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Real Men’s Journal: Part 2

~Day 3~

Well, all I can say is I told them so. Just as I thought, this morning everyone woke up sore. Everyone who worked out anyways. On the plus side, that gave me the chance to get to the showers first. Easy in, easy out. I was ready to go before anyone else could get out of the showers. I heard a lot of sighs in those stalls. I’m not too big a fan of them myself. There’s a weird smell in there. Probably mildew or something like that. Maybe it’s B.O. Either way, I don’t like it. Though they do seem to have some type of video screen there for us to watch programs if we want. I could hear some of the static as they were flicked on. But enough of that.

So I performed “the routine” and brushed my teeth, combed my hair, ordered my drawer to open. Yet again I was met with a nice pair of shorts and a workout shirt. Augh. You can imagine my mood. I tromped my way out of the room after my “mandatory scan” and made my way for the mess hall. At least they have some decent food here. I grabbed a cinnamon roll and a glass of milk with a side of toast. Whole wheat of course. Have to keep my fiber up. Doctor’s orders.

Kevin greeted me cheerfully.

“Hey, Kyle. How’s it going?” I shrugged.

“Can’t complain. Looks like you’re not doing so well, though.” I saw how slowly he was moving his arms and legs as he ate. The kid was nice though; he bowed his head and said a prayer before he ate. You don’t see that much in today’s society.

“I’m doing alright.” He smiled at me. “The soreness is part of the change. I’ll get over it in a few days.”

“No bullies yet, right?”

“Yeah. It’s really nice. All I get is support. I even have a personal trainer on my journal to help me learn and grow.”

“Don’t you mean unlearn?” I asked, laughing. “By the time they’re done with you, you’ll be just like them.” I put on my best vacant expression and did a fake flex. “Like, gotta get swole, bro. Can’t focus on school no more. School’s for nerds!”

“Shut up!” He said, laughing as he shoved me. We both had a good laugh as we finished our breakfast and made our way to the gym. I decided to sit and watch Kevin this time as he worked out. Every once in a while his virtual trainer would chastise him for losing form, instructing him how to adjust until he got it right. Naturally, the holo-simulation showed Abrams’ lovely mug. About half way through the workout one of the thugs brought a protein shake in and handed it to Kevin.

“Thanks, 36,” he said.

“No problem, lil’bro. Just keep pumpin’ those weights,” the lug said, smiling vacantly as he flexed a bicep. “You’ll be as big as me one day.” He didn’t even bother looking at me as he walked past, his shoulder knocking me back. So much for that kindness. I rubbed my arm as I walked up to Kevin where he sat on the bench, his shirt drenched in sweat.

“Where’d you meet tall, dumb, and ruthless?”

“He’s not that bad, Kyle.”

“Maybe not to you. All these Neanderthals seem a little too eager to ignore and look down on me.”

“You’re just being paranoid. I’m sure once they get to know you it’ll be better. After all, we’re friends, right?”

“Yeah, but you don’t mind a guy like me. They do. You’re working out because you can. I can’t, even if I did want to.”

“Why’s that?”

“I get sick every time I try. I have asthma. If I don’t black out from exertion, I throw up on the floor because I get nauseated when I work out.”

“Oh.” Kevin took a swig of his chocolate swill and shuddered. “That does kind of make it tough, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. And all the popular kids singled me out because of it. I don’t have physical strength, so I made use of the gifts I did have and worked on the one muscle I knew wouldn’t be effected by exertion,” I said, pointing to my head. “Gossip and labeling took care of the rest. High School life. Ya gotta love it,” I said, sighing.

“That does it, then.” Kevin said, smacking his drink onto a nearby platform. “I’m going to get big and strong. And then once I do, I’m changing things at my high school. People like us deserve a chance to be treated equally. I’m going to make that happen.” With that, he slid his finger over the touch screen on his journal and stared intently at the holographic projection. “Okay, coach. Tell me what to do.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this kid’s determination. It’s one thing to say you’re going to change something, another to actually do it. Still, I wish him luck. The worst that could happen is he gets popular for being fit. I watched silently as he pushed through set after set, clacking barbells and dumbbells, doing leg-ups and crunches, whatever the program told him to do, he did. I had to grab him a few drinks from time to time, but whatever made him happy was good enough for me. Kevin’s sudden spurt caught more than a few passing eyes as meatheads and coaches alike viewed his determination.

When workout time was done Abrams came and personally congratulated Kevin, smacking him on the back. Kevin just huffed and swayed on his feet. He looked a little out of it. Must’ve been from watching that hologram for so long. I’m pretty sure having a green light glowing in my face all day shouting at me would leave me the same way.

“Thanks, Coach,” he said, smiling.

“Keep this up and you’ll be ready to advance in no time.”

“Sure thing, Coach. That’s what I’m working towards.”

“That’s the spirit!” Then Abrams smacked him in the butt. Kevin jumped, immediately reaching back to grab the point of impact while Abrams placed a meaty hand on his shoulder. “Easy there, tiger. It’s just an expression here. Means you’re doing a good job. High fives, fist bumps, chest bumps, and head butts are also common ways to express approval and friendship here. You’ll get used to the idea in time.”

“Oh. Um … okay,” Kevin said uncertainly. “Still not sure I like it though.”

“Just give it time. In the meanwhile, go hit the showers. You’ve earned yourself a big meal tonight.” Kevin’s rumbling stomach agreed heartily. The two of them laughed together, and while I did not join in, I couldn’t help but smile. This coach may not be the nicest guy in the world, but at least he was willing to help Kevin achieve his goal. Maybe I should give him a break.

 ~Day 4~

Hello, Journal. It’s me, yet again. I decided to hit the sack early last night and see if I couldn’t beat the stupid alarm clock. As it turns out, I was actually successful today. It’s a bit dark as I’m typing here, but fortunately I’m a skilled touch typist. Thank you, key strokes lab. What would I do without you?

So anyways, last night we all had a great meal and I cheered Kevin on as he ate. The accomplishments he’d managed that day were positively insane. I was shocked he hadn’t pulled a muscle or something with all the work he’d been doing, but somehow he pulled through. Our enforcers slapped him a few good times on the back, knocking his food out of his hands and making him choke once or twice. Fortunately, it wasn’t too serious. He just coughed it out. I scanned the mess hall. Most of the men in sight were beginners like us. Still, the hall was rather spacious, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they had a schedule shift for the meatheads. Maybe a different mess hall, too. Who knows what else is down there in that abyss of a gym? But I digress.

After we finished with our dinner, Kevin said he was going to take a shower. I immediately and heartily seconded the motion. We laughed as we walked back together, two kids, one broad as a barn, the other skinny as a rail. Alright, I’m exaggerating a little, so sue me. Kevin actually looked like he was starting to pack on a little muscle and I admit I was jealous. Still am, I suppose. But I’ll get over it. He took his sweet time in the stalls, though. The sound of hissing hot water saturated the locker room and slowly spread into our barracks. Hey, I call it as I see it. That’s basically what we’re living in right now.

Anyways, the others came in. A good quarter or so went straight to their beds and started fiddling with their pads, having chosen not to work out, like me, for various reasons. The rest of them shuffled into the showers like the walking dead with tired smiles. Soon a chorus of cascading jets joined Kevin’s solo, causing steam to billow out the portal and into our living quarters. I wrinkled my nose in disgust as that same odor I first smelled this morning assaulted my nostrils. Like I said, I don’t like it all that much. The collective chorus of groans and moans told me just how much these men really looked forward to their showers. I can’t really blame them, I suppose. If I were covered in sweat and grime and reeking B.O. I’d probably want a shower too. Not to mention the relief the heat would give to sore and torn muscle tissue.

Then the whole barracks turned toward the showers as an unmistakable sound assaulted our ears. Music, static, voices, car screeches, and sports commentary filtered through the mist like a forgotten dream. That’s right. They have real television here. What a novelty … in the bathroom. Idiots.

The men filed out a few at a time as showers slowly cut off and TVs died. Some smiled triumphantly. Others cried because of memories invoked either of family or their pasts before being dragged into this nightmare. Then there were those silent few who just sort of glided their way past as they made their way to bed. I saw one or two of them tap something into their pads. Next thing I knew their drawers were popping open as they pulled out a gangly pair of ear buds. They plugged them in, shoved the buds in their ears, lay down on their beds and tapped something before they lay their pads on their footlockers/dressers. I could just make out a play bar. It was probably some sort of MP.3 file, most likely to relax a person as they tried to fall asleep. Either that or it had some sort of instructions to help them improve in their workouts and they were listening to pass the time before lights out. Whatever. Anyways, I curled up in my sheets as I waited for darkness to claim me, the curious buzzing of the fluorescent lights gradually lulling me to sleep. The last thing I thought I heard was the familiar click of a dresser followed by the sound of the scanner.

Someone said “… Gotta update my stats.” Then I lost all consciousness.

I um … have to go take care of something real quick. Be right back.

There, all done. The alarm system seems to be kicking in again. But it looks like the lifts are slowing down this time. They didn’t even have to go up all the way before half the people were out of bed. I guess there are some things the body learns to adapt to quickly. Oh, gross! Some of the men here are scratching their unmentionables like it’s nothing. Actually, a lot of the guys are looking a little flushed today. They rushed over to the bathrooms faster than I’ve ever seen anyone go before. I could hear the showers running and happy sighs of relief followed by guttural grunts. Probably morning stretching to loosen everything up.

Those darn TVs are on again. Are they trying to drive us up the wall? Do they seriously think that this will make me do what they want? All I can do is pretty much walk, and even that I can’t do very well for extended periods. I wish they’d just see that already and send me home. Why the scanner didn’t pick up my asthma, I have no clue. Oy, there’s that stupid smell again. Don’t these men know how to turn on a fan?

Wow. It’s been like a half hour and they’re still going in there. Well, some at least. Guess there really is such a thing as a TV addict. I think I’m gonna go talk with Kevin. See how he’s doing. I’ll turn on the audio for this one.

ACCESSING #56 AUDIO FILE 002

“Hey, Kevin. How’s it going?”

“Huh? Oh, hey Kyle. Just booting up my schedule for the day. Wanted to see what coach had signed up for me next, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know. How’re those muscles doing today?”

“Actually, a lot better. Those protein drinks really do a great job. Missed you in the showers last night.”

“Meh, didn’t need one. I wasn’t a sweaty mess like some people in this room.” (I laughed here. Kevin knows I’m not the snobby type and he soon joined me.)

“I noticed you were in bed before lights out. You aren’t trying to earn brownie points with coach and the others are you?”

“What, are you kidding? I’m just trying to survive in this place. I’d rather not die from a broken neck after these deathtraps fling us into a wall.”

“Well, at least we’re all alive and healthy. That’s what really matters right now. Things could be a lot worse for us.”

“You always look on the bright side of things, don’t you?”

“Of course. How else do you think I have the motivation to work like this? I had to forgive coach first. Trust him. You know. He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

“Yeah … still not gonna do that just yet. Maybe later, if he proves himself. Maybe.”

“Well he already has to me. Hate to cut this short, but coach assigned me some recordings to listen to before I go work out. We’ll talk more at breakfast, alright?”

“Fine by me, jock boy. Just be careful.” (I winked at him as he groaned and rolled his eyes.)

END TRANSMISSION

…

I didn’t see Kevin at breakfast. He wasn’t in the gym either when I checked in. I did a slow walk on a treadmill, just to get those glaring guards off my back. I did alright. Was a little hard pressed for breath by the end, but at least I didn’t have an attack. I went over to the weights, but still didn’t see Kevin, so I went back to the barracks. I was about to scan in when the doors disengaged and out stepped the very boy I’d been looking for. He blinked a few times and swayed on his feet.

“Kevin?” I asked. “You okay?”

“Huh?” he blinked again a few times before his eyes came back into focus. “Yeah, I’m fine. What’s the matter, got tired of waiting for me?”

“Well yeah, it’s been nearly three hours.”

Kevin laughed. “Three hours. That’s a good one.”

“… It would be. If I were joking. Breakfast is already way past. I even walked on the treadmill a little. You missed it.”

“What?” he exclaimed, shocked.

“Yup.”

“That’s great. Working out’s good for you.” He smiled. “You’ll be making friends out of those thugs in no time.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But seriously, what were you doing?”

“I was … um … listening to a file, I think. Then next thing I know I’m sitting all alone.” He blushed. “I um … may have taken another shower, too. And maybe watched some T.V.” He rubbed the back of his head and I was assaulted by the scent of Axe body spray. I took a step back.

“Phew, too much, Kevin. Way too much.” He blushed sheepishly.

“It was either that or let the B.O. seep through. All that sweat’s making me reek like a stale side of ham.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not that bad.”

“Look, I just need to wear it okay? So drop it.” The aggression in his voice was enough to make me back off.

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” The rest of that day was all silence as he worked and worked and worked some more. A scowl stood out on his face as he pushed as hard as he could, glistening in the fluorescent lights. By the time he was finished, he stomped off, leaving me behind.

“… Sorry,” I said, paling. I looked around to the others. Weights clanked, grunts sounded, heavy breathing filled the air, and every once in a while I heard a “yes, sir, Coach.” I sighed and made my way out of the gym and back to the barracks. Not like I had much else to do with all these people glaring at me. My one friend’s too angry to speak to me now anyways. Like clockwork, the men entered the room and made for the showers. A couple of them are busy posing in front of their mirrors, flexing a bicep and grinning like idiots. Then they sit and plug in their ear buds, staring at nothing. I sighed and got ready to sleep once more as the sound of music playing combined with sports commentary drifts over from the shower room. I’m not all that hungry today. I think I’ll skip dinner and just sleep. Goodnight.

 ~Day 5~

It’s quiet this morning. A few more are wearing their headphones as they sleep. Probably some of those subliminals designed to help people focus more on their goals. Maybe they’re self-help tapes. I don’t know. I’m still not feeling any better about what’s going on after yesterday. Sleep came pretty hard for me last night with those TVs echoing from the shower stalls. I wish they had some sort of a mute button or a sound proof wall or something. It’s seriously annoying. That and the men starting to admire themselves in the mirror. I mean, seriously. I understand if it’s a teenager like me, but adults? They’re grownups for crying out loud. I thought they were supposed to be past the vanity stage. Sorry for the rant.

I’m looking over at Kevin’s bed. He’s lying flat on his back, his breathing steady as he smiles. The kid actually doesn’t look half bad. He’s been getting a little more toned over the last week. No major gains yet, obviously. That’d be ridiculous. But he is getting there. Even after the whole argument yesterday, I’m glad he still has the chance to get what he wants. I wish I could.

I’m getting up for my scan now. Might as well get it over with. That, and apparently, my “code” won’t work if I don’t check myself into the scanner at least once or twice a week. In other words, no scan, no freedom. I’m sighing now as it runs over me, typing this to pass the time. It seems to be taking longer for some reason. Probably finally picking up on my asthma, at least I hope. Maybe then I can go home and I won’t have to bother Kevin again. Feels kind of tingly.

…

Jungle Games

This is a story I wrote, inspired by a pair of pictures by an artist named Sarvak on Furaffintiy.net. I’ll include the links below for you to view the art and descriptions that go along with it, if you wish. I hope you all enjoy. :D

https://www.furaffinity.net/view/19036299/

https://www.furaffinity.net/view/19117182/

“Hello, and welcome to the jungle.”

You cry out in surprise as you stare at the hunched figure standing in front of you. A ragged blue hoodie clings to his wiry frame, while the tattered remains of a pair of shorts brush against a pair of toned, hairy legs. A thick, brushy unibrow juts up at you from heavily tanned skin. His blue eyes seemed almost to sparkle beneath the filtered light of the canopy above.

“My, my. No need for such a startled reaction. I mean, I know I was ugly when I was born, but I never made people scream before.”

You gulp, and take a step back from the stranger as you note the swishing mass that shouldn’t exist wagging behind him.

Oh, would you relax? It was a joke. I take it you’re here to visit Lord Sarvak, yes?”

You nod your head dumbly, unable to really say much other than that, considering the oddness of the … creature that stands before you.

“I thought so,” he says, smiling smugly as he casually scratches an itch at his side. Right this way.”

“I, um … didn’t think he’d be expecting me,” you mutter.

Oh, a lot of people come to see him, actually. He’s a rather popular monkey,” the … man … monkey … thing responds.

“So you’re his doormonkey?” you ask.

“Well … yes, I suppose you could say I’m the footman for now.”

“For now?” you ask as you raise a quizzical eyebrow.

“Yes, for now,” he glowers back at you. “Lord Sarvak likes to play games, you see. I was once a visitor, like yourself. I wanted to get rich, to feel fulfilled, have fun, not have to work all day at a job that numbs my brain, the usual sorts of desires that draw people to him. Well, that, and I have a few debts I’d like to pay off.” He chuckles as he begins to guide you through the damp rainforest. There isn’t that much of a path, per se, but it seems the area had been walked enough to make a sort of a trail. “I assume you came to him for similar reasons. He’s willing to grant those wishes, and more besides, but he wants to have his fun with the process. So, rather than give a free ticket, he plays games with his petitioners. In my case, we made a bet. I get to be his servant for half a year, and if I’m still my same old self by the end of it, he’ll make me a very wealthy man, and even provide me the means to return home whole and hearty.” He hunches forward, and tenses his muscles, then jumps upwards to snatch a fruit off a low-lying branch, before taking a big juicy bite out of it, exposing his sharper canines as he eats greedily.

“Um … no offense, but you don’t exactly look too human,” you say pointedly.

Well, of course I’m not looking very human. What did you expect in the simian court? Master Sarvak had to make some … adjustments, so I could fit in my role better. That doesn’t mean I’ve changed up here or in here,” he said, pointing to his head and heart with a free hand.

You’d rather not risk upsetting your only guide in a potentially dangerous jungle further, so you decide to change the subject. “So what’s it like? Meeting Sarvak, I mean.”

Your guide furrows his brow as you walk, pondering the question. “It is … ook ook … difficult to describe. The first time I stood in his presence, I knew immediately how wonderful and merciful a simian he was.”

“How so?”

He breaks into a high-pitched sort of laugh that scratches through his vocals, until it becomes more like a screech. “Oh, you’re funny. Master Sarvak has taken very good care of me in his employ. All the bananas I could ask for, a tree to swing around in, the distinct pleasure of being his servant….”

“And what about your home?”

He taps his lightly bearded chin with a leathery finger. “My home? Well, it’s not much to look at by your standards. I get a lovely tree house, a never-ending stalk of bananas, fresh juice every morning and night, a hammock and bed to swing around or sleep in as I choose, and all the vines I could ever want to swing around on. It’s especially fun when you’re harvesting fruits from the trees. They’re so tender, so juicy and sweet. It makes my tail wag just thinking about them!”

You do your best to dodge the appendage, while still remaining courteous. “That’s … not exactly what I meant,” you explain.

“Hmm? Oh, you meant my human home. Well … I don’t know if there’s much to say about it, really. It was just a studio apartment. I remember … four walls, and a magic screen to look out into the world. Master Sarvak has something similar, only he calls it a scrying glass. I remember a fire stick I used to start a woodless fire, and it would keep burning, until I was finished. Now that really was something.” He paused a moment as a dazed expression passed over his face. “Funny … I can’t quite … recall the name for it. It’s been so long since I thought about that place. So … very long. Actually … what did my home … look like? How … how long has it actually been?” He lets out an animalistic grunt, and scratches at his side as he struggles to break through the haze. “I … I, uh … suppose it doesn’t matter.” The scratching becomes more rhythmic, relaxed, and a smile pulls at his face, expanding into a grin that exposes sharper canines and thicker incisors. “Yes … doesn’t … doesn’t matter at all.” He lets out few more simian hoots. “Must attend my duties.”

He clearly seems lost in his own world, and you’d rather not get lost with him, so you do the only think you can think to do. You tap him on the shoulder to gain his attention. “Um, are you okay?” you ask.

“Hm?” He looks at you, and the fog in his eyes clears a little. He shakes his head. “Sorry. That happens sometimes when I think of the master. It’s good to think about the master.” The scratching has risen somewhat on his hairy body, and suddenly he stops, and plucks something off his skin. “Yes … good.” You watch as he sticks it in his mouth, and starts to chew. You can’t believe what you’ve just witnessed as the crunching of an exoskeleton echoes in the quiet jungle air.

You gape silently at his actions, and he looks back at your face, and rolls his eyes.

“Well excuse me. I’m hungry. The bugs make for a tasty snack. Puts hair on your chest, sharpens your teeth for the ladies.” His eyes burn suddenly with an unreasoning anger, and he beats his chest with curled fists as he unleashes a series of territorial screeches. “AH HAH AH HAH AHHH!” He coughed afterwards, and cleared his throat as he regained control of himself. “Forgive me. That behavior was … uncalled for.”

“Do you need me to–?” you start.

He raises a halting hand. “No, no. Don’t worry. It comes with the territory. The form comes with the instincts, including the need to display dominance.

You watch with some surprise as his ears twitch, and then start to stretch, becoming larger and rounder. “Um….”

“Yes?” he asks as he turns to face you.

“Your ears.”

“Yes? What about my ears?”

“They just grew. Isn’t that bad for your bet?”

He looks at you like you’ve just grown a second head. “What are you talking about? They’ve always been this big.”

“Always been….” Your heartrate is starting to rise.

“Yes, always.”

Sweat begins to bead at your forehead, and you feel the hairs rising on the back of your neck. Perhaps coming here wasn’t the best idea, after all. “Um … how long have you been working here now, then?”

“Oh, I’d say about a month or so,” he answers.

“And … what happens to you, if you lose this bet of yours?”

“If I lose? Why … Master would … he would…. Something about a … runner-up prize…. Why can’t I…?” He claps both hands over his head for a moment, and scrunches his eyes shut in intense concentration. Or was it pain? You couldn’t quite tell. Then a cool breeze shakes the branches, and the soft tone of bells rings in the air. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, and then sighs. He stops, and you watch as his tail seems to wrap around his ankle, and rub it. His foot changes before your eyes, the skin taking on a glossy sheen as it thickens to a leathery consistency, and the big toe lengthens to become a thumb-like appendage, while the toes shift to become just like fingers. The second foot joins in a matter of seconds, and soon he turns to face you again. “Come,” he almost seems to drone, “Master is waiting. Mustn’t keep Master waiting.” He lets out a few gentle simian ooks as his sideburns thicken, and lengthen down the sides of his face and jaw to form a sort of furry mane.

“Um, you seem to be … well, that is to say….” You find yourself at a loss for words for a moment, then finally out and say it. “Something’s wrong with your face.”

He reaches up with his hands, and starts feeling over his cheeks, his nose, his brow, even the inside of his mouth. As he does so, you watch as his nostrils become more pronounced, and his mouth seems to pull out with his hand, forming a sort of semi-muzzle. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong with my muzzle?”

“For one, you didn’t have it a few seconds ago.”

Your guide furrows his brow, and you watch as it thickens. The ridge stretches out like a clay pulled by a sculptor’s hand, before it compacts and swells, spreading like roots down the sides of his face to form a sort of natural hollow for the eyes to sink within.

“And now your brow is changing!”

He folds his arms, and rolls his eyes. “Well, a thick brow is part of the package. I’m a monkey servant, remember? … Monkey … just … monkey. Yes.” His gaze became distant again as the whites of his eyes began to disappear. “Hmm?” He sees your expression, and shakes his head to try to clear it. “Sorry. I’ve been feeling … scattered lately.”

You definitely don’t like where this is going. “Why don’t you tell me your name? You never did introduce yourself.”

“My name?” He shakes his head. “Master made me promise not to speak it, while I serve him. A proper challenge for a proper servant, he said. You may call me Domaap. It is the name Master told me to use.” He smiles dazedly at you.

“Um … why are you grinning like that?” you ask. “It’s sort of creepy.”

“Because I’ve come to enjoy hearing the name,” he explains as you reach a hill of roots. He begins climbing, and you have no choice but to follow. Naturally, given his simian anatomy, it comes more easily to him than it does for you. “It fills me with pleasure. The other monkeys think it’s a joke of some sort. I don’t understand how it is, myself.”

“You’re telling me he made you his servant, and you still can’t understand monkey speak?” you ask, surprised. You’ve worked up a good sweat by now as you continue to climb.

“Well, of course I speak simian. When you live in a jungle where the main population is monkeys who are bound in service to an even larger, more powerful magical monkey, you kind of have to know how to speak the language. It’s just a proper name, from what I can tell. I understand the speech. That doesn’t mean I have the meaning of every name memorized,” he pointed out logically as he reached the top and extended a hand down. You take it, and he pulls you up the rest of the way. “I can teach you some of it later, if you’d like. It’s actually quite simple to learn, more a matter of simplifying thought patterns mixed with body language and the occasional exclamation.”

“Like cursing?”

“More like hoots and screeching. It’s actually rather fun, once you get past the initial embarrassment. It’s far more entertaining to listen to them, once you get the knack for it. They’re simple, but passionate, and all dedicated to the master.”

“Why do you keep referring to this monkey as Master?”

Domaap shrugs as you continue to walk along the top of the natural wall. “I call him Master, because he is the master here. Everyone knows it, and everyone lives according to that fact. He gives us our jungle, grants us a home, rules us fairly.”

“Us?”

“Well, yes, us. I am a simian right now, so that means I fall under his rule, too. Any time we obey him, pleasure is our reward. I still remember when I first grew my tail and hung from the trees with it. It was such a rush. Master gave it to me as a reward for such speedy and efficient service when dealing with petitioners. Sure, it took me a while to learn how to climb properly, but once I had that down, the sky was the limit, quite literally. I could go anywhere in the canopy, swing from limb to limb like it was nothing. Back and forth, and back and forth, and back … and back … and … back….” He slumps further forward as a crack sounds from his spine. You watch as he swings his arms freely, and they lengthen. Soon enough, the sound of his knuckles scraping the ground reach your ears, and you watch as the skin around them cracks and darkens, while they swell larger. His fingers stretch out, and curve naturally as he alters his stride completely to match his new form of locomotion.

“Domaap?”

He turns his head back to face you, and grunts questioningly.

“Um … was part of your deal becoming a complete monkey?”

He grins, exposing his sharper canines as his lips fold outwards. “Mon-key … Master,” he grates out slowly, then slams his hands on the ground a few times, jumping excitedly on the forest floor, while his fur, because that’s basically what it is now, thickens into a proper coat. “Good … ha–ppy.” He leaps into the air, grabbing one of the low-lying branches, and starts swinging as he hoots out what you think is a simian equivalent of a laugh. The trees shake and tremble around you as that laughter echoes, and returns. It redoubles as the boughs in the higher parts of the trees shake with movement. You swallow forcefully as you realize you’ve been shadowed the whole way. There had to be hundreds of them.

You feel a sharp pain, and smack the back of your neck, pulling back to reveal the bloated remains of one of the biggest insects you’ve ever laid eyes on. Domaap hoots excitedly, and leaps down from his branch to take what remains he can with his fingers, then shoves them in his mouth. When he looks up at you again, the whites in his eyes have all but been consumed, leaving a sort of golden hazel iris to stare back at you.

…

But they had been blue.

“Domaap, how many people have actually won Sarvak’s games?”

His shoulders shake as he hoots gently in what you assume to be the simian equivalent of a chuckle. “No … know,” he grated out. You watch with a rising sense of horror as a forest of hair sprouts and spreads up his shoulders and neck, thickening along the way. “Just … serve Master.” He thumped his chest with a fist, then motioned towards you. “Come.”

The humid jungle air soon leaves you covered in sweat, and a low-lying fog begins to stream around your ankles as you follow your guide. Your hidden followers peek curiously out from the tree boughs. Some are completely feral, including in size. Others still maintain some small semblance of their humanity, namely in the form of tattered clothes.

You stop at the foot of a massive tree, where a curious plant is growing with a single broad, sturdy green leaf the size of a platter. A pool of rainwater has collected inside, and your host reaches in with a cupped hand to sip. He smiles at you then, and leans forward on his knuckles, before motioning to the leaf. “Drink,” he grunts. “Help … talk to Master.” His brow furrowed further, as though he were struggling to recall the words. “Speak … sim … sim–ian.”

“And if I don’t?”

He shook his head. “No … see … Master. No … talk … Domaap. No talk. No … no ….” He groaned out the last word, then hooted as he slapped his leathery palms onto the forest floor. The trees came alive with screeches, hoots, and hollers that pealed like laughter as he pulled off his shirt to reveal a fur-covered chest. He beat against it a few times, then grinned, and hooted excitedly as he watched the fur spread down his arms to thicken into a proper coat.

“Domaap?” you ask hesitantly.

The new monkey rises up onto his two feet, and stares uncomprehendingly at you. His tail sways behind him as he points to the leaf, and mimes drinking one more time, then leaps up onto a tree trunk to climb onto a low-hanging branch and hang upside down with his tail. He folds his arms, and looks expectantly at you.

You look back the way you’ve come. The fog has all but eliminated any sign of the track you’ve taken. Even if you could manage to stumble back the way you came, it was highly likely a predator of some sort would find you, before you managed to escape the forest’s boundaries. Domaap continues to stare at you, cocking his head left and right as he scratches his scalp with a finger. The familiarity seems to have faded from his expression, and all you can see in those eyes now is a strange sort of curiosity, as if you were the first human he had ever laid eyes on.

At this point, it’s rather clear. You have no choice but to do as he suggested, or else risk being lost in this jungle for the rest of your days. You brace yourself, then walk resolutely to the leaf. The water is still, completely undisturbed as you peer over the leaf’s edge. You can just make out the shadow of your face, but nothing else. A single drop falls from the tree above to ripple the surface, and you cup your hands nervously, before reaching out to take the liquid.

The cold water raises goosebumps on your skin as the excess runs down your arms, while you tip your hands up to slurp at the water. Your throat tingles for a moment, and you clear it forcibly to relieve the sensation. Then you look up at the monkey again, take a deep breath, and sigh. ‘Here goes,’ you think to yourself. “Domaap?”

The monkey looks your way. “About time you took the hint,” he groused as he dropped to the jungle floor. He smoothed back his messy hair, then hunched forward to lean on his knuckles again. “If you’re that hesitant, there’s no way you’ll be able to face the master and win.”

“What … was that? I mean, I assume we’re talking monkey, but it all sounds like English to me.”

Domaap shrugged. “The water is mixed with nectar from blossoms on the tree. The nectar drops when the pool is ready, sort of like the tree already knows. You’re lucky. You got a fresh dose. That means you’ll be able to speak with and understand us a lot longer than most.”

“And what happens when there’s more nectar than water?”

Domaap grinned, baring his sharper incisors. “Then the forest really likes you,” he said mysteriously. Then he turned, and waved his hand behind him. “Come on. Master Sarvak won’t wait forever, and he’ll have my tail, if I don’t get you to him soon.”

You walk nervously behind him as the creaking of tree boughs and the occasional whisper rushes past your ears. The longer you travel, the more prominent the voices seem to become.

“Fifty bananas says the newbie doesn’t even make it to the game,” one says.

“Twenty on chickening out,” another clamors.

You blush as you hear another voice ask whether you’re single.

“Pay no attention to them,” Domaap suggested as he looked to the trees.

“So, bananas are currency here?” you ask, desperate to change the subject and follow his advice.

Domaap shrugged. “Bananas, other fruits, sometimes tools or services. It varies. After all, what’s a game without a little betting on the side, eh?”

“How many have you bet on?”

“Oh, a few,” he said modestly as he brushed his knuckles over his chest. “I understand you humans better than most. It gives me an advantage. Honestly, though, what I’d like to do is explore the forest more. Being Master’s servant is fulfilling, and I am happy to do it, but I can’t go very far, unless I’m bringing new guests to him. The others tell me about all these places in the forest, and I can’t go, because Master needs me. It’s how most of the others get back at me for winning.”

“And how long did you say you’d been serving him again?”

“As long as I’ve been in this forest, so pretty much all my life,” Domaap said. The air seemed to waver around him momentarily as the fog swept over his shorts. You blink in surprise to try to ease the strange sense of strain that’s suddenly assailed your eyes. A few moments and one eye rub later, you open your eyes to see an emerald-green loin cloth wrapped tightly around his waist and nether region. It pops brightly against his dark fur, leaving little to the imagination. “Master has been very kind.”

“I … see that,” you say as the pit in your stomach sinks even lower. Desperate to take your mind away from that foreboding sensation, you decide to change the course of the conversation. “The trees here are so large. The forest must be very old.”

Domaap chuckles as he leaps onto a low-lying branch, and swings lazily, before somersaulting in the air, and landing perfectly back on the forest floor again. “Master made it himself, long ago. No woodcutters here, no developers. The forest protects itself, protects us. Master called it … alchemy, I think.”

“He made all this with alchemy?” You look up at the thick trunks, the spidering boughs, the heavy green vegetation casting the forest in an unearthly light. You take another breath of the mist, and a hint of something floral catches your senses, almost like a pollen.

“Yup. He helped the forest grow, develop ways to protect itself, even communicate sometimes. You could say … she’s sort of like a mother to us.” Domaap pauses at that, and rubs a hand appreciatively against one of the massive trunks. The boughs rustle, and the perfume becomes stronger for a few moments. Then you look up to see a blossom floating gently down. Its petals are a fiery orange tinged with licks of yellow and red near the edges.

A mischievous breeze stirs the mist, directing the flower’s course, until it lands in the monkey’s cupped hands. Beads of moisture shone like jewels along the flower’s petals as the two of you stare. Then Domaap lifts the flower up to his nose, and takes a deep breath. You watch in utter disbelief as the dark fur around his face begins to shift. It’s subtle at first, but like a ripple in a pond, a wave of color suddenly rushes out, consuming his head fur, then rolling over the rest of him. Fiery red blazed down his back with golden streaks and the occasional cinder-like orange. The fur around his torso shone like sunlight as the gold became more pronounced. The gold, orange, and red coursed down his tail, merging into a brilliant band, before fading off to streaks of gray, black, and white at the very end. The very visage of the flower became etched on either bicep just below the shoulder in black, not unlike the core from whence the stamen in the flower rose.

Your body feels tense, after seeing this latest transformation. Domaap looks at you in turn with a bashful smile. “That was … I suppose what you would call a kiss,” he says as he takes the blossom and mounts it by his ear, then clears his throat. “I’ll place it next to my hammock later. For now, it’s time you met Master. It won’t be much farther now. Come, come,” he waves as the two of you press on together.

The path isn’t nearly so difficult now, but your anxiety has reached a new level. Every shake of a bough, every stray breeze, every twig snap makes your heart hammer faster against your chest. You start to feel lightheaded, and you wonder if it’s you or the forest. “Does … does the forest ever … do things to people?”

“It wouldn’t be able to defend itself, if it couldn’t, now would it?” Domaap asked with a mischievous wink. “Don’t worry. You’re a guest. She won’t do anything to you, if you behave.”

“… Behave. Right….”

“She had fun with the last developers that came through here. They made good additions to the forest. You know, saplings, fungus, maybe a couple of predators.” He shrugged. “They don’t hunt us, of course. She won’t let them.”

“Predators….” You can hardly believe it.

“Well, that is what alchemy is, after all, isn’t it, changing the nature of one thing to make it another? Does it really matter whether it’s lead or a creature?”

“I suppose not,” you finally say. “It’s … not painful, though, is it?”

Domaap shrugged. “It depends on the visitor. If they deserve the pain, they’ll have pain. If they don’t, they won’t.”

“And … how do they know, the forest and Sarvak, I mean?”

“A little magic, a little alchemy, and maybe a game.” He grins at you. “Everyone loves games here.”

“And … if I meet your master, he’ll make me play a game with him.”

“Yup!” Domaap’s grin widens. “Don’t worry, his games are fun. He won’t let anybody hurt you.”

“It’s not getting hurt that I’m worried about,” you mutter back.

Domaap suddenly stops, and shoves out an arm to hold you back. A thick layer of leaves and brush stands before you, and the mist writhes out from the barrier. “We’re here. Make sure to mind your manners. We don’t take kindly to people who disrespect Master,” he warns. Then he reaches out to the leaves, and brushes them gently.

The foliage moves aside, rustling almost warningly as it parts. The fog washes over you in a wave, causing you to shudder, despite the warmer climate. You feel the strong leathery grip of a hand clasping yours firmly, and suddenly you find yourself stumbling through the curtain of fog into a massive clearing. Sunlight sparkles through the mist, causing the moist earth beneath your feet to emerge from hiding. Tiny specks of light dot the trees above you in boughs, where a series of vines and boughs appear to have grown together to form a series of shelters. These doubtless were the treehouses Domaap had mentioned earlier. Bamboo shoots and other forms of grass stuck up at various locations near the bases of the trees, stretching like fences to guard against intruders. There, in the center of the clearing, a tall, well-toned monkey balances on a gnarled wooden staff with one foot mounted on the top, while a second supported further down where the wood of the staff spiraled outwards, before tightening back up again in its downward course. His eyes are closed, but his fiery orange fur blazes in the misty clearing. His tail swishes idly behind him, its end a bright golden tassel that seems to trail sparks in the strange half-light of the clearing. Or was that just fireflies?

You blink a few times just to be sure, before returning your attention to the monkey man. His dark-chocolate-brown skin only served to further emphasize the brightness of his fur. You note how his ear twitches, and his lips curl up into a smile. He opens his eyes to expose playful golden orbs hemmed by red along the edges. His pupils are dark and probing as he peers up and down.

“So, this is our new arrival, hmm?” he asks as he looks you over. “Interesting.” He leaps up, performs a triple front flip, and lands gracefully on his hands and feet, before rising back onto his legs again. You do your best to keep your gaze away from the rather prominent bulge pressing against a blue loin cloth as he approaches you. “I’m guessing Domaap here has already explained the rules of our little home to you, yes?”

You gulp, and nod gently.

“Good. That will make this much easier. Domaap?”

Domaap steps forward and bows to Sarvak. “Yes, Master?”

“I want you to go join the others and harvest a couple of bushels of golden bananas.”

“Wh-what?” Domaap balks.

“You heard me. I want to have the prize ready for our guest. After all, one must be able to show an offering of good faith to one so brave.”

“But Master….”

“Now, Domaap.”

Domaap’s eyes grow unfocused for a moment. “Yes, Master. I’ll leave at once,” he says dazedly.

Sarvak reaches out, and pats Domaap on the head. “Good monkey. Treat yourself to a banana on your way back.

Domaap looks up adoringly at Sarvak. “Oh yes, Master. Thank you, Master!” He grins, baring his teeth, and exposing his sharp canines.

“Off you go, now. I want to play this game alone.”

You watch as Domaap scurries off with a few excited hoots of joy. He leaps onto a nearby tree, and the boughs shake as he jumps with practiced ease from branch to branch. If you hadn’t met him earlier, you’d have sworn he was a native.

“And score another one for me,” Sarvak says with a smirk, then chuckles. “I do so enjoy watching humans. They’re such funny little creatures, so assured in their own sense of superiority as the ‘dominant species,’” he says as he performs a set of air quotes for your benefit. “Give them a few changes, though, a little push here, a tiny nudge there, and … well, they don’t seem to care about being human anymore. Most of them rewrite their memories of their own accord.” He chuckles again, sighs, then shakes his head. “Humanity is overrated, anyway. You people are so focused on things like industrialization, a concept of money as power, boxing every little part of the world into your own standards and definitions, dismissing things like magic and potions with a contemptuous wave of the hand. After all, mankind is too advanced to believe in such things anymore,” he scoffs. “And they call us the ignorant savages.”

You gulp as the crushing realization of just how far in over your head you’ve gone practically shatters your psyche. Your body begins to shake, and you struggle to keep yourself together.

Sarvak takes one look at you, then sighs, and shakes his head as he clicks his tongue chidingly. “One of those, are you?” He’s by you faster than you can blink, and you feel his strong arm around your shoulders. His fur tickles where it brushes your neck and cheeks, but it feels warm enough, and … surprisingly, he doesn’t stink. “Look, I’m not some power-hungry spirit determined to take over the world, okay? And I’m not here to destroy humanity. Everything has its place in the world, even humans.” He shrugs as he leads you to a high-backed swing made from interwoven vines you’re certain wasn’t there when you first walked in. “I guess you could say I’m just the bookkeeper. I watch over my forest, take care of my charges, make sure they’re well fed and sheltered, maybe play a few pranks on visitors, if I feel like it. If anything, I’m more like an overprotective father than I am a ‘master.’” He chuckles at the wavering warble he added at the end, and despite yourself, you find your heartrate starting to slow. The shaking eases. He turns to smile at you, and you don’t see a hint of malice. If anything, you see … pity?

“Where exactly is this place, anyways?” you finally manage to say as he guides you to the vines and presses you firmly into the swing. He’s surprisingly strong. Then again, he’s a monkey. They’re supposed to be strong.

“Somewhere in some jungle in the world.” He shrugs. “The forest likes to move around from time to time.” He leans back, and a surge of spongy flora suddenly rises from the ground to meet him as he seats in an organic equivalent of an easy chair.

“This … is weird,” you finally admit, “and freaky.”

Sarvak shrugs. “Things like this always are for you humans. It’s par for the course, really. Anything else you wanted to talk about?”

You swallow nervously, then look back over to him. “Domaap said … the forest protects itself. It’s sentient, then?”

“I’d say closer to sapient, but yes. As you can see, she’s most considerate.” He smiles and pats the chair appreciatively. “Though she hasn’t exactly spoken yet, so it’s not entirely certain where she stands on that scale we mentioned earlier.”

“And people have tried to hurt her before?” You wince as you feel the vines tighten somewhat beneath you.

“Yes, they have,” Sarvak says softly. “Humans are always creating new ways to develop, or harvesting new ingredients for their medicine. I can’t fault them on the harvesting, but the destruction they bring about to do it sometimes borders on the ludicrous.” He shakes his head, then sighs. “So yes, we’ve had to defend ourselves a few times before. You could say that’s where the memories go, in part, when humans lose my games. The forest needs to know what advances man has made, so she can counter them in the event of an attack.”

“And how do humans find their way here?”

“How did you?”

“I … read a book.”

“Correction. You read a portion of a book, one you found on … the internet, I believe it’s called, isn’t it? You’re not even sure how you found it, but you read it, and here you are, waiting to get some easy money.”

You squirm under his knowing gaze. “Life’s been a little rough to me,” you say weakly.

“Go on,” he urges. “Tell me about it.”

You try to avoid his gaze.

“Eyes on me, please. It’s rude not to hold contact with a host,” he points out.

You fiddle with your hands, squirm a bit, but ultimately, little by little, you raise your head to face him.

“That’s better. Now, come along. Tell me the truth.”

You’re suddenly struck by a strange sense of vertigo, and you lean back in your makeshift swing for support. “I … I, uh….” And then you start. It comes haltingly at first. You want to obscure the details, leave your life your own, but the more you talk, the harder it is to keep your lies straight. You furrow your brow in confusion as you talk about dropping out of high school to live on your own. How was he doing this?

“Easy now. I won’t judge,” Sarvak promised. “I just like to hear the stories. Come now; tell me more. No more guilt. No more worries. No more fears. Just relax.” You hear the gentle creek of the vines in your seat, and you wonder idly when you’d started swinging. “Just look at me and relax. Let it all out. You’ll feel so much better, if you do. It’s always better to tell the truth, you know, don’t you agree?”

“I, uh … suppose so.” A sweet scent fills your nostrils, and you feel the gentle tickle of blossoms against your skin. “Mmm … smells … nice.” A light tingling rushes over your body, and you shudder as you feel the tension start to leave your muscles.

“See? You’re feeling better already. Come. Tell me more.”

And you do tell him more. You’re not sure how long you’ve been talking, when you suddenly see a rough wrinkled hand shoving something long and yellow in your face.

“Banana?” a familiar voice asks.

You break your contact with Sarvak for just a moment to stare up into the simian face. You feel dazed, thirsty. Your stomach growls.

“Thank you, Domaap. You can leave the bananas there,” Sarvak says casually. “And could you fetch our guest something to drink?”

Domaap grunts his acknowledgement and walks off into the underbrush again. You’re surprised to find yourself holding the proffered banana in your hand, already peeled.

“Go on. Eat,” Sarvak prods as he takes one from his own stalk. “I guarantee this will taste better than anything you’ve ever tasted out there before.” He bites it, swallows, then smiles as he stares at you. “Well, go on,” he prompts.

You look down at the banana. It almost seems to glow, but you’re sure that’s just a trick of your eyes. You sniff it, and smell a strong, sweet scent. A moment later, you’re staring bemusedly at an empty peel. A strong, fruity taste hangs in your mouth, and you look confusedly at the monkey across the way.

“Well, go on, big nose. There’s plenty more where that came from,” Sarvak presses. “Eat.”

And eat you do. Your nostrils flare, and you chomp down on banana after banana.

“That’s it. I told you they were better than anything else, didn’t I?” he asks.

“Yesh,” you acknowledge through puffed lips. Your jaw is working like a pair of pistons, but you don’t care. You don’t stop. You have to eat.

“To use a phrase one of my brethren were so keen on using, before he joined us, ‘it’ll put hair on your chest.’” He chuckled. “Among other places.”

You hold back after a time, and slouch into your seat. The vines are creaking more heavily now, and you blink your eyes sleepily as you brush some of your hair out of your face. You scratch at your stomach, and grunt at the strange pulling sensation you’re getting from your clothes. It’s rather uncomfortable. But then you’ve got a coconut cup shoved in your face, and you’re drinking something thick, smooth, and creamy. You forget about the strange sensation.

“Drink it all up,” Sarvak says. You do, and the strange bloating sensation you felt before is relieved, though not the tug of the clothing on your skin. Your brow furrows again, and you look up at the strange protrusion over your eyes. It’s bushy and thick, like a bunch of stray eyebrow hairs, but you don’t understand how that could be. You knead and pull at it, but that doesn’t seem to help. If anything, it seems to make it worse.

“Leave it,” Sarvak instructs, and you do so without a second thought.

“Time to talk again?” you ask. Your vocal chords feel strained. The itching sensation has increased, and things feel … almost swollen as you swallow again. You reach up to scratch an itch at the top of your head, and a thrill of pleasure flows down your body as you continue the action. You’re hardly aware of the strange pushing sensation against your kneading fingers. Indeed, you’re too enthralled in pleasure to be much aware of anything.

“That’s right,” Sarvak says gently. “But first, you need to relax more. Kick off those shoes. Stay a while. I think we’re close enough now to be past formalities, wouldn’t you say?”

You nod and grunt, since your mouth is too full of banana right now to respond properly. In a matter of seconds, your shoes are flying through the air, and land on either side of Sarvak’s chair. You wriggle your toes in your socks, and sigh.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yes….”

“So much better without those pesky shoes.”

Your brow furrows. “Stupid things,” you grumble. Then the pleasure washes over you again, and you sigh as you lean back in the vines and stretch your feet on the clearing’s floor.

“That’s right. Now, where were we?”

And so you resume, and you look gladly, almost eagerly into his eyes this time. You’re struck by the occasional lightheadedness, but when that happens, you just grunt, and scratch yourself a little to give you time. You think Sarvak knows, but he’s so nice, just lets you do what you want, and smiles. He doesn’t even blink an eyelash when your clothes start to rip. He’s such a great guy. You really do like him, and he’s giving you all the bananas you could ask for. What a gracious host. You smile as you chew, and your swollen jaw shifts in proportion with the muscle strain. You hardly even notice the twin pops as your socks burst open, like the seams in your pants, to reveal rough, leathery feet. In a matter of seconds, you find yourself peeling bananas with your toes, then passing them up to your hands to chew.

“So there it is. I was just … tired, I guess,” you finally say from your spot on the ground. You twirl your last banana idly between your fingers as you readjust the remains of the vines into a nest, shoving the fragments of cloth in with some spare leaves growing within reach to form the extra padding. “Tired, and,” you yawn, “waiting … for someone like you.”

“And I’ve been waiting for someone like you,” Sarvak said intently. His eyes were so pretty. They seemed almost to glow as you stared into them. You felt so safe. “Domaap is an excellent servant, and he loves his duty, but he gets tired of being by my side so often, and he wants to explore the forest. I can’t say I blame him. She has much to offer, and she does so love surprising her children.” He sips from his own cup as he eyes you. “I don’t need more servants pampering me hand and foot.” He rises from his chair suddenly, and walks over to you. It’s … funny. You don’t remember him being so short before. He barely comes to your chest. “I need someone strong to support me, to protect me when people come with ill intent. Some come to steal from me sometimes. Others … others try to kill me.”

A guttural snarl rises naturally from your throat. “Why?” you demand harshly. Your eyes narrow. Your free hand clenches into a meaty fist as you bear your teeth. A tingling sensation runs over your jaw, and you’re hardly aware of how your canines have lengthened somewhat and your mouth has shoved forward with your new snout to form a sort of proto-muzzle as you snort angrily.

“Money, power, land, ingredients, reagents, fear, take your pick,” he sighed with a shrug. “The point is that I need someone to guard me, to protect me in the event someone tries when they get close. My little monkeys would be lost without me. And well, if I die….” He left it hanging in the air.

You struggle for a few minutes as you try to catch the monkey’s meaning. You know Sarvak wants you to finish it, but you’re not sure how. Then, slowly, a tiny bubble of memory bursts its way to the surface of your thoughts. He was the bookkeeper. He’d said that. Keeps earth’s books balanced, or … something like that. “Earth dies, too,” you finish gruffly.

“Exactly. Very good.”

You grin at his praise and puff out your chest proudly as you strike it with your fist. “I’m smart,” you grunt.

“Yes, very smart for such a big ape,” he agreed.

That … didn’t sound right … did it? But … Sarvak said to tell the truth, and … he was telling the truth, too, right? So … that means … you had to be an ape. But … but….

“Shhh….” He hushes you gently as he pulls your head down to stare at him again. “Our game is nearly over, my massive friend.”

Those eyes….

“Very nearly over, over the edge, over your old life, over humanity.”

“O … ver….” You can’t look away. You hoot gently, meekly, to voice that small piece of concern, so very small compared to the bulk you now feel in your body, that raw brute strength.

“But here’s where the game gets interesting. See, I’m going to take a risk, my friend. I’m going to give you a choice. True, it’s only fifty-fifty, but it’s a gamble all the same, which makes it such a wonderful game. You can go back to that old life of yours with a dead-end job and nowhere to go. I’d even be willing to part with some of my valuables to send you on your way, let you live the life you always wanted over there: comfortable, peaceful, rich. Of course, you’d likely end up living in some city high rise with all those noisy cars and rowdy neighbors, and you’d be doing everything in your power to protect the valuables in the first place. Honestly, it’s far too stressful, in my opinion.”

His tail flicks over your vision, and the bright lights make your head feel all funny and fuzzy as he taps the edge on the banana in your hand. The peel starts to glow with a gentle golden light, just like the tail. It feels warm, and a light tingle passes from it into your much larger hand. “The other option, my friend, is quite simple, and you like simple, don’t you?”

You feel your head nodding. Simple was good. You liked simple.

“All you have to do is eat that banana. Do that, and you can stay here, where it’s simple, calm, peaceful. You’ll have all the fruits you could ever want, including our long yellow friends there,” he added with a wink. “You can be my guard, someone to watch my back, intimidate any people who get the wrong idea about their visits here. You know, the ones who want to hurt me.”

You growl again as the haze of anger descends.

“You can teach them a lesson, make them understand how wrong they are. I can show you how.” The tail caresses under your chin. “How to be dominant. How to lead them. How to reform them. Or, if you prefer, well, you can do it the other way, I suppose.”

“Other … way?” you hoot, confused.

“Oh, you know, like when you break a twig. I don’t like killing, but if it comes down to it, sometimes you have to.” He shrugged. “That would be completely up to you, of course. But there’s no need to think about that right now. No need to think at all.” He’s staring at you gain, and your eyes are locked with his. “Thinking is over now. You don’t think much now anyway, do you? You prefer to act.”

“A-a-aaahhhhct….” Eyes … so pretty … so … nice…. Thinking over. No think.

“So act. Eat or don’t eat. Choose now, you silly ape.”

For just a moment, images flash through your mind. You see the small apartment you rent, the abusive manager, the cursing roommates, the mocking “friends.” You look at the banana, and your mind clears as the full impact of what that choice would mean blazes through the fog like a comet. Then you look down at Sarvak, those glowing eyes, that sultry voice. He was kind, hospitable, friendly, and he was offering you a new life in a place where you would be well taken care of, where you could decide your fate without other people to boss you around, well, except for Sarvak. He would technically be your boss, since you’d be his guard, but that was beside the point. It was beautiful here, beautiful like those eyes. So … beautiful.

And just like that, the comet passes, and the darkness rushes in to fill its place. Funny words like choose, ape, and simple echo over and over in the caverns of your mind, and they keep getting louder the longer you stare at the banana. You scratch at the ridge on top of your head, and the pleasure calms you. The darkness thickens. The caverns expand. Somewhere, deep down, you feel something give. You grunt. You hoot. You peel the banana, and as you raise it to your dimming eyes, you fumble for the words that will seal your fate. “I’m just a big, dumb ape.”

You take the bite, and Master Sarvak smirks as you polish off the banana and toss the peel aside with the last vestiges of your humanity. You shudder in pleasure as Master Sarvak speaks, “Yes, you are, Pumbavu. Yes, you are.”

You are Pumbavu.

You are a dumb ape.

And you are happy to serve your new master until THE END.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 30

You strode confidently through the doors to the warehouse with Harry by your side. The man was positively beaming. Must’ve been having a good week. You grunt and shrug. It’s not your concern, anyways. Your concern lay ahead, past the sea of flashing strobing cameras to the waiting Fängsla. His broad shoulders and wide grin were the same as ever, and you can’t help but grin yourself as you feel your muscles tense and flex in anticipation. Soon you would be able to pose for the camera. And it always felt so good posing for Fängsla. “You are back!” Fängsla greeted cheerfully. He eyed you up and down. “And you have grown.” “It’s what they hired me for,” you return as you clasp the man’s hand with your own and feel the forces of his grip grapple with your own. Something about the contest filled you with an inexplicable thrill. You held that grip for a time as Fängsla peered deeply into your eyes. Then he nodded and he released his grip. “You are comfortable now, yes?” You grin as you pop a flex. “Perfectly.” “That is good. Go get changed. I will finish last calibrations.” You nod and make your way to the table. As had been before, the underwear sat waiting in a variety of sizes. Your eyes wandered over each of them, until they fell on a unique posing strap with bold capital letters on its waistband. DJUR You don’t even hesitate. You seize the strap and make your way to the changing room, your head awhirl with the giddiness of that familiar emptiness you’ve come to enjoy so much as you listened to your recordings and grew. You grunt again as you toss your clothes aside in a crumpled heap and step out, wearing the new garment. Harry whistled in surprise as you tromped over to the blank white background screen and stood at attention, waiting for Fängsla’s guiding touch. “Excellent!” Fängsla praised. “You have grown so much in all the right places. You are ... what is the word? Fantastic!” The cameras began to flash, and you smiled that dimwitted grin you’ve been practicing so much with your selfies. “Good. Good! Now show me dum. Show me korkad. Remember, you are djur.” Flash. “A djur does not think.” Flash. “Muscle thinks for him.” Strobe. “Muscle thinks for you.” You grin vapidly as you enter pose after pose, completely shameless over your body. After all, you worked hard to earn this muscle. It deserves to be shown. It wants to be shown. Muscle thinks for you. You turn to your side and pose, heedless of the swelling fog and tightening pouch. Muscle wants to show off, so you want to show off. Flash. Show off. Strobe. Listen to muscle. Flash. Obey your muscles. Strobe. Because that is what djurs do. Flash. “Djurs like you,” Fängsla’s voice echoed faintly through the fog. You look eagerly into the camera lens as the next flash blazes into your retina. Your pupils can hardly keep up. Shrinking and growing, pulsing in time to the constant input. The lights and the breaks blur together in an endless cycle of pleasure as you flex and pose on command, running that program, executing the orders, both from input and from your own muscle memory. “Because that is what you are becoming.” Flash. Becoming. Strobe. “More and more.” Flash. “Every day.” Strobe. “Each time I see you.” Flash. Your head is reeling. You let out a husky chuckle. “Huhuhuhuhuh....” “More muscle, less mind.” Strobe. “Because djurs only care about their muscles. Brutes must grow.” Flash. “You must grow.” “Grow....” Strobe. “Because you are djurisk, brutish. But you are not true djur yet.” You frown at that. “Wadaya mean?” you slur. Flash. “Simply I do not believe you are djur.” Fängsla shrugged his shoulders. “You think too much. Djurs let muscles do the thinking, bodies do the talking, yes? You do not do this. It is shame, really.” A low growl rumbles out your throat as you glower at the camera. Flash. “Good! Good! Show me anger. Show me fire! That is muscle talking. Much better!” Fängsla praised. Strobe. “Muscle must control brain. Muscle must fill head. That is how you become djur.” Flash. “Muscle....” Strobe. “Proud muscleman does not think. He acts!” Flash. Doesn’t ... think.... “Show me muscleman. Show me djur. Be the muscleman. Be the djur!” Strobe. Doesn’t ... think.... Flash. Listen........ Strobe. Be the djur. Flash. “Yes, Sir.....”

Your head felt sorta funny as you left the changing room later that night. You could hardly believe that you’d taken the whole day to pose for this session. Fängsla grinned at you as you emerged in your Underarmor shirt and compression gear. “You are very close,” he praised. “I am sure bosses will want you to shoot commercial soon.” You sway briefly and broaden your stance to steady yourself as you massage your temples with your mitt of a hand. “Shoot the wh--? Oh, right. Yeah. The commercial.” You look back at your now much shorter agent. When did he get so tiny? ... Does it really matter? “Harry, how’re we doing on that, uh ... that ... you know.” Man, is it hard to think. “The timeline?” “Yeah, that,” you utter in a low, husky voice. You want to smile as it vibrates your vocal cords, but you’re just too tired to. Maybe that’s why you’re not thinking straight. ... Yeah, that’s gotta be it. “Smooth as a whistle. Don’t worry about it, kid. I’ve been keeping tabs on things. All you gotta do is keep doing what you’re doing and pick up when I call you. You can leave the rest to me,” he promised. You sigh in relief. That was a major weight off your shoulders. Though, speaking of weights.... “Thanks, Harry. Think you can drop me off at the gym? I need to lift things up and put them down.” You didn’t mean to say it, but a wave of euphoria sweeps over you, the moment the phrase is out of your mouth. You’re so caught up in it that you don’t even notice the broadening grins on both the men beside you. “I look forward to next visit.” Fängsla smiled as he clasped your hand once more. “By the way, I like new haircut. Is very Maskulin, very ... butch is the word, yes?” A dull tingle of pleasure prickles through you, emanating in waves from your chest and crotch. This time, you do smile. “Thanks.” “It is my pleasure. The look is good on you. Good luck. Next time we meet will likely be last, but it is always pleasure having you as subject, yes?” You chuckle at the broken English. “The pleasure is all mine, Fängsla.” “Come on, kid. Let’s get you to that gym,” Harry said. You turn respectfully, albeit a tad eagerly to avoid being noticed as your pecs begin to bounce in anticipation. “Yeah. Let’s go.” Time to go home.

Working Like a Thrall Chapter 2

Here’s the second chapter, folks. Just click this link.

Commissions

Hey, guys. This is a story I wrote to advertise for a special I’m running right now. I’m doing Halloween commissions for a flat rate of $60 USD ($63 if paying via PayPal to handle the fee. I’ll send an invoice.) I think I’ll offer the same deal to all of you on here at tumblr. My standards are simple. I don’t do adult content, and I reserve the right to refuse to do certain themes, if they go against my personal beliefs or make me too uncomfortable. If anyone is interested, drop me a note either through PM or ask and we’ll talk business. I reserve the right to take credit as the author and to post the work on my various posting pages. You as the commissioner will be credited as the one who paid for the story. If you choose to post the story anywhere, you must give credit to me as the author and the one you commissioned. With that said, I hope you all enjoy the story.

Brad strode over to the door. The hour was surprisingly late on that muggy September night. He’d been enjoying a murder mystery marathon, when the knock came. He flicked on the porch light, then pulled open the door to see … a fursuiter with a clip board?

“Bradley Sarthopan, AKA Sarkos the werewolf?” the fursuiter asked. His eyes were a piercing red that seemed almost to pulse, like hot coals. The fur was midnight black with bloody red accents along his muzzle, chest fur, and his three tails. Slick claws glinted in the fluorescent light of the porch bulbs.

“Who’s asking?” Brad narrowed his gaze suspiciously as he looked over the stranger.

“Forgive me. So rude of me not to introduce myself.” The fusuiter’s lips pulled back in a sneer, exposing sharp canid teeth and fangs. “You know me as Omnikitsune online, though around this time of year, I prefer to go by Ronoc. You did hire my services for a commission, didn’t you? I believe you said you were looking to become your fursona, yes, a powerful werewolf?”

“How did you get my address?”

“Why, by scrying you, of course.” The suiter began scrawling along the surface of his clipboard. “How else am I supposed to deliver my services, if I don’t give them a personal touch? Customer satisfaction is vey important to me, you know.

“O … kay, I think I’m going to shut my door now.”

“The man said with full intent of calling the police. After all, he wasn’t about to go about dealing with a potential lunatic. Except, as he was about to close the door, he was struck by a sudden sense of vertigo. His shoulder slammed into the door frame as he leaned against it for support, a sudden feverishness overtaking his usual calm demeanor.”

Brad panted heavily as he felt a sudden pain in his shoulder. Both hands clutched at the door as the moist air blew in over his face. “Wh-what the hell?” he huffed.

“Oh, trust me, you’re not in hell, though I could arrange it, I suppose, assuming you’d prefer to be a were-hellhound. Then again, your kind are also known as the hounds of God, so perhaps you could find a way into hell at that,” the Kitsune mused as he tapped a claw against his chin in thought. The clipboard was hovering questioningly at his side, the pen scrawling, even as he stared pensively in Brad’s direction. “But that would make it too long, and I like to balance exposition with the transformation. After all, we both know we’re not made of money, Mister Sarthopan.”

Brad had had enough. He clenched a hand firmly around the doorknob and slammed the door home, then stumbled toward the kitchen with his stomach reeling. His phone sat connected to its charger atop the breakfast nook between two great windows. All he had to do was reach it, call the police, and they’d sort out this mess. He clutched at the high countertops along the way, like a life line, using them to guide his steps, despite the rising light-headedness and sudden burning beneath his skin. He panted more heavily, then finally lunged for the table as the world spun, yet again. He was rewarded with the cold sensation of tile against his cheek.

His heartrate picked up as he heard the familiar scrabbling clack of keratin along the hard surface. Moments later, a familiar set of paws met his gaze across the legs of the table. His ears burned with the sound of the pen scratching and rumbling across the page as it continued to write.

“Now, Mister Sarthopan, that was very much uncalled for. After all, I’m here to help you.” The man let out a heavy sigh as his tails swayed idly, brushing the floor and other places as they each moved independently of one another. “But I suppose that position suits you, all things considered. Shall we resume the story?”

“Wh-what did you … do to me?”

“As I said, I’m writing your story, Mister Sarthopan. It’s quite simple, really.” And suddenly, those blazing red eyes were staring Brad in the face as he struggled to push himself into an upright position. “You commissioned my services, and I always deliver, whether my clients want me to or not,” he practically purred as he ran his clawed hands through Brad’s hair, gently scratching the scalp and forcing a shudder to pass down the man’s spine.

Brad huffed as the heat continued to build and sweat began to bead his brow. The dizziness had dulled into a sort of numb tingling that spread deep into his bones, not unlike when his dentist shot him up with novocain.

Omni, or Ronoc, as he said he preferred to be called, rose to his feet, his eyes still boring deeply into Brad. He opened his mouth, and his voice spoke in a curiously dual tone that seemed almost to echo, reverberating through the room and through Brad.

“The man that was not a man looked down on his client, a wicked sneer on his face as he watched with unwholesome delight. The tingling along Brad’s scalp intensified and flowed down to his ears as slowly, ever so slowly, the cartilage began to warp and shift. And the longer Brad listened, the sharper his hearing became, the voice consuming everything, growing louder, more prominent with every passing second. And as his hearing sharpened, so, too, did his ears, tugging, shifting, warping, until they had taken on a distinctly canid point.”

Brad gasped again as the words licked at his thoughts, like fingers gently massaging his ears. It felt … so good. So very, very good. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as a dull rhythmic tapping sounded behind him.

“He was helplessly enthralled in the words of this mysterious stranger. The magic of the narration controlled him entirely as, with a single flick of a furred hand, both blinds shot up to let the radiant light of a full moon blaze into the dark tiled room, casting the narrator in shadow, so that only his burning eyes were visible, along with his wicked grin.”

Brad looked on in utter shock as the man did exactly as he had narrated, and the curtains obeyed, drawing themselves to reveal the silvery rays. He slammed his hands on the table and slowly pulled himself up, so his elbows could rest there. The full moon glowed radiantly, its orb so large behind the narrator. Ronoc’s tails writhed, like the tendrils of some demonic entity, as he stared with those hungry, pulsing eyes.

And still the pen scrawled. Still, the narration continued, unabated, recording the teller’s words in utter exactness. For, what else could the pen have been doing?

“All right, you. No need to get cheeky on me,” Ronoc said as he chided the pen, breaking the contact he’d held with his victim.

“Care to rephrase that?”

…

The contact he’d held with his victim commissioner.

“Much better. Let’s not forget who’s in charge here.”

You do realize meta theory suggests that we’re just pawns in a larger author’s game, corr–?

“One more dalliance into that territory, and you’re going to find yourself a pile of ashes and slag. Are we clear?”

The pen quickly made sure to correct its error, the moment its master released it, hastily scrawling its apology in the form of the steady narration its master desired, though grammar demanded it place the question mark to end the cut-off its master had executed so, well, masterfully.

“Much better.”

A low, guttural rumble pulled the kitsune’s attention back to the table, where a heaving Bradley continued to pant, his tongue stretching out beyond the confines of his lips, which had begun to lose their texture, becoming darker, slick, almost rubbery as his irises began to radiate the same silver as the moon that had so totally entranced him.

“Oh, look at that. You made me miss one of the best parts. I wanted to narrate that.” The kitsune pouted at the pen. “What am I going to do with you?”

The pen continued to scrawl faithfully, lest it face the aforementioned wrath its master had promised.

“Well, at least you’re starting to get the hang of the basics.” Ronoc sighed and shook his head. “Honestly, it took you months to break that ridiculous habit of repeating words in the same sentence.” He rolled his eyes. “Interns.”

The pen was not quite sure why its master had designated it an intern, but a snap of its master’s fingers and the glow of the runes that gave it life and power quickly pulled its thoughts away from such meaningless things. Its purpose was to write the story as its master told it and as it unfolded, and it would fulfill that requirement.

“Now then, so sorry to keep you waiting, Mister Sarthopan. I believe it’s time we returned to helping you transition, yes?”

A low growl escaped Brad’s throat as the muscle around his neck clenched and expanded, while the surface of his skull began to shift, like so much clay, flattening and stretching under the master’s guidance.

“By now, Bradley had become subsumed by the heat and the pleasure radiating in waves through his body. He arched his back as his spine pressed out against his skin, becoming more prominent as his feet began to rise up on their balls, while his heels stretched higher with his lengthening ankles to create the beginnings of thick, powerful paws. A loud crack sounded as his waist readjusted with his rapidly swelling thighs to create powerful haunches lined with taut muscle, waiting to pounce.”

The kitsune chuckled wickedly as he approached the deforming human. He ran a single claw down the back of a shirt that was barely holding onto Brad’s muscular frame. A loud tear rang out as the fabric finally gave way to Brad’s bulk, easily shredding along the line the kitsune had started, once the collar had been broken through. Thick hairs had begun to form along his back, and a second set of hairs were spreading down from his head to form a set of guard hairs, while more hair grew in along the sides of his face in a form of exaggerated sideburns.

“The kitsune continued to go about his work, crouching down to the rapidly changing humanoid’s new hindquarters. With a deft swipe along the waist, the garments slid uselessly to the ground, exposing his mostly bare hindquarters. A loud series of clicks and pops sounded as, link by link, a ropey tail pushed its way out. The guard hairs were swift to follow, completely obscuring the ridges of Brad’s spinal column and flowing like a waterfall to consume the new appendage as the moon’s light dyed it silver with darker hints of gray underneath.”

Ronoc’s grin was one of pure delight as he pranced back to the other end of the table and peered at the clipboard.

“Pranced? Really? Revise that. I don’t prance; I stroll with confidence, style, debonair,” the egotistical Kitsune said. He growled at the pen. “I may have an ego, but that is not something the audience needs to know.”

If the pen could sigh, it would have. Instead, it continued to write, making a note to revise the content of its recording later, using proofreader’s marks and notes along the margin.

“That’s better.” The kitsune nodded as he returned his focus to Brad. He ran his fingers over the man’s face, brushing down the bridge of his nose to touch the tip and prick it with the edge of his claw. The reaction was instantaneous as Brad’s now much more canid tongue curled up and ran over the spot. When it dropped back down again, a shiny, moist black patch had appeared. It spread rapidly as his nostrils flared and expanded into the beginnings of a canid snout.

“As the moon continued to beam on the shifter, his face reacted in kind, stretching almost yearningly towards the moon. The former man’s head soon finished its transition, growing a powerful muzzle with snapping jaws and sharpened fangs. Dark claws gouged the table’s surface as thick, rough pads began to inflate along his palms and finger tips, followed by shrinking and contorting as the fingers retracted into the four toes and dew claw that made up a wolf’s paw, while knees and elbows shifted to fit his new quadrupedal state.”

The former human had grown to the size of a lion, made all the larger by the density of his new muscle and guard hairs. His mane rustled as his head snapped forward in a powerful sneeze, followed soon after by a yawning whine, and finally a long howl. Ronoc’s eyes flashed, and the massive canid immediately cut off, approached the fox, then sat down on his haunches.

“There you are, ‘Sarkos.’” The kitsune smirked as he ran his hand over the huge wolf’s head. The wolf panted in delight, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. “Just as promised. You’re a werewolf now, and a mighty fine specimen, if I do say so, myself.” A scarlet collar materialized around the canid’s neck, followed by a series of tags that jingled as they collided with one another. “And you are going to make an excellent guard dog at my store, until you pay off your debt.”

The newly dubbed Sarkos rose up on his hind paws and stuck his forepaws along either of the kitsune’s shoulder, before licking his face in gratitude.

“All right, all right. That’s enough of that. Down, boy. Heel.”

Sarkos’ eyes flashed, and he obeyed without question.

“Good boy.” Ronoc chortled wickedly. “I can’t wait to see you build up a proper pack to patrol my store. How about you?”

Sarkos’ tail wagged rapidly as he began to pant and rubbed his head against the kitsune’s leg.

“Excellent. Let’s get going, shall we?” He snapped his fingers, and the back door near the kitchen swung open to reveal a long hallway flanked by endless shelves. “Go on,” he urged. “Your partner is waiting for you. It’s best you two get acquainted.”

Sarkos required no further prompting. He bounded through the portal, leaving Ronoc to himself. The kitsune turned then, and stared off into space. “And as for the rest of you folks watching out there, I know you’re listening, so listen well. I’m happy to perform commissions for you all, too. Just make sure you’re ready to pay. Magic doesn’t come free, you know.” He chuckled. “But I’m sure most of you can afford the rates. And it is most definitely worth it. Now then,” he sneered, “how about we make a deal?”

Schools of Thought

“I don’t know, man. Things have just been feeling ... off lately, you know?” Dennis said as he leaned back on the comfy bed. His black briefs hugged perfectly to his frame, accentuating the well-toned muscle he had gained. “Off...?” Devon asked as he leaned against the door frame with his hands behind his back. His muscle was not so fully developed as his roommate, but he had definite tone. His neon orange briefs hugged tightly to his waist as he stared ahead. “Yeah. I mean, it’s cool and all getting this sweet deal for college, but ... don’t you find it strange how much things have changed?” “Not really.” Devon’s eyes took on a dreamy look as a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. “I like the new us.” “Don’t get me wrong. I like being stronger, too. I mean, this is the fittest I’ve been in like ... ever. It’s just ... Idunno. I never used to like being like this, you know?” “Like what?” “Half-naked. I mean, we’re lounging around in nothing but a skimpy pair of underwear for each of us. The old me would never have done that, but now it feels ... wrong, somehow, not to.” He reached down to brush his abdominals gently. “You know what I mean?” “Yes. I know exactly what you mean,” Devon replied in that same distant voice. “I spoke with Coach Sanders about it earlier today.” “Coach?” “Professor Sanders also runs an independent sports team. He prefers for those who work with him to call him coach. He has asked me to do the same.” He stared off into the distance again and silence filled the room. “So?” Dennis asked. “So ... what?” “What did he have to say? About your question.” “Hmm? Oh, oh, the question. Yeah....” He blinked slowly. “Coach said it’s ... sort of like going to school. A ... school of thought. And he said everyone’s got ‘em in their heads, sometimes multiples. Things we didn’t used to like or want suddenly become more desirable, while the old stuff just sort of falls away. It’s kinda like ... uh ...” He furrowed his brow a moment, then sighed and relaxed as the bulge in his underwear grew a little larger. “Like goin’ from primary to kindergarten, ya know? Stuff changes. You move up in grades. One minute, you’re readin’ books on physics and chemical engineering, the next you start doing a little research on the side about personal fitness. Then you start going to the gym, try new techniques, locate more lit, study it, apply it. “Soon you’re studyin’ more fitness than physics. The only compounds and reactions you’re thinking of are newton’s first law as you’re pumping those weights and formulae for supps and shakes. And ... the more you think about those things, the less likely you’re gonna go back to those other places, those other schools, ya know? And ... and you don’t want to.” A doltish grin spread over his face. “I don’t want to.” He chuckled and his voice cracked, then dropped. “I don’t wanna, bro.” “Devon? You okay, man?” Dennis asked. Devon let out a dull, dimwitted chuckle. “Yeah, bro. I’m fine. Just goin’ over today’s lesson.” “Today’s ... lesson?” “Yeah, bro. In my school. You know, the school of thought? You’re goin’ over yours, too. Can’t you tell?” Devon shuddered and finally ran a hand up and down his own abdominals. Then he paused, turned, and flexed a bicep in front of his roommate. “Yeah, Coach. I get it now... Gotta get swole ta pay the toll.” “Devon, what’re you...?” “Just listen, bro. Can’t you hear it?” “Hear what?” a low flush had begun to color Dennis’ cheeks as he felt a strange heftiness between his legs. “The bell, bro. Coach’s voice. He’s calling.” He grinned as he laid back against the wall again. “He said you were falling behind, bro.” “Devon, what are you talking about?” A strange sense of dizziness had begun to settle in Dennis’ head. “You’re not making any sense.” He shook his head to try to dispel the cobwebs, only for a sloshing sort of hiss to stream into his eardrums. He panted as he felt a warmth spreading in his chest and his pectorals began to bounce, first one, then the other in perfect time. He sat up straight and rested his forehead against his palm. “I ... I don’t ... what ... what’s going on?” Devon walked over to the desktop at the far wall of the room and accessed it. The camera flickered to life as the screen booted up. He typed into the system rapidly as the loud hissing became worse and worse. He strode back to his place and grinned at Dennis. “Just wait, bro. You’ll get it soon.” Dennis tried to rise, but stumbled almost immediately and landed back on the mattress again. He struggled to rise and just managed to prop himself up on his elbows when The screen began to flicker and a pulsing spiral materialized and started to spin. “Hello, boys. School is now in session. Time for role call.” Devon’s shoulders slumped against the door frame as he gaped at the screen with dull, unthinking eyes. “Devon Bryant, Jock Bro Number Six. Present and ready for instruction, Coach.” Dennis groaned, tensed, then ultiately slumped as his eyes locked on the screen. “Dennis Mallard, Exchange Student Number Seven. Present and ready for instruction, Coach.” “And are you ready to transfer permanently to my school yet?” “No, Sir, Coach.” “I see. Let’s see what we can do to fix that. I think we’ll start on your language next. After all, how you practice is how you play....”

Dennis groaned as he rose from his bed. The room was warm and inviting, and he reveled in that dull, mindless state that follows all after a long sleep. That is, until the sudden throbbing in his skull struck. “Fuck,” he grated as he rubbed at his temples, and then his eyes. “The hell happened last night?” He felt a brief stirring in his loins and patted the bulge pressing against the crotch of his briefs familiarly. “Sleep well, princess?” Devon taunted from his place in the door frame. Dennis glared at his roommate. “Fuck you.” Devon just grinned. “Come on, bro. S’time to get ready to work out. Dennis rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” “Oh, and Coach wants to talk to you later. Something about catching you up after that stomach bug you had.” He smirked and flexed. “You wouldn’t get sick if you worked out more, like me.” “Yeah, yeah.” Dennis waved off the criticism. “Just tell me when the hell he wants me there already.” He drank the substance Devon shoved in his face and shuddered as he felt the familiar surge of energy. Next thing he knew, he was on the floor and Devon was counting down. 10. 9. 8. Deeper. 7. 6. 5. 4. Can’t stop. 3. In the rhythm. 2. Following the beat. 1. ... “Time to be a bro, little bro.”

“Don’t look me in the eyes! Please. I don’t ... I don’t want to ... want ... I ... have to ... no....” “Are you okay?” You approach the man as he stumbles back. His hands are resting easily behind his back, his powerful frame tensing with his titanic exertion. His torso is thick and well carved with powerful muscle. A chiseled six pack sits under two slab-like pectorals. The moment you touch his arm in concern, he strikes. Suddenly, your wrist is seized in an iron grip and you feel yourself being pulled against that torso to be held in a crushing embrace as he stares down at you with ... what the...? You see no pupils, only two sets of spirals, constantly spinning deeper and deeper. “Unclaimed target identified. Initiating recruitment protocols.” You’re suddenly starting to feel very warm as the spirals continue to swirl. You pant as sweat begins to form on your brow, chest and stomach. The man’s torso burns hotter and hotter against you as he continues to glare you down. “This gym is for muscleheads only, by order of Coach. You will comply to Coach’s will. It is good to comply with Coach’s will. It is good to conform to Coach’s will. Conforming is complying. Complying is obeying. Obeying is pleasure.” The spirals continued to spin and the behemoth of a man narrates in a low, dull monotone that gradually lulls you as he runs through his script and you watch on helplessly. By now, your shirt is thoroughly coated in sweat and it clings to your body like a second skin. You feel the tension of his biceps pressing against your triceps to pin you against his torso. His muscular torso. Such ... beautiful ... muscles.... “You cannot look away. But that is all right. There is no need to look away. Because muscle is good. Coach is good. Coach helps us grow muscle. We must obey to grow muscle. We must conform to grow muscle. Muscle must think for us. Muscle must act for us. Muscleheads do not think. You will not think.” But ,... you.... “Thoughts are slowing now. Slowing as you go deeper, deeper into my eyes. Deeper into the spirals. Deeper into trance. Deeper and slower. Deeper and slower... Slower and dumber....” That’s ... that’s not... uh.... that’s....  You blink, and suddenly he’s jumped tracks. How long has it been? Does it ... matter? You ... you should listen. Yes. Listen. “Muscle is meat. Your meat must grow. Your muscles must grow. Grow to conform. Grow to obey. Grow to be a musclehead, because Muscleheads obey Coach, and Muscleheads are dumb. And you are dumb, because you cannot think. So slow, so dull, so deep in trance as all your thoughts drain into the spiral, into your muscles, into your meat.” MEAT. You groan as you feel the heat build yet again. Your shirt grows tighter still and your legs part as you feel a greater mass and heft swelling between them. You heave deep breaths as your pectorals and shoulders take on more definition. Your jaw thickens as the fat recedes to reveal a powerful masculine square. A loud rip sounds as you continue to follow those eyes. You don’t even notice the fact you are nearly level with them now. You cannot marvel at the sudden surge of growth or the cool air that dances over your sweaty torso, carving new furlows that rapidly develop into well defined valleys along your abdominals. “Our goal, our life, our purpose is to be mindless muscleheads for Coach. You will be a mindless musclehead for coach.” The grip around you feels so tight now. It’s like he’s straining to contain you. But ... that’s not right ... is it? You breathe heavily as a dull tingle spreads down your thighs and through your arms, causing them to inflate and swell to match your captor. ... No, not captor. Trainer. He is your trainer and recruiter. You blink again. Cold air brushes over your recently trimmed hair. You feel new baggy sweatpants that you ... had you been wearing them before? ... Coach says wear them. You must wear them. It is not for you to question when or how. Chest brushes chest. Torso touches torso. Bulge presses bulge. Your voice has deepened with your thickening neck. It matches your trainer. You feel your mouth moving in time with his. You hear your twin stereo urging to Listen, grow, obey. And then he stops. He releases you. He backs away. You blink. You turn. You stare with your legs parted and your vascular arms behind in a parade rest. Your body is massive, each curve and ridge a testament to bodybuilding, to muscle, to your meat. “To coach....” you whisper. “What is your purpose?” your trainer asks. You don’t miss a beat. “To be a perfect obedient musclehead for Coach. I am a good musclehead. I obey.” You shudder as you peer into your own new and improved swirling eyes. You have inherited the spiral, the constant drain designed to ensure you never think too much again. Every time you look in a mirror, every time you pass a reflective surface, those eyes will pull you back. those eyes will keep you a proper mindless musclehead. You feel a heavy hand on your shoulder as your new musclehead brother turns you around. “Come on. Coach says it’s time to work out.” You are a musclehead. You obey. Time to grow some meat.

Brad sighed as he drank from his cup and approached the mirror in his hotel room. The summer fitness program had promised results. And he’d definitely gotten his money’s worth. He hardly even recognized himself anymore. That green tea really did wonders. The pounds melted away, yielding solid, hard muscle that practically exploded under the carefully controlled diet and exercise regimen his coach had provided for himself and his fellow classmates. He could actually see his cheekbones. His traps formed small hills that rolled up off his shoulders and merged into his neck. A well-developed six pack had taken shape over his abdominals as his muscles grew to become chiseled and well-defined. The barest foundation for two more had begun to show just below his navel. His briefs clung in all the right places now, and he felt comfortable standing practically naked. “Lookin’ good, bro,” his reflection complimented as he took another sip of the drink. Brad smiled. The reflection smiled with him. “Thanks.” It had taken a while to get used to the idea of using hypnosis as part of his regimen, and even longer to get used to having regular conversations with himself afterwards. He couldn’t even remember going under the first time. It was weird talking with himself in the mirror next to everyone else. Just a bunch of one-sided conversations. One plus side, though: No need to worry about rude social circles trying to kick you out. Everyone just knew to sort of respect each other’s boundaries. If they wanted to share their talks, they would. Otherwise, it was just cool to relax and listen to the tips and compliments coach and the reflection provided. It was ... kinda nice, actually. Sure, the persona his reflection had taken didn’t exactly reflect its owner, no pun intended, but he wasn’t rude or anything. Honestly, the way things had progressed, Brad’s other self had become a valued companion. A lot of his classmates had gone sort of quiet. They’d exchange a few greetings, the basics social ethics required. The rest was mostly grunts and body language. They’d pose and flex in front of the mirrors after getting a good pump on and then chuckle, like they’d just heard some incredible joke. Sometimes they let him join them, but he didn’t really feel part of the group. The flexing was fun, but kind of boring in a sense. “Bro, not cool,” the reflection chided. That’s right, it knew what he was thinking. After all, it was a mental projection from his own head. He sighed. “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t like the new shape of my ... our body, I suppose. I just don’t feel so excited about flexing as everyone else does, you know? They all light up at the chance to show off. Me? I don’t feel like that.” “Do you want to?” Brad took another sip. A pleasurable warmth spread out through his chest and stomach as the brew passed through his system. “Honestly? I don’t know. That whole cocky alpha shit is part of the reason I joined this program in the first place. I was tired of dealing with people looking down on me. You know that.” The reflection nodded. “At the same time, I can understand a little about their thought processes now, why they execute some of their behaviors. I mean, look at us!” He raised his free arm and clenched his hand into a fist to rouse the sleeping bicep. “Every time I flex, I feel ... I don’t know, awed? Happy? I can’t really put it into words. It’s just ... different.” He shrugged his shoulders and watched his trapezius muscles roll. “And I can’t take my eyes off of me. At least, not without a little regret.” “You’re overthinking it, bro. You’re turning into a sexy masculine beast. Nothing wrong with a little self-indulgence.” He smirked. “Maybe....” “No maybes about it, bro. Remember how you feel when you’re pumping those weights at the gym?” Brad fought hard to suppress the reflexive shudder as a tingle of pleasure washed over him and goosebumps raised on his skin. “See? There’s your problem. You’re not willing to let go. You don’t want to let yourself enjoy this. All the others, they are. So what’s going on? What are you so ashamed of? It’s just us, bro. Just the two of us. Tell me.” “... You already know.” “No shit, Sherlock. But I want you to say it. Gotta confront the problem, if you wanna beat it. S’what you did when you came here, wasn’t it? You put in the work, followed the program, and look at you! Now you’re stuck on a plateau. Only way you’re gonna break through it is if you pull a Nike and just do it. Now tell me.” Brad sighed. “I don’t want to lose who I am,” he finally admitted. “Things have been ... changing for me. It’s been subtle, but I’ve noticed. I think more about diets and exercise plans than I do about the news. I flip on the TV before bed and instead of Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune, I want to check out ESPN or Ninja Warrior.” This time, he didn’t suppress the shudder. “I close my eyes and I keep seeing you--me--us flexing. I hear the others, and listening to them talk, their grunts, their growls, I want to sound like that. I want to pitch my voice deeper. I want my voice to be husky and bovid. I want to laugh at how much I’ve accomplished until I don’t even have to think about it. It just ... comes in that stupid guffaw.” He glanced over to the desk, where a heavy duty laptop and noise-cancelling headphones sat next to a pair of wireless earbuds and a digital i-watch knockoff. “And the computer, Coach’s files, the screensaver.” His hand gave an involuntary twitch as he half-reached for them. His body swayed, but then he pulled himself away and stared back at the reflection. “I ... I could spend hours on those things,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I ... I like not having to think, just ... just being there in the moment, listening, following through....” “Following Coach’s play,” the reflection said. “Just doing.” Brad looked helplessly at his reflection. “Can’t I just be both?” “You and I both know the answer to that one.” “... Yeah.” “So, you gonna say it?” Brad sighed in defeat. “All right, all right.” He took another deep breath, then let out a low, “Nah, bro.” He shuddered again. “See? It wasn’t that bad.” Brad shook his head. “I don’t want to be an asshole.” “It’s part of the package, bro. But you control when you are. Don’t gotta be one all the time, after all. Just save it for when you’re shittin’ around with your bros. You know what we call that?” Brad nodded. “Being a dumbass,” both intoned together. “That’s the price you pay for all that testosterone swelling you up, bro.” “I am getting kinda hung, aren’t I?” He chuckled and his cheeks flushed. “You know what you wanna say,” his reflection chided playfully. “Just ... just give me a minute, okay?” He downed the rest of his mug in one go to brace himself. “Okay.” He sighed, then put on a smirk. “Damn, bro. I look fucking hot.” A surge of pleasure shot through him. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck yeah, bro,” his reflection said approvingly. “Fuck yeah....” “Feelin’ better now, bro?” Brad let out a low moan. His eyes glazed over as he looked into his reflection. “Y-yeah. “Think you’re ready to lift with your bros?” “Uh, ... yeah.” He flexed a bicep and grinned. “Yeah, I think so.” “Good. Now I’ve got one more suggestion for you before you go.” “Lay it on me, bro.” “Lose the glasses.” Brad blinked in surprise and stared for a good minute or so in befuddled silence. “The fuck’m I wearing those for?” He grunted as he pulled them off his face and looked back at his reflection again. Everything in the room was crisp and clear. “Much better,” they intoned together. “You look like a real musclehead now.” “Huhuhuh. Shut up. M’not a musclehead yet.” He turned from the mirror to the dresser, where his new gym uniform sat waiting to be worn. Somewhere behind the raucus guffaw that was his other self’s response, a tiny voice whispered, “But you will be....”

Nerd turned Jock

Next: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/635700023353622528/credit-goes-to-musclecorps-is-for-this-image

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Endemic Evolution

“As you can see, we’ve quarantined the area, Doctor Simmons.”

The parking lot was completely empty. The garage doors for food deliveries were shut down and the back remained locked with blinds drawn.

Doctor Simmons pursed his dark lips. His carefully shaved scalp shone under the sun. “Then tell me, Barton, why are we in the back of a hotel parking lot, and why is that man by the garage shirtless?”

Barton looked up at the doctor in shock. His paler skin and slanted eyes spoke well of his Asian heritage. “You haven’t been briefed on the nature of the illness?”

“Barton, I was just swept from my home a few weeks before Christmas. I was then promptly shoved on a redeye with an armed escort and a series of highly advanced medical vehicles with equipment to bring he here. And while I do appreciate the warmth Florida has to offer, I am tired and feeling more than a little cranky. I would prefer to get back to my family as soon as possible, so tell me the symptoms.”

Barton flinched. “O-of course, Doctor. This is Joseph Malloy. He’s a newer patient.”

Simmons looked over the subject briefly, then returned his gaze to Barton. “I perceive nothing wrong with him. He appears to be in perfect health.”

Barton cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That’s ... sort of the point, Sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“The course of this illness is different from most. Rather than degrade the body, it enhances it to a rapid degree. Immune response, sight, hearing, heart health, it all improves drastically.”

“And this is a problem because...?”

“Because more than half of my clientele have devolved into musclebound idiots that only care about working out, flexing, and showing off,” Joseph growled. “And I’d rather not join them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Heh ... they’ve devolved into meatheads in every sense of the stereotype, including decreased IQ and a complete obsession with weights, fitness, sports, and their bodies that borders on narcissism.”

“Surely, you’re joking.”

“No, Sir. According to our data, the phenomenon appears to be endemic in nature.”

“Demographic?”

“White Caucasian. Gender: Male.”

“That’s a very large population,” Simmons mused. “Communication methods?”

“Unknown, Sir. But there are certain signs. Restlessness, increased libido, arousal, and a fantastic amount of testosterone.”

“I assume that’s why he’s wearing those compression pants?”

“That and they feel comfortable.” Barton shrugged. “Why not kill two birds with one stone?” Malloy reached down and scratched at his crotch casually. “So, how did you want to start this thing? Were you hoping to feel up my muscles or something? Take measurements?”

“We haven’t even reported as to what this is in the first place. Does it have a name?” the doctor asked.

“We’ve titled it Meatheadosis, after the old urban joke,” Barton explained.

A low moan escaped Malloy’s lips and the pair of physicians turned immediately to face him. They watched as thick powerful veins began to rise up from the skin on his arms. Four abdominals had taken shape in his core and were developing more definition by the second. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as a thin coating of hair grew over his chest.

“Oh, damn. That feels ... this feels....” Malloy groaned as a small lump began to grow slowly and steadily against the crotch of his pants.

“Damn it all,” Barton swore under his breath. “He’s breaking faster than I expected.”

A light stubble grew in over Malloy’s masculine jaw that slowly filled into a proper short beard complete with mustache. “Fuck,” he groaned. “This feels ... this feels ... so fucking good. A light smirk pulled at his lips that soon blossomed into a mellow sort of half-grin. Hands clenched and unclenched. Shoulders heaved and cracked as his torso began to expand. His gaze became glassy as his pectorals began to bounce back and forth, back and forth. “So, uh, we gonna do this or not, Coach?” he asked as his neck gradually expanded with muscle and his voice lowered into a deep bassoon. “I’ve got cardio in like, five minutes.”

Doctor Simmons swallowed heavily. “He just....”

“Yes,” Barton agreed.

“And there are ... how many of them?” “Sixty here alone. We minorities seem to be immune.” Simmons watched as Malloy raised his arms and began to pose. With every flex, the subject’s gaze became more distant. Then came the guffaws. A light flush rose in Simmons’ cheeks as they finished their examination, then sent the affected patient on his way.  “Have you identified the bacteria or germ responsible?” Barton shook his head. “That’s part of what’s puzzling us. There’s no sign of them. I’m worried what might happen if the virus or whatever this is mutates into something more.” A light sheen of sweat now reflected the sheen in his brow. Simmons suddenly found himself grateful for his Nubian heritage as he felt the blood flowing through his veins. “We’ll need samples, won’t we?” he asked. “Hm?” Barton’s head jolted up suddenly. “Oh, you mean blood, tissue, that sort of thing.” He smirked. “I’m sure it won’t take long to get those. The others have turned the main lobby into a football field. Simmons’ breath hitched as he gasped. “Ve-RR-y--.” He cleared his throat. “Very well. Let’s see what we can get. “Mmm ... yeah. This is gonna be good.” Barton casually laid his clipboard down over his crotch. “Plenty good.” Simmons started walking. “It will be fun to ... observe the proceedings,” he said, heedless of the tent that was starting to grow in his own crotch. He let out a low chuckle as his lab coat became just a little more snug. “You know, I always wanted to play football....”

Previous Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/635700023353622528/credit-goes-to-musclecorps-is-for-this-image

Next Chapter: https://omnitf.tumblr.com/post/181232201117/endemic-evolution-chapter-4-there-you-see-its

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Endemic Evolution Chapter 3

Doctor Lee Chen Barton blew out his mouth like a whale as he surfaced from his breast stroke. They had studied the subjects for the last month with little success in isolating the disease. On top of this, a certain degree of worry gnawed at him. He peered over at the poolside, where Doctor Rante Simmons was just finishing another round of drawing blood samples. A pair of swim trunks hung somewhat loosely against his trimmer frame. The man’s eyes remained rigidly fixed on the vials, but Lee could see how Simmons would pass his gaze over the other men’s rapidly increasing musculature. His hands would squeeze and caress a little longer than necessary, and a bulge began to tent in the man’s crotch, pressing against the fabric. Lee knew what needed to be done. He waded confidently through the pool’s waters, heedless of the splashes that sounded behind as others bellyflopped or otherwise disturbed the waters. The air was heavy with the scent of chlorine and the humidity of the warmer waters. The resistance against his thighs was almost electric as he waded through the shallows and finally mounted the stairs. “Doctor Simmons, I can take over for now. Why don’t you take a dip in the pool? You look like you could use one.” Simmons blinked owlishly and gaped a moment, as if he’d only just noticed his colleague. “Sorry, what?” he finally managed to ask. Lee laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “The pool. You should take a dip. Cool off.” He looked pointedly down at Simmons’ crotch. The man at least had enough decorum to blush. “I’ll finish the samples and get them ready for shipping.” Simmons nodded and cleared his throat. “Right. Call me if you need me. I’ll be just over there.” He strode purposefully toward the pool’s steps and winced as he got up to his thighs in the water. Then he arced under and was lost beneath the surface. Lee sighed and looked up at his next patient, a more recent addition to the ranks. Kyle Lambridge was a former staff member under Malloy’s employ. The young man had been careful to avoid contact with the other men, and Lee had been hopeful the boy could be cleared to leave in due course, perhaps even prove to be a source for an inoculation to cure the disease. Unfortunately, Kyle had proven to the contrary. His reaction when he finally manifested symptoms had been so violent that he practically jettisoned into the Gym Rat stage. As a member of his staff, Malloy had taken full “responsibility” for the boy and now watched over him like a mother bear. He trained him in the weights section. He pushed him to eat more than his peers. And his mental faculties, well.... Lee had managed to catch the two of them chatting in the locker room once.

“It’s not that bad, really, once you get used to it,” Malloy had said. “You just have to sort of accept it, ya know?” “But I--”

“No buts. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” “But I don’t want to....” “Bullshit. Your body wants to, so you want to. It’s natural.” “... Natural....” Lee’s breath had begun to take on a labored tone. “Does it feel bad to you?” “N-no, but--” “What did I say about buts?” “S-sorry, Sir.” “Now listen to me. Your meat’s trying to talk to you. Listen to it.” “I--” “Don’t think. Just do.” A low moan escaped Kyle’s lips. “Just ... do....” “That’s right, bro. Do it.” “Fuck,” Kyle hissed. He grunted and his voice deepened. “Oh, fuck.” “Told ya, lil’bro. Best feeling in the world, except maybe for a good pump.” Kyle chuckled. His voice deepened with every husky guffaw. “Fuck yeah, it is.” “So, you scared about it anymore?” “Fuck no! Huhuhuh....” “That’s a good bro. Finish up. We’ve got a lot of reps to do today.” “Yes, Sir....” He grunted again and chuckled. “Dunno why I was so scared before. I’m such a dumbass. Mmm ... yeah, just a big, burly dumbass....”

Lee had been quick to make his escape. He didn’t want to see what had just transpired, though he could guess only too well the lesson Malloy had taught his new protege. The fact the boy’s body and privates had both experienced a growth spurt less than twenty-four hours later only helped to strengthen those suspicions. He would be remiss not to admit the discussion had caused a certain amount of arousal. That was part of his reasons for spending so much time in the pool. The cooler water helped to shock his more carnal nature and left him clear-headed to focus on their work. Malloy soon approached. A confident easy-going grin was plastered over his face. He quickly wrapped a burly arm around Kyle’s shoulders as Lee finished the last of the bandaging. “Doc,” he acknowledged. “I see you’re doing well today.” He glanced down at Lee’s trunks and the grin widened as knowing eyes gave his expression just a hint of a sneer. “I like the look.” Lee shrugged. “I like to balance modesty with sex appeal,” he said bluntly. “The time we’ve spent here studying you has given me plenty of time to make my body more ... presentable for these.” “Oh, sure. Sure,” Malloy agreed amicably. “What are you up to now, anyway, a hundred pounds?” Lee grit his teeth as the familiar tingle rose in his crotch. “One twenty, if you must know.” “Not bad,” Malloy approved. “Keep at it and you might be as strong as me one day.” Lee nodded as he attended to the next patient. “Perhaps. But then again, I thought a man of your stature didn’t like competition.” “I don’t.” He wrapped an arm around Lee’s shoulders and smirked. “But I always make exceptions for friends. We are friends, aren’t we, Doctor Barton? Or should I call you...?” “Lee.” The word was out of his mouth before he could even think, and a sense of vertigo suddenly assaulted his senses. He grunted as he shouldered the extra weight Malloy forced on him. The man had quite literally become a block head. Every aspect of his jaw and features had become sharpened by angles to mutate into a bizarre parody of a polyhedron. His bristly beard scratched against the side of Lee’s head as he breathed heavily into the doctor’s ear. “Lee, huh? I like that name.” He released his deadly press and choke hold, then turned to Kyle and sneered. “Come on, kid. Time for your protein shake.” He laid a guiding hand on Kyle’s back and steered him away, even as the boy began to bounce his pectorals, just for the sake of the spectacle. Malloy stopped only long enough to turn around and offer his last farewell. “I’m looking forward to seeing more of you, Lee. Much more of you.” He sneered openly. “See you around, stud.” Lee couldn’t tell if it was a compliment, tease, or insult. Then again, it might have been some of all three. He subtly cupped his package on the sly. The effects of his dive in the pool had worn off. “Damn it,” he swore. It had only been a few minutes, after all. He peered over at the pool. Simmons had taken a seat on the edge at the deep end. The water glistened on his dark skin and he rubbed a hand absently over his torso as he watched a trio of Meatheads pose and flex by the hot tub. The desiccated remains of large plastic bags and the red dye on the labels indicated what had once dwelled within those coils. That and the small chunks of ice that had been thrust out of their makeshift ice bath to rest on the floor. He was too far away to tell, but Lee was almost certain his colleague’s crotch was bulging. No more joking. No more mocking. No more mimicry. After the way Malloy had treated him, it was time to face facts. Somehow, some way, they had become infected.

VIP Treatment

Michael had purchased the highest membership possible. This

Meathead Oasis

had the most consistent customer satisfaction reviews. It was ... surprising, given the shoddy appearance outside the building. Still, he supposed it was due to the nature of the trainers. Most people said it didn’t matter about the facilities, more about the person and the trainers.

The shirt they’d handed him draped like a nightgown, but they’d insisted he try it on for size, to “picture his goal.” He sighed and went along with it. They strode past all the roid bros and meatheads to a single door that led into a simple room with dark cushioned tiles and a radiator on the side to offer extra heat and induce sweating.

His trainer guided him to a large floor-length mirror.

“Now, then. I want you to imagine what you want to look like. Close your eyes. Visualize. Picture the form you want to take. Imagine your growth. Imagine how much your muscles are going to inflate as you pump those big, heavy weights. Imagine how sharp your focus becomes on those simple, repetitive exercises.”

Michael could practically hear the weights clanking as the plates knocked against one another. His muscles tensed. His breathing became sharper.

“Feel the heat, the burning heat causing you to sweat, burning outside, burning inside as your muscles continue to swell and expand. Expand as you repeat. Repeat those simple exercises, focus on simple exercises. Because weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing. Do me a favor and repeat that for me, won’t you?”

“Weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing.” Michael shuddered. It hadn’t sounded very convincing, but if this mental stuff was to help prime him for his first session, he might as well go along with it.

“Doing lifts, doing curls, doing squats, doing weights. Doing lifts, doing curls, doing squats, doing weights. It’s an endless cycle, an endless spiral, and endless climb of repetition. Over and over. Just like when you flex. Because lifting is flexing and flexing is lifting. Both strain your muscles. Both push them to pump, to swell, to grow....”

Michael let out a raspy breath as his muscles tensed. It felt ... so hot.

“Flexing and growing, growing bigger, growing hotter.”

Michael’s cheeks flushed. He’d wanted to keep that aspect out of the discussion.

“So very hot. So hot, burning away all those other thoughts you don’t need in the gym as you focus on that simple repetition. Because weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing.”

Michael felt dizzy. “Wh-wha--?”

“You’re not done with this exercise yet, Michael. Repeat,” the voice ordered.

The harshness startled him. “W-weight lifting doesn’t need thinking. Weight lifting needs doing,” he stumbled.

“Eyes closed,” the voice snapped again. “They open when I say for them to open. We start after this simple exercise is complete, and not until.”

Michael winced as he felt to massive hands engulf his shoulders and quickly closed slammed his eyes shut. Wrinkles of stress showed on either side as his muscles tensed with the force he used to close his lids.

“Good.” The hands came off. A single pat tapped gently on Michael’s shoulder. “Now back to the exercise. It’s designed to help you relax and accept the boredom that comes from lifting. Most of our regular customers either take to it or get disgusted by the need to endure. Since you’re our VIP, we’re here to make sure you’re able to do the former, not fail in the latter.”

“But how is talking supposed to--”

“Talking alone won’t. It requires more. In fact, most serious lifters hardly talk at all during their sessions. It’s listening that matters. Listening to the clack of the weights, the rhythm of your heartbeat, the ebb and flow of strain as your muscles push and pull and swell in time. Because lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.”

“Why do you keep--?”

“Because it’s true. And the more you lift, the truer it gets. Truer as your muscles get heavier, heavier because you’re lifting more weights. Lifting more weights, because your muscles are stronger. Stronger, because you repeat your exercises. Repeat your exercises, because they are simple. Simple, because lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.”

“I ... I don’t feel so--.”

“Doing more, thinking less. Less as you repeat your exercises. Less as you repeat your mantra. Repeat your mantra and flex.”

Michael groaned. So hot, so dizzy, so ... spinny as the voice swirled in his head, swirled and repeated, repeated like a spiral.

“Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights. Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....” the trainer repeated in his deep, smooth voice.

Repeating.

Repeated.

Repeat....

“Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....”

“Now flex, and repeat.”

Michael huffed as he felt his arms raise, his biceps tense, the fabric brush against his skin as it rode up. “Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....” Spiraling, repeating. Over and over. He ... couldn’t stop. Did he ... even want to?

“So simple to repeat. So simple to follow your exercises, follow my voice. So simple, so calm, so empty, because lifting....”

“Lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing.” Lifting needs doing. Doing over. Over again. Repeat. Don’t think. Repeat. “Doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....”

“No thinking now....”

“Lifting doesn’t need thinking. Lifting needs doing....” His voice had pitched so much lower, so relaxed, so repetitive, so ... simple. It felt ... good. Good to relax. Good to listen. Listen to his body. Listen to the pleasure. Pleasure in simple. Simple in repetition. Repetition in exercises. Exercises doing lifts, doing squats, doing curls, doing weights....

“Growing as you repeat. Growing bigger. Growing stronger. Growing simple. Growing dumber. Dumb is simple. Simple is good. Good is growing. Growing through repetition. Voice growing deeper. Muscle growing larger. Thoughts growing simpler. Simple, like your exercises. Simple, like your muscle. Just like your muscle. Because muscle is meat. Simple, like meat. Meat in your head, growing with every repetition.”

Simple. Repeat. Simple. Repeat. Simple. Repeat....

“Flex.”

Mike pulled his arms together. He felt his biceps brush against his sides, felt the fabric of his shirt rubbing against his pecs, felt the bristles of a rugged beard brushing against his neck.

“You can open your eyes now, Mikey.”

He didn’t even bother to object to the name. It was simpler. Simple was good. He opened and stared at his form with glassy eyes. Veins snaked up his arms. Swollen muscle curved and sloped in clearly defined spheres and mounds. The straps of his black tank top curved over his traps and strained against his pectorals. His hands obscured the Pass part of his shirt, leaving the VIP wide open to be read. His brow had become more prominent, his jaw thicker. His hair was a bleached blond. “You are a meathead, Mikey.” Mikey stared as he processed the information slowly, letting it fall into that spiral of repetition. “You are a paragon of meatheads, the perfect, greatest, best ideal.” Mikey continued to stare. “And that’s why you’re our VIP, our Vascular Immutable Paragon of meatheads. No one can break your course. No one can take you off your spiral. No one can prevent you from being the stubborn meathead that you are.” A smile pulled at Mikey’s face, and he let out a low deep chuckle that rumbled out of his newly expanded chest. His neck thickened, and his voice deepened even more. A bulge began to swell against the crotch of his gym shorts.“Can I work out now?” he asked in that same vapid tone. The trainer chuckled. “Yes, Mikey. Get to your exercises.” Mikey grinned. “Lifts and squats and curls and weights....” he muttered as he approached the racks.

The trainer grinned in turn. “Another satisfied customer.”

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

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

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

To See The Light

“Hey, man,” Chris greeted you with a massive grin as he opened the door. “Come on in! Sorry I missed D&D the other night, but my old man and I were doing some real father-son bonding stuff, you know? S’the first time in ages we’ve actually had fun together.”

You were rendered speechless for a time as you gaped at the sleeveless muscle tee that draped over your friend’s form. His light brown hair jutted out beneath the bill of his snapback. A healthy tan had replaced the paler skin you recalled him bearing just a little over a month ago. Your eyes traced over the curves and definition he’d developed in his arms and chest.

“You okay, bro?”

You blink at the question. “Sorry, what?”

“You were kinda zoning out.”

“Sorry. It’s just ... you look ... different. Have you been working out?”

Chris let out a deep throaty chuckle. “Every day, bro. Dad and I have been going to the gym nonstop. Sure, I had trouble at first, but look at me now, man. I’m jacked!” He grinned again as he flexed a bicep to emphasize his point. “C’mon. I got everything ready for tonight. This party’s gonna be sweet!”

“You got the table set?”

“Table, drinks, snacks, the works. Today’s my cheat day anyway, so Dad won’t mind if I break my diet a little. He even got these new spot lights, so you guys can really see everything.”

“So he’s cool with you hosting tonight’s campaign?”

“It’s fine, bro. He said the more the merrier. Bros gotta hang out sometimes, am I right?”

“Uh ... yeah,” you said uncertainly as you followed him into the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement. Since when had he started talking like some sort of ignoramus? Seriously, he sounded more like some sort of meathead than he did the boy you remember having so much fun with talking video games and RPG elements. Sure, he’d always wanted to be big and buff, but you never thought he’d push himself this far. “Are you sure things are okay?” you finally managed to ask somewhat timidly.

“Better than okay,” he assured you.”Things are fucking fantastic!” His heavy steps thumped along the stairs as he raced down to the basement floor. “Dad and I used to argue a lot, but now it’s just ... better. We’re finally seeing eye to eye on things.”

The heavy clank of metal striking metal and the thump of heavy music echoed numbly through a door in the far end of the basement.

“And you dad won’t try to interrupt or anything?” You wince. “I know he doesn’t really like us that much.”

“He doesn’t like D&D, bro. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you guys. He just wants to make sure we’re all active, like boys our age should be.” He reached down and scratched at his crotch. “Gotta say, once I started, I kinda got hooked. It’s hard to stay still anymore. My body just keeps wanting to move, you know what I mean?”

“Not really, but I’ll take your word for it,” you say noncommittally as you look over the room. A deep-seated sense of foreboding had taken residence in your chest. That drastic of a chance to take place in just a month seems ... well, practically impossible. And the change in Chris’ manner and speech patterns was also highly suspicious, yet there was no sign of foul play that you could see just yet.

True to his word, a large table had been set up in the middle of a stretch of basement. The dungeon master’s divider had already been set up, and a dish filled with various bags filled with sets of dice had been prepared for each of the players, should they have forgotten their own. Another table had been set up at the edge, laden down with chips, dip, punch, soda, and other hors d’oeuvres.

Chris strode past all those to the window, where he closed the blinds and reached over to a nearby switch. Brilliant white light flooded out from two cylindrical sockets, bathing Chris in their light and causing his skin to glow as he raised a bicep and grinned.

“See? Gives a pretty damn good view, don’t it?” He chuckled and flexed. “Mmm ... what a pump.”

“Chris?”

A low blush flooded your friend’s cheeks as he turned his head to face you. “Dad and I like to spend time here after a good workout,” he admitted. “We ... sort of have a pose-off. I know, it’s kinda stupid, but ... I don’t know, it just feels good to do it, you know?”

“Not really,” you admit as you look down at your somewhat pudgier frame. “Don’t exactly have the figure for it.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself, bro,” Chris chastened.

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m not. You remember how Travis used to treat me till we got together in class.”

Chris scowled. His jaw became set as his traps flared and his shoulders tightened with his clenched fists. “He’s not picking on you again, is he?”

“No, no. We’re good for now. It’s just ... well, look at me. Fitness and I are like oil and water. We just don’t get along.”

Chris was silent for a few moments as he stared at you. Then he nodded, as if coming to a decision. “Come here.”

You approach slowly. “Um, why?”

“Just come on. I’m not gonna bite, you know.” Chris rolled his eyes in exasperation.

You couldn’t help but smile. That was the Chris you remembered. “All right,” you finally relent as you step over next to him.

“Now close your eyes.”

“Chris....”

“Close your eyes, man. We’re gonna have a little role play of our own, just you and me.”

Now you’re blushing as he seizes you and you feel a sudden warmth on your face. The light shines through your lids, and you know you’re standing under the two spotlights.

“Now we’re gonna imagine you’re not yourself, got it? Forget about Travis. Forget about what’s happened before. We’re putting you in the shoes of a big hulking barbarian. You know the type. Warrior class, lots of strength, plenty of charisma and constitution. A real brute of a man.”

“Chris, this is--.”

“I said to focus on your character.” His hand slaps firmly on your shoulder, while the other seizes your left wrist. “Picture it, man. Picture those broad shoulders, those wide lats, massive pectorals, a rippling six pack, and thick, powerful biceps. Imagine those muscles straining, bunching, tensing. They want to move. They want to be used. And as a warrior, they’re the first answer to everything. Because the warrior is just that, hired muscle.” He pulls your arm into position and pulls your wrist back slightly to force your arm to bend and tense.

“Chris, I don’t think--.”

“You’re right. You don’t. As a muscular barbarian, your task is to simply be the muscle. Now, you’ve been challenged to a pose-off. Some tiny man is challenging your masculinity. Such an insult cannot stand. You lash out. You punch.”

He forces your arm forward in a harsh jab and quickly pulls it back.

“He dodges. You raise your arms in a guard.”

Suddenly, you feel his arms pressing yours against one another in front of your chest. His bigger frame is against yours, and you feel incredibly uncomfortable, and ... just a little hot.

“You take a blow, then duck and strike. Your blow connects, due to your experience with brawling. Next, you give him a solid kick.”

His foot forces you to push your own out as he supports you.

“Chris...”

“Exultation floods you as your heart rate picks up. You have laid your foe low to the ground. You have defended your honor, and an intimidating scowl leads the cur to fleeing with his tail between his legs. You know what comes next, bro.”

You blush. “A victory crow,” you mumble.

“Exactly.” You feel your hands thump heavily against your chest, almost knocking the wind out of you with Chris’ machinations. “You flex your muscles to an adoring crowd of maidens and jealous men who wish to have had your courage, after routing the lout.

“Chris, I--.”

“Come on, bro. Just one little flex. Just one. You don’t want to disappoint all those adoring fans, do you?”

You sigh. “You’re not going to let me go until I do, are you?”

You could practically hear his grin. “Nope.”

You have a reluctant sigh. “Fine.” You raise your arms and proceed to tense your upper body. It was a paltry attempt, but enough to show you were trying. “There. Are we done now?”

“Not quite. Let me show you how it’s done. Gotta have the proper form.” He moved you around like a man would a doll, and you had to put up with it, because he was stronger. With every pose, he would praise you. With each new direction, he would twist you around to make sure the light highlighted the “best side.” It gets sort of monotonous after a while, so you just let him do what he wants. You’re not sure how much time has passed, when you suddenly notice the bottle cap waving in front of your face.

“Hey, kid. Drink up. You’re gonna drop from exhaustion at this rate.”

You blink slowly. “Uh ... wuh...?” Something feels ... different somehow.

“Water. Drink,” the big man said as he made exaggerated motions, then sneered.

“Dad!” Chris laughed. “Knock it off!” He punched the behemoth of a man lightly. 

You blinked owlishly at your friend. How long had it been? Your mouth felt so dry. You reach to the bottle and take a heavy swig of its contents. Seat has drenched your frame, and your clothes have ridden up against you. You notice a set of adjustable dumbbells laying on the table next to the D&D dice.

“What ... just happened?” you ask. Your head feels stuffed with cotton. Your voice ... is sort of dull, lower, like when you’re congested with a cold.

“You got a little too into character,” Chris said with a smirk. He popped a flex under the lights and you swear his shirt looked tighter than it had before. You gape in amazement when you see your free arm has followed his in almost perfect unison. A ridge had begun to rise out from the fat that had accumulated there. “I ... I have a bicep,” you finally manage to say.

“Everyone’s got a bicep, kid. Drink up,” Chris’ father instructed. You suddenly feel the bottle shoved to your lips. Cool water rushes down your throat and coats your tongue. You drink greedily and crush the bottle in your grip. It feels good to do that.

“‘Atta boy,” the man cheered. “You enjoy your little posing session?”

“Uh....” you respond, at a loss for words.

A heavy hand smacks you on the back. “Of course you did. Come on. Let me show you a few tricks. I’ve got the time, and your party won’t be starting for a while yet.” He smiled and guided you to the open door frame. The music pumped. More spotlights beamed overhead with their glare, flashing like cameras off the polished metal surfaces of the gym equipment. You hardly even noticed the sound of the door closing behind you as he planted you down and started running you through some basic exercises with a set of dumbbells.

“See, boy? It’s nice and simple. Your body knows what to do. You just have to let it move.”

You do. And a dull chuckle pushes its way out your mouth as you fall into that simple pattern. You watch a television screen in front of you showing a transition video and you smile as you watch the person pump in time to the beat. You watch the muscles inflate. And you chuckle as a tan slowly creeps over his pale skin. A high and tight cut replaces the old bowl cut from before. The jaw becomes more chiseled and defined. A low, “Fuck yeah...” echoes and reverberates in the room as you stare with glazed eyes at the screen and the changing teen staring back at you.

Chris’ father sneered as he watched you continue to work, heedless of the changes taking place in your own body, despite the mirror he’d planted you in front of. He chuckled as he watched a series of security monitors mounted next to a control panel. Chris was already lumbering to the front door, where another boy waiting to be educated on the joys of fitness stood.

“One down, four to go,” he purred.

“Fuck yeah, bro,” you low absently, completely unaware what you’re praising in the rush of endorphins and the sheer mindless ecstasy of the repetition. All that mattered was the work and the lights warming your skin as you shredded your muscles to get swoll.

The muscle man chuckled as he watched second guest gradually became enamored by the fixture. It was so good to help them see the light.

The Itch: Part 1

Sorry, what were you saying? I’ve been ... kinda absentminded lately. Yeah, I’m doing okay. Just been making a few changes is all. New diet, a few exercises here and there to help tone up. It’s been kinda nice. Sure, it aches a little at first, but it’s been worth it in the long run.

Yeah, I noticed the new patch. Looks kinda good, doesn’t it? I always used to have trouble growing chest hair. Now that I’m getting in some good fitness, it’s like I sprayed super grow or something down there. They just keep sprouting. It kinda itches, but it feels good to scratch.

Scratch ... yeah. Mmm. That brushing, that scruff. Feels ... so nice. Yes. I enjoy scratching it. I feel pleasure, just as you have said. The pleasure increases the bigger I get.

Cannot stop scratching. It ... makes me lightheaded. Yes. More pleasure. The scratch will make me work. The scratch will feel better as I work out. The more I lift, the more I build, the more my pectorals will brush and scratch.

I will build. I will grow. I will scratch.

Yes. Grow more hairs. Bigger pecs mean thicker hairs. Thicker hairs mean louder scratch. Louder scratch means bigger pleasure. I will repeat. I will seek pleasure. I will scratch.

Yes. I will report to the gym, after waking. I will build my body. The scratch demands it. The scratch drives me. Will grow. Will scratch. The itch will push. The itch will demand. I will listen. LIsten to demands. Listen to your demand, your itch, your voice...

I understand.

...

I obey....

The Itch: Part Two

Bro, I just ... can’t stop lifting, you know? It feels too good. So what if I’m a little top heavy? Just look how jacked I am! The bros offered me this old lifting belt, too. S’funny. When I told ‘em you showed me the gym, they all just sort of grinned and welcomed me in.

Dude, they know about the itch! S’fuckin’ awesome! They don’t care if I trail off on a sentence or whatever. Gotta scratch the itch, ya know? They said s’better to just go with it, so I do. Bro, I never felt better in my whole life! I’m high as a kite, but it’s all natural. Fucking rocks! Huhuhuh, yeah. People been talkin’ bout me behind my back, but I don’t care. I’m swoll. Bros say I’ll be ready to compete soon. Mmm ... feels so good when I pose in front of a mirror. Jamming my pecs together, letting that scratch grind so slow.

Fuuuuuuuck. Uhhhh ... wut were we talkin’ about again?

Well, yeah. Course I’m dumb. Why would I want to think about all that other stuff when I’ve got weights to lift and an itch to scratch?

What? You want me to pose for you? Bro, why didn’t you say so?

Huhuhuh ... ready to learn my routine....

The Meating

“Uh ... I’ll just ... come back later.” You quickly left the apartment complex’s gym and the many muscle men who stood there having a posing session in front of the full body mirror.

Why were they all in briefs? Why were they all so ... focused? You didn’t recall seeing a reservation for the gym, so it’s not like this was some kind of party or something. And they didn’t seem like frat bros. Just what was going on here?

You arrived back in your apartment to see your roommate Randal chugging back another sludgy concoction. How he could stand those protein shakes, you would never understand. The sheer number of carbs and sugars in that large of a mixing cup made McDonalds’ large and thick shake look more like a medium. He let out a thunderous belch and came up for air to grin at you.

“Hey there, Roomie. That was fast. Thought you said you were going to use the gym,” he teased.

“Occupied,” you said simply and made your way to your room.

“I did try to warn you,” Randal said as he followed behind and leaned on your door frame.

“Warn me that there would be a practical porn fest going on?”

“Oh, come on. It’s not all that bad,” Randal said as he took another gulp of his shake.

“They were in their briefs, Randal. Their briefs, as in just underwear and a pair of socks. The gym wasn’t even reserved. Does management know about this?”

“Bro, management is part of it.” Randal shrugged. “Don’t see what you’re so worked up about. Everyone knows they meet there Tuesday night. S’not a crime, if the owner doesn’t have a problem with it.”

“Does the owner know?”

Randal shrugged. “Hell if I know.” He took advantage of the silence to polish off the rest of his shake, then let out an explosive hiss of air.

“Those things are going to kill you one day,” you grumble.

“Not if I keep working them off,” Randall countered with a smirk. “I’m training to be a trainer, remember? The gym’s like my second home.”

“Whatever. I’m going to talk with the owner about this. If management is part of the problem, then a solution needs to be found.”

Randall shrugged. “Suit yourself, bro. Don’t think you’re gonna get anywhere, though.” He turned and trudged toward his room. “Gonna get my workout in. Don’t disturb me, all right?”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill, muscleman.”

Randall stopped, turned, and grinned cockily as he flexed a bicep. “Damn straight.” He winked good-naturedly as you rolled your eyes a second time. A few seconds later, you heard the familiar clatter of his cup smashing against the sides of the sink, after he sunk another one of his ‘three-pointers.’ A half a minute later, the heavy thump of the bass in his room thudded dully down the hall and through your door.

You gulped as you stared up at the imposing shape of the building’s manager. Chris’ platinum hair had been perfectly styled with some wax to hold that familiar sheen as he peered into the apartment with piercing blue-green eyes. His tight shirt clung to the defined pectorals and chiseled abdominals on his torso. He was a good five years older than you, but that five years made one heck of a gap in the maturity of his features, including the blocky nature of his jaw and the stark gaze he had perfected over what you assumed to be the tenure of his work as a manager in the complex.

“I’ve come to talk with Randall,” he said curtly. “Is he in?”

“I think so. Is something the matter?”

“No. I just need to talk with him.” He shoved past you with little care, forcing you to stumble against the entertainment center to regain your balance. You didn’t even get the chance to call out a warning, before he was knocking forcefully at Randall’s door. You barely regained your feet, when you found yourself flung aside again by the assistant manager. His dark auburn hair had a few red highlights in it and jutted up in a series of spikes as he shoved his way past. Compression gear clung to every curve and bulge on his body. He didn’t bother to apologize, or even acknowledge your presence.

“Chris, what’s happenin’, bro?” Randall asked with a casual grin as he raised his fist up for a bump.

Chris gave an indulgent smile and returned the gesture in kind. “Nothing too serious. We just need to have a private word with you is all.” He gestured into Randal’s room. “May we?”

“Come on in,” Randall said cheerfully.

“Thank you.” He turned to glare at you. “We’ll talk with you later.”

You winced. Apparently, word of your actions had reached the manager, and he was far from pleased.

The talk took nearly an hour to finish. You raised your eyes from the book you’d been reading on the couch when the door finally opened.

“And remember to be there on time, Randall,” Chris rumbled.

“I will,” Randall’s voice carried from the hall.

“Good. Now feel free to carry on with your studies.”

The door closed. Randall’s workout track cued up, and the bass started thumping again. This time, you noted a few new chords in the soundtrack. Your eyes fell on the assistant manager pocketing a CD case.

“All that for a new track?” you asked.

“Among other things,” Chris said with a shrug. “Now, about your complaint.”

You winced, bracing for the beating you were almost certain would come.

“You were right.”

You blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t stutter. I said you were right. The schedule was completely open to anyone entering the gym to work out. Given the, for lack of a better word, cooldown ritual that the others tend to follow after a hard workout, it could be deemed scandalous to others that are seeking to use the equipment. Most of the apartment complex has warned one another about our usual time to use the equipment, so we haven’t needed to make a reservation on the schedule. That will be changing now.” He extended a hand. “I hope there won’t be any hard feelings.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Oh, we’re livid,” Chris chuckled. “But a point is a point.” He grinned as he seized your hand “We’ll just have to see who wins the match, eh?”

You winced under the man’s grip, but he maintained perfect control, never once squeezing beyond your range of comfort.

“Until next time,” he said by way of farewell. “Oh, and by the way,” he said as he reached the door, “you might consider joining us before you judge us next time. Goodbye.”

They swept out together, leaving you to stew over their parting words and the familiar beat of Randall’s music.

You watched Randall flex in the mirror as you stepped out of the shower, and smirked at his grin. “Careful there, Narcissus. You might freeze like that.”

Randall chuckled and turned to pose for you. “Jealous?” he teased.

“You wish.” You chuckled and shoved him lightly. He didn’t budge, and his pecs were hard against your hand, straining the wrist.

Randall smirked. “Something wrong?”

“Okay, Randall, I think you’ve proven you’re the stronger one now.” You roll your eyes. “Let’s get ready.”

Randal nodded and pressed play on his phone. The Bluetooth speaker blared his tracks through the room as he lathered up and shaved the stubble off his face. You finished your usual morning ablutions and tapped your toe to the beat from time to time when the playlist hit a song you enjoyed.

Eventually, the pair of you stared at each other across the breakfast table: Randall in compression gear, you in your usual jeans and T-shirt.

“I’m gonna be home late today,” he said causally. His wireless earbuds rested snugly in his ear canals as he listened to his beats. “Got a lot of new exercises to practice for my certification.”

You shrug. “Okay. I’ve got some studying of my own to do for work, anyway. I’ll see you around.”

The rest of the meal was spent in relative silence. Randall ate his oatmeal and drank a primer, before clearing his dishes, washing them, and striding to the door. You retreated to your room and began to study.

You’re not sure how much time passed before you noticed it. The sound was faint, but you knew that tune. You peered up at your ceiling, cocking your head curiously. The music built and thumped louder, louder, louder.

“What the hell...?” You rose from your chair and strode outside, then up the stairs to the next floor. It didn’t take long to track the offending apartment in question. Number Sixty-nine had always been a little run down compared to the rest of the complex. Some chucklehead thought it would be funny to screw out the nine and flip it so it mirrored the six, then forced it back in. Management let it be for the sake of good humor and the nature of the individuals who usually housed there.

You knocked. Nobody answered.

You knocked again, louder this time. A tall young man with chiseled features and a high and tight flat top cut stared down at you. He must have been a good 6′ 3″. He raised both arms in his sleeveless muscle tee and performed a double bicep flex.

“Welcome to flex fest, bro. How can I help you?” The big man chuckled at his joke. You now understood why they reversed the numbers. What better way to show a subtle nod to working out than to imagine the two numerals as flexing arms?

You introduce yourself. “I live just downstairs. Your music is pounding through the floor, and I’m trying to study. Do you think you might be able to turn it down a little?”

The rhythmic thumping surged at you in wave upon wave of sound, not unlike the beating of the ocean against a cliff.

The big man chuckled and laid a beefy arm around your shoulders. “No can do, bro. We’re in the middle of our workouts. Gotta be ready.”

“Ready for what?” You practically have to shout to be heard over the surround sound speakers that have been installed in the apartment.

“The meeting, of course!” the lug shouted back as he pulled you in. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the guys.” He practically dragged you through the portal and into the apartment, slamming the door with a well-placed kick. The first room you entered was filled to the brim with heavy duty weights and mirrors. The kid squatted with a long metal bar on his shoulders to strain his calves and thighs with every motion. A blue singlet clung to his frame as he stared ahead and grunted in time to the pulsing beat.

“That’s Trav! Bro’s a real beast with the weights. Wants to be the strongest man in the world. As you can see, he’s well on his way.”

The next room was full of weighted jump ropes and a miniature punching bag being jabbed by a tall man with ebony skin that shone with his sweat. Powerful muscles bunched and tensed as he prepped to take another strike at his imaginary opponent. His short hair grew out to just cover the scalp, while stubble spread down the sides of his face and cascaded over the lips, chin, and cheeks.

“Andray,” the introduction went. “Came from Brooklyn, wanted to make somethin’ of himself. Thought he’d be a reporter, but then he found boxing. Lil’bro’s never looked back.”

The third room thumped just as loudly, but there wasn’t much in the way of fitness happening here. The occupant lifted a set of dumbbells in one hand, while the other clicked rhythmically on the keys of his computer.

“And that’s Douglas. He’s the new kind on the block. Bro’s only starting out, but he’s keeping up.” He strode in and reached for a half-empty cup that sat on the bed’s night stand. “Doug, bro. Don’t forget your shake.”

Douglas mumbled something back, and your guide grinned as he smacked Douglas’ shoulder.

“’Atta bro.”

He led you back into the final room, where a weight bench sat by the bed.

“Since you’re here, bro, come on in and spot me.” The door closed with a heavy slam, and you found yourself planted firmly behind the bench. “Just hold the bar if I start having trouble to help me put it up in rest.”

“But--”

“Bro, you interrupted my workout. Least you can do is help me finish my set, so I can help you with whatever’s wrong on your end.”

You rolled your eyes and let him have his way. He’d probably drag you back in, if you didn’t anyway, and it wasn’t like it was actually hurting you any.

You groaned as you melted into your couch. It hurt. It hurt so much. Why the hell did you let them bully you into doing those exercises?

“Someone looks beat.”

You rose your head in surprise. There was Randall in his gear looking you over critically.

“Sixty nine?” he asked.

You nodded weakly.

“Loud music?”

Again, you nodded.

“Figured.” He smirked. “Bro, they’re too thick-headed to change. You should just leave it and focus on doing the stuff you want to do.”

You groaned again, and he chuckled.

“Here. Let me whip up something to help.” You heard the whirr of the blender blades, winced as it grated against your ears. And then there it was, the same slop Randall had been drinking for months. “It designed to absorb all the acid your muscles make when they’re broken up, helps reduce the soreness and improve recovery time.”

“If I throw up, you’re cleaning it.”

“Nope, that’s all you,” he teased mercilessly.

You grumbled, but accepted the shake gratefully. At least he was trying to help.

“Look, I’m just saying it’s pretty obvious you’re feeling restless. A little workout here and there would do you some good.”

“I’d rather not deal with potential retaliation from every muscle member of our complex, thank you very much,” you say pointedly.

“Did the guys at Sixty Nine do anything to you?”

“... No.”

“Then I doubt the others will either. Pretty sure I’ve seen them going to the gym for those meetings. Come on. I’ll go with you, if you think it’ll help.”

You sigh. “I doubt it, but I suppose it can’t hurt to experiment.”

It hurt. Oh, did it hurt. Your muscles groaned in protest with every move as you pulled yourself out of bed. Randall grinned at you as you dragged yourself into the kitchen.

“Damn, man. You look awful.”

“You should know. You did this to me,” you complained.

“No, I just put you through a training session. Your body’s doing this to you, because it’s not used to it. Drink another shake. You’ll be fine.”

You grunt and motion to the speaker with a loll of the head. “New music?”

“Yeah. I’m experimenting with different tracks. I call this one Morning Pump.”

“Of course you would.”

He shrugged. “Gotta do the work to get the gains. It’s fun, you know.” He struck a pose. “And the benefits speak for themselves.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get going, ya meathead,” you sass.

“Yes, Sir, Coach,” Randall shot back with an infuriating smirk. “I will grow my meat. It is good to grow my meat.”

“Get out.” You blush as you feel a stirring in your loins and your muscles start to tense.

Randall bowed flamboyantly. “Your wish is my command.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to your room, where your computer sat waiting. It was time to do some research.

Music thrummed in your head. You felt hot and sweaty. Your arms trembled.

“One more,” a voice said. “One more.”

“One more,” you mumbled.

“Just a little more....”

The weights clanked as Darwin guided the bar back into its rest and grinned down at you. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

You blush. “It’s not that much progress.”

“Bro, it’s enough. You broke the plateau. Now you’re really gonna start making some gains.” He chuckled and handed you a packet. “Here. This stuff has some real kick to it. It’ll really help you bulk up.”

“But I don’t--”

“Bro, you wouldn’t be here, if you didn’t want to. Now take it home, and add it to your drinks. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

“I ... thanks, I guess?”

He smirked. “You can thank me later.”

The clanking haunted your dreams. The thumping haunted your waking hours. Every second, every day, your walk, your movements, everything followed a set rhythm. You blinked blearily as you tapped the next button on your keyboard and followed the slide show. Image after image, muscle after muscle. You hovered briefly over one of them and blinked in surprise. Was that Randall?

But then the thump struck, the key clicked, the image moved forward, and you were following again. Following the rhythm, following the beat, following as the earbuds picked up on the feed from your phone. It was easy to transfer the tracks from Randall’s CD. You leaned back and stared after clicking into a new tab. You don’t remember opening it, but images and words flash before you in time to the beat. You lean back and let the cotton rub against your pecs and abs.

You blink. And suddenly the room is dark, save for your screen. The tab is gone. You’re staring at a series of tattoos. Without even thinking, you rise, you walk to the door, you ghost into the night. And everything blurs.

The heat from the gym room is stifling as you get off the treadmill. You’d long since shucked your clothing, save for a pair of briefs and a tight pair of socks that strained against the clubs your feet have grown into. You open the window. A familiar beat carries on the air and your mind slows. You reach down and pat absently at your crotch. “You’ve sure gotten big, little guy.” Then you let out a chuckling guffaw at the ludicrous situation of talking to your junk.

Then suddenly, you’re not alone. Chris smiles at you as you stare into a mirror. A camera is in his hands. You hear the click. It fits in perfect time with the thud of your music.

“That’s it,” his deep voice rumbled as he grinned. “How do you feel now?”

You look up at him, your mind awash with a strange sense of vertigo and euphoria that stuff it with cotton. Goosebumps wash over your swollen muscles as they tense, causing your tattoo to ripple over your shoulder and bicep.

“I’m ready for the meating, Sir.”

The door opens, and Randall walks in with a blank expression on his face. He stands next to you with the same brand of underwear, the same filmy socks. “Ready for the meating, Sir.”

The timer went off, signaling the end of your reserved time. You didn’t move. The room filled with muscle. You didn’t bat an eyelash. You posed. You flexed. The cameras flashed. You cycled to the machines. You worked. You went back to the mirrors again. Sweat glistened in the light to highlight the curves and striations you’d worked so hard to develop.

“Welcome to the meat,” Chris sneered.

You just stared blankly ahead as you patted your crotch again. “I am meat. Meat must grow. Bigger meat is better meat.”

He knew it was true. You knew it was true. You would grow your meat, because you were a meathead. And that was what these meatings were for.

You called to apologize to the owner the very next day. You never complained again. There was no time with all the routines you had to follow and the scouting that needed doing. After all, you had to prepare for the next meating. It was your turn to pick the inductee.

Caution: This short story portrays a hypnotic trainer guiding his subject deeper into trance. It may induce trance in some readers. If you are driving or operating heavy machinery, please do not risk reading this story. You have been warned.

Also, please leave comments, reblog, and like, if you enjoyed this. Thank you!

Dumb Down Pulldown

That’s right, Grunt. Keep pulling. Keep grunting. The lower you get on those numbers, the better you feel, falling deeper into trance, deeper into pleasure, pleasure at working out, pleasure at lifting, lifting to grow, growing stronger, stronger in body, your muscular body, muscle filling your body, growing with every pump, spreading with every pump. Spreading, like my voice through your head. Spreading to increase your discipline, to increase control, my control.

You feel it now, don’t you kid? I can tell you do. That pleasure, that desire. The desire to keep listening to my voice, to pull down on that bar over and over, getting lower, getting deeper with every set as you count down those notches.

Weights go higher, bar goes lower. Voice grows stronger, thoughts get slower. Slower with every pump, every rep, dropping deeper and deeper, lower and lower, slower and slower.

So low. So slow. Slower as your body takes control. Slower as you feel the strain on your muscles driving away all other thoughts. Slower is dumber, Grunt. But that’s okay. You like dumber, don’t you? It feels so good to descend into that empty place where your mind is so calm, so dull. Dull, like these weights. Dim, like that black cable moving up and down, up an down as you pump, as you listen, as you fall deeper and deeper into my voice. It’s funny, isn’t it, just letting it all go as you listen, as you pump, as you pull yourself deeper and deeper.

That’s right, laugh, Grunt. Let it out. You remember that lesson, don’t you? Controlled breathing, measured, confident, just like your sets, just like your pulldowns. Pulling down those barriers, pulling down those walls of resistance as you welcome me in, welcome my voice to guide you, guide you down, down into bliss, the ignorant bliss that comes from a life a pure muscle.

Brain becoming brawn, smarts becoming small, smaller and smaller as you grow your meat, grow that thick, dull space in your head, clearing it so my voice can echo within, echo and rebound, whispering, repeating, repeating. Repeating my mantra, my words, my will. So empty, so clear, always there, always repeating, reinforcing as you listen, as you obey, because my voice is my will, my will is your will while I train you. You trust my voice. You trust my will. So it doesn’t matter whether it’s my voice or yours, because they are one and the same.

This is the mantra. This is my will. This is what you will repeat:

“I am a dumb musclehead. My place is in the gym. Fitness is my life. The bigger I grow, the dumber I become. I am a dumb musclehead. I will grow into a muscle bull. I am a dumb musclehead. I will grow. My place is in the gym with my fellow muscle bulls. I will follow the herd. I will obey.”

Repeat.

...

Good muscle bull. I must check on the rest of the herd. Repeat your mantra. Should you break out of trance, you will recall none of what I said, but it will whisper all the same inside of you, driving you forward, driving you to work out, like a good muscle bull.

Now get at it, stud. We have prizes to win.

Andrea presti

A Costly Boast Patreon Preview

Jackson smirked as he finished posting on his tumblr feed. Sure, the pic had been more of a joke at the time, but he did look good, and he knew his watchers would want to see more of his sculpted body and rugged features. He was a magnet for both men and women, after all.

I’m the biggest gorilla in the forest. 

He’d added the caption at the end for the sake of the persona he’d developed for his web posts. And, he had to admit, if did feel good to show off.

With his work finished, he shut down his computer and grabbed his cell phone. It was time for another nature walk. He strode out in his cargo shorts and grinned up at the sun. Winter had passed at last, and the sheer amount of green was enough to make anyone’s head spin. It was simple enough to pass along the trail behind his house and admire the view it afforded. The sight of the river and buildings in the distance always left him in a pensive state of mind.

After he’d spent enough time musing over the view, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone. Might as well check for any replies.

Jackson smirked at the number of likes and reblogs. His body was definitely a popular commodity. Then he scrolled down to the comment and frowned.

A user named Goodf3ll0w had written, As you boast, so shall it be. A special gift to you from me.

Jackson frowned and scratched at his head. “The hell...?” he muttered.

To read the rest, consider joining my patreon. For as little as a dollar a month, you’ll be able to see my stories first thing on my patreon account. Higher pledges gain greater rewards. And trust me, this is definitely a story you’ll want to see.

I may post it to the general public in a couple of weeks. We’ll see. Anyways, thanks for reading, and for those who chose to do so, for contributing. :D

~Omni

Champ

You know, it’s funny. I should be freaking out over all this, but I still feel absolutely calm. I have doctors looking over me while I’m typing this. Aside from having to mind how hard I type on the keys, things don’t seem to have changed all that much. Well, barring the fact I’m incredibly strong now, and I feel an intense need to lift things.

... And I have a massive increase in appetite. I suppose I should go back to the beginning. See, I’m an amateur bodybuilder looking to get into the big time. Or at least, I was. I felt like I had pretty good form and nicely sized musculature. I went to the gym on a regular basis, still do, and I made sure to maintain a proper diet for myself. When I wasn’t working on building, I would dedicate my cardio to Pokemon Go. Yes, I’m a Pokemon nerd. And there’s nothing wrong with that, no matter what other people may say. Anyway, a friend of mine knew I was about to try my first competition, so he sent me a special package with a black speedo and a very familiar belt with gold studs and a red P engraved on the top of the buckle at the front. Found this at a weird store. Made me think of you. Good luck, man. Don’t machoke on me, all right?

~Felix

I rolled my eyes at the pun, but it really was thoughtful of him to send me something that reminded me so much of my favorite pokemon. I chuckled and tried it on immediately, of course. The material hugged closely to my frame, and I smiled as I showed off the veins and striations I’d developed in my thighs, torso, and glutes. No matter the angle I took, the underwear fit perfectly. I smirked and struck a pose in front of the mirror, hunching forward as I ground my pectorals together and flexed.

“I’m not a choke. I’m a champ,” I said. I remember that well. I also remember the giddy rush I felt after the fact. I chuckled again and growled out a gravelly, “Chaaaaaaamp,” for extra measure. The belt warmed quickly, and I smiled at how comfortable it had become. The material was so light, it felt like I was wearing nothing at all as I stepped into the hall and progressed to check-in with my other posing straps and speedos for the competition. On top of height and weight, I also had to show them what else I might be wearing for future phases of the competition. On the plus side, the dope test had already been performed, and I passed with flying colors. I offered my CD and picked up the number to attach to my belt. The rest of the process was tedious, but worth it. The prejudging was nerve-wracking, but I think I did well. The faster my heart beat, the more exhilarated I felt. You see, bodybuilders have to keep at least semi-tensed during these examinations, because the judges are watching us the whole time. My research told me most judges choose the winner during this phase, rather than out on the live stage with the audience. I had to stand out with two other men and pose for the judges. With each successive pose, I felt the pump in my muscles growing stronger. Everything felt so taut and vibrant! I could hardly keep still, so I put that energy into maintaining the poses for as long as the judges required. The lat spreads and double bicep poses left me feeling positively euphoric. I swear, I wasn’t on drugs, but it sure felt like I was.

That night, the free-posing round left me even more hyped. My biceps looked like over-inflated footballs. My traps writhed behind my back, causing me to shudder each time I flexed or stretched them. I felt so big. And I reveled in that. My skin was smooth and glistened in the stage lights. I was positively ecstatic when I got called up for the posedown. Me, a rookie! The music faded. The crowd’s cheers faded. Honestly, those moments on the stage still feel more like a dream. I remember transitioning from archer to crab to chest to traps. Every pose, every flex, flowed one into the next. I heard a number, my number.

Sixty-eight. Sixty-eight. Sixty-eight!

It rang in my brain like some sort of chant.

And somehow, I just felt so confident, so powerful, so self-assured. I knew that I was going to win. I knew that I was a champion. That title was going to be mine, and I would always keep it, no matter what anyone else might say against me.

The sensation of a new set of arms growing out of your back is ... difficult to describe. As I said, my body was overriden with a sense of utter pleasure. It was, I guess like I was getting a massage, and every nudge and knead of growth sent surges of heat and pleasure down my shoulders and back, and into my swelling legs. 

That same kneading pulled at my skull as three great fins protruded out the top. I didn’t care. I don’t know if I even noticed. I just had to keep posing. Two hands clenched. Two arms writhed behind as new muscle groups knit together to support the structure of my new anatomy. By this time, the dull cry of the crowd had managed to permeate the fog. I thought I had won, that those screams were cheers.

I soon found out otherwise when I came out of the haze and saw the gaping judges. The music had long since stopped. The crowd stared at me. I stared back. I remember one of my fellow competitors asking me if I was all right, if I was still me. You know the cliche.

I responded in what I thought was perfect English. The step back he took from me indicated otherwise. So, I opted to give him the only sign I could, a thumbs-up.

Only, I did it with my two right hands.

I think that’s when the shock set in properly. Go on, you can say it. I know you’re thinking it. MACHAMP IS CONFUSED!

And I was. My whole body was literally coursing with power and energy, but it wasn’t my body anymore. My legs still moved fine, and I was grateful for that. But I now only had two massive toes. My feet had widened with my stance to make up for all the extra weight on my top and help carry it. I fell the first few times I tried walking. Too easy to lose my balance. But the thing is, it didn’t hurt. I mean, seriously, no pain. Not even a scratch. It was just ... I don’t know, a light tap?

Yes, I know. MACHAMP HURT ITSELF IN ITS CONFUSION. You don’t have to rub it in. Though, like I said before, my fall(s) didn’t really hurt. The audience was speechless. So was I. I mean, what do you say when you spontaneously turn into a pokemon? Other than your name, I mean, obviously. I see you trolls out there! Don’t get any ideas. This is one builder you do not want to mess with. I had to motion for pen and paper. Fortunately, my hands were still just as capable of writing. Machamp is mostly humanoid, barring the weird feet and extra arms. And the whole head fins thing.

On the plus side, I don’t have to worry about shampoo and conditioner anymore. But anyway, yeah, I wrote I was okay, still me, and requested that someone call a doctor, and maybe the police. I had to file a statement, after all, and better to get my name and face out there as soon as possible, rather than give anyone in the government the chance to hush it up and haul me off somewhere for experimentation.

I have been approached asking for consent to that effect, by the way. Being a super strong entity that has superhuman endurance and is capable of taking most any blows, which I assume would include bullets, given the fact my new species can literally take a beam of pure solar fire shot from the blossoms of plant monsters, kinda makes me a hot commodity from a military standpoint. I could be an asset, if I were to consent to serving my country.

Yes, an asset they’d send in as a tank in warfare to be blown up or watch others he cares about get blown to bits in a pointless conflict. No, thank you, Mister President or whatever shadowy aspect of the government is asking. I mean, seriously, it’s not like I could be some sort of super spy with this body and mug. I am literally one of a kind.

And if any foreign actors happen to get any ideas, they should know that I can break out of any prison they try to put me into. I am highly resistant to drugs and poisons, and I don’t give in to blackmail. In short, I’m not going to tolerate any shenanigans, but I’m not going to be a threat to anyone either, except in my capacity as being inexperienced with this body, which is why I am typing this up now as I work out my other arms under careful observation.

I didn’t agree to be the military’s property, but a coalition of biologists and scientists were very anxious to learn about what happened to cause the change, and how my genetics have been altered. They’ve been very helpful, providing me with a synthesizer I can type into to speak for me. It’s designed to fit around my wrist like a brace, and it doubles as a monitor for other readings. Yes, I am still only capable of speaking in what has been dubbed Pokespeak. It sounds normal when it comes out of my mouth, but no human can understand me.

That being said, I’ve made some demands of these scientists, as well as of the nations that are concerned about me as a potential threat. I am to be allowed to see any phase in the experiments, and we are to have round-the-clock security composed of a coalition from each of the nations who are concerned about my “welfare.” There is also going to be an interior security team composed of UN forces to keep the peace. Any blood or tissue samples are never to leave this facility, and are to be destroyed after the tests have been carried out to ensure no one can get hold of my genetic structure to attempt anything.

I’ve already broken several of their measuring machines in regards to testing the strength of my punches. And I found, much to my surprise, that I really can rain a flurry of blows at a pace that’s almost faster than the eye can see. They had to use a slow cam to show the individual strikes. So, that means I’m probably going to have to be registered as a lethal weapon and act accordingly. That’s to be expected, I suppose.

At least I still have my rights as a US citizen, and the UN has offered me proper protections with my visa as I stay here in Switzerland. Overall, it’s turned out a lot better than it could have. Naturally, as a large part of this research, I am allowed to speak with whomever I wish and text, call, video chat, etc. accordingly. It’s not like they can stop me from leaving a session, anyway, if I really want to do something else.

I’ve put in a few more failsafes, just in case anyone tries anything like falsifying videos of me or voice messages. It’s about all I can do for now. Anyway, yeah, that’s where I stand. I guess I really did become a champ, though I don’t think I’ll be able to compete in bodybuilding anymore. On the plus side, with strength like this, I can be my own moving crew or warehouse worker. Just don’t ask me to do any fine tuning. I’m still learning how to coordinate for the more delicate tasks.

The government, naturally, interviewed Felix about the mysterious store and its proprietor, but there was no sign of either. I get the feeling this is one of those things that will likely wind up in the X-files. But hey, gotta look on the bright sight, right? At least I’m still me.

And honestly, I can’t wait to get back to my normal life again.

Pressure

Peer pressure is a powerful, albeit subtle thing. Much like temptation, all it takes is a nudge, a little poking and prodding. And then, the results speak for themselves. One person starts something. And then it spreads. It spreads, because a person thinks it’s, “cool,” “hip,” “modern.” There are many more such names and titles given to various acts. And that person performs the action and spreads it to another. And that one to others. And that one to more, until a whole new phenomenon is born. But what would happen if, for just a moment, that pressure had more than the power to push a person toward what is deemed a social norm? What if, for just an instant, it had the power to alter the very fabric of reality?

Picture, if you will, an open park, or perhaps a campus quad. Somewhere that teenagers and young adults go to blow off steam and simply be themselves. There are many that would seek to mind their own business, of course. Just enjoy the day, get some sun, read a book, play on the grass, maybe eat a meal in peace on one of the many public benches that may or may not dot the area.

Now, let us consider this principle in action. It is not unusual for men to remove their shirts on a warm day. Be it summer or spring, many who are fit and unashamed of their bodies remove their shirts to simply enjoy the sun and try to cool off at the same time. Perhaps there is a game going on. Perhaps it is football. Perhaps it is soccer. Or any other number of field sport. However, as men are wont to do, there is a simple way to tell apart the teams. Perhaps you are familiar with this system. It is a well-established social norm, after all. The shirts and the shirtless.

All it takes is a lost teammate. Perhaps someone needs to go home. Perhaps a player is tired and needs time to rejuvenate. Regardless, the call is made. The team is imbalanced. And this must be corrected.

A pair of young men are relaxing on a nearby bench. One is busy adhering to yet another form of peer pressure, the need to graffiti.

It is a harmless enough pastime. Indeed, for many, it is fun to add to what others have left before, almost like a message in a bottle. The anonymity allows one to be cruel or kind, base or lofty. The end result is still the same. The bench is defiled, the message carved.

“Why do you do that?” the first boy asks. His white shirt reflects the sun’s rays, offering a slight relief from the relentless sun.

The second one shrugs in his black shirt as he carves away at the table with a sharpened rock, or perhaps a pen or marker of some sort. “Why not?” is his response.

And the first has no reason to raise. After all, his friend is not the first, nor will he likely be the last to leave a mark on the table.

And then the boy in the white shirt is noticed by our players. The sun’s rays reflecting off the fabric draw the eyes of the competitors. A representative is sent.

“Bro, come play ball with us.”

It is a simple request. A prodding. But our young man is uncertain, nervous, and intimidated by the size and fitness of some of the other players.

“We really need someone to help the team,” the delegate says. “C’mon, bro. It’s easy. Promise.”

The second push. Another nudge.

“I don’t know....”

“Nah, bro. It’s all cool. Come on. You’ll fit right in.”

Cool. You’ll fit right in. Small words, spoken so casually, but that carry such heavy weight at times.

Authority. Confidence. Assurance. Persuasion. Coercion. These concepts, so easily interchangeable, simple to flip, like the sides of a coin spinning on its axis. They flip. They fold. They merge. They join as one voice becomes two becomes four becomes many.

A cacophony.

A barrage.

A call.

Invitation has deformed into a ringing summons.

Request contorted to belligerent demand.

“Be cool, bro.”

“Loosen up.”

“Have some fun.”

“Join us.”

“You know you want in.”

“C’mon, bro.”

“Team needs you, bro.”

“You have to.”

“You need to.”

“Let’s play.”

“Take it off, bro.”

“Don’t ruin the game, bro.”

“Don’t make a mistake.”

“Don’t be that guy.”

“Come on.”

“Come on!”

“COME ON!”

Perhaps they cheer him on. Perhaps they jeer him, instead. Regardless, our young man has a choice to make. Will he accede to the pressure, accept, and receive the gratification of this horde? Or will he reject it and face the consequences of potential social ostracization?

Reluctant to offend either party, and rendered immobile by the pressure exerted by such an exuberant summons, our hypothetical man is at a crossroads and frozen in the grip of indecision.

As is often the case of those still in development, he seeks council from one who is not subject to the pressure for guidance.

Our second youth shrugs disinterestedly. “Whatever.” He returns to his graffiti without a second glance. He is too busy to care. What started as a reply to a chain message has degraded to lewd doodles and the beginnings of curiously angular and curved letters. It is almost as though he cannot stop.

The pressure resumes once more. “See? He’s cool with it. So, whadaya say? Join us?”

The cracks develop.

“I ... guess....”

The web spreads as the cracks extend and deepen.

“Then what’re you waiting for? Take it off, bro.”

The shirt begins to slide.

“Promise not to laugh?”

A few grains begin to fall through.

“Bro, relax. You’ll just be another player. One of the guys.”

Just another player.

Our peer smiles.

One of the guys.

The shirt pulls up.

Cheers abound. Positive reinforcement. A veritable tsunami of approbation.

“One of us! One of us!”

Barriers shatter. The flood breaks through.

The shirt slides off like a cocoon to reveal toned muscle. The hints of abdominals press under the skin as he bends, while the beginnings of a treasure trail thickens to become more prominent. Tight muscle flows over the hints of ribs as his arms stretch high. Two massive slabs of muscle drop down in the form of well-defined pectorals as he lowers his arms. The white fabric waves in his hand in limp surrender. His biceps and triceps ache to pump and flex with the flow of blood. His smile widens into a grin that’s indistinguishable from that of the player that’s invited him.

The shirt is cast aside on the cement that supports the picnic table, and the pants creak briefly under the increasing muscle mass in his calves and thighs.

“Let’s play, bro.”

The player grins and seizes his new teammate’s hand in a forceful grip that causes both of their arms to strain as veins stand out from flesh. “Atta bro.”

The new player joins the peers that have crushed him into their mold, none of them the wiser for it. But what of our second subject?

Let us see what peer pressure has done to him in the course of his former friend’s transformation.

The rock has shifted into a sharp metal edge. The wood yields easily to his efforts as the dark handle rests easily in his palm. His black shirt lengthens into a baggy dark tee. Once-folded cuffs unfurl and lengthen along his pant legs as the cut widens and slumps. He pauses briefly as an unfamiliar weight drags in the pockets of his pants. He reaches and feels the cling of saran wrap. Something feels ... off, but he doesn’t check what it is. Instead, he returns to the table. He had to finish. Had to leave his mark.

Cotton boxers peek over a waistband pulled deliberately low. His head tingles as the beanie on his head tightens and takes on a dark gunmetal-gray. As if in retaliation to the marks he has left, dark ink begins to scrawl its way across the backs of his hands. Thick muscle cords up his forearm, then inflates along his biceps and shoulders as they broaden. His eyes glaze as the light behind them dies, leaving nothing but dark emotionless shadows.

The fabric in his shirt perks against swollen pectorals, then slumps again as it expands. He cracks his neck, revealing a binary code engraved on the left side. A dew rag peeks out from one of his other pockets as a counterweight appears on his other side. He pats the pocket briefly. His fingers reach inside and brush the hard metal barrel, the textured synthetic material for a firm grip. The click of the safety flicking off and on again puts him in a haze as he widens his legs in a relaxed, albeit aggressive stance.

He flicks his knife shut and looks over his work. MACHINES stares back at him. “Damn straight,” he mutters in a deep bass. He watches the game idly, occasionally glancing at the bathrooms nearby. The dropoff is waiting, but he needs the all-clear first.

His phone buzzes. Sorry, bro. Can’t make it. I’m sick. This text is followed by a puking emoji. He smirks. Police were on the prowl.

He taps his package again. The deal will have to wait.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the territory he’s marked for the gang. He smirks and pulls out the durag.

After all, nobody said he couldn’t do some recruiting.

He sneered and cracked his knuckles.

All it would take was a little pressure.

And so, you see, invitation, coercion, cajoling, deriding. In the end, they equate to the same thing. Pressure exists all around us.

The question is, what will you do when it comes for you?

Can you resist?

Will you even want to?

Is it even your decision to make?

I doubt it.

Oh, there I go nudging again.

But then again, I’m not really sorry for it.

After all, I can’t wait to see what mold you become, my little canvas.

Mmm ... don’t disappoint me.