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Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 1

“Hunter? Do you read, Hunter?”

“I read you, Control. This is Hunter. How’s the image?”

“You’re broadcasting loud and clear; the image is clear as crystal. You are a go, Hunter.” A loud slurp followed in Agent Hunter’s earpiece.

“Still drinking that sludge, Control?”

“If you mean my coffee, then yes. Some of us have to stay up for days on end to make sure you agents don’t screw things up.”

“Please, you know none of those guys even come close to me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Casanova, dial it back a bit, alright? Your ego’s clogging up the lines.”

“I love you, too, Control.”

“Just get going already, Hunter. It’s going to be a long night. You know your objective. Get in, kill the target, download his data, and get out. I’ll keep an eye out for you. Now get into that compound, break those security codes, and crack some heads for me.”

Hunter smirked, his curly blonde hair glinting in the moonlight before he pulled the sleek black scuba mask over his face and inserted his air tube. Slowly slipping into the water, he pulled himself deeper and deeper into the lake. His tight rubber scuba suit clung to his broad frame as he swum through the murky deep. Fortunately, he had thermal and night vision to assist in his journey, along with a glow stick he pulled out from his tool belt. Cracking and shaking it, he soon found plenty of light to see by.

“You’ll find an old grate at the bottom of the castle on the east side, just beneath the bridge. Take your torch, blow it out, then get inside.”

“I know the drill, control. This isn’t my first rodeo, you know.”

“It may be your last if you don’t get moving already. I’m picking up a party crossing the bridge. Looks like … oh shit! It’s Muffati, Bugatti, Pakhtunkwa … looks like our whole top twenty on the terrorist watch list, plus entourage. This is serious, Hunter. I’m patching Director Skinner in now.”

“Hunter, this is Skinner. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“Hunter, your mission directive’s just changed. I want you to see what these people are planning. Assuming they’re coming to see the target, we might be able to get some more information on his objectives. Get all the information you can, then proceed with assassination protocol. Time to earn some big bucks, gentlemen. Keep me updated, Control. Skinner out.”

“Damnit, why’d they have to make things so complicated?” Hunter muttered under his breath.

“You know I can still hear you, right? Now quit sulking and get moving, Hunter. If they see your lights down there, you’re dead.”

“Relax, Control, I’m in.” Agent Hunter chuckled as he pulled the grate out from its position and swam up the pipe. The current was surprisingly easy to swim through. “What did you say came through this pipe again?”

“I didn’t. And trust me … you don’t want to know.”

“Seriously, control?”

“I told you you didn’t want to know.”

Hunter sighed, putting his palm to his facemask.

“It’s not like you can’t clean yourself up later. Your gear will take care of that no problem, once you’re inside, anyways.”

“Jason, do me a favor and just shut up, will you?”

“Oh you know I can’t do that, Hunter. After all, I’m your eye in the sky. Now suck it up. You can worry about kicking my ass later in the gym. And it’s Control over the comms, Hunter, remember?”

“Don’t think I’ll forget.”

“Well, with your record and all …”

“Jason,” Hunter said warningly.

“Alright, alright,” Control chuckled. “I’ll let you focus on your work. You should be coming up on a three-way split in the next twenty yards. Take the pipe on the right. It’ll lead you to an escape tunnel.”

“An escape tunnel through the sewage grate? Seriously?”

“Well, you have to admit, it is pretty smart compared to some of the other people we’ve been up against. A lot more conservative.”

“And you’re sure this guy isn’t ex-ops?”

“Positive. Weren’t you listening in the briefing?”

“There was a briefing?”

“Hunter.”

“Relax, Control. Just getting you riled up again is all.” Hunter chuckled as he kept swimming, keeping hold of the newer maintenance handlebars as he pulled himself along, just in case.

“You should be coming up on the security port momentarily. It’ll take me a few minutes to hack in, so sit tight.”

“As if I could do anything else?” Hunter asked as he approached the steel door in question. A thick combination pad sat beneath a large digital screen. A long green cursor blinked within the slots for a combination.

“Actually, you can. Take that ID you got off that guard in the last base and slide it over the pad. I need the system to think someone is accessing it before I can override it.”

“Won’t that send a signal to the target?”

“I’ll intercept it before it can get that far. I just need the in first.”

“Acknowledged, Control. Scanning ID now.”

“Welcome home, Meathead. You have been away for seventy … nine … hours. Input verification code,” a feminine voice said.

“Alright, Hunter, I’ve decrypted the device. The code is 9-15-2-5-25.”

“Got it.” Hunter tapped in the numbers. They lingered on the screen only briefly before the digital display flashed, numbers flickering in and out of control before they resolved into a new visual format: I-O-B-E-Y. “I obey? Seriously?” A yellow light began to flash.

“Shit. It requires a vocal response. Give me a sec. I’ll boot up your voice synthesizer.”

“Hurry up, Control, things are getting a little uncomfortable down here.” The water had begun to change color as pipes emerged from the sides of the tunnel, releasing a green substance.

“Wait for it … wait for it …”

“I don’t have time to wait, Control. Give it to me now!”

“I’ve got it! Quick, say ‘yes, sir, Coach. Meathead obeys.’”

“Seriously?” Hunter was surprised by the sudden change in his vocals as his tone of voice dropped, sounding more vapid.

“Just do it!”

Hunter activated his underwater speaker. “Yes, sir, Coach. Meathead obeys.” He shuddered at the sheer emptiness in his voice as the system read the synthetization. Memories of the giant thug who almost killed him played over and over in his mind. Over seven feet of height, near four hundred pounds of muscle, vacant expression as the thug smiled and tried to strangle him. And that bulging crotch. He just couldn’t get his mind off of it. How could a man be so large, and yet be so perfectly healthy? Perfect muscles. Perfect body. Perfect bulge. And he nearly won. His techniques were military grade, but there were no records of him in the system. Who was he?

“Bigger is better,” the feminine voice continued.

“Alright, the next line is–”

“Buffer is tougher,” Hunter replied. The machine chirped as a lock disengaged.

“Larger penis, larger testicles,” a higher pitched male voice intoned.

Hunter switched off the speakers. “Little help here, Control? I only got the last one because Subject Thirteen kept saying it.”

“Oh, um … right,” Control replied as the sound of rapidly typing keys echoed across the comms.

“Getting a little green down here, Control, and I don’t think it’s the sewage,” Hunter said.

“I know, I know, give me a minute!”

“We don’t have a minute, Control. I need those key words now.”

“Larger penis, larger testicles,” the computer chimed again.

“I … I can’t find it. Someone must’ve detected my hack. This command’s coming from another relay somewhere. I’m locked out. Get out of there, Hunter!”

Hunter stared at the screen. Everything looked so much the same now; the water was so murky. He could hear the poison flowing, the warning beep of the computer, the sound of the thug’s voice. What would he say? So big. So stupid. It wouldn’t be something complex. All that brawn.

“I said get out of there, Hunter.”

“That’s a negative, Control. I’m … I’m gonna try something. This test … it was designed for Thirteen, right? He’s … so dumb. He’d … need something to respond to. Those words … too complex.” The pipe was starting to wobble a little.

“Hunter, this is a direct order. Leave now.”

Hunter shut off his comms unit, and turned on his speakers, even as the pipe began to spin around him.

“Larger penis, larger testicles,” the computer said a third time.

Doing his best to sound as stupid as possible, he spoke. “Uhh … bigger balls, bigger dick.” He shuddered at the sound of his voice, and blushed as his wetsuit suddenly grew a little tighter down below. Of all the times. . ..

With a mechanical chunk, the door’s other lock disengaged, and a series of fans appeared around the tunnel, spinning to suck and filter the green substance out as fresh water was pumped in. Soon the pipe was back to normal. The door continued to repeat the phrase over and over again, alternating between the high sophisticated voice and the low dumb synthesized bass, even as it slowly swung open and Hunter desperately swam through. All the while, the computer kept playing in his head, chirping in the water, while static played across his speakers. Or was that just the water?

“… Bigger balls … bigger … dick …” he said again. Then everything went dark.

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 2

Hunter could hear Subject Thirteen laughing, chuckling deeply. Such a low, empty voice. It guided him in the darkness. Hunter opened his eyes, and then, there Thirteen was. Hunter wasn’t in the pipe anymore. The castle was gone. Now he stood in Thirteen’s cell. The mammoth of a man was busy lifting iron, clanking weights up and down on the bench that had been provided beneath a single spotlight. He just smiled as he lifted, pumping for all he was worth and grunting all the while. He finished his set and sat up, staring with those vacant, murky brown eyes.

“A Meathead’s a meathead, head full of meat. Meathead must grow. Meathead competes. Meathead obeys. Meathead don’t think.” He chuckled again. “Meathead’s a meathead, bro. I know meatheads. I know you.” He laughed.

“You don’t know me,” Hunter growled.

“Know a meathead when I see one.” He laughed again. “Just gotta remember.”

“There’s nothing to remember, Thirteen. This is a dream, a hallucination, nothing more.”

Subject Thirteen shrugged. “If this is a dream, I don’t wanna wake up.” He flexed a bicep. “I don’t think you want to, either.” He smirked.

“I have a mission to accomplish.” Hunter reached for his watch controls, only to find himself bereft. He was naked, save for a pair of black compression shorts that hugged tightly to his frame. He tried reaching where his watch would be, and pressed the location of the emergency button to stimulate electronic shock. It didn’t work. There must have been a sedative in the water. He had to be dreaming. There’s no way a rescue team would have been sent to recover his body. If anything, he would have been captured, and placed in a holding cell. Either way, if he was stuck in this dreamscape, better to play along. At least for now. “What did you do with my things?”

“What things, Lil’bro?”

“Stop calling me that. I’m not your ‘bro.’ I’m not like you. I’m going to kill your boss.”

“Boss? Uh … didn’t know I had one.” Thirteen scratched his head with a meaty hand, the veins on his arms pulsing as the muscles twitched, accenting every curve, every bend, all the way down his arm to the thick slab of meat that was his pec. “Got a coach, but dunno why you’d wanna kill him. Meatheads love coach. Meatheads obey coach. Coach makes us big. Coach makes us swole.” He smiled, stood, and punctuated each sentence with a new pose. Then he stood up straight again, his frame towering over Hunter. “’Sides, you sound like Meathead already, bro.” He chuckled. “Just need the bod to match.”

“That’s my voice changer. This isn’t my real voice.”

“You sure?” He laughed again. “Don’t see none on ya.”

“This is a hallucination, nothing more. I’m going to wake myself up, and you’ll be back in your cell, while I’m working on killing your CRUNCHES.” Hunter coughed and cleared his throat. “What the hell?” His voice … it … cracked. That didn’t sound like Thirteen, but it didn’t sound like him either. And why did he say that word, instead of coach? Never mind. Try again. “Like I said, I’m going to CURL FOR COACH.”

Thirteen’s smirk turned into a sneer. “Sorry, what’d ya say?”

“Whatever you’re doing, stop it,” Hunter demanded, pointing a finger at the muscle man as Thirteen proceeded to pull out a dumbbell and perform some curls.

“Me? I ain’t doin’ nothin’. I told ya. I know meatheads when I see ‘em. You just covered it up, blacked it out. That ain’t right. You took my voice. My voice woke yours.” He pointed down at the compression shorts. “Now all that black’s comin’ out. N’so’s the real you.” He grunted as he began another set. Hunter’s compression shorts had begun to turn white around the knees.

“This isn’t happening. It’s not real.” Hunter shuddered where he stood as little veins began to push out of his legs. “Need to WORK OUT. No! Get out, not WORK OUT.” Hunter’s hands clutched at his throat, only they didn’t feel right. Looking down, he watched them tremble and shake as the little veins popped up there, too. Soon they cracked, swelling a quarter their previous size. Big hands. Strong hands. Like Thirteen. They clenched open and shut against his will. The veins continued to spread up his forearms, and they grew more defined, expanding as the muscle tensed, relaxed, and grew. All the while, the black on his shorts’ legs continued to pull up and away, revealing the blank white beneath.

“Gotta lift, bro.” Thirteen chuckled as he put down his own dumbbell, went to a nearby weight rack, returned, and proffered a new set of hundred pound dumbbells.

“Somebody help ME GET SWOLE!” Hunter gasped as his chest and shoulders expanded, the trapezius muscles bulging and thickening, causing the muscles and sinew in his neck to swell as well. Down below, he could feel something stirring as a tingling sensation took hold in his legs and crotch.

“See, bro? You’ll fit right in.”

“This is my house, MEATHEAD, not yours.”

Meathead boomed with laughter. “Bro, course it’s not yours. It’s coach’s. Come on. Lift with me, bro.” He extended his arms, offering the weights yet again.

“I’m not your BRO. Get that through your MEATHEAD. Damnit! How do I BULK UP?”

“S’easy, bro. You know how it’s done. Curl. One. Curl. Two. Muscles grow. Bring out the real you.”

“No. Stop! What’re you doing?” Much to his horror, Hunter watched as his arms took hold of the dumbbells, and began to follow the rhythm of Meathead’s chanting. His body shifted, so his legs were shoulder-width apart as he worked to curl. A fit of dizziness overwhelmed him as he watched a new spotlight flicker on over a gigantic reflective mirror. The two-way. But why was it floor length? Another spotlight shone on him, and he watched as the black began to bleed slowly away from his waistband as well. The tingling in his crotch grew more intense. “Can anyone hear me? Control, get me out of here. Control! Anyone! BRO ME! SHIT! Somebody HELP ME GET SWOLE! Wait, that’s PERFECT. MEATHEAD, WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?”

“What’s–”

“–UP, BRO?”

Meathead just laughed. “Bro, welcome home.” The room was suddenly flooded with lights as exercise machine after exercise machine appeared, each with an almost identical man working on them. As big as Thirteen, as focused as Thirteen, as vapid as Thirteen. They were all consumed with their workouts, earbuds plugged, screens flickering, watching rigidly, working to a synchronized rhythm. No wonder the clanking was so loud before. It wasn’t just Meathead working at a set of weights, it was a legion of meatheads perfectly synchronized. Smaller men twitched under helmets as IVs pumped something into their blood, and they grew, feet bursting from socks, torsos tearing shirts. One of the helmets raised to reveal yet another hulk, an almost exact duplicate of Thirteen. Hunter watched as another smaller person with glazed brown eyes was shoved into an empty chair. His long, shaggy black hair hung to his shoulders in a style reminiscent of some Japanese haircuts. A series of flashing buttons and lights flickered across multiple panels as he was strapped in. He looked so familiar. As the huge dome descended, the letters CONTROLLER.EXE stood out in bold red print. He watched the man twitch and shudder as his clothes began to tear. Then it hit. Jason. That man was Jason. With that sudden realization, Hunter’s head jerked violently back to Thirteen and the mirror against his will.

“GOOD TO BE BACK. No! I’m not leaving HERE. Damnit! I’m not BIG ENOUGH, BRO. Gotta GET SWOLE.” Hunter stared, horrified as his face grew more square, his jaw jutted out, and his hair shifted into a perfect flat top, identical with MEATHEAD. Wait, no, Thirteen. MEATHEAD. No, … MEATHEAD, but that’s not … HIS NAME IS MEATHEAD, BRO. Hunter watched as his biceps blew up like balloons, while the room seemed to spin around him. The black on his compression shorts continued to dissipate, slowly being drawn from the back and sides to the front as it flowed towards his crotch. The more it did, the more he felt his privates press slowly outwards as his body expanded. “BIGGER BALLS, BIGGER DICK. MEATHEADS DON’T THINK ‘CAUSE OUR HEADS’RE TOO THICK.” Those words … they came out of his mouth! But he didn’t want to. What the hell?

“S’right, bro. You’re a meathead now. Just like me.” Thirteen chuckled with his low, empty voice, and pointed at Hunter. A familiar voice came out over the loud speakers in the PA system.

“Larger penis, larger testicles.”

Thirteen grinned as he struck a pose, and stared. As one, the room resounded. “BIGGER BALLS, BIGGER DICK.”

“BIGGER BALLS, BIGGER DICK,” Hunter’s new voice said with them. “No! I’m H–UGE MEATHEAD.” Hunter’s brow furrowed and pressed further out as his eyebrows grew bushier, and his body hair thickened.

“C’mon, meathead. Let’s pump that other guy outt’a your head.”

“COOL, BRO.”

“No, not cool. Not cool at all. And … wait, why can’t I talk?”

“CAUSE I’M A MEATHEAD, BRO, NOT HUNTER.”

“S’right, meathead. C’mon. Machine’s waitin’,” MEATHEAD said.

“You’re not getting away with this.”

“AWAY WITH WHAT? YOU’RE THE ONE WHO DON’T BELONG.”

“This is my FUCKING body!”

“YUP. MY FUCKING BODY. SWOLE IS GOOD. JUST GO WITH IT, BRO. DON’T FIGHT. WE’RE THE SAME.”

“How are you doing this?”

“BRO. I AIN’T DOIN’ NUTHIN’. S’ALL YOU. I’M A MEATHEAD. YOU’RE A MEATHEAD. WE’RE ALL MEATHEADS.”

“We’re all Meatheads,” Meathead repeated. Soon the whole gym was saying it, echoing, repeating, beating it into Hunter’s head with every clank of the weights as they returned to their starting positions. A wave of pleasure washed over Hunter’s body. The black from his compression shorts had been reduced to a concentrated circle over his manhood spanning from one end of his waist to the other. He watched said manhood bulge further as the black circle shrunk. He saw and felt his still-expanding body flex one more time in front of an identical mirror to the one from before in time to the rhythm of the sets.

“We’re all meatheads.”

Clank.

“Big, dumb meatheads.”

Flex.

“Growing our meat.”

Clank.

“We follow the beat.”

Pose.

“The deeper we go,”

Clank.

“The bigger we grow.”

Flex.

“The more we obey,”

Clank.

“Grow dumber each day.”

Pose.

“Obey Coach’s voice.”

Clank.

“Don’t have any choice.”

Flex.

They dropped their weights as one, having finished their set, and stared ahead at their screens as they flashed and flickered. “Obey coach. I obey. We obey. Meatheads obey. We are meatheads. We obey. I am a meathead. I obey. I am a big, dumb meathead.”

Thirteen flexed, his eyes vacant as he posed next to Hunter, and stared into the mirror. Hunter followed his actions perfectly. “I AM A BIG, DUMB MEATHEAD,” the pair said together.

“Time to work out, bro,” Thirteen said, motioning to an empty weight machine. “Cycle starts again soon.”

Hunter felt his body shudder, then it patted his junk, shuddered again, this time in pleasure, and sat down where Thirteen had offered. Against his will, his arms reached out to grab a pair of earbuds from their position next to the monitor.

“GOTTA GET SWOLE, BRO.”

“I AIN’T going down without a FIGHT,” Hunter thought rebelliously, frustrated that the warbling had even followed him into the one free space he had left, his thoughts.

“BRO, I ALREADY TOLD YOU. YOU’RE ME, AND I’M YOU. YOU JUST LOCKED ME UP, BRO. NOT COOL. BUT I FORGIVE YOU.” Hunter heard the new voice laugh with his body. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t even grind his teeth as the buds were inserted into his ears.

“I am not a FUCKING PUSSY. I’m a special MEATHEAD chosen to infiltrate and CONVERT TO MUSCLE. No!” The voice continued to interfere. His body prepped itself. On the edges of his vision he could just make out the others staring blankly at their screens, breathing heavily as they tensed their arms. He could hear static filtering in through his buds, and assumed the others were hearing the same. Then came the music. His head began to bob. His eyes locked on the screen against his will. His arms reached up, and began to pull down on the cross bar, working his trapezius muscles as he pulled against the weight. A series of 1s and 0s cascaded across the screen for a time, mixed with the occasional flash of words and images too fast to keep track of. Hunter’s body breathed in time to the pump. In. Out. Up. Down. One. Zero. Zero.

One.

Breathe. Lift.

Two.

Feeling good.

And he was feeling good.

Three.

Falling. Listen.

Hunter could feel his mouth pulling up into a smile.

“BRO,” he heard his body sigh, “LIKE, WHY’RE YOU RESISTING? LIFTING MAKES US FEEL SO GOOD. DON’T YOU REMEMBER?”

“I remember TRAINING so I can kill. I don’t LIFT just for fun, BRO. Damnit!” Hunter swore in his mind. That … invasive voice was still interfering. He had to figure out a way to break its hold, take control of this dream.

Four.

Inhaling. Slowing down. Relaxing. Lifting is relaxing.

Hunter could feel his body slumping as he watched the screen. He could feel Th–MEATHEAD behind him. Why couldn’t he call him his subject number anymore? What … was his subject number again?

Five.

Breathing out. A hand on his shoulder. “Just have to remember, Lil’bro,” MEATHEAD said. Remember. Remember what?

“Stop FUCKING messing around with me!” Hunter screamed in his head. But … his mind … sounded strange. Felt … wrong. His body’s smile turned to a smirk.

“THAT’S IT, BRO. FEEL THAT ANGER. FEEL THAT RAGE. FEEL THE BURN! FEEL THE PUMP! FUCKING PRIMAL!”

Primal. So good. Roaring. Pushing past goals. Getting fit for service. Was that what he was supposed to remember? That feeling? That rush?

Six.

Listen. Watch the screen. Obey.

Not like he had much choice.

You have no choice but to obey.

No choice. Listen. No choice. Watch the screen. No choice. Obey. No choice. No … choice …

“Wha–? What’s happening TO ME, BRO?” Bro? But … he didn’t … think like that. … Did he?

“No choice but to listen, Lil’bro. No choice but to obey. Listen to us, Lil’bro. Talk like us. Think like us. It’s easier,” MEATHEAD said.

Listen to Meathead. Talk like Meathead. Obey Meathead. You are a meathead.

Lil’bro. Easier. Listen. No choice. Obey. Obey …

“But … but I don’t … WANT TO LIFT. WANT TO LIFT. Don’t …”

Seven.

Obey. Think like Meathead. Just like Meathead. Think like a meathead. Because you are a meathead.

Meathead loves to lift. Hunter loves to lift. Feels so good to lift.

Lifting is life.

Lifting is life. His life was always lifting when he wasn’t on a mission. Yeah.

Growing is gold.

Growing is gold. He loved to see himself grow in the mirror. Getting closer to his goal. Toning up for the next phase in training.

Training means listening. Training means obeying. Listen. Obey. No choice. Bigger Balls. Bigger Dick. Massive Meat. Smaller brain.

Massive meat. Bulging balls. Big brute. He could feel them. Heavy. Bulging. Swelling manhood. Tight. Close. Pleasure. Grinning. He’s … grinning. So hard to … think … head feels … funny.

Remember. Obey. Remember to obey. Think like a meathead, because you are a meathead. Meatheads are dumb. You are dumb. Dumb. Muscle. All muscle. All weights. No thought but working out and getting bigger. Bigger and more obedient. Remember. Remember to obey. Obey.

Yes. Remember. Remember this feeling. Remember pleasure. Obey and REMEMBER. REMEMBER to OBEY. OBEY. Think of meat. Meat is on the brain. Brain is in the head. Meat is in the head. Thinking of meat. Think like them. Think like a MEATHEAD, MEATHEAD.

“Watch, Lil’bro. Lift. Listen. Remember. Remember,” MEATHEAD said.

“REMEMBER.” Wait … did he just talk? Did he? Does it … matter?

“You’re a big fucking meathead, Lil’bro.”

“YEAH, WE’RE A BIG FUCKING MEATHEAD, BRO.” Lips moving. Not him again. But … maybe it is?

“Don’t … wanna be … want … wanna … WANNA be … WANNA BE … DON’T …”

“DON’T STOP,” his lips say, changing his sentence. Changing his thought. His mouth says. Not him. Or is it? Don’t stop. OBEY. No choice. OBEY.

Don’t resist. Listen to Meathead. Obey Meathead. Be like Meathead. Talk like Meathead. Think like Meathead. You want to be just like Meathead. You want to be a meathead. You are a meathead. Just a big, dumb meathead. So dumb. Brain clouding as you listen, becoming dumber. More obedient. Bigger muscles. Smaller brain. All meat. All meathead.

Listen to Meathead. Obey Meathead. Be like Meathead. Talk like Meathead. Think like Meathead. Just like Meathead. Want to … want to … “WANNA BE A BIG FUCKING MEATHEAD.” Sighing. His sigh. His words. He … said it. But … did he? Wasn’t that … the other him? Does he want it? Hunter didn’t know any more. Everything felt so strange. So bulky.

Pump.

Bulky is good.

Clank.

Bulky is good. But … is it? Watch. Listen. Watch. OBEY. Massive meat. Smaller brain. Smaller … uh … what is …? Hard to … to think. So hard … so … hard … hard … meat … big …

…

…

“M-My name … my name is … is …” Resist. Fight. Have to remember. Don’t let them take that.

EIGHT.

“Hunter … I … I am Hunter. I am … Hun … Uh … I am … I am …” Hard to think. Can’t remember. So damn foggy.

Strain. It’s heavier. More difficult.

Don’t remember. Forget your name, meathead. Fall into place. Listen. Obey.

Clank.

Don’t remember. Do not. No choice. OBEY. MEATHEAD. Must think like MEATHEAD.

You are horny. You are heavy.

“I … I AM H-HORNY … HEAVY … YES.”

Feels so good to pull down that weight now that he’s listening. Arms are heavier. Weight’s not so bad anymore.

Big balls. Big meat.

Clank. Release. Follow the rhythm. So easy to fall in with the others. Fall in and obey. Don’t think. Just move. Just lift. Just obey.

“BIG BALLS … Big … MEAT.” Did … did he really just say that? Sounds like …

Meat.

Meat … Meat … Mea–NO! Have to be strong. Have to remember. Remember who he is. “I … I am Hun … Hun…”

Switching to crunches. Press.

Massive meat. Tiny brain. Don’t think. Obey. I think for you.

Clank.

Massive meat. Bulging balls. Huge. Tight. Pleasure. Remember pleasure. Remember and OBEY. “Hun … I am Hun …” Don’t remember. Forget name. What is his name? It’s … starting with that sound. Can’t … can’t think … can’t … remember …

Like a horse.

Crunch.

“Hun–” Sounds like– Massive meat. Huge. Growing.

Clank.

Like a horse.

Crunch.

“Hung–” Yes. Hung. That was it … wasn’t it? Tiny brain. Massive meat. Bulging. Feels good.

Clank.

Like a horse.

Crunch.

“I am–” Can’t think.

Clank.

Hung like a horse. You are hung like a horse. Say it.

Crunch.

Obey. Say it. Talk like Meathead. “I’M LIKE SO FUCKING HUNG, BRO! LIKE A FUCKING HORSE!” Smile. OBEY. Pleasure.

Clank.

Laugh.

Must obey. Laughing. He’s laughing. Everyone is laughing. Switching to leg lifts. Eyes on screen. Don’t think. OBEY.

Deep laugh. Dumb laugh. Empty laugh. Deeper. Dumber. The more you laugh, the less you think. Empty your mind.

Lift.

Listen. OBEY. Lift. Relax. Laugh. Empty. Grow. OBEY. Deeper. OBEY. Dumber. OBEY. Empty.

Clank.

“EMPTY …” He said it. Not the other. So slow. So deep. Like … like uh … something slow. Weird, usually has better quips than that with his tiny brain. So tiny … because of his massive meat. No time to worry about it. Don’t think. Don’t worry. Obey. Keep working.

Lift.

“THAT’S RIGHT, BRO. FEELS GOOD, DOESN’T IT?” Other him again. Maybe … maybe not so bad, though. Deep voice. Deep is good.

Clank.

Deeper. Deeper.

Lift.

“Good … What … What’m I …?”

Clank.

Deeper. Dumber. Don’t think.

Lift.

Deeper. Dumber. Don’t think. Can’t think. Listen. OBEY. Muscles. Grow. “YUH … GOOD.”

Clank.

Good and dumb.

Lift.

“Uh … Yeah. GOOD AND DUMB.” He grunts. In control again. Feels right. Pleasure. So relaxed. Up and down. In and out. So dumb. So hung. So much meat. Just like he says.

Clank.

Big and dumb.

Lift.

Yes. Big and dumb. Wait … what was …? Don’t think. OBEY. Hung. He is hung. So hung. Good and dumb. Big and dumb. He is hung.

Clank.

You are hungry.

Lift.

He is hungry.

Clank.

Hungry for muscles.

Lift.

“Hungry … I … want … MUSCLES, BRO. NEED MORE MUSCLES.”

Clank.

Good boy.

“Good boy.”

“GOOD BOY.”

The three sound almost simultaneous. Ringing in his ears. In his head. His empty head. Empty. Same words playing across the screen. Good boy. OBEY. Pleasure. MEATHEAD. OBEY. Dumb MEATHEAD. Dumb brute. REMEMBER. OBEY.

Lift.

Obey.

Clank.

OBEY. OBEY. Must … must … “I … I … I OBEY.” More pleasure. Stronger now. So strong. So good.

Lift.

“WE OBEY, BRO.” Other him again. But he’s like Meathead. Gotta listen to Meathead. So, uh, gotta listen to him, too. Obey. Empty. Don’t think.

Clank.

“Meatheads obey, Lil’bro,” MEATHEAD said.

MEATHEADS OBEY. OBEY. OBEY.

Set’s over. Stopping. Staring. Listen. Obey.

You are a meathead, a dumb brute with an empty head. You listen. You obey.

“O-BEY…” DUMB BRUTE. OBEY. EMPTY HEAD. YES. OBEY.

“You’re a meathead, Lil’bro. Just accept it,” MEATHEAD said.

NINE.

DUMB BRUTE. HUGE. HUNG. CARE ABOUT MEAT. MEATHEAD. MASSIVE MEAT. MUSCLE. DUMB. BRUTE. “I … I’M a …”

“SAY IT, BRO.” His lips again. Not him though. Other him. Or … is it? DON’T MATTER. LISTEN. OBEY.

“M–Mmmmm…” OBEY. OBEY. OBEY. “MMmmEAT …” Something … in his head. Must …

Be dumb. Don’t think. You are a dumb brute. OBEY. Convert to muscle. OBEY. You are meat. You are a mindless brute. OBEY.

Grinning. He’s … grinning again. Frown gone. Yes … feels … so good. To–

Listen. Speak. OBEY. Say what you are.

“I’M A … A …”

OBEY.

“TOTAL MEATHEAD, BRO.” Pleasure. So much pleasure. Rebounding. Rocketing.

OBEY.

Yes. So good to just –

OBEY. Lift. OBEY. Drain everything. OBEY. Serve. OBEY. Lift. OBEY. Repeat.

“MEATHEAD. TOTAL MEATHEAD. OBEDIENT. I OBEY. YES. GOOD TO LIFT. GOOD TO OBEY. DUMB BRUTE. MORE I OBEY, MORE DUMB EVERY DAY. I OBEY. EMPTY HEAD. OBEY. I OBEY. I OBEY. I OBEY.”

“We obey,” MEATHEAD said.

“WE OBEY.” PLEASURE. LIFTING IS GOOD. PUMPING IS GOOD. SO GOOD. HEART PUMPING. GROWING BIGGER.

Yes. Say it. Own it. OBEY. MEATHEAD. MUSCLE. BRUTE. OBEY.

“BRO … I FEEL … LIKE SO FUCKING PUMPED! PRIMAL!”

REMEMBER. OBEY.

“TOLD YA, BRO. WE SWOLE.” Other him. He likes other him. He’s a meathead, too.

SWOLE. PUMP. MEATHEAD. OBEY.

His shorts. So tight now. Feel ready to burst. Good. So FUCKING GOOD. Good to flex. Show off.

Make more. Repeat.

“MAKE … MORE.”

“YEAH, BRO. MAKE MORE MEATHEADS. JUST LIKE US.” He’s laughing now. Feels good to laugh. Head is so clear. No. Not clear. Empty. More he laughs, emptier it gets. Yes. Because he OBEYs. The more he OBEYs, the dumber he gets.

Empty your head. OBEY. Laugh it all away. REMEMBER. OBEY.

“I OBEY. Huh huh huh.” The laugh is deep, not the same, sortof dull. Kinda like it. He’s … sitting. Staring now. No new sets. Body not moving anymore. Why? Uh …

Stare at the screen. Watch. Listen. Obey.

STARE. WATCH. LISTEN. OBEY. HE OBEYS. HE IS A MINDLESS MEATHEAD. WATCHING. SEES A BLACK DOT. IT’S … BENT. CURVED AROUND SOMETHING.

Focus on the dot.

“FOCUS ON DOT … I OBEY.”

You obey, sir.

“I OBEY, SIR.”

Obey my voice.

           “YES, SIR. I AM A MEATHEAD. I AM A DUMB BRUTE. I OBEY.”

Remember my voice. Remember to obey.

“YES, SIR. WILL REMEMBER. WILL OBEY.” LEANING INTO SCREEN. SO HEAVY. GOOD TO BE HEAVY. HEAVY IS MUSCLE. MUSCLE IS GOOD. MEAT IS GOOD. BIGGER MEAT. SMALLER BRAIN. SHORTS SO TIGHT. DOT IS SHRINKING. CURVE … GETTING BIGGER. WHAT … WHAT IS IT? SOMETHING FAMILIAR … CAN’T REMEMBER.

Your old mind is the dot. Watch it shrink. Make it shrink. Focus. The smaller the dot, the smaller your mind, the more the muscle.

“SMALLER DOT, SMALLER MIND. YES, SIR. I OBEY.”

And?

“SMALLER DOT, MORE MUSCLES, SIR.”

Muscle is meat. Bigger muscles, bigger meat.

“YES, SIR.” HE SHUDDERS. HE FEELS IT. BODY SO FULL. BIG. GETTING BIGGER. DOT IS SHRINKING. NO BIGGER THAN A QUARTER NOW. HE SEES … MORE OUTLINE. WHITE FABRIC. CLINGING. WATCH THE BLACK. OBEY.

“I OBEY.”

“I OBEY.” OTHER HIM. HE OBEYS, TOO. FUNNY.

You are meatheads.

“YES, SIR.”

“YES, SIR.” YEAH. HE’S A MEATHEAD, TOO. SAME. OBEDIENT. HE LIKES THAT.

You are brutes.

“YES, SIR.”

“YES, SIR.”

You are one.

“WE ARE ONE.” MEATHEAD. ONE. ONE VOICE. ONE MIND. HE IS OTHER HIM. OTHER HIM IS HE. HE IS A DUMB BRUTE. WATCH DOT. OBEY. SO TINY. ALMOST GONE. WATCH. OBEY. REMEMBER. OBEY. GROW. OBEY. MASSIVE MEAT. OBEY. MEAT … MEAT … HIS MEAT … THAT’S WHAT IT IS! SOMETHING ABOUT … Turning … into … MEATHEAD. HE … DIDN’T … want … WANT … WANT MUSCLES. YES. MUSCLES ARE MEAT. WANT MEAT.

No fear. You love being a meathead. Obey. Serve. Remember. Love it. Let go. Surrender.

“YES. I … OBEY.” HE CAN SPEAK. HE’S … BEEN SPEAKING, BRO. NO TIME TO CELEBRATE. HE IS A GOOD MEATHEAD. HE OBEYS. HE MUST LISTEN TO SIR. MUST OBEY SIR. LET GO FOR SIR. SURRENDER TO SIR.

TEN.

BLACK SPOT GONE. HUNTER GONE. WHO IS HUNTER? DON’T QUESTION. DON’T THINK. EMPTY. BLANK. STARE. OBEY.

Can you hear me?

“YES, SIR.” SIGH. OBEY. LISTEN. GOOD.

You are mine.

“YES, SIR.” OBEY SIR. BELONG TO SIR.

You obey me.

“YES, SIR.” OBEY SIR.

You serve me.

“YES, SIR.” SERVE SIR.

Remember my voice.

“YES … SIR …” REMEMBER. OBEY. BELONG TO SIR.

I control you.

“YES. YOU CONTROL ME, SIR. I OBEY.”

I am your coach.

“YOU ARE MY COACH, SIR.”

You obey me.

“YES, SIR, COACH.”

What is your name?

NAME? DID HE … HAVE A NAME? He felt his massive shoulders shrug, his giant chest expand and contract. NOTHING. EMPTY. DUMB. DON’T THINK. “I DON’T KNOW, SIR.”

Good boy. You have no name.

COACH IS HAPPY. THAT MAKES HIM HAPPY. REPEAT. OBEY. “I HAVE NO NAME, SIR.” NO NAME. EMPTY. BRUTE. DUMB. NO NAME.

I will give you a name. You will remember it when you are called. Remember my control. Remember me. Remember who you are. Remember to obey your coach.

“YES, SIR …”

Your name is Brute.

“MY NAME IS BRUTE.”

You are Brute.

“I AM BRUTE.”

You are my Brute.

“I AM YOUR BRUTE.”

OBEY.

“I OBEY.” OBEY. OBEY. OBEY. BRUTE OBEYS COACH. BECAUSE BRUTE IS A MEATHEAD. A BIG, DUMB MEATHEAD.

When you are ordered to wake up, you will return to Brute. You will be only brute. You are brute.

“BRUTE WILL WAKE WHEN ORDERED. I AM BRUTE.”

You will wake when your controller tells you to remember.

“YES, SIR. BRUTE OBEYS.”

If I have need of you beforehand, I will call you. When you hear me call you by your new name, you will return to Brute. You will OBEY my orders and carry them out.

“YES, SIR.

Always OBEY.

“ALWAYS OBEY.”

Always SERVE.

“ALWAYS SERVE.”

REMEMBER. You are my Brute.

“I AM YOUR BRUTE, COACH.”

Watch the screen.

The screen flickered, then showed some weird video. Some twinky walking in with two MEATHEADS. He is thin. Nervous. NEEDS MUSCLE. NEEDS TO BE A MEATHEAD. MAKE MORE MEATHEADS. Twinky sits in a chair. IV gets stuck in his arm.

Remember, Brute.

The twinky is bulking up. He’s grinning. His eyes are alive. Then restraints slide out. He is held in the chair. A helmet lowers. He starts to struggle. He is scared. He screams. MEATHEADS just stare ahead. Helmet drops. It whirrs up. Helmet reads SLEEPER DRONE in big red letters. Screams stop. Body twitches. Body grows. Twinky isn’t a twinky anymore. Helmet lifts. Newbie is asleep. But … he’s not a MEATHEAD. Looks familiar.

Remember, Brute. Remember. Your trigger word is remember.

“… REMEMBER.”

It’s time to wake up.

“…WAKE … UP?”

Wake up … Wake up …

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 3

It’s been a long day, very exhausting as I drove to my sister’s college to move her out of her dorm and then drove back and unloaded. We had a little help, but it was still a full day where I didn’t get home till very late. So sorry for my post coming so late. Anyways, here’s part 3, and I hope you all enjoy it. Oh, and in this part, we get to welcome back an old friend. I know you all have missed him. *Insert wink followed by evil grin here*

“Come on, wake up, damn you!”

           Suspended. Floating. Was he still dreaming? What … what was that? He just blacked out and then … then …

           “Hunter, you son of a bitch, I swear if you don’t respond soon, I’ll put you through hell when you get back; I swear to god.”

           Control … that was Control. He … he was back. How long was he out? The stuff in the pipes. Must have been some form of sedative. But … he was still safe. Still on the other side. Alive. No one had come for him. At least not yet. He might still be able to manage this mission after all. “Control?” Hunter asked as he slowly shook his head to clear it. The dream was all a blur. Doesn’t matter anyways. Not important.

           A sigh of relief. “Thank god, Hunter. Your brain activity dropped for a while there.”

           “How long was I out?” Hunter adjusted his package absently as he took in his surroundings. He really needed to talk with ops about getting some tailored dive suits. This one could barely hold his massive meat. He allowed himself a mischievous smirk as he remembered a few of his more enjoyable conquests. Mmm, that brunette was a fine woman. He shook his head again. Stop that. Focus on the mission. Take in surroundings. Clear water, check. Underground lighting, check. Clear pipe, check. Upward slope, check. Big steel door behind him, check.

           “About five minutes. Hunter, you damned idiot, do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

           “For guessing the proper combination and saving myself? If I hadn’t guessed that code, do you seriously think I would’ve been able to swim out of here in time before I went under, Control? Come on. The whole pipe was probably flooded with the stuff, whatever it was.”

           “Hunter, your orders are clear. Abandon the mission. The enemy knows you’re coming. We can try again another time.”

           Hunter rolled his eyes, then smirked. “Never going to let you live this one down, Control. For once it’s not my fault.”

           “Just get out of there, lover boy. And do try to keep it in your pants. I can see your vitals. Your heart rate’s up and your dopamine levels are starting to increase.”

           “You know you’re just jealous,” Hunter jabbed back as he swam towards the vault door of a hatch. A red light flashed from the screen. “Any chances of an override, Control?”

           “Just slide the ID across the door, meathead.”

           Hunter shuddered. His bulge grew more insistent. He needed to let off some steam when he was done with this mission. Maybe a nice vacation somewhere in the Bahamas. Yeah, that’d be good. Take on a few ladies, then work on bulking up for his next mission. If he only barely beat Thirteen, then he’d need to be better prepared for any others like that hulk. He took out the card, and swiped it over the reader.

           “Access denied,” the computer chirped

           He tried again.

           “Access denied.”

           “Control, a little help here?”

           “What did you do?”

           “Nothing,” Hunter growled in Meathead’s voice. “I did just what you told me to. Now get me out of here. And shut off this damn synthesizer!” he barked angrily.

           “Alright, alright. Sheesh. Don’t get your wetsuit in a knot.” The sound of rapidly typing keys played across the comms unit for a good minute or so.

           “By the way, Control, how did you get my comms back on? You don’t have some sort of emergency override switch on your end, do you?”

           “You’re talking to one of the best hackers in the business, Hunter, remember? Now stow it. I have work to do.”

           “Yes, sir. I obey,” Hunter said in an exaggerated monotone, only for another shudder to rock his body. This time he felt more than just a mild discomfort in the tight-fitting suit. He grunted. “Come on, Control.”

           “When I’m good and ready, Hunter. Try to distract yourself of something. Calm down a little.”

Hunter shifted position in the water, trying to keep himself occupied. He absently checked his oxygen supply. Still three quarters of a tank. He’d be fine. He breathed deeply, controlling his intake as he struggled to calm his body down. A good five minutes passed. Unfortunately, the erection hadn’t.

           “… Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Control asked.

           “Hit me.”

           “I can’t override the door. According to the coding, any employee that checks in needs to go to a second checkpoint and swipe the card there before he can leave through the pipe again. If I worked at it a while, I might be able to open it, but that would set off even an amateur’s radar. As it is, you’ll have to follow standard protocol for Stone’s employees.

           “Which is?”

           “How the hell should I know? Nobody we’ve sent to infiltrate reported back in, and you, of all people, know how difficult Thirteen is to interrogate.”

           “As it is, he knows we’re coming. He’s not stupid. I’ve handled worse.”

           “Just be careful, all right?”

           “All right, all right. I will. And Control, you might want to keep my voice changer on for now. Don’t know when I might run into some guards or something I’ll need to fool, so I might as well keep it going.”

           The computer chimed from its pad. “Meathead will report to the gym for immediate workout and debriefing. Acknowledge.”

           “Hunter, I–”

           “Meathead will report to gym. Meathead will obey. I obey.” Hunter shuddered as he said the words. He felt strangely lightheaded. The red screen cleared to yellow, and he turned around to swim up the pipeline.

           “Hunter …”

           “Relax, Control. I’m fine. I just need to–” he grunted “–get out of this suit. Besides, the computer mentioned debriefing. I’m guessing that means Thirteen’s master is going to make an appearance after he reports in. It’s the perfect place to kill Stone. I’ll stick to my mission first, drop in on the meeting, then pop on down to the gym for a little work out and kill him while I’m there.” Flashing lights guided the way up, shining in a multitude of colors as they strobed in their lines. Hunter swam up and above until he finally broke the surface, pulling his oxygen mask off and closing off the tank. He’d need it for his getaway. The room was surprisingly well lit as he made his way to the stairs, and he smiled as he passed the various screens the lined the walls.

           “Welcome home, Meathead.”

           “Report, meathead.”

           “The gym is waiting.”

           “Report to the gym, Meathead.”

           “Obey, Meathead.”

           A strangely annoying buzzing accompanied the messages as he passed, but he had no time to focus on that. His erection was killing him. Hunter quickly raced past the screens and into what appeared to be a massive changing room. An empty stall clearly indicated where he was meant to hang his suit, and seeing as his suit was so much smaller than the others, there was no need to worry about losing it. Spare tanks lined the walls, promising plenty of oxygen should he need a replacement. They were thicker and bulkier, most likely holding more air in higher concentrations. If Meathead was anything to go by, not to mention the sheer size of these other wet suits, Stone must have hundreds of these behemoths on staff. Where did he find them? What did he use to make them so large? Steroids? So many questions. With a heavy sigh of relief, Hunter stripped out of the wetsuit, releasing his body and the culprit of his misery in one go. Now he felt only pleasure. Pleasure, relief, the buzzing, and a nagging computer ordering him to report in, yet again. Of course, knowing Thirteen, it wasn’t that hard to understand. The big lug probably needed repeated instructions to get it through his thick, meaty skull.

           “Understood. Will report. Meathead obeys. I obey,” he murmured, standing there in his shorts as the cool air washed over his hot body. He sighed heavily. That deep voice didn’t sound so bad anymore. As a matter of fact, he kind of liked it.

           “Hunter, you’re past the monitors. I think you can drop the act now. Calm down. Your dopamine levels are running through the roof. … Actually, so’s your testosterone. No wonder you feel so horny. Either way, you need to find a way to stop it and focus on the mission.”

           Hunter shuddered again. “Sorry, Control. I, uh, think it might be a side effect from the chemical, or whatever it was the pipe got flushed with.” He hastily returned to the pipe, where his waterproof satchel sat waiting. He pulled it out midst the flashing bulbs and passed the screens yet again in his tight compression shorts. He firmly clamped his mouth shut, refusing to look at the screens as he raced past. He couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted. After all, he had to report. That is, spy, then kill, then report. He smirked. “Getting a little ahead of yourself there, big guy,” he murmured as he chuckled, shifting into his stealth suit. Fortunately, it wasn’t quite so tight as the wet suit, and he was able to change without much difficulty. As a last addition, he placed a form-fitted set of display goggles over his eyes, before making his way through the tunnel and up into the castle proper.

           The halls were a bit on the chilly side, but Hunter was able to adapt quickly enough. Slinking by along the walls, he heard the distinct sound of hissing over loud speakers. Following the trail of wires, he eventually found the source. Interspersed a good ten feet or so apart, a series of loud speakers trailed. He heard deep voices and the sound of insipid laughter, and pulled against the side of the wall. His stealth suit flickered briefly, before his body blended perfectly with the stone work.

           “Yes, sir. Report to main hall.”

           “Must report.”

           “Must obey.”

           The sound of tromping feet echoed and redoubled, vibrating Hunter’s soles as twenty nigh-identical muscle men almost as big as Thirteen marched past in an orderly manner. They wore Tight black spandex outfits and matching helmets with bright green visors on their heads. A pulsing green light from the visors indicated potential cerebral programming as the men tromped along in dual file. Hunter pressed himself as hard as he possibly could against the wall. He barely managed to avoid being touched as the men filed on. “I’m in luck, Control,” Hunter whispered after they were gone. “They’ll lead me right to the main hall. I’m guessing they’re going to be part of some kind of display. Can you get me a route into the upper balcony?”

           “Easy as pie.”

           “Good. Lead on, good sir, that I may sally forth, and complete my quest.”

           “Shut up, Hunter, and just take the next left.” What followed was a series of directions guided by a projected layout on the display screen that was Hunter’s goggles. Eventually, the spy was led to a set of stairs, which in turn took him to a shadowy and dusty balustrade. He proceeded to duck behind it as he observed the proceedings of the meeting below.

A series of large display units hung above the long table where each of the twenty men and their escorts had been seated. At the head of the table, a great hulk of a man sat. His hair was a bright platinum blonde, his eyes a stormy grey. He must have been at least a good eight feet tall, maybe even nine. The mountain of muscle flexed calmly, his arms rippling as he cut at the steak that had been prepared. His business suit clung tightly to his body, but not so much as to overstrain it. Clearly he had a tailor.

“Now, I know you gentlemen view America as an affront to your beliefs. I admit, I have no great love for this nation myself. The financial system is flawed, men and women are left starving on the streets to fend for themselves for lack of an education they can’t afford, or worse yet, a corrupt business field where they’ve been systematically cut out of the picture.” He chewed his meat viciously for a time, gauging the men before him, before patting his lips with a napkin and continuing his speech. “I have been wronged by this system, gentlemen, but that didn’t stop me from trying to better my situation.” He chuckled. “As you can see, I succeeded. … I am one of the few.

“Much like me, you, and those who follow your causes, feel that you have also been wronged. Whether your sacred lands are being trampled and torn underfoot, or you have lost your homes to corrupt businessmen, or simply because you feel that your religious rights have been taken away from you and you must take arms to defend that right. Whatever the reason may be, in that sense at least, we are brothers. In that sense, at least, we have a common ground. Much like you, I want to change the world, to make it a better place. That is why I sent my men to contact you, and that is why you are here tonight. I have called you here so that, together, we can make the world a better place for all.”

“And just how do you propose, Mister Stone, to further our … common interests?” Muffati, a short and portly man with a heavy robe and a bright white turban said. His beard had grown long, and was well trimmed with the salt and pepper coloration that was typical of his racial background at that age. His accent was thick, but his English was well pronounced. The other men nodded in agreement, even as they finished their respective meals.

“As I said, I can offer you a weapon that no man could possibly expect.”

“And that is?” Muffati asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

“The perfect soldiers, of course.”

What followed was fairly predictable. The laughter carried for quite some time, though a few of the men simply settled with glowering. “You have us come to this abominable country for a fable, Mister Stone? We do not take kindly to such jests.”

“And I do not take kindly to idle threats,” Stone responded in an equally flat tone. The silverware on the table began to clatter. Soon the goblets were jumping, the liquid rippling from unseen vibrations. The screens flashed into life as a military anthem began to play. From every doorway, they poured in. Tall, muscled, masculine, and armed to the teeth, the towers of muscle marched in unison, eyes fixed ahead as they formed ranks around the table and the hall. Their helmets still remained firmly fastened to their block-like skulls.

As the anthem played, Hunter felt a distinct sense of dejavous. He’d heard this music somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite place it. It seemed to play over and over in his head, even as the song finished and the men cocked their guns at the guests.

“As I was saying, gentlemen, I’ve developed the perfect soldiers. Large, fast, powerful, experts in multiple forms of combat, skilled marksmen, lightning reflexes, superhuman endurance, and best of all, they are completely obedient. Isn’t that right, boys?”

A resounding, “Yes, sir, coach!” echoed through the hall. The men saluted, lowering the butts of their guns.

“You would lend out mercenaries? This is your, as you Americans say, sales pitch?”

“No. What I offer is the ability to make soldiers of your own, just as obedient, just as powerful, just as well trained, all under your command.”

“I do not believe it,” a skeptical leader said. His frame was lean and well-muscled beneath his robes, and the guard who stood behind him was taller still, and lither.

“If you doubt their skills, then why not pit your own guards against them?”

“It is a hoax. These few could easily have been trained in advance. Where is your proof?”

“My process, as I like to call it, takes place over various stages, each a vital part in the conversion to become what you see before you now.” He lifted a remote to the screens and they shifted to reveal a CGI of an average human male. “I admit, I prefer this method because it ensures a closer connection between me and my men, or meatheads, as they like to call themselves. However, I have also developed a more streamlined method of application for you men to make use of back in your various war fronts.”

Stone held up a vial while the screen portrayed the same. “A few drops of this incorporated into a man’s body by any means leads to a dramatic increase in testosterone production, human growth hormone production, and a variety of other natural chemicals in the body related to masculinity and growth, along with great pleasure and arousal.” The model on the screens was injected with a syringe, and the man began to experience a growth in muscle mass, along with a large tent pressing against his shorts. “Given enough time to work, this substance incorporates itself into the human body’s natural functions, reprogramming the brain to produce the chemical naturally, and send it coursing through the entire body’s circulatory system twenty-four seven.” The image paled to reveal the circulatory system and the brain. As the body continued to change and work, it revealed the brain slowly changing color and that color spreading through the veins as the image continued to grow in breadth, height, and muscle mass, among other things.

“The end result is what you see before you: perfectly built soldiers. As for their training, admittedly, that requires some small amount of effort, though we’ve streamlined the process significantly. Making use of the pleasure centers of the brain, we take advantage of the surges of hormones to rewrite their minds, inserting a desire for unquestioning obedience to an authority figure.” An image of another man entered and began giving instructions to the other. “The more they obey, the greater the pleasure they experience, and the faster they are able to reach their final stages.” Each task the image that received the injection completed resulted in a surge of growth. “During this time of rapid intake and obedience, we expose them to a variety of stimuli that will train their bodies in the various arts they need to know, and have them exercise it in practice shortly after to make sure their bodies have transferred it into all forms of memory, including subconscious, conscious, and muscle.” The screens shut off. “Any questions?”

“How is this training accomplished?”

“So glad you asked that.” Stone pressed another button on the remote and a wall pulled up to reveal six men standing side by side in perfect formation. Their square jaws rippled with muscle in their necks, and their giant chests barely were contained by the button up shirts they wore. They stared vapidly ahead, their legs spread in a parade rest. Their burly arms were held behind their backs. Their broad shoulders gave them a square-cut appearance, and their stance was so identical they seemed almost like a paper chain.

“Meet Grunt, Crush, Thrasher, Masher, Pounder, and Grinder. Before these men saw the light and joined my soldiers’ ranks, they were sent here to infiltrate and spy on my organization. It took many of my meatheads to successfully capture them, but once I had them in hand, we immediately began putting them through the process. Once they had officially converted to muscle, I had every piece of information copied and downloaded from their brains through a unique neural probe one of my think tanks came up with. Completely harmless, and minimally invasive. A nice touch when you want to keep your subjects alive, wouldn’t you say? Taking the base neurological makeup of each subject’s brain, we combined them to create an ultimate design for our subjects’ brains to reach in their training. We then expose them to the proper stimuli throughout the process to ensure their brains develop the necessary pathways, and thus, the skills for the job. Our six professionals then spar with each soldier to ensure the subject has learned properly. Boys, come here.”

The six men immediately marched in unison, and took their places, three on either side.

“What are you?” Stone shouted.

The resounding cry was deafening. “Meatheads!”

Who do you all serve?”

“Coach!”

Who do you obey?”

“Coach!”

“Who do you fight for?”

“Coach!”

“Who do you live for?”

“Coach!”

Not a soul moved. The room was silent. Stone looked around the room. This time, his voice was softer, calmer, but filled with more intensity than any of the questions he had asked before. His eyes had turned cold, his pupils hard as agates. “And who is your coach?”

“Stone.” It started out small, a single voice, barely a whisper. “Stone.” It came again. This time two spoke. It continued to build one at a time, increasing in intensity, speed, and fervor until they reached fever pitch. The screens blazed to life as images and words flickered across in a virtual blur that verged on pure white. The green visors sprung to life, flickering on the drones that wore them. “Obey Stone. Serve Stone. Coach is Stone.” And so it continued, until the chanting fell into a mindless cheer. One name. One focus. The guards who had come with the terrorists clutched at their heads, and groaned in pain. In a matter of seconds, they had grown as large as the men who now surrounded the hall.

“Oh yeah, one thing I forgot to mention. The closer proximity to others who have been dosed with the compound hastens the process.” The new thick, burly men rose to their feet and placed their meaty hands over their former masters’ shoulders, securing them in place. “They have almost a hive sort of mentality sometimes, so a little affirmation here, a little obedience there, and then they’re just like the rest.”

Stone snapped his fingers, and more of the meatheads came from the doors, each holding a helmet similar to the ones the soldiers wore. “So here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to turn all of your funds over to me. You’ll liquidate your assets and resources, and leave your stupid struggle in the Middle East. Don’t worry, it won’t happen all at once. After all, I have to make sure that you and your men all become part of my little experiment, and we need to make it look like the troops you’re fighting against are winning. You’re only too happy to help, aren’t you, boys?”

The new giants shuddered, and grinned as they grabbed the proffered helmets in their hands. Then they shoved them on the various leaders. In a matter of minutes, their former masters had slumped in their chairs, while their helmets flashed. Stone had completely neutralized the threat, and now had every well-known terrorist in thrall. Up by the balustrade, Hunter gaped.

“Control, are you getting this?” he whispered.

“We’re getting it, Hunter. And … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me. Those men–”

“–Interceptor, Recon, Camo, Berserker, Napoleon, and Narcissus. We confirmed via retinal identification. If Stone’s telling the truth–”

“–Then he already knows about us and all of our operations regarding him and his men. All the more reason to kill the son of a bitch.”

“They were some of our best, Hunter. If he’s really trained every one of his men to be just as skilled, you’re up against some long odds. So am I for that matter. I thought the hack was too easy. He’s trying to play us.”

Hunter Smirked. “Then let’s play him. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“Gentlemen, I’ll leave our new recruits in your capable hands. I have some business to attend to at the gym. Keep running the program for the next six hours at least. I want these men well oriented by the time I’m finished,” Stone said.

The men saluted. “Yes, sir.” A low murmur of agreement ran through the room as the other soldiers stared ahead. Their own helmets were flickering, indicating that they, too, were experiencing this orientation, even as these new men were. Content, Stone left the same way he had come, flanked by his guard of six. The rest of the men stood obediently as they watched the presentation. Hunter was careful to avert his eyes as he backed away from his hiding spot.

“Control, I need directions to that gym, and I need them now.”

“Already uploading. Get your ass out of there, Hunter. You’ve got a job to do.”

> Which do you prefer? Both? I’m becoming a greedy bro, broski!! Uhuhuhu ; )

Sweet, bro. You’re coming along nicely, aren’t you? I’ve seen you pumping in the gym, flexing on the sly.Huhuh. Well, not anymore. Sun’s out, guns out, m’I right? Mmm … watching you change has been fucking amazing. How’s that new jock strap feel? Bet it’s gettin’ kinda tight now, ain’t it, bro? Gettin’ harder to think straight? Well, except for weights and gains, of course.Mmm … yeah, I see it in your eyes. Every time you put that jock on, a little more of it takes over, making you bigger, stronger, … dumber. S’not all bad, though, bro. You’re fucking jacked. I mean, just look at you. Bet you don’t even notice the stubble you’ve been growin’. And that jaw’s gotten so big, so bulky. Huhuh. Fuckin’ blockhead, bro.…Hmm. Nah. not blockhead, fuckin’ meathead’s what you are.…I saw that, bro. You winced. That aint right, bro. You gotta stop thinking about that. Bein’ a meathead’s fuckin’ awesome. Don’t gotta be afraid of it. Come on. I’ll show ya, bro.

This here’s the locker room. But you already know that. You come here almost every day now, don’t you?…Bro, seriously, I’m not hating on you. Quit bein’ such a fucking pussy about it. I brought you here, ‘cause here’s where you feel at home. And ‘cause I wanna show ya something. Come over here and open this locker.Huhuh. Yeah, that’s right. You know what that is, don’t you? Coach had it made special for you. Why don’t you put it on? Your jock’s been kinda lonely. It needs the rest of its team.…Bro, if you don’t do it, I’ll fucking make you do it. Put the gear on, pansy.Good. That’s better.Well, of course it’s gonna jab ya. It’s new gear! Don’t worry about it, bro. Just get it on the right way. That’s right. Cup first. Complete the jock. Then you can put on the pants and pads. S’right. Just like that. Gotta show off the goods, bro. Those legs’re fuckin’ pumped.Now the compression shirt. That’s right. Feels good sliding that on, don’t it? Feelin’ it slide against that eight pack, hugging every curve. C’mon, gimme a flex. Just one.Fuck yeah. That’s what I’m taklin’ about. Look at that pump!*Smirk* Yeah, you’re big down there. We get it. Now put on the shoulder pads, dumbass.Feelin’ lightheaded? Don’t worry about it. That’s just excitement. All that blood rushing around your body. I can hear your heart hammering over here. Seriously, bro, how long have you been waiting to do something like this?…That long? Bro. Seriously. It’s about fuckin’ time. Don’t be afraid of it. Revel in it. Feel that pump. Feel that rush. Let it fill you. Go on, flex a little. Show off those guns. You know the look even better in gear, don’t you?That’s a good bro. Cleats next. Gotta look the part.Bro, I got connections. Nobody’s gonna walk in on us. Chill out and have some fun. You’re fucking jacked, anyway. I doubt anybody’s gonna try to kick your ass now. You’ll be the one doing the kicking from now on.Too big? Dumbass, of course they aren’t too big. You’re a size fucking thirteen. Go on, walk around in ‘em. Try ‘em out. Trust me.…Bro, you’ve gotta spread your legs. Walk like this. See? Bros like us don’t swagger just ‘cause we’re cocky. S’the only way for us to walk. ‘Course, that don’t mean we aren’t cocky as fuck.Damn, that’s a deep chuckle. Good one, bro. Now go put on the helmet. Trust me, s’the best part.………*Puts on a set of thick dark shades that seem almost to flicker green as I turn to look at you*Welcome to the team, 26. This meathead is happy to have recruited you. Coach Stone would like to speak with you. You will follow the instructions in your helmet. You will enter the car waiting for you in the parking lot. You will obey.…A good meathead obeys…. Huh huh huh….

A Moment *coughMonthcough* of silence

Hey, guys. So, here’s a little status update for all my avid followers and watchers. I’ve been spending most of this month working on a commission that two of my fans have requested to be the next installation in an old favorite of yours. That’s right, folks.

*Takes a deep breath*

COACH STONE IS COMING BACK!

And this time, he’s bought a school. So, don’t be too disappointed if I’m not on for a while. Trust me, the wait will be WORTH IT!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go tackle a dummy-errrr the rest of this commission. Yeah. Totes. Huhuhuh. ;-)

The School of Buff Jocks Part 1

Ladies and Gentlemen, Jocks and Muscleheads, Bros and Bruhs, it is my distinct honor and pleasure to present to you the long anticipated sequel to Real Men’s Journal and Of Spies and Muscleheads, the School of Buff Jocks! This story is being written on a commission basis, so give thanks to @muscle-jock-bro for footing the bill. And if you want to ease the amount he’s paid for you all to enjoy this, please feel free to throw a few dollars his way. As usual, I am currently open for commissions. Just message me if you’re interested or email me at Omnikitsune@gmail.com with the subject: Commission Inquiry. And if you wish to support my writing, please feel free to donate via my Ko-fi or Patreon.

Now, please enjoy. The other parts will be coming shortly.

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Stonewall Prep Men’s Academy. You hear words like that, and you’d expect some sort of boarding school for boys or something like that, wouldn’t you? And I suppose it still is. Things are just … different than they used to be. I’ll tell you what, though, we haven’t had to worry about big fights or fancy things like detention and suspension for a long time. Matter of fact, we have one of the best reputations as a no-nonsense school since the business was bought out by its current owner. It used to be called Stone Bluff Men’s Academy, but I guess Coach Stone preferred something stronger.

Can’t say I blame him. It feels so good to be strong. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The name’s Derek. Derek Jones. My friends call me DJ. I’m … sort of a big deal. Folks around the country call me Big DJ. Can’t say I hate the nickname. Feels kinda natural, actually. And, I mean, look at me. I am big. Thing is, I wasn’t always. Nobody is, I suppose. Not at first.

I used to be more of a nerd. Videogames were more my thing. The closest I came to sports was usually with EA Games’ Madden and other sport franchises. That and Wii Sports. I used to have a lot of gamer friends, too. We’d laugh, sass around about things like anime and other common interests. Then things started to change after summer break one year.

Guess that’s where I’ll start, since I’m supposed to tell my story. And, well, my story is the school’s story. I was sitting with a couple of my old bros, Jackson and Slater. We shared classes, had a lot of the same interests. It was a good match for us. And since the prep school allowed for electives to travel in the same circles, we got at least a couple of periods together each day. Being in the same dorm helps a lot for hanging out after, too.

To say we were surprised by our teachers’ appearances was an understatement. Every one of them was ripped. Not in the steroid sense of the word, but we could tell they’d all lost weight, and their new clothes highlighted the tone they had developed over the break. The school’s headmaster was, by far, one of the biggest changes. The man used to be heavyset and overweight. Now he was broad in all the right places. I mean, the man was built like a tank!

The opening assembly gave us a proper explanation.

The headmaster stared at us with flinty blue-green eyes as he spoke over the pulpit. Even without the speakers, his voice probably could have projected to the back of the hall.

“Welcome to another year at Stonewall Prep Academy. Some of you are likely confused by that name, considering the moniker our school has borne for so many years. It has recently been brought under new ownership, however, with new management as a result. There are to be no major changes in your curriculum, nor your daily lives.

“Your schedules will remain the same, save you should choose to alter them. However, the new owner has insisted on a higher budget to pay for greater resources to be utilized by our student body. As a result, the school will be undergoing certain renovations over the course of the year.

“Our computer lab will be updated with the latest in technology to give you all the best chance at learning both digitally and physically. As an additional investment, each of you will be given a personal computer that is to be returned to the school at the end of the term.”

The room was filled with excited whispers at that news. Our own personal computers. There were so many things we could do with those. Stream shows, play videos, post memes. And we could write letters and emails in our rooms instead of having to dedicate time at the computer lab to do it. It was perfect!

“Now, boys, settle down.” The headmaster smiled. “The best is yet to come. Since so many youths are full of nervous energy, our school’s new owner has insisted on donating a heavy portion of his own money to renovate and expand our fitness program, including giving new machines and equipment to allow maximum efficiency for you students and any sports teams. Living conditions will also be improved in due course on a person to person basis. The transitions in your rooms will be simple and swift, so you needn’t fear not having a place to stay. The changes will be superficial at best with updated furniture and amenities. We expect you boys to do your best during this year and immerse yourself in the spirit of health, wellness, and education that this school is meant to embody. With that being said, it’s time to adjourn for a meal. Then you will have free time to prepare for school tomorrow. To all new students, your schedules will be in your dorm rooms, and teachers will be standing by on the first day to help guide you to your classes across the campus. Welcome to Stonewall Prep!”

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Mister Andrews was my teacher for World History that year. The man was a big medieval buff in both senses of the word. He even kept a suit of full plate armor on display in the classroom to show off his dedication to the time period. I heard he used to joust and play tourneys at Renaissance Fairs before he taught at the school. As a result of his hobby, he always kept a solid frame stacked high with muscle mass, particularly in the arms, shoulders, and legs. His stomach had grown over the last few years of teaching as age caught up with him, but whatever he’d done over break had nuked the fat into nonexistence. A thin green froth coated his lip as he switched between greeting students and taking a swig from an intricately carved tankard portraying a knight charging into battle on his horse with sword waving dramatically in front. I figured it must be green tea. I’d heard the stuff was good for cutting fat, and it explained a lot about his sudden change in form.

His deep voice rolled over the class in a no-nonsense tone. “All right, boys, bros, and men, listen up. I’m Mister Andrews. For those of you who intend to participate in wrestling or football this year, you can call me Coach Andrews. I don’t do roughhousing or fighting in this class. You will pay attention, and you will learn. If you do anything to disrupt the other students or my lesson, you will be punished as I see fit. History is no joke, and I intend you boys to take it seriously.” He drained the rest of his stein and slammed it onto his desk. The resulting sound echoed like a gun shot in our ears. “I hope we understand each other.”

Needless to say, Class was quiet and very attentive on its first day of the term. We received our syllabi and were given a general overview of what to expect for the course of our lessons. It took every fiber of willpower I had not to cheer when he said we wouldn’t be doing any papers this year. Like every teen, I hate writing essays. When the period ended, and it was time to clear out to our next classes, I approached Coach Andrews and smiled.

“Glad I got you this year, Mister Andrews.”

Andrews grinned. “It’s been a while, DJ. How’s the gang?”

“Gallivanting as usual, Sir. Were you still planning on DMing this year?”

“With sword and daggers bared,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I hope your party is ready. This year’s campaign, or campaigns as the case may be, are going to be a lot harder.”

I grinned. “I relish the challenge.”

“I would expect nothing less of our Half Orc Paladin.” He smiled. “Now you’d better move it. I won’t be held responsible for you being late to your next class on the first day. You can’t exactly use being a new student as an excuse, now can you?”

I laughed and offered a casual salute. “Yes, Sir.”

Andrews smirked. “That’s my soldier.”

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I couldn’t help but cringe as the scream rent the air, followed by a cascade of sobs. The hardwood floor of the school’s basketball court was now watered, not only by sweat, but by the tears of the goalie that bawled his eyes out as he clutched his crotch. Well, more held his hands gently over it. My grip tightened on my lacrosse stick as Coach Johnson lumbered forward and offered a consoling hand over the kid’s shoulder. The man was about six-foot-three and carried enough corded muscle to show more than his job was fitness. The offending ball now wobbled guiltily on one of the floorboards as he spoke in a deep, soft, and reassuring tone.

“Deep breaths, Kyle. Deep breaths,” he coached. “You’re gonna be okay.”

The teens that had once been so competitive now averted their eyes as Johnson levelled his dark green gaze on them.

“Mister Larson.” The deep quiet tone carried louder than any shout or beration as he looked to his fellow teacher. “Help the boys put away their equipment. I think we’re done for the day. I’m going to help Kyle to the school infirmary.”

Mister Larson nodded as the wails and sobs gradually faded to that hitching hiccup you get when you’re in the limbo between a full-on bawl and silent tears. No man would dare to criticize Kyle for it. Several of us swallowed heavily as our gazes trailed to our own crotches. That could have been any of us, and that was a sobering thought.

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Jackson winced after I gave them the downlow on what happened in gym. One of the first things we’d done was download Steam onto our new laptops and start playing League of Legends. His black hair had that sort of shine that drew the eye and made most people jealous. How he did it, I still don’t know. He doesn’t either. Guess he was just lucky.

“Sucks to be him,” Slater said as he unleashed his character’s highest tier attack on the enemy hordes. His red hair had been cut to short bristles. He preferred high and tight to the longer bowl cut of his younger days.

“Seriously, man?” I asked.

Slater shrugged. “What? I feel bad for the guy, but I’m not gonna cry a river for him. We’ve got our own stuff to worry about.”

“Either way, I’m pretty sure lacrosse is going to be off the table for a while,” Jackson guessed.

“I feel sorry for the one who did the deed. I know it was an accident, but man, did you see the look on Johnson’s face?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s pretty much screwed,” Slater agreed.

“Or he’s just going to have to apologize. It’s not like he’s going to get expelled,” Jackson said. Then he double clicked his mouse and smiled as his avatar wiped out mine and Slater’s.

“Really, man?”

Jackson shrugged. “That’s what you get for putting me on the other team.”

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Coach Johnson and Mister Larson both stood in front of the mass of students. Their voices rebounded from the tiles of the locker room. Larson raised a bundle of straps with a single green pouch high into the air.

“As of this day, all students are required to wear one of these at all times during gym class. For those students who are unaware, this piece of equipment is known as a jockstrap. It’s designed to support your crotch while playing sports.”

Coach Johnson picked up the narrative and raised his hand into the air. A hard curved plastic insert rimmed by what looked like rubber glinted in the light. The dull gray and black were emphasized by hints of bright green to complement the theme of its paired jockstrap. “This is called a cup. It’s used in most heavy sporting events to protect your crotch from heavy impacts. As you can see, this one is designed with shock absorption, shock transfer, and ventilation in mind, including a gel perimeter and inserts to keep impacts from cutting into your skin. All students are required to wear their cups with their jockstraps in order to participate in fitness activities. This is a safety measure to protect you from future harm. We expect each and every one of you to wear them and take good care of them.”

The two taught us how to insert the cup into a pouch and how to ensure a proper fit. I felt silly and embarrassed by the bulge it left in my pants, but the assurance that I wouldn’t end up in a crumpled ball on the floor helped mute that part of me, even if it couldn’t be totally silenced. At least they didn’t force us to just wear the straps alone. Of course, we were teenagers, so at least a few of us had to make the joke about what we were packing.

Huhuh. If only we knew.

“Jocks and cups will be dropped off in each of your rooms this evening,” Larson said. “You’ll be expected to take good care of them and place the used straps and cups in designated bins for washing. Your surnames will be sewn onto the straps inside the waistband for identification and delivery.”

We played for the rest of that period, though the pain Kyle had experienced was still fresh in our minds, and I’m pretty sure most of us weren’t really putting our whole effort into the game. Our heads were somewhere else.

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Somewhere else. That was the answer we’d received when we asked about Kyle. To be more precise, they’d said he was somewhere else getting treatment. The ball must’ve hit harder than we thought. I was biased then, and angry from past bullying. I thought about those stupid dumb jocks and my blood boiled.

I slaughtered in Call of Duty that night.

Later, we had Trig. Mister Dale had just polished off a blended green shake, probably one of those new kale smoothies, or so I thought at the time. He’d grown, just like the other teachers, and he exuded a confidence that I had never seen in him before when he addressed us. Had the teachers all been using the new gym equipment or something over the break?

Mister D’s voice rolled over the classroom in a wave. “Trigonometry, in many ways, has a heavy impact on us and the way we live. Combine it with the laws of physics, and you can predict almost anything. For instance, how many of you have played air hockey before?”

The majority of us raised our hands.

“How many of you have ever watched the puck in action as it slides over the table?”

Again, everyone raised their hands or nodded they had.

He drew a straight line, followed by two exact angles with the aid of a ruler. “One of the basic premises of trigonometry is angle in equals angle out. If you don’t get involved with friction, spin, or other factors along those lines, the bare essentials lead to this inevitable conclusion. If you strike the wall at a certain angle, the object will bounce off at an equal angle. Hence the ricochet we see in air hockey. Or, for those of you who are gamers, the unique bounce of the ball in Pong as it strikes your paddle.”

He smiled at us, despite our lack of enthusiasm. “Likewise, the same can be applied to philosophy and psychological development. Set a person on a particular course, account for various outside factors like environment and personality, let them collide with an obstacle, and see how they bounce back. In a nutshell, that’s basically life, when you think about it. Release.” He pointed to the first angle. “Strike.” He indicated the axis. “Bounce.” He pointed to the second angle. “And repeat. We may not always get the desired outcome at first, but by repeating the motions, one can eventually analyze a situation, figure out the proper factors, and ensure a means to achieve the desired outcome every single time. Ballistics experts use trigonometry on a regular basis as part of crime scene investigation to gather evidence. Now, then.” He pulled down the projection screen and shut off the lights, so a presentation could begin. “Let’s talk about how we calculate these angles.”

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“Homework sucks,” I groaned as I leaned back in my computer chair.

“At least it’s easy stuff for now, DJ.” Slater pointed out as he clacked on his laptop’s keyboard from my bed. “It could be worse.”

“I suppose.” I sighed. “Least we’re not in the hospital.”

“Relax, Derek. It’s not like Kyle’s never coming back.” He rolled his eyes.

“I know. I just don’t really like thinking about it, you know?” I winced and cupped my crotch.

“Yeah,” the others agreed softly. We spent the rest of the time focused on our various assignments. The trig program was pretty easy to follow through on. The exercise module ran sort of like a Prezi slide show. The line would trace and pause at a unique plane, and we’d have to figure out the angles. Wrong answers would generate a new problem as my point of view spun in reverse from the screen, following the line of trajectory. The more correct answers I got, the closer to the end goal I would descend. It wasn’t so bad as far as game designs go. Basic, but entertaining enough to keep the attention. And using games to teach always seemed a better way to go about school to me.

Module one was a breeze. Two and three took me a little more time. A slim amorphous figure voiced a chipper, “Congratulations,” as it flexed at the end of each one. The metaphorical walls and ricochet spun and drilled into the character, causing it to pulse and vibrate until the module had been absorbed. Then it flexed. The barest hint of definition could barely be perceived on its arm. “We’ll be fit for triggernometry in no time.”

I rolled my eyes. Cheesy one-liners for motivation and a mispronunciation. It was pretty obvious to me where this could end up going. The curriculum was the same for all of us, so we helped each other with our homework, then pulled another game night.

We had no idea what was coming.

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When Kyle finally came back to school again, we hardly recognized him. The pudgy boy had lost a lot of weight and gained in muscle and tone. The glasses he’d worn were nowhere to be seen, and the square block of his skull was much more prominent, now that the fat had been trimmed away.

He became a monster in Phys-ed. And Coach Johnson became his mentor. First term flew by, and he threw himself into every exercise Johnson put us through. He wasn’t the only one. The teachers all were growing. Their shirts were tighter, their figures trimmed. Whatever plan they were following sure seemed to be doing them good.

And surprisingly enough, the program was working. The more homework we aced, the bigger our seamless avatar would grow and the higher our overall performance would become in class. Sometimes, he’d be running a track. At other times, he’d be lifting barbells or performing chin-ups. The animations were so cheesy, we couldn’t help but laugh, but the results spoke for themselves.

I particularly enjoyed the English exercises. Synonyms, antonyms, imagery, symbolism, punctuation, structure.

I was a stickler for structure.

I am a stickler for structure.

Because structure is order and order is strength.

And a guy’s gotta play to his strengths, right?

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Second term is where things started to get … different. The renovations were well underway, and most of them had been finished over the break. It’s easier to work when things are empty. Lets you focus more.

My room smelled of rich pine, thanks to an air freshener that had been plugged into the wall outlet. Not my favorite smell, but I wasn’t about to complain. The bed had been replaced with an extra-long full-sized mattress that gave more support. The mattresses were Sleep System brand, so you can understand when my eyes bugged out at that. These things promise a perfect night’s sleep, and they’ll adjust to your frame automatically to help you sleep longer and better.

And trust me, they work. I love that bed more than I love being home with my family, if you can believe it.

Changes were even more prominent in the mess hall. Stainless steel and chrome shone brightly along the passenger lines. The kitchens, or what little we could see of them, had been decked out with brand new equipment. The food smelled and tasted AMAZING! I’m talking meatloaf, steak, mashed potatoes, tamales, pretty much anything you could name, they had. Not all at once, mind you. The cafeteria still followed a set meal schedule and menu, but the quality was and is out of this world!

The headmaster and teachers were all wearing compression gear with the school’s name and mascot on it. He told us we’d be able to wear school gear now to our other classes if we wished, provided it remained within proper dress standards. Our new “casual” uniforms were waiting for us in our dorms later that night. Me and the guys had a little get together to have some fun with the new gear.

I pitched my voice low and pushed the air out my mouth for greater effect as I flexed in front of the new floor-length mirror that had been installed in my room. Jim, the golden flexing fitness avatar, was showing off the goods on my left pec. His waist was obscured by a stone wall, while the words Stonewall Preparatory Academy stood out along the wall’s face.

“Check out these, guns, bro,” I lowed as I fixed my friends with the most vacant expression I could manage.

Jackson chuckled. “At least we get new clothes out of it.”

“There is that,” I conceded.

Not one to be left out on the fun, Slater smirked and popped both arms into the air in a double bicep flex. “It’s workout time, bruhs.” Jackson and I laughed as he got down and actually did a couple of pushups to hype up the act.

“Behold, Slater the Slayer!” I crowed.

Slater smirked as he got back to his feet. “Not a bad name, ‘bruh.’”

“Fuck, yeah,” I guffawed.

“Fuck, yeah,” they repeated.

We all laughed again, doing our best to push through that deep dull bass as we continued our antics.

We had no idea the seeds we were planting that night.

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Ever the lazy kids that we were, a significant portion of the school began to wear the gear, instead of their usual uniforms. I mean, come on, the stuff was comfy and easy to switch into on short notice if you were running late. What teen wouldn’t use that as an excuse to sleep in a little longer?

This, in turn, led to some developments that our teachers definitely didn’t approve of. Students were coming in late. Once or twice over a long period of time is fine, but when it becomes consistent across multiple students in a classroom, discipline has to be enforced.

And boy, was it.

One early winter morning, five boys came careening into the classroom with panting breath. Andrews was just explaining about Greek culture in ancient times, and we were about to focus on Sparta when we were interrupted. Andrews fixed them with a cool gaze.

“Boys,” he greeted them. “Late again, I see.”

“S-sorry, Mister Andrews,” they said in a low and garbled murmur as they averted their gazes and shuffled toward their seats.

After they’d gotten everything ready on their desks and were about to sit down, Andrews raised a staying hand. “Actually, boys, I’d like your help with a demonstration. Come back up here, will you?”

The kids blushed as they approached the front of the classroom again.

“Now, boys, the headmaster and staff have been talking. We’ve noticed a disturbing rise in the number of children who haven’t been making it on time to class. Not only does this indicate an unprecedented amount of slothfulness, but it also reflects poorly on us as your temporary caretakers. As such, a new mode of discipline is to be implemented, starting today. All boys who are late to class will pay a penalty.” He turned to the boys and grinned. “And you five get to demonstrate that penalty today.” He pointed to the floor. “Now drop and give me ten pushups.”

“Ex-cuse me?” one of the boys asked hesitantly.

“You heard me. Drop and give me ten. Don’t move quickly enough, and I’ll up it to fifteen.” He folded his vascular arms over his chest and frowned. “Now, gentlemen.”

The exercise took particularly long for one of the students, since his arms were basically like twigs. Andrews finally had to allow him to do baby pushups on his knees, instead of using his full body weight.

“Thank you, boys,” Andrews said as he ushered them to their seats with the wave of a hand. Then he fixed the rest of the class with a piercing glare. “And to anyone who gets any ideas about teasing these gentlemen for doing the honorable thing and not complaining, I’ll be happy to show you my personal training course for bullies. As it stands, I expect to see you five here in my classroom after the school day is over. We have a lot to discuss.” He turned back to the board. “Now, then, back to the Spartans.”

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“Damn it!” I swore. My die rolled a two on the table, and Andrews shook his head.

“Language, DJ.”

The gentle whirr of the projector as the game map shone on the screen demonstrated my character’s current predicament. A large Yuan-ti stood next to my character, and I had rolled to avoid being snared by its coils.

I sighed. “Sorry, Mister Andrews. So, what’s the damage?”

He rolled his dice and spoke. “The Yuan-ti’s coils wrap around Lathrok and hold him tightly. Lathrok takes two points in constriction damage. The serpent sneers and blinks as his eyes begin to pulse. He’s preparing to dominate you and will make the attempt on his next turn.”

“Uh, guys, a little help?” I pleaded of my party.

“Our hands are full, Derek. Sorry.” Slater shrugged apologetically to me. “Dealing with an army of thralls is no easy task.”

“Much though I hate to suggest it, it might be better for the rest of the party to retreat for now and try saving Lathrok later,” Jackson noted.

“Seriously, guys?”

“Given the overwhelming number of thralls we’re dealing with, it might be our only option, unless you want all of us to lose our characters with no chance of saving you,” Slater said. “By the way, I’m using my breath attack to clear a path, Mister Andrews.”

“A shrewd strategy,” Andrews praised. He took a deep drag from his tankard, and a button popped off his dress shirt to expose a little more of his chest beneath. We knew better than to comment on something like that in the middle of a campaign. “Let’s see how it works out for you.”

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“All right!” Jim cheered in my ears as his helper screen popped up on the interactive gym. “Time to up those weights. Let’s see how it works out for you!” It seemed that the teachers were going to insist we interact with the program every chance we could get.

“If you have any problems, go to Jim.”

Granted, the fact it was there to monitor and help transition for the workout equipment was very useful for most of us. Whenever we reached a plateau, Jim would log it in the system and trigger the machines to create a more challenging workout. I … wasn’t a big fan of this, if I’m going to be honest about it. I didn’t like working out back then. But since it was part of a grade, there wasn’t much I could do, other than let things take their course.

Kyle blew through his exercises like a machine. Rep after rep, set after set. He’d bust them out, guzzle his drink, then get back to work. When others asked him his secret, he just shrugged and said, “I just do it. I got tired of being scared and taking hits, and I did something about it.” Then he’d turn and get right back to work. It was no wonder he turned into such a hulk with the way he attacked the program. His version of Jim was jacked as all get-out. I mean rippling musculature the whole way through. Either he put in a lot more time on the modules or he was in advanced placement, because assuming the avatar followed the same principles ours did in their programming, that size shouldn’t have been possible. Then again, he might have worked on the modules while he was away to help pass the time between physical therapy and whatever else he did.

Either way, the irrevocable social laws of teenage dynamics began to set in, and in no time at all, everyone wanted to hang with Kyle. Spotting, eating lunch, whatever. The guy couldn’t seem to catch a break. It was no wonder he asked to join the lacrosse team. At least on the field, he could get some rest from all the people clawing at him and actually work off some steam. His coaches made sure of that.

It took five rounds of grueling physical exercises to finally get the hordes to back off. The coaches even got a couple of recruits out of it. It was pretty clever, honestly. I mean, making us do the fitness would test our limits and let them see exactly who would be the best students to scout for the sports programs.

Fortunately, I wasn’t among those students. Unfortunately, that didn’t matter in gym class during the weightlifting segment. The butterfly press was one of my greatest enemies, and Jim knew it. Every time I was on that thing, he would correct my form. He still does sometimes, but not too often anymore.

“Derek, your form is off again, big guy.” The monitor flashed to reveal a diagram complete with drawn lines and arrows to direct me and ensure I had a proper visual of the form I needed to use. “Raise your elbows to adjust your trajectory and put the emphasis on the proper muscle groups.” I grit my teeth and bit back the curse burning in my throat.

“Someone looks angry.” The recently promoted Coach Larson folded his arms and nodded at me as I growled through the next press. A tablet was clasped in one of his hands. “Good. Use that to push through the exercise. You’re a growing boy. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t show any aggression.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said as I rolled my eyes.

“No problem.” He strode up to the side of the machine and spoke into his tablet’s mike as he accessed the equipment. “Hey, Jim?”

“Yes?” the AI querried.

“Add another set to the end of Mister Jones’ routine today. Faculty disciplinary action override.”

The weights crashed as I let go and my eyes bulged. “What?”

“Teacher Identification?” Jim asked.

Larson tapped a code into his data pad, and a chime pinged as the data was submitted. “Okay!” Jim said in a chipper voice.

I wanted to scream, but I really didn’t want to have any more fitness added to what already left my body feeling like frozen molasses in the morning. I didn’t know how I managed to pull through that. Honestly, I was so angry, I hardly paid attention to anything till I felt a heavy hand shaking my shoulder. Kyle’s blocky features stared at me. His brow furrowed in concern, and his short flat top buzz cut flashed white gold under the gym’s lights.

“Hey, it’s, uh, … Derek, right?”

“DJ,” I snapped.

“… Okay, DJ, then.” The fact Kyle stayed calm instead of getting offended probably saved me that day. “You know class is over, right?”

I blinked in surprise. “What?”

He gripped my wrists and pulled my arms gently off the press. “Class is over, man. It’s been over for the last hour.”

“Congratulations! Way to go! I’m really im-pressed with your progress!” Jim continued to heap praises and cheesy one-liners. His arms and chest had gained significant definition. Mine, on the other hand….

Let’s just say it hurt to breathe, and my arms felt like they never wanted to move again, now that they were resting on my lap.

Kyle laid a hand gently on my shoulder. “You okay?”

I wanted to snap at him on instinct, but I managed to keep that part of me in check. Kyle wasn’t the jock stereotype I’d had to face growing up. A few months ago, he’d been a lot smaller and a lot less fit. This wasn’t getting picked on. This was someone concerned for my health. I nodded. “Yeah, I … sorry. I don’t know what happened.” My whole body tingled, and the hairs I had on my arms were standing on end.

“Come on. I know what you need.” Kyle smiled and hoisted me out of the chair like it was nothing. Then he guided me to the coaches’ office. The place was more like a lounge than an office. Maybe even a locker room with how much square footage it had. Fridges, freezers, first aid and medical stations, scales, this place had the works. Kyle easily pulled open one of the fridges and broke the seal on a plastic bottle filled with green liquid. “Drink this,” he instructed. “It’s a protein shake. It’ll help soak up all the acid your muscles are producing, so you can recover faster from today.”

“Is this … okay?”

Kyle shrugged. “Coach said I could if I needed it. Right now, I’d say you need it more. If they ask, I’ll just tell ’em what happened.” Then he guided me into the locker room itself. “What you need now is to chug that shake and take a shower. Cold water works better, but anything’s better than nothing. Trust me on that.”

“That, and the fact I’m a sweaty mess?”

“Well, I suppose there is that, too.” Kyle grinned, then looked at his own drenched compression shirt. “You’re not the only one. Did you bring a change of clothes?”

I shook my head numbly, then took a swig of the bottle. It was only then that I realized just how thirsty I’d become. The whole thing was drained in a few seconds, and I chased it with several mouthfuls of water from the drinking fountain after.

“Well, that sucks.” He shrugged, then led me farther back into the lockers, where the tile opened up into several shower stalls, each cordoned off by a shower curtain and bearing identical mounted dispensers. Shelving units laden with freshly folded towels stood in front each entrance. “Don’t know how the school afforded it, but these things are legit,” Kyle said. “Jets and an overhead designed to get a full body wash. Seriously, man, you’ll never want to shower anywhere else after you try it. And after the workout you just had, you’ll definitely need it. Turn on the massage setting. Trust me, you won’t regret it.” He grinned and patted me on the back as he traversed to a neighboring stall.

And he was right. I didn’t regret it. That stall left me feeling higher than a kite after it was done with me. I managed to move my arms enough to engage each of the dispensers and get a proper shower in. Then I just let the massage do the rest. Kyle was already gone by the time I finished, but he gave me a kind goodbye before he smacked down the tiles to get changed and go to his dorm. So far, it seemed, Kyle was actually going to be one of the good ones out there. Maybe he would be able to break my idea of the jock stereotype.

Maybe.

The School of Buff Jocks Part 2

Click for Part 1

Part two of commission story for @muscle-jock-bro. Send him some love for his patronage! :D And if you feel so inclined, please feel free to fund my creative endeavors by joining my Patreon or by buying me some Ko-fis.

Thanks again! :D

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That night, I dreamed about a lot of things. First, I slid down the spiral from trig, bouncing from point to point like a ping-pong ball as I jerked along the axis of the slide, until I landed in the soft goopy mess of Jim’s body. I struggled and clawed, but my body just sank, and my arms still ached from the press. Darkness consumed me as I went under. Light finally came through a window, where I watched myself standing in front of a mirror. I opened my mouth to speak, but Jim’s voice came out instead.

“Great job! Time to flex!”

My dream self grinned and raised both his arms to pose in front of a mirror.

Once again, my mouth opened. Once again, Jim’s voice spoke. “Looking good, big guy!”

A deep throaty chuckle reverberated in my ears. “Thanks, Jim.”

“Any time,” I said. “If you have any problems, go to Jim.”

I watched helplessly as my dream self inflated inside the gym uniform. Shoulders broadened; neck thickened; and biceps, triceps, and flexors twitched and expanded with every breath. Shelf-like pecs pressed in slabs against the tight material of the compression shirt.

The laugh reverberated through my little space again as I watched, and a smile pulled across my face. Seconds later, I was staring at my new muscle self in the mirror, still grinning like an idiot. My eyes strayed to the screen where Jim flexed at me, the screen I had once been trapped behind, speaking as the program. The screen was filled with rippling liquid gold now, and that gold spilled in a waterfall from the screen as Jim spoke again. “Go to Jim. Listen to Jim. Go to Jim. Go to the gym. Lissssssssssssten….”

Tight hands. Gold coils wrapping my broad shoulders, pinning my arms. Scales that rippled and spun in accents just like the slide at the beginning of the dream. Pulsing eyes drawing me into pulsing liquid gold. Or were the eyes the gold, too? I suppose it didn’t matter to my dream self, so I guess it shouldn’t matter to me either. All I know is those eyes, pools, whatever they were, were waiting for me. Waiting to claim me as Lathrok had been claimed in the campaign.

And I watched helplessly as my dream self let them.

“Let’sssssssss go again….”

I fell through the coils. My world spun, and I was on the slide again.

I don’t know how many times I went through that dream before I woke up. All I know is when I finally did, it was dark, I was cold, and I was covered in sweat.

I wished I could have used those showers again.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Two weeks of the same dream. By this point, I felt so shot, I didn’t even bother to protest when Andrews looked at me. I knew what was coming. My arms pumped slowly and steadily till I reached ten, then fifteen, then twenty. The phantom cheers from Jim echoed and swam in my head with Andrews’ voice. I barely understood what he was saying.

“With the influx of sports activities, we’ve noticed a certain pattern of decay in the school’s overall academic performance.”

He frowned at each of us. It took everything I had, just to keep my head from hitting the desk.

“As a result, each of us has been tasked with informing you boys that all sporting and extracurricular activities will be barred to any student who doesn’t meet the proper standards.” He spread his legs wide and leveled a flat stare at us that smoldered with foreboding.

Again, I was too out of it to really notice or care. Hell, at this point, I couldn’t even tell what was dream and what was real. There were several objections from the class, but Andrews’ voice cut through them all easily.

“If you boys don’t like it, then change your performance. Use the tools we’ve given you. Do your homework, focus on your projects and assignments. Get the jobs done. You choose your actions. You don’t get to choose the consequences for them.”

To this day, I still can’t tell you what Andrews said after that. I blinked once, and class was over. I had just enough awareness to gather my things and shuffle toward the door, till Andrews stopped me and pulled me aside.

“Derek, are you okay? This isn’t like you.”

His skin seemed to pulse and writhe as I looked at it. With every second, the muscle he’d built seemed to strain against the spandex. I looked at him, and I saw the phantom of Jim’s placid featureless face flowing over my favorite teacher’s.

“Oh, no. Not again.”

If Andrews asked what I meant, I didn’t hear him. The world faded to black, and I was gone.

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I came to in the infirmary. No nightmares this time. Once more, it was almost completely dark. The smell of pine mixed with the familiar scent of cleaning supplies. I had to grip the sides of my bed to be sure I wasn’t about to go for another ride down that horrific slide. I mean, I guess I wouldn’t mind it so much now, but back then, that thing was effing terrifying.

“Thirty students pushed to the brink of exhaustion. Thirty!”

I furrowed my brow in confusion. Was that … Andrews I heard behind the curtain?

“Calm down, Tobias.” This was a voice I didn’t recognize. The range was far deeper than anything I’d ever heard before. It rolled smooth as silk, but with the inexorable force of a tidal wave. Whoever was speaking was used to control.

“How can you expect me to calm down when my students are being driven to this state by your program?”

A dim light shone on my curtain. The two must have been far enough away that whatever source they were using wouldn’t disturb the room’s occupants.

“You’ve seen the results for yourself, Tobias, and I don’t much like your tone. You and I both know not all minds are the same. Some stimuli clearly had a negative effect on these boys. That’s why I asked you and the rest of the school staff to call me in the first place if you noticed abnormal behavior.”

“Some stimuli? Just what, exactly, is so stimulating for my students, Mister Stone?”

“Please, call me Coach.” I could picture the man shrugging his shoulders. “Given how you’re reacting, you’d think I’d done something to one of your sons.”

“Those boys are my sons.”

“And you think I don’t care about them? Tobias, you ought to be ashamed. These boys are the future. I’m not about to risk that, let alone the lawsuits that would rise if a parent thought I was doing something illegal.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Doing something illegal.”

Stone tsked. “I’m providing advanced tools for education and development, Tobias. That’s all. Now, why don’t you go get some rest? You’re tired and tense. If you can’t sleep, go blow off some steam in the gym.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with these kids.”

“Then we’ll go together. Leave the nurse to handle this. They should be perfectly fine after a good night’s sleep. Come with me, Tobias. I insist.”

Andrews was silent for a while, probably chewing over what Stone said. Finally, he spat out a, “Fine.”

“Tread lightly, Mister Andrews. We don’t want to wake them. You and I can air our respective grievances and rebuttals outside like real men.”

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I missed the next morning’s meal at the mess hall. The nurse insisted on checking each and every one of us for vitals and signs of recovery. Once we had a clean bill of health and were properly fed, we were released to our classes with strict instructions to alert a teacher if we started feeling any more fatigue or other problems.

The look of concern in Anderews’ eyes was mirrored by the intensity of his grip as he squeezed my shoulder. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

I gave him my assurances and thanked him for caring. I mean, the guy kinda went full on papa bear in the infirmary. That meant if there was any teacher I could rely on to be in my corner, it’d be this guy. That day, we went over the origins of the Olympics and the various traditional sports that were practiced in Ancient Greece. Of course, wrestling and track were two of the major ones. Interesting fact, the strongest man in Greek Myth’s real name was actually Heracles, not Hercules. Hercules is what the Romans called him. Guess it goes to show the eggheads in Disney can be kinda stupid, too.

He had Jim show us clips, reliefs, and footage from some old Olympics games to show us how the sport and various events evolved from when it first started. We’ve come a long way since then. For one, we don’t compete naked anymore. I’m a lot more comfortable with my body now, but even I wouldn’t do something like that. Every once in a while, I’d twist my back on my chair to stretch. Some of the guys were practically salivating over the footage. Others rolled their eyes or scratched their crotches.

In other words, it was another day of classes in the life of bored teenagers. When everyone filed out to go to their next classes, Andrews pulled me aside. He looked hesitant, which was a strange sight to see in a man who had always been so confident in the classroom.

“Is … everything all right?” I finally asked.

“There’s … someone who wants to meet you. He arrived after he heard about what happened to you and the other boys that were in the infirmary.”

“He scares you that much?”

“Who says I’m scared?”

“The student who’s known you for over a year?”

Andrews chuckled. “Touche. Look, I just don’t like him all that much. He says he means well, but I’m not so sure he does. Just … promise to come to me if he does anything strange, okay?”

I nodded. “I promise. So, what, is he going to take me out of one of my classes or something?”

Andrews shook his head. “I’m taking you to him. He wants to interview each of you one on one. I’ll be there as a second adult to keep an eye on you.”

“Then I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Andrews smiled.

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As you can guess, meeting Coach Stone for the first time was … interesting, to say the least. The man had to be one of the largest men I’ve ever seen in my life. He dwarfed me and Andrews both with his sheer size, not to mention the tightly cut muscle mass that pressed against his suit and dress shirt. The collar button had already flown off by the time I arrived. The man was a walking, talking oxymoron. His brutish masculine features and brawny musculature were emphasized by the tight platinum haircut he sported to accentuate the blunt square shape of his face. His eyes were a bright silvery gray with flecks of emerald. They shone with a bright alertness and a scrutinous intensity as he stared me down. I suppose sized me up would be a better phrase, given what eventually happened.

His voice was just like I remembered from the infirmary, only this time, I had the full effect of his body and gaze to go with it. He motioned to the chair after the usual introductions and pleasantries. “Please, have a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Am I your first student of the day, then?” I asked.

Stone shook his head. “No, but you are an interesting case. I wanted to hear from you and the others personally, rather than relying on separate accounts. On top of my degrees in physical therapy and other such fields, I also have a doctorate in psychology and psychiatry.”

“Aren’t you a little young to have all of those?”

Stone chuckled. “When you’re as smart as I am, you find shortcuts to get certified.” Then he leaned in closely and whispered loudly. “Between you and me, I’m not as young as I look.” He winked and pulled back.

“Is there a reason you’re trying so hard to put me at ease?” I asked. I wasn’t about to play games.

“If I’m going to give you a proper analysis, I need to see you in a relaxed state.” Stone shrugged. “Was I laying it on too thick?”

“Just a little.”

“Then I guess we should start by saying that whatever is said within these walls will remain completely confidential, save for extreme cases that may require contacting your family members directly. We can be alone or not as you wish. The purpose of this meeting is to ascertain the cause of the affliction you boys experienced, so I encourage you to be honest with me.”

I shrugged. “You could’ve saved a lot of trouble by just asking. It’s no big deal.”

“Then here’s my question. What caused your exhaustion?”

“Recurring nightmare.”

“About?”

“Crazy stuff all jumbled together.”

“I need specifics to compare cases. If there’s a common thread, I need to know, so we can address it.”

“It’s a little embarrassing.”

“As I said, it doesn’t go beyond these walls. If you don’t trust me, trust Andrews. He knows I’m a man of my word.”

“He also doesn’t trust you.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“I overheard your argument.” I shrugged. “Something about stimuli?”

Stone sighed. “Look, the long of the short of it is that developing minds react differently to different situations, hence my broad use of the term stimuli. Jim is designed to help and assist the students here as they study and grow, just like any other computer program uses a mascot, whether it’s Freddy Fish, Treasure Mountain, Clue Finders, or something else entirely. However, there are times where a developing mind can interpret these characters and conflate them with subconscious issues. Whether this be anxiety, anger, or something else, they contribute to the overall mental health of a patient. If you help me analyze your dream, you’ll help me to understand how best to keep this from happening to you again. So, will you help me to help you and your classmates?”

I looked to Andrews, and he nodded subtly.

I sighed. “Fine. Here’s how it went.”

Stone took notes while I described the dream. He frowned as he reviewed the contents, then finally asked, “Are you afraid of jocks, Mister Jones?”

I shook my head. “Afraid isn’t the right word.”

“You hate them, then.”

“Most, yes.”

“Because?”

“Because almost every one I’ve come across has been nothing but a bully who likes strutting his stuff and being an asshole.”

“Derek,” Andrews said reprovingly.

“It’s fine, Andrews. This is therapy. Let the boy vent. Tell me, Derek. What happened?”

The session took an hour, maybe a little more. He never said in exact words what was wrong with me, other than the possibility of what equates to a mild form of PTSD. Basically, changes in the school paired with the algorithm to cause growth in Jim’s avatar and the push in fitness combined with my own angry reaction from dealing with people who always thought might made right. In a way, Stone seemed almost sympathetic. Then again, sympathy is a far cry from change. It’s more like putting a band-aid over a cut, then putting the person right back into a room full of knives.

“If it’s all right with you, Derek, I’d like to meet with you once a week to check up on you. I intend to make similar appointments with the other boys as their cases require. Assuming our sessions don’t yield any improvement, we’ll take steps to remove you from any potential triggers to this condition.”

“There’s no way I’m stopping D&D,” I objected.

“And no one said you would have to, Derek,” Stone said mildly. “That’s merely as a last resort. As I said, let’s take things one day at a time.” He lowered his notepad onto his desk and nodded. “I’d say that’s a good starting point. For now, Mister Andrews will guide you to your next class. Notes will have been recorded to help you catch up with the time you missed, and you’ll be given an excused absence. I’ll see you next week. And remember to alert us if you start having these troubles again.”

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I found a mini-fridge in my dorm room later, completely stocked with familiar green drinks.

Just in case. See you around!

~K

The note was obviously from Kyle. As for the fridge, my guess is it was part of the new additions for our rooms. Pretty smart, when you think about it. It would allow us to have something cool and refreshing to drink during late nights. I popped one, just to help with some of the lingering aches of the last lifting segment from gym class. Then I pulled up Jim on the computer.

“Hi, DJ, let’s get to work.”

And we did. Teachers had a special file sent over to help me cover what I’d missed in class. The real test for whether I’d have that nightmare again would come soon enough.

I wasn’t looking forward to it.

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The familiar roar of victory bellowed across the school grounds as Kyle sunk yet another goal. He’d grown into a real tank, and all his teammates with him. Their bodies steamed in the cold winter air, but they didn’t seem to mind or care. Broad swollen pectorals thumped into each other as the team performed chest bump after chest bump. Veins stood out on their calves and arms from the intense running as they navigated the opposing team’s defense. Their lacrosse sticks waved in the air like barbarian clubs as they signaled their dominance and their victory to the crowds.

When the game was ended, I led Jackson and Slater to the locker room, where a grinning Kyle greeted us with open arms.

“You made it!”

“Saw the whole thing,” I said. I allowed myself a small smile. Given the help Kyle had shown me before, it would’ve been rude of me not to.

“I’m telling you, when I’m on that field, it’s like I’m a totally different person, and I love it!” He chuckled.

“You’re definitely different than you were at the start of the year,” Slater agreed.

Kyle winced. “Yeah, that … wasn’t very good.” The shadow passed, and his smile beamed as he straightened again and patted his crotch. “Got protection now, though. And I think that hit did something to me. I mean, look how big I’ve gotten!” He popped his arm into a flex to show off a swollen bicep. “It hurt like hell, but I think that may have been the best day of my life.”

“And it gave us one hell of a captain,” Jackson contributed.

“Hell, yeah, it did,” Kyle agreed. “Fuck, yeah!”

“Fuck, yeah!” rebounded back as teammates cheered, hooted, and hollered from their places by lockers or back at the showers.

I cringed. “Anyway, thanks for the, uh, gift.”

Kyle beamed. “You been drinking them, then?”

“Not often. Just … for emergencies, you know?”

Kyle nodded. “I get it. Got to play it smart, conserve your resources.” He nodded. “Speaking of which, word on the street is there’s a D&D club? You guys wouldn’t happen to know who I should talk to about that, would you? It’s been a while since I dusted off my old character sheets, but I kind of miss it.”

“What class do you play?” Jackson inquired.

“Used to play a dragonborn necromancer. That character was OP as fuck when I finished leveling him.”

I cringed again. “… Yeah, you’re gonna need to make a new character if you want to join the campaign.”

“Who’s DM?”

“Andrews.”

Kyle smirked. “Figures. That guy’s a tactical genius on the field. He’d know how to run a campaign no sweat.”

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Andrews was all sweat when he burst through the door. His face was flushed, and his compression gear hugged even tighter to his frame as a result of the intense workout he’d doubtless run from to get to the classroom.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said quickly. “Weight training today.”

Kyle grinned. “Took some time to get in a session yourself, huh?”

“Can’t expect the teams to put in the work if I don’t,” he said by way of explanation.

Kyle nodded. “Lookin’ swole, Coach.”

Andrews smirked and flexed one of his biceps. The fabric looked more like a blood pressure cuff than a sleeve. “Swole and in control. Now let’s get up to speed.”

Kyle’s new character was discovered in the slave pens of a compound outside the main temple that was their party’s destination. He was being enthralled with Dominate Person and in the middle of being garbed in new armor when the party struck. Once they killed the caster, the spell was broken, and Kyle’s barbarian was freed to reap his revenge. In exchange for saving him from that fate, he was honor bound to help them deliver my character from his own enslavement and kill the Yuan-ti’s leaders in their temple.

The final boss was a real pain, the Anathema. Think of a huge serpent over twenty feet in length with burly arms tipped with three-fingered clawed hands and six heads atop its torso. Six heads means six chances to target someone with a charm.

Unfortunately, we failed miserably. All four of us were ultimately defeated, enthralled, and disarmed. In time, three of us were sacrificed to their demonic god. My character was forced to watch the proceedings with a smile on his face as the others were led to their gruesome demise. Yuan-ti are subtle creatures. They knew how to make the altars seem like beds or examination tables to their thralls. It was a simple matter of ordering them to lie down and close their eyes.

My character’s new master took great pleasure in experimenting with its new toy, altering his mental state and twisting him into a variety of forms and classes by convincing him mentally that he was those things. A full-blooded Orc with no signs of his human half remaining. A ruthless barbarian with an almost animalistic bearing. A loyal pet at its master’s side.

“And so, Lathrok Stormhammer lost his mind and his very soul, the last of his party to survive, and the first of many in his order to be controlled. Through him, the dreaded Yuan-ti infiltrated the city and gradually dominated its denizens until none remained to stand against their empire and their ambitions. Thus began the Yuan-ti campaign for their god to conquer not by the sword, but by cunning, by whispers, by secret combinations. And their demon god was most pleased.” Andrews looked around the gathering of stonefaced youths. “I did warn you the campaign would be harder. I don’t want any complaints.”

“So, what now?” I asked.

Andrews smirked. “Well, assuming you’re done playing the good guys, I thought you might like to try playing for the other team next. The Yuan-ti have a long way to go before their plan succeeds, and they could use all the help they can get in their campaign.” He extended a sheaf full of character sheets and smirked. “What do you say? Wanna join the team?”

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“Are you insane?” I practically spat in Stone’s face when I met in his office again.

“Analysis indicates at least a part of this issue you faced revolves around muscle and sports, most likely a primal fear instilled as a result of a past trauma you faced,” Stone noted coolly as he peered up from his clipboard. “If you want to avoid enduring this recurring nightmare again, I strongly recommend you consider joining a sports team and living the lifestyle, at least for a time. It would dispel your suspicions and address the concerns that are clearly lying beneath the surface, including a fear of becoming the very stereotype you seem to despise so much.”

“I’m not going to join a sports program!”

Stone shrugged. “That is your choice,” he admitted. “But I can tell you now that the better option would be to face and overcome your stigma, rather than allow it to fester. Such feelings have an intensely negative impact on social and mental development.”

I twisted and adjusted my position in the chair for what had to be the sixteenth time.

“You know, I’m not going to judge, if you need to,” Stone cleared his throat, “relieve yourself. I’ll even look away if it makes you feel better. Or you can excuse yourself to the bathroom and we’ll resume afterward.” He shrugged. “I want you to be comfortable in my office.”

“I’m good. Really.”

Stone narrowed his gaze. “No, you’re not.” He lowered his clipboard and handed me a pass. “Go. Take care of whatever you need to and come back after. I can wait.”

“But—”

“I said I can wait.” Stone practically lifted me out of my chair. “Now go. And don’t be ashamed to ask to leave if you need to again.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder as he opened his door. “Come back soon.”

My whole face felt like it was on fire when I was practically propelled out of the office. It took all my will power to keep my composure. When I got into the bathrooms, I rushed to the nearest stall and locked it. The relief when I finally got to scratch myself was beyond anything I’d ever felt before. For a moment, there was just mindless bliss. And in that fleeting moment, I think I understood, at least a little, how Kyle felt when he flexed his muscles after a long workout. That same almost explosive relief after the fact.

The words slid easily from my lips. “Oh, fuck, yeah….”

My voice echoed only slightly before the words faded into silence, a lone cry in the wilderness. I’m not sure what it was, but I think part of me felt incomplete somehow, almost guilty at how paltry the words sounded. The other was mortified I’d even dared to utter them. I quickly shook my head and readjusted my jock strap. Gym was next period, so I’d decided to just wear the thing for the day. It might have been a trick of the light, but the pouch looked … fuller as I reinserted the cup that would protect my groin and complete the look.

I washed my hands for extra measure, then opened the door and barely evaded getting bowled over by one of the upperclassmen. His eyes were desperate, almost glazed as he adjusted his crotch. The stall door closed. And seconds later, I heard the same haunting words in a far deeper and resonant voice.

I left quickly, but those words echoed in the cavern of my brain for the rest of the day like some ghostly knell.

The School of Buff Jocks Part 3

For those who are joining the story late, here’s the link to Part 1

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The gym was practically full to bursting when Kyle pulled me in after him. The weight of his arm around my shoulders was basically the equivalent of a headlock. To be honest, I almost dropped my gym bag. He was a lot heavier than I’d thought. Jim’s constant praises echoed through the air as he complimented or corrected the lifters.

“Remind me why I’m here again?” I asked.

“Because I needed a lifting buddy and you needed a break from school.”

“I usually game for that.”

“I know. But this is something different. Besides, you know how much smarter a person can be when they actually balance fitness with their schoolwork? Seriously, it’s incredible stuff.”

“I still can’t believe you roped me into this.”

“Don’t you mean strongarmed?” He smirked.

“Ha-ha-ha,” I said slowly.

Kyle’s smirk widened as he deliberately pitched his voice lower and duller as he tried to make his eyes lose focus. “Nah, bro. You got it wrong. It’s huhuhuh.” He scratched his crotch with his free hand and led me on.

I rolled my eyes. “Careful, ‘bro.’ Keep acting the part, and soon you’ll be it.”

Kyle shrugged his broad shoulders. “Honestly, I don’t think I’d mind if I did. Do I really look like the kind of guy who’d be a jerk just because he’s got big muscles?”

“And the dumb part?”

Kyle shrugged again. “Don’t feel stupid yet. Honestly, it’s more like a culture than anything else.”

This time, I smirked. “Can’t have culture without a cult.”

Kyle laughed and gave me a gentle bump to the shoulder with his fist. “Smartass.”

“Right back at you, dumbass.”

“Did we just come up with nicknames for each other?”

“Don’t push it.” He looked at me expectantly, and I sighed in defeat. “Dumbass.”

Kyle grinned as he leaned in closer. “Let’s get to work, little bro.”

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“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What do we do?”

“Charge!”

“Now get out there and make those Gunners run!”

The stampede out of the locker room shook my whole body as cleated foot after cleated foot trampled across the tile. The whole team was built like tanks, and this was just the Junior Varsity! Half of them were already nearly as tall as I was, and they still had a couple of years to grow. I hefted the bottles of sports drink in their carrying cases, and Andrews held the door open for me as he had for his team.

“Thanks for helping me out, DJ.”

I shrugged. “No sweat. Fair’s fair. If this’ll help speed us closer to getting our campaign going again, you bet I’m going to help.”

“We really do appreciate it, though,” Andrews said. “The team needs boys like you, too.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, pretty sure they don’t.”

“I think you’d be surprised.” Andrews smiled gently. “By the way, is that a little growth I see in that bicep, or am I just seeing things?”

“Totally imagining. You should probably go see Doctor Stone, get your head checked.” I smiled playfully at him.

His smile tightened. “Yes. Maybe I should. Think you might have a few minutes to talk after the game?”

“I’m pretty sure I can spare the time.” I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Andrews shook his head. “Later,” he insisted. And then I felt his broad hand shoving me out the door. “We’ve got a game to play.”

Andrews transformed into another person on the football field. His gaze was intent, his bearing cool and calculating. I felt like I was dealing with a military commander, rather than the teacher who had been my friend. The coordination between the offense and defense left them functioning like a well-oiled machine.

And I was the one providing the lubricant. Seriously, I felt like I was running the whole time to keep up with all the guzzling the players were doing with the drinks. Bright green streams poured into their mouths and down their bobbing throats. And the sheer aggression they showed left me cringing as I relived some of my worse moments from growing up.

By the time the game was over, I was a sweaty mess that matched the team. I had to steal a couple of swigs, myself, from time to time as I raced to restock the water coolers and bottles for the team. We slaughtered the opposing team, allowing them only one touchdown for the duration of the game, while we scored seven.

The team was showering and getting changed while I worked to clean out the coolers and bottles. I noticed Andrews approaching out of the corner of my eye, but he got intercepted by Stone before he could reach me.

“Excellent game, Tobias. As usual, you’ve performed very well. Congratulations.” The big man squeezed Andrews’ hand in a tight grip as he clapped Andrews’ arm with his free hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you before you go.”

“Mister Stone, I appreciate the need, but my team—”

“Can finish cleaning up just fine. They know the routine by heart, and this really is very important.”

Andrews sighed. “Can I trust you to finish cleaning up, DJ? Coach Dale will help you get everything where it needs to go.”

I nodded. I wasn’t looking forward to the extra time I’d waste, but like I said before, I owed him, and Andrews doesn’t ask favors lightly.

The jocks were actually really helpful. They didn’t expect me to pick up their slack. They cleaned up their towels and other gear, put them in the proper hampers, and even went so far as to help move the baskets to the washroom. When everyone was finished and dressed in their regular clothes, we shared an order of pizza, compliments of Coach Stone for a job well done. When I sat down on the wooden benches, my arms and legs felt almost swollen in a way. They twitched with energy, and for once, I was ravenous. Meat lovers and supreme both fell to the powers of my jaws. And rather than criticize me for it, the team actually cheered, like it was all some sort of game.

“Damn, bro, did you see this guy hustle?” Kenny Yates was the biggest player on the team, with a voice to match. “Bet he could put Patters to shame.”

I shook my head at the praise, first because it didn’t suit me, and secondly to save my bacon, in case Kenny’s comment offended Ryan Patterson, the wide receiver. “I’m not really the sportsy type. I’m just doing this for Coach Andrews, because he asked me to.”

The whole team smiled knowingly, and I started to fear for my life. The only reason I was able to stay calm was because Dale was watching us so closely. “See? Already running plays for him.” A hefty arm wrapped itself around me and wedged me against Kenny’s bulky frame. The guy could’ve been his own personal space heater. “Just gotta bulk up a little, and you’re ready to charge.” My head swam at the attention. The action reminded me only too well of Kyle and his happy-go-lucky attitude.

“Damn, Kenny, let him breathe. You’re gonna choke him,” one of the others hollered, which prompted a round robin of laughter that spread like a chain. Or maybe a circuit? I guess either could work for an analogy.

Kenny was actually blushing when he took his arm off me. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s … it’s okay. I’m fine.”

I’d said it to be polite, but … I was surprised to find I actually meant it.

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The blowback from the work was remedied with the aid of Kyle’s drinks. That stuff is seriously some of the best I’ve ever tried. I don’t know what’s in it, but I perk up hard core when I drink it. I gave some to Slater and Jackson to help them out, too, since they’d been called to help with some of the other sports events that day.

Kyle took one look at them after the fact and said those fatal words. “Okay, bros. That’s it. You’re coming to the gym with me.”

“Why?” Slater had asked.

“First, because you clearly need training if you’re hurting that badly after helping out. Secondly, because it’s relaxing. And third, because it gives us a chance to hang out in more than just D&D or gaming.” He smirked. “When I’m done with you, they really will call you Slayer.”

“I don’t know….”

“Bro, trust me. One month, and the gym’s gonna feel like your home away from home.” He smirked. “And you’re going to love every second of it after.”

“Wanna bet?”

Kyle smirked. “Sure. If I get you over 240 by the end of a month, you talk with Andrews about joining the wrestling team.”

“And if I win, you have to break that strict routine of yours and spend a day marathoning anime with us. Unhealthy snacks included.”

Kyle grinned. “You’re on.” Next, he turned to Jackson. “You wanna get in on this?”

Jackson shook his head. “Someone’s got to be there to referee.”

“Good. You can work on dumbbell curls while you watch.”

I chuckled. “Kyle, you’re incorrigible.”

Kyle smirked, then let his face go slack as he gaped at me and pitched his voice low. “Uhhh, what’s incorrigible mean?”

That earned him a pillow to the face. “Quit it, dumbass,” I said playfully.

He smirked as he pulled the pillow away. “Take it easy, smartass.” He pulled back his arms and bared his teeth menacingly. “Let me show you the benefits of working out at the gym personally, little bros.”

The combination pillow wrestling match was the stuff of legends.

Naturally, the dumbass slaughtered us all.

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I stood in front of Andrews as he leaned back on his roller chair in the Coaches’ joint office. I hadn’t been in there since Kyle brought me back after that first workout session went overtime. The traffic running through the locker room felt more like rush hour on the freeway when I weaved through the crowd. Boys waited patiently by the shower stalls or passed one another on the way in and out.

“Busy out there today, isn’t it?” I asked.

Andrews nodded. “It’s becoming an almost daily occurrence.” Then he smiled. “It’s good to see so many boys dedicated to getting fit.”

I eyed his chest. The shirt he wore was straining heavily. I could actually see the jutting of his pectorals and the ridges of his six pack. The tension of the sleeves over his biceps looked like they could give at any moment. “And teachers?”

Andrews laughed. “And teachers. So, what was it you wanted to talk with me about?”

“What you wanted to talk with me about. You said you wanted to talk after the game, but you didn’t leave the office when everyone cleared out.”

“Oh, that.” Andrews rose to his full height and laid a hand over my shoulder. I couldn’t help but wonder. Had he always been so tall? “Don’t worry about it. I had some concerns over your meetings with Stone is all. He cleared things up for me after our talk. This school couldn’t be in better hands.” He smiled. “But since you’re here, how about you join me for a little workout? I want to run some ideas by you for a campaign I’m cooking up, and I think best when my body is working out.”

I felt that familiar itch building again. The nurse had explained it was just a part of puberty that all men had to bear. That didn’t mean I liked it. And it was so hard to pay attention when an episode came on. Stone’s words came back to haunt me.

I want you to be comfortable.

That was at Stone’s office. I didn’t know what to think of him yet.

Want.

But this wasn’t Stone’s place. This was Andrews’.

Be comfortable.

Andrews knew me.

Want.

I wanted to scratch so badly.

Be comfortable.

Andrews dealt with boys before. He was a coach. It was normal for him.

Want.

He wouldn’t mind, right?

Be comfortable.

He was a friend. He’d understand. “I, uh….” My fingers twitched.

Want.

I wanted him to understand. I wanted not to be judged. I wanted not to have to ask to go to the bathroom every other period, just because of this stupid fucking itch!

Be comfortable.

A quick adjustment. Nothing lewd. Just a necessity.

Want.

One wasn’t enough. Locker room was full. No bathrooms. No privacy.

Be comfortable.

Screw it. I scratched. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but it was worth it!

“So, that’s why you’ve been running off to the bathroom so much.” His voice was soft as he looked down on me.

Be comfortable.

I averted my eyes. “Yeah, it’s….”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Andrews shrugged. “You’re teenagers, and you have needs. Stop worrying so much about what other people think. If you need to scratch, you’re not about to be sent to the headmaster’s office.” He smiled.

Comfortable.

“I … thanks.” My cheeks were still flushed, but at least the heat was receding.

“Any time.” He led me toward the locker room door. “Now, let’s get to that session, so I can discuss my idea.”

Comfortable.

My back straightened. My shirt stretched just a little as my chest inflated with air. I smiled. “Yeah, I think I have some time.”

The clack of weights and the rhythmic thump of heavy feet on treadmills struck in time to the music that played over the speakers when we finally entered the gym.

“There’s always time for a workout.”

Andrews grinned at me. And, honestly, I couldn’t help but grin back. I just felt so…

Comfortable.

“Yeah.” The chuckle was more of a hiccup than a proper laugh, a sort of a catch, like you get just before you sneeze, only in reverse. It felt weird, but … also kind of good, like I was pushing out all the anxiety I’d had balled up in my chest. I stopped, frowned, tried again, and I felt even better after. A giddy sort of high settled in, and I could hear the rhythmic whirring of the blood rushing through my ears and body. If this was the reason why jocks laughed the way they did, I was sold. I would never make fun of them for it again. This time, when I scratched, there was no fear, only reward as I finished my reply. “I guess there is.”

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The rhythmic chunk of the throwing arm was quickly answered by the reverberation of metal or the heavy popping thwack that resounded as a bad throw from the machine struck the ground or the back of the batting cage. Things were warming up at last, and the sheer motion of the sequence was, well, mechanical. Kind of should’ve expected that, since there was a literal machine at work for the practice. A stonewall baseball cap on our heads kept the sun out of each of our eyes as we sat on the bleachers and worked on our respective homework assignments.

“Ivan Petrovich Pavlov is one of the psychological giants of the nineteenth century. Thanks to his research, humanity came to understand the scientific and psychiatric principle of the art known today as conditioning,” Jim explained in a chipper voice. “He is, in fact, the twenty-fourth most cited psychologist of the twentieth century. This theory has been applied in a variety of means and places, including educational classrooms, phobias, and various behavioral therapies.”

“Remind me why we’re out here again?” I asked as Jim droned on through the module.

Jackson shrugged. “It helps me concentrate.”

“How?”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping.

“Dunno. It just does.”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Thwack!

“Guess I just—”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping!

“—Like the sound of it.”

“The batting cages?”

“Yeah. The ball, the bat, the vibrations, the sun on your face.” He leaned back and spread his legs to emphasize his point. “It just feels … better, you know? Sort of like a dance. It just beats stuff into your head.”

Kyle grinned. “I can totally relate. I feel the same way when I’m lifting weights. If I have a problem, I go to the gym. A good workout always helps me, well, work my problems out.” He smiled and flexed one of his arms to show off the swollen bicep. “Good for the bod, too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Slater rolled his eyes. “We get it. The gym is your happy place.”

“You’re just mad because you’re sore,” Kyle retorted. “If you’d just drink those shakes I gave you, you wouldn’t have this problem in the first place.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

“I’m not the one who agreed to the bet,” Kyle pointed out, then chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’ll make a meathead of you yet.”

“In your dreams, ‘bro,’” Slater sassed.

“That’s big bro to you,” Kyle countered.

Jackson continued eying the cages. Jim was long since forgotten by all of us. Or rather, none of us were paying attention to him. If he were alive, I’d probably have felt bad about it, but since he was just some computer program, we just let him run his mouth. We could go over the module again later. After all, if you have a problem, go to Jim, right?

“You know, you could always just go and try one,” I noted. “It’s not like they’re the sole property of the baseball team.”

“I don’t know….”

I grabbed his arm and pulled him off the bleachers. He stumbled but managed to catch himself as I dragged him behind. I guess you could say since overcoming that one hurdle, it felt easier to do things like this and not be afraid of a bad outcome. “Come on. I’ll start up the machine. You get a bat and helmet.

The first impact was enough to jar the bat out of Jackson’s hands. He looked like a living tuning fork the way he shook after he took the shot.

“Maybe try turning down the speed a little?” he asked as he nursed his hands.

“Rookie mistake.” I turned in surprise. I hadn’t heard the player approach. His shoulders were broad, his arms swollen and pumped after what I assumed was a session in one of the other cages. Bro had a blunt face with a thick brow and smooth dark skin that shone under the sun. “Your arms aren’t built to handle that kind of blowback yet.” He nudged me aside and shoved his fingers over the console. The whirr of the belts lessened as their speed slowed. “Try it now.”

The difference was night and day. Jackson started landing hits. He managed a few good pop flies, though most of them were fouls. The player shook his head in disgust and stomped into the cage after the cycle wound down.

“You’ve got it all wrong. Wrong stance, wrong grip, and definitely the wrong break.” He wrapped his arms around Jackson like a father would his son and adjusted Jackson’s grip and stance. “Follow through. Don’t break your wrists until the last possible second.” He nodded to me to start the next round of shots.

Crack went the bat.

“Feel the rhythm.”

Crack!

“Make it sing.”

Ring!

“Eye on the ball.”

Smack!

“Just the ball.”

The bat rang again as Jackson struck a solid blow that arced into the netting above.

“That’s it, bro. Read it. Follow it.”

Smack!

He let go of Jackson’s hands and whispered in his ear. “Crush it.”

Jackson was a tuning fork again. Only this time, he didn’t drop the bat. The ball drove straight for the machine with a resounding crack! Fortunately, the machine was heavy duty metal, so it could take some blows, and the netting took care of the rest. His mouth dropped open at the result, then broadened into a manic sort of grin. “I … I did it.” He laughed. “I did it!” The exultant whoop carried far over the school grounds.

“Not bad.” The player smiled and nodded as he folded his arms. “You’ve got potential. But if you really want to beat that ball up—” He raised both arms in a double bicep flex. “—You’ve gotta get jacked, son. Huhuhuh.”

Jackson scratched his crotch and stared almost hungrily at the player’s arms.

He smirked. “If you want to be more than just the water boy, meet me here after school tomorrow. I’ll make a player of you yet.” He hefted a bottle and guzzled its contents. A small stream of green liquid dribbled down the side of his cheek, and he wiped it after. “Come dressed for the gym and ready to sweat. Understand?” His gaze hardened. “Be ready.”

Jackson nodded. His mouth hung slightly open as he breathed. The jock chuckled and clapped one of his massive hands on Jackson’s arm.

“Name’s Barry. My bros call me Bruiser.”

“J-Jackson,” he replied.

Barry smirked again. “Good name, bro. See you soon.”

“Yeah….”

The jock walked away with a measured swaggering sort of gait that showed off just how taut the muscle was around his legs. It was evident he could do a lot more than just crack a ball open. His whole body was built for the field, whether it be running, throwing, or hitting.

When my friend didn’t move, I finally walked over to check on him. “You okay, Jackson?”

“Yeah,” he repeated again in that same faraway tone, then shook his head. His gaze came back into focus as he concentrated on me. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s get back to that homework.” He rubbed the bicep Barry had touched as I shut the pitching machine down and returned the gear. Then we walked back to the bleachers. We’d put off our assignment long enough. It was time to go back to Jim.

Credit for this image goes to @dissolving-time. Story is mature for some language. This is another story from the Coach Stone universe. I hope you all enjoy it. :D If you’d like to see more of these stories, please join my Patreon.

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Stone Cold

“Coach said you have to get your shot, bro.”

I gazed at the meathead that had once been my fellow prisoner. He’d already donned the dog tags that were locked in his footlocker. Muscle rippled over his body as he gazed at me holding one of the biggest rifles I have ever seen in my life.

“Chapman, do you know what that is?” I asked as I eyed the gun warily. The caliber alone would be enough to splatter my brains all over the wall.

“The name’s Champ, bro.” He said it so casually, so matter-of-factly. Had they really brainwashed him so thoroughly?

“Your name is Lance Chapman, from Enfield, North Carolina. You specialize in computer programming, like me. We were brought here against our wills, remember?”

“Nah, bro.” “Champ” let out a deep vapid chuckle. His camouflage draped over his legs, but I could see the hints of growing muscle bunching, just waiting for a good pump to press them tightly against the confines of the cloth. “Coach wants my bod first, my brains second. Huhuh.” He grinned at me, revealing perfectly white and straightened teeth.

I’d hoped to reason with him, but it was clear he was beyond that. I brandished my own pair of dog tags. Like I said, computers were my thing, both programming and the hardware. It took me a while, but I managed to get my lockbox to open, too. And without reducing myself to a wannabe army poster boy. “I have my tags, Champ. You can’t keep me here. You know once I get my tags, I’m supposed to leave. I’m supposed to report to Coach, remember?”

“But you’re not gonna, are you, bro?” he asked seriously as his brow furrowed. “You just wanna get out.”

“I have to get out to see Coach, now don’t I?” The exit was right there in bold black lettering. The lock had already disengaged on cue when I seized my tags. I just needed to get past him. If I could distract him somehow or incapacitate him, I could run.

Chapman spread his legs in a broader stance as he planted himself firmly in front of the door. “You’re not ready to see Coach yet, little bro. And Coach hasn’t called you.”

“I am ready.”

“Prove it.”

I knew a few basics from martial arts training in my youth. I’d been fortunate enough to keep up the practice in my free hours. The meathead in front of me may have had a weapon, but we were in tight quarters. It would be difficult to get that barrel pointing at me if I could stay close. And while he may have had raw strength, I had experience. I also still had my wits about me. I sighed and let my shoulders droop as I approached him. “Look, Champ, just ... let me go, okay? You and I both know this is wrong. It’s against the law to kidnap someone.”

“No can do, little bro. Coach says we need more training. Coach says we have a project to help with. Coach says muscle CHAMPs like me need to train and obey. I listen to Coach. I obey. This Champ o—”

The mantra was what I was waiting for. It doesn’t matter how big you get if you haven’t got the trained reflexes to deal with a sudden change yet. And Chapman’s mind had been either short circuited or rewired to reinforce his thuggery. I’d heard it enough times through the door. It wasn’t soundproofed. I think that was deliberate on the part of this “Coach” to give us a taste of what’s in store. Demoralizing a captive is a large part of ensuring that he or she remains compliant, after all. And I’d heard enough, “This meathead obeys,” to know this was a fulltime operation made heavy on the brainwashing. It had to be to change someone so drastically. This wasn’t just a sign of subtle change. This was downright breaking them and building them back up again into the equivalent of obedient machines.

In this case, it played in my favor, and I hate to think of it this way, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was grateful for it. The mantra made him vulnerable. I laid a hand gently on his shoulder, being sure to get close enough that he couldn’t put the barrel against me. His eyes were glassy and unseeing as he uttered the mantra that he and everyone else like him had been conditioned to speak.

Then I took him down. It was simple to sweep his feet out from under him, and the move flowed like water. Bruce Li would be proud. I followed up with a heavy blow to the side of his head with my boot. Part of our imprisonment had included removing our personal affects, so I had no idea where my street clothes were. I didn’t give the blow enough force for any serious damage, but it would be enough to daze him, maybe even knock him out if I was lucky.

I threw the door open while he groaned on the floor. I managed all of maybe two steps before my arms was seized and I was slammed against the wall. I swear, my bones vibrated from the impact. I saw a helmet with a reflective visor and the broadest chest I had ever seen in my life. This man was huge. And unfortunately for me, he was also very skilled. My arm was yanked behind my back faster than I had time to process. He pulled, and I felt my socket strain to send stabs of pain through my arm and neck. Another faceless mook strode forward. But unlike Chapman, this one was decked in full body armor.

“Well done, recruit. You’ve passed Coach’s test. You will serve in Coach Stone’s cyber unit and in Research and Development. You will obey.”

“Like hell, I will,” I swore. That rewarded me with another painful jerk of my arm while a targeted blow forced me to my knees.

“Meathead recruit will comply.” The man withdrew a syringe from a side pocket and tapped the chamber to dislodge any air bubbles, then pulled off the protective cap with a deliberate casual air of the well-practiced. The substance was green, and the soldier had no qualms over pulling my sleeve up. I squirmed, but a yank of my other arm followed by a crushing iron grip on my free arm left me tense as he stabbed the needle into my arm and depressed the syringe. He removed the needle casually and replaced the cap, then inserted the syringe into another pouch.

The two visored faces stared at one another for the briefest of moments in a silent exchange. Then they nodded as the one who injected me rose, turned and entered the room where I had been held prisoner. A low groan emanated from the space, followed by a series of loud cracks.

“Rise, meathead. Follow.”

The voice that emanated in reply was deeper than I remembered. “This meathead obeys...” An even greater shock greeted me when the lumbering brute emerged. Chapman’s muscle mass had increased dramatically, and the man’s skull had completely reformed. Sharp, angular, square features blunted his face now, and his eyes were a vivid shade of green. The oversized gun didn’t look so ridiculous for him anymore.

“What the hell...?” I murmured.

“Meathead Champ will listen to orders. Meathead Champ will obey. Meathead Champ will fire on his roommate on command. Meathead Champ will prepare to fire now.”

“What?” I balked. I wanted to squirm again, but once more, my captor brought me to heel. I tried to shift out of his grip, but the hold was too strong. Even if I went limp, he’d still be able to haul me back up again. That didn’t stop me from trying, however.

I heard a whine not unlike the sound you hear in a sci-fi movie when a blaster is being charged or a bomb is being primed. The barrel was soon directed at my face. My heart hammered as Chapman uttered his mindless acknowledgement.

“Meathead Champ obeys. This meathead is ready to fire.”

“Fire.”

There was light, a strange tingling that bordered on the pleasant, and then blackness. I came to in an empty barracks. When I rose, everything felt ... heavy, awkward. The sight of the muscles bulging against the fabric of my shirt was more than enough to unsettle me as my throat clenched and my mouth went dry. I wanted to scream, but at the same time I knew better. I journeyed over my torso, my arms, everything. All of it felt in order, albeit significantly enhanced. It was my face I dreaded the most. And true to my fears, I could feel each sharply defined contour from my own transformation that was doubtless facilitated by the rifle. As a test, I ran through pi to see just how far in the infinite decimal sequence I could get. Then I searched through the other parts of my brain. I felt no compulsion, no absentmindedness, no blank emptiness or cotton or wool. I was clear, surprisingly so, given how quickly my mind seemed to jump from place to place.

“Comfortable?”

The question came out of nowhere, and I balked and bawled as my body sent me crashing into another bunk with the increased force of my new mass.

“Well, clearly not anymore,” the voice replied urbanely. I rounded on the figure only to see a man standing at least a head taller than I. His manner was relaxed and composed. His blond hair flickered like silver in the light. And though he was completely relaxed, his body oozed that smug command and intimidation that subconsciously demanded respect from those around him. “Please, take a moment to acclimate yourself. I find a blow to the shins is never pleasant.”

I decided to stick with sitting, rather than rick another launch with a body I had absolutely no experience with. “Who ... are you?” I winced at the depth of my voice. Logic only dictated it would have changed with the rest of my physique, but I had hoped it wouldn’t.

“A scientist of sorts. Biochemistry is my specialty, though I’ve branched out into many other fields.” He chuckled. “Why don’t you just stay there and we’ll have a nice chat between the two of us?” He lowered his broad frame onto the bed I had just launched myself from and gazed at me with vivid blue eyes. “My name is Stone. And you doubtless have many questions and expletives you want to voice, most likely not in that order.”

I felt like a broken record as curse after curse and swear after swear flowed out of me in an invective tirade. Denunciations and questions boomed from me like the retort of a cannon, emphasized by a number of curses and swears until that was all I heard winding down ... and down ... and down....

“Are you finished?”

A plaintive, almost defeated, “Fuck,” hissed from me as I rested my head in two massive hands.

“Glad you could get that out of your system. Now, do you have any real questions you wanted to ask me?”

“Why?” I finally managed to ask.

“You’re a programmer. You should understand. If a program doesn’t work the way it’s intended, you go into the code, find the bug, and fix it. Sometimes it’s messy work, but the end result is worth it. I’m doing that on a global scale, or at least I will in time. Getting rid of bigotry, erasing the divide between the strong and the weak to produce a better world for everyone.”

“You broke Chapman.”

“Champ is happy where he is. He chose it. He wanted it. You two had virtually the same IQ scores and talents, at least when it came to computer engineering and programming. Unlike you, though, Champ was fighting conditions that would make it so that he could never enjoy the same level of fitness and activity that you do. Such a lack eventually results in fantasies, a longing to experience what one never has had. Chapman threw it all away because he reveled in the chance to grow and swell. And, I admit, I fed that desire while he tried to hack the mainframe. I let him see where he would ultimately end up. And I gave him a simple choice. He accepted my offer to obey. He lied to you, pretended to fail, and complied with everything I told him whenever he signed in. He is living his fantasy now, and is deliriously happy to be receiving training as a part of my Meatheads.

Rage curled my lip, but I couldn’t do a thing. I wanted to lunge at the man, strangle him, but my body wouldn’t comply. All I could do was sit and watch.

“You may have noticed by now, but my meatheads can’t do anything against me. I’m their authority figure, their alpha. Or as they like to call me, Coach. You can’t attack me because I told you to stay there. And though you may want to deny it, I know that deep down, you’re enjoying the sensation of your new body just as much as Champ is.”

“How?”

“My formula.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “It’s not perfect yet, but the iterations I’ve produced from my original notes have been very useful in extending my control. I don’t want to be a dictator, but I’m not about to let the world stay as it is either. Shadow politics, assassinations, pointless bombings and wars, genocides, suicides. This world is a mess. I have the tools to fix that mess once and for all. And I intend to do just that. To sum it up for you, I’m my original test subject. And the formula worked wonders for me as a result, but it also rendered me ... incapacitated for a time. As a result, much of my research was lost, and I’ve had to rebuild using different iterations of my creation until I can find that special mix. On the plus side, as derivatives of my original formula, it seems that anyone exposed automatically becomes subservient to me. It makes things much simpler when dealing with intruders and espionage. It also helps with recruiting.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Because I wanted you to sample the goods. That, and because there are still those who can resist the full effects of my injections and other sources of integration for a certain period of time. As I said, the formula still needs work. But I like to use the less effective iterations for special cases like you. Your specialty in coding and computer engineering is something I need right now. And I want you to keep your mind focused on the task at hand, rather than on weights and muscle. That’s why I’m assigning you to our MEAT department.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I think we both know you can’t.” Stone smirked. “For the record, MEAT stands for Muscle Enhancement and Accelerated Transformation. You’ll be helping us to design and improve a number of methods and technologies to help smooth subject transitions into becoming Meatheads. And more importantly, on how to preserve their skills and knowledge while still incorporating them into the collective. In other words, research and development. Your specialty, if I recall correctly.”

“I don’t want to.”

Stone chuckled. “On the contrary. I think you do.”

“I do—” My tongue stuck. My jaw locked. I tried again. “I do—” Again, I had the same problem. Again, I couldn’t finish. “I ... do....”

Stone’s smirk widened into a sneer. “Glad we got that settled. Oh, and for the safer ones, I want you to experiment on yourself. I’m intrigued to see just what a smart obedient Meathead will look and act like.

I groaned another curse, which only further emphasized my captor’s glee. “Spoken like a true Meathead.”

“Whatever....”

“That’s right. Whatever I say, Meathead.” The cocky arrogance was gone, leaving behind a chilling glare that could cut through diamond. “And you will address me with respect as either Coach Stone, Coach, or Sir. Do I make myself clear?”

I clenched my mouth shut.

“Answer me,” Stone demanded.

“Yes, ... Sir.”

“Good.” His eyes flashed as he rose from his position. “Now follow me. I’ll guide you to your lab. You have a lot of work ahead of you, don’t you, Meathead?”

I couldn’t stop myself as I rose to follow him. “Yes, Sir, Coach.”

“That’s right.” He chuckled. “On second thought, let’s get you dressed first. Then we can visit the lab.”

“Whatever you say, Coach.”

“Good boy,” he purred. I shuddered in revulsion, both at his cold dominance and ... at the jolt of pleasure that surged with that acknowledgement. If that was how it felt now, how would I feel after a few months or years of working under him? Would I be able to resist?

...

Would I even want to?

I shuddered again. Hopefully, I would be able to find a solution before Coach made me a permanent team member. Or worse yet, before I did.