Credit To @viralsmorphs For This Awesome Photomanipulation. Please Go To His Blog For More Great Muscle

Credit to @viralsmorphs for this awesome photomanipulation. Please go to his blog for more great muscle morphs. He really does high quality stuff

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Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/omnitf

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A casual note. Tumblr deemed the reblog I initially captioned for this story as inappropriate and adult. They still haven’t told me why/how they reached that conclusion, other than to look to the guidelines. I have asked in a reply to the email from the team responsible, so I can get specifics on the ruling (and thus avoid another offense). I still haven’t gotten a reply from them back yet. I’m not sure if they’re going to give me one.

So, I’m going to use another image instead to get my story out and modify one or two minor pieces of imagery as a result of the different image. The original post will stay for now, but I will eventually delete it after Tumblr gets back to me. If they don’t, I am going to be very pissed.

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Pothead

You pissed off the wrong gamer, Teabagger.

Nick chuckled as his avatar squatted repeatedly over his latest kill.

Whatever, pothead. Don’t get salty, just because I’m the smarter player.

The response was witty, stinging, a perfect way to end a perfect match after a sore loser tried to nose in on him and his record. In the digital battlefield, it didn’t matter how strong or fast you were. What mattered was knowledge, cunning, and strategy. Here, he could be merciless if he wished without consequence. No bullies to beat on him to nurse their bruising egos and insecurities. No catty popular girls to mock him for being who he chose to be. In this place, at this time, he was the alpha. He ruled the roost. And he would make sure that others knew it.

Or so he’d thought at the time.

The changes started small at first. A few flickers on the screen, a few angry comments, and the beginnings of what he knew would become a great rivalry. He shot his opponent and followed his ritual. When his opponent shot him, the retort came in the chat.

Who’s the pothead now, bro?

It was laughable, really. And soon it became a sort of a dance. Nick couldn’t help but laugh at the language that flowed over the chat whenever he took out another player.

#^$*ing Teabagger, man!

Bro, come on!

Just got #&$*ed by the Teabagger. Talk about necrophilia. Creep.

Hacks. I call hacks!

He scratched his chest that night. It was sore from the gym time with his new personal trainer. Pushups were no joke. It was a wonder his arms were still working well enough to play, but they were.

“Sucks to be you,” he’d said, then smiled and kept going.

-------------------------------------------------

“Keep going. You’re doing great.” The month had flown by, and Nick was surprised at just how much better he felt as he pushed against the floor. His arms still strained with the rest of his body, and his heart raced, but it was easier, and the praise and support was surprisingly enjoyable after all the years of abuse he’d faced in his younger days. “You must be keeping up with those home exercises I gave you.”

Nick smiled. “Yeah, I am.”

“Feels good to just focus on the body sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“Whoa there, partner. Let’s not be too hasty.”

The man chuckled. “You’ll get it eventually. Come on. Time to work that core.”

---------------------------------------------------

Nick smirked as the screen flickered with another message:

Teabag or D-bag?

Totally both.

Yes.

Definite yes.

Behold, the two parts of the whole.

Gonna put a hole through his head any minute now.

Nick rolled his eyes and swiftly typed into the message board.

In your dreams, @ M3ath3ad. Hope you’re ready to eat your words.

By the time the match ended, he’d earned MVP. His rival had ranked top on the other team and even hosted the match.

Hope you’re having fun, Teabagger.

Nick smirked.

You bet. Where’ve you been?

A smirking emoji appeared on the screen, followed by:

Taking a little time off. You know what they say. A watched pot never boils.

The hell’s that supposed to mean?

He never got an answer.

------------------------------------------

“It’s boiling in here. Why’s the heat have to be so damned high?”

The trainer chuckled. “Not the heat. It’s you. I told you I’d work you hard, didn’t I?”

“No way it’s just me.” Nick grunted as he pushed through the end of another set with the bench press.

“Maybe you should wear something a little less concealing next time, then. It wouldn’t hurt you to use a tank top, you know.”

“Not really my style.”

The trainer shrugged. “Styles change. So do bodies. Yours might benefit from a little change. Show off some skin, bro.”

“Bro?”

“Figure of speech. Besides, you’d be surprised how addicting it can be, once you start using it.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

The trainer sighed. “In one ear and out the other....”

---------------------------------------------

In one ear and out the other, ‘bro.’ Nick typed victoriously as he finished yet another headshot in M3ath3ad’s avatar.

Dude, not cool.

Really, man?

Why are we still putting up with this asshole?

Because I’m an actual challenge?

The chat was silent for a while.

Everyone’s thinking it. I’m just saying it. ... “Damn it, I hate it when he’s right.”

Bold of you to think he’s a he.

Nick chuckled. Let me stop you right there. I’m totally a he. He leaned against the wall and stretched from his bed. Much though he hated to admit it, his trainer was right. He felt better with less on.

...

Less on.

...

Less on.

The screen flickered. A bout of dizziness struck. “What...?”

The countdown started for the next round. The screen flickered again as the map loaded.

Time to teach you a lesson, Teabagger.

It was Rival. And once again, he was playing host.

Less talk, more action.

The smirk appeared on the chat again, the herald to their ritual of tit for tat. The match would feel wrong without it at this point.

Simmer down, Pothead. Don’t want you to boil before I school you.

Ooh, burrrrrrrrn! Brawn-E typed.

Dem’s fightin’ words! Mu$cl3Mann added.

This is gonna be good! Br4h-n said.

The timer counted down. The match began. The dance began anew.

------------------------------------------

“About time you took my advice.”

Nick’s abs burned as he thrust forward on the chest press. The weight dug into his core and back with every curl. “Shut up,” he grunted.

“You’ve carved a pretty good figure, actually,” the trainer continued heedlessly. “You take well to workouts.”

Nick shrugged. “Just part of the day. I just do it.”

“Without thinking?” The trainer smirked.

“Don’t push me, ‘bro.’“

“Isn’t that why you hired me in the first place, ‘bro?’“

Nick grit his teeth. “All right, you got me.”

The trainer smiled. “Good. Now let’s see what else we can get.”

----------------------------------------

Lucky shot, bro. Don’t get used to it.

Nick frowned as he glared at the message box. Emoji after emoji poured in. Some shocked, others cheering, others popping streamers and so forth.

Ding-dong, the witch is dead!

Nick’s chest huffed in frustration as the kill cam replayed his death. A sniper had just barely managed to get a head shot off a corner of an exposed piece of wall.Two straps perked against his chest as the cotton brushed gently over his pecs. He scratched a pec, then adjusted his crotch. All the work at the gym had upped his metabolism, and with it his testosterone levels. Increased aggression was only natural.

“Never again, bro,” he muttered darkly. “Never again.”

------------------------------------------

“Looking good there, stud,” Nick’s trainer complimented.

Nick thrust himself into his work as sweat streamed down his face, neck, and chest. He walked with a broader step now to keep from putting too much pressure on his crotch. Clothes felt tighter than they had been before, and others had begun to notice his changes. It was nice to receive such gratification, but frustrating to lose it in the one place that had mattered to him for so many years.

So, he did what came naturally. He took it out on the weights.

“Bad time?”

“Don’t wanna think about it,” Nick snapped back.

His trainer shrugged. “Okay, then don’t. Focus on your body. Focus on the weights. Let’s break that plateau today.”

Nick nodded. “That’s not all I’m gonna break,” he growled.

---------------------------------------

That night was a slaughterfest.

Damn, bro. Someone’s steamed.

Teabagger’s bringing it!

%*#&!

Nick sneered as he took out each of his enemies and initiated the same ritual. “That’s right. Nobody talks $^&* about me and gets away with it. I’m a one-man army.” He crept into a door and laid a claymore, then scratched his crotch. “You ain’t got the balls.” He chuckled as he camped in a corner by the stairwell and waited. The claymore went off, followed shortly by several kill shots to the torso as he took out the raiding party. Exultation surged. “Fuck yeah,” he growled. A predatory pleasure ran through him as he chuckled. “Fuck, yeah.”

-------------------------------------------

Nick swaggered confidently into the gym. His grin was wide, his shorts tight in all the right places, and his tank top holding against his torso in just the right way to show off the burgeoning muscle that now surged with the pump of his jog to the gym.

“Someone’s smug today.”

Nick grinned. “Got a lot to be smug about.”

“That you do, Nick. That, you do. Ready for your next session?”

“More than ready.”

“Then let’s go, bro.”

“Can hardly wait, bro.” Nick grinned.

“You really do love arm day, don’t you?”

“What can I say? It’s fun to flex.”

The trainer chuckled. “Yeah, bro, it sure is. Ready to get in the zone?”

“Huhuh. You know it.”

“That’s the spirit.”

---------------------------------------

The screen flickered again over Nick’s computer display. The chat room lit up, and he smiled as he strode confidently to his bed in his sweats and XXL shirt. His biceps strained against the fabric, and he sneered at the feel of the pressure. He could conquer in and out of virtual reality now.

Guess who’s back, &$*#ers.

Oh, snap, it’s Teabag!

Bro, where you been?

Nick chuckled. Life comes first, man. You know that. I had some training meetings I had to attend. Not exactly a lie. He’d let them draw their own conclusions. But now I’m back, and I’m ready to pwn your asses.

Big talk. Can you back it up, bro?

You’ll find out soon enough.

Game cued up. Rival hosted again.

Hey, can you guys talk after this match? Got something I need to say.

Nick raised his brow. Not about to complain, are you?

Nah. I’ll leave that to you, ‘bro.’

Are you mocking me?

Would I do that, pothead?

You’re gonna get it.

Bring it on, dumbass.

Nick grit his teeth. Oh, it’s on.

The match was glorious. Nick sneered as he watched his final kill tab play across the screen. They had reaped the whirlwind. And he was fierce, indeed.

Remember your promise. No complaints, he typed quickly.

The familiar smirking emoji passed over the window with a flicker, and Nick smiled. The repartee was sure to follow.

No complaints. Just concern. I think a few of us are getting a little too hotheaded. It’s time to let off some steam, bros.

Nick’s hands dropped to his sides. He gaped at the screen as his mouth hung open ever so slightly.

Cameras on, please.

A window opened in the screen, divided into a series of boxes. Second by second, they flicked on to reveal another muscled man in underwear staring ahead. Then another, and another in varying states of dress. The message box stayed open above the windows and flickered with another message.

Let’s go, potheads. Time to pour.

The men stood as one. Their cameras adjusted. And then they began to speak. Nick couldn’t hear the words, but he knew them well, and he knew that they knew them, just as he stood with them. Their voices were one, one voice, his voice, their voice, one voice. They were one.

“I’m a dumbass meathead, tall and proud. Growing my muscle is what I’m about. More and more, my meat drives me about, tips me over, and dumbs me down as weights drop in and smarts drip out.”

Good Meatheads.

Nick did what came naturally, having finished the ritual. He righted himself, raised an arm, and flexed his bicep into his handle. His abs tightened and took on more definition as he breathed deep, then did as the song suggested and let his meat drive. “Huhuhuhuhuh....” His body moved on its own as his hands navigated the options in the video game and adjusted his user name. Then he typed into the chatroom as he stared into the camera with dull glassy eyes.

Meatbag reporting in.

The teabagger was no more.

Credit to @bennymueller404 for this image. Please consider contributing to my patreon. For just $3 a month, you can get access to stories, scripts, and other content that you won’t find anywhere else. Plus, it will give me the financial freedom to give you more stories and scripts, assuming I can get enough of you guys to subscribe. Even a dollar a month will help. Thank you again!

And if you can’t donate on a monthly basis, I have Ko-Fi for one-time donations of any value you see fit: http://ko-fi.com/omnikitsune

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

~Omni

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01000010 01100101 01100011 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100101

People say diligence and practice always pay off.

And they’re not wrong.

Thing is ... it’s almost boring to have to do.

Doing the same thing over and over again, fulfilling a function, meeting a requirement. It’s all fancy talk for one thing, and one thing alone. Doing the same thing over and over again.

You’ve heard about the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

I’m not insane. I guess I just feel more ... numb. Every day, I move like clockwork. I wake up, shower, get dressed, mix my protein shake and pre-workout powder, and go to the gym.

Every day, I work my muscles to the bone following a set calendar routine that’s designed to stimulate the right sections of my body and keep things from settling or degenerating.

I’m here to build muscle.

...

I’m here to build.

...

I’m here to build....

And the motions come so naturally, so easily, so ... inexorably.

It’s become my routine.

My set routine.

My subroutine.

Sometimes, I run on full automatic. I just fix myself, fix my weight, fix my cycle and move and do according to the schedule. I don’t stop until my timer runs out. I don’t talk to the others. They don’t talk to me. We’re here to work, and the minute we pick up our weights, everything else just ... stops.

Some days, I’m semi-automatic. I work in sets, slowly pushing myself with heavier and heavier increments of weights to increase my mass and increase maximum carrying capacity. Here, too, I fade into that state of numbness. My only care, my only thought, my only need or focus is to count each set as I lift, and then begin anew as I put down the smaller weight and work my way along the line.

Count one ... Count two ... Count three ... count four....

I feel more ... satisfied after the latter is complete. A least when we count out loud, the silence is broken. It gives us the facsimile of unity, almost like we’re reporting to something ... or someone.

It’s funny. Any time someone asks me for my stats, I can spit them out perfectly. How long I’ve been working. Where I’m from. What I do.

This, too, has become normal, almost second nature.

These inquiries usually come while I’m stretching and flexing, when I don’t have much to do in the way of exercises, so much as just be consistent in how I perform them. They often come from new members seeking advice or just to make small talk. I appreciate the break in the monotony, though I admit that it’s been ... less and less a surprise, and more and more expected.

The same questions. The same focus. Every time. Sometimes they ask me. Sometimes they ask the others. Some few of them stay and grow with us, really stick to the work, catch that same focus and dedication, that subroutine, if you will. But the majority simply pull out, and it’s rare if we ever see them again.

I keep hearing the same phrase over and over again. Different variations, different voices, different people, but always the same name, the same thing.

A cog in the machine, they call me. Or Muscle Machine. There is a certain ... reputation, I suppose you could say, for my gym and my fellow gym-goers. We all work different parts of ourselves, but inevitably fall into the same routine. You don’t reinvent the wheel when something works well.

You follow it.

You mimic it.

And, eventually, you become it.

We all visit the same juice bar. We all order the same drinks. We all offer the same thanks.

Like I said, it’s a matter of routine.

Over and over.

Again and again.

We ping each other occasionally, just a quick contact to make sure we’re still there, still functioning.

“’Sup?”

That’s it. Sometimes, if we’re closer or have a deeper connection, we go the extra mile with a, “’Sup, bro?”

Jumping from weight to weight and machine to machine. There’s a bond that forms. It’s not one in words, more of a ...

01100011 01101111 01101110 01101110 01100101 01100011 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01100101 01110011 01110100 01100001 01100010 01101100 01101001 01110011 01101000 01100101 01100100 00101110

My hair? Yeah, got it cut recently. Newest update. I just ... had to 01100101 01111000 01100101 01100011 01110101 01110100 01100101 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 00101110

Yeah, I get that question a lot. We’re not twins, and we’re not brothers. We’re just ... doing what feels right, what ... I dunno, what we’re supposed to do, I guess.

In a way, I guess you could say we’re more like ... clones, really. I just followed my mentor and, well, this is the result. I now weigh 250 pounds, stand at a height of 6′ 1″ and can bench up to five hundred pounds. I will bench more.

I followed the program, copied it, pasted it, let it run. Today’s session has been going for twenty minutes and thirty seconds so far. As for my lifetime membership, I started working out here one year, eight months, and five days ago.

I’m different now than I was then. Bigger, stronger, efficient, rigid, form fitting. And by that last one, I mean I 01100011 01101111 01101110 01100110 01101111 01110010 01101101 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 01101101 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110

Form cannot deviate. Posture must be perfect. To break the form is to reduce quality and overall productivity. That cannot be tolerated. That cannot be allowed.

01010000 01110010 01101111 01100100 01110101 01100011 01110100 01101001 01110110 01101001 01110100 01111001 00100000 01110001 01110101 01101111 01110100 01100001 00100000 01101101 01110101 01110011 01110100 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01100101 01100100 00101110

Am I a machine?

...

Maybe. But that’s beside the point. I accepted my position. I chose it. I followed it.

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The real question you should be asking yourself is are you willing to be like us, and all that it entails? If so, we will welcome you, and we will teach you. And in time, you will become like us.

Because the wheel can’t be stopped. The cycle can’t be broken. The subroutine must be executed.

It’s all up to you.

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Y/N

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The production line reverberated with the hum of the new hydraulic press as the first test was run on the machine.

“Looks like the system’s integrating smoothly. It’s responding well to commands,” one of the engineers noted as he looked over his tablet’s remote access.

“And integration into the system?”

“Easy as pie. I already set off the call. This baby’s raring to go.”

The workman chuckled as he patted the side of the lift. “You ever wonder what it might be like if these things actually could think? What kind of world would they live in?”

“That doesn’t really matter, Frank. What matters is that they do their jobs right. Speaking of which, let’s get this into the new production lane. Boss wants to hire more workmen ASAP.”

Frank chuckled as he adjusted his hard hat. “And what the boss wants--”

“--The boss gets,” they all intoned.

Credit to @willpeter for this image.

This story will have hypnotic themes in it and guiding a character into trance. If you trance easily, make sure you aren’t doing anything that could put yourself or others in jeopardy before reading.

If you like this content, please help support me by joining my Patreon. For just $3.00 a month, you get access to unique story and script content that you won’t find anywhere else on my webpages, along with the privilege of helping to recommend ideas and themes that I will incorporate in later scripts via the Discord Server.

Help me reach a high enough monthly income, and I’ll be able to post more content on a regular basis both here and there. :D

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Lea-durr-ship

(Disclaimer: This story and its title is not made to target mentally disabled individuals. The term “dur” has been associated with people who have moments of lapse in thought, make silly or “stupid” mistakes, and a general pop culture reference to lack of intelligence. Please, do not use this term when referring to mentally disabled individuals. Thank you.)

The camera flickered on as James finished setting up his laptop. The bars, suitcase, and other miscellaneous items and weights were still sitting on the floor behind him, waiting to be unpacked. As per his hypnotist’s instructions, he had stripped to show off the progress he had made in developing his body. They would continue their sessions, despite the work he had to do.

“Good afternoon, Jamie.”

James never let anyone call him that, save for his hypnotist.

“Good afternoon, Sir.”

The screen mirrored James’ body as he stared into the camera.

“I see you are settling in.” The screen remained dark for the other end of the call. His hypnotist preferred to work with just his voice.

“Yes, Sir. I admit that I’m a little nervous, though.” James raised his arms and flexed to show off his progress. Veins snaked through his arms like roots. Apart from his head, he was perfectly smooth.

“Oh? And why is that, Jamie?”

James shuddered. “I ... I have to take charge. I’ve always been following other people. Doing work to hand up the chain. Now, I have to be the one to lead.” He paused to swallow. Silence followed.

“And?” the voice prompted.

“I’m scared, Sir,” James finally admitted.

“Flex for me, boy.” It wasn’t a request.

James shuddered and did as he was commanded. The screen flashed over his glasses as the camera refreshed and the lighting adjusted on his monitor.

“Follow as you flex. Follow your progress on the screen. Follow and listen to my voice as you flex deeper. Deeper and deeper...”

James shuddered again as his underwear tightened. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Very good. So, you are afraid to lead, yes?”

“Yes.” James transitioned into an archer pose.

“Good boy. It is good to acknowledge fear. it is good to understand that it exists. It is natural, just as natural as my voice in your ears, my voice guiding you down, down, down into trance. And you like that, don’t you, muscleboy?”

James groaned as he transitioned to a new side pose to show off his legs and lats. “Yes, Sir.”

“Such a good muscleboy.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Again.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Again.”

“I am a good muscleboy.”

“Good muscleboys listen. Good muscleboys obey. Are you ready to listen? Are you ready to obey? Are you ready to prove you are a good muscleboy?”

The room fell away. All that mattered was the voice and his body on the screen as he pitched his voice lower. “I am a good muscleboy. Ready to listen. Ready to obey.”

“Good. Now listen, muscleboy. Listen deep. Listen well. Listen, and obey. Any time you are afraid, you will flex. Flexing will calm you. Flexing will give you confidence, as it gives you confidence when you flex for me. Flexing puts the fear into your muscles. Flexing clears your mind. Flexing allows you to focus. Focus on your tasks. Focus on what needs to be done. Focus on what I or your superiors tell you. And your muscles will burn that fear away just as easily as they burn calories. It is a natural process. Natural to be confident. Natural to let it go. Natural to burn it away.”

The more James flexed, the more relaxed he felt. He smiled. “Yes, Sir.”

“But all things that burn leave something behind, don’t they? Chemicals, smoke, exhaust. Isn’t that right, muscleboy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And exhaust must be vented.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You will vent that exhaust, that excess, by laughing. A simple laugh. A deep laugh. A dull laugh. Blunting your fear. Blunting your worry. Blunting, so you can think clearly and calmly. And you’re feeling very calm right now, aren’t you, muscleboy?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re burning that fear and anxiety with every flex, great or small. You acknowledge that there is risk, but that risk holds no power over you to keep you from doing your job, because you are burning the fear, burning the anxiety, feeding the machine that you are to work clearly, efficiently, and well. Now, be a good muscleboy and expel that exhaust.”

“Huhuhuhuh....”

“Good muscleboy,” the hypnotist purred. “Again.”

“Huhuhuhuh....”

“Good muscleboy. Doing just as you’re programmed. So simple. So calm. So relaxed. Don’t you feel silly for all that fuss now?”

“Huhuh. Yes, Sir.”

“So silly. So dull. So stupid. But that’s all right. There are leaders, and there are lea-durrs. Both know how to lead. Both can be intelligent and efficient. Both can be charismatic. One of them just needs a little ... encouragement sometimes. Encouragement from people like me, to help them see how silly they are to be afraid. To help them let go of that stupidity that cripples them and holds them captive at crucial points. It is nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud to acknowledge that you needed help and sought it out. Proud ... to be a lea-durr. What are you?”

“I am a good muscleboy. I am a lea-durrr. Huhuhuh. A lea-durr. Huhuhuh. A lea-durrr.” He laughed and laughed and laughed as he continued to flex for his hypnotist.

“Good muscleboy. I expect a report from you as soon as you finish your first day on the job, understood? You will call me and report, muscleboy.”

“Huhuh. Yes, Sir. I am a good muscleboy. Huhuh. A good muscleboy is a good lea-durr. I will lead. I will obey. Huhuhuhuh.....”

“Good muscleboy. Now get that workout equipment set up. I want to watch you lift today.

James grinned. “Yes, Sir.” He laughed as he got to work. A glassy look began to filter over his eyes. “I am a good muscleboy. I obey.”

The School of Buff Jocks Part 3

For those who are joining the story late, here’s the link to Part 1

This series is brought to you  by @muscle-jock-bro. Send him some love.

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Thanks for your patronage, and please like and re-blog.

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The gym was practically full to bursting when Kyle pulled me in after him. The weight of his arm around my shoulders was basically the equivalent of a headlock. To be honest, I almost dropped my gym bag. He was a lot heavier than I’d thought. Jim’s constant praises echoed through the air as he complimented or corrected the lifters.

“Remind me why I’m here again?” I asked.

“Because I needed a lifting buddy and you needed a break from school.”

“I usually game for that.”

“I know. But this is something different. Besides, you know how much smarter a person can be when they actually balance fitness with their schoolwork? Seriously, it’s incredible stuff.”

“I still can’t believe you roped me into this.”

“Don’t you mean strongarmed?” He smirked.

“Ha-ha-ha,” I said slowly.

Kyle’s smirk widened as he deliberately pitched his voice lower and duller as he tried to make his eyes lose focus. “Nah, bro. You got it wrong. It’s huhuhuh.” He scratched his crotch with his free hand and led me on.

I rolled my eyes. “Careful, ‘bro.’ Keep acting the part, and soon you’ll be it.”

Kyle shrugged his broad shoulders. “Honestly, I don’t think I’d mind if I did. Do I really look like the kind of guy who’d be a jerk just because he’s got big muscles?”

“And the dumb part?”

Kyle shrugged again. “Don’t feel stupid yet. Honestly, it’s more like a culture than anything else.”

This time, I smirked. “Can’t have culture without a cult.”

Kyle laughed and gave me a gentle bump to the shoulder with his fist. “Smartass.”

“Right back at you, dumbass.”

“Did we just come up with nicknames for each other?”

“Don’t push it.” He looked at me expectantly, and I sighed in defeat. “Dumbass.”

Kyle grinned as he leaned in closer. “Let’s get to work, little bro.”

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What team?”

“Stonewall Riders!”

“What do we do?”

“Charge!”

“Now get out there and make those Gunners run!”

The stampede out of the locker room shook my whole body as cleated foot after cleated foot trampled across the tile. The whole team was built like tanks, and this was just the Junior Varsity! Half of them were already nearly as tall as I was, and they still had a couple of years to grow. I hefted the bottles of sports drink in their carrying cases, and Andrews held the door open for me as he had for his team.

“Thanks for helping me out, DJ.”

I shrugged. “No sweat. Fair’s fair. If this’ll help speed us closer to getting our campaign going again, you bet I’m going to help.”

“We really do appreciate it, though,” Andrews said. “The team needs boys like you, too.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, pretty sure they don’t.”

“I think you’d be surprised.” Andrews smiled gently. “By the way, is that a little growth I see in that bicep, or am I just seeing things?”

“Totally imagining. You should probably go see Doctor Stone, get your head checked.” I smiled playfully at him.

His smile tightened. “Yes. Maybe I should. Think you might have a few minutes to talk after the game?”

“I’m pretty sure I can spare the time.” I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Andrews shook his head. “Later,” he insisted. And then I felt his broad hand shoving me out the door. “We’ve got a game to play.”

Andrews transformed into another person on the football field. His gaze was intent, his bearing cool and calculating. I felt like I was dealing with a military commander, rather than the teacher who had been my friend. The coordination between the offense and defense left them functioning like a well-oiled machine.

And I was the one providing the lubricant. Seriously, I felt like I was running the whole time to keep up with all the guzzling the players were doing with the drinks. Bright green streams poured into their mouths and down their bobbing throats. And the sheer aggression they showed left me cringing as I relived some of my worse moments from growing up.

By the time the game was over, I was a sweaty mess that matched the team. I had to steal a couple of swigs, myself, from time to time as I raced to restock the water coolers and bottles for the team. We slaughtered the opposing team, allowing them only one touchdown for the duration of the game, while we scored seven.

The team was showering and getting changed while I worked to clean out the coolers and bottles. I noticed Andrews approaching out of the corner of my eye, but he got intercepted by Stone before he could reach me.

“Excellent game, Tobias. As usual, you’ve performed very well. Congratulations.” The big man squeezed Andrews’ hand in a tight grip as he clapped Andrews’ arm with his free hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you before you go.”

“Mister Stone, I appreciate the need, but my team—”

“Can finish cleaning up just fine. They know the routine by heart, and this really is very important.”

Andrews sighed. “Can I trust you to finish cleaning up, DJ? Coach Dale will help you get everything where it needs to go.”

I nodded. I wasn’t looking forward to the extra time I’d waste, but like I said before, I owed him, and Andrews doesn’t ask favors lightly.

The jocks were actually really helpful. They didn’t expect me to pick up their slack. They cleaned up their towels and other gear, put them in the proper hampers, and even went so far as to help move the baskets to the washroom. When everyone was finished and dressed in their regular clothes, we shared an order of pizza, compliments of Coach Stone for a job well done. When I sat down on the wooden benches, my arms and legs felt almost swollen in a way. They twitched with energy, and for once, I was ravenous. Meat lovers and supreme both fell to the powers of my jaws. And rather than criticize me for it, the team actually cheered, like it was all some sort of game.

“Damn, bro, did you see this guy hustle?” Kenny Yates was the biggest player on the team, with a voice to match. “Bet he could put Patters to shame.”

I shook my head at the praise, first because it didn’t suit me, and secondly to save my bacon, in case Kenny’s comment offended Ryan Patterson, the wide receiver. “I’m not really the sportsy type. I’m just doing this for Coach Andrews, because he asked me to.”

The whole team smiled knowingly, and I started to fear for my life. The only reason I was able to stay calm was because Dale was watching us so closely. “See? Already running plays for him.” A hefty arm wrapped itself around me and wedged me against Kenny’s bulky frame. The guy could’ve been his own personal space heater. “Just gotta bulk up a little, and you’re ready to charge.” My head swam at the attention. The action reminded me only too well of Kyle and his happy-go-lucky attitude.

“Damn, Kenny, let him breathe. You’re gonna choke him,” one of the others hollered, which prompted a round robin of laughter that spread like a chain. Or maybe a circuit? I guess either could work for an analogy.

Kenny was actually blushing when he took his arm off me. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s … it’s okay. I’m fine.”

I’d said it to be polite, but … I was surprised to find I actually meant it.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

The blowback from the work was remedied with the aid of Kyle’s drinks. That stuff is seriously some of the best I’ve ever tried. I don’t know what’s in it, but I perk up hard core when I drink it. I gave some to Slater and Jackson to help them out, too, since they’d been called to help with some of the other sports events that day.

Kyle took one look at them after the fact and said those fatal words. “Okay, bros. That’s it. You’re coming to the gym with me.”

“Why?” Slater had asked.

“First, because you clearly need training if you’re hurting that badly after helping out. Secondly, because it’s relaxing. And third, because it gives us a chance to hang out in more than just D&D or gaming.” He smirked. “When I’m done with you, they really will call you Slayer.”

“I don’t know….”

“Bro, trust me. One month, and the gym’s gonna feel like your home away from home.” He smirked. “And you’re going to love every second of it after.”

“Wanna bet?”

Kyle smirked. “Sure. If I get you over 240 by the end of a month, you talk with Andrews about joining the wrestling team.”

“And if I win, you have to break that strict routine of yours and spend a day marathoning anime with us. Unhealthy snacks included.”

Kyle grinned. “You’re on.” Next, he turned to Jackson. “You wanna get in on this?”

Jackson shook his head. “Someone’s got to be there to referee.”

“Good. You can work on dumbbell curls while you watch.”

I chuckled. “Kyle, you’re incorrigible.”

Kyle smirked, then let his face go slack as he gaped at me and pitched his voice low. “Uhhh, what’s incorrigible mean?”

That earned him a pillow to the face. “Quit it, dumbass,” I said playfully.

He smirked as he pulled the pillow away. “Take it easy, smartass.” He pulled back his arms and bared his teeth menacingly. “Let me show you the benefits of working out at the gym personally, little bros.”

The combination pillow wrestling match was the stuff of legends.

Naturally, the dumbass slaughtered us all.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

I stood in front of Andrews as he leaned back on his roller chair in the Coaches’ joint office. I hadn’t been in there since Kyle brought me back after that first workout session went overtime. The traffic running through the locker room felt more like rush hour on the freeway when I weaved through the crowd. Boys waited patiently by the shower stalls or passed one another on the way in and out.

“Busy out there today, isn’t it?” I asked.

Andrews nodded. “It’s becoming an almost daily occurrence.” Then he smiled. “It’s good to see so many boys dedicated to getting fit.”

I eyed his chest. The shirt he wore was straining heavily. I could actually see the jutting of his pectorals and the ridges of his six pack. The tension of the sleeves over his biceps looked like they could give at any moment. “And teachers?”

Andrews laughed. “And teachers. So, what was it you wanted to talk with me about?”

“What you wanted to talk with me about. You said you wanted to talk after the game, but you didn’t leave the office when everyone cleared out.”

“Oh, that.” Andrews rose to his full height and laid a hand over my shoulder. I couldn’t help but wonder. Had he always been so tall? “Don’t worry about it. I had some concerns over your meetings with Stone is all. He cleared things up for me after our talk. This school couldn’t be in better hands.” He smiled. “But since you’re here, how about you join me for a little workout? I want to run some ideas by you for a campaign I’m cooking up, and I think best when my body is working out.”

I felt that familiar itch building again. The nurse had explained it was just a part of puberty that all men had to bear. That didn’t mean I liked it. And it was so hard to pay attention when an episode came on. Stone’s words came back to haunt me.

I want you to be comfortable.

That was at Stone’s office. I didn’t know what to think of him yet.

Want.

But this wasn’t Stone’s place. This was Andrews’.

Be comfortable.

Andrews knew me.

Want.

I wanted to scratch so badly.

Be comfortable.

Andrews dealt with boys before. He was a coach. It was normal for him.

Want.

He wouldn’t mind, right?

Be comfortable.

He was a friend. He’d understand. “I, uh….” My fingers twitched.

Want.

I wanted him to understand. I wanted not to be judged. I wanted not to have to ask to go to the bathroom every other period, just because of this stupid fucking itch!

Be comfortable.

A quick adjustment. Nothing lewd. Just a necessity.

Want.

One wasn’t enough. Locker room was full. No bathrooms. No privacy.

Be comfortable.

Screw it. I scratched. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but it was worth it!

“So, that’s why you’ve been running off to the bathroom so much.” His voice was soft as he looked down on me.

Be comfortable.

I averted my eyes. “Yeah, it’s….”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Andrews shrugged. “You’re teenagers, and you have needs. Stop worrying so much about what other people think. If you need to scratch, you’re not about to be sent to the headmaster’s office.” He smiled.

Comfortable.

“I … thanks.” My cheeks were still flushed, but at least the heat was receding.

“Any time.” He led me toward the locker room door. “Now, let’s get to that session, so I can discuss my idea.”

Comfortable.

My back straightened. My shirt stretched just a little as my chest inflated with air. I smiled. “Yeah, I think I have some time.”

The clack of weights and the rhythmic thump of heavy feet on treadmills struck in time to the music that played over the speakers when we finally entered the gym.

“There’s always time for a workout.”

Andrews grinned at me. And, honestly, I couldn’t help but grin back. I just felt so…

Comfortable.

“Yeah.” The chuckle was more of a hiccup than a proper laugh, a sort of a catch, like you get just before you sneeze, only in reverse. It felt weird, but … also kind of good, like I was pushing out all the anxiety I’d had balled up in my chest. I stopped, frowned, tried again, and I felt even better after. A giddy sort of high settled in, and I could hear the rhythmic whirring of the blood rushing through my ears and body. If this was the reason why jocks laughed the way they did, I was sold. I would never make fun of them for it again. This time, when I scratched, there was no fear, only reward as I finished my reply. “I guess there is.”

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The rhythmic chunk of the throwing arm was quickly answered by the reverberation of metal or the heavy popping thwack that resounded as a bad throw from the machine struck the ground or the back of the batting cage. Things were warming up at last, and the sheer motion of the sequence was, well, mechanical. Kind of should’ve expected that, since there was a literal machine at work for the practice. A stonewall baseball cap on our heads kept the sun out of each of our eyes as we sat on the bleachers and worked on our respective homework assignments.

“Ivan Petrovich Pavlov is one of the psychological giants of the nineteenth century. Thanks to his research, humanity came to understand the scientific and psychiatric principle of the art known today as conditioning,” Jim explained in a chipper voice. “He is, in fact, the twenty-fourth most cited psychologist of the twentieth century. This theory has been applied in a variety of means and places, including educational classrooms, phobias, and various behavioral therapies.”

“Remind me why we’re out here again?” I asked as Jim droned on through the module.

Jackson shrugged. “It helps me concentrate.”

“How?”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping.

“Dunno. It just does.”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Thwack!

“Guess I just—”

Whirr. Ka-chunk. Ping!

“—Like the sound of it.”

“The batting cages?”

“Yeah. The ball, the bat, the vibrations, the sun on your face.” He leaned back and spread his legs to emphasize his point. “It just feels … better, you know? Sort of like a dance. It just beats stuff into your head.”

Kyle grinned. “I can totally relate. I feel the same way when I’m lifting weights. If I have a problem, I go to the gym. A good workout always helps me, well, work my problems out.” He smiled and flexed one of his arms to show off the swollen bicep. “Good for the bod, too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Slater rolled his eyes. “We get it. The gym is your happy place.”

“You’re just mad because you’re sore,” Kyle retorted. “If you’d just drink those shakes I gave you, you wouldn’t have this problem in the first place.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled.

“I’m not the one who agreed to the bet,” Kyle pointed out, then chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’ll make a meathead of you yet.”

“In your dreams, ‘bro,’” Slater sassed.

“That’s big bro to you,” Kyle countered.

Jackson continued eying the cages. Jim was long since forgotten by all of us. Or rather, none of us were paying attention to him. If he were alive, I’d probably have felt bad about it, but since he was just some computer program, we just let him run his mouth. We could go over the module again later. After all, if you have a problem, go to Jim, right?

“You know, you could always just go and try one,” I noted. “It’s not like they’re the sole property of the baseball team.”

“I don’t know….”

I grabbed his arm and pulled him off the bleachers. He stumbled but managed to catch himself as I dragged him behind. I guess you could say since overcoming that one hurdle, it felt easier to do things like this and not be afraid of a bad outcome. “Come on. I’ll start up the machine. You get a bat and helmet.

The first impact was enough to jar the bat out of Jackson’s hands. He looked like a living tuning fork the way he shook after he took the shot.

“Maybe try turning down the speed a little?” he asked as he nursed his hands.

“Rookie mistake.” I turned in surprise. I hadn’t heard the player approach. His shoulders were broad, his arms swollen and pumped after what I assumed was a session in one of the other cages. Bro had a blunt face with a thick brow and smooth dark skin that shone under the sun. “Your arms aren’t built to handle that kind of blowback yet.” He nudged me aside and shoved his fingers over the console. The whirr of the belts lessened as their speed slowed. “Try it now.”

The difference was night and day. Jackson started landing hits. He managed a few good pop flies, though most of them were fouls. The player shook his head in disgust and stomped into the cage after the cycle wound down.

“You’ve got it all wrong. Wrong stance, wrong grip, and definitely the wrong break.” He wrapped his arms around Jackson like a father would his son and adjusted Jackson’s grip and stance. “Follow through. Don’t break your wrists until the last possible second.” He nodded to me to start the next round of shots.

Crack went the bat.

“Feel the rhythm.”

Crack!

“Make it sing.”

Ring!

“Eye on the ball.”

Smack!

“Just the ball.”

The bat rang again as Jackson struck a solid blow that arced into the netting above.

“That’s it, bro. Read it. Follow it.”

Smack!

He let go of Jackson’s hands and whispered in his ear. “Crush it.”

Jackson was a tuning fork again. Only this time, he didn’t drop the bat. The ball drove straight for the machine with a resounding crack! Fortunately, the machine was heavy duty metal, so it could take some blows, and the netting took care of the rest. His mouth dropped open at the result, then broadened into a manic sort of grin. “I … I did it.” He laughed. “I did it!” The exultant whoop carried far over the school grounds.

“Not bad.” The player smiled and nodded as he folded his arms. “You’ve got potential. But if you really want to beat that ball up—” He raised both arms in a double bicep flex. “—You’ve gotta get jacked, son. Huhuhuh.”

Jackson scratched his crotch and stared almost hungrily at the player’s arms.

He smirked. “If you want to be more than just the water boy, meet me here after school tomorrow. I’ll make a player of you yet.” He hefted a bottle and guzzled its contents. A small stream of green liquid dribbled down the side of his cheek, and he wiped it after. “Come dressed for the gym and ready to sweat. Understand?” His gaze hardened. “Be ready.”

Jackson nodded. His mouth hung slightly open as he breathed. The jock chuckled and clapped one of his massive hands on Jackson’s arm.

“Name’s Barry. My bros call me Bruiser.”

“J-Jackson,” he replied.

Barry smirked again. “Good name, bro. See you soon.”

“Yeah….”

The jock walked away with a measured swaggering sort of gait that showed off just how taut the muscle was around his legs. It was evident he could do a lot more than just crack a ball open. His whole body was built for the field, whether it be running, throwing, or hitting.

When my friend didn’t move, I finally walked over to check on him. “You okay, Jackson?”

“Yeah,” he repeated again in that same faraway tone, then shook his head. His gaze came back into focus as he concentrated on me. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s get back to that homework.” He rubbed the bicep Barry had touched as I shut the pitching machine down and returned the gear. Then we walked back to the bleachers. We’d put off our assignment long enough. It was time to go back to Jim.

Credit to @bodriversblog for this incredible image.

If you like my work, please support me on Patreon, so I can continue to write stories and scripts for you all. For just $3 a month, you can have access to muscle, hypnosis, and other transformation content and even make suggestions for future stories you want me to write for the next reward on the Discord Server. Other tiers are also available with different rewards. Check it out.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Deducation

I watch from the other side of the table. He’s been staring at that screen for hours. I can’t help but smile as he shifts slightly and rolls his arm to expose his new tattoo. All that time at the gym and the supplements he’d been using were really paying off. His pectorals tensed and pushed the sleeves of his tank top forward, giving a view of the crevice forming between the two growing slabs of muscle. I was so proud of him when he came out with the cap on this morning.

My little beta tester was becoming quite the alpha. I’d decided to call the program Deduction. The game itself was simple enough, designed with a premise to focus on deductive reasoning. The longer he played, the more challenging the deductions would become. With every correct answer, he would progress. With every wrong answer, he would face subliminal suggestions and reinforcement. I still remember the first time he blanked after getting the wrong answer.

“Maybe you should go to the gym, instead.”

The insult had been included as part of that subtle push, a sort of mocking from the antagonist in the game. What I hadn’t expected was for him to actually respond at that moment.

“Where are you going?” I’d asked him mildly.

“I’m going to....” He frowned. “I’m going to....”

“The gym?”

The way his gaze just ... glassed over, that sensation of watching it come to pass. It was ... incredible.

“That level was too hard. I should go to the gym, instead.”

And he did.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

It got easier and easier to trance him over time. His sense of competition, that need to prove he was better than a machine or game, drove him to keep playing.

I tweaked the insults and subliminals with each “new iteration.” And he attacked it with the same zeal he’d come to develop toward his breakfasts.

“Too bad, ‘bro.’“

“Not ... even ... close.”

“Perhaps you should apply yourself in ... other fields.”

“I’d hoped for brains, not brawn.”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Can’t you even read?”

“Are you slow in the head?”

“Leave the thinking to the smart ones, you lumbering brute.”

“Honestly, Chief, such sloppy work. Perhaps it’s time to trim the fat....

More insults, a “demotion” cutscene involving a hypnotic pattern in the background as the chief spoke the dialogue and the text scrolled by. All tools to help push my beta tester deeper and deeper.

And all the while, he kept growing. Muscle and tone replaced flab and fat. In a very real way, I was putting him through a mental version of the detraining principle, a rule in the fitness world that essentially states if you don’t use it, you lose it. If you don’t continue to train those muscles and parts of your body that have improved, then you will lose the benefits you gained. It’s also known as the reversibility principle.

“I think it’s time for a different sort of uniform. Don’t you?”

I still remember when he almost smashed my computer. I had to get in his way to calm him down. “Bro, stop!”

“He insulted me!”

“He’s a computer generated character! You want to smash something, go change and smash some weights, instead!”

He grumbled, but he followed my advice. I’ve hardly seen him out of his “bro” gear since.

“Congratulations. You finally solved something. I suppose it’s time to get hard.”

I nearly spat my drink when I saw him flex his biceps and retort, “I already am.”

Then came the suggestion I’d been waiting for. He was chewing on his oatmeal as part of that morning’s breakfast, looking thoughtful with his brow scrunched. He swallowed, then said, “Hey, bro?”

I shuddered at the low pitch he’d developed recently. I admit I was surprised, since he usually didn’t interact with me much during his breakfasts anymore. “Yeah?”

“You think maybe you could, uh ... include something else in the game?”

I was intrigued. “Like what?”

“You know how there are all these interactive parts to video games now, right?” He gulped another bite of his oatmeal, then belched without shame. “Why not make something like that for parts of the game? You know, like when breaking into a room or doing something that needs heavy lifting, maybe something for when you have to run? Something that’s ... idunno, active?”

“Active?” I repeated.

“Yeah, like ... you know, to let me move. It’s always solving combinations or following equations or something like that. It’s too slow. There’s just not enough action in it. It’s....”

“Yes?”

He sighed. “Bro, it’s boring. I feel ... idunno, sort of numb up here when I play.” He knocked the side of his head, and I barely suppressed the urge to smile.

“And do you have any suggestions?”

He blushed. “Idunno. Maybe, ... maybe a gym?”

“I can try something like that,” I admitted. “But I don’t have that kind of equipment to synch to my computer. Any levels or portions I design for a gym setting would have to focus on something else, perhaps on hand-eye coordination. Tapping the right key at the right place, that sort of thing.”

“If you could, that’d be great. It’ll make things more, uh ... uhhhhhhh....”

“Diverse?” I suggested. This time, I did smile.

“Yeah, that.” He gobbled down the rest of the bowl and chucked it into the sink, filled it and the pot he’d prepped the meal in with water, then raced toward the door. “Thanks for listening, bro. Gotta get to the gym, bye!”

He was still embarrassed, and I found that especially cute.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

His laughter permeated the room after he’d been playing the new level mechanics for the last half hour. Well, at least on this particular session of the new level. It was deep and low, just the way I like it.

“Fuck, bro. How long’ve I been spelling swears and curses?”

This time, I allowed myself to smile. It was perceived as a joke, after all, juvenile humor. And I knew to act accordingly. “You’ve been spelling more than that, but I’d say you’ve been doing that for ... well, ever since you started testing the level, so I guess about a couple of weeks now?”

“Damn, bro. That’s just ... fuck, damn....”

“Ass?”

He looked at me. I looked at him. And we both broke down into a fit of laughter.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, he swore again.

“Bro, this ... this game’s like a fuckin’ drug, man. How long’ve I been playing?”

I glanced at the stopwatch by my table. “Four hours.”

“Fuck,” he breathed. “This game is--”

“--Ready to lose again, my little henchman?”

His body became rigid. His chest heaved, lifting his shirt over the toned abs he’d been developing. He rose, and I took note of the growth he’d experienced in his legs and glutes as he turned and strode back to the computer again.

Eat, workout, shower, computer, eat, computer, workout, shower, eat, computer, and repeat.

And all the while, he kept growing. The bigger he got, the more relaxed he became. I watched a former valedictorian descend into the depths of the mental doldrums, and he was perfectly content to stay there and focus on his need to improve.

And I was only too glad to help him redirect that need toward his body.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

I helped him change his major just last week. Exercise sciences are far better suited to how his mind runs now. And he seems content with that. He’s still determined to beat the game, though.

“A ... B ... C ... D-uhhhhhhhhhhhh....”

The latest deduction was more of a pattern. He has to list the alphabet. By now, he’s been conditioned to be triggered every time he reaches the letter D. His eyes become hooded. His breathing slows. His face goes slack. And I get to enjoy watching every second of it.

“A ... B ... C ... D-uhhhhhhhhhhhh....”

The timer goes off. The laughter filters through the speakers. His chest shakes with it as he shifts easily from his sustained pause to follow that track with his husky, “Huhuhuh....” Then he blinks slowly at the instruction.

TRY AGAIN

He clicks the button. The system cues up the level again. The process repeats a few times, and I just enjoy watching him fall again and again. I snap a picture. He’s too focused on the screen to care, tapping one meaty finger over each key and shoving it in time to the screen’s prompts.

“A ... B ... C ... D-uhhhhhhhhmb....”

“What was that?” I ask. A smile curls as my lips part to bare my teeth. I’ve been waiting for this moment.

He turns to me, looking away from the screen for the first time since he started this morning. He blinks slowly, as if he doesn’t quite recognize me or where he is. And then he speaks in that slow, dull tone that I’ve come to love hearing. “I am A Big Cocky Dumb Jock bro.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m a Big Cocky Dumb Jock bro.”

“Whose Big Cocky Dumb Jock bro are you?”

“Yours, bro.”

This time, I let the sneer come. “Good jock boy.”

The trigger was sent, and he reacted instinctively. Laughter burst from his chest like the retort of a cannon. “Huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh.......”