Auto Body Shop

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 am truly at a loss for words. This is an incredibly well written science fiction narrative that drags a reader in and compels them to continue to the very end. Please, read it. Please! You won’t regret it!

It’s a long read but worth it @every-n-anything @cazador-red @medic981 @the-armed-utahn

Himplants

Running through Lift.exe now. Subject is reacting incredibly well to positive reinforcement. Dopamine levels are nominal. Triggering electronic impulses through the brain now. Strengthening cerebral synapses and reinforcing new neural pathways. Stimulating auditory nerves.

Subject appears to be reacting in time. He is reciting rhythmic instructions to maintain proper form. Initiating reward.

Subject has officially entered into a trance state.

Yes, Sir, the subject definitely does love the gym now. It’s quite the transformation from when he first started. We’ve also been able to mute the anxiety and focus on raising his confidence levels. As a result, he has chosen to wear more revealing clothing that is designed to complement his growing physique. The triggers are most definitely a success with this tester. There is some concern about a disconnect from his previous personality, however.

Well, yes, Sir, he did sign the waiver, but--

I see. Well, you are the boss, Sir. So far, the product is definitely a success. We’ll need to tweak it to avoid so dramatic a change, but I believe that once we do, we can help everyone to achieve their desires. We might even be able to help the mentally disabled using this.

I’m sorry, you’d ... like to see how far we can push the subject? To what end, Sir?

...

I ... suppose a certain amount of safeties would be necessary to research, assuming the subject does go that far. But do you really want to risk irreparably constructing those pathways? We can destroy them now, but if we build them too strongly, it will take far longer for the subject to recover from whatever we do to him. Do you really want that, Sir?

...

I see. Understood. We’ll ... monitor his progress for you, Sir. Did the company owner desire a record of his electronic impulses? We can translate them into live feed as the subject transitions.

Yes, Sir. I’ll get right on it, Sir.

Beginning purge of former unnecessary pathways. Queuing instructions to build new paths. Stimulating the necessary glands now.

And execute.

Time to be a bro, Zero.

One Punch

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You’ve all heard of accelerants and their roles in chemical reactions, how they can speed things along, make just the right emulsion to unleash that final result that turns into a real showstopper. In bombs and fireworks, it’s sulfur.

Newton’s third law, you see. For ever action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The accelerant is what makes the reaction possible. Now, there’s a little known secret about people. We have our own personal store of accelerants inside us. But instead of causing us to spontaneously combust, they’re designed to burn. Inspiration, determination, grit, endurance, mental and physical. These things all exist, and rely on these special reactions in our bodies.

Unfortunately, sometimes, these accelerants don’t get where they need to go. Sometimes, there’s a block, a disconnect. Whether it’s in the brain, the stomach, the cell, you just can’t get that reaction to start. You might get a little burn for a while, but then it peters out, and you’re back to square one. Sometimes, you’re even worse off. And that stockpile builds and builds.

I was a perfect example of this.

I used to be a fat slob. I say used to, because, well, obviously, look at me now. Enough said. My problem? I was one of those trouble cases. My body was producing the accelerant, but it couldn’t mix. It wasn’t getting delivered. And it kept stockpiling for years.

Then I met Steve. This guy knew where it was at. He took one look at me and he knew what I was going through right away. He explained everything to me, told me all about his own difficulties growing up. He even showed me photos to prove his claims.

The solution to his problem, and thus to mine, was ... difficult to believe.

He asked me to take a leap of faith.

I told him I’d have to think about it.

He asked me if I wanted to change, really wanted it.

Naturally, I told him the truth. Of course, I did.

The blow came less than a second later.

It hurt.

A lot.

I gasped. What little air I had left in me was whisked away, consumed, really by the sudden RUSH that spread from the point of impact. It was like that emulsion I mentioned earlier, like all the fat in my gut got blended up and redistributed through my body, only it wasn’t fat by the time it reached its destination. My core was a crater, the one scar left behind by the force of Steve’s punch.

But damn, was it worth it. I didn’t sprout, and I didn’t explode. I rocketed. Half a foot of growth, at least. My biceps ached not from the burn of steady working out, but the strain of my skin against the suddenly swollen biceps, triceps, and flexors. My saggy pectorals hardened and swelled into perfectly shaped mounds of muscle. My shoulders broadened. My jawline was excavated and exposed like fossils cleaned in a riverbed. My calves and thighs became expertly carved pillars formed not by hard work, but by a force of nature, a hot reaction that purified and refined before pouring into a mold to cool and set. My feet burst out of socks and shoes alike as they expanded from eleven to twelve to size freaking fourteen!

Years upon years of steady, controlled, and consistent diet and exercise exploded over me at once. Most muscle men are the result of that method, carved by a master’s experienced hand. Trainers, coaches, specialists. I didn’t need them. At least, not at that moment.

And you thought the rush from the growth was bad, you should’ve seen me when the reaction reached one of my most important parts. Suffice it to say, I caught my share of white whales after it was over.

I breathed heavily as the heat compacted and concentrated once more in my core, where it had first been unleashed. The broken muscle was seared into a powerful mass that would never yield again to blows, only to the steady ebb and flow of my diaphragm.

My much broader chest heaved as I brought in that cool refreshing air to cool the reaction, and my eyes met Steve’s. He was shorter than me now. If I’d wanted to then, I probably could have taken him on at relatively equal footing, at least from a physical perspective. He pulled his fist away slowly, never letting his guard down.

“We cool?” he asked.

Given the fact that I looked better than an Adonis, I didn’t really have much room to complain. Even if it did hurt like hell. “Yeah,” I said, and I was surprised to find the heat had even changed my vocal cords. My voice had dropped into a smooth bass that rolled and thrummed effortlessly in the air. I definitely wouldn’t have to worry about catching someone’s attention again. “We’re good.”

“Good. Now let me show you what a real gym high is like, muscleman.”

He was right. I’d never felt like that before. I’m happy to report I’ve felt like it ever since, though. I’m a gym junkie by choice, and I love every second of it, not because I’m some dumb jock, but because my body finally, finally can push itself and burn properly. Go ahead. Call me meathead. I’ll wear that title like a badge of honor. Just know this meat is well developed, and it knows how to smack down just as easily in mental combat as it is in the physical.

But who knows. Maybe you’re just bitter, because you’re like I used to be. There’s one way to find out.

The question is, are you willing to let me try?

Two-bit Player

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I thought it would be difficult being in the movies. The crowds, the fans, the media, not to mention the pressure of getting in front of the camera to produce a quality film.

I thought.

Once.

Then I met my manager, and things changed. See, in the old days, folks used to watch movies in reels of film painstakingly captured and linked together on a turntable crank. And each reel would have these funny little holes that helped to hold the thing in place while the director or cameraman would film the part.

All of that caught on one reel, compressed into such a tiny image captured so many times, over and over, again and again, in a series of flashes too fast for the eye to see. Too fast for the eye to follow.

Click click. Clack clack. Reel reel. He showed me. Challenged me. I tried to follow. I really did. But he was right. The flashes were too fast. I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t follow them. But I could follow his voice.

See, the truth is, we’re all part of a movie. Every person is caught, compressed, put in a file, ordered to move in a particular way, repeating, reciting, moving around like dolls in a model for the sake of a little kid.

Only, to us, that kid is god. Line after line, scene after scene, we are corrected, posed, commanded, dressed or undressed to fit whatever is required of us. Gruffer. Deeper. Calmer. Duller. Tensed. Relaxed. Tensed. Relaxed. Big. Small. Confident. Quiet. I’ve been so many things. Done so many parts.

I’m ... not really sure who I am anymore. But that’s okay. Because I’m not supposed to.

I am whatever my manager needs me to be.

A character on a page, waiting to be rewritten.

Waiting to be recast in front of that camera.

Compressed into those tiny slivers of time, frame by frame, piece by piece, bit by bit.

That’s all I am by today’s standards, a few bits of data. Easily cut, spliced, altered, edited, pasted, until the big reveal.

Manage. Direct. Revise. Repeat. Manage. Direct. Revise. Repeat. Manage. Direct. Revise. Repeat....

That’s me. That’s my cycle.

I really am a role model.

Not someone to look up to, to follow or replicate. But rather, a figure to be posed and cast in any number of positions and outfits for the sake of the final product.

The camera captures me. My manager whispers to me. My director compels me. The editor splices the best fragments. Take one. Take two. Take three pieces of me. Bit by bit. Piece by piece, less and less of me remains. More and more a hodgepodge. More and more pieces of other people, other lives, other roles, other memories held in those props, that wardrobe. And they spill into me while that click-click-click of the camera catches more and more of me until there’s nothing left, and only the model remains. Just a figure. Just a puppet waiting to be commanded, posed, given life by handler and manager.

I eat what I am told.

Snap go the cameras as the fat disappears.

I drink what I am told.

Flash go the bulbs as they strip all chance of thought, of speech, save what my manager has told me. Save what I have been told to say, to do, to be.

After all, I’m no one, because I am anyone. Any trace of who or what I used to be is long gone, removed from my life at the order of my manager, my director, my editor.

And I am content with this.

Because that is my purpose. I act. I am a model. I am to pose, to replicate, to synthesize a virtual self, a persona, a cheap 2-D projection on a whitewashed wall.

Tinted shades hide my glass eyes. The garb I wear is for the others’ sakes. My mouth is straight. My figure chiseled. My joints waiting to be moved by rough hands and gentle strings. Blaring lights and honeyed words.

One small piece of the whole waiting to be acted upon, a toy waiting to be played with.

And so I wait. I’m looking at you with my new figure, my new costume, this muscle man with the bright blond hair and dead eyes.

I am nothing, just two bits on a screen, a glorified action figure.

So, Director, what will you do with me? Will you “guide” this two-bit “actor?” Will you take up my strings?

I am waiting.

Direct.

Move.

Control me, my two-bit player.