Olympia - Tumblr Posts
Roland Cziurlok. This guy was the talk of bodybuilding 28 years ago when he burst on the scene at the 1994 Olympia with that awesome, traps-to-the-ears most muscular. Somehow the judges placed him 18th and fans were outraged. He competed in 2011 at the Masters Pro World and showed that even in his late 40s, he can still bring it.
Kyung Won Kang. Competed in the 212 Olympia. Muscle fetishists may note the arm development which is almost as impressive as his bulging face muscles. Dang!
Mr. O-blimpia
Some people theorized that Kai Greene was behind what happened at the Olympia. Barred from competing this year, he certainly had the motive, and maybe some of the chemists at his supplement company could’ve cooked up the bizarre chemical. But after extensive investigations, police said that there was no evidence Kai was behind it. What they did know was that the chemical was gaseous, fed into the arena through the vents through the whole competition, finally reaching a dangerous concentration just before they revealed the top 10.
People watched, anticipating the winners of that year’s competition, when the chemical suddenly had a visible effect. Cameras were right on Dennis Wolf when it affected him. His whole body flexed at once, but the shocked look in his eyes suggested that wasn’t an intentional display of his physique. All of a sudden, Dennis’ body began to compress, slowly getting shorter without losing any of its mass. He looked around in a panic as his fellow competitors seemed to grow around him.
Dexter Jackson was the next. People couldn’t believe what they were seeing as the big bodybuilder’s height reduced, the rest of his dense musculature compressed into a now-shrunken frame.
In seconds, every bodybuilder onstage was suddenly sinking toward the floor. When the changes stopped, ten men stood on stage, all around three feet tall but with every ounce of muscle still on them. They waddled around on stumped legs, tried to wave their arms, now rendered useless by their incredible thickness. Their posing trunks struggled to contain the new girth of their bulges, which bobbed and wobbled provocatively as they stumbled around on their new stumpy legs. Big Ramy got it the worst, compressed into a little meat blimp, a panicked wiggling of his fingers the only thing he could move as he slowly tipped backward and landed on his back, immobile like an upended turtle.
The audience was silent at first, until the changes spread to them. Suddenly, every man in the room with any performance enhancing drug residue in his system felt the effects of the gas filling the arena. Big, massive bodybuilders suddenly found themselves compressed into chunky little meatplugs, limbs so thick they could barely bend. Gargantuan powerlifters squealed with their new helium-high voices as they found themselves cut down to the height of children, immobilized by their own bulk.
Onstage, a cartoonishly proportioned Phil Heath struggled to get out of the view of the cameras. Every second of his frustrated waddle off the stage was captured, however, and went viral the next day, blasted across every sports website in existence. Pictures of Flex Lewis, squashed down to mini-fridge size, being airlifted to the hospital, his body almost a perfectly muscular sphere, giant traps and a mammoth upper chest nearly swallowing up his entire face.
They ventilated the arena immediately, but the gaseous chemical had already done its damage. They estimated thousands of men were affected, now the height of children with bodies so thick they were considered disabled. None of them could bend their arms enough to grab a steering wheel, or even climb into a normal vehicle. The tops of most counters were now off-limits to these dwarfed musclemen, and shelves were completely out of the question. Regular-sized men regarded the squished-down musclemen with mockery and disdain. They had nothing to fear from these little guys now. All that muscle, but one good shove to the head and they’d fall to the ground and squirm like a beetle.
Months later, neither a culprit nor a cure found, they revealed the top 10 standings and awarded a blimped-out mini Phil Heath with the title of Mr. Olympia. As he accepted it from the man twice his height, wobbling on his unsteady legs, he started to thank God and his fans when a figure stepped out from the crowd.
“Looking thick there, Phil, but you sound like a damned chipmunk.” It was Kai, and while security approached him, Phil squeaked out that it was fine. Phil’s eyes went wide as he stared up… up… up at Kai, who had never seemed so massive to him before. “Congrats,” said Kai, holding out a hand. Phil wobbled, awkwardly contorting himself to meet the outstretched hand without toppling over.
Scoring Stuff at the Expo
His head lolls back and forth on the bathroom tiles but otherwise he doesn't move. The machine's hooked up to his nipples and his balls, whirring loudly as the mass drains from his body. He lets out a soft moan, a dollop of drool dangling from his mouth. "Shhh, it's okay buddy, almost done," I say and give his big shoulders a squeeze. They're not big for much longer, deflating like balloons. Then the machine's done--I check the tank, give it a few thunks to see how full it is, as the machine makes loud slurping noises like the end of a soda through a straw. I switch off the machine and detach the nozzles and that's when my victim snaps out of his blissful haze. He sits up, dizzy, and looks around at himself. He's still trying to figure out what had happened but I'm hard at work. I yank the deflated sweatpants out from under him, lift the ludicrously large tank top from his little torso, and easily lift up his little butt to yank the nearly empty boxers off his body. He's still whoozy, clearly, his hands vaguely moving to stop me but without any strength in them. I give him his new clothes that will fit him better. I hand him his new clothes, a little pair of briefs, some skinny jeans and a size small t-shirt, and he puts them on slowly, like he's hypnotized. The machine leaves people in quite a state of confusion. He's probably still struggling through the fog on his brain, figuring out who he is, how he got here, who I am and what's going on. I'm not worried about that, nor do I have time for it. I have a delivery to make. Clothed again (and a little troubled that the small shirt is a little baggy on him) he gently pats at his skinny frame with his dainty little hands. "But..." he says, his eyes bulging at the soft, high sound of his voice. "But... i'm a bodybuilder!" he says as he examines himself. He sure was when he came in, a good 280 pounds of thick offseason beef on a stocky six foot frame. He'd waddled into the bathroom on massive quads, taking a break from the Olympia expo, when I'd jumped out and hit him with a quick shot of something to slow him down quite a bit. Then I hooked the device on him and watched every pound of muscle on that body slowly drain away into the tank. Later, some rich fucker was going to hook that tank up to another machine and pump himself huge with this stolen muscle. Money makes up for hard work, I guess. In the meantime, I had to do what I could to immobolize my victim, because I could see a little clarity returning to his face. "What'd you do? I didn't use to look like this!" he says, starting to panic. A quick shot in the arm (he struggles, but he sure isn't the man he walked in here as) and he slows down again. That regulates his hormones for his new skinny little body, hits his brain with a flood of endorphins to make accepting the situation all the easier (as well as my escape). I'm gone before he can recover. I've got to get this tank delivered. In the meantime, I'm sure he'll stand up, stumble back out into the expo, searching for the buddies who he came with. He won't recognize them at first--they'll look like a herd of massive buffalo, just like every other bodybuilder thudding around the expo. Maybe he'll pee a little out of intimidation; he's not used to that feeling, or to his weak little bladder now. His buddies will get close, he'll stare up at them, his knees going weak, and he'll raise his voice to say hello... and it won't come out. They'll walk off and he'll stumble for the exit, desperate to get away from all of that life that he'll never belong to again. And then after my score is being shipped off to its buyer, I'll be out on the expo floor, casing the place, trying to find some big bulky musclehead to do what I can to lighten his load. ------------ That's all for my Olympia stuff. It's just a deep well to draw from, the biggest dudes in the world all in one place. Next year I hope to go as well.
I present to you… the TRUE sequel!
The NEW Teen Titans!
I think she has eight gold medals now? Yeah.
Yoshiyuki Sadamoto, art for a never-launched anime called Olympia
💋beauty pageant fit for a goddess 💋
goddess invite only 💌
…it's A NAZGUL!
Srl though, we just watched the opening ceremony of the olympics and my Father just spent at least half a hour talking about tHIS!?
BEHOLD
THE OLYMPIC NAZGÛL ON HIS WAY TO THE FIRE
A FRENCH ASSASSIN
AND THE BURNING FAKE PIANO
OLYMPICS OF THE GAY,BEGIN!
It was a great show though.