Lifting Up And Dumbing Down Part 7

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 7

I’ve got the itch to continue, so I had to try to get this part up, too. XD Guess I just couldn’t help myself with how much I’m enjoying the characters and their progress thus far. Enjoy! :D

“Perfectly natural.” “Excuse me?” you ask as you gape at the red-haired psychiatrist, hypnotist, and vocal coach. “Perfectly natural. Your reaction. It was natural. Most young men your age have passive aggressive tendencies.” Doctor Schroder shrugged as she folded one of her legs over the other. “And given what you’ve told me about how things are going with your physical training regimen, it’s natural to have to channel a certain amount of aggression. You simply touched the edge of the box where you stored it all. It’s nothing to be concerned over.” “But I don’t like it.” “You don’t have to like it. It’s just a part of you, and like any other part, you can learn to control it, if you so wish. All it takes is time, patience, and the right direction. It doesn’t have to change you, unless you let it. And if it does, you have the power to make that change for the better, rather than the worse. Like I said, it’s all up to you. Now then,” she said primly as she picked up the microphone once more and flicked the switch on the speakers. A familiar whirring and ringing washed over your ears. “Let’s try again.”

Dizzy. Everything felt so dizzy. The laughter was back again. So many children giggling and cheering. Spinning. The world was spinning around you. A blur of faces and cheers from men and women. Shouts of, “‘Attaboy!” and “be careful!” broke through the mass. “This is so much fun!” You turn your head to see a giggling little girl atop a wooden Pegasus painted cyan blue with a golden saddle and a red set of reins with a bronze bit. The familiar tooting is back again, only this time, there are many bottles, many tones, all working together to play a jaunty melody. “So very fun,” another child cheers, this one a little boy atop a black stallion. He looks at you with grave eyes, even as his little blue suit jacket and red shorts shine in the sunlight. “Don’t you agree?” “F--fun?” you ask, confused. “Riding the carousel, silly,” the little girl said. “Carousel?” You feel so strange. How did you get here? Why ... did the air smell like popcorn and cotton candy? You’re vaguely aware of how the children seem to rise up and down again and again in a strange sort of rhythm. Then you look ahead and notice a spiraling golden pole. Your hands are clasped to it, and your’re not entirely sure why. Then you look down. Two great white horns jut out to either side of the carved animal’s head staring out in front of you. You become keenly aware of how your legs are stretched out to either side, and how a gentle sort of pull seems to draw at you every time the pole gets shorter. “I’m ... on a carousel....” You look to your left, surprised to see a great series of pipes stretching up and down all along the surface of the central portion, playing its melody and harmonic accompaniment. “Up and down. Up and down,” the little girl sang. You feel your hands clenching tighter around the pole. They seem so small. “Up and down. Up and down.” This time the boy has joined the girl. The carousel builds up speed as more voices join the chorus. A strange sense of exhilaration fills you as the wind picks up, blowing through your hair. “Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.” You find yourself laughing, but you’re not sure why. You suddenly feel giddy. There’s a sense of camaraderie with these two. “Come on. It’s fun!” the little boy laughs as he smacks his heels against his charger. “Hyah, hyah! Faster, boy! Up and down. Up and down!” “I ... I don’t....” “Play with us! Come on, just pretend for a moment. Oh, won’t you please?” the little girl begged. “Even a bull can charge. Don’t you want to race us?” “Race?” “Yeah, but ya gotta follow the rules, see?” She patted the side of her Pegasus gently. “Up and down. Up and down,” she sang, and the ride began to pick up speed again as her Pegasus rose and fell at a faster rate. You marvel. You don’t know why, but you do. It seemed like they were having so much FUN. And all you had to do was play with them. You wanted to race. You wanted so badly to race. You lean down almost sheepishly to the big bull’s ears. They’re a coppery red with white splotches along his coat. You feel so awkward, but you whisper anyways. “Up and down.” The instant you do, you feel a sudden jerk, almost like a buck as the bull accelerates its rise. Why, it felt almost like it was bucking. Rather than be startled, you find yourself laughing. “See?” The boy is grinning at you now. “Told ya!” You grin back, awash with a sudden enthusiasm you thought you left behind long ago. “Let’s race!” And so the three of you sing as you bounce up and down, up and down. The spinning goes faster and faster, but you can’t stop. You don’t want to ever stop. Up and down. Up and down. The children have all become blurs on their mounts, and the spinning is so intense. They’re all lights now, and the lights are blurring together, leaving such beautiful streams behind. You giggle in delight as you look back to see your own trail. Then you look up at the roof and see the polished reflection of millions upon millions of little mirrors, all reflecting a grand spiral that spins and spins and spins. “Up and down. Up and down,” you sing. And slowly, you begin to lose hold of your bull as you float towards that spinning nebula. “Up ... n’down.... Up ... down....”

“Ten.” You raise your head suddenly, surprised. “Wh-wha--?” you ask. “What happened? Where’s the carousel?” Doctor Schroder smiled triumphantly at you. “Congratulations. We finally found the right setting.” “Right ... what?” you ask. “Setting. You know, on the sound synthesizer? I finally found the right mixture for you. The carousel wasn’t real. It was all in your head, a scenario I concocted to ensure you experienced optimal trance to aid you in your work. Now it’ll just be a matter of compiling the proper scripts and recording them for you.” “That was ... all in my head?” you ask again, surprised. “With a little figurative imagery added in on my part,” Schroder allowed. “You could say I’m like a dungeon master, if you want to put it into those kinds of terms. I help you to set the scene yourself by guiding your mind to place familiar sights, sounds, and smells, even tastes and physical sensations into a cohesive scenario that feels real. Think of it like lucid dreaming.” “And you can make me lucid dream in any scenario?” “Pretty much. It helps my clients to get into character more easily, until they don’t need that help anymore. And as I said, I can help you with motivational tracks as well. Now that I have the proper frequency set for you, I might even be able to ingrain a few subliminals in a playlist, if you would prefer that.” “Lets not be too hasty,” you say somewhat hesitantly. “This is all a bit much to digest.” “Of course.” Schroder nodded. “How about we take a break?” “Yeah, a break sounds good. You got any water handy?”

The water was cold and refreshing compared to the blistering heat the gym provided you. You stuck your head under the flow from the arc at the fountain. You didn’t care if anyone else was behind you. You needed something to cool you down. “Take these,” Duff suggested as he walked up with two fogged up bottles covered in water droplets. The initial contact with your neck made you cringe, but after that, you sighed in relief. “Don’t worry,” he assured you, “soon you won’t even need those bottles to cool down. The heat starts to feel sort of natural, after a while. Heck, I prefer it now.” He chuckled. “Suns out, guns out, am I right?” You can’t help but pull your lips into a smile at that. “Please don’t tell me you used that old cliche.” “I’m sorry, Dave. I can’t do that,” he said in a monotonic voice. “You know, if I weren’t so busy trying to keep myself from melting, I’d smack you with these things,” you grumble. “I could always take them back, if that’s you you really--.” “NO!” you shout. Then a blush rises in your cheeks as everyone in the gym stares at you. You chuckle, then raise a hand meekly. “Sorry, guys. False alarm,” you promise. The men grunt, roll their eyes, and get back to work. Duff just smirked. “Not one word.” “I didn’t say anything,” he said innocently. “You didn’t have to. You were thinking it.” Duff shrugged nonchalantly. “Guilty as charged.” “What happened to the timid Duff I saw a couple of days ago?” “That was before we became friends,” Duff pointed out. “I’m much different, once I get past that hurdle.” “And if I were to say we weren’t?” “I’d call you a liar, and probably have to take those bottles back.” You gasped. “You would blackmail me?” you cry as you raise a hand artfully to your forehead and lean backwards, as though bent with grief. “Yeah, yeah. Ham it up, why don’t ya?” a ragged voice snarled as one of the larger body builders drew near. “If you two don’t mind, I need a drink.” He shoved his way past, bending down low to get as close to the stream as possible, despite his mass. “Duff, kid, get back over here,” Hank barked. “Break’s over!” “Coming, boss,” Duff yelled. You groan as you turn away from the oasis that is the drinking fountain and return to the blistering hell that is the weight room. Your core was going to explode tomorrow, and you were just waiting for that after effect to kick you in the gut. Hank just sneered at you again. You sigh in resignation as you make your way over, followed by Duff. “Don’t worry. I can give you some extra pointers later,” he promised, before parting ways as he dropped you off. “Time for me to run some cardio.”

That night, you scoured the internet for extra material to use. You could only say your line so many times, before it became boring, after all. You found a few promising phrases and images, though you were shocked at just how large a community there was that focused around the subject of becoming the very thing you were being payed to act out. You weren’t quite sure what it was they saw in it, other than the raw sexual appeal, of course. There was no denying that would be a major draw to a lot of people who wanted to be fit. You drank your shake as you continued to scroll through the net. “Thank God for filters,” you mutter to yourself as multiple links to porn pages were blocked or led to a warning screen. You scratch an itch idly at your crotch as you finish the last of your research for the night and close down your laptop. Then you make your way to your mirror, where another sign has joined the first. The instruction, BE A BRO, now graced you with its presence. This time, you do your best to pitch your voice lower as you push more from your diaphragm and try to shove the air out your mouth. You look ahead, struggling to force all other thoughts out as you try to unfocus your eyes. ‘Remember. You’re a dumb, careless musclehead,’ you think to yourself. ‘Just an empty meathead with dumbbells for brains.’ You take a deep breath, and then you try. “Huhuhuh.” Weak. Pathetic. Far too forced. You try again, something shorter this time. “Huhuh.” You felt the corners of your mouth pull up that time, almost like you found something humorous. Good. The smile widens as you realize you’re onto something. “Huhuhuh.” Huskier. Lower. “Huhuhuh.... Uhhhh ... wut wuz I doin’ again?” You felt embarrassed. This was stupid. But ... wasn’t that kind of the point? “Huhuhuh....” you shudder as your grin grows wider. That sounded about right. Well, for what range you could manage right now. You step forward and keep up that grin as you point at your head. “Drain this,” you encourage in that same deep tone. Then you smack a hand on one of your biceps as you flex it. “Grow this,” you low. You repeat yourself a few times. Then you chuckle once more as you say your line. “I lift things up and put them down.” It sounded so funny, so dull. But ... still forced. You try again. “I lift things up and put them down.” No. Something is still missing. You furrow your brow and look around. Finally, you grab ahold of your soap dispenser and start lifting it like a dumbbell. You cast your mind back to the weight rooms, to Duff as he concentrated on his lifting, how focused he seemed, how intense of that one act alone. “You love to lift,” you tell yourself. “Lifting is incredible. You live to lift weights.” After a few more minutes of psyching yourself up, you go for it. “Huhuhuh. I put things up and put them down.” Up. Down. “I lift things up and put them down.” Up. Down. Now you’re getting into the rhythm of it. “I lift things up and put them down.” Again. “I lift things up and put them down.” Finish the rep. “I lift things up and put them down.” By the time you get yourself to bed, you’re feeling much more satisfied with yourself. It’s far from perfect, but you’re starting to make a little headway into the part. You sigh contentedly as you lay down and look up at the ceiling to read the encouraging message, and you can’t help but wonder if you agree. Perhaps a little CHANGE IS GOOD after all. “Huhuhuh. Yeah....”

Of Spies and Muscleheads Part 6

“They’re swarming the compound, Hunter. More than half have been converted already.”

“Why hasn’t anybody shot them, damnit?” Hunter growled.

“We’ve tried. Somebody rigged munitions. It’s all blanks.”

“How the hell can our entire armory have been compromised?”

“Very, very carefully,” Stone said. “I’ll have to thank Arsenal later. He should be waking any moment now. He’s such a good meathead.”

Hunter groaned.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Agent Hunter? Feeling a little heavy? Oh, but I bet it feels so good, doesn’t it? It’s hard to resist all that growth, all that power. Why don’t you just … let it go?”

“F–Fuck you,” Hunter said through gritted teeth. Then he shuddered as the bulge in crotch increased.

“Ooh, you’re coming along nicely. Just a matter of time now, Agent Hunter.”

“Hunter, they’re … they’re beating at the doors. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep them out. They’ve sent a platoon to Skinner’s office. If they get him, they’ll have the override and all of our access codes. Wait, they’re … knocking? Holy shit!”

“Jason, what is it?”

“I-it’s Director Skinner. He’s already turned. He’s as big as Thirteen, if not bigger. He must be another overseer class, but … how did he change?”

Hunter snarled. “The damn bastard’s been playing us from the beginning. He kept authorizing the missions. He kept pushing that we had to find Stone. It all makes sense.”

“And the light begins to dawn at last.” Stone chuckled. “Your director was not an easy target, Agent Hunter, but given enough time and more than a few spiked coffees, he was only too happy to join us in his proper rank. Such a good trainer, wouldn’t you say? He really knows how to take charge of his meatheads and make them totally mindless. Never questioning, never thinking. Just endless pleasure and obedience. Obedience to their trainer. Obedience to me.”

“Obey Coach Stone. Serve Coach Stone. Obedience is pleasure. Obedience is strength. Obedience is muscle. Obedience is growth. Meatheads must grow. Meatheads must obey. We are Coach’s big, dumb meatheads,” the guards said.

Hunter heard a groan. “They … they’re gathering at the door, Hunter. So … so many meatheads. I … I don’t know if I can keep them out long.”

“Control? You okay?”

“I … just a little dizzy. Hunter. Skinner is coming.” Another grunt. “I don’t know how long I have. Before they … get to me. Before they … make me like them.” A tiny rip sounded across the microphone.

“Control? Jason? Jason, stay with me!”

“Hunter? I … I can’t hear you very well, Hunter. I … something … isn’t right. You sound … far away. So far away. So far. So faint.

“Jason!”

“…”

“Jason, don’t you do this to me. Answer me, damn it!”

Hunter heard the sound of a door hissing open, the faint clacking of keys on the keyboard, the heavy clomp of many thick boots, and the weight behind them. The clacking grew slower, heavier, then stopped. A heavy breathing was all that Hunter could hear. The whirr of wheels rolling further away from the mike. More heavy boots approaching.

“Sorry, Lil’bro, Jason’s busy. But Meathead’s here for ya,” the Neanderthal of a man chuckled.

“What the hell did you do to him?” Hunter roared. He felt his neck tense, the muscles cording and growing, his jaw expanding, growing more defined. He didn’t care. “Answer me, Meathead!”

Tearing fabric. Thumping limbs. A few well-placed grunts. “Meathead didn’t do nothin’ to him.” Again, that infuriatingly dull chuckle. “Meathead was brought to wake his bros up. Skinner’s the one who brought out the meatheads in ‘em. Good job, Skinner.”

A deep, booming voice responded. “Skinner is a good meathead. Skinner obeys. Make more meatheads. I obey.”

“See? He’s fuckin’ awesome, lil’bro.” He laughed. “Knows to obey Coach n’everything. Just like me. We’re all a bunch of big, dumb meatheads, aren’t we, bros?”

Hunter heard the solid thump of legs coming sharply to attention. “Yes, sir. We are meatheads. Big, dumb meatheads. Meatheads obey. We obey. Obey and grow. Grow and obey. Obey Coach Stone. Lift. Grow. Flex. Obey. Grow big. Grow dumb. Grow into bigger, dumber meatheads.”

Stone laughed. “You see, Hunter, my little supplement is what you might call a bit of a drug. Once it gets worked enough into your system, it makes the user a little more … susceptible to suggestion. It builds the muscles in the body so quickly that you literally become addicted to the feeling of your own physical perfection. Every flex, every workout, every breath, every movement becomes … stimulating. And the best part is that the more they grow, the more dependent they become.

“Now don’t get me wrong here. The supplement doesn’t require you to constantly take more. On the contrary, given enough time, the supplement rewires your brain and your body to produce it naturally. Unfortunately, a common side effect is for the brain to suffer certain … alterations. These alterations, unfortunately, inhibit certain higher reasoning functions. Perhaps it’s better to say that it overrides them. Or maybe the person really just doesn’t care anymore, and so they choose to forget on their own. Whatever the case may be, those who reach that stage show a major loss in intelligence. Perhaps you’ve felt that loss, Agent Hunter. That hazy cloud forming over your mind like a calming blanket. So difficult to focus, to think clearly. The urge to just sit there and let your mind go blank, and let your body do the talking. To let it move for you, let it think for you, let it act for you, and just smile the whole time, because of the pleasure you feel.”

“S–stop it,” Hunter growled as he swayed on his feet.

“So you do feel it. Doesn’t it seem a little familiar, Agent Hunter, even the slightest bit?” Stone asked as he approached one of his guards. “That emptiness, that lack of thought that they accept so readily, makes them moldable. It makes them want to listen. Isn’t that right, Grinder?”

The hulk closest to him grunted and nodded. “Listen to Coach. Obey Coach. Grinder is a mindless meathead. Grinder listens. Grinder obeys.”

“Good meathead,” Stone said as he smacked Grinder on the back. “You see, Agent Hunter?”

“How long?” Hunter growled.

“The subliminal treatments, you mean? It varies from meathead to meathead. Sometimes we prime our candidates before exposing them to the supplement. Other times we perform the work simultaneously. We’re still figuring out which works best. Though I have made some headway with applications for the formula. Unfortunately, the gaseous state isn’t quite ready yet, but we’ll get there eventually.”

“And what happens, if they break the enforcement?”

“They can’t. That’s the best part. They constantly enforce themselves every time they work out, every time they follow an order. It literally becomes an endless loop of enforcement, growth, and obedience. And the best part is they want it. They love it.” He laughed again. “Isn’t that right, Controller?” he asked.

“Controller? Who’re you–?”

Hunter heard a loud groan of pleasure over his earpiece. “I … I … can’t stop. Growing … fuzzy. So fuzzy.” The voice warbled between the familiar tenor of Hunter’s friend to a deep baritone.

“Jason? Jason, you’ve got to fight it! Snap out of it!”

“Jason?” the warped voice asked slowly. “Wh–who is … Jason? So … so hard to think. So hard. Hard … hard muscles. Feel … feel nice.” A loud rip followed that sentence.

“Jason, whatever you do, don’t listen to them. You have to stop. Don’t let them influence your mind.”

“Mind …” he repeated dreamily. Then he laughed. The longer the laugh went, the deeper the voice became.

“Jason? Jason, listen to me. Jason!”

“Meatheads have no mind,” Meathead’s voice boomed in.

“Meatheads love muscle,” Skinner’s voice added.

“I like muscle,” Jason’s deeper voice said. “My muscles feel good.”

“Meatheads love to flex,” Meathead said.

“Flex … feels good.” Another loud tear. “I like flexing,” he said exuberantly.

“Meatheads don’t think,” Skinner pressed.

“… Think?” Jason asked. He sounded confused by the term. “I don’t … can’t … what … what were we talking about again?”

“Muscles, flexing, and being a big, dumb meathead. ‘Cause that’s what we are, lil’bro,” Meathead said.

“… We?”

“Yes, we. Skinner is a big, dumb meathead. Skinner does not think. Skinner flexes. Skinner obeys. Skinner is a good meathead.”

“Good … meathead.”

“Time to wake up, Controller,” Meathead said.

No.

“Wake … up.”

Stone wouldn’t.

“Flex deeper. Grow bigger. Become. You are a massive, burly, mindless meathead, just like us,” Skinner said.

“Like you.…” A guttural grunt. Loud cracks. Something bursting, snapping. Ricocheting metal. More shredding fabric. A rumbling bass. “Just like you.”

“Good meathead,” Stone said, laughing. “And good meatheads obey.”

“Damn you!” Hunter roared as he lunged for the man, his mysterious restraints suddenly broken. Thick hands threw off his balance. He grabbed for an overhead throw, only to be taken out from beneath by a rolling form. The added weight on his shoulders was his downfall as he dropped to his knees, then to his face as ten muscular hands and arms restrained him on the ground.

“Impressive, Agent Hunter. Very impressive. To break out of conditioning like that takes a lot of mental strength. You and Controller must have been very close.”

Hunter squirmed beneath his captors. “His name,” he panted, “is Jason.” He spat at Stone’s feet.

“Not anymore.” Stone chuckled. “Not for much longer, anyways. Would you like to see him, Agent Hunter? Would you like to watch him finish his awakening?” He sneered. “That can easily be arranged.” He raised his voice. “Meathead! Take the flash drive from Skinner and upload its contents into the server. It’s time to convert the facility.”

“Yes, Sir. Meathead is a good meathead. Meathead obeys,” the thug’s voice droned into Hunter’s ears.

A few moments later, Hunter found himself staring into a screen on a data pad Stone had taken from one of his lackeys. He tapped a new icon, and the light on the camera flashed, indicating it had become active. A large screen popped up, revealing a good twenty men in shredded uniforms flanking three bigger men. Even converted, Skinner was easy to pick out with his silver hair and piercing green eyes. Meathead grinned vacantly at the screen, his black spandex uniform still clinging tightly to his frame as he idly bounced his pecs. His dark brown hair had an almost unusual sheen to it, despite its flat cropping. He was just as huge as Hunter remembered him. The hulk’s shoulders had to be at least a good three feet across. His square jaw and jutting brow were slightly more pronounced than the other meatheads. His muscles quivered in anticipation as he gaped into the camera. “Interface complete. Meathead has obeyed. Meathead is a good meathead.”

“Yes you are, Meathead. Now stand by a moment. I want to be able to enjoy this. Gentlemen, lift our prisoner up, and help him take a seat.”

Hunter soon found himself forcibly seated at a rounded metal table near a fitness bar. The tightness of his stealth suit, or what remained of it, clung to his waist and crotch, a constant reminder of his change in size. And he was still growing. He could feel it, throbbing through him like some disease, the tingling on his face heralding the growing facial hair. Looking to either side, he could see the hair thickening on his arms, even as they strained beneath the collective grips of his captors. Stone dropped in next to him and put the pad down on a stand attachment.

“All right, Meathead, move aside. Show us Controller.”

“Controller isn’t ready, Coach.”

“That’s an order, Meathead.”

Meathead stiffened and saluted as the lycra of his suit strained to contain his body’s bulk. “Yes, sir, Coach. Meathead obeys.” He stepped aside to reveal a hunched figure. The man was breathing heavily. Instead of the rags and remnants the other meatheads wore, a new gigantic heavy jockstrap held loosely to his frame, its pouch sagging. His hair was slick with sweat, and had been pulled messily back by a hastily styled hand job. His broad shoulders shone with the sweat of his changes as he continued to pant, and his thick hands clenched and unclenched intermittently. Skinner stood next to him, hair gel in hand as he grinned at the new hairstyle.

“Excellent choice, Skinner,” Stone complimented.

“Thank you, Sir,” Skinner said. “Sleeper meathead, designation: Controller, is coming along nicely.”

“How close is he to finishing?”

“This meathead believes awakening will be complete within the next ten minutes, Sir.”

“Excellent. You may stand down now, Skinner. I want to finish him myself.”

“Yes, sir, Coach.” Skinner bowed, then stepped back to join Meathead.

“Jason, listen to me! Your name is Jason Bowman. You work as a technology supporter. You’re a genius with machines and electronics! You’re not–.” Hunter felt the giant hand covering his mouth. He struggled, screamed, yelled, and tried to bite to no avail.

“Potential meathead will not interrupt meathead re-conversion to muscle. Potential meathead will watch. Potential meathead will listen. Potential meathead will remain silent. Potential meathead will not struggle. Potential meathead will obey. Sit still. Obey. Listen. Obey. Watch. Obey. Be silent. Obey. Meatheads must obey.”

“Meatheads must obey,” the others droned, both behind Hunter and through the viewing monitor.

The hand came away from his face. “Fuck y–obey.” Wait, what? He watched as Stone smirked. That bastard. He had to try again. “I obey.” No, no, no, he does not obey. Damn it, not again. Not again. And yet it was happening again. He felt a pair of hands direct his head toward the screen. He felt them leave. And try though he might, his body would not look away.

“Much better, Agent Hunter. Much better,” Stone purred. “And the best part is, you’re feeling so much pleasure from this, too. I can tell, you know. So why deny yourself?” He sighed. “Ah well. You’ll come around soon enough, Agent Hunter. They all do.”

Hunter heard the clomping of heavy feet. He felt two thick hands smack down on either of his shoulders, heard the rasp of the Stone’s whispering voice. “Now watch me work my magic.” He felt the heavy bulk of Stone sit down next to him. Felt the heat radiating from the giant body. Felt the titanic bicep touch his own smaller one. He could tell it was bigger. And as much as he hated to admit it, some part of him felt … jealous of that. He watched Stone’s giant hands shift the screen, so both would have a proper vantage point. Saw those bulky arms twitch with every shift of wrists and fingers. And then they were gone.

Nobody had moved on the screen. The huddled form that had to be Jason continued panting. Though as they listened, the pants turned into more of a series of guttural grunts.

“You there,” Stone said in a commanding tone of voice. “The one in the middle panting and sweating. What’s your name?”

The head lunged up. Jason’s eyes had sunken beneath a shelf-like brow. His lower jaw bulged unnaturally, and his chin had become particularly prominent. The brown of his eyes had dulled and taken on a murky greenish tint, like swamp water. His pecs had developed into two perfectly sculpted slabs that hung round and taut, waiting to go off. “Me?” he asked.

“Yes, you. What is your name?” Stone asked.

“Name … name … my … name.…” His brow furrowed. His mouth gaped open slightly. He reached down passively and scratched at the pouch. “Can’t … I can’t … think. Fuzzy. In head. Don’t … I don’t … I … can’t....”

Stone pressed an icon shaped like a flexing bicep in the corner of the screen. A wave of slow, pulsing light flowed across the control room. Jason’s mammoth shoulders slumped as he stared at the screen in front of him.

“Don’t think, then. Just listen. Listen to my voice, and watch the screen. Just flex, and stare, and listen. The longer you stare, the more you listen. The longer you flex, the more focused you become on my voice. Listen, and flex. Watch, and flex.”

It started small at first, a faint twitch, the quiver of a pectoral. Then the other twitched. Then the first. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then he raised an arm and looked it at dreamily. He tensed it, flexing the bicep, and watched as the mound slowly rose. His face pulled into a vapid grin. “Flexing feels good,” he said again. “Good to flex. Good to listen.”

“That’s right. Keep flexing. Keep listening. And while you do that, why don’t you tell me what you are? That’s so much easier than who, wouldn’t you say?”

“Easy,” he grunted in agreement, shifting to a double bicep pose, then into a lateral spread as he turned to look at the other muscle men. “Like them.” He continued to flex, and as he did so, his waist began to expand. The straps on the jockstrap tightened as he gained in height. His muscle tone increased, and a washboard of abdominals slowly carved itself out of his core, like a stoneworker had been busy chipping away at Jason’s old self. Then again, that may not have been far from the truth.

“And what are they?” Stone pressed. Hunter hissed, taking deep breaths, but could do little more.

Jason shrugged as his forehead expanded and his teeth became perfectly aligned. He chuckled as he flexed some more. “Dunno. Just like ‘em is all. Like to flex. Like … my muscles flexing.”

“Growing,” Stone prompted.

“Yes … growing. Growing muscles. Growing me.” He chuckled.

“They like growing, too. Growing bigger and stronger all the time. They just care about their bodies, and flexing, and listening, and growing, and listening, and obeying.”

“Growing,” he said dreamily as his neck expanded.

“Growing into big, dumb meatheads,” Stone said.

“Meatheads. Yes. Like … meatheads.”

“So big. So dumb. Just following their orders, like a good meathead should.”

“We are meatheads. Meatheads obey Coach. We obey,” the men droned together.

“Tell me who I am, meatheads,” Stone ordered.

“Coach Stone,” they droned together.

“Good meatheads.”

The men shuddered, and grinned. “We are good meatheads. We obey.” They began to pose and flex as they eyed the screen.

“You’re becoming like them, too. Tell me, do you like that, the idea of being a big, dumb meathead?”

“… Like muscles. Like growing. Feels good.” Another loud crack, and his hands grew into massive mitts of bone and sinew. He stared at them in wonder, and his grin widened. “Big hands. Good to be big. Like being big.”

Stone pressed an icon shaped like a brain with IQ stamped in white letters. A display popped up to the left. Its number read 110. Above it, another display popped up showing the number 150. Behind these numbers, two different sized transparent pink brain backdrops appeared. He tapped the larger of the two, and a loading ring took shape around it, its pulsing light running around and around in a counterclockwise motion. He then selected the muscle icon, and dragged it next to the brain. This time the outline of a body formed around it, creating a perfect silhouette, complete with sagging jock strap.

“I have to give you credit where credit is due. You really are a genius,” Stone complimented. But you see, we have an issue here. You put so much effort into here,” he said, tapping the silhouette’s brain, and causing it to pulse, “that you’ve lost so much down here.” He dragged several lines leading from the brain into the arms, legs, torso, crotch, and shoulders. “But to really be like them, you need to not only be big, not only obey my voice, but you need to be a total meathead. Your head. Focused on nothing but muscle and meat. Building your body. Building your muscles. Building your manhood, your meat.

“Build.…”

“That’s right, my little meathead-to-be. You build those muscles, and you build that meat. But to do that, you have to feed them, fill them with something.” Stone smirked. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do with all those troublesome brains of yours. You’re going to use that muscle to build your other muscles.” He tapped on the brain icon. The loading circle broke off, and began to spiral into the brain. Each pulse of light followed the trail, then coursed down the lines to each of the body parts Stone had highlighted previously. Now flex for me. Obey me. Watch the screen, and pump those muscles up. Watch the screen, and focus on your muscles. Focus on your meat. Focus on letting it grow and swell. Let it fill you. Fill everything about you. Making you massive. A massive, manly man with a massive, manly bulge, just like the other meatheads.”

“Big, dumb meatheads. Just like us. We flex. We obey,” the men said in unison.

Jason shuddered as he stared up at the screen. Light continued to pulse. He slowly shifted into a side chest pose. The silhouette did the same, shifting onto his form to match him movement for movement. The brain superimposed itself over his head, and the number appeared above. His pectorals throbbed as he bounced them in time to the rhythm of the lights on the viewing monitor. A tiny chime sounded as a little white arrow appeared beneath the numbers pointing down. The flexing continued, the throbbing increased, and so did the size of his muscles as they grew wider, broader, and more well defined. The number dropped by a point. He shuddered, and grinned wider.

“Big me on screen.” Jason laughed.

“Yes. And the more you grow, the better you’ll feel. Grow for me. Flex for me. Fill that head with nothing but meat.”

“Meat.” Jason grew another few inches as his feet expanded in size. The display dropped to 130.

“Massive muscles. Massive meat. Massive, manly bulge.” Stone sneered as he tapped the outline of the jockstrap on the screen. A new spiral formed over it, this time spinning clockwise as the line pulsing from the brain connected to the spiral on the crotch.

Hunter groaned as he felt the crotch of his pants tighten further. He watched as the sagging pouch of Jason’s new jock strap slowly began to inflate.

Jason gaped at the screen as he continued to flex and grow. “Massive, manly bulge. Massive, manly, huge. Grow. Grow for … for …” He scrunched his face up, looking confused.

“Grow for Sir,” Skinner said as he lumbered next to Jason, and started to flex with him.

“Obey Sir,” Meathead said as he moved in on the other side. “Meatheads obey.”

“Meatheads … obey. I … obey … must … obey … and watch … flex … listen. Yes, Sir.” The numbers dropped significantly, and the pink mass shrunk. Soon the display read 90. A slight outline began to press against the pouch of the jockstrap.

“Meatheads obey, you obey. Meatheads grow muscles, you grow muscles.”

“Like … meatheads.”

“Because you are a meathead,” Stone said. “My meathead.”

“I … am a meathead. Meathead. Meathead.” With each repeat of the word, his voice grew deeper, the bulge in his strap grew more distinct, another surge of growth struck, and his eyes grew more vacant as the brown in his iris became less prominent and the green more prominent.

“A big, dumb meathead, just like them,” Stone pressed. “You want to be a big, dumb meathead, just like them. You love being a big, dumb meathead, just like them. You are nothing but a big, dumb, obedient meathead.”

“Big,” Jason flexed. “Dumb.” He grinned as he watched the pulsing screen on his end. His body expanded yet again. He towered at eight feet now. “Meathead.” The pouch in his jockstrap now clung to his swollen manhood. His grin widened as he stared at a part of the screen. “Big meat. Like big meat. Me … I … uh …” He grunted, and held a hand over his pouch briefly. “Feelin’ funny. Sorta … dumber.” He chuckled. “Dumber. Dumber. Meatier. Dumber. Fuckin’ hung, and fuckin’ dumb.” The numbers dropped again, this time to 84.

“You are a meathead, part of a collective, one of many,” Stone said.

“One of many. Same. This meathead understands. This meathead obeys,” he droned.

“Tell me your name, meathead.”

He wasn’t flexing anymore. He stared perfectly straight as he addressed the screen, like a little toy soldier. “This meathead has no name, Sir. This meathead has obeyed his programming. This meathead awaits his orders.” The number dropped to 80. “This meathead is too stupid to think.” 78. “Nothing but meat and muscle for Coach to command.” 76. “The bigger meathead grows, the dumber he becomes. This meathead will grow for Coach Stone. This meathead will forget. This meathead will be dumb. This meathead obeys.” 74.

“You will wake up, meathead. And you will wake every other meathead in the organization, understand? Wake up, and remember, Controller.”

70.

The new meathead’s eyes went completely blank, as if the pupils had disappeared. The pulsing lights phased in and out, in and out. He breathed in time, even as his body expanded yet again, this time with longer arms and a broader back. The jockstrap creaked in protest, but he paid it no mind. “Meathead designation Controller received,” he said. Turning smartly at ninety degrees, just like the drones Hunter had watched, the newly-dubbed Controller advanced to a console. “Implementing control protocol C. This meathead obeys. This meathead will wake other meatheads.”

Stone sneered triumphantly. “Good meathead.”

That Feeling

You know the one.

The one that punches you in the gut, just as you let down your defenses.

You’re feeling better, feeling higher, and you smile in relief, thinking the worst is past, that things are okay.

Then reality asserts itself, and history repeats.

Time turns back its hands, and you’re dragged with them to that place you never wanted to be again.

Regret. Guilt. Remorse.

These are names people use to describe this feeling, compartmentalize it, so we can box it away somewhere and keep it under wraps. And for a time, it works. It seems almost to disappear, like the mysterious misfiled paperwork for an insurance claim. 

Sometimes that’s all there is to it, and it really is gone.

But only sometimes.

All it takes is one trigger, one false move. A twinge of memory, the prelude to a great loss. 

Words said by a loved one that make you sound selfish and uncaring.

A single sign marked with just a few barring words.

These are just a few examples of the many triggers man faces every day, forcing that feeling to jab, to strike, to tear anew.

It sucks, but you have to deal with it somehow.

What will you do, when that feeling hits you?

Sailor moon is one of my greatest childhood memories and was among my first introductions into the world of Anime. Hotaru Tomoe was one of my favorites of the sailor soldiers, and this artist nailed her redesign so well. GO SAILOR SATURN! *Promptly knocks on the screaming fanboy inside of me with a baseball bat* Sorry about that. Anyways, this definitely deserves a reblog. Excellent job.

by kurochi0103

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 5

You look down at the bag of silver packets Hank had shoved into your hands at the end of your workout as you open your door limply. Your arms feel like they’re ready to fall off. “One cup, twice daily. No exceptions,” Hank had growled. You nearly gag at the thought of drinking that slop so often, but you’re too tired for your body to really even put the effort into the involuntary reflex in the first place. The living room is the same as it was when you left. You kick your shoes off on the small tile patch, then trudge your way over to the kitchen across the way. You pass the flat screen TV on your left with no thought of your usual entertainment. Instead, you smack the bag onto the counter and listen to the sharp retort of the thick plastic cup smacking the granite surface. Then you roll your eyes and stumble over to the drawers beneath the counter, where you keep your scissors and other miscellaneous tools and utensils. A few seconds later, you’re running the blades over the thick plastic of a packet. That overpowering aroma assaulted your nose once again as you finished cutting a neat line across, and you proceed to dump the contents of the package into the waiting cup. Next, you fill it with some milk from the fridge. You watch in disgust as undissolved clumps of the mix float to the surface and bob like chunks of decaying meat. The blade cap couldn’t go on fast enough as you twist it shut and attach the cup to your blender. A couple of minutes later, you’re forcing the swill back down your throat again. It’s still just as cloying. “Acquired taste my ass,” you mutter darkly as you take another sip. When you finally finish the cup off, you take it back to the sink and rinse it out, before leaving it to soak. You shuffle back to the door to lock it, then shut off your lights and power to the bathroom, where warm steam and soap wait to wash away the caked sweat you’ve accumulated over your skin. The water soothed your muscles, relieving the tension as it pelted against your skin in a pantomime of a massage. You sigh dreamily, spending a good forty minutes savoring the sensation of that strange in-between state when you’re not fully awake, but not fully asleep. Your hand holds loosely to the towel as you walk to the mirror and comb your hair. No need to style today, when you’re about to go to bed. You take another deep breath, and even that feels like an effort as your chest stretches against the stiffness your upper body workout has caused. You stride casually to your dresser and withdraw a clean set of boxers from your last modeling gig. It was always nice when they let you keep the clothes you liked. Free advertisement, you suppose. Then you head to your queen size bed, where your folded pajamas are waiting to be worn again. You pull on the sweat pants easily, tying the knot tight once more to ensure they don’t slip off as you dream. Finally, you pull on a long silk cotton night shirt that drapes down to your knees. A familiar manila envelope catches your eyes as you settle beneath the covers, and you reach over lazily to pull it towards you as you lay back against your pillow. Curious to see just what materials and slogans Miss Schroder prepared for you, and not quite feeling ready to drop off to sleep, you decide to take a peek. “‘Be a bro,’” you read as you pull out the first motivational card. “’Pop a flex’?” You continue to cycle through. Phrases like, Don’t think, just LIFT! and Do It mix with If the bar ain’t bending, you’re just pretending and Do you even lift? You couldn’t help but chuckle as you read, Healthy Body, Big Muscles! “So much for healthy minds. These things are crazy.” You shake your head out of mirth as you pull out the sheet she shoved in last and read a few phrases aloud. “‘I like muscles,’” you say in as close an imitation to Arnold Schwarzenegger you can manage. “‘The gym is my home.’ ‘I love to lift.’ ‘I love working out.’” The list continued for some time, and your eyes slowly drifted closed as that tiredness began to settle in, the last words painted clear in your mind: CHANGE IS GOOD.

Stone!!

Well, that brings it to one and one. Let’s see what others have to say.