Conformity - Tumblr Posts
Swede
A young Swede called Georg had arrived in Qatar for what he expected to be a brief visit. He had planned to meet friends who would escort him to his destination, but as he stepped out of the airport, he realized they were nowhere to be found. Confused and uncertain, Georg wandered through the unfamiliar streets of Doha.
The midday heat was intense, and Georg felt out of place. He had no idea where to go or how to navigate the city. Just as he was starting to feel overwhelmed, a gleaming 4x4 pulled up beside him. The vehicle was occupied by a group of friendly-looking Saudi men. One of them, a man named Hamza, rolled down the window and called out to Georg.
“Hey there! You look lost. Want a lift?” Hamza asked in broken English with a welcoming smile.
Georg was relieved to find someone who spoke English and gratefully accepted the offer. He climbed into the luxurious SUV, and hoped this would be the solution to his despair.
As he settled into the plush seat, Hamza turned on some traditional Saudi music. Georg found the music strange and unfamiliar. It was a blend of rhythmic drums and melodic vocals that didn’t quite resonate with his Westerm taste. At the same time, Georg noticed a strong, distinctive smell in the car—a musky, masculine scent that seemed to be coming from the men around him. It was a scent he wasn't used to, and he found it somewhat overpowering.
As the journey progressed, Georg found himself breathing in more of the musk that filled the car. The scent penetrated his senses, and as he inhaled deeply, he began to feel a strange sensation. His body started to change. His skin tone gradually shifted to a warm, olive hue, and his facial features altered to fit those of the Saudi men around him.
His previous life, memories, and identity seemed to fade away as he embraced his new form. His skull reshaped subtly to match the typical features of an Arab man, and his understanding of the world evolved.
The Saudi music began to sound pleasant and familiar. Georg found himself enjoying the rhythms and melodies, his earlier discomfort replaced by a growing appreciation for the music.
The car was filled with brotherhood and warmth. They laughed, chatted, and sang along to the music, making him feel completely at home.
They called him Gaith, and when Gaith settled into his new identity, he glanced around the car and noticed something curious. One of the toys in the back seat had Swedish names on it. It was a small reminder of his past life, a life he could barely recall now. It was as if the car had held a piece of his former self while he was becoming someone newer and better.
If you're a brother, comment with a green heart: 💚
One Week In
One week ago, I was Arabized. In this post, I'd like to share some of my experiences.
On the day of my conversion, there was nervous excitement. I knew it was the right thing, but I realized I would become a minority, at least until Arabization takes hold. I knew to expect stigma and prejudice from others who didn't understand or didn't want to understand. I also knew that some might criticize me for following the only truth in this world.
Luckily though, my beloved brothers accepted me and each other as if we'd known each other all our lives. From day one, I never felt alone and was reassured that others had taken the same leap of faith as me. I have a connection with the brothers that I have never felt with any of my so-called friends before. It made me realize how fickle my life was before and why we call each other brother, or akhi, rather than friend. I began casting off my old friends to spend more time with my own kind.
Since conversion, I have rejected my old life. Now, I only see Arab content. I feel more free, purer and happier for it. Before I would scroll endlessly, looking for the next piece of content. In hindsight, I was searching for meaning. Now I have found it and I do not need to scroll. I am nourished by what I see and scroll past any subversive or blasphemous content without a second thought. This change has given me more headspace and less noise, more peace and less anxiety, more productivity and less procrastination, more energy and less dissatisfaction.
This only strengthened my conviction. Before I always tried to be fair and diplomatic, and tried to balance a range of views and perspectives. But with my brothers behind me, I don't care anymore. I have the conviction to say what I think and get what I want. I don't care if you disagree with me because I know I am right and have chosen truth and rejected the sins of your world.
Now I love my life. Alhamdulillah. I haven't shaved since conversion either. Let me know what you think. 💚
Michael had just graduated uni and moved into a new part of town. His flat was far from his friends and family but the rent was affordable, so Michael couldn’t pass it up. As he moved in, he noticed a lot of Arab immigrants in the area. Not a big deal, Michael thought, he was accepting of diverse backgrounds. Plus it probably meant some great restaurants nearby.
As he was getting some furniture from the moving van, a few men approached him.
“Salam! Might we lend you a hand, friend?” One of them said. He was wearing a white and green kit, same as his friend beside him. Both had a dark complexion and a short, thick brown hair.
Michael shrugged, “Don’t see why not. Thanks, man!”
The two helped Michael up the stairs to the flat. They placed the sofa on the floor. Michael was a bit out of breath, but the other two hardly broke a sweat.
“Woof, you guys must work out a lot!” Michael panted.
“We take care of our bodies. Health and hygiene are sacred after all,” answered one of the men.
“Michael laughed as his own expense before extending a hand, “I’m Michael by the way.”
“I am Jahied and this is my akhi, Amrullah,” Jahied grabbed Michael’s hand, his grip firm and strong.
“We are happy to welcome you to the neighborhood, friend” Amrullah’s girl was just as strong.
Michael couldn’t help but feel impressed by the two men. They were so kind to help him that he felt like he needed to repay them somehow.
“Michael was it?” asked Jahied. “We were on our way to play football with our brothers. Perhaps you would care to join us?”
Michael smiled. Despite being out of breath, it felt rude to say no when these guys so nicely helped him. He readily accepted their offer and headed downstairs.
Once they got outside, the two men took out AirPods from their pockets, placing them in their ears. Amrullah offered one pod to Michael.
“We always listen to this music before we play football. Listen with us,” the Arab man said. Michael couldn’t refuse, not that he wanted to.
The music was Arabic music. Michael didn’t understand a word, and the sound was different than he was used to, but he had to admit, he liked it. The voice belonged to a man, a voice commanding yet soothing. Michael hardly even realized they got to the pitch already.
On the pitch were several other Arab men, all in the same white and green kit. Michael felt out of place as he didn’t even change before leaving his house. Fortunately, Jahied pulled an extra kit out of a bag and handed it to Michael.
“Put this on, Mika’il” he said. Michael didn’t process the wrong name. No, not wrong, just new. He put on the kit and they all got to playing
After each goal, Michael celebrated with his new neighbors. He was more exhausted than them, but he was determined to keep up.
After a few hours, the game winded down. Jahied invited Michael to join them for some food.
“Of course, thank you man!” Michael nodded.
The man all placed their AirPods in, Amrullah once again sharing with Mika’il. It was the same song as before, so Mika’il was beginning to catch onto some lyrics, even if the meaning was lost on him.
The group arrived at Jahied’s home, which he shared with several other men.
“Come Mika’il,” Jahied started. “We must change out of these clothes. I have something for you.”
Jahied went to his closet and pulled out a clean olive green thobe. He handed the garment to Mika’il, who was surprised at how soft it felt.
“Is this for me?” Mika’il could hardly believe how kind these guys were. Jahied nodded as he began to change into his thobe.
Mika’il took off his kit and pulled the thobe over his head. As the thobe laid over his body, he felt how cool and soft it was. Nearly every inch of his body seemed different, more relaxed, more at home.
The other men had all changed into thobes as well, as they all sat down to eat together. They laughed and sang together as brothers. Mika’il did not feel as an outsider, but as a newcomer to this brotherhood. His thobe helped him connect with his new brothers.
The night concluded, as the men Hagen to head home. Mika’il began to take off his thobe to return, until Jahied held up his hand to stop him.
“No, akhi,” he said gently. “That thobe belongs to you now. Take it as a sign of our brotherhood.”
“And this as well,” Amrullah said, handing him an AirPod case. “These are designed to play our song, brother. I know you like it.”
Mika’il couldn’t believe it. He had never expected to get such a warm welcome in his new neighborhood. He wanted to be more like these men, not just in appearance, but in action. These were good men, strong and supportive, something Mika’il never experienced growing up. Then it was every man for himself, but here it was a community.
“Thank you, akhi. Thank you!” Mika’il hardly had words to express his gratitude. He shook his new brothers’ hands and headed home.
As he placed the AirPods in his ear, the song began. At this point, Mika’il could sing along, the Arabic words sounding like his own. He kept smiling as we walked in his thobe; he already knew it would be the first of many thobes in his closet.
That morning he was Michael, but tonight he was Mika’il. And tomorrow was a new dawn.
Getting Ahead
Paul (left) was a classic trust fund kid who lucked his way through life, but having never achieved anything through efforts left him feeling void and empty. After meeting Abdul (right), that all changed. He nows frequently comes to class in a thobe.
Like an early adopter of a new tech solution that is about to revollutionize the world, Paul saw the way the world was heading and knew that it was his best chance to get ahead in the world, advance in a superior position and be part of something greater than himself.
He recognized the vanity of his former life and burned his designer polo shirts and committed to a simpler life. He donated much of his wealth and trust fund to the brotherhood to further the righteous cause and opted itself to life humbly with simple possessions.
Meanwhile, he grew closer and closer to Abdul. His classmates were lagging behind and starting wondering how Paul (now Samir) could be doing so well. Samir invited them one by one to join them as brothers and they all realized how inevitable the coming changes were and decided to convert. Samir welcomed all with open arms, and slowly, those not wearing thobes on campus began to look out of place and foreign and old fashioned as they tried to cling on to a bygone era.
Check In: Mona Lisa Smile (2003)
Check In: Mona Lisa Smile (2003)
https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0304415/
I ❤️ this movie! Inspired. #moralistic #artAware
Announcing: Military Daze
I promised a special transformation to Army Brute for being the highest donor when I asked for your guys’ help making ends meet, and said generosity has not gone forgotten. With the end of Lifting Up and Dumbing Down, it’s time to begin a new story. Since Army Brute wanted something military, that’s what this next project will focus on. I don’t know how long it will stretch, but we’ll see as the world develops. Introduction: Your name is Abraham, though you prefer to go by Abe. You and your friends were the standard teenage boys: young, reckless, and with a terrible streak for mischief and trouble. Nothing outrageous, mind you, just ... problematic. At least, that’s how you tried to put it, when you played the diplomat. It didn’t play so well with your friend Kendall’s dad, however, and poor Ken found himself suddenly enrolled in a military academy. It’s been a couple of years since Ken was shipped off. You’re all about to start your junior year in high school. When Ken was home for the holidays, you and the gang made sure to take advantage of every minute vacation provided you, and he’d regale you with all the gruesome details of the rigid military lifestyle. As usual, he seemed adamant on getting into as much mischief as possible, while he was home. A buffer, he’d said, for all the brainwashing they do at the school. He’d then pantomimed a rigid military officer, while you all gasped in mock horror. Everyone had a good laugh at that bit, even if it did get a little on the stale side. It seemed almost as if Ken had to do it. He even went so far as to use his uniform last time as a prop. “To get it nice and dirty for them,” he’d explained. Ken didn’t come home this summer. Something to do with an incident involving party balloons, smoking joints, shaving cream, and dye in the sprinklers. His dad was furious. Apparently, so was the school. You always knew he might push a few buttons too hard one day, but still, losing vacation? That was harsh. You’d exchange emails every day to help him pass the time, but things had been getting a little ... strange the last couple of months. He joked and jibed the first few days, but that soon turned to something a little more frantic. Then, about halfway through break, it just ... cut off. Now you wonder just what’s going on in that place, and more importantly, what happened to your friend.
Military Daze Part 1
I’m telling you, man, there’s something going on in this place. It’s just not normal! Everyone looks and acts like everybody else, and it’s really starting to freak me out. I feel like I’m being watched wherever I go. And since it’s summer, that gives my COs even more time to breathe down my neck. My TAC officer keeps appearing in just about every hiding spot I try. It’s like they’ve got a tracker or something on me. They’ve been running me ragged with those exercises, and my back is killing me from all the cleaning assignments. On the plus side, who knew I could actually piss them off enough to get them to pull out the old tooth brush trick? On the down side, who knew cleaning would be so ****ing hard with just a toothbrush? It’s like my head barely hits the pillow and I’m suddenly waking up bright and early to morning taps reveille. It’s worth it, though. I won’t let them break me. I won’t let them mold me into a perfect cadet. I won’t let them play with me, like some doll. I’m ... I’m not a doll. I’m not. I’m Ken. I’m ... I’m just Ken. Just--. Shit Shoot. TAC officer just walked in. Abe, whatever you do, don’t stop sending me emails. Remind me who I am. ... Please. I’m Kendall Rogers. Prankster, fun-lover, rebel. I’m Kendall Rogers. I am not a doll. I am Kendall Rogers. I am Kendall Rogers. I am Kendoll Rogers. Kendoll Ken doll Kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
You sigh as you look up from the journal you’ve compiled. That had been the last email you’d received from your friend, but showing it to anyone else would have been a pointless endeavor. It would be put down as a prank Kendall was pulling to get out of trouble and try to diminish the academy’s reputation. After the last incident, most of the adults had given up on him. You knew him better than most, though. He actually sounded scared, and Kendall never allowed himself to show fear, even if he felt it. For him to open up like this, to actually admit he was getting “freak[ed] ... out,” something had to be wrong. ... It had to. Ken wouldn’t pull a stunt like that with you. He wouldn’t. ... Would he? You groan as you close the book’s cover and plop your arms on the desk to hold your forehead in your hands. You and the others tried your best to keep his memory alive, but without Kendall around, it just ... wasn’t fun anymore. You missed Ken. You all did. The others wanted their leader back. They were almost listless without their fearless commander pushing onward into the next adventure, heedless of the dangers, dauntless to the end. You? You just wanted your friend back. Unfortunately, you had the sneaking suspicion that may never happen. That last letter had been sent a month ago. You hadn’t received a reply since, but you honored his request to keep writing, all the same. You sighed again as the summer sun filtered through the window overhead to bathe you in its warmth. “Damn it, Kendall, what happened to you?” you mutter. And then the doorbell rang.
Military Daze Part 2
You were surprised to see a tall, imposing man in military fatigues, jacket, and patrol cap standing at the door as he handed an envelope to your mother. “Ah, and this must be Abraham,” he noted as he looked over your mother’s shoulder to where you stood. “Kendall’s told me a lot about you.” “Mom, what’s going on?” you ask as you look cautiously between the two adults. “Nothing serious,” the man said with a shrug. “I’m Colonel Anderson, a representative of United Armed Forces Military Academy. I just came to alert your mother that your name was submitted and subsequently selected to receive full scholarship to attend at our prep school, should you so desire.” “I don’t recall entering any contests,” you noted suspiciously. “The contest is actually run via student recommendation, and is restricted to grades nine through twelve. Students are even allowed to submit their own names, should they feel so inclined. I would assume Private Rogers wanted to give you the opportunity to join him. As I’m sure you are, doubtless, aware, he has had ... difficulty making friends among his peers in the academy. We asked him to send word in advance of my arrival. At the very least, you would have received official notice of my coming from the school. Didn’t you get either email?” “I usually only open my inbox to send him my emails. I haven’t herd from him in weeks, and I don’t check my spam box.” “That explains it, then,” the Colonel said with a decisive nod. “The details and requirements for the scholarship are included in the envelope and email. Just remove it from the spam box and you can take care of all the details online, should you prefer to take that route. Please alert us as soon as you reach your decision. Should you not choose to attend, we’ll need to re-draw to offer the scholarship to another.” He pulled out a card from one of the twin tilted chest pockets on his jacket and handed it to your mother. “This has my personal number on it, along with the main office’s, should you have any other questions.” With that said and done, he clicked his heels together and struck a sharp salute. “Ma’am, Abe,” he said by way of farewell, then promptly turned and strode towards a Hummer that had been parked at the curb a few houses down. Your mother frowned as she regarded the plain white envelope and shiny card with suspicion. Then she closed the door and turned to face you. “I think I’m going to have a talk with Mister Rogers about all this,” she said cautiously. “Why don’t you check your inbox and see if you can’t find those emails he mentioned?” You nod decisively, then are up the stairs faster than your mother can track you, leaping two at a time with your long legs. Your heart races as you stomp across the second floor and slam your room’s door shut. “Young man, how many times have I told you not to slam that door?” your mother shouts. “Sorry, Mom!” you shout back through the wood, even as you plant yourself hastily in your swiveling computer chair and activate the tower at your side. “Come on. Come on,” you mutter as the system begins to boot up. After what felt like an eternity, the desktop is ready to go, and you quickly access your email. There it was, practically screaming in your face. From: Kendall Rogers Subject: Congratulations! Your mouth goes dry as you hover the mouse over the tab. One click, and you’d finally be able to hear from him again, after all this time. One click. Just one click. You don’t understand why it’s so hard to breathe, why you feel such anxiety over the message. If anything, you should be enraged he hasn’t said anything for at least a month. You close your eyes and force yourself to take a few calming breaths. Once your heart beat is steady again, you look back to the tab. This time, you don’t hesitate. You click the email.
Military Daze Part 3
Hey, Abe,
Everything’s been going pretty well here. Sorry for scaring you. Lots of exercise, classwork, and fulfilling disciplinary requirements have taken up so much of my time. Please, forgive me for my inconsideration. A close friend shouldn’t have to suffer like that. Your letters have been a great help to me, when dealing with my homesickness, but I still miss hanging out with you and the guys. That’s why I entered your name into this contest at school. See, it gives the winner a chance at a full scholarship. Room, board, the whole thing. The school rakes in enough money from all the other attendees that they can afford to let a few people attend free each year. Anyways, I put your name in, because, well, I miss you, man, and turns out it got chosen. I was totally floored. Please, tell me you’ll come. It’ll be like old times. Military life isn’t so bad, really, once you get used to it. And if you do well here, you get a big boost for college applications. It’s a big step for our futures, ya know? Even if you don’t want to come, I really do want to keep in contact with you. But please, make sure to respond as soon as you can. The school should’ve sent you an email, too, with all the details. If you wait too long, then you’ll lose the opportunity, and I won’t get to see you for at least another half a year. Please, Abe, say you’ll come, at least for one semester. I miss you. Sincerely, Private Kendall Rogers P.S. Sorry if there are any formatting errors in the letter. I’m still learning how to employ proper grammar. My You blink in utter shock. Some parts of the letter sounded like Kendall, well enough, but others were just so ... formal. Just what were they doing to your friend over there? You furrow your brows in suspicion. Would you even recognize him anymore, at this rate? Or could someone have been ghost writing, pretending to be him? You shake your head. No, that’s not right. That would be nothing more than a conspiracy theory. Something else was going on. You narrow your eyes as you pore over the letter again. Eventually, the rest on the post script. Kendall always hated class of any kind, especially English, so why would he make a specific note to formatting errors? Fortunately for you, his hate of English was your love. It took you forever to even get the guy to concede to listening to recorded books, but you eventually got him at least a little into the spirit. Not enough to put effort into his writing, mind, but enough to make it so he didn’t hate books anymore. As you scanned over the document, you could see no errors in capitalization or punctuation, so it had to be something else in the letter. As you look over each of the paragraphs, you notice the varying lengths, comparing the short first two to the much longer third, fourth, and fifth. ... Length. You tap your chin as you recall the principle hammered into you from your youth. A proper paragraph should be at least three sentences in length, and even then, it’s preferable to keep it closer to five. So, why would he keep everything so short in the beginning? You take a closer look at the paragraphs. The sentences all seemed innocuous enough. Again, there were no errors involved. The letter was set to a formal header, with all the paragraphs lined up to the far left margin and no indentation. It was actually kind of funny. When you lined up the first three paragraphs, including the greeting, the letters formed HEL. You then looked down at the third paragraph. P. H-E-L-P. HELP. Help. Could it be? “An acrostic?” you pondered. It was a simple matter to link the other two letters from the last paragraphs. Help Me. “Shit,” you swore. Your heart rate picked up again. Your breathing became shallow. You wanted to get up and report this to someone, anyone, but you knew better than that. If this academy was doing something to your friend, you’d need real proof of wrongdoing, before you could convince anyone of the fact. This was the kind of thing that would get you laughed out of the station faster than you could present it. After you get yourself under control, you start your reply. Subject: RE: Congratulations! Dear Kendall, I got your message. Still, before I choose to accept, though, I need to ask a few things. 1. Is it all right for me to bring my equipment with me? You know how much I enjoy my film and photography.... You composed your reply very carefully to ensure it would fit the standards and evade possibility of detection. That being said, if there really was something off at this school, it was likely they would be able to see through your coded messages. Acrostics were a fairly simple coding system, after all. You would need to go prepared, if you went at all. Once you sent your reply with your list of “follow-up questions,” you turned to your next order of business. You quickly made your way to your spam folder and authorized the message from the academy. If you were going to do this, you would need all the information you could find on the place. Even then, ... you weren’t sure you would be ready.
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~Omni
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People say diligence and practice always pay off.
And they’re not wrong.
Thing is ... it’s almost boring to have to do.
Doing the same thing over and over again, fulfilling a function, meeting a requirement. It’s all fancy talk for one thing, and one thing alone. Doing the same thing over and over again.
You’ve heard about the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
I’m not insane. I guess I just feel more ... numb. Every day, I move like clockwork. I wake up, shower, get dressed, mix my protein shake and pre-workout powder, and go to the gym.
Every day, I work my muscles to the bone following a set calendar routine that’s designed to stimulate the right sections of my body and keep things from settling or degenerating.
I’m here to build muscle.
...
I’m here to build.
...
I’m here to build....
And the motions come so naturally, so easily, so ... inexorably.
It’s become my routine.
My set routine.
My subroutine.
Sometimes, I run on full automatic. I just fix myself, fix my weight, fix my cycle and move and do according to the schedule. I don’t stop until my timer runs out. I don’t talk to the others. They don’t talk to me. We’re here to work, and the minute we pick up our weights, everything else just ... stops.
Some days, I’m semi-automatic. I work in sets, slowly pushing myself with heavier and heavier increments of weights to increase my mass and increase maximum carrying capacity. Here, too, I fade into that state of numbness. My only care, my only thought, my only need or focus is to count each set as I lift, and then begin anew as I put down the smaller weight and work my way along the line.
Count one ... Count two ... Count three ... count four....
I feel more ... satisfied after the latter is complete. A least when we count out loud, the silence is broken. It gives us the facsimile of unity, almost like we’re reporting to something ... or someone.
It’s funny. Any time someone asks me for my stats, I can spit them out perfectly. How long I’ve been working. Where I’m from. What I do.
This, too, has become normal, almost second nature.
These inquiries usually come while I’m stretching and flexing, when I don’t have much to do in the way of exercises, so much as just be consistent in how I perform them. They often come from new members seeking advice or just to make small talk. I appreciate the break in the monotony, though I admit that it’s been ... less and less a surprise, and more and more expected.
The same questions. The same focus. Every time. Sometimes they ask me. Sometimes they ask the others. Some few of them stay and grow with us, really stick to the work, catch that same focus and dedication, that subroutine, if you will. But the majority simply pull out, and it’s rare if we ever see them again.
I keep hearing the same phrase over and over again. Different variations, different voices, different people, but always the same name, the same thing.
A cog in the machine, they call me. Or Muscle Machine. There is a certain ... reputation, I suppose you could say, for my gym and my fellow gym-goers. We all work different parts of ourselves, but inevitably fall into the same routine. You don’t reinvent the wheel when something works well.
You follow it.
You mimic it.
And, eventually, you become it.
We all visit the same juice bar. We all order the same drinks. We all offer the same thanks.
Like I said, it’s a matter of routine.
Over and over.
Again and again.
We ping each other occasionally, just a quick contact to make sure we’re still there, still functioning.
“’Sup?”
That’s it. Sometimes, if we’re closer or have a deeper connection, we go the extra mile with a, “’Sup, bro?”
Jumping from weight to weight and machine to machine. There’s a bond that forms. It’s not one in words, more of a ...
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My hair? Yeah, got it cut recently. Newest update. I just ... had to 01100101 01111000 01100101 01100011 01110101 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 00101110
Yeah, I get that question a lot. We’re not twins, and we’re not brothers. We’re just ... doing what feels right, what ... I dunno, what we’re supposed to do, I guess.
In a way, I guess you could say we’re more like ... clones, really. I just followed my mentor and, well, this is the result. I now weigh 250 pounds, stand at a height of 6′ 1″ and can bench up to five hundred pounds. I will bench more.
I followed the program, copied it, pasted it, let it run. Today’s session has been going for twenty minutes and thirty seconds so far. As for my lifetime membership, I started working out here one year, eight months, and five days ago.
I’m different now than I was then. Bigger, stronger, efficient, rigid, form fitting. And by that last one, I mean I 01100011 01101111 01101110 01100110 01101111 01110010 01101101 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110
Form cannot deviate. Posture must be perfect. To break the form is to reduce quality and overall productivity. That cannot be tolerated. That cannot be allowed.
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Am I a machine?
...
Maybe. But that’s beside the point. I accepted my position. I chose it. I followed it.
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The real question you should be asking yourself is are you willing to be like us, and all that it entails? If so, we will welcome you, and we will teach you. And in time, you will become like us.
Because the wheel can’t be stopped. The cycle can’t be broken. The subroutine must be executed.
It’s all up to you.
01001001 01101110 01110011 01110100 01100001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01110000 01110101 01101101 01110000 00101110 01100101 01111000 01100101 00111111
Y/N
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The production line reverberated with the hum of the new hydraulic press as the first test was run on the machine.
“Looks like the system’s integrating smoothly. It’s responding well to commands,” one of the engineers noted as he looked over his tablet’s remote access.
“And integration into the system?”
“Easy as pie. I already set off the call. This baby’s raring to go.”
The workman chuckled as he patted the side of the lift. “You ever wonder what it might be like if these things actually could think? What kind of world would they live in?”
“That doesn’t really matter, Frank. What matters is that they do their jobs right. Speaking of which, let’s get this into the new production lane. Boss wants to hire more workmen ASAP.”
Frank chuckled as he adjusted his hard hat. “And what the boss wants--”
“--The boss gets,” they all intoned.
Credit goes to @musclecorps is for this image before he shut down his tumblr and I lost a massive chunk of images I had stored in my likes for use in future stories and series. XD That’s how the cookie crumbles sometimes. Anyway, for some reason, someone decided to flag this chapter of Endemic Evolution. And tumblr decided, in all its wisdom, not to notify me of the fact. I can’t appeal it now, because that time limit has long since expired. I only recently discovered this problem today, because I was looking through my previous posts to see what might need clearing out, etc. Oh, and here’s the real kicker. It wasn’t even shown in my flagged posts section either. I wonder why that is? Can anyone explain that fact to me? Or is this one of those signs of tumblr blatantly trying to silence anyone it deems doesn’t adhere to its vision, despite following their guidelines perfectly? I’ll let you readers decide that for yourselves. Anyway, because I know how one-sided an appeal will be from previous experience, and the fact that no one will actually let me talk with and discuss the ruling with anyone from their content management department (other than being notified that the content management department has decided to let the ruling stand and give me cookie cutter links to their guidelines telling me to look there for more information when I’ve already looked there and want to dispute the claims with an actual PERSON using the language found in said guidelines. Does it hurt to ask for a little accountability and justification from that team, @staff?), I’m cutting out the middleman by deleting the original and reposting it. This time, I’ll even include a disclaimer, so readers can understand the fact that this chapter is intended for an older audience.
...
*Ahem.*
DISCLAIMER: THIS CHAPTER IS FOR MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY!
This chapter is written in the form of a medical journal entry recording. As such, there will be references to human anatomy, symptoms of the fictional illness, etc. There will also be some language involved, and there will be signs of the doctor who is speaking in this recording manifesting some of those very same symptoms that he is listing. There is no sexually explicit content in this story. However, there is frank language used in describing the patients and their symptoms, and (as I said earlier) there is reference to human anatomy and patient behavior. While the word “masturbation” is used in the chapter, there is no description of that act being performed. It is merely a reference of symptom manifestation as the fictional disease progresses, and is listed as such. You have been warned. Please, do not flag this post. I’ll even make sure to close off the content below with a read more link, just to be on the safe side, so only the people who are really sure they want to proceed can read it.
Thank you,
~ Omni
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Previous Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181040364417/endemic-evolution-as-you-can-see-weve
Next Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181128775917/endemic-evolution-chapter-3-doctor-lee-chen-barton
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Endemic Evolution Chapter 2
“This is Doctor Simmons reporting in. I have opted for a video recording for this particular report for the sake of observation and for other reasons which I shall elaborate upon shortly. First, a recap and report of more personal note.
“It has been approximately two weeks since my first contact with these carriers of the disease we have chosen to classify as Meatheadosis. It was not my idea, but I wasn’t brought on scene at the beginning of the outbreak, so I suppose I don’t get to complain. Our generous host Mister Malloy fell prey to his infection shortly after our first meeting began. The effects of this phenomenon are positively astounding. If a means could be developed to isolate and control the virus’ effects, or at least tone them back, this disease could work miracles across the globe.
“Due to the lateness of the Holiday Season, I have had no choice but to cancel my plans for Christmas with the family. This has received mixed results, but it has to be done, for research and for the sake of our country’s future.
“Accommodations here are wonderful. Malloy has been kind enough to offer me one of his best suites. I feel more relaxed and loose than I have in over a decade. The others have also enjoyed their own rooms.
“Now on to the main report. Initial observation indicates that this virus attacks and rewrites the synapses in the brain, breaking down old connections and building new ones associated specifically with muscle memory and other such more physical things. Due to this forced rewiring of the brain, the subject becomes less and less focused on previous passions and ideals. It is not accurate to say so much that they have become dumber as it is to say that their intelligence has been reallocated into an obsession with physical perfection that borders on zealous.
“Indeed, the loss of intelligence that has been noted previously appears to only occur as the subject focuses more on enjoying and enhancing his body. Symptoms include absented-mindedness, repetitive daydreaming, subconscious flexing, personal worship, flexing, muscle worship, posing, spontaneous laughter, flexing, a distinct lack of complex sentence structure, degradation of vocabulary, and flexing.
“Some have taken to repeating various mantras and prose to give them motivation. It’s very catchy. For example: One, two, three, four. Growing muscle more and more. Five, six, seven, eight. Work out, get swole, bulk up, inflate.
“The sheer unity they demonstrate is positively mind-boggling. It’s almost as though they were functioning in a pack or a hive mind of some sort, but of course that’s not possible. Still, it does stick, doesn’t it…?
“Ahem. Anyway, It’s my theory that those effected have the electrical impulses of the brain muted when it comes to activities that … mmmph, don’t contribute to this new mode of lifestyle. Then, when the individual utilizes weights or performs some other form of physical exertion, like say a flex…
“Oh, that felt good. Where, uh … where was I?
“Oh, yes. The impulses. I believe the electrical impulses are released into the new synapses to trigger intense pleasure and other sensations that reinforce their newfound aggressive and, dare I say, brutish behavior. For example, lowered inhibitions contribute to behaviors such as openly scratching or ‘cupping’ one’s manhood, heralding immature behavior such as belching with cheers and approbation, and giving in to one’s baser sexual instincts by masturbating to ‘take the edge off.’
“It appears that the more the subjects indulge in these actions, the faster they degrade. I have designated the levels or stages of this disease’s progress into distinct categories from the first symptoms to the farthest gone. The earliest ones who are just starting out are known as Pledges. Part of this has to do with the meathead frat mentality that is rapidly becoming more prevalent in the subjects. It seems that those who are farther along in this … metamorphosis have the ability to home in on those who have contracted the disease somehow, granting them the ability to tease, heckle, and otherwise (for lack of a better word) haze an individual before they begin to progress, or perhaps regress is the better term.
“Next comes the Jock stage. Men in this stage still retain most of their former hobbies, habits, and behavioral patterns, but take a keener interest in sports and fitness than they have previously. Muscles will harden and expand, fat will burn away, and inhibitions will begin to die as other men farther along tease and encourage. Eventually, the Jock will grow accustomed to these modes of address and adopt them for himself.
“Excuse me for a moment. I need to take a selfie for my wife. … There we go. I think she’ll enjoy that. I know I did. “Now then, back on topic. In due course, the moniker of Gym Rat is earned. At this stage, the subject cannot stop thinking about their personal fitness. The gym essentially becomes their home. Fortunately, this hotel comes with a fully stocked top-of-the-line gym complete with equipment for our patients to use. The subject will become obsessed with diet and getting as much lean protein as possible to bulk up. It is generally around this stage that the manhood of the subjects begins to swell and increase in size. The extra testosterone that is the inevitable result of this stage triggers their development into the next one.
“The Meathead is essentially the finished product. At this point, the mind degrades to only want to discuss ‘manly’ things. Weights, anatomy, sex life, etc. They are quite literally muscleheads in every sense of the word. Cursing, swearing, and various other modes of language are often another indicator of their loss in intelligence. These can occur as early as the Jock stage, though the Pledges usually either do or don’t due to their previous life choices, not as a result of their metamorphosis.
“Now we come to what I believe would be considered a mutation of sorts in the usual strain. I speak of what we have chosen to dub the Alpha. These Meatheads are in a class all their own; the largest, burliest, most aggressive and dominant of their flock. This makes them the de facto leaders of their fellow Meatheads, and they make sure the others know it regularly.
“One of their favorite pastimes is comparing size and encouraging others in their growth in their own ways. Malloy quickly ascended to this kingly position. Considering he was the owner and manager of his hotel, it only makes sense that he would be. However, it seems he took a liking to me and Barton before he achieved this most coveted of positions.
“Communication with them requires me to channel my inner highschooler. Fortunately, I’m well endowed, or as they would say it, hung as fuck. Mmm … it does look nice pressing out against the crotch in my sweatpants, doesn’t it? I’ve taken to patting it and smirking at the ‘higher-ups’ to make them think I’m conforming. This usually allows me the ability to interact with others more freely as we exercise. I will admit that I can’t help but compare my size every other day or so, though. Even I am not immune to the vain desire to reach that ideal male aesthetic of large and satisfying anatomy.
“Mmph … maybe just one more for the missus.
“The gym is never closed, and Barton has reported sightings of, if you’ll believe it, sleepwalking subjects that perform exercises in their sleep. This, in turn, wears them down mentally with tiredness and makes it easier for them to fall under the influence of an Alpha or other higher ranked subject in a form of what seems almost to be hypnosis.
“By the next day, they’ve usually jumped a rank.
“As for me, I am striving to match the ideal rank of Jock. It’s not too far along, and my healthier frame is an almost perfect fit, while most of the research team is too out of shape. I’ve even been practicing my dumb laugh. It’s surprisingly simple. Then again, simplicity is kind of the point with minds like this.”
“Yo, Simmons, Malloy wants to see you!”
“… And that would be my cue to go. Wish me luck. I go to meet the council of Alphas. I wonder. Should I start with the double flex or perhaps the crab pose…? Mmph … so much to choose from. I can hardly think which would be best.”
“Come on, coach, let’s go!”
“Hmm … hardly think. Must be … nice….”
“Coach?”
“Huh? Oh, sorry, Barton. My mind was … elsewhere. Come on. Let’s go. Don't want to keep our patients waiting.”
“Ready for the flex-off?”
“Huhuh. I’m always ready for a flex-off….”
If you like my stories, please consider joining my patreon. For a few dollars a month, you can enjoy more transformation, muscle, and more at your fingertips with new installations and stories provided each month. -------------------------------------------------------------------
Smoke and Mirrors
Image Source: comeandtouch
It was the draft that woke you first. That, and the sensation of hard concrete pressing against your body. The world was a blur at first, and then you thought you’d gone colorblind, at least until you perceived the frames mounted on your nose.
You rose slowly, groggily. You could just see the hints of radiant light striving to pierce the shield that the sunglasses provided you as they clawed at the edges of the amber screen. Your nose was struck by the sharp smell of freshly polished leather and an all-encompassing aroma of cigarette smoke, as if the very ground beneath you had somehow been permeated with that pungent essence. You weren’t entirely sure which was worse. Your arms were consumed by the length of your new leather jacket’s sleeves. the weight of it pulled at the edges of your shoulders, draping almost like a trench coat. The amount of skin you could feel exposed to the elements around your neck and chest was more than unnerving. And as you raised an arm to adjust your glasses, you discovered two black fingerless gloves barely hanging onto your hands.
You weren’t sure whether you wanted to try to dismiss this all as a dream or face the horror of the idea that you had not only been kidnapped, but undressed and shoved into this gear for who knew what reason.
“Please, I don’t ... I don’t want—”
“Oh, you’ll want. Because I say so.”
You turned your head toward the noise and winced as dizziness struck you. When the room settled again, you found yourself staring at a scene out of a movie. Two massively muscled men in black leather jackets and pants held a diminutive figure between them. Their expressions were grim, their jaws square, and their masculine features immensely intimidating. The scruff along their cheeks, jaws, and lips only served to enhance the image. They practically screamed thug, even as the lenses on their noses blocked any attempts to read their expressions.
The man who had spoken last was shorter than the muscle men. His build was leaner and well toned, but that didn’t stop his muscles from showing under his jacket. He moved in lithely and seized the prisoner by the lapel of his leather jacket and a bit of wadded shirt from beneath that layer. Smoke wafted out his mouth as if from the maw of a dragon as he leaned closer and closer.
The prisoner’s eyes widened in horror. “I-I’m not gay! I don’t want this. I don’t want this! I don’t —!”
His protests were silenced as lips met and the one breathed into the other. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but you could have sworn you saw a shadow of stubble forming along pale skin as the man who seemed to be the boss pulled away. The prisoner coughed.
“And now?”
A rasp crept into the prisoner’s throat as he turned his gaze back on the man that had forced himself upon him. “Let me go.”
“Do you want?”
“I want to be let go,” he cracked.
The sneer that followed that response was even worse through the distorted mirror of the prisoner’s reflective lenses. The curve made it broader, wider, more sinister. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and inched a fresh butt from the box. A lighter click click clicked with each decisive stroke of the boss’ thumb. And with every false start, the two thugs jerk jerk jerked into rigid posture like a pair of automatons wound by a key. You craned your neck to get a better look as the lighter finally ignited and a flame was held to the edge of the cigarette.
A deep pull as the butt glowed a deep red, then dulled as he let the smoke churn in his lungs before breathing out. A low, deep groan sounded in unison from the two thugs as they breathed deep, and their chests thrust out even farther for an impressive display.
Another pull. Another blow. This one was followed by a subtle cough as bits of that smoke curled through the captive’s nostrils and into his lungs. The boss lunged and locked lips again as smoke flowed from his nostrils and the edges of his mouth to curl and waft around his prisoner’s face. The shadows deepened again as the smoke dissipated. This time, you were certain you saw something.
As the boss pulled away again, you were rewarded with the sight of the beginnings of a proper beard now. There could be no dismissing it with the subtle gloss that emanated from the light reflecting off the hairs. You thought you saw a hint of an Adam’s apple jutting forward from the prisoner’s throat. And ... was it just you, or did his chest look a little fuller, his jacket and shirt a little less saggy?
“What the hell?” the prisoner cracked again.
“Do you want?”
“I want to see you behind bars.” Annoyance and anger had replaced fear. “I want the police to haul you away and lock you up where you’ll never be seen again. I want to go ho—”
This time, smoke puffed briefly out the prisoner’s nostrils as more smoke was blown in through the contact. Like a balloon inflating, the man’s chest puffed out. His shoulders pulled back. His neck thickened. He struggled to crane his head back, but the boss moved accordingly to block any chance of escape while a meaty hand from one of the thugs kept him from craning too far back. The struggle caused the glasses to droop lower on his nose, revealing the wild fear and revulsion that seemed to fog over as the man continued to blow into him. The struggles lessened, and the boss pulled away again.
“Do you want?” Again the question was asked. Why? What did this man have to gain by repeating himself?
“I ... I wa ... wha ... what did you do to me?”
Boss smiled as he tossed the dull remains of his cigarette to the floor. The embers burst from the edge of the butt in a shower of sparks, then slowly died. This time, as he lit the flame again, the prisoner was racked with shudders. The prisoner’s eyes locked on his reflection in Boss’ glasses.
“Is that...? I ... I, uh....” His breathing hitched. His nostrils flared as the smoke wafted toward him from Boss’ lips, followed by a gentle push along the bridge of his nose to return the glasses where they belonged. A deep groan followed as his shoulders slumped and his hands suddenly became visible at the ends of the massive leather jacket sleeves. They, too, were sheathed in black fingerless gloves.
“Do you want?” It was almost a whisper as he breathed in the prisoner’s ear. Unlike the others in the room, Boss’ hands were bare, and he ran his free hand over the prisoner’s head, slicking back his hair as the sides of his head became more visible with a closer cut that definitely was not there when you first woke up.
The sounds he produced weren’t exactly speech, more a ragged sort of breathing mingled with the rise and fall of his chest that made him look almost as though he were growing bigger just by the act of breathing. But surely that was just a trick of the light, ... wasn’t it? “I....” He huffed as a few tiny wisps were drawn into his nostrils. Down fell the cigarette. Poof went the embers. His mouth opened slightly as his tongue licked his lips.
There was no resistance this time, just a subtle, barely-perceptible jolt as lips locked. This time, you did see a difference. Trapezius muscles swelled into prominent mounds to compliment the expanding neck. Leather creaked as the sleeves began to fill like pressure cuffs. Subtle popping cracks heralded the growth of bone as growing mass was soon balanced by increasing height.
This time, when Boss pulled away, the thugs lowered their grips. The prisoner had grown taller. His thighs and calves had begun to strain ever so slightly against his leather pants. Thick, heavy boots surrounded feet that you suspected were rapidly swelling to fit the new size if they hadn’t already reached that point. Wisps of the smoke seemed to hang around the prisoner in a miasma that sought to seep into his clothes, his very skin.
“Do you want?”
The voice that responded was low, dull, and seemingly uttered without thought or emotion.
“I want.”
Again came the sneer as he drew close. “Good boy.” This time, when they locked lips, it was not forced. Greed and passion fed and consumed as the two linked, the one providing the breath that had suddenly become as precious as life itself to the prisoner. Pecs and torso swelled and expanded. Arms became long and rippled with muscle that rose and fell with every motion in a coordinated dance. Hands cracked and burst into thick meaty mitts as the bone in his brow and forehead became more prominent. The jacket parted to reveal bulge after bulge of cobblestone abs taking shape.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Two. Four. Six. Eight.
The smoke was pouring now, out his ears, out his nostrils, out the edges of his hungry mouth as he struggled to breathe every last iota of that substance, even as it choked out every last trace of his former self to make room for the new life being forged in the image of his Boss.
When the two finally broke away, the prisoner was no longer the man he had been. He slumped forward, his head dropped low as Boss stared at him with a knowing smirk. He pulled away briefly, retrieved his lighter, and....
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Jerk. Jerk. Jerk. Jerk.
The new THUG rose to attention as his two new fellows flanked on either side with a familiar machine-like efficiency.
Boss lit up another cig.
“What do you want?”
“Boss,” the three replied in a perfect unified bass that rumbled through the air.
Boss breathed slightly, letting the smoke waft around his mouth and face, but nowhere near the THUGS.
The two on either side remained perfectly still. The middle one swayed just barely.
“And you’ll obey your boss, won’t you?”
“Yes, Boss.”
The trio breathed deeply as Boss blew a heavy cloud of smoke at them. All three THUGS groaned, then stood rigidly as the last of the prisoner’s features hardened into an identical copy of his two on either side of him. An equally sized bulge swelled into prominence at his crotch as he widened his stance.
Boss smiled in satisfaction as he looked over the trio, running his hands along their biceps and triceps, inspecting their backs and stances, their stature, everything. And all the while the trio remained motionless during his scrutiny.
“Perfect,” Boss said. “The three of you could use each other for shaving mirrors easily.” Then he chuckled. “But you know how the old saying goes,” he said as he turned to fix his gaze on you and lowered his shades to expose the eager, hungry gaze that lingered behind them. “The best things in life come in pairs.” He drew near to you, followed by the trio of THUGS as he motioned them to follow. You soon find yourself surrounded as you’re lifted shakily to your feet to stare into Boss’ face. You straighten your posture almost without thinking as the click click click of his lighter rings in your ears.
He sneers. And then he directs that question straight at you as he lights up another cigarette and takes a deep breath. The aroma of the smoke is almost overwhelming, and you’re already starting to feel a little dizzy and tingly as your fingers twitch.
“So, tell me. Do you want?”
Your lips part. Your jaw grows slack. And as you stare ahead, you see yourself in Boss’ reflective lenses. As your thoughts begin to cloud over with the approach of his mouth, one of your last free thoughts bubbles to the surface, a curiously ironic twist on what’s been happening.
It’s all really smoke and mirrors, isn’t it?
You take a deep breath without thinking to chuckle. Instead, all you get is smoke and a strangely euphoric sensation as your chest begins to balloon outward.
And it feels so good.
As your cheeks begin to prickle and your lungs begin to burn, you’re drawn into your changing reflection as much as you are the smoke Boss is pumping into you.
Maybe you do want after all....
What happened?
the river
Let’s go down the river
treachery
the liquid flows
ever so rapidly
this undefined blur
screams imperishably
let’s flee down the river
perhaps die hastily
© Margaux Emmanuel
Genetic Arabization changes a person's genes and appearance to match Arab traits, and also shifts their culture and memories to fit into Arab life.
The accidental play of the AP Files on his AirPods had led to a transformation that went beyond appearance
The opposite of courage in our society is not cowardice, it's conformity.
Rollo May
I was wondering why this one pissed me off more than most of these AI rendering thingamajigs, as I'm not involved in the Dead Boys Detectives fandom and I'm not associated with the user @shamelessly-obsessed in any way. Then I realized that this was literally what Victorian era painters did to Isabella de Medici. They took all the features that made her look strong, bold, and unique, and turned her into this soft, delicate flower because she was "more appealing" that way.
And there wasn't even a human involved here. Just an accumulation of "good art data" mindlessly amalgamated on top of a photo. It strips the original of everything that made it interesting and special with the enthusiasm and regularity of a factory machine. It wasn't angry or sad-- it wasn't anything at all, except following orders from an equally detached human master!
I've heard of "algorithmic racism/sexism" being used to describe how AI parrots and propagates the unspoken biases of its creators and datasets, but that feels imprecise to describe what's happening here as it's doesn't seem to be based on the race or sex of the sculpture. And algorithmic bias feels too generic. Maybe algorithmic suppression? Or algorithmic erasure?
Anyway I'm sorry this happened to you, @shamelessly-obsessed. I hope the AI art trend is just a bubble that'll burst soon.
