#dumpitpumpit

The air in the Golden Army Gym was thick with the rhythmic clank-slap of gold-plated iron and the 128 BPM pulse of dance music vibrating through the floor. Wells (58) stood in front of the massive, floor-to-ceiling mirror, his reflection a study in high-output aesthetics: shiny metallic gold compression tights shimmering under the LED rigs, gold trainers locked to the black rubber turf, and the black spandex t-shirt straining against his chest, the gold "Sweat, Smile, Repeat" letters catching every flash of light.

Tucked into his ears were his AirPods, the white stems a sharp contrast against his jawline. Inside, the Big Dumb Jock Hypno file was looping, a low-frequency hum of sub-bass and repetitive commands designed to bypass his logic. The volume was set just low enough that he could still track the sharp, dominant edge of Coach’s voice over the internal drone.

Coach stepped into the frame behind him, his massive shadow consuming Wells’ reflection. He placed his heavy, calloused hands on Wells’ traps, squeezing until the Alpha’s breath hitched.

"Look at those eyes, Wells," Coach’s voice was a low, resonant growl, vibrating against the back of Wells’ skull and cutting through the hypnotic loop in his ears. "Too much flickering. Too much thinking. You’re calculating the sets. You’re worrying about the recovery. That’s clutter. Dump it."

Coach’s thumbs found the pressure points at the base of Wells' neck, grounding him as the hypno-file whispered 'Heavy… Gold… Obey…' in the background.

"Every thought that isn't the iron… dump it. Every doubt about your capacity… dump it. Let the static drain out of your head and onto the floor. I don't need a philosopher in this gym. I need a machine. Empty the tank so we can fill it with the pump."

As Coach spoke, Wells’ gaze went glassy, his green eyes fixing on his own reflection. The combination of the audio loop and Coach’s physical presence turned his mind into a hollow chamber. The "Alpha" was still there, but the "Man" had been cleared out. He was a biological asset awaiting instructions.

"Now," Coach whispered, spinning Wells around and shoving him toward the Preacher Bench. "Now that you're empty… we pump it."

Wells sat, his massive arms locking into the pads. Coach dropped the gold-plated EZ-bar into his grip, loaded to the breaking point. There was no hesitation now.

As Wells initiated the first curl, the metallic gold of his tights flared as blood surged into his quads. His biceps peaked, the black spandex sleeves of his shirt threatening to split. Through his Air Pods, the hypnotic voice sped up, syncing with the rhythm of his straining muscles.

"Fill the space, Wells," Coach commanded, looming over him. "Every rep is a new directive. Every pump is more mass, more obedience, more Gold. You don't need a brain to lift this—you just need the drive."

By the final rep, Wells’ arms were granite. His mind was silent, a vast, golden void echoing only with the sound of the weight, the loop in his ears, and Coach’s absolute approval.