#mullet tf

Martin was a typical insurance claims processor in his mid-forties. His daily routine consisted of mountains of files, endless phone calls, and the constant battle against bureaucratic hurdles. He always wore the same gray suit, had a receding hairline, and glasses that hid his tired eyes. His life was orderly but boring—a small apartment in the suburbs, evenings in front of the TV, and weekend walks in the park to clear his head.

On a rainy afternoon in February 2026, as Martin hurried through the park to get home after work, his gaze fell on something shiny on the ground. It was a plastic card, half-buried in the mud. Curious, he bent down and picked it up. It was an employee ID from the "Iron Temple Gym." The photo showed a young man with a mullet-like hairstyle and a confident grin. Name: Kevin Podolski. Born: Feb. 21, 2007. ID: 20070221KP. Position: Junior Trainer.

Martin wiped off the dirt and examined the photo more closely. The guy looked fit, athletic, with a hint of arrogance. "Poor kid, lost his ID," Martin muttered. Instead of turning it in, he slipped the card into his bag. He wasn't sure why—maybe out of pure curiosity or because he wondered what it would be like to be so young and carefree. At home, he tossed the card into a drawer and didn't think about it anymore.

The next morning, Martin felt strange. When he woke up, he sensed an unusual energy. His muscles tingled as if he'd just worked out. At the office, he sat at his desk and tried to process a damage report, but the numbers and clauses blurred before his eyes. "What was the formula for risk assessment again?" he wondered. It wouldn't come to him. Instead, an image flashed: A dingy middle school in a rundown neighborhood, where he'd hung out with buddies instead of studying. "Nonsense," he shook his head. "I went to high school."

Throughout the day, it got worse. His skin felt tighter, his voice sounded deeper, more youthful. At lunch, he stared at his plate and suddenly craved protein shakes instead of the usual cafeteria food. In the evening at home, he changed clothes and noticed that his belly looked flatter, his arms more defined. He pulled out the ID and stared at the photo. "Kevin Podolski... 19 years old." Martin was 45, but when he looked in the mirror, he saw wrinkles disappearing, hair growing—darker, longer, into a mullet.

That night, he dreamed. Not of insurance policies, but of an apprenticeship as a carpenter. He remembered the workshop, the smell of wood, the crude jokes from his colleagues. But he hadn't stuck with it—too boring, too exhausting. Instead, he hung out at the gym, pumping iron to blow off steam. One day, the manager had approached him: "Hey, kid, you're here more often than I am. Want to start as a temp? Pay's okay, and you train for free." Kevin—no, Martin—had nodded. That was his entry.

On the second day, Martin called in sick. He couldn't remember his passwords anymore, let alone insurance rates. Instead, he thought about parties in the hood, playing foosball with the bros, the feeling when the ball hit the goal. His clothes fit too tightly; he had to buy new ones—tight tank tops, sweatpants. While shopping, he felt eyes on him, and a strange tingling spread through him. He was horny, constantly. When he masturbated that evening, he didn't think of his ex-wife, but of muscular guys at the gym.

The transformation progressed. On the third day, he woke up with a six-pack. His memories of the insurance office faded like old photos. He looked around his room. For some reason, he'd expected a classic bedroom. Wardrobe, queen-size bed, a valet stand for his clothes. Shit, he must have had a bad dream. He was in his shared apartment room, the place he split with his old buddies: Mike, who was now a personal trainer, Tim the mechanic, and Alex the bartender. Back in the day, they'd played soccer together on the neighborhood youth team. Now they trained together, pumped iron, sweated, and laughed at dumb jokes. "Bro, you look like you could hit a new PR today," Mike had said yesterday during bench presses.

By the end of the week, Martin was gone. Kevin Podolski stood in front of the mirror, flashed his typical grin, pulled on his Adidas jacket, and headed to the Iron Temple Gym. He was 19, fresh, invincible. Insurance? What insurance? His life was the gym: Guiding clients, keeping equipment clean, and occasionally... well, earning a little extra. Some guys asked discreetly if he could "help" after hours. A blowjob here, a quickie there—it supplemented his salary, and hey, he was perpetually horny. Why not?

Dude showed up a total city slicker, stuck out like crazy when he hit the countryside.

But he learned quick, started rollin’ with the crew, goin’ with the flow.

Martin was tired of it. Three times a week at least, somebody took his pocket money. Twice a week they shoved his head into the toilet. And this week? More than once a day, some brain-dead but way stronger jock forced him to either sniff a fart or press his face into a sweaty armpit. He was done. He swore he’d start going to the gym. Mens sana in corpore sano, he told himself.

But man, the gym was worse than the school hallways. Every time he loaded up plates, people laughed. Every time he tried bench press, one of the assholes would wander by and blast a protein fart right in his face. Fuckin’ ridiculous. There had to be a way to speed things up. So he spent the whole night scrolling TikTok, Insta, even ChatGPT, beggin’ for some cheat code. Ads got weirder and weirder till Insta dropped one called FA$$ 4WRD GAYNZ. Name looked dumb as hell, pure bro-advertising, but yo, promises were sick. First four weeks free, no risk. He slammed order now.

Next day he’s in his mom’s kitchen, dustin’ off some old blender. Out comes this pink-ass froth, sweet as candy, lookin’ weak as fuck. Didn’t feel manly at all. Instructions said: chug it fast. Bro went for it. Some dribbled down his chin, stained his shirt. “Damn, sweet as hell,” he gagged, but he got it down. Then—BUUURRP! Loudest belch of his life, swear. And boom, effect hit right away. Body, brain, all in fast-forward. Days feelin’ like months: runs in the mornin’, gym grind in the afternoon, strict diet, shooters at night, football with the boys on weekends. Homework? Shit, who got time for that.

By the end of week one, man had his routine locked in: wake up, run, slam a shake, throw on a tank, cap over his sweaty mullet—shit was startin’ to look fire—then strut into school like he owned the joint. Teacher looked at him all worried: “Martin, are you on drugs?” He just smirked: “Yo Teach-Bro, you got weed, I ain’t sayin’ no.” Whole class popped off. First detention ever, and lowkey it felt good. Bro walked into the gym like a king now. Still small next to the tanks, but his farts? Legendary. Burps? Straight hall-of-fame, fam.

Four weeks deep on FA$$ 4WRD, cardio was pissin’ him off. He wanted iron, heavy shit. And coach be like, nah, bro, no QB for you, you built too damn thicc. Martin just laughed: “Better wide than weak, bruh.” Cracks open another shake, feels the beast bubblin’ in his gut. “Yo this one gon’ slap.” Head back, nostrils flared, cheeks loose—PFFFRRRTT! He’s crackin’ up. “Fam gon’ smell that all week, heh.” But no time, bus comin’. Dude built like owning his Dodge RAM, still ridin’ that lil yellow school bus, lookin’ like the only real man on board. Rockin’ a diesel frame and a sick stash.

Money tho? Tight as hell. Shakin’ down nerds wasn’t cuttin’ it no more. Needed more juice. Maybe them dweebs lickin’ his pits had ideas. Thinkin’ wasn’t his game anyway. Three months later, bro tried re-uppin’—no luck. FA$$ 4WRD discontinued, bruv. Straight tragedy. Settled for some knockoff whey, downed his last pink shake with a sigh. By then he’d dropped school, eighteen but lookin’ twenty-five, movin’ couches by day, hustlin’ OnlyFans by night, payin’ rent on his own trailer. Parents’ bitchin’? Dead.

From the outside, it was classic Upper West Side: a magnificent pre-war building that used to house rock’n’roll and now was just full of boring millionaires. But there was one apartment that had been feared for decades. Over forty years ago, a rockstar had died there—Alexander “Lex” Storm, infamous for wild parties, drug binges, and destructive concerts. Since then, people said his ghost haunted the rooms. And even though the location was unbeatable and the prices quoted by various brokers were more than reasonable, no buyer could be found.

The young internet millionaire Ethan Vale didn’t believe in such stories. “Haunted? Ridiculous,” he muttered as he signed the purchase agreement and took the keys. He was here to invest, not hunt ghosts. He hadn’t even seen the property—he bought it after a glance at the listing. Prime location, perfect layout, the rest didn’t matter.

The apartment probably hadn’t been renovated in forty years. Everything would need to go, modern smart-home tech installed, a few design classics for furnishings, and then he could flip it for more than 100% profit. Easy money. Easier than taking candy from a baby. Ethan set off to check out his newest investment.

The lobby was painfully over-renovated. Spotless. Soulless. Perfect for guys like him. The elevator took him to the 22nd floor. The apartment lock was definitely from the 80s. An old-fashioned key. No fingerprint scan. No iris recognition. Practically an invitation to break in. Ethan expected a musty smell beyond the door. But instead: everything frozen in time. The kitchen gleamed as if freshly cleaned. Butter, fruit, eggs—all pristine. Not a speck of dust, no signs of age. The living room held guitars, concert posters, crumpled and yellowed, yet everything seemed alive, as if Lex had just left.

In the dressing room, leather jackets and glittering shirts hung neatly, shoes lined up precisely. Ethan looked in the mirror—and saw shadows flicker, stage lights, the applause of an invisible crowd. His cock twitched. The thought of groupies, wild sex on leopard-print and satin sheets, made him hard. He moved through the apartment, first kneading the bulge in his pants, then shamelessly stroking himself. He stripped, lay down on a leather couch. The feel of the leather on his skin was electrifying. The stereo started up: “Wind to Storm,” Lex’s biggest hit. Ethan came. And then fell into a deep, almost comatose sleep.

The dreams were wild: concerts, endless parties, excessive indulgence. Every guitar riff cut through his mind, every explosion of light, smoke, and music penetrated him.

When the sun rose, Ethan was no longer the same. Cursed? No—he wasn’t even remotely similar to Ethan anymore. He grabbed a half-empty glass of whiskey from the coffee table, downed it in one gulp, and walked to the bathroom, swinging his enormous cock. A glance in the mirror. Brief shock. Seconds. Then a grin. Yes, everything was fine! Muscles rippled beneath his skin, stronger and more defined than anything he had ever trained. His head sported a wild mullet. A deep inner voice whispered: “Your life starts now. Harder. Louder. Better.”

He grabbed a cigarette, though he had never smoked, inhaling the smoke. It burned like fire, but his body pulsed with energy. He would have smoked in the shower if he could. But life had limits. Ethan Storm got dressed. He didn’t know for what, exactly. He just wanted out of the apartment. Somewhere, somewhere in the city, a bar must be open. He picked a tank top and zebra-print jeans from his dressing room. Mirror check: perfect! Ready to take the city—and a few groupies—by storm.

On his way to the elevator, he ran into a neighbor. Julian Kane, a stiff investment banker. Ethan wanted to speak normally—but only raspy, stormy rockstar tones came out. “Hey man, since when do tie-wearers live on this floor?” Ethan growled. Julian recoiled, disgusted and fascinated at once. A silent spark flickered between them. The elevator crackled with tension. Glances. Hands in the crotch. Deep tongue kisses. The elevator stopped abruptly. Ethan grinned. He hadn’t forgotten a thing. One last hand, one last kiss. An invitation for drinks at 8 PM.

The evening was pure rock’n’roll. Whiskey, joints, tongue-kisses on the couch. But the night turned into a wild storm: smoke, music, alcohol, bodies—everything fused into ecstatic chaos. Ethan and Julian lost themselves, their souls merging, their bodies glowing. The apartment vibrated, infused with the energy of a rockstar who had never really left.

By morning, they lay together, transformed and complete. Muscles, hair, voices—pure 80s, in the 2020s. It was barely 11 AM. Way too early to get up. The right time to enjoy morning erections, then a whiskey breakfast. And yes, even business thinking had to happen. Comeback of the Storms. They needed a manager. A studio. Flesh-made 80s rockstars in the modern world.

MSSV GNZ

It was October 25th, 2024, a typical Friday evening in the Millville High School locker room in New Jersey. Alex Thompson, an 18-year-old athlete who always looked about fifteen, sat frustrated on the bench. He was fast, agile, and had a keen eye for the ball, but he was simply too skinny for the quarterback position—a lanky kid with narrow shoulders, mostly stuck as a backup on the team. As the latest Taylor Swift hit blared through the speakers on Spotify, he scrolled through his phone without interest.

Suddenly, an ad popped up: “MSSV GNZ – The ultimate body lotion for massive muscle growth and old-school vibes!” It sounded too good to be true. “Transform your body overnight,” the text promised. Alex clicked without thinking and ordered it. It arrived the next day—a plain brown bottle with a label straight out of the ’80s.

After training in the school gym, when the other boys had already left, he twisted open the bottle. The smell hit him—a mix of salty sweat and smoky tobacco, oddly nostalgic and not unpleasant at all. He rubbed the creamy lotion onto his arms, shoulders, and chest. It tingled lightly, like a tiny electric shock, but otherwise he felt nothing. “Nonsense,” he muttered, packing his bag. Exhausted, he collapsed into bed at home.

The next morning, Alex woke up, but something felt wrong. His room wasn’t his room—it was a college dorm, decorated with posters of football heroes on the walls. He looked at his phone: October 2021. “What the hell?” He jumped up and stared into the mirror. His body had changed—athletic, muscular, with defined arms and a broad chest. He was no longer the skinny high school kid; he looked like a twenty-year-old, ready to take the next big leap.

Today was tryout day for the college team. The coach was scouting new talent among the freshmen. Alex felt confident. With his new strength and technique, he dominated the drills. “You’re our new linebacker, kid!” the coach shouted at the end. Euphoric but confused, Alex returned to the dorm. After a shower, he instinctively reached for the MSSV GNZ bottle, somehow in his bag. He rubbed himself again; the smell was familiar, the tingling stronger. He fell asleep, unaware of what was coming.

The next day dawned, and the world had shifted again. It was August 2001, and Alex found himself in a small apartment in Detroit. He had been working his first job as a car dealership salesman for two weeks—a first step into the “real world” after college. The adjustment was tough: early shifts, annoying customers, and the pressure to hit commissions. But Alex persevered, mainly thanks to his gym routine. Even in college, he had been known for “muscles before brains”—a nickname he wore with a grin.

His body was now a masterpiece: broad shoulders, massive biceps, and a six-pack that showed through his shirt. And then there was this… side effect. His cock seemed permanently hard, a constant reminder of his vitality that sometimes led to awkward situations, but also boosted his confidence. Training in his new city gym had been intense, and after a shower, he rubbed himself with MSSV GNZ again. The smell of sweat and tobacco enveloped him; the tingling became a warm pulse. “A little more power can’t hurt,” he thought before sleep took him.

When he woke, it was October 1994. Alex squinted into the neon lights of a Los Angeles gym. He was now a trainer here, an amateur bodybuilder with a head-turning physique—huge muscles stretching under his skin, veins like ropes. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, as his buddies joked; math or complicated plans weren’t his thing. But he had a good heart, helping every client with tips and motivation, and his smile was infectious. His clients adored him, especially the ones who wanted a little extra. He made extra cash posing in private sessions—letting them admire, touch, and flex with him in tight shorts. It felt right, empowering.

After a long day in the studio, surrounded by dumbbells and the clanging of weights, he rubbed in MSSV GNZ again. The tingling was now a rush flowing through his veins. “This stuff is magic,” he murmured before exhaustion knocked him out.

The following morning brought him to 1988. Alex sat in a makeshift studio of a local TV station, still high on adrenaline from the day before. He had placed second in Mr. Olympia—a dream come true. His body was at its peak: a colossal mass of oiled, defined muscles, sporting a mullet-like haircut and a towel around his hips. Next to him sat his buddy, another bodybuilder, as they filmed an interview. The camera rolled, the microphone close.

“Tell us about your training, Alex. Doping, supplements—what’s your secret?” his buddy asked. Alex grinned. “I heard about this new stuff, MSSV GNZ. Promises massive growth and old-school vibes. Smells a bit like sweat and tobacco, but tingles like crazy.” His buddy laughed loudly, shaking his head. “Nothing beats steroids, man. That’s the real deal—pumps you like nothing else.” Alex nodded, unsure but proud. Surrounded by ’80s vibes, he wondered if the journey would ever end. The bottle still sat there, tempting, as if whispering: “One more round?”

In the dim, flickering light of a rundown rest stop on Interstate 95, Harold, the promising young banker, pulled over his elegant Mercedes. His bladder screamed for relief after hours of conference calls and traffic jams. The place was a dump—walls full of graffiti, overflowing trash cans, and a floor sticky with God-knows-what. But desperation didn't care about five-star ratings.

He hurried into the men's restroom, where the stench of stale urine hit him like a wall. At the urinal, he unzipped and let it flow, staring blankly at the cracked tiles. To his right, a burly trucker in jeans and a leather vest positioned himself, his boots thudding on the dirty floor. The guy was huge, with a stubbly beard, long greasy hair, and tattoos snaking up his arms.

Mid-stream, Harold felt eyes on him. The trucker looked down, then up again with a crooked grin. "Hey, buddy," he grumbled in a rough voice, "that's a nice piece you've got there. Mind if I... blow it for you? I'll even throw in five bucks."

Harold blinked, his stream faltering. He was a strait-laced type—suit, tie, stock portfolios. But he was also young. And something about the absurdity, the isolation of the road, made him pause. Five bucks? Fuck it. "Uh, sure," he muttered, his cheeks reddening. "Why not?"

The trucker simply knelt down, without hesitation, and got to work. It was quick, efficient, almost mechanical—like pumping gas at a station. Harold's thoughts raced, a mix of shock and unexpected thrill. When it was over, the trucker stood up, wiped his mouth, and stuffed a crumpled five-dollar bill into Harold's pants. "Thanks, man. Safe travels."

Harold was petrified. He zipped up. As he pondered what had just happened, a strange feeling bubbled up inside him. His polished thoughts shattered; visions of endless highways, greasy diners, and CB radios flooded his mind. He felt... rougher. He needed a cigarette. There were some on the grimy shelf above the urinals. Actually disgusting. But there was a lighter too. And shit, his craving for a cigarette became huge.

He smoked. His tie suddenly choked him like a noose. He loosened it, then ripped it off entirely.

As he stepped out into the neon glow of the gas station, Harold rummaged in his pocket for his keys. He found the five-dollar bill. That wouldn't be enough. But it was a down payment. For a pack of Marlboros, a Zippo, and maybe a pack of chewing tobacco.

Man, that’s one hell of a wild-ass cocktail right there. And I’m tellin’ ya straight — I ain’t drinkin’ that crap. Smells like straight-up cow shit and burns like some backwoods moonshine. You went and mixed two damn flavors, so now you got yourself two shots. You shove the second one over to your buddy. You pinch your nose, toss it back. He takes a sip without even thinkin’. Doesn’t even get the chance to gag or spit it out. The change hits right away — and it hits hard.

World goes black for a sec… you blink a couple times. Ain’t no fancy-ass piano bar anymore. It’s a freakin’ sports bar now. Smells like beer, sweat, and deep-fried wings. Prrrrffffft! And damn, that’s Tanner’s protein farts stinkin’ up the place again. You smack his shoulder, laughin’. “Bro, that ain’t natural!” You burp loud as hell. Tanner’s about to puke. Both of you lose it, laughin’ like idiots.

Y’all are Tanner and Tucker. TNT — folks been callin’ ya that since y’all were still in diapers, shootin’ soda cans off your daddy’s fence. Ain’t exactly the brightest bulbs in the box. Barely scraped through high school. Tanner took over his uncle’s hardware store, and you fix farm machines out by the highway. Together, y’all run this YouTube channel — liftin’ weights, mixin’ up all kinds of supplement crap.

And hell, you got a ton of followers. Some folks say y’all are the real deal — genuine, down-home gym bros. Others think you’re just too dumb to train right. Haters, man. Don’t give a damn. You’re in it for the fun. And when a company sends over a few tubs of protein powder for free, you sure as hell ain’t sayin’ no.

Guess he likes doing some street racing to the legality of which is questionable. He's an ex con but has a heart of gold even if I can never really understand his interests fully.

Just today he gave me one of those “macho” sparkling waters liquid death or whatever.

Haven't tried it yet kept it in the fridge , not sure why I've been so weird about it just a water after all?

Wonder how it tastes…

You can’t stop thinking about him. The guy you used to roll your eyes at when he came in at lunchtime. Jacket smelling of diesel, hands that never really got clean. Your coworkers made jokes whenever he talked about turbos and injectors like it was high literature.

You didn’t laugh. Not really. You listened. That’s where it began.

You always thought you didn’t get it. Cars, engines, all that stuff. And yeah, you didn’t. But you liked the way he spoke about it. Confident, not loud, not showing off. Every word seemed to carry weight because it came from doing, not thinking.

Then came that can – Liquid Death or whatever it’s called. Something about “sparkling water for guys who punch holes in walls.” You laughed politely and put it in the fridge, untouched for days.

It wasn’t the drink. It was the fact that you couldn’t stop thinking about why he gave it to you. Not a joke. More like: Try this. No expectations. No explanation.

When you finally opened it, it tasted cold, a little metallic. But heavy in your chest, like it belonged there. Like you’d been drinking only air and foam before and suddenly realized there was more.

Things shifted. Small at first. You stopped scrubbing your hands raw after work. Let the smell stay. Stopped arguing in your head. Started asking questions.

You noticed how you stood behind the counter differently. Broader. No longer trying to disappear. He teased: “You stand like someone who owns tools.” You didn’t deny it.

The night you first went with him to the garage was quiet. Concrete hall, neon lights, cooling metal. Men who nodded instead of talking. You held a lamp, passed tools, listened. No games. If something didn’t work, you fixed it. If you couldn’t, you said so. Period.

You kept coming back. Once a week, then more often. Your forearms thickened before you noticed. Little cuts on your knuckles that only marked time. Shoulders widened, back broadened, muscles hard as steel under the skin. Your body changed almost by itself.

And then the hair. First just longer in the back, messy. Then a real mullet, falling over your shoulders. You looked in the mirror and laughed. He grinned: “Hair’s like engines, man. You just let it run.” You knew he meant it.

Language changed too. First little slips: “Yeah, man,” “Come on.” Then real Redneck slang: “Hand me that wrench, bro. Let’s crank it up.” You could barely follow, but it matched the muscles, the smell, the rough rhythm now inside you.

He started calling you “Garage boy.” Half joking, half serious. You didn’t correct him. You knew you were more than the guy serving coffee.

And then came the Mustang. A wreck when you bought it, rusted, panels bent, barely more than scraps. Everyone would have laughed if they saw it. But not you. This was yours. Every bolt, every engine part, every dent became a challenge. Every night in that garage was a test.

You spent hours on the floors, sliding under the frame, ratchet in hand, sweat dripping off your forehead onto greasy overalls. You stripped it down, cleaned every surface, replaced rusted parts, rebuilt the suspension for off-road. Your hands were raw, your knuckles bleeding. You cursed. You laughed. You learned the car and yourself at the same time.

Days became weeks. Weeks became months. The engine went back together, pistons polished, camshaft timed, exhaust welded. You tightened every bolt until your forearms burned, your shoulders ached, and your back throbbed. You worked until the neon light flickered, the garage silent except for the hiss of compressed air and the occasional clang of metal.

Each night, when you wiped the sweat from your brow, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the grimy window. Broader shoulders, arms like steel cables, hair falling into your eyes, skin smudged with grease and oil. You were becoming something else. Stronger. Sharper. More certain.

Finally, the day came. You slid into the driver’s seat, Hellraiser gleaming under the garage lights, tires planted, engine roaring. Dust rose around you. Neon reflected on the panels. You grinned. This wasn’t just a car. It was proof. Proof of every scraped knuckle, every hour spent learning, every drop of sweat and blood poured into it. You had built something that was yours, and in building it, you built yourself.

You wondered if you’d miss the café. Latte art, playlists, people saying your name like it mattered. Maybe a little. But who you are now is different. Strong, confident, visible. A man at home in every bolt, every liter of diesel, every test drive.