#dumber tf

Thank you to Sir @redpilledredneckdad for this prompt.

Tony knew the night club from back to front. Behind the bar, the staff rooms, even where the money was stored. He did not work at the night club–he had just been railed in every part of it. Employees and customers alike loved his bubbly nature and forward behavior. When he asked if they would be interested in topping, no one passed the opportunity up. So it naturally came as a surprise when one night, he found a new bartender tending to the drinks.

“When did you start?” Tony leaned up to the counter and got straight to the point.

The bartender chuckled. “Just today. You’re Tony I presume?”

Tony cocked an eyebrow, “How’d you know?”

“I was warned about you,” the bartender joked. Tony wondered what he had been warned about. That he was a very cute and attractive twink? That he got rave reviews? That outside of his nightlife, he had a doctorate in French Literature, attended Pro-Choice rallies, and hosted a bake shop on the weekends? 

“Really?”

“I was told you were a menace.”

Tony guessed the bartender was in his thirties, somewhere between an otter and a cub. Hot, but not what he was looking for tonight. “Who said that? Danny or Jake?”

“I took a blood oath.” The bartender took one hand to his heart as if to illustrate. “I swore to God himself.”

“Fair, fair.” Tony was surprised by how much personality the bartender had, given he was clothed in a polished, yet standard suit. The bartender stuck out in the night club; he was an Adam in the garden after he had eaten the apple.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“A daddy.”

The bartender’s casual smile twisted slightly. “I can get you one of those.”

“Really?” Tony liked where this was going. Although instead of pointing out another customer like Tony had expected, the bartender assembled a quick drink. Tony turned away to scan the dance floor after the glass disappeared under the counter. Tony was momentarily distracted by the sound of a zipper but remained focused. Once he turned back around, the finished product was placed right in front of him. It was clear with a yellowy tint. 

Tony reached into the pocket of his skin-tight slacks for his credit card. The bartender shook his head in response.

“No need, it’s on the house.”

Tony frowned. “There’s never been free drinks here before.”

“It’s my first day, don’t you wanna celebrate?” the bartender quickly replied.

Unconvinced but not enough to reject a free drink, Tony brought the glass down and clinked it onto the counter. He then took a cautious sip, surprised by the icy condensation that sprinkled onto his bare chest. The dance music and rainbow lights behind him dulled, as if the world was focusing in on just Tony.

The bartender watched closely, his grin widening. “Thoughts?”

“It’s shockingly sour,” Tony winced slightly. “Is it a cider?”

“Not quite. Why don’t you have another taste?”

Tony took another swallow. The drink stung the back of his throat, digging its nails through his flesh. Tony's eyes began to water.

“Holy Father…” Tony coughed, then paused. What had he just said?

“That’s better.” There was something strange about the bartender’s voice, a new color lurking within it. “I think you should have some more.”

Tony’s arm moved on its own, sloshing the liquid down into his system. This time though, the drink went down easier. His body was already familiarizing it, like it was something Tony had had thousands of times before.

The bartender, satisfied, decided to move the conversation forward. “Don’t you find clubs like these depressing?”

Tony gulped. “Why would I?” His voice sounded off. Too American, too starchy.

“You know, all this sin.”

Sin. The word bounced around the walls of Tony’s skull. At first, he did not understand what the bartender was referring to. He scanned the floor once more. Men sliding up and down against each other. Sticky sweat and the smell of pheromones. One guy holding his partner up, kissing him roughly on the lips.

Sin. 

Tony felt something flicker inside his gut. A twist of something rotten. Disgust.

“You see it now, don’t you?” the bartender questioned. “It’s all so garish and vulgar. They look so depraved.”

Tony’s stomach turned as he went in for another sip. Although the room was dark, he could catch a bit of his reflection in the glasses stacked behind the bar. His face appeared tighter, the lavish soft qualities that countless men had admired had hardened into something more rigid, more demanding. Tony did not even register the drink sliding down his throat anymore. The burn felt good, right.

“This country used to be respectable,” the bartender said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tony’s bangs receded slightly, pulling out of the top of his vision. The tropical air of the room begin to coat his forehead as his hair withdrew farther and farther back. It thinned as well, mocking the luscious curls he formerly had and transitioning Anthony's haircut into a relaxed but well-conditioned Ivy League. A look that said “See, I can have a little fun.”

“I mean you seem like the kind of guy who has seen things.” The bartender’s voice slithered into Tony’s ear. “You remember the good ‘ole days of America.”

A solid line engraved itself into Tony’s exposed forehead. Then another, then another. More appeared around his eyes and carved themselves into his cheeks. Tony’s skin, which had undergone daily treatments since he was in high school, constricted, weathered over the years into something more leathery. There was a history to his body now.

“When were you born, anyway?” the bartender asked. 

Tony moved the glass away from his mouth, “1973.”

What?! No, it was 2003! He was not 53 years old!! Tony had been born when Bush was in office, the second Bush. That was only 23 years ago. Wow, had it been that long already? It felt like just yesterday that Tony Jr. had been born. Wait, who was Tony Jr.?

“You grew up during the Reagan Era?” the bartender asked. “Fuck, I’m jealous.”

“Language,” Tony’s voice snapped on its own, robust and authoritative. Why did he say that, who cared what anyone said anymore?

“Sorry man,” the bartender backed off, although he could not hide his amusement. “Why don’t you tell me what it was like? Being a kid of the ‘80s.”

Why would Tony know? He could not even imagine it. All he knew about the 80s was the arena rock and how every other person he knew had a mullet. There were the movies too, huge blockbusters featuring new ideas and technology. He was practically raised on Saturday cartoons before growing into drive-in theatres. Tony remembered hearing about…learning about the eruption of Mount St. Helens. Watching the Berlin Wall come down on TV, or was it on the internet?

“And the Evangelicalism too,” the bartender added. Had Tony been speaking aloud this whole time? “I bet you were big into that.”

The bartender nodded to Tony’s chest. Tony looked down, surprised to find a thin gold cross resting in the valley between his two fur-dusted pecs. Had he not shaved before coming here? He was always clean-shaven. And why was his dress shirt white? It had been black before, right? No, his suit coat was black, the suit coat he had received for his 50th birthday. Perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and the right taper for his sculpted legs. Caroline had gifted it to him, how could he forget? Who the hell was Caroline?

“You married, sir?”

Tony did not recognize the bartender’s subtle addition. He took another swig from his glass. “Yes.”

He was married? The more Tony questioned it, the clearer the images became. Met in college, engaged after graduation, first kid around…right, 2003. Tony coughed into his drink. A kid? Was he married to a women?! No, that could not be true! He had to stop drinking whatever the bartender had given him. Tony was a homosexual, through and through. He was not straight, he was not-

“What’s her name?”

“Caroline.”

Good Lord she was beautiful. Tony thanked God–no he did not!–he thanked God everyday for blessing him with such a beautiful wife. And providing him with his career and-

“Kids?”

“Three of them, all strapping young lads.”

-three handsome young men. Anthony “Tony” Jr., 2003, was the oldest, pursuing a Master's in Political Studies at the most prestigious university available. Matthew, 2008, was captain of the soccer team and president of his preparatory school’s Young Republicans. And Donald “Donny”, 2015, named after a close friend of Anthony’s, was applying for his gun license and worked as a Sunday School mentor at their local church.

Suddenly, from a corner of the club, a group of gay men hollered out, cackling like hyenas. The bartender openly scowled in their direction.

“Degenerates,” Tony said. “Their perversion is abhorrent.”

The bartender smiled. “Would you prefer to be somewhere more traditional, sir?”

The scene around the pair warped and twisted. The neon lights softened, gathering into an orange glow. The harsh metals sturdied into hardwoods, the patrons clothed themselves in attire more fitting for the real world. To Tony, the scene became more normal; it had straightened itself into something he could feel comfortable in. The bartender–and as he now realized, himself–fit into this new reality. The reality where drinks were poured and discussions about economics, religion, and occasionally women were held.

“Much better,” the bartender commented. “Wouldn’t you agree, uh…”

“Anthony,” Ton-...Anthony replied. “Anthony Spencer.”

“The Republican representative?” the bartender asked. “Well had I known I was serving such an esteemed man, I would have offered you a second drink!"

Anthony chuckled, “The Lord and I are not stopping you from doing so now.”

The bartender nodded and prepared a glass, pulling out the most expensive bourbon available. A man of Anthony’s standing would certainly appreciate it. Hard and unforgiving, just as he was. A man dedicated to making his country great and straight again. A man who was not afraid to promote the union of church and state. Anthony had lived through decades of corruption: Hilary Clinton, the Obama administration, Obergefell v. Hodges. It was not until Trump’s first term that Anthony realized he ought to do something. And in Trump’s second that he could–he ran to represent his state and won.

Anthony remembered the day fondly, standing in front of his humble McMansion and announcing his victory to the press. The journalists and crowds swarmed his gates, curious to hear what he had to say.

“It’s obvious that the people are not looking for another politician promising them progress,” he had said. “They wanted a defender of this country’s most sacred values. A husband, a father.”

Behind him stood his beautiful Caroline, the woman who had been by his side since day one. Who had found him his first job out of college through her father’s financial firm, who had birthed not one, not two, but three of his offspring. And now, as they had just discovered, would in less than a year be bringing him a fourth. 

“My campaign is not about protecting the everyday American, but the traditional American family. Protecting the faith that guides our laws and the people–the good white, Christian people–that uphold them. 

Anthony’s sons filled out the picture, the epitome of young masculinity. He had raised them to be the best men they could be. Red-blooded Christian Americans who would fight for their rights and their country. 

“It will be my duty to create the legislation that sanctifies our marriages and strike those down that contaminate them. To oppose policies that promote unsightly ideologies and support those that crucify them. I will fight against the ‘woke’ agenda and Make America Great Again!”

The response from the crowd had been unanimous: a roaring applause. With a smile, Anthony was returned back to his current conversation as a second glass was placed in front of him.

“Thank you for all the work you've done to defend this country, Representative Spencer,” the bartender said. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Anthony took a sip, lavishing the alcohol on his tongue. “This’ll do for now. If there’s anything else I need, I’ll let you know.”

Thank you to Sir @redpilledredneckdad for this prompt.

Another late night for Joseph. The world of politics never let up. No matter how hard he worked there was always one more setback, one more scandal. The Democratic senatorial candidate Joseph worked for was a decent guy without any baggage (or so he believed), yet there was always some issue that needed to be resolved. The candidate was too old, too loud, too pro-Palestine yet not pro-Palestine enough. 

There was always something no matter how minor the complaint. Joseph had a theory it was due to the opposing candidate, some lunatic MAGA disciple. Rather than be civil about, well, anything, the opposing candidate deliberately attacked everyone and anyone. No one was safe, including Joseph it seemed, as an email from the opposing candidate’s campaign arrived in his inbox.

“Are you ready to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN?” the ad asked, showcasing a college jock standing so cockily as if he owned the entire world. Joseph was so sick of the bold capital letters–it was like a party trick at this point, something everyone copied once they saw someone cooler do it. “BRAD is doing his part! Download our file to join us TODAY!”

Joseph was unimpressed. The rest of the email was pretty standard. Violent pops of red, pictures of the opposing candidate shaking hands with this Brad and other young, attractive whites. Did the opposing candidate not want to be pictured with people of his own age? Sure, older men like Joseph were typically not the most attractive out there, but it felt strange to watch someone campaign explicitly to one generation, especially when not all the members could vote.

With a huff, Joseph moved his mouse to delete the email. He hesitated before clicking the trash icon though. Maybe it was the corny, attention-grabbing desperation of the email, but Joseph found himself downloading the attached file. He wanted to know what the opposing candidate possibly had in mind. It took a while for the download to complete, a long while. But Joseph had to give credit where it was due: “red.wav” was a funny name.

The file opened to reveal a spiral. It coiled enticingly, the stark red and white pattern drawing Joseph in before he could form a single reactive thought. There was something so smooth about it, so enlightening. It was easier to just stare into the spiral and follow its directions.

Relax. The words flashed on the screen. Obey.

Joseph nodded along dreamily. His motor functions delicately turned off one by one, disconnecting from his brain.

Obey. The flashing words were now broken up by images of the opposing candidate. The opposing candidate at rallies. The opposing candidate with his All-American family. Obey. The opposing candidate shaking hands with Trump.

Joseph began to sweat. He felt unusually hot.

Weakness. The screen then began flashing blue, interspersing new pictures in between. Protests for equity and equality. Pride flags. Multiculturalism. Losers. Women. LGBT. Liberals. There was nothing Joseph’s brain could do to fight against the onslaught. He could only absorb.

The screen then switched back to red. Strength. Big men. Muscular men. Jocks and athletes. Power. Anger. Riots. Storming the capital. Tradition. Church. White privilege. Heterosexuality. 

You will become Conservative. Only one image began to flash back and forth now. It was the opposing candidate, sticking his finger right at Joseph. Joseph could almost feel his touch. You will become Conservative. Joseph was overheating, it felt like his body was going to disintegrate. You will become MY Conservative. 

Like a candle, Joseph’s skin began to melt. It started at his head, the pale goo descending in a slow cascade, bringing his graying, balding hair with it. The forehead wrinkles came next, then the crows feet, and eventually the rest of his face dripped away. As Joseph’s face disappeared, a new one emerged from underneath the muck. A square jaw pushed its way out, followed by a triangular nose. A set of youthful cheeks brought color as a wave of rippling brown hair sprung forth from the scalp.

The years of worry and stress had begun to pool around Joseph’s collar, its weight stripping away the shirt and eroding its buttons. An Adam’s apple sharply thrusted forward from the thicker neck that materialized while the conglomerating goo sunk further. The fat Joseph had collected through office work and neglect softened and detached from his body, revealing a gray tank underneath. Behind the material layer was a fresh pectoral shelf and six unbreakable abs. 

The arms held similar surprises: after being unburdened of Joseph’s past, the exposed limbs now boasted meaty triceps, biceps, and strong mitts. The melted mass then reached Joseph’s midsection and begun spilling over his legs. A stronger core was unveiled along with a plush set of buttocks and a fat, needy package. Bloated thighs hidden behind athletic shorts were followed by statuesque calves. Finally, the waxy mess submerged Joseph’s feet; a pair of white Size 13 Nikes eventually floated to the surface. The pale goo then quickly launched itself around the room, converting the office into a more appropriate setting.

Patriot. Again the images of the opposing candidate began to flash by, but from a new perspective. The framing was now at ground level, as if the rally was a memory rather than a picture. As if the opposing candidate’s family portrait was an event Joseph had attended. As if the opposing candidate’s handshake with Trump was his lock screen.

Warrior. Flashes of football games that he not only attended, but played in. Of parties and Make America Great Again clothing. Of his first ballot checking every red box available. 

Obey. The opposing candidate. What remained of Joseph’s consciousness was fading fast.

Obey. The opposing candidate. Joseph understood his new purpose, his new mission.

Obey. The opposing candidate. You are Conservative. The opposing candidate. You are MY Conservative.

Unceremoniously, the file closed itself with a little ping. A cocky smirk soon found its way across the new jock's face as the fog inside his head lifted. The jock tried to remember what had just happened but found his memory empty.

Reopening his email, the jock was delighted to find a new message from the promising senatorial candidate he would be voting for this November.

“Are you ready to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN?” the ad asked followed by a few simple instructions. The jock immediately obliged, obeying the email’s commands before heading off to some frat party for the evening.

— 

Another late night for Gregory. The world of advocacy never let up. No matter how hard he worked there was always one more setback, one more scandal. In some future life, Gregory hoped he would not choose a field so controversial. But to be fair, it felt like everything was controversial these days. Like the email from the Republican senatorial campaign that had just arrived in his inbox. Gregory wondered what idiotic fight that hotshot bigot was trying to wage now.

“Are you ready to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN?” the ad asked, showcasing a college jock standing so cockily as if he owned the entire world. “JOEY is doing his part! Download our file to join us TODAY!”

“I…I’m sorry! I didn’t-”

Gabriel’s heart stood still, fearing the man towering over him. How had he even gotten in this situation in the first place? All he had needed was a lighter or even some matches to get the grill started at his parents’ cabin, which he had asked to loan out over the weekend. The college freshman had noticed the neighbor–and his brutish handsome qualities–before and decided to make the walk over. He imagined the worst case scenario would be that the man was not home. The best was that he would help him light the grill. And that the man would find Gabriel charming and adorable and would bend him over and the two would begin a secret affair.

Once Gabriel arrived, he assumed that the man was not home. The rusty truck Gabriel usually saw in the driveway was missing. But just as he was about to leave, he noticed that the front door was unlocked. Curiously, Gabriel stepped into the cabin. Taxidermy, rustic paintings, and antique furniture decorated the wooden space. It stunk of cigarettes and beer.

The red flags became more visible the farther Gabriel went in: a MAGA hat on a chair, a Confederate flag by the bathroom, at least three guns lying around (who knew how many were out of sight). Gabriel refocused and proceeded with his mission, venturing over to the small kitchen which, to his slight disgust, had not been cleaned in what looked to be weeks. He opened every drawer and cabinet but found nothing. Gabriel then proceeded to a closet, then another, and eventually found himself inside one of the two bedrooms. 

Unlike the other which was a bit barren, this bedroom was certainly lived in. Quilts were pulled back as if someone had just left the bed. The closet, which had more flannels than Gabriel had ever seen in his life, was disorganized. The space was musty, masculine but in a comforting way. Gabriel was not surprised to find himself chubbing up a bit. Lustfully, he knelt down to the dirty clothes hamper, shyly searching through the treasure trove. 

Gabriel struck gold right away–a dirty sock, thoroughly stretched and abused. A deep sniff sent a shiver of ecstasy down Gabriel’s body, the pure musk enrapturing him. Then he discovered the boxer shorts, their plaid long faded. The college freshman nearly squealed with delight when he located sweat stains, bringing the distended fabric to his face. Gabriel was too distracted by his pervy desires to recognize the shadow falling over him. He did hear the creak of the wood behind him though, immediately twisting his body to find the man looming over him.

“What the fuck do you think yer doin’ here, son?”

His voice shook like thunder, a gravelly weight that crushed Gabriel’s argument before he even had a chance to speak it into existence. The man was certainly over six feet tall and had enough meat on his body that if he laid on Gabriel, he could suffocate him. He was more bear than man with all his hair and muscular bulk, something that in any other situation would have truly turned Gabriel on. Well, Gabriel actually was turned on. Everything besides his cock was terrified, especially when he noted the gun perched right inside of the man’s jeans.

Gabriel stuttered out a response but the man shut him up real quick. “Ya think it’s ok to just walk into another man’s property like this?”

“No! I was just…just looking for-”

“For what, exactly?” The man then noted his discarded laundry slightly behind Gabriel. Gabriel sat frozen as the man put together a conclusion. “Fuck, yer nothin’ but a horny lil faggot, aren’t ya?”

The slur slapped Gabriel in the face. He had never been called it before, but now that the truth was out and proud it stung.

“Yer a degenerate that’s fer sure,” the man spat. “I oughta put ya in yer place ‘fore somethin’ like this happens again.”

Gabriel watched as the man’s hands moved towards his gun. Gabriel’s mouth opened to beg for mercy, ready to plead for his life, but the man simply dropped the gun onto the bed beside him. Then, he undid his belt and let his jeans and boxers fall to the floor, unveiling a massive, hairy cock. The wave of masculine musk splashed into Gabriel moments later, silencing his mind.

“Yeah, that’s good, son,” the man’s voice was warm, drawing Gabriel closer. “That’s a good, obedient cum dump.”

Gabriel did not know what to do. He decided to simply follow the man’s orders.

“Don’t resist it.” The tip of the man’s girthy cock touched Gabriel’s lips. Without thought, Gabriel opened his mouth, letting the guest enter. “All nine inches and, yeah, there ya go.”

Despite it being his first time, Gabriel was surprised by how easy the entire cock fit inside of his mouth. It was a strange realization to discover that he was a natural. Then, he felt the man’s hands place themselves on either side of his skull. With a grunt, the man began thrusting back and forth like a drill.

“Hold…still…son!” The man grunted, picking up speed. Gabriel could barely breathe, and when he did, all he inhaled was the ball sweat of the man’s giant bush. He was powerless as the man used him. Was this some kind of sick ritual? Was the man trying to scar Gabriel for life? If so, it was sort of working. Gabriel’s eyes began to water; he should have never come into this stupid house. He should have just skipped the grill and found something else to eat. But instead Gabriel was here, being used as a hole. The man unloaded himself into his stomach. Gabriel could do nothing as the man’s magmatic flow swirled down his throat and pooled within his stomach. 

“That oughta fix ya up, son,” the man grunted. His cock came out of Gabriel’s mouth with a thick plop! He then proceeded to reassemble himself, pulling up his boxers and jeans like nothing had happened.

Gabriel groaned, his stomach felt bloated. 

“Dontcha worry,” the man assured, replacing his gun. “Yeuh’ll be dandy here in just a few minutes.”

“What…?” Gabriel mumbled, slowly standing up. He felt disoriented, as if the world around him was shifting. Gabriel had expected to find himself at eye level with the man’s pectoral shelf. When his vision finally cleared, he was surprised to find himself facing the man’s beard. 

“Hmmmm, a lil shorter than I woulda liked,” the man said, disappointed.

“How did I…?” Again, Gabriel felt nauseated, as if he was going to puke. Something in his stomach gurgled unnaturally. Gabriel lowered his head, surprised to find the front of his shirt shaking. Panicked, he immediately stripped to get a better view. He had been skinny before, but now there was undeniable definition to his torso. And a tan, and hair.

“What…what did you do to me?” Gabriel nervously asked, although he was not sure if he wanted the answer. He felt his upper chest begin to tingle, watching in horror as it filled out slightly with a sturdy pair of pecs.

“Isn’t it obvious, son?” The man’s tone was belittling. “I redpilled ya.”

“You…what?!” Gabriel’s arms went numb. In seconds they began to ripple, bulking up with lean muscle as the veins corded themselves down the tanning skin. Brown hairs sprung forth all the way to his hands, which grew larger and calloused. Dirt shoved itself underneath his nails as they became misshapen.

“Are ya deaf, son? I redpilled ya.” The man spoke as if it was the most obvious thing. “No use in ya bein’ a lousy fag, so I decided to man ya up.”

Gabriel still did not understand, but he was interrupted by the uneasiness in his lower limbs. Feeling the tightness around his waistband, Gabriel lowered his shorts and underwear immediately, unbothered by the fact that the other man was still in the room. Gabriel’s thighs vibrated, fattening with each shake until they became two hairy logs. His calves strengthened too, bringing the new virility down to his feet which flattened out into a comparable size to the man’s. In fact, now that he thought about it, a lot of Gabriel’s changed body was comparable to the man’s.

“And there’s no better redpill than one straight from the hose,” the man continued. “Yeuh’ll be nothin’ more than my God-fearin, fag-sneerin’ rebel son in no time.”

“S-sOn?!” Gabriel’s voice cracked midway through this realization, losing some of its height and character in the process. His face began to rearrange itself, matching the qualities of the man before him but slightly softening them. Wide clefted chin, duller brown hair, thicker eyebrows and nose. Although Gabriel could not see him, he could feel the resemblance. He did not want to become this man’s son. He did not want to become just another straight white American redneck.

“Let me get ya some new clothes while ya finish up.” The man then left the room, leaving Gabriel alone. What was there to finish up? Was this his chance to escape? Gabriel mentally made the effort to move his limbs, any of them, but instead found himself stuck in place. He had to leave, he had to go back to his cabin. His cabin across the street. No wait, that was the neighbor’s cabin. This was his cabin.

Gabriel shook his head. Where did that thought come from? He had to escape from dad…no this man! He was smart, he was educated. He went to high school. No, home school. Yeah, and Sunday School of course, as every good American should. Pops made sure of that, and made sure he started learning about their heritage from the get-go. Like the great Confederation. His great-great-great-great granddad fought in the Civil War. Or was it his great-great-great-great-great granddad? Either way, God bless ‘em!

And God bless the troops who are fightin’ those wetbacks today! And fightin' the cryin’ libtards tryin’ to take control of their food and water and way of life. And can’t forget the trannies, pervin’ on those sweet lil ladies’ rooms. God, how Gabe wished he could be in those ladies’ rooms. No, no wait he was not like this! He did not want to be some repressed horny loser. Gabe was gay. He liked gu…g...gals. He liked their fat boobs and their wet pussies and everythin’ else his pops told him to like. Gabe fucked any dumb bitch he wanted to. It was his right after all. He was just doin’ God’s duty and bein’ a good American.

Just thinkin’ about impregnatin’ another chick had him throbbin’. His mighty man was pointin’ straight out, thick and heavy just like his pops. He’d have preferred to dump it in something warm, but instead he found his ole familiar friend grippin’ and tuggin’. With a masculine grunt, Gunnar came, spreadin’ his mighty seed onto his dad’s wooden floor.

“Quite the harvest there, son,” his pops laughed, tossing him some clothes. An old tee, dirty jeans, and a baseball cap. Gunnar's favorite cap! All hand-me-downs from his dad.

“Thanks, pops.” Gunnar got dressed and joined his dad in the living room. He plopped down on the old couch and cracked open the fresh beer offered to him. Gunnar felt like he was missing something. Being as dumb as he was, it took him a while to figure it out. Finally, the gears clicked into his head, digging his hand into his back pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

“Gotta light?” Gunnar asked, offering the pack to his father.

His pops smirked, taking the offer. “Of course son, all ya had to do was ask.”

Thank you to Sir @redpilledredneckdad for this prompt.

Please note this story has some racist undertones. Reader discretion is advised.

“It’s an embarrassment, we are a disgusting embarrassment to this country,” Tyrone furiously spat. “Every time we take one step forward in this state, I swear we take at least five steps back.”

His assistant offered some remarks over the phone, agreeing with him.

“I understand it’s been banned before but that was over ten years ago!” Tyrone fought back. The news was painted all over the city: the state had repealed its bill forbidding the Confederate flag from flying over the state capital. Instantly, the stars and bars proudly went up the pole, and not only at the capital. As Tyrone drove throughout the city, he swore the flags were popping up one by one like weeds. “We live in a different culture now, one run by a narcissistic pedophile!”

His assistant agreed, only infuriating Tyrone further. He had to do something.

“I’ll sue them!” Tyrone exclaimed, pulling into the parking lot. “I’ll sue them all!”

His assistant paused.

“I’ve got the money, I’ve got the funds.” Tyrone moved a hand over his head, the sweat clinging to his tight coils. “My donors will support me. Heck, I have over one million followers that could chip in too.”

Tyrone had spent his whole life fighting against the system. From an early age he understood that America was built around a caste structure, one that put white people on top and all others on the bottom. At first, as a confused elementary student he was led to believe this meant he was to hate white people, but as he grew older, he learned to channel that hate towards specific groups. Bigots, billionaires, politicians (in most cases, just Republicans). He became a fiery activist in his adult years, growing in popularity due to his unapologetic takes to fight back.

Whether it meant supporting his people or eventually those in foreign countries, Tyrone found himself on the front for rights. He had helped create laws, he had helped feed starving children. Tyrone was an activist, and he was not going to let his home state fall back into its “traditional” ways. 

“Look, we can talk about this tomorrow. I’ve just gotten to the hotel and after this disaster of a day, I need a glass of whiskey and a long night’s sleep.”

His assistant agreed and ended the phone call. With an agitated sigh, Tyrone grabbed his things and made his way to the hotel’s front entrance. It was no resort–after all, being an activist was no six-figure job–but it was enough to get Tyrone through the night. He would take a bath, relax, and cool down. If Tyrone was going to fight his entire state, his home, he would need to be in his best health, mental included.

“Room 413.” The young attendant handed Tyrone an access card and returned his ID. Tyrone reviewed the latter for a moment. The man in the picture did not look 38. Perhaps a decade older at least. It was obvious Tyrone had spent his life fighting the impossible. Weathered skin, wrinkles. The color and life in his eyes remained, but what else?

Shaking his head, Tyrone thanked the attendant and approached the elevator. Moments later he arrived at his door. A small white room was hidden, holding only a bed and a cheap wooden wardrobe. Instantly, Tyrone began to undress. It was not late, but the exhaustion was catching up to him quickly. First the blue tie, then the tailored tux. The polished oxfords came off one by one. Clunk, clunk. Dress shirt unbuttoned and belt removed, slacks to the floor. In the end, Tyrone was left in a puddle of his own making, only clothed by the holey boxers hidden slightly underneath his pudgy belly. He decided to discard those too, opting to sleep naked.

Usually cleanly, Tyrone approached the closet to hang up his ensemble but was surprised to find a shoe box resting on the first shelf. It was nothing fancy, in fact Tyrone recognized the athletic branding, and by the look of the red fabric poking through the lid, it was full. Politely, Tyrone pushed the shoebox aside and laid his clothes out, putting the dirty pieces in a pile and tomorrow’s set onto hangers. By the time he finished, he found himself wobbling backwards. His aching mind was begging him to rest, and Tyrone obeyed.

— 

When Tyrone awoke, it took him a moment to mentally process where he was. Tangled gray comforter, empty bathroom, blank walls. As the hotel reestablished itself, so too did the events of the day prior. Tyrone’s blood slowly began to boil, but he knew his first actions had to be civil. He was an activist, not a terrorist. First shower, then breakfast, then rampage.

Tyrone got out of the bed with a grunt, his large frame stumbling into the bathroom. After a thorough piss, he went to turn on the shower before realizing there were no towels on the rack. Tyrone proceeded to check the sink cabinet and found none. He then searched for a phone to call room service and once again was left empty-handed.

Confused, he made his way to the cabinet, even though he remembered seeing nothing but the shoebox inside the day before. He opened the wooden doors to reveal he was correct: nothing but the shoebox.

“Wait…” Tyrone blinked. “my clothes!”

The outfit he had worn mere hours ago had disappeared completely. So to had the set he had meticulously laid out before crashing into bed. A bit panicked, Tyrone raced around the room, searching for any of his belongings. His bag, his wallet, his laptop. Even his smartphone was gone. Nothing was in the sheets or underneath the bed and the room was small enough to confirm that there was nowhere else to look. 

“No, no, no!” Tyrone began to panic. What was he supposed to do? Go down to the front desk and say that he was robbed while naked? What if someone got a picture of him? He could be ruined!

Tyrone’s eyes scanned the room once more, the shoebox stared at him from the cabinet. The shoebox! Tyrone rushed to the cabinet, hoping for a miracle. He dumped out the shoebox's contents.

“Shoes, socks, underwear…” Tyrone listed every item off. A baseball cap, sunglasses, a necklace. The clothes options were not ideal, but soon his hands latched onto something rectangular.

“A phone!”

The screen lit up and Tyrone instantly dropped the device, stunned. The background was none other than the Confederate flag, teasing him. Was this some kind of sick prank? Did someone rob him and was forcing Tyrone to humiliate himself? Although he was not sure, the evidence began to stack up as Tyrone investigated the other items. The shoes, a pair of sneakers at least three sizes too big, would definitely not fit him. The socks were also too large and well pre-worn for that matter. The worst offender was the boxer briefs, proudly placing the cross of the bars right over the pouch.

Tyrone groaned. He knew he was innocent of any crime, he knew that he was in a horrible situation. But sadly, Tyrone also knew he had no other options. Someone was trying to frame him, destroy his name. He could not go out naked, that was obvious, but he could at least cover himself in a sheet or even the comforter for extra protection. Unfortunately though, Tyrone would have to wear what had been left for him.

Disgusted with himself, Tyrone slowly brought the boxer briefs up his legs, trying to ignore the fact that when he had first picked them up, he had found a few pubes and stains inside. Next were the socks, limply covering his feet and climbing up his calves. Trying to cheer himself up, Tyrone added the cap, sunglasses, and necklace. He tried to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but instead found himself looking into the mirror and finding his reflection humiliating. He could not do this, he could never do this.

Taking a seat on the bed, Tyrone reached for the waistband of the boxer briefs but was alarmed to find himself sporting a boner. Although physically lacking in some departments, Tyrone was very well-endowed, making the scene even more comical. He reached to remove the second skin but was jolted back by a violent shock.

Frozen, Tyrone kept his eyes trained on the boxer briefs, watching as his cock deflated. No, shrunk. It was still hard, pulsating with life, but it had dwindled, lessened before his very eyes. He could then feel his testicles too, pulling up slightly as they lost some of their weight.

“What the-” Tyrone started but stopped himself as he noticed a pinch of white creeping out of the boxer briefs. Shocked, Tyrone watched as it began to grow, crawling up to his belly button. With it came brown hairs. Their texture was not like his own–they were distinctly different. 

“No…no no!” Tyrone called out, terrified as the whitening oil began to spill outward, gobbling up all the melanin in its path. The fat on his stomach melted away, the pale skin revealing a set of abdominals that in any other situation, would have made him happy. A brown treasure trail crept up and once past its destination, began to scatter itself lightly across Tyrone’s slimming chest. Stretch marks and wrinkles disappeared along with his color, drowned out by the white wave unsaturating his arms and hands. Thick, youthful muscles bloomed from the new ground, supported underneath by fluffy and musky pits.

The wave descended downwards too, spilling out onto the thighs and covering them in a thick layer of soft, chestnut fur. The color in Tyrone’s calves were then erased along with a few inches as he found his feet slightly lifted off the floor. Speaking of his feet, Tyrone was horrified to find his soles widening to fill out the remaining space within the socks. They began to emit a funk so pungent that it practically screamed privileged arrogance.

The melanin then slowly drained from his neck, crawling up past his softening chin. The signs of age were covered by pasty baby fat, his coils fluffed out into thick, thin brown curls. Every genealogical feature that indicated his past melted away, eaten by the milky features that now covered his body like a disease. The man before Tyrone was young, white, and undeniably cocky. He fit the outfit perfectly.

With the physical transformation complete, Tyrone believed his personal horror movie was over. However, he found himself corrected as a piercing arrow shot through his skull, obliterating his defenses. Instantly a new history began to corrupt Tyrone’s memories. Growing up on a farm in the rural South. Attending church every Sunday. Learning about the great Confederate states of America-

“Stop, stop!” Tyrone desperately cried, but it was no use. Learning about tradition, appreciating heritage. Understanding the hierarchy, discovering he was on top. 

The rallies began to fill his head. No longer was he on the stage, no longer was he covered in the colors of multiculturalism and rights for all. Now, he found himself in the crowd, one of the sheep, doused in red. Saturated in hateful propaganda. Supporting what he now believed was right.

“Protect Women!” “Traditional Family Values!” “America First!”

“Please…” Tyrone mumbled, breaking down.

“White is Right!” “Make America Great Again!”

For a moment, Tyrone felt empty. The pain he felt disappeared, evaporating from existence. Then, the void refilled. Anger. Pride. Passion. Dominance. Greatness. It swirled inside of the new man. He felt renewed by his gifted privileges, and he was determined to protect them. No degenerates or faggots or libtards were going to stop him. Sure he dropped out of high school, but you did not need an education when you had the Lord on your side. And as long as Tyler was White and Right, he would always have the Lord on his side.

“Fuck bro, gotta update my feeds!” the 19-year-old exclaimed to no one in particular. Grabbing his phone beside him, he quickly typed in his password; 020861, the day the Confederacy was formed. Tyler then took a picture of his reflection, proudly displaying his perfect body and political outfit, before sending it out to the masses.

“Want to try a free sample of our new drink?”

Anders looked from his boyfriend, Kevin, to the small booth. Admittedly, he was shocked the stand even existed, promoting a new beer out in public felt off, if not outright illegal. Not only that, but the marketing of the stall definitely clashed against the liberal arts college in its background–the cheaply-made AI American front was not exactly welcome by any means.

“Uh, we’re good, thanks,” Kevin said, beginning to walk off. Anders grabbed his boyfriend’s arm before he could get too far.

“What?” Kevin registered Anders’s face. “You’re not serious.”

“C’mon, who doesn’t love a little day-drinking?” Anders teased.

“When did you start liking beer?”

“I don’t.” Anders’s next class was mathematics, and although he had a high grade, he dreaded the exam that awaited him. “That’s the joy of a free sample, right?”

The man at the stand grinned, presenting Anders with a tall can. Anders took it, a bit surprised. He had been expecting a cup with a few ounces inside, not a whole can.

“Uh, thanks!” Anders said.

“Trust me, dude, you’ll be thanking me.”

Anders then grabbed Kevin and scurried off. Minutes later, they found a private space to tuck away, taking a seat beside each other on a bench.

“You’re going to have to drink some of this with me.” Anders realized the beer not only looked out of place against the campus, but against himself too. A skinny guy in a sweater and polished jeans drinking a brewski midday? Definitely not a match made in heaven.

“No way,” Kevin replied. Anders chuckled and popped open the tab. From the smell, it was evident that there was nothing miraculous inside the can. It was beer.

“Cheers?”

Rolling his eyes, Kevin mimed a fake can to clink against Anders. Anders took a swig and took a painful swallow.

“God, that’s disgusting.”

“No way!” Kevin sarcastically offered. “A gay man doesn’t like beer, groundbreaking.”

“Ok, challenge accepted.”

Before Kevin could question what the challenge was, Anders brought the can back to his lips. He took two gulps instead of one this time.

“Still nasty?”

“Not as-” Anders paused to cough. “NoT AS Bad as the first time.”

Anders voice violently hiccuped before dropping down, below it’s typical register. Kevin was about to object but Anders already had the beer moving down his throat again. Anders's throat vibrated with each swallow, pushing out his Adam’s apple further and further.

“Anders?”

Anders stopped momentarily, this time burping. “Uh, yeah?”

Kevin’s face twisted slightly. “Why is your voice so deep?”

“Uh, it’s always been like this?” 

Without allowing Kevin to respond, Anders continued drinking again. It felt like the beer was now travelling past his throat and through his veins. Anders had never had this much beer before, if ever, but he could see why other people loved the stuff. There was a new energy spreading out across his torso and into his arms and legs.

“Anders?” Kevin’s face was growing more confused by the second. “Anders!”

“-What, man!” Anders gasped, letting out another, longer burp. He scratched idly at the chest hairs spilling over the top of his collar. It felt looser than he remembered.

“There’s something wrong with that beer!” Kevin reached for the can, but Anders moved it away out of reach. This should have surprised Anders, as he had always been the shorter of the pair. “You have to stop drinking it.”

“Why though?” Anders countered. “I’m beginning to like it.” 

Nearly half the can was gone. Anders wanted to pound the rest before class and Kevin was distracting him. Where was he going again? Mathe…nomics? Economics? Did not matter, he had more drinking to do.

“Wait!” Kevin protested as Anders began chugging again. At first, Anders was able to get away with the drinking in silence, despite having to readjust his position on the bench. Being as muscular as he was did that to a guy–he was never fully comfortable. Plus his shorts were riding up his thick, furry thighs and fondling his pouch nicely. Anders was surprised to find himself growing hard, harder than he had ever been before. It was like his pouch had grown somehow.

“Stop!”

Kevin moved in again but this time Anders was ready, holding his scrawny opponent back as he neared the bottom of the can. Anders found himself impressed by his thick arm and the bush spilling out from underneath his exposed armpit. There was something so manly about it. Manly like his cross necklace, manly like his stubble and backwards cap. 

Manly like this beer, and manly like the other men who probably drank it. The other men who drank this beer were probably rednecks. The other men were probably Christian. The other men were probably Republicans and wanted to Make America Great Again. Anders was manly like the other men. He was like the other men. He watched sports and owned a truck and even chased pussy like the other men. Maybe there were no other men–maybe Anders was one of those men.

Kevin was eventually released, not bothering to continue to fight as he watched the last drops of the beer go down the throat. Victoriously, the alpha male released a final belch, spitting directly in Kevin’s face.

“Fuck bro, that’s the stuff,” Drew finally said. “Go grab me another one, bro. Say that you want a sample for yourself.”

Thank you to Sir @redpilledredneckdad for this prompt.

Poor, dirty, uneducated. Derogatory jokes were a part of their religion, along with working a blue collar job and having at least three kids by the time you turned 30. Hickville, USA, as Markus called it. An embarrassing part of the country in every measure. Even more so because a good chunk of Markus's extended family lived there. 

Markus had always grown up separated from this side of America. He had been raised in a sprawling metropolis, exposed to different cultures and perspectives as early as preschool. He had graduated early from high school and been accepted to many prestigious universities in days. Now, in the summer before his final year, Markus was drawing closer and closer to freedom, one that included never having to interact with his relatives again. 

Ironically though, before he could cut ties, he had to recreate them. Markus desperately needed money, and no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, working at the family farm was the best way to make a quick buck. Markus would be housed, fed, and would apparently gain “valuable life lessons,” whatever that meant. The situation sucked but it was the best possible option. Spending the summer on the farm would guarantee his prosperous dreams.

His rental car glided down the familiar dirt driveway, the rusty rambler slowly appearing in the distance. It had grown more weathered in recent years, its age accentuated by the bright red American-made truck parked in front of it. Its size was nearly twice that of Markus’s rental car, its owner the same to Markus.

“There he is!” Ethan lumbered over. Blond mullet, worn-out tank top–the man was certainly a country local. Although Ethan was only a few years older than Markus, the cousins had never really connected. Markus knew Ethan had dropped out of high school, but obviously his cousin had slid down the degenerate pipeline faster than he had anticipated. There was a “Make America Great Again” hat, av cross necklace, and a matching stars-and-bars shirt and belt. Did Ethan know that their state had not existed during the Civil War?

Ethan leaned in for a hug, but Markus immediately pushed him back.

“Don’t, please.” Markus tried to be polite, but the body odor coming off his cousin was disgusting.

“Oh of course, bro. No homo,”  Ethan chuckled, misinterpreting the situation. Something inside of Markus squeaked, fearing how Ethan would respond if he found out his cousin was gay. “So uh, let me show you to your room.”

The house was what Markus had expected, and yet somehow also worse. Every piece of furniture smelled, was stained, and was at least thirty years old. The walls were scratched, the ceiling a little grody. “Bachelor pad” was not far enough: this was a man who desperately needed to maintain himself. Or someone to do it for him. Markus made a mental note not to become the latter.

“Your room.” Ethan’s meaty hand swung out into the closet-sized space. The air was thick and musty. A tear formed inside Markus’s eye. “I’ve got some stuff to do but I’ll be back in a few. Dinner tonight is meat and potatoes. And beer, always beer.”

Ethan laughed at his own joke, Markus did not reply. Ethan then left, his massive footfalls echoing throughout the small house. 

“What have I done to myself?” Markus cried, feeling his world collapse around him. With a sob, he fell down onto his new bed, too distressed to care that the sheets reeked of sweat and cum.

—

The work was simple, but difficult. Markus was to follow all of Ethan’s instructions, that was basically it. If Ethan told him to tend to the fields, he would tend. If Ethan asked him to mow the lawn, he would mow. “Feed the animals,” “Fill up the tractor.” If Markus did not know how to complete the task, Ethan would teach him. Up at dawn, down at dusk. Meat and potatoes were served at every meal, and Markus was allowed to have all the beer he wanted (even if he did not like it). 

The cycle was draining. In the first few days, Markus was not sure he was going to make it. His body was sore, exhausted and reeking in ways it never had before. Ethan assured him it was all natural, masculine even. “About time you went through puberty, manning up!” Markus had not known how to respond at the time, and soon realized it was easier not to. Staying quiet kept him focused, and often it was easier to just listen to Ethan than to converse with him. 

“You probably know all the issues facing this country the best, bro, being in college and all,” Ethan said. The two were currently doing an oil change on the truck. The amount of grime on Markus’s body bothered him slightly, but not as much as he thought it would have. “I mean the borders were a mess before Trump took charge. We had the weakest military ever seen. Not to mention all the stupid vaccine requirements. Those libtards absolutely…”

Markus mentally tuned out, continuing his task. Another glob of oil fell onto his shirt, another permanent stain.

“Don’t you agree, bro?” Ethan asked, taking Markus out of his haze.

“Uh…yeah,” Markus numbly nodded, not knowing what he was agreeing to. Ethan smirked, continuing on.

The rest of the day was the same. And so was the day after, and the day after that. By the time a month had passed, Markus found himself feeling a little odd leaving the farm, even if it was only for a day trip. He had decided to return the rental car as he had rarely used it after learning how to drive the truck. Ethan had called him a natural, “As if you’ve been driving it your whole life!” For some reason, Markus felt like he had been.

With the rental car removed from his possession, Markus had a few hours until Ethan would come to pick him up. To pass the time, he had gotten in contact with one of his college buddies who lived nearby. His friend’s apartment was small and clean, something Markus previously would have been attracted to. In fact, he assumed he would have been jealous of his friend’s situation, getting to live comfortably on his own. But instead, Markus felt claustrophobic, anxious in the miniature space and the big city.

“Can you believe what Trump said about Latinos, again?” His friend had been complaining about politics nonstop. “I mean, I don’t know why I’m still surprised anymore, but seriously someone has to stop this bigot.”

Markus felt something twitch inside of him.

“How many more countries does he have to pick a war with?” his friend continued. “How many more until America is truly ‘first’?”

“America is first.” The words slipped out of Markus’s mouth before he realized it. His friend, taken back, paused his monologue.

“Sorry?”

The answer came out automatically, as if it had been a programmed response. “America is the best country on Earth.”

His friend blinked. “Markus, what are you talking about?”

“Trump and the Republican Party are restoring this nation to its former glory.” 

“But-”

“The liberals are trying to brainwash men into becoming weak, scrawny, and stupid. Socialism and progressive ideas aren’t going to Make America Great Again. Strong men are.”

Markus’s friend, stunned, shook his head before storming out of the room to take a breath. Left alone, Markus began to process the interaction they had just had, the words that had been exchanged. He felt like a sponge, releasing verbiage that he had somehow absorbed and only now had learned how to expel. 

Turning around, Markus found himself facing a full-length mirror, his reflection portrayed before him a bit unfamiliar. Longer hair, a dirty sweatshirt, and jeans stained by grass and dirt. At first, the reflection made Markus uncomfortable, but soon he found himself growing more fond of it. Beaten up white tank, a thick belt with a buckle displaying confidence and authority. A mullet underneath a bright red hat. The scene portrayed a different Markus, an emerging Markus.

It reminded him of-

“I think it would be best if you’d leave.” Markus’s friend had reentered the room. A buzz in Markus’s pocket seconded this notion.

“Ok.” Markus, again to his friend’s amazement, left without another word. He crop dusted on his way out, smirking as he made his way to Ethan and the truck.

—

The rest of the summer unexpectedly flew by. Markus barely noticed the time, or the changes that came along the way. A second growth spurt had erupted across his body. One day Markus woke up a few inches taller, and the next he found himself at eye level with his cousin. Lean muscle bloomed across his body after that and so did hair. Speaking of hair, it was like Markus’s scalp went into overdrive, pushing out thick waves in the back that fit perfectly underneath the cap Ethan had begun loaning him.

Markus should have been worried about these rapid developments. He should have been alarmed by the fact he no longer felt the need to wash his clothes, or himself for that matter. Ethan had a way of rationalizing everything though, and it had become so much easier for Markus to not only listen to his cousin, but agree with him too.

“Real men take up space. They dominate.” 

“Smarts aren’t important. What matters are sports, beers, and Making America Great Again.”

Ethan was so confident, so self-assured, that it was intoxicating to Markus. He wanted to be that confident too. He wanted guys to be obsessed with him, be infatuated by his presence.

“Those libtards are nothing but disgusting perverts. Chicks not dicks, amirite bro?”

Markus nodded lazily, swigging his cheap beer. He wanted other men to respect him, be intimidated by his presence. Markus thanked God he was not some faggot and was raised on strong, Conservative values.

“I still can’t believe it’s already your last day,” Ethan remarked. The two were sitting out on the porch, enjoying the sunset. “I’m gonna miss your companionship–it’s nice having a like-minded guy around the farm.”

“I can’t believe it either, bro.” Markus’s voice had dropped a register since he had begun drinking Ethan’s beer daily. It had lost a lot of its former color too. “Wish I could just stay here with you. I don’t want to go back to all those prissy crying liberals and the blue-haired ideologies they’ll try to push on me.”

Ethan held a cocky smile, as if Markus had just given some secret signal. “Why don’t you stay here then? You won’t learn anything there that you can’t learn with your hands and cousin here.”

From somewhere deep in the recesses of Markus’s mind, something screamed out. It begged for him to not take this offer, to reject this new life he had somehow been absorbed into. But Markus ignored the plea, instead dreaming of the potential in Ethan’s offer. Just two bros working every day, drinking every night, and banging chicks every weekend. What more could a straight, MAGA, alpha redneck like him want?

“Fuck yeah!” Markus shouted, and the men both cheered to their new future together. No homo, of course.

...Only to find that his profile has been replaced by a wall of thirst traps from exactly the kind of guy he most looks down on: some totally basic gym gay, with plenty of muscles but nothing behind the eyes, flexing and showing off his armpits. Huh?

[This Quick and Dirty story was written by a human (me) based on a prompt that was previously sent to generative AI. I wrote it in one uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness flow with a hard time limit of 20 minutes. It is not perfect. No edits have been made, except to correct typos. Feel free to use my asks to send me more prompts!]

My name is Devlin, and I’m a photographer. My ex-boyfriend, who is also my best friend and my business partner for a coffee pop-up we’re trying to get off the ground, says I should share more of my photography online. He says it will help me build a “following.” I don’t know why I’m expected to bend over backwards to cater to the lowest-common-denominator tastes of social media, but he’s right.

I’ve been posting my black-and-white photography on Instagram for a few months now, and I’ve already gotten a few pieces in galleries because of it.

So I heave a sigh at the necessary evil as I open Instagram to upload my newest piece, a self-portrait titled “A Quandary of Nature.”

I’m just about to hit the button to upload a new image when I notice that my profile picture in the corner looks different. I click on it and my whole profile pops up. I see my name and username, so I’m clearly still logged in, but I must have been hacked or something. All the photos I posted are gone, replaced by a series of inane selfies from some muscled-up influencer-looking guy who looks dumb as a bag of bricks. He looks like probably calls these images “content.” It makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit.

In the most recent image, he’s showing off his armpits.

He’s also showing them off in the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that… And so on. I scroll and scroll until I hit the bottom, where there’s an image of a visibly younger version of the hunk… showing off his armpits.

What is it with striking the same pose over and over again? I get that he’s probably figured out armpits are good for engagement or something, but I fear that he simply doesn’t have the vision to come up with more creative shots. Watching this page is like seeing art and culture stagnate before my eyes.

Clearly I’ve been hacked. I’m not very familiar with the Instagram interface, but I’m sure there must be a way to report hacking. I click around to try and find it, and I accidentally open the camera, revealing an image of myself and the wall behind me.

And something is… changing. My bleached hair is slowly losing its color, fading back to my natural brown as it rearranges into a shorter, trendier cut that falls in choppy waves over my forehead. My glasses disappear. My cheekbones rise, my jaw straightens, and my eyes dull, both in color and in vibrance.

I assume this is one of those weird in-app things that Instagram people insist are called “filters,” because why make up a new word when you can steal one from the photography lexicon that already means something?

But when I reach up to touch my forehead, I can feel the hair rustling against it. The arm I’ve raised also looks swollen, like it's been stung by a whole hive of bees. I look away from my phone and down at my arm, which is growing meatier by the second, swelling to what must be four times its original size.

A quick glance to my left shows that the same thing is happening with my other arm. And a glance down shows… nothing. My pecs have already swelled to such a mountainous size that I can’t see anything past them. But I pat my stomach, which is now tight and muscular. My thighs are, too.

Fuck. Somehow, I’ve instantly transformed into a gym-honed tool, who - to be honest - looks exactly like the guy from those Instagram photos. The one difference is that I still have my mustache. I know I should be freaking out, but something is dulling my reactions and all I can think about is how glad I am to still have my mustache. It feels like a connection to the real me. Proof that I am still myself, at my core, even if I look totally different.

I am still an artistic, intelligent guy with great taste who… Wait, what am I doing?

My elbow is sticking straight up in the air, as if I’m trying to show off my armpit, even though I’m wearing a shirt.

I snap a photo. I don’t know why. I just do. I’m a photographer. It’s only natural, I guess.

But fuck, I just took a thirst trap selfie that looks exactly like every other photo in the goddamn library that got hacked onto my account!

But also… I look fucking hot. With my finger, I trace the unimaginably huge bulge of my biceps, my strong, stubbled jaw… I accidentally hit post.

In shock, I close out of Instagram and throw my phone across the room. I look at myself in the mirror and strike a double-armpit pose. Fuck! What’s wrong with me?

When I do it, my brain goes fuzzy for an instant, giving me a strangely pleasurable feeling. My dick chubs up in my pants.

I raise my left arm. The fuzzy feeling comes back, and my dick rises to full mast. I raise my right to join it, and my brain tingles like I’m getting a blow job while eating an ice cream cone. I feel… fucking good, man.

Wait, no. This isn’t me. I snap out of it and grab my phone. I open my photography app, make sure to use the black-and-white option (the only option, in my opinion), and try to take a selfie at a fun, unique angle that proves how artful and smart I am. I hold the camera low, and…

This is how it turns out.

At least my armpits aren’t out.

After I hit “post,” I raise both arms again, out of habit, and feel my brain instantly obliterated by fuzziness. I feel so good I cum in my pants, even. By the time I lower my arms, I’ve forgotten what I was so worried about.

All I can think about is how goddamn good I look, and how I need the world to share in the joy that is my beautiful body.

I change and take a another picture, to bank some content for later.

Of course.

After some brief trips to the past and convincing his dad to move the family to Scotland, you stare at your friend as time reforms.

The kilt is tight, barely keeping back his thick ass.