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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.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 32

The days have all become a round of mindless repetition now. You eat you portioned meals, drink your protein shake, lift, drink your protein shake, return to the apartment, eat your portioned meals, lift your weights to the pulsing screen and throbbing beat of your speakers massaging your brain, drink your protein shake, train with Duff, sleep, repeat. One or two times, you questioned yourself, your progress, what you were becoming, but a few pumps of your dumbbells, a few words of encouragement from Duff, a few seconds of your recordings, and those doubts were swept away like so much sweat off your brow. You linger in front of every reflective surface you see now, and you flex out of impulse. With the arrival of late spring, you’re able to go out in public with your shorts and tight muscle tee. After all, Sun’s out, guns out. The bar bends under the hefty plates you’ve laid on both sides. You work more in grunts and growls now, hardly speaking, but that’s because you have to focus on your body. Put everything into your body. You smile proudly at your gains, at the power you now exert every time you press against that bar, pushing higher, harder. Up and down. Up and down. Then the pullups. Up and down. Up and down. Squats. Up and down. Up and down. Situps. Up and down. Up and down. You grin as you execute your purpose. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say to yourself. A brute like you doesn’t want to do anything else. And then your bliss is interrupted by the ringing bells from your cell phone. You stare at it for a time, considering just letting it go. But ... you promised to pick up, if it’s Harry. You groan in frustration as you break your daily routine for the first time in you don’t know how long and check the ID. As you suspected, it was Harry. “What is it, Harry?” you growl as you answer the call. “You’re interrupting my workout.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back it up, muscleman. Don’t go killing the messenger.” Your head reels a moment and you stumble briefly, then grunt as you shake your head to clear it. “Why would I want to kill you?” There was a period of dead silence on the other end. “Harry?” “It ... was a figure of speech,” Harry finally responded. “Oh.” You flex your pecs impatiently. Your body still wants to move. “So, what’d you call me for?” “The client loved your photos from the last session. What they don’t love is how pale your skin is.” “And your point is...?” “I booked you an appointment at a tanning salon. I’ll be picking you up tomorrow at twelve thirty. Make sure you’re ready to go, muscleman.” Once again, the world spun around you. “I ... understand. I’ll ... I’ll, uh, ... be ready. Yeah....” You liked your skin, but, uh ... whatever the client wants. Yeah. You’re bound by contract, after all. So, what the client wants, you want. ... Yeah. ... Have to follow instructions. “Good. I’ll see you soon. Keep up the great work, kid.” “Will do,” you low absently. The weights are already calling you back. You don’t even bother to end the call as you return to your exercise. Can’t allow yourself to lose the pump, after all. Real Musclemen love the pump.

“And I’m a real muscleman now,” you mutter to yourself as that pleasant haze returns again. “I lift things up and put them down....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 33

“‘Sup, Harry?” you greeted your agent casually as he drove up in his convertible. The sun was already starting to beat down, and your muscles tingled in anticipation under the exposure. It took every ounce of will power you had not to pop a flex at the man on instinct. Your skin glistened from the preparations you had made the previous night, following the instructions Harry had sent over to the letter. After all, you had to, in order to fit your role. “Oh, the usual,” Harry replied casually. “Making deals, helping clients, getting paid, taking you places.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I feel almost like a chauffeur.” “You know, you don’t always have to drive me, if you don’t want to.” “Oh, but I do want to. After all, somebody’s got to make sure you get where you’re supposed to go on time. Knowing you, you’d probably get distracted along the way, maybe go through a posing session for some ladies, or just get lost in the warmth on your muscles as you stretch.” You chuckle and reach your hand back to rub up and down against the stubble at the back of your neck, causing your black tanktop to ride up over your pectorals. “You see right through me, don’t you?” “Bit hard to do that with a big guy like you. Come on, and get in. We’ve got a ways to go.” And just like that, you’re in the passenger’s seat, resting your heavily sculpted arm on the window port as you watch the world pass by. Harry passed a few sidelong glances your way as you approached an intersection and waited for the light to turn. “You know, you’ve changed a lot, since this all started.” You shrug. “Change is good,” you reply simply, almost automatically. Your motivational poster flashed through your head with that big, dopey smile on that bodybuilder’s face, and your own face pulls into an almost exact replica. “I enjoy my changes.” “And you don’t miss anything?” You turn to look at the smaller man and frown. “Should I?” Harry shrugged. “That’s not my place to say, kid. I’m just your agent, remember?” He chuckled then as the light turned green, and the trip resumed. That statement did leave you wondering, however. If it wasn’t Harry’s place to say, .... Whose place was it?

The tanning salon was a broad building in the bustling city, not unlike a small warehouse. The parking lot was loaded with expensive-looking cars alongside a few dustier used ones. Harry slipped right into the reserved section and pulled out a little plastic hanger to place over his rear view mirror. A shining sun with a single palm tree stared back at you, along with the words PREFERRED CUSTOMER. “What’s that for?” you ask, pointing to the hook. “We got you the deluxe package,” Harry explained. “You can’t get a full tan just by going once. You have to come back. This here hook gives us good parking and all the benefits you need during your sessions. “So, it’s kinda like when I went with the doc before?” “Yup, except your sessions here will be shorter.” “How short are we talking?” “Somewhere a little under ten minutes.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t take much with these machines.” “I see.” “Which means you’ll have plenty of time to get back to the gym.” You can’t help but grin at that. “I thought you might like that part of it,” Harry smirked. “Come on. Let’s get you ready.” The aides were quick to put you through your tests to check your skin type. Then you got your special goggles to protect your eyes and were instructed to strip down to the bare minimum. A towel was also provided for decency’s sake, when it was time to enter the main floor. “And don’t forget to use this,” one of the ladies said. She handed you a tube of what looked almost like sun block. “Apply it all over your skin. We have a brush over there to aid you with your back. If you prefer, we can have someone help apply it for you, instead. Just say the word.” You nod gratefully as you’re led to a private room and quickly follow the attendant’s instructions to the letter. You opt for the second of the two options you were offered, and smile as you feel delicate hands running up and down your back. “You’ll need to wait here to give the lotion time to work,” she said. “About twenty or thirty minutes. After that, you’ll be ready to tan.” You nod absently, enjoying the sensation of the rubbing too much to really give a full acknowledgement. “We’ll play something for you, while you wait, so you won’t get bored.” Again, you nod. “Thanks,” you manage to say. And suddenly, you find yourself alone in that state of suspended pleasure. Music begins to filter through the speakers, followed by a low, deep voice. “Hello, muscleman.” Your response is automatic. “Hello, Sir....”

The tanning bed was warm and inviting. You couldn’t help but smile as you listened to the calming music flooding through the chamber. The urge to flex had been muted in favor of the overriding need to achieve the perfect tan. For that, you had to relax. “A tan muscleman is a good muscleman is a proud muscleman....” you murmur to yourself as the words reverberate through your skull from your time in the prep room.  Your muscles glisten, and the longer you bathe in the light, the more pleasure you experience. You make sure to keep your arms above your head, so you can get a proper full body tan, just like you were instructed by the employees. The lamps are hot, but not entirely unpleasant. It’s more like when you’re on a run, after a workout and go bare-chested, instead of the usual means. When the time is up, you get out and look almost disappointed at the sight of your skin. “It’s not tan....” “It takes a day or two for the melanin in your skin to react,” the attendant explained. “You should notice a difference, by the time you come back, assuming you follow all the instructions right.” You chuckle. “No problems there. Uh, thanks, Miss...?” “Call me Jessica,” the girl said with a smile. “We’ll see you again in a couple of days, won’t we?” “You will,” you promise as you stomp your way towards the door, while the attendant begins cleaning the bed. You smile and pop a flex briefly, imagining just how much better it’ll look, when that skin is a healthy gold. “I can hardly wait,” you mutter.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 34

“Hey, kid. I’ve got another gig for you, if you’re interested,” Harry’s voice carried over your new bluetooth phone accessory into your ears. Hank suggested the twin earpieces the moment you talked about how Harry’s calls were messing up your workouts. The little devices were an absolute miracle. “It’s for a new brand of sports gear coming out,” Harry continued. “Jock straps, cleats, socks, shorts, uniforms, football, baseball, you name it.” You pump your dumbbells casually, admiring the healthy gold that’s replaced your once pale white skin as you mull the offer over. “How long?” you finally ask. “It’ll take about a week or two.” “Local?” “Out of state, but they’re willing to add housing expenses.” You mull that over again slowly as you continue to pump rhythmically. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Finally, you nod and speak. “I’ll need a gym. High quality, full spread, full access. It’s not home without a gym,” you say, “and I need to keep up my workout schedule.” “Of course. I already explained the details of your other contract to them. They agreed a muscleman like you is perfect for the job.” The world came to a halt as your weights dropped to the padded flooring. “A muscleman like me is perfect for the job,” you repeat in a dull monotone. “Because proud musclemen love to show off, and what is modeling, but a chance to show off those muscles?” “I am a proud muscleman. I love to show off.” “That’s right,” Harry said. “Show off for the cameras.” “I show off for the cameras.” “You will pose as you are ordered, during your photo sessions, because proud musclemen don’t think. You remember that, don’t you, muscleman? Musclemen don’t think.” “Our muscles think for us,” you return. “My muscle drives my body.” “Just a big, dumb muscleman growing bigger and dumber, bigger and dumber every time you lift things up and put them down.” “I lift things up and put them down,” you slur in a deep, bovid voice. “That’s right, Djur. Lifting and growing and dumbing, until there’s nothing but a bulky, brawny brute of a body builder. Because that is what you are becoming. That is where you want to be, isn’t it?” “Yes.” “Good muscleman. Now, when I say the word congratulations, you are going to wake back up out of this trance with no memory of this exchange. You will remember agreeing to the contract and feel enthusiastic about the modeling to come, because musclemen and sports gear go hand in hand. You know this from the compression gear you take with you to the gym every day.” “Yes,” you agree. “And you will wear whatever they ask you to without complaint, because...?” “Musclemen and sports gear go hand in hand.” “That’s right. You’re a good muscleman.” “I am a good muscleman.” “Now pick up your weights and resume your exercises.” You quickly move to do so, pumping mindlessly as you listen to the voice that has held your attention so raptly. Harry’s chuckle carried over into your ears. “Congratulations, kid. You’ve got the contract.” You blink blearily for a moment. “S-sorry, Harry,” you low slowly. “I ... didn’t get all that. I think you broke up a bit.” You shake your head to try to clear the fog. “I said you got the contract, kid. I’ll send the travel arrangements your way, once I’ve got them booked. A big grin spread over your face as your heart rate picked up. “Awesome! Thanks, Harry!” Harry chuckled. “No problem, kid. I’ll see you soon. Keep up the great work.” “I will,” you promise as you stare into your mirror and smile at the way your muscles ripple and shift under your skin as you work them. “I will,” you repeat in a dreamier tone as the buds pick up on your MP3 player and the familiar tracks filter through your ears.

Harry panted to himself as he laid a hand against his chest to get his heart rate under control. An exultant surge pulsed through his brain as the flood of adrenaline merged with a hint of arousal. His cheeks flushed and his bald spot shone with sweat as he reached for a tissue and dabbed the droplets away. Once he’d regained enough control of himself, he pulled out his cell phone and clicked the redial button. A few rings later, and he heard the familiar voice of his client on the other end. “How did it go?” the deep voice asked. “Surprisingly well,” Harry said. “I ... I’ve never done something like that before.” The man on the other end chuckled. “You enjoyed it.” It wasn’t a question. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Mister Harrison.” The flush in Harry’s cheeks deepened. “Please, call me Sir. I find that much more informal than ‘Mister Harrison.’” “I, uh ... don’t know if I feel all that comfortable calling you that, ... Sir.” Harrison chortled. “I’ve already sent the payment, along with a little ... let’s call it a bonus, a reward, if you will, for excellent service.” Harry’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “I ... I always aim to please, Sir.” “Of course you do. You have talent, Harry. You don’t mind, if I call you Harry, do you? After all, we’ve been working together for so long.” Harry gulped. “O-of course not, Sir.” “Good. Good. You see, Harry, when I find talent, real potential, I like to make use of it, polish it until it shines so perfectly, so emptily, that I can see my own reflection.” “Um ... is this going anywhere, Sir?” Harry’s voice cracked, and he swallowed to alleviate the dryness, then fumbled for his coffee mug and took a sip. His hand trembled as he returned the mug to its place on his desk. “To put it simply, Harry, I see that glimmer in you. I see the talent, the spark. You, sir, have the soul of a conditioner, a manager, if you will, not unlike Fängsla.” Harry chuckled nervously. “Um, thank ... you?” “Which is why I’m going to start polishing you now.” “Excuse m--?” “Report, candidate.” Harry shot bolt-upright in his chair. His eyes stared unseeingly at the door to his office. “Yes, Sir.” His chair scraped back against the hardwood floor as he reached over to grab his phone and keys, then made his way to the office door. He stopped only long enough to lock it behind him and tell the secretary to hold his calls and cancel his appointments, followed by the assurance he’d be in contact soon and handing her the key to the main office. “Lock up. Take care of the place. There’s a bonus in it for you, if you do well,” he promised. And then, just like that, he was out the door walking at a brisk pace to reach his car. He had to report.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 37

You smile as you arrive at the gym. The sun is setting, painting the stone along the building’s outside a fiery orange, and that only makes you feel more fired up for the reunion and workout to come. You open the glass door, gym bag in hand, heedless of the fact the sign has been flicked to closed and the illuminated one turned off. It’s not your first time arriving close to closing. You smile as the familiar clank of the weight machines in full swing rings through your ears. Hank must’ve decided to get in a little pump of his own, after shutting things up for the night. After all, people knew better than to try to break into a gym frequented by bodybuilders and run by one of the greatest personal trainers the circuit has ever seen. You make your way easily to your usual locker and quickly pull out your combination lock. After you grab what you need from the bag, you stow it in the locker and click the lock shut. You drape your hand towel over your shoulder and start to guzzle your protein shake you prepped before coming down. You already feel the familiar tension in your muscles as the surge of your heartbeat rages in your ears. That same dimwitted smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you passed through the locker room door and back into the entry point. You flip the cap shut on your mixing cup and strike into that double bicep pose you’ve been practicing as you let that smile pull into a confident grin and step onto the main floor. “Yo, Hank, I’m--.” Hank wasn’t on the floor, but the gym was packed with some of the most chiseled and buff men you’ve ever laid eyes on. Barbells bent with the sheer weight some of these men were repping with as rippling muscles strained against their singlets. “--back,” you finished lamely. Nobody responded. Nobody stopped. You strode into the fray, watching as the builders and lifters pushed in eerie silence. No cursing, no growling, no roars of rage or triumph. You felt almost like a ghost as you passed through their ranks. Those who weren’t at the machines stood in a perfect line in front of the floor-length mirrors. Their bronze skins shone slickly under the lights, whether from sweat or those oils you’d heard Duff gushing about, you weren’t sure, but the sheer synchronization of their movements was incredible. They switched as one man, fluidly, from pose to pose. It was almost like a dance, pure poetry in motion. You couldn’t help but give a sympathetic flex of your own at the sight. This. This was the ideal. This was what you were training to become. Perfect strength. Perfect symmetry. Poetry in motion. Over at the drink bar, a familiar flash of red drew your attention. Stocky builders would walk to the counter and grab the cups lying in wait along the counter’s surface. You approached and smiled at the familiar face of your lifting buddy. “Yo, Duff. What’s up?” Duff continued about his business as if he hadn’t heard you. He mixed the powders with the proper fluids, then closed the lids and started the blenders, before turning back to you again. When he noticed you hadn’t moved, he strode over, picked up a cup, and shoved it at your chest. “Please drink and return to your workout,” he said in a peremptory tone, not unlike those robo recordings you used to have to deal with when you had to call about your banking and stuff. Man, were you glad you didn’t have to worry so much about those things anymore. “Duff? Big bro? Anybody home?” you asked as you waved a hand in front of his face. He didn’t have the chance to respond as a group of the hulking giants came over and shoved you aside to drink lustily from the cups. Once again, Duff sounded the refrain. “Please drink and return to your workout.” When the drinks were finished, they slammed the cups down on the countertop and rose from their chairs. “We have finished our drinks,” their voices echoed in unison. “We are returning to our workouts.” And that was it. Duff took the dirty cups to the wash station and cleaned them up, without saying a word, while the men returned to the main floor. Then he dried and refilled the cups to place on the counter top again. “Uh ... okay, then. Guess I’ll catch you later,” you say lamely as you lumber away from the bar. This wasn’t exactly the welcome back you were expecting. Practically all the weights and equipment are being hogged by the titans, and there’s still no sign of Hank in sight, so there’s nothing you can do about it. You sigh and decide to poke around a bit. Maybe some of the equipment will get freed up in the meanwhile. It was worth a shot. You’d hate to waste the trip, especially after that letdown with Duff. You wander over to the door marked STAFF ONLY. Maybe Hank is back there. You test the door and find it unlocked, so you pass through into a long, broad hallway. A series of doors stand on either side, just waiting to be explored. A smile pulls at your lips. Maybe this wouldn’t be a wasted trip to the gym, after all. And if you did get into trouble, well, you were just looking for Hank, after all. Surely, he could forgive you for that. You pick a door at random and test the knob. Much to your pleasant surprise, it’s unlocked. The room inside is dark, so you flick a switch to get a better idea of what’s inside. A series of speakers have been mounted on all sides of the space, while a single large monitor sits atop a desk. A mounted camera in the corner stares sightlessly at the opposite side, clearly inactive. You shrug and withdraw, making your way to the next door. You continued your search, finding more of the same. After the tenth one of its kind, you were getting exceptionally bored. You decide to try one last door, before you turn back. The handle shifted as easily as the others had, but when you cracked the door, this time, you saw something different. The light was dim as you stepped through, save for the glow on the monitor highlighting the familiar face of your landlord. A sandy shirt clung tightly to his frame, highlighting the beginnings of a perk in his pectorals that you knew only too well from when you first started your journey of growth. His eyes were completely locked on the screen, his pupils wide as the light flickered over his face. A thick set of headphones had been mounted over his ears and as you drew nearer, you could just make out the familiar camouflage pattern of military style fatigues and the heavy duty boots that lay beneath them.  “Collin?” you ask. He doesn’t answer. You walk around behind him to see the rapidly flashing images of tanks, missiles, heavy duty weapons, marching soldiers, men saluting, ancient soldiers fighting in their armor, battle scenes, all superimposed over a flickering spiral and words that flit in and out along the screen at random points. Finally, he lets out a sigh, followed by a, “Sir, yes, Sir.” Since when had he gotten all gung-ho about the military? You get closer and pull one of the earphones off slightly, leaning in close to pick up on whatever is playing. “That is good. You’ve identified your commanding officer. And you will listen to your commanding officer at all times, won’t you, soldier?” “Sir, yes, Sir,” Collin said dully. You reel back from the headphone as it plops back into place. That voice. That was Harry’s voice. “What the hell...?” That was when the door came open and a heavily breathing Hank stared at you. “Hank, what’s going--?” “Sleep, muscleman,” he ordered. And suddenly, everything went dark.

A little dark, but I wanted to show the other side of hypnosis in this story. Much like any other tool, it can be used to help or to harm. There are those who will take advantage of the trust you put in them to control you through trance. The infamous Trey was and still is such a one.

Enjoy the story, if you will, but please also let it stand as a stark reminder. Hypnosis is not a joke. It’s not just a parlor trick. It can be dangerous, if abused, and can (and does) lead a person to eventually perform acts that they would at first have deemed abominable, when given enough time and coaxing. That is what I was trying to portray here in this tale. Synopsis and story are below.

Alejandro wanted to get fit for his new year’s resolution, but didn’t think he could find the motivation to do it and stick to it alone. An old childhood friend suggests a hypnotist to help him get into the spirit of his workout.

Over half a year later, Alejandro is experiencing a crisis, after waking from a trance he didn’t remember consenting to, doing something he would never have done in his conscious mind, or ... would he have?

Regardless, the man fled, and has not returned since. This is the story of his struggle between what he was, and what hypnosis twisted him to be.

Two Masters

How had it gotten like this? How had things pushed so far? Alejandro didn’t know. It started out so innocent, just a new year’s resolution. He wanted to get fit, get ripped, to be truly strong for the first time in his life. He wanted to get hard, like a real man, hard like muscles, hard, so very hard...

He gasped and shook his head. His arms had already been raised to flex and pose. He panted and rushed for a set of bleachers by the park trail. He took a seat, leaned forward to try to let the spell pass. He couldn’t allow himself to fall any deeper than he already had. It was what that bastard wanted.

Just how many men had this monster seduced? How many lives had he destroyed with his words alone? Julio recommended him, practically shoved Alejandro at him. Was Julio in on it, or worse?

The first few months had been so simple and productive. He’d managed to change his diet, drop the junk foods, stick with healthier snacks and choices. Salads and water replaced soda and carbohydrates. Kale and seaweed chips replaced potato chips. Asparagus sprigs, tomatoes, cottage cheese, spinach, chicken breast, rice, quinoa.

Then came the hard part, actually going to a gym. Julio helped. He practically pulled Alejandro to the facility on every scheduled day. The exercise hurt like hell, but it was worth it, once his body adapted. Fat gave way to carved muscle. His body had become a statue, like the old greco-roman works, and he had been the sculptor.

...

But no, not if he was being honest with himself. He was molded, sculpted by him.

“Shall the clay say to him that fashioneth it, What makest thou? or thy work, He hath no hands?” he whispered, quoting the scriptures with which he had been raised.

He still remembered the tracks, the files that whispered to him by night and pulsed in his brain by day in the gym. Outgrowing his clothes had been especially pleasing. He still remembered that time he bent over to pick something up in the office, and his shirt tore off his back. The cold air striking his skin, the goosebumps rising, the exposure, the stares. It was so embarrassing, but ... it felt so right.

How much of it had been the result of his own desires and how much from his training?

...

No, training wasn’t the word. More brainwashing, indoctrination. He still remembered quitting. He couldn’t place why. He just ... wasn’t happy with work anymore, wasn’t satisfied with it. He wanted ... but did he really want it, or was that just the whispers, the tracks?

“Oh, God,” he said as he looked heavenward. It was half swear, half supplication.

He’d been so happy when he started working at the gym. He could teach others how to grow, help them reach the same goals he’d achieved, then plow into his own routine in his off hours. It felt incredible.

Then came the tattoos. He wasn’t sure what prompted it. Maybe it was all the times he’d seen Julio flex in the mirror when they were together. The way the flesh rippled over the muscle, giving motion and life to those cells that had been permanently marked. Next thing he knew, he was in the tattoo parlor.

...

It wasn’t his last visit.

He stared down at the sleeves of ink that had been so intricately drawn over his legs and arms. He’d even inked his torso.

And he still showed off. It was almost like a compulsion. He was so anxious at what others might think, seeing their looks, their faces.

Judge not, lest ye also be judged.

Jealous....

Fools mock....

These thoughts and many more whispered to him, and slowly, something grew in him. He defied perceived judgement with a cocky sneer, with flexing, with a show of his new strength. If they wanted to judge him, they could do it while they burned with jealousy. He would get bigger.

Bigger.

Stronger.

Stronger.

“Get hard....”

Alejandro grunted and bowed over his knees, like he’d taken a punch to the gut. “No,” he growled. “I can’t. I won’t.”

He felt his phone sliding from his pocket, so he stuck it down on the bleacher in front of him, then clasped his hands together and bowed his head to see the tent in his crotch. Tears blurred his vision as he warred with primal instincts. His hands trembled as he clenched them harder together.

“God, please help me,” he begged.

The tears fell like the sweat that had dripped from his body in the locker room. He still remembered that night, remembered the blank faces on his fellow employees, some of the more extreme lifters, a few of the intermediate patrons. Too many faces for him to sift through. Too many to remember.

...

Remember. What did that word even mean anymore? He hardly thought things through, always just acting, doing. Office work and data points had been replaced with weights, routines, training plans, diets, supplements. The gym had become his home, his life.

The late summer sun kissed his tanned skin warmly, almost comfortingly.

But those words still haunted him.

We grow for Master.

We work hard for master.

Flex for master.

...Serve....

...Obey....

All that and more, while they ... while they....

He couldn’t even bring himself to think of it. And yet, he had been doing it himself, before he came to, just like them, in perfect time. How many times had he done it before? How often had he gathered like that without even knowing?

He felt unclean.

“God, forgive me,” he rasped.

His trust had been abused, yet even now he felt that pull, that call. His muscles tensed, his breathing was ragged. His body wanted, needed to move, needed to tense, to flex, to swell, to do as it was programmed.

“No man can serve to masters. No man can serve two masters. No man can serve to masters,” he repeated over and over, desperately, imploringly under his breath. “I won’t go back. I can’t go back. No man can serve two masters. No man can serve two masters....”

His phone buzzed.

“Please, God. Please,” he continued to beg.

The phone continued to buzz.

He peeked one eye open. The glare obscured the screen. Dare he risk it?

He could always go to the police, call 911, do something, anything other than just sitting at the bleachers. But ... Julio. If he was part of this, too, then....

Alejandro’s stomach fell. Could his childhood friend even be saved, or was the damage too far gone? Was he too far gone? His hand trembled and his breathing stuttered as he picked up the phone.

A barrage of boxes filled the idle screen.

Master is calling.

Master is calling.

Master is calling.

Master is calling.

On and on it scrolled. The world spun and faded as his face went slack. His thumb scrolled over the messages, until a new one pinged, and he scrolled back up to the top.

No man can serve two masters.

There can only be one.

Report.

Alejandro’s thumbs tapped slowly and steadily as he rose from the bench.

Yes, Master.

He sent it.

He had to hurry.

Master was calling.

The one had chosen him.

He must serve.

He must obey.

He patted the crotch of his compression gear just once as he pocketed his phone, then began to run.

“I am coming... I am coming... I am coming....”

😵‍💫

Looks like an improvement for me 😵‍💫😵🖤🤖🦾🫡

Becoming a drone!

Who would love to join?