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Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 2

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

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

“You don’t know me,” Hunter growled.

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

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

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

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

“What things, Lil’bro?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See, bro? You’ll fit right in.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s–”

“–UP, BRO?”

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

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

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

“Larger penis, larger testicles.”

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

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

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

“COOL, BRO.”

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

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

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

“You’re not getting away with this.”

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

“This is my FUCKING body!”

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

“How are you doing this?”

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

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

“We’re all meatheads.”

Clank.

“Big, dumb meatheads.”

Flex.

“Growing our meat.”

Clank.

“We follow the beat.”

Pose.

“The deeper we go,”

Clank.

“The bigger we grow.”

Flex.

“The more we obey,”

Clank.

“Grow dumber each day.”

Pose.

“Obey Coach’s voice.”

Clank.

“Don’t have any choice.”

Flex.

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

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

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

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

“GOTTA GET SWOLE, BRO.”

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

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

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

One.

Breathe. Lift.

Two.

Feeling good.

And he was feeling good.

Three.

Falling. Listen.

Hunter could feel his mouth pulling up into a smile.

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

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

Four.

Inhaling. Slowing down. Relaxing. Lifting is relaxing.

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

Five.

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

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

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

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

Six.

Listen. Watch the screen. Obey.

Not like he had much choice.

You have no choice but to obey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seven.

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

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

Lifting is life.

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

Growing is gold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pump.

Bulky is good.

Clank.

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

…

…

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

EIGHT.

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

Strain. It’s heavier. More difficult.

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

Clank.

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

You are horny. You are heavy.

“I … I AM H-HORNY … HEAVY … YES.”

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

Big balls. Big meat.

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

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

Meat.

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

Switching to crunches. Press.

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

Clank.

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

Like a horse.

Crunch.

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

Clank.

Like a horse.

Crunch.

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

Clank.

Like a horse.

Crunch.

“I am–” Can’t think.

Clank.

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

Crunch.

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

Clank.

Laugh.

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

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

Lift.

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

Clank.

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

Lift.

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

Clank.

Deeper. Deeper.

Lift.

“Good … What … What’m I …?”

Clank.

Deeper. Dumber. Don’t think.

Lift.

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

Clank.

Good and dumb.

Lift.

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

Clank.

Big and dumb.

Lift.

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

Clank.

You are hungry.

Lift.

He is hungry.

Clank.

Hungry for muscles.

Lift.

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

Clank.

Good boy.

“Good boy.”

“GOOD BOY.”

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

Lift.

Obey.

Clank.

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

Lift.

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

Clank.

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

MEATHEADS OBEY. OBEY. OBEY.

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

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

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

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

NINE.

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

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

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

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

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

Listen. Speak. OBEY. Say what you are.

“I’M A … A …”

OBEY.

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

OBEY.

Yes. So good to just –

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

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

“We obey,” MEATHEAD said.

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

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

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

REMEMBER. OBEY.

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

SWOLE. PUMP. MEATHEAD. OBEY.

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

Make more. Repeat.

“MAKE … MORE.”

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

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

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

Stare at the screen. Watch. Listen. Obey.

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

Focus on the dot.

“FOCUS ON DOT … I OBEY.”

You obey, sir.

“I OBEY, SIR.”

Obey my voice.

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

Remember my voice. Remember to obey.

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

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

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

And?

“SMALLER DOT, MORE MUSCLES, SIR.”

Muscle is meat. Bigger muscles, bigger meat.

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

“I OBEY.”

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

You are meatheads.

“YES, SIR.”

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

You are brutes.

“YES, SIR.”

“YES, SIR.”

You are one.

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

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

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

TEN.

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

Can you hear me?

“YES, SIR.” SIGH. OBEY. LISTEN. GOOD.

You are mine.

“YES, SIR.” OBEY SIR. BELONG TO SIR.

You obey me.

“YES, SIR.” OBEY SIR.

You serve me.

“YES, SIR.” SERVE SIR.

Remember my voice.

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

I control you.

“YES. YOU CONTROL ME, SIR. I OBEY.”

I am your coach.

“YOU ARE MY COACH, SIR.”

You obey me.

“YES, SIR, COACH.”

What is your name?

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

Good boy. You have no name.

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

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

“YES, SIR …”

Your name is Brute.

“MY NAME IS BRUTE.”

You are Brute.

“I AM BRUTE.”

You are my Brute.

“I AM YOUR BRUTE.”

OBEY.

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

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

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

You will wake when your controller tells you to remember.

“YES, SIR. BRUTE OBEYS.”

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

“YES, SIR.

Always OBEY.

“ALWAYS OBEY.”

Always SERVE.

“ALWAYS SERVE.”

REMEMBER. You are my Brute.

“I AM YOUR BRUTE, COACH.”

Watch the screen.

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

Remember, Brute.

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

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

“… REMEMBER.”

It’s time to wake up.

“…WAKE … UP?”

Wake up … Wake up …

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 1

“You’re sure this gig is worth it, Harry?” you ask as you look over the contract. “Of course it is, kiddo. These kinds of commercials pay boku bucks. And besides that, it’ll show your versatility as an actor.” “But I just get one line.” “That’s the beauty of it. Simplicity is the very essence of great acting. Trust me on this. You’re going to go places you never dreamed of with this gig.” You sigh. “We’ve been down this path before, Henry. But, I suppose as long as the pay is good, we might as well. I need to pay the rent.” “Atta boy!” He smacks you on the back. “You won’t regret it, I promise you.” “If this is another porn gig, you’re fired,” you warn.

“Kid, it’s a commercial, as in broadcast to families across the world. Do you really think they’d try putting you in that kind of situation with millions of children watching?” “Good,” you harrumph. “I’m not about to deal with that crap again.” “There will need to be a certain amount of preparation, though. They love your face, but your body’s a little too underdeveloped for them.” You look down at your well-toned frame in surprise. “Underdeveloped?” “Their words, not mine, kid.” He shrugged. “They’ve got a training room set aside for you, complete with trainer and vocal coach to help prepare you for the part.” “A vocal coach?”

“What can I say? These guys are serious about helping you succeed. And they’re paying you on top of it all.” “They’re not taking it out of my paycheck, are they?” He shakes his head. “No. I made sure of that. So, are you in?” You sigh. “Let’s get this over with.” Harry bore his teeth in a broad grin. “Trust me, you won’t regret this.” You watch as he flicks his phone open and presses his speed dial. “Yo, Vinny! Yeah, I talked with my client. He’ll take the part.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 2

The sound of clanking weights, heavy grunts, and labored breathing assaulted your ears as you stood waiting in the gym’s lobby with Harry. His scalp shone in the midwinter light streaming from the skylight above as he dabbed at it with a cloth. The outside may have been cold, but the heat had been cranked up here in the gym for maximum burn. Admittedly, you felt like combusting, yourself, at this point. The receptionist at the counter was busy staring at a screen as he typed away rhythmically at his keyboard. Considering how a set of ear buds stretched tenuously from his ears to the console, you assumed he was likely going through some form of mandatory training course. He’d been friendly enough on your arrival, with his flaming red hair and exuberant smile, but that had all faded to a look of utter concentration, after he’d paged the owner to alert him of your arrival. Now he was completely engrossed in whatever program was running behind the counter. He shuddered once, and you watched as he mouthed something, while heaving a deep sigh. He reached up to scratch at the back of his head and stretch, absently flexing his biceps and triceps. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth that soon broadened into a grin as a low, protracted, “Yeah....” filtered across the way and into your ears. Your hand clenched and unclenched around the handle of your gym bag as the textured fabric on the handles creaked and grated against each other, giving you an outlet for the knots your stomach had tied itself into. It was one thing to take on a gig. It was another to have to face a long term training commitment with an undesignated amount of compensation, not to mention the unusual behavior this worker seemed to display. You couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow messed up, when he claimed to have gotten in contact with the owner. You were about to approach the desk again to ask what was taking so long, when a veritable giant of a man in a bright red polo that clung to his broad shoulders and molded around thick pectorals approached. His hair was inky black and shone like a streak of oil in the sun as it jutted up in a familiar high-and-tight flat top style that hearkened back to the military. A pair of compression shorts clung to his waist and thighs, accenting each curve of powerful muscle as he strutted over in the rolling swagger only those with thick legs could manage. He stood a full two heads higher than you at a burgeoning six and a half feet. His jaw clenched in a tight smile, accentuating the square masculine features along his cheek bones. He extended a massive mitt of a hand that practically enclosed yours as he shook with you. “Name’s Hank. Welcome to my gym.” His voice was a bit on the husky side, but while it sounded gruff, there was a warmth and welcomeness to it belied by his intimidating exterior. “I’m not exactly one for small talk, so I’m just gonna cut to the chase. I’ve been hired to train you into a tower of muscle for your part. I don’t work with slackers and I don’t tolerate cheaters. I expect complete compliance and dedication to me as your coach and instructor. Follow my instructions to the letter, and we’ll succeed together. Don’t, and I kick you out.” You winced at the crushing pressure as you withdrew your hand to try to restore feeling to it. “Um ... isn’t training me for a competitor’s commercial against your personal interest?””

Hank chuckled, and his voice rumbled in an effortless cascade. “Nah. My gym caters to a different clientele. They’re targeting beginners who’re too intimidated by more experienced builders. They’ve already shown me the layout. They focus primarily on cardio and general tone building exercises. If you want to bulk up, it’ll take a lot more time there than it would here. Half these boys are part of the professional circuit,” he said, motioning behind him. “Just can’t get enough of those weights.” “Hank here’s one of the best trainers in the business,” Harry promised. “You’re in good hands.” He smiled as he smacked Hank on the back. “I’ll leave you two to your work. You know the drill, kid. Give me a call, if something goes wrong.” Hank bore his teeth in a grin. “Give me a few months, and he’ll be grunting with the best of them.” You smile nervously in response. “Don’t forget. You meet your vocal coach tomorrow, so I expect you to show up, no matter how hard you’re hurting,” Harry said. “He’ll be there,” Hank promised. “I won’t work him too hard. Yet.” He chuckled again, punctuating it with a few husky exhalations to give it a clattering staccato. You swallow tensely as you watch Harry’s retreating form, and nearly jump out of your skin as you feel Hank’s meaty palm smack against your shoulder. You look up at that same grin again as white teeth bear down on you. “Now, then, let’s see what you can do.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 3

Your first session with Hank may not have been deadly, but it was far from unpleasant. He meant it, when he said he would test your limits. He took you through the whole range of exercises from cardio to calisthenics to strength and endurance training. To establish a base line, he’d said. A part of you wondered if it was just because he took pleasure in seeing you sweat. Then again, that was kind of his job, so he probably did. A purple turtle neck clung to your upper body, helping to keep you warm as you gingerly removed your coat to hang in the closet. The workout may not have been intense, but you still felt the after-effects, and you were not looking forward to day two. It always hurt more on day two. The waiting room was a small one, but incredibly warm. Harry had said he wouldn’t be able to make it to the meeting, but it wasn’t like you couldn’t handle it yourself. It was a vocal coach, after all, and you only had to say the one line. A few sessions, and you’d have that part ready to go for the cameras. You twiddled your thumbs idly as you waited in the leather chair. Finally, a good five or so minutes later, the door opened and a tall man with dark hair and green eyes walked out with a smile across his face as he put on his glasses. “Thank you so much for the help, Miss Schroder. Your training is an absolute life saver.” “It’s no problem, I assure you,” a woman’s voice carried out from behind the man. A few moments later, you caught your first look at her. Her skin was pale and flawless as marble, and she strode out confidently in high heels. Her hair fell in rich red curling waves that cascaded down her shoulders and back like the fronds of a willow tree, and her pale blue business suit was accented by light pink lipstick. “Just make sure to remember those dialects. Just because it’s one nation doesn’t mean they won’t have different accents.” “Ah, but how could oi be forgettin’ sumpin’ so positively voital ta me craft, yer ladyship?” he asked as a sly smile pulled at his lips. Miss Schroder laughed. “Oh, stop it, you. Save it for the character.” “All right. All right,” the man acquiesced as he raised his hands in defeat. “But it is fun, you know.” “Naturally. Just make sure to be careful, Scott. I find that the roles my customers play tend to take a life all their own.” Scott laughed. “Well, I don’t think that’d hurt all that much, in my case. See you around.” He waved, nodded to you, then retrieved his coat, before making his way out the door. Then Miss Schroder turned her attention to you. She called you by name, then motioned curtly with a finger as she strode back to her office. You followed her her with little prompting. “I’ll have you know that I take my craft very seriously,” she started. “I meant what I said when I warned Scott back there. My lessons can be very much like role playing, and like all role playing, there is a chance that the character can spill over into your everyday life. I would advise you to keep things as separate as possible.” She handed a sheaf of papers to you. “Please make sure to sign these, before we continue. They’re release forms, among a few other necessary documents. By signing them, you agree that I am not to be held responsible for any changes or repercussions that should occur during your time here. You are taking my courses of your own free will, and are willing to accept the consequences of whatever may result from these courses. As a part of the process, some hypnosis may be applied. In signing these papers, you consent to allow me to hypnotize you for the sake of understanding the role you are to take. If you do not wish to be hypnotized, you may so indicate in the necessary boxes; however, it will take longer for you to accomplish your role to satisfaction this way, and the commercial will not move forward, until I give my official seal of approval.” “What?” you balk. “They trust me. I’m good at what I do. If I say someone isn’t ready, they aren’t ready. Each time I’ve warned a client, my predictions came true. After a time, people learn to listen.” She shrugged as she planted herself in a tall stool with a high back to support her lithe frame. “Now, then, assuming you’ve finished the paperwork, let’s get started.” You gulp, then sigh as your shoulders slump in defeat. It’s not like she’d be able to do much to you, anyways, even if she did manage to put you under. And you needed this part. You scrawl quickly across the necessary lines, after a swift perusal of each of the segments for any hidden language or gimmicks. “All right. Let’s get started,” you sigh. “Good.” She seized the paperwork and shoved it into a file with your name on it. “Now, then. According to the paperwork, you are to play the role of a stereotypical bodybuilder with just one thing on his mind.” “Lifting weights. Yes,” you say as you roll your eyes. “I take it you’re not too keen on the role.” You shrug. “I take what I can get.” She pursed her lips. “Hmm. You’re going to be an interesting one. It’s more difficult working with a client who isn’t enthusiastic about his part. Not impossible, mind you. Just more difficult.” She perused the file once more, then pulled out her phone. “Let’s start off with various accents, shall we? I want to see what kind of range fits you best. There are a few that come more prominently to mind. You have German/Austrian, surfer beach bum, frat boy jock, and a few others. Each of them may sound similar, but there is a certain subtlety that designates each vocalization as its own unique sort of language. The only difference here is, rather than a language of words and letters, you have a language of sounds and inflections. Now then. Let’s begin.” You run through each of the various accents and styles, trying your best to replicate each. She shook her head and tutted at each separate attempt to mimic the recordings. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,” she sighed. “Let’s start off with the basics.” She flicked to another track, and white noise started playing gently behind the sound of a metronome. “I want you to listen to the beat and follow it. Emphasize the key words of your line with each stroke. ‘I lift things UP and put them DOWN.’ Got it? Up,” her voice climbed higher, “and down.” Her voice glided down into the lower register.

You sigh, then set your shoulders as you listen to the recording. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say lamely. “With feeling. Emphasize. You have to draw the audience into what you’re saying. Again,” she ordered. “I lift things up and put them down,” you say. “Again. Hit the beat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Again.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Repeat.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “Good. Keep going.” “I lift things up and put them down.” “That’s right. Follow the beat. Up. Down. Up. Down.” “I lift things up and put them down.” Click up. Click down. Tick. Up. Tock. Down. It’s so boring, but you continue to follow the pattern. “Cadence is everything. Flying high, then dropping low.”

Up. Down.

“Lower.”

“I lift things up and put them down.” Did ... your voice sound huskier? “Deeper. Don’t stop now. Repeat. Follow the rhythm.” Follow UP. Follow DOWN. Follow.... “I ... feel funny....” “Relax. You were just starting to get it right. Try again,” she urged gently. “You want to nail this part, don’t you? So you have to try again. Relax. Try again. Listen. Try again. Follow the beat. Try again.” Her tone was so soft, so low. You had to strain to hear. Had to listen. ... Had to try again. “I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down. I lift things up and put them down....”

“That’s right.” You feel something in your hand. A ... paperweight, maybe? “You lift things up and put them down. Up. Down. Up. Down.” And suddenly your arm is moving. Up and down. Up and down. You lift things up. You put them down. Lift up. Put down. Up. ... Down. “Good boy.” Then everything went dark.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 4

You start awake suddenly, your whole body jolting in its place on the seat. “Easy now. Easy,” a familiar voice says reassuringly. Your eyes dart to the side to lock on Miss Schroder as your hands clench down on the arms of your chair. Your cheeks feel flushed, and your heart is thumping in your chest. Your foot nudges against something, and you look down to discover a tiny metal five-pound dumbbell. Your eyes widen further as you become aware of the sense of fatigue in your right arm. “Wh-what did--?” “The first session is always the hardest. I just need you to breathe, okay? Take deep breaths. I just helped you to get into character is all.” “Helped...?” You rub absently at the back of your head. Your whole body feels strange, tingly, almost tight. “I ran you through some vocal exercises. You tranced about halfway through. Usually it takes me a few sessions to lead a person into full submersion, but you just dove right in.” You smack your mouth, trying to moisten the chapped surface as you grapple with this new information. Schroder offers you a bottle of water, and you quickly pop the cap, before guzzling the contents. “Hypnosis often leaves a subject feeling somewhat dehydrated afterwards, depending on the length of the session,” she explained. “I really am sorry about this. I was planning to try trancing later. Usually, that track just helps people get familiar with how I work and feel more comfortable as I coach them.” “H-how long...?” you ask as you continue to breathe deeply, struggling to get your heart rate back under control. “Forty-five minutes. Would you like to hear your progress?” She reached over to a stereo system sitting at her side. “No!” You half rise from your seat, then realize just what you were doing, and clear your throat awkwardly. “That’s ... all right,” you say in a slightly calmer tone, while you settle back down. “You don’t have to worry about falling back under, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she pointed out. “They’re just snippets.” “I ... really don’t feel too comfortable with this right now.” Miss Schroder sighed and shrugged. “Suit yourself. Your time is up for now, but I’ll be expecting you back again for the next session on time, you understand?” You gulp as a clammy chill runs down your back and you shudder. “Next time, we’ll experiment about methods to help you enter trance unassisted. I’ve been requested to compile sound files to assist you as you work towards your part. For now, here’s a list of affirmations and lines to go over to help you focus on your role. You’re not contractually obligated to use them, but I highly recommend you do so in your free time back home. They’ll offer motivation as well as context to your endeavors.” She handed you an envelope. “You’ll find signs and cue cards in there that you can post inside your home or not as you see fit. As for other motivational material, you’re on your own.” She rose to her feet and strode to the waiting room door. “I’ll see you in two days.” “Two days ... right.” The world feels like a fog as you stride out of the office. Your feet fall heavily on the hardwood floors as you lean into your stride. “Um ... goodbye,” you mumble as you pass her. It was time to go home. You had a lot to think about, and for some reason, you had a sneaking suspicion it was going to take you a while.

You look dubiously down at the thick gray slop in the mixing cup Hank had shoved into your hand. “What is this stuff?” you ask, suddenly grateful for your exceedingly strong stomach and overall constitution. “Workout shake. Special blend,” Hank said gruffly as he stared implaccably down at you. “Now drink it up. We’ve got a hard day of work ahead of us. That body isn’t going to build itself.” “But it’s so....” Hank’s gaze hardened as his stare turned into a glower. “Be grateful I gave you the small, kid,” he said, pointing over to where a titan of a man in a sleeveless muscle tee and tight compression shorts that hugged to pillar-like calves took a seat at one of the weight benches. A tall, broad bullet cup lay clenched in a meaty hand. He grinned once, exposing perfect white teeth, before he attacked the container, drinking lustily. The drink was gone in a matter of seconds, and the lifter let out a titanic belch afterwards, then shuddered and grinned as he put the now empty cup down, leaned back, and got to work. “That’s a 32-ounce. Yours is smaller. Now drink up. We’re late enough as is, thanks to your stalling.” You gulp once, then raise the plastic cup to your lips. “Drink,” Hank ordered. The texture of the swill was somewhat reminiscent of tapioca and wet cement. It weighed heavily in your mouth, and the flavor was an overpowering vanilla that was so sweet, it almost tasted bitter. Your face contorts in a mask of disgust, but before you can so much as pull the cup away, Hank is there, pressing it against your lips. “Better to do it all in one go,” he said. “You get used to it, after a while, but the first one’s always the worst.” You manage one sound of disgust, before the cup is tilted back, and you’re forced to either swallow or cough it all up. “What the hell?” you splutter as you pull away. Hank remained perfectly neutral. “I told you. I don’t have patience for you slow and steady types. We’re on a schedule and a tight deadline. I’ve been hired to push you to your limits. That includes pushing you to take your medicine, even if you don’t want to.” He turned to walk towards the gym. “If it helps, that drink’s specially designed to reduce the aching.” “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” you fumed. Hank grunted, then shrugged. “You didn’t ask. Come on.” He walked you over to a dumbbell rack, where a familiar redhead was busy grunting as he pumped away using sixty-pound weights. He grinned as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, and watched his biceps and triceps building up a pump from the exercise.

Hank patted the kid on the shoulder. “Doin’ great, Duff. Keep it up.” Duff’s smile widened. A hint of shiny gray substance on the edge of his lips hinted at what he’d drank just before his workout began. “Duff is tough. Duff is buff,” he muttered to himself in time to each curl. “What’s up with him?” you ask. Hank chuckled. “Motivation. Kid says the same thing over and over again to keep time with his reps. It’s a beginner’s trick, but it works, till the moves come more naturally.” “And the earbuds?” “Music. Or files. Who knows?” Hank shrugged. “Kid can listen to what he wants, just as long as it doesn’t bother the rest of the gym. Now come on. It’s time to pump.”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 10

“There you are.” You look down at the small rectangular device Doctor Schroder has handed you. “That little thing will help you focus and make certain behavioral changes in your life to speed up the process as you change your body. As in all things with hypnosis, it will only work if you want it to work. The tracks are labeled, and I’ve included a master list here for you to know which tracks do what. They’re sectioned off by waking and sleeping. And as you can see, each of the waking tracks is further divided for different functions and actions: working out, diet, that sort of thing.” “And all I have to do is push the track number?” “Yup. The rest will take care of itself. I’ve also included a few temporary tracks for the sake of role playing. They’ll allow you to slip into various characters within the muscular stereotypes, while you’re at home. Take the time to get familiar with each of them. Once you find the one that fits you best, I advise you try leaning towards that. Then again, I’m not the director, so you may want to keep using all of them, in case the one you like isn’t the one the director prefers.” “And that’s it?” “Pretty much. From here on out, it’s up to you to brush up on each of the characters and learn how to talk and act like them. My purpose from this point onward is to simply help guide you to achieve the optimal expression of those stereotypes.” “And do we have enough time to work on some of those now?” “Plenty. Why don’t you show me what you’ve been working on thus far, and we’ll move forward from there?”

Duff cocked his head as he peered at you. You felt a little embarrassed at such scrutiny, despite how that was your main form of income. “You’re definitely different,” he mused. “It’s subtle, but I can see a little progress.” “It’s only been a week. How can I make progress that fast?” you counter. “I’m not pulling your leg, man. Just telling you my opinion.” “Sure you are.” “If you two are done chatting, it’s time for cardio,” Hank grated. “Move, kid.” The treadmill proved a refreshing exercise, after all the strain you’d put your body through the previous week. Duff pulled out an i-pod and laid it on a rest next to the controls, before threading a set of ear buds out and connecting them to the port. The rest of the run was sort of lonely as Duff stared ahead at the wall, but you couldn’t exactly blame him. The way Hank had you running, it wouldn’t have been too feasible to get a conversation going, anyways. After the warmup, he pushed you to your limits, focusing on endurance training once again. When all was said and done, you were ready to head home and shower again. You waved to Duff, but he seemed a little too distracted to respond. Some of the other builders were approaching him, and it looked like they were engaging in some sort of conversation. You shrugged it off and figured you’d text the guy later. It was only natural he’d have other friends in the gym, after all. He was a lot farther along in his progress.

That night, you peered up at the fathead of a vascular bodybuilder in a tight set of compression gear that clung to every meaty curve. You’d received it courtesy of Duff. According to the card info, he wanted to be able to give you something to work towards, but was too embarrassed to do it directly. Kinda weird for him to have done something like this when you’ve only known each other for about a week or so, but you weren’t about to argue about it. The guy was so sweet, after all. The builder smoldered down at you, an unspoken challenge in that harsh gaze as he pumped a pair of massive dumbbells. Your CHANGE IS GOOD sign stood out prominently on his chest. You look into those eyes one more time and chuckle to yourself as you reach for your lamp. “Goodnight, meathead.” You pause a moment. “Hmm. ‘Goodnight, meathead.’ Not a bad motivator,” you muse. You decide to print it up later. Then you chuckle as you flick off the light. Maybe you’ll dream again. As that thought crosses your mind, a familiar tingle runs faintly over your body. You can’t help but smile as you start to fade off. “I think I’d like that,” you yawn, then curl up on your side, and let the darkness take you.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 12

“... You’re slipping now. Slipping down and down as you listen to my voice. Down and down. Deeper and deeper. And it feels so very good, so very relaxing as you listen. The more you listen, the better you feel. The better you feel, the deeper you go. Letting go now as you descend into that muted darkness, into that peaceful trance. “Ten. Feeling so good.” You find yourself sighing heavily as you hear the familiar thock of the metronome echoing over and over in your head. “Nine. Slipping farther as your legs stop wanting to move. So heavy. So relaxed as you go deeper and deeper, feeling better and better as you listen to my voice.” And you are feeling better. Thock. Relax. Thock. deeper. Thock. Listen. Thock. Deeper. Each stroke is so rhythmic, measured. It reminds you of the weights clacking at the gym. “Eight. Deep breaths. You want to listen to me. Listening as that heaviness spreads to your lower body. It’s getting harder and harder to remain upright. How about you just lay back against the couch? It would be so much easier than sitting up, and then you can listen more, without all that weight, without all that strain to distract you. And it will feel so good when you do, won’t it? Like when you collapse into bed, after a long workout.” You’re not sure when you started letting your body sag against the back of the couch, but you shudder in pleasure as a flood of relief flows through your limbs. “Seven. No distractions. No worries. Just listening to me. Just listening to the sound of my voice as I guide you deeper and deeper. And it feels so good. You don’t want to stop, do you?” “No,” you sigh. “That’s right. You don’t. You want this. You want to listen. You love how good I make you feel. And that means you should keep listening to me, because I make you feel good.” “Yeah....” “Six. Feel the tension flowing out of your body. Feel your thinking slowing, slowing as it’s flowing, flowing out your body. Flowing away with the stress. Flowing, like my voice through your ears as you listen. Flowing louder as you fall deeper. Flowing until it’s all you can hear, all you want to hear. “All I ... want....” you mumble as the world retreats into that strange twilight sort of place. Her voice echoes and babbles in your ears, like water flowing through a cave. “Five. You love the sound of my voice. It’s good to listen, isn’t it? You want to immerse yourself in it, don’t you?” “Yes.” So good. Feels so good. “Four. Flowing over you as you fall deeper and deeper, flowing like a river over you as you descend, washing away all thought, all fear, all hesitation. You are giving in to the current. You are letting it take you where it wants, and it wants to go deeper, so you want to go deeper.” By now, you can hardly hold your head up. “Deep...er....” “Good. Three. No longer resisting the flow. Letting go as I speak to you. Listening to my guiding voice. We are flowing to that perfect place, that place of absolute stillness, where your mind is perfectly open, open to me, open to my voice, open to listen, open to obey. Because when you listen to me, you are obeying me. And listening feels good, so obeying also feels good.” “Good....” Her words are lapping over you like a massage, and it feels heavenly. “You will obey.” “I will ... obey....” Obedience is listening. Listening is obeying. Listening feels good, so obeying feels good. Makes sense. The flow is taking you where you want to go, and where you want to go is where the voice is taking you. “You will obey me. Can you repeat that for me?” “I will obey you....” A new thrill of pleasure washes over you as your body slumps further in the couch. You can’t even feel its fabric anymore. You’re floating, and it feels so good floating, listening, letting go.... “Two. So close now. Letting go of all conscious thought, all will. Surrendering it to me, because you listen to me, because you obey me. You’re nearing a final curve in your downward slope. We’re almost at that perfect spot. Slip deeper. Listen harder. Relax. Obey.” And you do obey. You can hardly muster the effort to bob your head as it slumps forward, lolling over your chest. “One. Turning so gently, so slowly, into that final curve. Slow, like your mind, slow like your breathing. Slow and deep. Deeper and deeper. So deep in my voice that you can’t possibly imagine leaving it without my help. Floating into that sea of my voice, that gentle place that laps against you in waves, caressing you, filling you with pleasure to just listen and accept, listen and obey.” It feels so right. A dull smile pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Zero.” You’re floating, surrounded by that beautiful, sweet voice lapping at your ears. You are immersed in darkness, that quiet nothingness that feels so good as you just ... exist. No need to think. No need to act. Just relaxing. Just sitting. Just waiting. “Tell me the truth. Can you hear me?” A command. Must listen. Must obey. “Yes,” you say in a low voice. “Have you been listening to your recordings?” “Some. The pre-workout tracks make me feel excited. I enjoy those.” “And the night tracks?” “Tried a little. Haven’t done much with ‘em yet.” “How come?” “Noise makes it hard to sleep. Brain keeps stayin’ up. Used to sleep, but now my body’s adjusted, I’m not that tired anymore.” “Listen closely,” the voice ordered. “You will listen to those tracks every night. They will no longer bother you. In fact, they will help you sleep.” “But ... they don’t.” “Not yet,” the voice corrected. “The more you listen to them, the easier it will be to sleep with them. Every night you will listen to them. Every night, they will help you to sleep. Every night, you will fall asleep sooner with the track, because you are adjusting to it. It is natural. It is a part of your nightly routine.” “Natural ... routine....” “Every night.” “Every night,” you repeat. “Tell me, what must you do with the tracks?” “Play them every night.” “Because you want to.” “I ... want to....” “Every night.” “Every night....” “You want to every night.” “I ... want to ... every night....” “Good boy. Now then, let’s get to work on a little motivation....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 13

“Look, Kid, they want progress pics, okay? It’s part of the contract, so just hold still and relax a little. It’ll be over, before you even know it,” Harry promised. You continue to look around nervously at the plethora of booths, where model after model are busy posing and flexing for the cameras. Reflectors glare as they spread illumination over each curve and bend of the various models. You can’t help but sigh as you see how free the photographers are with touching, adjusting the height of an arm for symmetry, pulling out a leg to broaden a stance. You’ve been through the song and dance before, but for some reason it just feels ... different this time. It seems almost like they’re just a bunch of puppets for the photographers to dress and pose as they choose. Then again, isn’t that basically what you’ve been doing even more than them? After all, you’re letting your contract decide your schedule, your habits. What else might it require of you? What other strings could there be attached? A sharp elbow to the ribs soon breaks you from that disturbing train of thought as Harry glares at you. “Eyes forward, kid.” A towering figure looms ahead of you. His black sleeveless zipper hoodie is parted to reveal rippling abdominals and thick, slab-like pectorals. The hood is drawn up over his face to obscure most of his features, but the way in which he carries himself more than makes up for the apparent shyness. A large hand covered in a rough fingerless glove reaches out to seize your own. “Greetings. I am Fängsla,” he announces in a thick, rolling Swedish accent. “And you must be the new model. It is a pleasure.” You feel a slight sense of vertigo as he squeezes your hand, so you shake your head to rid yourself of the feeling. “Nice to meet you, too,” you manage. Fängsla smiles wider, and you finally see past the shadows to a chiseled white face with a short cropped blond buzz cut that shines like platinum as it catches the light. “We are going to be doing great things together, yes? I can already tell.” He smiled and turned back towards an unoccupied photo booth in the corner. “Come,” he said. “We have much work to do.” Your eyes nearly bug out of your head as Fängsla hands you a a shiny dark purple posing strap. “You want me to wear this?” Fängsla shrugged. I am here to take pictures of your body, yes? How am I to do that, if we cover it up?” “Isn’t there something a little ... less revealing?” You feel the blush rising in your cheeks. “I’ve worn briefs that show less.” “If you like.” Fängsla shrugged again. “Bosses have other options.” he motioned over to a table, where a jock strap and a pair of briefs also sat. “Take your pick.” Naturally, you dove for the briefs. Your cheeks were on fire as you raced off to the changing room to get ready. Fängsla shook his head. “Americans,” he sighed. “The body is nothing to be ashamed of, you know.” Then he turned to adjust his cameras and prime for your return. The constant flash of the camera was a little difficult to adjust to, at first. The slow motion capture frame set off a strobe of flashes every time you changed position, wreaking havoc on your eyes. It was fairly simple, really. You felt more like a little toy soldier than anything else as the camera man instructed, “Turn. Good. Good. Again. Other way now. Turn. Yes, yes. Very good. Now stand straight. Erect. Yes, yes, that will work nicely.” And so it continued. He would order, you would turn, he would snap, he would praise you. It actually felt kind of nice, not having someone so touchy feely working over you this time. He turned your head a few times, of course, raised your chin, that sort of thing, but he was very gentle with it. “Good, good. Remember, you are proud of muscles, yes? Show me you are proud. Proud men are not shy.” Flash “Proud men are not afraid.” Flash “Proud men are strong men.” Flash “And strong men show off.” Flash “They love to show off, yes? Of course they do.” Flash Things began to come easier. The blush faded from your cheeks. Fängsla’s words danced in your head, and a smile slowly pulled at your lips. “There he is. Show me, strong man. Show me your muscles. Show Fängsla your pride.” You were only too happy to oblige.

You walk out of the warehouse with a long stride and a grin on your face as you clutch the bag holding the posing strap, jock strap, and briefs from the shoot. “You keep,” Fängsla had insisted. “Use them to experiment later.” He’d shrugged, then. “You may come to like them, strong man.” You give your bicep a passive flex. Strong Man. You liked the sound of that. You smile and wave back at Harry, then strut confidently down the sidewalk, despite the slush and the chill in the air. Who cared, when it was so sunny and you’d been having such an amazing day? In fact.... You start to lift your legs up, puffing slightly. Today was a perfect day for a jog, and maybe a little home workout. Yeah.... You’re already lost in the rhythm of your own feet smacking on the sidewalk, by the time Harry stops waving. Unbeknownst to you, he raises his cell phone and activates his speed dial. “Hello? Yeah, this is Harry. We just finished the photo shoot. Kid’s a little shy about the straps, but a few more sessions should take care of that. Your man should be sending the photos soon. Kid’ll be blowing up like a balloon in no time. Now, about that pay check....”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 14

You look at yourself carefully in the mirror, stroking the stubble gently beneath your fingers. It scratches like a set of playing cards, and you can’t help but wonder whether to keep it there or shave it off. The softer features around your cheek bones and neck have begun to harden now. You see just a hint of an edge at your jaw. For some reason, a thrill of pleasure rushes through you at the sight, and you smile confidently as you pull up your arm to flex your bicep. You chuckle to yourself at the sight. “Looking g-OO-d,” your voice cracks, and a slight flush rises in your cheeks. You clear your throat and return to your examination. The shallow furrows that barely showed along your abdominals before have deepened into shadowy trenches that clearly defined the border between each of the individual muscles. You couldn’t help but admire them, which prompted yet another chuckle. “Careful, buddy,” you warn your reflection. “You’re starting to turn into a real musclehead.” You sway on your feet as a sudden wave of vertigo overtakes you. Were it not for your quick reflexes, you might have crashed onto the tile. Instead, your fingers are clenching tightly to the lip of the counter, emphasizing the vascularity around your forearms. You pant heavily. “Woah ... that was weird.” When the world was right again, you turned resolutely from the mirror. “Might need to talk to the doc about that,” you muse as you reach back and scratch the back of your head. The bunching of your muscles as they tighten sends another dull tingle of pleasure through you. “... Maybe just one more flex.”

You look hesitantly at the massive cup Hank has shoved in your face. “Drink it all, kid. You need the extra calories.” You shudder at the thought of guzzling the container. The thing had to be at least 30 ounces! “You think this is bad, look over there.” Hank pointed toward the gym’s health bar, where a cup the size of a small pitcher was being guzzled by one of the larger builders. “Bigger muscles means bigger diet and more effort to sustain them. There aren’t any shortcuts. Now I want you to polish off every ounce of that shake. We’ve got a long workout ahead of us.” You barely manage to suppress the urge to gag. The shakes are still far too strong and thick for your liking. But you do have to drink it, if you want to keep going. You know Hank well enough by now to know he won’t hesitate to cancel his services, if you don’t stick to his program. “... All right,” you say uncertainly, “bottoms up.” You chug it as fast as you can manage. It’s the best way to deal with the taste. “Don’t worry,” Hank sneered. “Soon, you won’t be able to get enough of the stuff.” “You’ve been saying that for the last month,” you point out as you pant for breath, then let out a titanic belch. You cover your mouth quickly and swallow back the urge to gag.  “And I haven’t had a single client yet who hasn’t thanked me for turning them onto my blend,” he countered. “Duff’s addicted to the stuff.” He chuckled heartily. “What else do you think he carries in that bottle of his when he’s working out?” “Speaking of Duff, where is he?” you ask as you walk towards the bench press. “Taking a class.” Hank shrugged. “He should be out in an hour or so. You can’t pry that kid out of this place with a crowbar.” “Well, it is sort of relaxing lifting weights.” Your eyes widen as you realize what you just said, and more particularly to whom. “Oh, is that so?” He grins viciously at you. ... Crap. You’re so dead. ... But ... if you are dead, then why is your heart pounding so fast in your head? And ... why are your lips twitching? You’re suddenly aware of the familiar sensation of ear buds broadcasting sound into your ear canals. “Come on,” Hank started as the twitch pulled into a full blown smile, almost against your will. Or ... is it? Are you ... enjoying this? “Time to work out.” His voice paired perfectly with the one in your head. You open your mouth. You feel your chest heaving in that well practiced sensation of a chuckle, but you don’t hear a thing. The world is fading as that familiar rush surges through your brain, and you start drifting off. You hardly notice the fact that you’re grinning as the world finally fades to black. Gotta make those gains, bruh....

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 19

“She took your recordings away? That’s harsh, man,” Duff said as the pair of you worked at the bench press. Hank was down with a nasty head cold, so he’d appointed his right hand man to take his place as you continue towards your goal of muscular perfection for the part. Since Duff still had class requirements, though, you’d agreed to shift your workout schedule closer to the evening for his sake. It actually made for a much more intimate setting. There were a lot fewer gym goers this close to closing time, so they had free rein over the gym. “Yeah, it sucks. I really liked where it was going. I mean, sure, I’m a bit more aggressive than I used to be, but the rest of my changes have all been positive so far. And it just feels so good, you know?” Duff chuckled. “Working out always does, after a while. Healthiest addiction you’ll ever have.” “I wouldn’t call it an addiction.” “Mmhmm. And just how much time do you dedicate each morning to exercises, before you start your day, despite having to come to the gym later?” You decide not to deign that question with a response, focusing on pushing past your previous limit, instead, to add a new set to your reps. “That’s what I thought, dumbass,” Duff joked playfully. “M’not a dumbass,” you grunt as you thrust through another particularly difficult press. Your arms are trembling and sweat is starting to bead your forehead. “Bro, everyone’s a dumbass, sometimes.” A hint of a smirk crosses your lips as you growl, struggling for every inch. “Guess it ... takes one ... to ... know one.” You roar triumphantly as you finally reach your peak and lock your arms in place. Your chest heaves and you feel the sweat that’s pooled along your back. Duff helps you to guide the bar back into place, then offers a hand to pull you up. “Well, yeah, of course it does. I’m smart around the gym and talking about muscles and stuff. That doesn’t mean I don’t have trouble with other stuff, sometimes.” He shrugged. “Happens when you’re hyper focused on one thing.” He chuckled. “To tell you the truth, it’s kind of funny, when it happens. I like to use it to troll people, sometimes, just to see the looks on their faces.” “Really?” Duff chuckles as he leads you towards the squat rack. “Oh, yeah. All the time. I like to fake zoning out at a store checkout or with some of my classmates, during a project. Two words. Fucking hilarious.” You wince. “Do you really have to curse?” “You did it.” “Yeah, the one time.” “And you’ll do it again, and again, and again,” Duff said matter-of-factly. “Sure, it’ll start off as an accident. A tiny slip here, a few sprinkled there. Maybe you’ll get jump-scared by someone. Or maybe some jackass is going to piss you off at just the right moment. But once you start using them, they have a way of sort of seeping into your brain. They burrow deeper and deeper, rewriting thoughts, crossing different paths in your synapses. And before you know it, you’re as hooked to them as you are to pumping iron. They just flow out of you, and they all feel totally natural.” He reached over to the weight storage rack and started mounting plates on the bar. “It doesn’t mean you’re going to be using them in every sentence, just that they’ll be there when it’s the right time. And then, before you know it, someone’s gonna call you out on it, and you’ll realize it. You’ll smack your forehead, and suddenly, either out loud or in your head, you’re going to say, ‘I am such a dumbass.’ And you’ll realize it’s okay to admit it.” Your head felt like it was spinning. The more Duff explained, the harder it was to concentrate. A strange sense of pleasure, almost eagerness, flooded through your body, and you felt that familiar tingle as the blood flowed down into your crotch. You feel something rising in your throat. You try to bite it back, but in your addled state, you can’t seem to fight it. “Fuck,” you hiss slowly, and your body is racked by another shudder. Duff smirked victoriously. “Told ya. Now get under that rack, dumbass. You’ve got squats to do.”

Later that night, you swaggered home with that bow-legged gait you always seem to use after a good leg day. Without your tracks to listen to, the bus ride had been kind of a drag, but you managed to pass the time with an occasional well-timed stretch and flex. It almost turned into a sort of game. See how many times you could pull it off, without arousing suspicion from the other passengers. You scratch your crotch idly, without so much as a second thought. There weren’t any people on the street who’d notice, anyways. They were all inside by now, having dinner or watching a movie, or whatever crap it was they did to waste time. You pull up short for a moment, mid-scratch, then furrow your brow. Since when did you think of those activities as a waste of time? You shake your head and sputter briefly, then resume your tromping swagger. Come to think of it, it’s been a while since you were online. Maybe you should take the time to relax a little, veg out, while you drink your shake. You continue to mull this train of thought over as you resume your stride. The moment you’re home, you lumber over to the sink and open the dish washer, where a neat row of identical bullet mixing cups sit, awaiting your touch. You grunt to yourself, making a mental note to clear out the washer later. For now, you needed your shake. A white paper sign sits on the wall behind the blender, reading: GAINZ. You chuckle and roll your eyes as you lift up your arm for another flex. The pump from your workout hasn’t died out entirely, and you watch as the flat surface rises into a hill. You rub it absently, heedless to the stifling noise of the blender. “Gonna make you a peak,” you grunt to it. Gotta make those GAINZ. You continue to rub the muscle in a sort of half daze. You’re not sure exactly how long you’ve been at it, but by the time you manage to break yourself away from the motion, you notice the shake has finished blending and your shirt is crumpled on the floor. You don’t pay it any mind as you you kick it out of the way, walk over, detach the cup, and twist off the blender attachment to run under the water as you have every day, twice a day, for the last month and a half. Your eyes flicker over the series of posters and slogans you’ve accumulated. Brutish men in singlets and loose workout gear pose for the camera or are caught mid-set. All of them seem so focused, oblivious to the rest of the world. You look down pitifully at your own diminished form and feel the familiar bile stirring within. You hate being so tiny. You thought you were happy before, but now ... now that you’ve seen the possibilities with your own eyes, experienced the growth.... “It’s not enough,” you whisper to yourself, then take a swig of your shake. Motivational phrases plaster the walls along the hall leading to your room. EDUCATION IS IMPORTANT BUT BIG BICEPS ARE IMPORTANTER. No Pain, No Gain. You pause in front of that familiar post you found online. A thick, muscled model is leaning back on some kind of cushion. His eyes are obscured, because his head is tilted back and blurred, but his torso is completely bare. In a manner almost like a prayer, you reach out with your free hand to touch the caption next to the head, then bring your hand back to touch your own head. EMPTY THIS. You’re not sure whether you thought it or said it, but it doesn’t really matter. You perform the the same motions as before, this time with the second caption, and rub over your abs, before thumping against your pec. GROW THIS. You grunt as that pleasurable fog starts to descend again. MINDLESS MEATHEAD The picture showed a heavily muscled builder staring blankly ahead in little more than a pair of short shorts and a switchback cap. A punching bag hung in the background behind him. “Huhuhuh....” You’re not sure if that was you or your imagination, but for some reason, it doesn’t really matter. You find it sort of funny how quickly these meatheads have filled your home. At the same time, though, you can’t picture having those walls without them now. They ... belong here. Muscle belongs here. Another sip, and suddenly you’re sitting in front of your computer. You’re ... not sure how you got there. You look absently toward the corner of your bedroom, where an exercise ball and a weighted jump rope have joined your dumbbells. After all.... Gotta get your morning workout in. You nod your head absently. You know it to be true. Hank told you. Bodybuilders work day and night. You click your monitor out of sleep mode and look over your history. Health sites, diet tips, supplements. You feel two pills on your tongue. You lift your cup. You swallow. You put it down. “I lift things up and put them down....” A dull chuckle forces its way out from your chest, aided by the weight of your muscles. It’s natural to laugh this way now. “Huhuhuh.” And it feels so right. You search the net for a time, reviewing some of the previous favorites and posts that you’d found most prominent in your web history. Finally, your shake is empty. Your head is in the clouds, and you grin dopily as you rise from your computer, not even bothering to close out of the browser. You drift over to your bathroom mirror, where you do as you have done every morning and night, like clockwork. You flex. And, once again, it feels so right. Unbidden, a primal growl rises in your throat, followed by a guttural, “Fuck, yeah.” You don’t even care how your throat itches after. It was worth it. You tromp over to the shower, and your pleasure-addled brain pops up one of those friendly tips Duff is so fond of giving. It’s better to take a cold shower, after the workout. Makes your muscles recover even faster. Faster recovery. Faster growth. You couldn’t get there fast enough. For the first time, you experience the icy surge. And suddenly, the buzz is gone. You yelp in shock as your whole body cringes. Your chest heaves against your will, taking sharp gulping breaths. You can’t get out of that stream fast enough. “Okay, note to self, ease into the cold.” Your teeth chatter as you adjust the knob to turn up the temperature. Then you sigh in relief as the warmth washes away the shock. It takes a while, but you eventually find a balance for the level of cold your body is willing to take, and go with that first. You furrow your brow as you think back to your actions tonight. That ... wasn’t usually like you. The actions felt almost like a dream. The way you flexed, passed through the halls, cast off laundry like it was nothing. For the first time since this venture began, you don’t flex, after you leave the shower. You comb your hair in a handsome part and make your way through your apartment. Each new discovery opens your eyes wider and wider. A thick layer of dust has covered practically everything. The television hasn’t been used, and the remotes are laid neatly by the console. The air smells musty, and the floor is littered with old shirts you haven’t bothered to pick up, after your workouts. Old dishes are piled high in the sink from the many times you promised you were going to clear the dishwasher, but never did. You spent the next two hours clearing, dusting, and cleaning up. You sigh in relief when you reach your room. At least it was somewhat cleaner than the rest of the apartment had been. Your laundry hampers were overflowing, and the majority of hangar space had been occupied by underarmor shirts, track suits, singlets, and other workout gear. Designer shoes had been replaced with Nike, cleats, New Balance, Adidas, Asics. Boxes had been neatly stacked and packed on the sides, out of the main view of the closet entrance. You cut one open, and there are your old shoes and belts. Formal loafers, smart wingbacks, Ferragomos, Hermes, Gucci! “What have I been doing?” you murmur. You rise disbelievingly to your feet and shake your head. Even your bed is an absolute mess. The covers are crumpled in a lump on the far corner of the mattress. Your bed clothes haven’t fared much better, laying haphazardly over a half-exposed mattress pad. A full length mirror you don’t remember buying has been bolted to the wall next to your little workout setup. Then you realize, to your horror, that you’ve been walking around practically naked in your apartment for the last two or so hours. Your race for your drawers, only to find them bereft of the most basic garment you seek. All that remains to choose from are the infamous jock strap and its cousin, the posing trunks. You bite back the urge to curse with a supreme force of will and snarl as you snatch the strap. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire as you slide the bands in place, feeling the air flowing over your bare skin. You do notice with some surprise, however, how well the pouch supports your privates, and you can’t help but catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The bulge is definitely more attractive than those boxers you used to wear. And it does feel comfortable. So very ... comfortable. The beginnings of a smile pulls at your lips as your arm begins to rise automatically to assume that favorite position. Then you gasp, slamming your hand over your bicep with a heavy smack and pulling your arm back down again. You shake your head, dusting out the cobwebs, and quickly unpack some of your more formal dress. A casual set of slacks and a long sleeved button shirt would do nicely. At least ... they would have, were it not for the fact that none of them would fit you anymore. You glare at the clothes swinging mockingly on their hangers. “I hate you all,” you growl. It may have been petty, but considering you’d nearly lost practically everything you used to be in the persona you’d developed, it seemed justified. You resolutely refused to indulge in the pleasurable tingling that spread as you donned a pair of tight compression pants and a thick hoodie, forcing yourself to walk to the laundry closet, despite the nervous energy you feel rushing through your muscles. You sorted the laundry into piles with a deliberate slowness, being careful to ensure nothing was mixed accidentally. It was difficult to maintain focus on the task, but you weren’t about to let laziness cause your clothes to degrade faster. ... Even if you did get new clothes with every modeling gig. You sighed in relief as you lifted the last garments from your first load into the drum, added the detergent, and began the long wash. You smiled in contentment, proud of your accomplishment. However, boredom soon asserted itself again, and you sighed as you looked over the remaining loads. At this rate, you wouldn’t be in bed till after midnight. You sigh again as you look over to the dumbbells and jump rope. You feel a familiar lurching in your chest, almost like an ache as your fingers twitch. “Maybe,” you lick your suddenly dry lips, “maybe just a little cardio. To pass the time.” Soon the rhythmic cycle of whoosh and snap is echoing in your ears as you jump up and down, up and down in perfect time to the washer’s sloshy spinning. ... You don’t even hear the buzzer.

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 22

“When I said center yourself, I didn’t mean jump headlong into the persona,” Doctor Schroder chided as she shook her head. “Did you go looking for other recordings, after I took mine back?” “Nope.” You lean back with a confident smirk as you run your hand over your bristling scalp. “I’m just really enjoying the new lifestyle is all. Lifting weights is fun now, and I keep wanting to push myself to be bigger. It’s not just for the sake of the job, and it’s not for the sake of the recordings. I actually, legitimately, want this.” “And the cognitive side of things?” You shrug. “Haven’t noticed too many changes. Sure, I get distracted at home, sometimes, but I’m learning how to find a new balance with that.” “Oh, really?” “When you wake up one evening and realize your entire apartment’s a mess from neglect, you don’t exactly have much choice. I make sure to add cleaning the apartment as a part of my workout routine now. It’s ... a little hit-and-miss sometimes, but I’m working towards that change, and change is good, right?” “It can be, if it’s really you who wants it and not somebody else telling you that you do,” Schroder noted. “Are you certain you want this metamorphosis?” “Doc, it’s not like I’m forgetting who I am and where I came from. I’m legitimately enjoying this. I feel more confident, outgoing, strong.” “And your change in wardrobe?” “If I’m going to focus on a gym-based lifestyle, then I need to wear gym-based clothing. I have a few more casual things for off days, if I want to wear them, and I’m seeing about getting a fitting for some new formal wear. Nothing too fancy, mind you. If I were to get a suit, I’d probably grow out of it in a few weeks.” “You’re putting on weight that quickly?” You shrug. “What can I say? Working out like this has increased my metabolism. And I wasn’t exactly the biggest guy on the block, before I started. I’m just unlocking my potential.” “The natural way, I hope.” All sense of humor drains from you at that comment and you sit up in the couch as you level her with a flat stare. “Hank’s not that kind of trainer, and I’m not that kind of builder. Duff’s already explained what that shit can do to you. There’s no way in hell you’d catch me using.” “I just wanted to be sure. There are those patients I’ve had in my previous work that weren’t willing to work hard for their ‘change,’ as you put it. Needless to say, things ended poorly. Though this does bring us to a rather important segue. You appear to have modified your mode of speech. Why the change to language?” You shrug. “It just feels natural. It slipped out one day, and after that, it just wouldn’t go away. It’s not like I’m cursing at every sentence or anything like that. It just sort of slides out at the right moments.” “And you aren’t feeling any uncharacteristic urges?” You shrug. “Not really. I mean, sure, my testosterone’s gotten a lot higher, so I’m dealing with more aggression and things along those lines, but other than that, I’m doing fine.” “And you’ve been keeping that in check?” “Duff’s been helping a lot with that. He and I usually have some sort of contest or something along those lines, whenever I feel the urge. He’s a good friend and a great competitor. We usually vent those urges with contests at the gym. Who can break whose record, that sort of thing.” “And that’s all fine with you?” “Why wouldn’t it be? We both know it’s just for fun, and we never let it get in the way of our friendship.” “And the haircut?” “Sweat kept streaming down the hair into my eyes,” you shrug, “so I got it buzzed.” “I see. And that’s the only reason?” “Pretty much.” “Well, you do still appear to have retained the majority of your original personality, albeit with certain minor alterations. I’m still not giving you any more recordings, but I think it’s safe enough for us to resume our regular voice coaching sessions.” She laid her clip board aside and curved one leg over the other as she leaned forward. “Now, then, let’s start with Schwarzenegger and move on from there, hmm?” You grin impishly at her as you flex a bicep. “I lift things up and put them down....”

Duff wiped away the tears from the corner of his eye as the mirth-filled laughter finally settled down. “Dude, I can’t believe you can pull that off!” He laughed again. “Come on, try one of his other lines. Do it!” You chuckle, shake your head, and roll your eyes. “Fine.” You clear your throat and tense the muscles along either side, then take a deep breath. “You are terminated.” The laughter resumed again. “I’ll be back.” “Bro! Bro, stop it!” Duff clutched at his sides as the bout of giggles continued. “You asked for it,” you point out. “Any misery you’re suffering is your own fault.” “What a marvel: a voice that can kill with humor!” “Yeah, yeah. Ham it up, why don’t you?” You roll your eyes as you stab your fork into another bite of your rice bowl. “By the way, thanks for the tip on the secret menu. You’re right, the brown rice makes it a lot better.” “Healthier for you, too,” Duff noted. “So, how’re things going with that contract of yours?” “I’ve got my next report photo op coming up.” You shrug. “I think they’ll like the improvements I’ve made.” “Give yourself a few more months. They’ll hardly recognize you.” “I hardly recognize myself sometimes,” you chuckle. “But then again, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Your eyes drift idly over to where one of the waitresses is busy setting an order down. Her long blond hair cascades down her back in a loose ponytail tied by a hair tie, and her rich green eyes reflect the light like crystal, every time she turns her head. “Not bad at all....” The dull sound of snapping fingers finally brings you back around as you turn to face your friend. “What?” you ask. Your head is feeling that tingly sensation again as you take a sip from your ice water. “Dude, I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last minute.” A smirk pulled at his lips. “You’re crushing hard, aren’t you?” You feel the heat rushing to your cheeks. “N-no,” you protest. Duff chuckled. “Bro, you’re worse than I was at the first lunch.” “Curse you and your perceptiveness,” you growl playfully. Duff shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve always been good at my rolls for initiative.” That raised an eyebrow. “You play D&D?” “I’m a DM.” He shrugged. “It helps to pass the time, after homework and workouts are done.” “I’m surprised you don’t have to deal with hostility.” “The guys know me. Just because I’m fit doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into some bully. They know that. And any who don’t know get just one pass. After that, it’s out of the group. We all agreed. We don’t have room for shallow idiots on either side of the spectrum. It’s one thing to role play such a character. It’s another to let that carry over into real life.” “Eegads,” you gasp. “Is that actual confidence I hear?” “Shut up,” Duff laughs as he punches you playfully. “You up for meeting at the gym tomorrow?” “Paired workout?” “Yup.” “Fine, but I call dibs on first run.” “Damn,” you swear, “you’re on a roll today.” Duff smirked. “It’s a gift.” You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah....”

“It’s a gift, kid. How are we supposed to say no?” The two of you are sitting at your small kitchen table as you look into each other’s faces. The warm air cycling through your ventilation system tickles across your bare chest as it swirls past. “Like this, harry. N-O. It spells no.” You slide the CD back over to him. “Unless it’s specifically stipulated in the contract that I have no choice but to play these tracks in my apartment, I don’t want them.” “But--.” “I’m doing fine on my own, Harry. Look at me!” You strike a double bicep pose and a shudder of pleasure passes over your body. “I already love this. I already want to keep building my muscles. I don’t need some recording telling me that every second of every day. I already know it to be true.” You shake your head. “And as for the acting part, you already know I’m keeping to the regimen. Like it or not, there’s no real need for this anymore.” “The company may not like it.” “The company can stuff it. Hank knows what he’s doing. I’ll be what they need me to be, by the time the filming comes around, but I’m not about to stop being myself either. I like blanking out as much as the next guy during my workouts, but I still need to function in the real world. I’m not about to let myself fall so deeply into the stereotype that I can’t live a normal life. I’m sorry, Harry, but that’s my final answer on the matter.” Harry sighed as he put the case back into an inner pocket on his suit coat. “All right. I’ll let them know. They may not like it, though.” “I think they’ll like what they see tomorrow. You’ll be there for the shoot again, right?” “Naturally. After all, you’re one of my best clients.” “Good. I’ll see you then.” You smile kindly. “Can I interest you in a smoothie, before you go? I found some great recipes online.” “I’ll pass, thanks. Got a date tonight, and I need to save room.” “Ooh, and who’s the lucky lady?” “That, my friend, would be my business.” You chuckle. “Harry’s got game.” You walk over and clap him on the back in congratulations. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” Harry rolled his eyes. “You had to use that one, didn’t you?” “An oldie, but a goodie,” you agree. Harry chuckled as he raised his hands in defeat. “See ya tomorrow, kid.”

Auto Body Shop

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That was the name of the place. Auto Body Shop. I guess I could appreciate the play on words. It was located in a former garage, after all. Their logo was even a lug wrench, the X-variety. Perfectly symmetrical, perfect for screwing and unscrewing nuts and bolts. The gear was simple, which is probably why the membership was and is so cheap. But they offered perfect results. And the reviews all spoke highly of the location.

Which is why I was so surprised to find the place practically empty when I arrived. Some kettlebells off in a corner by a whiteboard, an adjustable bench for weight exercises, a mirror to watch form and see progress, a television screen for ... I’m not sure what. It displayed the gym’s logo for the most part. And then there was what I assumed to be a gym goer standing there staring at the mirror. I’m not sure whether he was cooling down, posing, or what. But I couldn’t deny the shape he’d gotten his body into. The muscles bulged in all the right places.

I walked into the office to register, where Coach Melbourne, the owner of the establishment, explained a few things to me about his methods. He’s a former hypnotist with years of experience under his belt. He wanted to use that expertise to help his clients enjoy their time at the gym, rather than dread over coming. People bring their cars to a body shop for tuneups or repairs all the time. He does the same for clients, only in their heads.

In ... my head, I suppose.

I mean, I accepted. He told me what I’d have to do, what I’d need to be willing to accept. And I did.

Coach started off with giving me a new filter, something to help me breathe better when I work out and keep my eyes on the prize. He has all kinds of small sayings like that, things that echo in my brain when I work out. It’s sort of like that lane control and radar stuff they have in cars now. If I want to do an exercise, I just let go and fall into the routine. It’s so easy to just ... do what I’m supposed to. Because, well, that’s what I am now.

Over time, the filter was tweaked to adapt to other things. Diet, media, and eventually clothing. I can’t tell you how much I love my tanks now. Really accentuates the pistons. I flex. The spark ignites, and suddenly I’m running. Running my program. Running to show off. Running to lift and haul weight.

Sometimes I’m blinking in front of the mirror, admiring my new body. At other times, I’m blinking at a monitor with Coach’s voice droning, repeating, echoing in my brain.

Charts. Instructions. Schematics. Human anatomy, just another series of parts to work on my body. My muscular body. I’m on my bulk cycle right now, so I’m eating muscle carbs. And always gotta have my fiberglass of whey protein. I bike to the shop now. Works the calves, runs my belt. Makes it easier to zone out, let my built in radar alert me and act accordingly.

Got my haircut done recently. The buzz of the razor’s like a buff and polish for my head. Makes it easier for the air to play over. Better exhaust.

Coach gave me a tailpipe the other day. Snapback cap. Feels so good against my head. So much stuff up there. Too much. Exhaust pipe helps me empty it. Helps me keep things running smooth. Smooth like the sides of my head.

Veins are starting to show now. They get more prominent by the day. Coach tells me that’s normal. They’re my fuel injectors. Deliver all the stuff my engine needs to start and keep running. More will come. Gotta get that harness in place. Increase reaction time. Send those electric impulses faster and faster.

Brake harder on the barbells. Get better kicks. Better tires. Stronger tread. Slower wear. That’s what coach says, and coach knows best. He’s my mechanic. Tells me when I need to get more coolant. When to change my oil.

I really rumble now. Air filters keep getting bigger to adjust to all the capacity I’ve got for intake. That’s another reason I wear the tanks now. Can’t hide those headlights. Turn on the brights, the shirts get tight, you know?

Got a new coat of paint the other day. Nice rich tan. Gotta show off that buff and polish. Some friends were worried, but I told ‘em it was okay. I don’t want to get rid of ‘em, but if they keep pushing, I will. Can’t have faulty sensors breaking up the ride, you know? Car won’t run that way, and I want to run. I’m an automatic, after all.

My hydraulics have really had an overhaul. All those pushups and burpees. I can launch myself off the ground any time I want. Suspension takes most any bumps now when I fall back down. Chassis thick and firm. No problem taking hits. I’ve been tested. Drive shaft crafted to fine precision. I can turn on a dime, jump, speed, cut, donut, wheelie, whatever is needed. Mechanic drives me to be better after every tuneup.

I’m not the same as when I started. I was gutted, broken down, then rebuilt into a real musclecar man. I walk in the gym today, I look in the mirror, and I finally understand that other man. He was doing what I’m doing. I flex. The fuel ignites. Exhaust blows out my tailpipe. I barely perceive the newbie in my radar and point with my turn signal for him to go to the office.

Melbourne will give him the body work he needs, just like he has for me. Just like he still is.

I rev my engine. Turn on the brights. Spit out the exhaust. There’s only one thing on my mind right now as I turn to read my assigned routine today.

Time to go for a drive.

I absolutely love Katherine Isabelle’s portrayal of Margot Verger in the Hannibal tv show, I do. However, I recently read “Hannibal” by Thomas Harris. In the book, Margot was a body builder who could have twisted me into a pretzel if she had wanted to. Throughout the book, Margot cracks walnuts with her bare hands.

She also developed a friendship with Barney, where the two actually became workout buddies. The camaraderie and understanding between the two of them is beautiful. It’s also something that straight and queer folk should strive toward.

I read an article written by Michael Kennedy on Screen Rant, which provides a wonderful explanation for why Bryan Fuller changed Margot’s character in the show adaptation.

In the book, Harris suggests that Margot “turned” lesbian, struggled with her gender identity, and abused testosterone because of the horrible atrocities Mason committed against her. Fuller didn’t want to suggest any of these things, because his interpretation of Margot was that she was born queer. He wanted to show that being queer is a natural occurrence that people are born into.

My only complaint is that Margot didn’t get to crack Mason like a walnut in the book nor in the tv show. That would’ve been a sight to behold for all Fannibals! Mason Verger is the most universally despised character in the Hannibal universe and rightfully so.

"Mae West and her troupe of musclemen" - Mae West was born 1893 and died 1980. In her last movie "Sextet" from 1977 she played a 28 years old woman.

I DID TWO UNASSISTED PUSH UP

RRRRAAAAHHHHH

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Sponsors at their place when their bodybuilders come to show off their progress and thank them for their support.