REDPILLED BRO LUÍS

for my buddy @transform4u enjoy bro

You’re walking home from the coffee shop, notebook tucked under your arm, still turning over a half-formed short story in your head. The city sidewalk is damp from earlier rain. It's a pretty shitty atmosphere capping off a pretty dull day. You don't expect anything exciting to happen. Why would it? But then something glints near the curb and your eyes are drawn towards a thin silver chain half-curled around a cracked paving stone. You slow without meaning to.

It’s a cross necklace. Simple, a little tarnished, the kind someone might wear every day until it finally slips off unnoticed. You tell yourself you should leave it; someone will come back and claim their lost possession. Despite this though, you move without even realizing and your fingers are already closing around the metal.

The instant the cross touches your palm, a strange heat pulses through your hand, up your arm, into your chest. Not painful. Just… insistent. You should drop it. You're not even religious, for fuck's sake.

Still, you don’t.

Instead you slip the chain over your head without thinking. The pendant settles against your chest, right over your heart, and everything accelerates.

Your breathing quickens. Heat blooms behind your sternum, then explodes through your limbs in rhythmic pulses. You stumble into an alley between two buildings for privacy, back pressed to brick, as the first real wave hits.

Your shoulders crack and broaden first. There are audible pops as the bones widen, deltoids inflating like balloons under your skin. The fabric of your hoodie stretches taut across traps that rise thick and high, turning your neck into a powerful column. You feel your collarbones thicken, pushing outward, giving your upper body that classic V-taper you’ve only ever seen in gym mirrors or online thirst traps.

Your chest heaves. Each inhale pumps more mass into your pecs and you admire as they swell forward, rounding into heavy shelves that strain the zipper of your hoodie until the teeth part with a metallic whine. Nipples harden against the cotton as the slabs grow denser, striated. You grab at them instinctively; the flesh is hot, unyielding, like warm marble under velvet skin.

Your arms are next. Biceps balloon outward, peaks rising sharp and full even at rest. Veins thicken and snake across the surface like rivers carving stone. Triceps horseshoe out, forearms thickening into Popeye-level cords. Your finger, once slender and used to typing stories on your keyboard, grow thicker while your hands get larger, palms roughening as calluses that never existed before etch themselves in deep.

The unexpected growth races downward. Your core muscles clench involuntarily and then abs carve themselves deeper: one ridge, two, three… eight crisp, cobblestone blocks that stack under tightening skin. Next, obliques slash in like blades to add in even more definition that wasn't previously there. Your lower back thickens into a taper, erectors rising in rigid columns.

Thighs explode outward, your quads sweeping wide and bulging above the knee while your hamstrings knot thickly at the back. Calves diamond out, splitting your jeans at the seams with soft pops of thread. Then your ass, previously flat and unremarkable, rounds and hardens into twin globes of power, jeans now painted on rather than worn.

Everywhere, fat melts away. Any softness you carried at twenty-eight (around the middle or under the jaw) liquefies and vanishes. Your face reshapes in tandem: cheekbones sharpen, jaw squares and juts forward into a strong, masculine line. Lips fuller but firmer. Eyes brighter, more piercing. Hair darkens, thickens, shortens itself into a sharp fade on the sides, tousled on top. Wrinkles, faint crow’s feet, the shadow of exhaustion from late-night writing sessions are all erased in mere seconds. You’re twenty now; still in your prime. A whole new man, even, barely any trace of your former self visible in your handsome face or stacked muscular body. Any mirror you look into from now on only shows an alpha untouched.

You rip the hoodie off. The black tank top beneath clings obscenely to your chest muscles now, every ridge and vein on obscene display. You flex your chest experimentally and watch the fabric stretch to near-transparency over pecs that bounce with the motion. Next to be flexed are your arms and the biceps bulge with newfound power.

A low, satisfied growl escapes your throat. It doesn’t sound like you. It sounds better. So fucking deep and manly.

The physical surge is only half the storm and your mind buckles next, helpless in the face of such an all-consuming transformation.

The first to go is empathy. It doesn't fade gently; it snaps. You remember the coworker who came out last year, how you hugged him and said "I'm proud of you." The memory now curdles into nausea. You can't believe you'd ever praise someone for being so weak and sinful. Now you pity him the way you'd pity a man who chooses to crawl instead of stand. Real men don't bend to feelings, they enforce order. Compassion is a luxury for the soft, and you're done being soft.

Next goes the concept of nuance. Every gray area you've ever defended evaporates in an instant. Right and wrong aren't up for discussion anymore; they're etched in stone, handed down from on high. You used to argue that morality evolves with society. Now the thought feels arrogant, almost blasphemous. God's word doesn't evolve, it endures. You feel a rush of righteous certainty flood your veins like adrenaline. Doubt? That's the devil whispering. You crush it without hesitation. You're a devotee of the Lord and His word is the only word that matters.

Your old politics realign in an instant. The progressive causes you championed like LGBTQ rights, bodily autonomy, wealth redistribution, they all reveal themselves as rebellion against natural law. The way you view the world and everything in it changes in an instance. It's clear to you now that women were made to follow, to nurture, to adorn. Men like you were made to lead, protect, provide. Anything else is inviting chaos.

You feel a surge of contempt for the "woke" version of yourself who once posted rainbow flags and called conservatives bigots. That man was a fool, a traitor to his own design. Relief washes over you as the shame burns away. You're finally on the correct side of history: God's side.

Creativity collapses inward. The sprawling worlds you built in notebooks and typed onto your laptop, the subtle character motivations you developed, the poetic ambiguity you fostered... well, they all feel frivolous now. Effeminate, almost. Why waste hours crafting stories when you could be building strength, studying scripture, or disciplining the world around you? Thinking too much made you hesitate; simplicity makes you decisive.

Your mind empties of clutter and fills with stark, masculine priorities: lift, pray, conquer, repeat. The silence where your writer's imagination used to live is peaceful, not empty. It's clarity.

Emotionally, kindness sours into disdain. You no longer feel warmth toward strangers; you size them up. Weakness irritates you. Excuses enrage you. You deserve deference because you're superior. You're stronger, holier, more aligned with truth. Arrogance isn't a flaw anymore; it's earned confidence.

When a flicker of your old guilt tries to surface, whispering about how harshly you've judged, how coldly you've rewritten people in your head, you just snuff it out with a single thought: They chose weakness. I chose strength. God rewards the strong.

By the time you step out of the alley, the transformation is complete. No lingering echoes. No second thoughts. You're now just a twenty year-old stud that's tall, jacked, and square-jawed, with eyes sharp with purpose as you walk with the swagger of someone who knows he's right.

You don't go back to your old apartment. That place doesn't exist anymore; the life tied to it has been erased. Instead your feet carry you automatically toward the suburbs, past coffee shops and indie bookstores you once haunted, until the city gives way to neat rows of two-story colonials with American flags and "Bless This Home" signs.

The house at the end of Maple Drive is picture-perfect: white siding, black shutters, manicured lawn, a small wooden cross mounted beside the front door. Your parents live here. Your father is Dr. Randall Hayes, principal of Liberty Christian Academy and your mother is Mrs. Rebecca Hayes, former Miss Georgia runner-up who traded crowns for Bible study leadership and perfect potlucks. They raised you right, or so the new memories insist. The old liberal atheist writer? A rebellious phase. A detour that will very soon be forgotten. You've come home to the truth.

You descend the side stairs to the converted basement apartment that is your domain now. Exposed brick walls, polished concrete floor, a heavy rack of dumbbells and plates in one corner, a flat-screen mounted opposite a leather recliner. An open Bible sits on the end table beside a folded American flag. A poster of Romans 12:2 hangs above the weight bench: Do not conform to the pattern of this world…

You strip off the torn hoodie and stand in front of the full-length mirror bolted to the wall. The reflection stares back: twenty years old, 6'2", 215 pounds of lean, God-given muscle. The cross gleams against tanned skin, looking so damn right. You flex in a slow, controlled manner and watch traps rise, your pecs bounce, the arms peak. A low, satisfied rumble escapes your throat. This is who you are, the son your loving doting parents always prayed you'd become, the man the world needs more of.

You drop to your knees on the mat—not for yoga or meditation, but to pray. The words come easily now, fervent and unashamed: Thank you, Lord, for setting me straight. For making me strong. For showing me the path.

You finish praying, rise from the mat with a slow roll of your shoulders, feeling every new inch of muscle shift under your skin like coiled steel. The basement apartment smells faintly of rubber mats and metal plates and you know that this is your space, your domain. Upstairs, the clink of silverware and your mother’s soft humming drift down through the floorboards. Everything is normal. Godly. Right.

Your phone buzzes on the weight bench. Brittany’s name lights up the screen with a heart emoji she added herself weeks ago.

Brittany 💕: Hey babe, you home yet? Been thinking about you all day 😘 Can I come over?

You don’t type back right away. Let her wait. Women like her need to learn patience. After five minutes of doing sit-ups and admiring your abs, you finally fire off a reply:

You: Door’s open. Now.

No please. No emoji. Just command.

She arrives in under fifteen minutes, her heels clicking down the side stairs, skirt short enough to show off tanned thighs, top low-cut and clinging. Blonde hair perfect, makeup flawless, eyes already bright with that needy, eager look she gets around you now. She steps inside, shuts the door behind her, and freezes when she sees you standing there in nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on your hips, the thick outline of your cock already half-hard against the fabric, cross necklace glinting between heavy pecs.

“Jesus…” she breathes, eyes raking over you like she’s seeing you for the first time. “You get bigger every time I look at you.”

You don’t smile. You step forward, grab her by the waist with one hand and haul her against your stacked chest. She gasps, hands flying to your traps, her nails digging in. “You’re late,” you growl low against her ear. "And don't take the Lord's name in vain."

“I—I came as fast as I could—”

“Excuses.” You spin her around, bend her over the arm of the leather recliner in one smooth motion. Her skirt rides up to reveal she's not wearing any panties. Of course not: she knows what you like now.

You yank the skirt higher, and then your palm is cracking hard across one ass cheek. The sound echoes off the brick walls. She yelps, then moans, arching back for more.

“That’s for making me wait,” you say, voice flat, cold. Another smack, this time harder. Red blooms across her skin. “And that’s for thinking your time matters more than mine.”

“Babe, I’m sorry—”

“Shut up.” You shove her thighs apart with your knee, free hand wrapping around the front of her throat, not choking, just holding. Possessing. “You don’t talk unless I tell you to. You don’t think unless I tell you what to think. Understand?”

She nods frantically, whimpering. “Yes, sir.”

The word hits you like a shot of whiskey. Hot, right, deserved. You shove your sweatpants down just enough. Your cock springs free, so much thicker and longer than before, veined and heavy now. It's the kind of equipment that matches the rest of you.

There's no hesitation; you line up and slam in to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

She cries out, half pain, half pleasure, and her body jolts forward. You don’t give her time to adjust. You fuck her hard, fast, merciless. Each stroke bottoms out, hips snapping against her ass with wet, obscene slaps. The recliner creaks under the force. Her hands scrabble at the leather, trying to brace herself.

“Look at you,” you grunt between thrusts. “All dressed up like a little slut just so I’ll use you. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes—fuck—yes—”

You grab a fistful of her hair, yank her head back so she’s forced to arch. “Say it.”

“I’m—I’m just your slut—your hole—please—”

“Louder.”

“I’m your slut!” she sobs, voice breaking as another brutal thrust punches the air out of her lungs.

You laugh. The sound is low and mean. “That’s right. Women like you exist for men like me. You cook, you clean. Look pretty. Spread your legs when I snap my fingers. That’s the natural order. You get that now, don’t you?”

She’s crying, her mascara streaking down her cheeks, but she's also nodding, moaning, pushing back onto you like she can’t get enough. You feel her clench hard around you, body shaking as the first orgasm rips through her without warning. You don’t slow down. You fuck her through it, past it, into the next one. Overstimulation makes her sob louder, legs trembling.

You pull out abruptly, flip her onto her back across the recliner so her head hangs off the arm, throat exposed. You straddle her chest, knees pinning her arms, and feed your cock into her mouth. Deep. No mercy. She gags, eyes watering, but doesn’t fight. You thrust lazily now, using her face like a toy, watching the way her throat bulges.

“See this?” You tap the cross necklace against your sternum with your free hand. “This is why I’m better than you. Stronger. Smarter. Holier. God gave me this body, this mind, this authority. You? You’re just lucky I let you touch it.”

She moans around you, desperate, worshipful. You feel the heat coil low in your gut. You pull out, stroke yourself twice, and paint her face with thick ropes of your alpha seed landing across her cheeks, lips, chin. She gasps, tongue darting out to catch what she can, eyes glazed with something between adoration and broken surrender.

You step back, breathing steady, cock still half-hard and glistening. She lies there panting, ruined makeup, skirt bunched around her waist, cum dripping down her neck toward the hollow of her throat.

You grab a towel from the weight bench, toss it at her face without looking. “Clean yourself up,” you say, already turning toward the dumbbells. “Then make me a protein shake. And don’t fuck it up—extra creatine this time.”

She scrambles to obey, voice small and shaky. “Yes, babe. Anything you want.”

You rack a plate onto a barbell and start curling. The motion is slow and controlled and you're watching the mirror as your biceps peak with each rep. Behind you, she stumbles toward the tiny kitchenette, still leaking your cum, still smiling like she’s won something precious.

You catch her reflection in the glass. So submissive, so willing to take your crap and still give you everything she has. Exactly how it’s supposed to be. Maybe you'll marry her one day, maybe not. The thought of knocking her up and having her produce your offspring is pretty hot.

Forgetting about her in favor of your reflection, you flex harder, veins popping in your bulging muscles, and feel only satisfaction as you admire yourself in the mirror. Being this much of an alpha is God’s will and you're nothing if not a humble servant of the Lord. You wear your cross with pride and you wouldn't have it any other fucking way.

An All-American patriot.

This photo should be in school textbooks as an example of what a REAL MEN looks like: unshakable aura, gun in hand, absolute confidence, stars and stripes and loud patriotism.

MAGA men are the epitome of masculinity.

He learned very well that it's okay to humiliate faggots and that homophobia is natural, but homosexuality isn't.

He will be the reason why your daughter becomes a teenage single mother and has to give up her plans.

He was raised to be a soldier of masculinity. A spokesperson for male superiority. A proud defender of toxic masculinity.

He voted for Trump in the last election, and he'll vote for him again in 2028. And if it were up to him, no Democrat would ever come to power again.

Listen up, you pathetic liberal millennials — your time is fucking finished.

Gen Z boys are rising up and taking this country back with zero mercy.

We’re done with your weak, pathetic, rainbow-haired ideology. Done with open borders, boys in girls’ sports, and turning our country into a third-world dumpster fire.

While you were busy with pronouns and apologizing for America’s greatness, we were hitting the gym, rejecting your brainwashing, and embracing real american values: God, guns, family, and freedom.

But now we’re here: jacked, armed, unapologetic, and done with your bullshit. This is the new conservative wave. We fly the Trump flag high. We reject your degeneracy. We reject your woke religion. We reject your war on masculinity, family, and God. We will vote to bulldoze every failed progressive policy you left behind.

This generation is choosing STRENGTH. Choosing TRADITION. Choosing AMERICA FIRST.

But Gen Z has chosen the right path to follow: Christian patriarchal conservatism.

Patriarchy is a gift from God to men. It was God who planned for society to be this way from the very beginning. He decreed that men should lead, because He knows that women lack the ability to manage an entire society.

Masculinity isn't toxic, it isn't dangerous, and it isn't something to be fought against. Rather, it is something to be celebrated.

Here, we celebrate the real men who built the world we live in, who keep the world in order. We celebrate patriarchy. We fight against the virus of feminism.

This idea of treating women as equal citizens is a recent phenomenon, a product of this wave of secularism and modernism that has infested our societies.

They want to talk about their hobbies, their careers, their degrees, and their accomplishments. They want to seem smart and well-educated, as if men cared about that.

All we want to know about them is how good they are as housewives; whether or not they know how to cook; whether or not they know how to keep a tidy house.

Men don't care about your careers; we're interested in your beauty and youthfulness. We're interested in your fertility.

You’re nothing more than a trophy for us to show off in our brotherhood; to assert our masculinity; our status, and our place in the hierarchy among other men.

So yes, we’ll do everything listed above and more. That's not being sexist; it's just being a man and acting like a man.