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Sergeant Kristof checked his flat top in the rearview mirror of his car. As always, it was perfectly level with a hint of the landing strip peeking through. Still, it didn’t hurt to check. He didn’t make it this far in his military career without being sure about everything. And yet, here was full of doubt.

He had a reputation for being one of the top recruiters in the service. One of his superiors joked that if it weren’t for him, there wouldn’t even be a Marine Corps. He had a knack for finding the boys who needed guidance, the firm hand of the United States military to give them purpose, and convincing them to enlist. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he got to shave their heads. After all, that was his favorite part. Watching an undisciplined young man with shaggy hair lose all those wild locks as he began down a path of extreme discipline on his quest to become a well-trained soldier in Uncle Sam’s military? Who could resist!?

But now he was full of doubt. He always brought in these young athletic men, straight off the football team or baseball team but now his division was facing what his superiors called a “brain drain.” All these hot hunky soldiers were good, but there was barely half a brain cell between all of them. Sergeant Kristof was tasked with finding someone who could actually think. And that’s how he found himself parked outside the aerospace engineering building of the local university trying to find the next perfect victi–errr–recruit.

There were certainly plenty of potentials. The campus was awash in scrawny, brainy types who would almost certainly bring up the average IQ of his unit but how to pick which one to target? Usually he sought out boys with rippling physiques (and long hair) but how do you know which spindly nerd to turn into a Marine? He got out of his Hummer to stretch his legs, go for a walk, and do some thinking.

Sergeant Kristof had barely taken a step when he collided with one of the student. The student, a tall, lanky creature, bounced right off of Sergeant Kristof with his tree trunk physique.

“Excuse me, sir,” the young man stammered as he struggled to find his glasses amidst the giant pile of books he had been carrying. “I’m so sorry! I was preoccupied with one of my textbooks and I wasn’t watching where I was going. I don’t mean to be so clumsy!”

The sergeant watched this pathetic excuse for a man flail helplessly on the ground and a grin spread across his face. The boy was a wimp, that much was clear. But he was clearly a devoted student, exactly the kind of brain his superiors wanted. And he was tall, too, had to be at least 6’5” though he couldn’t weight more than 160 pounds sopping wet. That was OK. That was what basic training was for. But what really got Sergeant Kristof going was the boy’s hair: an unkempt mess of ginger locks, greased and sideparted clumsily with a cowlick in the back. The hair was beautiful and messy… and boy would it look good shaved off on the floor.

He couldn’t believe it. He had shown up to campus ready to party, his long hair blowing in the wind, his jeans ripped, and his sneakers scuffed. But something had happened during his meeting with his advisor. The man was… very persuasive about the freshman’s future academic career.

He showed up to his first class a completely changed man: a respectable man. His long flowing locks had been shorn into a strict horseshoe flattop. His casual clothing had been replaced with a closet full of starched short sleeve white shirts, black pleated slacks, ties, and white briefs. Inside each article of clothing was a tag with the day of the week so he knew what to wear each day. And everything was perfectly complemented with a pair of brightly shined penny loafers. To his classmates, he was anything but the freewheeling party dude he had arrived on campus as. They viewed him as a bit of a square, a fuddy duddy even!

The craziest part? He loves it. He loves how restricted and controlled he feels. He loves how short his hair has become. He loves never having to think about what to wear and just accepting his daily outfit. When he showed up to class, he was shocked to see his academic advisor had switched his major from music to classics but now he can’t think of anything better than studying Greek and Latin and translating the Ovid. Heck, he turns down weekend plans so he can spend more time at the library, properly dressed and studying like the hardworking man he is.

He would have told you just a few weeks ago that he was the ultimate rebel. Now? He’s the ultimate conformist and happier than he’s ever been. He will dress, groom, and act this way for the rest of his life because he knows it is proper. And he hopes you will join him.

Dress Like Your Boss. You’ll find him willing to spend more time with you. He’ll draft you into projects where you’ll find yourself working shoulder to shoulder with The Old Man for long hours of the work day. You’ll find yourself more and more eager to spend time with HIM, no matter how you fight against it. 

You take his photo to the barber. You have your hair cut into the same Short Back & Sides haircut that The Boss wears. You keep your 50s-style businessman’s pompadour carefully combed & slicked w/ Brylcreme- just like his. Your struggling hipster mustache is a thing of the past. You think that you hate it, but you find yourself compulsively shaving your face 3 times with the grain every morning. Your face is always immaculately smooth. You’ll be perfectly barbered & perfectly clean shaven for the rest of your life.

Soon you find yourself copying the style, cut, & colour of The Boss’ suits. Your closet fills w/ starched white shirts, gray suits, & sober ties. The Old Man approves, and sometimes compliments your suit or your tie. That REALLY gives you a hard-on! 

You steadily grow more and more eager to please Him. You find yourself thinking more and more like him. Admit it: he’s a domineering asshole, but you’ve grown to love & admire everything about him. Losing yourself in his service brings you a happiness that you’ve never thought possible.

Without ever saying it, The Old Man notices how happy you are. He can read you like a book. He knows that he’s turned you into his faithful obedient office slave. He sees how happy you are on his “collar & leash”. He steadily ramps up his personal domination over you. He knows that you’re lapping it up.

Who Knows? The day may come when he “offers” you a room off of the kitchen in his home. He tells you that you’re indispensable. He insists upon keeping you available (to tend to  ALL of his needs) 24/7. He insists that you ride to & from work with him. He’ll insist that you accompany him to every business meeting. He’ll insist that you accompany him on every business trip. He almost never lets you leave his side, unless he sends you on an errand. 

Wild to think that they had a been in a queer core punk band before. Leather jackets, shredded t-shirts, Doc Martens, dyed hair, nose rings: absolute rebels in every way. Loud, brash, fiercely independent.

Of course, their neighbor was a different sort of man: older, more traditional. And he wanted the men in his neighborhood to be traditional too. He was a retired parapsychologist, a former employee of the state department who worked on one of those secret programs to brainwash people. He had kept quite a bit of his research.

And so, when he hid the radio emitter in the backyard of the punk boys’ house, they never noticed how their brain waves were being subtly reprogrammed into a much more old fashioned way of thinking. Soon, the tattered clothing and denim vests covered in patches were gone. The boys started wearing nice high waisted slacks that came up to their ribs. Every day they buttoned up a dress shirt so sheer, you could see the white a-shirt through it. And of course, this was accompanied by a well tied bow tie. At first the men were confused by this desire, but soon they gave in as their reprogramming went deeper. Now they thought nothing of spending the afternoon ironing their white briefs for the week.

Their neighbor delighted in the change. As he peered out his window, he saw the boys return from a trip to the barbershop. Gone we’re the dyed mullets, replaced by naturally colored quiffs slicked with so much pomade, you could see the reflection of the sky in them. They truly looked as old fashioned as possible.

Soon, they began acting as old fashioned as possible. Their brash rebelliousness nature melted away as they became polite, timid, and meek. They couldn’t even look their neighbor in the eye as they shuffled past him on the street, saying “excuse me sir.” They called him “sir!” Can you believe it? These former rebels now intimidated by their elders!

And while the men had once been loud and proud about their sexuality, it now retreated as they adopted a more traditional attitude towards it. They were practically in the closet, and too chaste to do anything about their desires anyway.

No longer did they attend concerts; instead they attended church. No longer did they listen to punk rock; instead they listened to polka. No longer did they shred on a guitar; now they played accordions at the VFW to entertain the veterans.

Being an artist was overrated. Or at least that’s what he thought now that he had been reprogrammed. Before, he had been one of the brightest shining stars of the city’s street art scene. But that was before he got caught tagging a wall of Mr Gunderson’s shoe store.

Mr Gunderson was tired of this kind of element in the town. Messy hair, torn up jeans, cropped shirts. It was disrespectful and now here was a so-called artist disrespecting his property. He wouldn’t stand for it.

When the artist awoke in Mr Gunderson’s shoe store, he wanted to scream, but found himself gagged. In front of him, the traditional man laughed. His hair was lacquered just so, his face clean shaven. His clothes neatly pressed. A thick pair of hornrimmed glasses sat on his face.

“The problem with boys like you is that nobody raised them right,” he said to the artist. “But you’re my son now and I expect you to behave properly.”

The artist scoffed at this ludicrous statement but when Mr Gunderson stepped aside, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was shocked.

Mr Gunderson had drastically changed the artist’s appearance while he was unconscious. He had shaved the man’s prized beard, cut his hair to a well lacquered cut like his own, and put him in a starched short sleeve shirt, a well knotted tie, highwaisted slacks, white socks, and shined loafers. He looked like a goody two shoes.

“I know you don’t feel like this is your real life,” Mr Gunderson said as he reached into a drawer. “But you will.”

He pulled out a pair of hornrimmed glasses much like his own and approached the artist, slipping them on the now conformist man. At first, the artist wondered how these vintage glasses would make this feel more real, but then the artist stopped wondering.

Lights from within the glasses assailed his senses and he could feel his mind reeling. His memories of learning how to do graffiti came to forefront before being snuffed out.

He had never been an artist. No, he was Gilbert Gunderson, heir to the Gunderson Shoe Store and he had devoted his life to carrying on his father’s traditions. While other boys his age had rebelled, Gilbert has always wanted to be just like his dad: the same hair, the same conformist outfits, the same thick glasses, the same line of work.

“Like Father like son.”

The words rang out in your head as you sat before the man who had come to complain about your music being too loud. You hadn’t met the neighbor before then but now he was calling you son and insisting you call him Father. You protested, explaining you already had a father thank you very much and you didn’t need another one, but as the man gazed deep into your eyes, long plumes of smoke trailing from his pipe and exhaling from his mouth and drifting into your nose, your mind went blank. Yes, this was your Father and you were his son.

“Like Father like son.”

The man told you he wore a suit and tie every day. And now so would you. You wanted to protest. You wanted to explain you had spent enough money on the newest clothes from ASOS to keep your wardrobe fresh but as he repeated the phrase and you inhaled more of his smoke, you knew he was right. You would always dress like your Father. Every. Single. Day. He told you you would stop wearing your contacts and begin wearing black rimmed glasses like he did. You knew you would do it. You were powerless to resist.

“Like Father like son.”

Your mind emptied out as he filled it up with new rules to follow, manners to take on, protocols to live by. The phrase became your mantra and it would keep you behaving, dressing and grooming properly forever. Any time you thought about cursing or talking back to someone, you heard the phrase in your mind. “Like Father like son.” And instead you were polite and gracious.

Any time you felt like taking a casual day where you didn’t have your tie tied tight and a suit jacket on, or you wanted to skip shaving and just deal with being a little stubbly. “Like Father like son.” And you sprung to attention, shaved your face, applied Old Spice, and got dressed in a freshly starched shirt, tied your tie tight, and put on your sport coat. That’s how Father lived and therefore it was how you lived now too.

Any time you wanted to listen to music with curse words in it. “Like Father like son.”

Any time you wanted to watch a movie with nudity or violence. “Like Father like son.”

Any time you went to the barber shop and wanted a haircut besides the flat top Father made you get every two weeks. “Like Father like son.”

You were helpless to resist. You had to live up to Father’s standards. And the more you tried to fight it, the stronger the voice became. Until eventually, you stopped fighting it. The words were your mantra yes, but your behavior became automatic. Eventually you stopped resisting. Finally you were exactly like Father. You were his son, a perfect clone of him that any Father would be proud of.