#jockfog

The air in Ontario’s cottage country was crisp, smelling of pine needles and the dying embers of a lakeside fire. I was leaning back in a Muskoka chair, my Gold Foil hoodie unzipped, watching the moonlight dance off the black water. It was the first time my brain had been quiet in weeks.

Then, the crickets stopped.

A low, rhythmic hum, like a massive bass drop that never hits, vibrated through my chest. A shadow, darker than the night sky, drifted over the pines. Before I could even reach for my beer, a pillar of blinding, neon-green light slammed down from the clouds.

I didn't just feel weightless; I felt vacuum-sealed. My 220 pounds of muscle were hauled upward like I was nothing but a gold-clad fishing lure.

The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back on a cold, metallic slab. The room smelled like ozone and expensive gym floor cleaner. My wrists and ankles were locked down by shimmering bands of light. I struggled, my quads bulging against the restraints, but I was pinned.

Three figures emerged from the glow. They weren't little gray men; they were terrifyingly lanky, with skin the color of tarnished silver and eyes like polished obsidian. One of them leaned over me, chirping in a series of digital clicks that sounded suspiciously like a high-speed rep-counter.

"Subject 58," the lead alien clicked. "Optimal muscle density achieved. Commencing… internal calibration."

He reached for a tray and picked up a device that looked like a cross between a tactical flashlight and a high-voltage meat thermometer. It hummed with a menacing, violet energy.

"Wait, wait, wait!" I grunted, my glutes clenching instinctively. "Can’t we just do a body fat scan and call it a day? I've got a game on Saturday!"

The alien didn't listen. He moved to the end of the table, the violet light glowing brighter as he prepared the "probe." I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the most invasive "recovery session" in history.

"Wells? Number 58! Wake up, I am sensing that you’re scaring the recruits."

The cold metal of the spaceship turned into the familiar, high-end leather of the Golden Army Lounge. I bolted upright, nearly taking out a protein shake on the side table. My heart was hammering against my ribs, and I was definitely… tight… in the lower half.

Standing over me was PDU-039, looking confused in his standard polo-drone kit. He was holding a clipboard and looking at me like I’d just tried to bench-press the sofa in my sleep.

"You were making some really weird noises, Wells," 039 said, his voice flat and programmed. "And you were gripping the armrests like you were trying to rip the bolts out of the floor."

I blinked, wiping sweat from my forehead. I looked up at the massive 4K screen on the lounge wall. The History Channel logo was in the corner. A guy with wildly vertical hair was gesturing frantically at a grainy photo of a pyramid.

"…but could these ancient structures actually be refueling stations for extraterrestrial visitors?" the narrator droned.

"Ancient Aliens?" I gasped, leaning back and letting out a shaky laugh. "Seriously?"

"You fell asleep during the 'Anal Probes: Fact or Fiction' marathon," 039 noted, checking a box on his clipboard. "The Hive suggests 20% more REM sleep for optimal recovery. Also, you might want to adjust your… tactical positioning. You’re attracting a crowd."

I looked down. My gold compression shorts were definitely showing the "after-effects" of a high-adrenaline dream. I grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it over my lap, grinning sheepishly.

"Note to self," I muttered, watching the silver aliens on the screen disappear into a CGI saucer. "No more late night recovery sessions with Coach, after, leg day."

Whether you’re being abducted or just calibrated, the Golden Army keeps your feet on the ground. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.