions, the grueling sets of weights, and the challenging runs. Spencer's voice echoes in your mind, urging you on, pushing you to your limits. The heat radiating from your body intensifies, almost as if the memories themselves are fueling this transformation. You remember the weightlifting sessions in Spencer's makeshift gym in the apartment. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of sweat and iron. You pushed through sets of bench presses and squats, your muscles burning with exertion. Spencer egged you on, his voice mixing with the clinks of weights and the grunts of effort, the stale air of the gym lingering in your mind and in the air around you. You blink, trying to shake off the disorienting sensation, and as your vision clears, you notice the transformation of the room. Empty beer cans litter the floor, scattered haphazardly around a new gaming console that gleams under the dim light. Pizza boxes, once filled with greasy remnants, now lie discarded and crumpled.

You shake your head, trying to clear the cobwebs from your mind. As you look around, you notice that the posters on the wall have changed. Cheerleaders and famous actresses wearing barely any clothes now adorn the space, their images taped half-hazardly to the walls. One in particular catches your eye - Sabrina Carpenter.

"Damn," Spencer says, pointing at her picture. "She's fucking hot right? Don't ya just wanna shove her to her knees and have her suck your dick?" You blink in surprise; this isn't like Spencer at all. He never talked like such an asshole before… but then again, maybe it is him? The way he grunts and leers at Sabrina Carpenter makes it seem more likely than not that this really is Spencer… only different somehow.

"That's it bro," he continues with a grunt of satisfaction as if reading your thoughts correctly. "Let all those pathetic faggy thoughts just fade away bro." You stare at him blankly for a moment before realizing what he means by 'faggy'. This isn't just any change; this is a complete transformation – both physical and mental – into someone who doesn’t even remotely resemble who you used to know as Spencer.

You blurt out, "Yeah, bro. She's so fucking hot." Immediately, you cover your mouth with one hand as if to hide the words that just came out of it. But it's too late; they've already been spoken.

As you stare at Sabrina Carpenter on the poster, something strange happens within you. A warmth spreads through your body and settles between your legs where a growing bulge begins to form beneath your jeans. It starts small but quickly grows larger and harder by the second until it feels like an iron rod is pushing against the fabric of your pants. The very idea of being gay washes away as if it never existed in the first place – replaced by this overwhelming desire for female flesh wrapped around a cock.

And on the couch where Spencer sat moments ago, there's now a worn-out, ratty piece of furniture, a testament to the passage of time and the changes that have unfolded.

As Spencer tosses you the sweat-stained tank top, gym shorts, and baseball cap, you take them without hesitation, slipping into the familiar attire. The tank top fits snugly around your newly bulked-up chest and arms, while the gym shorts hang comfortably on your powerful legs. The baseball cap sits low on your forehead, casting a shadow over your eyes, so you turn it around like the bro you are.

As you dress, you feel a subtle shift in your demeanor. Your expression morphs into that of a typical "dumb bro"—a confident smirk playing on your lips, eyes slightly narrowed with a laid-back, carefree attitude. It's a look that speaks of muscle-bound bravado and a penchant for partying.

"Thanks, man," you say with a grin, raising your hand for a high five. Spencer reciprocates eagerly, the sound of your palms meeting echoing briefly in the room.

"This party is going to be sick," Spencer declares with enthusiasm, and as he speaks, memories begin to flood your mind. Images of rushing the Beta Rho Omicron House—B.R.O. for short—flash vividly before you. The brotherhood of the B.R.O. boys, renowned for their muscular physiques and wild parties, fills your thoughts.

Suddenly, memories flood your mind. Wild frat parties where you got blackout wasted and hooked up with random hot chicks. Talking about your gains at the gym with your bros, laughing as they high-five each other over their latest conquests. You realize that this is who you've become – a dumb frat bro who lives to party and pick up chicks. There's no room for anything else in this new reality; there's only one person who could ever understand or accept this version of yourself. You've become a dumbass bro. You love your muscles and the way they make you feel powerful. Your cocky attitude is second to none, and nothing gets you going quite like showing off for the ladies or getting drunk as shit with your bro Spencer. The thought of another night filled with beer, boobs, and bad decisions makes your heart race in anticipation.

You nod to Spencer, a knowing grin on your face, ready to embrace the night ahead with the same fervor and enthusiasm that has defined your time with the B.R.O. boys.

What happens when a whole gay friend group suddenly is converted into straight guys? How long does it take for them to morph into your average straight friend group.

A mass transformation is actually quite simple. It's quite quick even. You and your friends are out at the bars, dancing joyously amidst a sea of rainbow flags celebrating Pride. The music is pumping, filling the air with infectious energy and laughter. You're singing along to ariana grande and chappell roan. Suddenly, a thick fog rolls in, casting an eerie shadow over the festivities. You squint through the haze, bewildered as the vibrant rainbow flags above you slowly transform into University of Alabama banners, their crimson and white stark against the dim lights.

The once sweet aroma of cocktails is replaced by a pungent blend of stale beer and used gym socks. You crinkle your nose in distaste, exchanging puzzled glances with your friends who are equally taken aback by the strange shift in atmosphere.

Even more disconcerting, your trendy, expressive outfits begin to warp before your eyes. What were moments ago stylish Pride attire now morphs into tacky, gaudy bro outfits—tight tanks, polos, basic jeans, cargo shorts, and baseball caps that clash horrendously.

In your hands, the vodka crans magically transform into ice-cold beers, condensation dripping down the sides. Without missing a beat, your friends instinctively clink their bottles together, the chilled beer splashing onto your newly acquired bro-shirt.

As the fog settles into your mind, a strange heaviness descends, dulling your thoughts and making them harder to grasp. You blink, trying to recall how you ended up here, surrounded by the pulsating beats and colorful lights of the bar. The TVs that once played vibrant pop music videos suddenly flicker and transform, displaying intense football, baseball, and basketball games.

The plays, the scores, the athleticism—it all draws you in, stirring a primal excitement deep within. Your friends beside you are equally ensnared, their cheers and yells blending with the roar of the crowd in the bar.

As the games unfold, you and your friends grow more animated, more boisterous. You shout at the screen, criticize referees' calls, and passionately debate strategy. The atmosphere around you intensifies, fueled by adrenaline and the communal thrill of competition. The usual cares and worries dissipate, replaced by a temporary escape into the world of sports and beer, where passion and intensity reign supreme.

You realize that your perception of your friends has changed. They're no longer individuals you find attractive or admire on a personal level; they've become your "bros" in the most superficial way possible. The thought of hooking up with them is now gross as fuck. You only want to hook up with chicks from now on.

A memory forms of working out at the gym with your bros and catcalling at girls as you flexed your muscles under the weightlifting machines. The smell of sweat and stale air clings to your body, reminding you of how much time you spent there trying to impress girls instead of focusing on schoolwork or hanging out with actual friends who cared about more than just physical appearance.

You begin to see your bros only as people who share similar interests in sports, video games, and partying - nothing more than that anymore.

As the night progresses, your fixation on women's bodies intensifies. You find yourself unable to look away from any woman who walks by, constantly staring at their breasts and imagining what it would be like to touch them. The thought of hooking up with a "dumb slut" consumes your mind, making it impossible for you to think about anything else.

Your friends seem just as obsessed as you are, leering at every chick who passes by and making vulgar comments about their appearances. It's clear that this altered state has taken hold of all of you in different ways but with one common goal: finding someone willing (or unwilling) enough for a drunken hookup.

Your friends join in on the catcalling and lewd remarks as they pass by, egging each other on with crude comments about how "dumb sluts" they are for dressing so provocatively. The thought of hooking up with any one of them fills you with an intense horniness that makes it difficult to focus on anything else.

With your bros egging you on, you start to rate each girl loudly and openly, "A total 10"...."Dude she's like a 5, tops" "Bro, that's a fucking 9!" reducing them to mere objects. The laughter and camaraderie that once felt genuine now echo with a hollow, performative quality. The bar, once a place of celebration and community, becomes tinged with a sense of toxicity as you and your friends revel in this distorted version of masculinity.

In this altered state, the fog not only obscures your thoughts but also distorts your values and inhibitions. What began as a night of dancing and celebration for Pride has veered into a troubling territory of objectification and disrespect and above all else straight Pride. Your muscles begin to swell and bulge beyond their usual size. Your abs tighten and define themselves, while your pecs become more prominent. Your biceps grow thicker and stronger, making it easier for you to flex them whenever the opportunity arises.

Your friends undergo a similar transformation, their figures becoming more imposing with every passing moment. Their postures become more confident and aggressive as they flex their newly enhanced muscles to get the attention of various chicks in the bar,

You grab around of shots for you and friends. You struggle to recall their names, but suddenly it clicks in your mind. You're Brock, and your friends are Bryce, Brody, Brady, Brad, Brayden, and Brandon. It feels oddly comforting to remember these names, as if they've always been there, waiting just beneath the surface.

Your surroundings seem to echo with a thick Southern accent, every thought and word peppered with its distinctive cadence. The pride in being associated with the University of Alabama swells within you, a deep-rooted allegiance that feels unquestionable and natural.

In this altered state, a surge of conservative beliefs and values begins to replace the liberal, progressive mindset you once held. The fog in your mind acts as a catalyst, erasing the complexities of nuanced thought and replacing them with a stark, black-and-white worldview. Suddenly, concepts like political correctness and social justice seem foreign and misguided to you.

You feel a growing disdain for what you now label as "liberal snowflakes," dismissing their concerns as overly sensitive and irrelevant. The camaraderie with your friends intensifies as you bond over shared conservative ideals, mocking those who don't align with your newfound worldview.

As the night progresses, you and your friends continue to embrace your transformed identities with a fervor that surprises even yourselves. The once inclusive and open-minded individuals you were have been eclipsed by personas of Southern pride and conservative values. It's as if the fog has not only altered your physical appearance but also reshaped your entire psyche, leaving behind starkly different versions of yourselves -just a bunch of dumb fratbros looking for a good time.

As drunkenness sets in, so does a sense of entitlement born from privilege: believing that because you are men, you deserve whatever women offer them without considering their opinions. You just want one thing. Sex.

With each passing moment spent hitting on various women at the bar comes an increasing desire to bring one back home for some drunken fun – no matter how shallow or meaningless it may seem at first glance – driven by primal urges fueled by testosterone coursing through newly enhanced bodies thanks to this foggy haze surrounding them all night long.

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Through the Looking Glass---bro

Atticus Conway, a 32-year-old art maven with a hipster edge, strolled into the contemporary art gallery, his attire a blend of vintage band t-shirt layered under a worn denim jacket, paired with well-worn Converse sneakers. His boss beckoned from the entrance, amidst the eclectic crowd that mingled beneath the soft glow emanating from the center of the room.

The gallery exuded a fusion of minimalism and sophistication, its white walls serving as a stark backdrop for abstract masterpieces. At its heart stood The Matrix—a sprawling lattice of translucent panels forming a walkable installation, pulsating softly with an ever-shifting spectrum of colors. Attendees, ranging from avant-garde eccentrics to sleek sophisticates, engaged in muted conversations and occasionally clinked glasses as they explored the transformative potential of the Matrix.

Atticus was drawn closer by the installation’s allure, its promise of blurring the boundaries between technology and personal expression. Some visitors had already ventured into The Matrix, their movements triggering dynamic responses from its structure. He observed cautiously, appreciating the installation’s energy and its impact on the gallery-goers.

Designed to accentuate the avant-garde spirit of the exhibition, the gallery itself was a work of art—clean lines and an expansive layout creating an experimental playground. As Atticus navigated through the crowd, the symphony of soft whispers, the hum of the Matrix, and occasional gasps of awe formed a backdrop to the artistic exploration unfolding around him.

The Matrix had been completed only moments before the opening—a testament to the eccentricity of its creator, an old man whose exacting instructions had been followed to the letter. Its otherworldly presence glittered and shimmered, a tunnel stretching infinitely through the gallery space, hinting at vague shapes and possibilities beyond its translucent panels.

Stepping forward with a glass of prosecco in hand, Atticus was the first to enter the walkway. The mirrors inside rippled and shimmered, reflecting his hipster persona back at him a thousand times over. Initially awestruck by the spectacle, he soon felt a peculiar sensation—a lingering feeling that the mirrors were watching him, even when he turned away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Atticus noticed something unsettling—his own reflection seemed to wear a twisted smirk, staring back at him with a gaze that felt intrusive. He dismissed it at first, attributing it to the immersive nature of the installation.

A few steps ahead, he encountered a large panel—a full-length mirror. As he approached, his reflection wiggled and vibrated unnervingly. Peering at himself, Atticus was taken aback by the expression on his own face—it seemed contorted into one of disgust, a stark contrast to his genuine admiration for the art surrounding him.

Attempting to look away, he was startled to hear a voice emanating from the mirror, mocking him with crossed arms and a sarcastic tone. "Don't look away… Look at yourself… God, you're boring…"

Turning around abruptly, Atticus faced his reflection, bewildered by the unexpected interaction. His mirrored counterpart rolled its eyes mockingly, a gesture that cut through the enchantment of the moment. "God, we've got our work cut out for us…"

Atticus Conway, caught in the bewildering depths of The Matrix installation, stared in horror as his reflection twisted into a sinister smile, its eyes seemingly glowing with an unnatural intensity. The once-familiar face now bore an unsettling expression that mocked him with a knowing smirk.

"So, pathetic Atticus," the reflection taunted in a voice that echoed eerily within the mirrored chamber. "But that's why I'm here—here to help. I can see into your very soul. Your desires. Your wants. Your fears. And most importantly, your rage. That fire burning in you."

"What the hell kind of trick is this?" Atticus shouted, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. He attempted to turn away, to escape the unnerving spectacle unfolding before him, but everywhere he looked, he was met with more mirrors, each reflecting his own image back at him, each bearing a different facet of his personality.

"Oh, there's no escaping now, baby boy," the reflection sneered, its tone dripping with malice. "I'm here to bring out the worst of you, but by the time I'm done with you, you—hah—you certainly won't think so."

Atticus' heart raced as he witnessed the reflections morphing before his eyes. They twisted and contorted, each portraying a different version of himself—a twink with styled hair and fashionable attire; a jock with a confident grin; a nerdy version with glasses and a book in hand; an overweight ex-jock struggling with his identity; a tougher looking black Atticus, a middle eastern Atticus with thick muscles; a desperate straight man clutching at his phone; a closeted young man hiding behind a facade; a frat bro with a swaggering attitude; an arrogant jerk with a sneer.

Each reflection seemed to delve into a fragment of his psyche, exposing vulnerabilities and hidden aspects of his persona that he had never acknowledged.

As Atticus Conway stood amidst the labyrinth of mirrors, the reflections before him began to laugh—a haunting, ominous sound that reverberated through the chamber. The mirrors around them pulsated in response, the soft glow intensifying into a crescendo of brilliant light.

Atticus instinctively raised his arms to shield himself as the mirrors burst with a deafening crash, shards of glass spraying in all directions. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, feeling the sting of glass against his skin despite his efforts to protect himself.

When he cautiously opened his eyes again, he found himself standing outside the art installation, amidst a stunned crowd of onlookers. They stared at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, murmuring amongst themselves about what had just transpired.

Blinking to clear his disorientation, Atticus noticed a small cut on his cheek from a stray piece of glass. He reached up to touch the blood, intending to brush it away, when a strange sensation coursed through his body—a surge of energy that seemed to pulse through every fiber of his being.

He let out a frustrated groan, feeling his blood pumping vigorously through his veins. His muscles began to tingle and swell, starting from his core. A heat spread through his stomach as his abdomen tightened and sculpted into a tight, defined six-pack, the muscles rippling beneath his skin.

Atticus gasped as he felt his pecs pulsate with newfound energy, growing and expanding, stretching his shirt taut over his broadening chest. His shoulders widened, his biceps and triceps bulging with strength. His lats flared out, emphasizing his athletic build.

His legs followed suit, his thighs thickening with muscle, his calves firming beneath his jeans. Even his feet seemed to grow slightly, yet miraculously, his clothes adapted seamlessly to accommodate the transformation.

Atticus couldn't help but flex involuntarily, testing the newfound power surging through his body. The sensation was both exhilarating and unnerving, a physical transformation that defied explanation.

As he stood amidst the bewildered crowd, Atticus felt a surge of confidence and vitality unlike anything he had experienced before. With a deep breath, he straightened his posture, his expression a mix of wonder and determination.

A sudden craving gripped him—a primal urge for booze. With a swagger that was uncharacteristic of the laid-back art maven, he pushed his way through to the bar, demanding rudely for a shot of tequila from the startled bartender.

"Give me a shot. Now!" Atticus barked, his voice laced with an entitled tone that seemed to emerge from nowhere.

The bartender hesitated for a moment, taken aback by Atticus' abrupt demeanor, but reluctantly poured him a shot. Atticus downed it swiftly, the fiery liquid burning down his throat and igniting a rush of adrenaline. He slammed the glass back on the counter and demanded another, then another, each shot fueling his sense of entitlement and privilege.

As the liquor coursed through his veins, his features seemed to shift—his jaw becoming more pronounced, his face taking on a chiseled and manly appearance. A widening nose and a scruffy beard began to form on his once-boyish face, while a deep tan spread across his exposed skin.

His demeanor turned cocky, exuding an aura of arrogance that was worlds away from his usual approachable nature. With a burp that echoed through the bar after his final shot, Atticus leaned back, his eyes gleaming with a newfound sense of bravado.

The once-artistic Atticus now seemed like a caricature of bro culture, his clothes appearing garish and mismatched as if chosen to attract attention. His actions drew stares from other patrons, some amused and others bewildered by the sudden change in him.

Atticus leaned heavily on the bar, scanning the room with a self-assured grin. "Hey, bartender," he slurred, his voice tinged with bravado. "You ever seen gains like these?" He flexed his newly muscular arms, oblivious to the bemused looks around him.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, unsure how to respond to this altered version of Atticus. "Uh, sure, man," he replied cautiously. "You hit the gym hard?"

Atticus launched into an intense monologue about his workout routine, detailing his protein intake and the hours spent sculpting his physique. His gestures became exaggerated, his voice booming with enthusiasm as he regaled the bartender with tales of his gym achievements.

But suddenly, a sharp pain pierced his temples. Atticus winced, clutching his head as if trying to ward off the throbbing ache. In that moment, he felt something slipping away—a passion for art, a knowledge of Picasso and Van Gogh fading like a distant tide.

"So, like, uh, this art is like pretty cool right? Like uh, I like uh---" Atticus muttered, his voice slurring. He tried to explain a painting from the gallery, but his words came out muddled and confused. "It's like, colors and stuff, man. You know?"

The bartender couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Yeah, I think I get what you mean."

Slowly, Atticus straightened up, he rubbed his temples, the remnants of his headache lingering. The bartender looked up from wiping the counter and smiled, his gaze lingering on Atticus for a moment before he spoke. "So, you enjoying your night?" His voice was warm and friendly, almost like he was genuinely interested in Atticus' response.

Atticus couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at the question. It wasn't that he wasn't enjoying himself - far from it actually. But something about the way the bartender asked made him uncomfortable. Like there was an underlying tone to his words that made Atticus feel like they were flirting or something worse…

Without thinking, anger filled Atticus as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. He straightened up again and narrowed his eyes at the bartender in response to what felt like unwanted attention. "You fucking hitting on me bro? That's fucking gross dude! I'm not a fucking homo!" He slammed down his drink glass hard enough to make ice cubes rattle against each other loudly while glaring daggers at the man behind the bar who looked taken aback by this sudden outburst of rage from someone who moments ago seemed perfectly content with their company."Faggot!" He spat out before storming off into oblivion where even memories no longer exist.

With the booze and anger flowing through him, Atticus' smile turned into a cocky sneer. He strutted through the art gallery like he owned the place, his eyes scanning for any woman who caught his attention. And when he found one, there was no holding back - he grabbed her ass without hesitation or remorse.

As he passed through the gallery, Atticus continued to shamelessly flirt with every woman in sight. It didn't matter if they were interested or not; all that mattered was satisfying his own twisted desires at this point. But then something happened that threw him off balance: a random chick stopped him to ask about an art piece she didn't understand.

Atticus found the nerdy art chick, Emily, extremely attractive. Her glasses only added to her charm and he couldn't help but feel drawn to her intelligence as well. "Hey there, cutie. What's your name?"

"I'm Emily. And you are?" she says blushing.

Atticus just starts flexing and mumbles, "Oh, just a guy trying to get his dick wet. So, what do you think of this painting here? It looks like some abstract shit to me"

"That's not abstract art; it's actually an interpretation of the artist's feelings about the current state of politics in their country. The colors represent different emotions they experienced while creating it, and the shapes symbolize various issues they faced during that time period… haha...Sorry, but I can tell you don't know much about modern art techniques or concepts used by contemporary artists these days…"

"Fuck off you woke bitch! You think you know everything just because you wear glasses and read books all day long?! Go back to your little nerd cave before I punch those fucking glasses off your face!" Atticus shouts as he storms off to another bar, with a hot busty blonde waitress, leaving behind a trail of confusion mixed with humiliation within himself as well as those around them who witnessed this exchange between two people who couldn't be more different from each other socially speaking.

Atticus made his way to the next bar, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. As he approached, he noticed a ditzy blonde bartender with tight shirt barely containing her busty chest. She was giggling vapidly to herself as she wiped down the counter, completely oblivious to Atticus' presence.

Without hesitation, Atticus began flirting with her shamelessly. He leaned in close enough for their bodies to touch and started leering at her boobs which were on full display through her tight top. His voice grew deeper and developed an accent - it was clear that this man had lived a life far from luxury or education; one filled with hardship and struggle where language wasn't always properly taught or understood but rather learned through experience alone… And it showed in how he spoke now - thick brogue rolling off his tongue like honey dripping from a spoon onto freshly-baked cookies hot out of the oven… Delicious yet dangerous all at once…

"Hey there," Atticus drawled as he placed his order for another drink, "I ain't got no clue 'bout them art pieces ya got hangin' around here but I do know what makes me feel good…" He flexed slightly before continuing on about how dumb those 'art crap' are compared to what really matters in life: getting laid and having fun while doing so without any cares or worries holding you back because let's face it – we only live once so why waste time thinking too much when we could be enjoying ourselves instead?

The bartender, Amber, smiled brightly at him before introducing herself. "I'm Amber," she said sweetly as she leaned closer to him, her cleavage on full display through the tight fabric of her shirt. "And what's your name big guy?"

Atticus paused for a moment, his mind blank as he tried to remember his own damn name. Finally, after a few seconds had passed by without any answer forthcoming from him, he managed to muster up something that sounded vaguely familiar: "Uhhh… Jackson… yeah. Jackson Armstrong."

As they talked more about trivial matters, Atticus couldn't help but think back on his past - growing up in the south where church was mandatory every Sunday; attending college parties every weekend until dawn broke; being a 21-year old frat bro who would probably drop out soon as he now thought college was for losers. It all seemed so distant now compared to this new persona emerging within him – one filled with conservative ideals and passion for tradition above all else… His liberal ideals slipped into oblivion as easily as water down a drainpipe while Jackson took over completely.

"So Amber," Jackson drawled as he leaned in closer to her, his voice dripping with vapid entitlement, "you know what I think would make this night even better?" She shook her head no before he continued on with his plan: "I think we should go back to my place and continue our conversation there… Without all these distractions." He winked at her playfully while giving her ass a subtle squeeze.

As memories of pranking his bros in the frathouse flooded back into Jackson's mind alongside images of blackout drunkenness each night after partying hardcore, one thing became clear - southern pride was something that ran deep within him; it defined who he was at his core regardless if others liked it or not… And right now? Well let's just say Amber looked pretty damn happy about it all too.

As Jackson continued to flirt with Amber, his muscles flexed beneath the tight fabric of his shirt. He couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally finding someone who shared similar beliefs as him – someone who understood the importance of faith and tradition above all else… Someone who wasn't afraid to speak their mind even if it meant offending others in the process.

"I can't stand this woke bullshit," Jackson said passionately as he leaned closer to her, "It's like everyone wants to be a victim these days instead of standing up for what they believe in." Amber nodded her head in agreement before adding her own thoughts on the matter: "Exactly! It's about time people started speaking out against all this political correctness nonsense."

"You know what else pisses me off?" Jackson asked rhetorically while flexing again just for good measure, "All these damn snowflakes crying about how hard life is because they weren't born white or straight or rich or whatever else it is that bothers them nowadays…" He shook his head disapprovingly at society as a whole before continuing on with his rant: "But you know what? I wouldn't change a thing about being a white, straight republican man!"

The rest of the night was a blur for Jackson. One moment they were in the bar flirting and flexing, and then suddenly they found themselves back at his smelly frathouse… It didn't matter though because all that mattered now was fucking Amber senseless while belittling her every step of the way – being as crude and rude as possible just to get off on it all…

"You like that you stupid bitch?" He asked her between gritted teeth before slapping her ass hard enough to leave a red mark. She moaned out loud in response, begging him for more which only served to fuel his desire even further…

As he took in the football and wrestling trophies lining the walls alongside other mementos from his past glory days, Jackson grabbed a half-drunk beer from the side table before turning back towards Amber who lay naked on his bed with cum dripping down her leg. "You know what else would be fun?" He asked rhetorically while chugging down another swig of beer, "Telling everyone at school how much of a slut you are…" His voice trailed off into laughter which only served to further embarrass Amber even more than she already had been during their encounter together.

Jackson was the biggest asshole on campus – feared by nerds, lusted after by every chick, and loved by his frat bros. He was an awful conservative douchebag who always grunted in the gym while flexing his muscles; he truly believed himself to be God's gift to women… And it showed in how he treated them – with disdain and entitlement instead of respect or compassion.

As word spread about his encounter with Amber (which he made sure happened as soon as possible), Jackson couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally being able to humiliate someone else publicly just like they had done to him countless times throughout high school… It wasn't long before every girl on campus wanted a piece of him – whether it be for sex or simply attention from such an infamous figure at their university… And every guy? Well let's just say they all wanted to be friends with Jackson so that they could ride his coattails into popularity themselves without having any real skill or talent beyond being part of "the group".