#muscleloading

The heavy, rhythmic bass of the "Big Dumb Jock" Hypnosis mp3 file thumps against my eardrums, a steady, hypnotic pulse that’s slowly turning my brain into a blissful vacuum. Thump. Thump. Thump. With every beat, the complex defensive schemes and the names of the Crimson Frost Giants players melt away. I don't need to know their names. I just need to be a bigger, dumber, more solid object than whatever tries to cross my line.

I’m locked into the rack for the "Brick Wall" Isometric Holds. My shoulders are wedged under the cold, unyielding steel of a barbell loaded far beyond my max. I’m not lifting it; I’m just driving into it. My feet are planted, my cleats digging deep into the turf, and my metallic gold football kit is stretched so tight across my back and quads that it looks like liquid metal.

“Empty head. Thick neck. Solid gold,” the voice in the audio purrs.

I growl, my face flushing a deep red as I exert maximum force against the bar. My veins are corded like high-voltage cables across my arms and neck. My mind is gone, replaced by a single, shimmering directive: Do not move. Be the wall.

“Looking solid, Wells,” a deep, familiar voice cuts through the haze.

I don't turn my head, I can't. But I see Coach move into my peripheral vision. He’s looking lethal in his light gray, shiny metallic DADDY shirt, the fabric gleaming as he crosses his massive arms. He reaches out, his hand resting firmly on my sweat-slicked shoulder, checking the tension of the muscle.

“Your head looks nice and empty, Wells,” Coach purrs, leaning in so his silver whistle brushes my jersey. “That’s it. Just a big, strong, golden tool for me to use this weekend. Keep driving. I want that neck even thicker, I want you thicker, bigger, stronger, faster”. "That's it, you're Coach's big dumb jock, aren't you boy".

Just then, Alton wanders by, pausing to watch the display of raw, golden aggression. He looks over at Coach, then back at me, seeing the glazed, vacant look in my eyes as I continue to strain against the rack.

“Man, he’s really gone into the zone today, he looks bigger everyday,” Alton says, sounding impressed by the sheer physical output. "You're doing a great job training, um yeah training him Coach" says Alton as once again looks Wells up and and down and gives Coach's body a once over as well.

“He’s exactly where I want him,” Coach replies, his voice full of dominant pride. “Aren't you, Wells?”

I can’t speak. I just grunt, a primal, obedient sound of agreement, my eyes locked on the steel bar as the "Big Dumb Jock" loop starts again. I am the wall. And the Crimson Frost Giants are going to break against me.

The Crimson Frost Giants are coming, but the Wall is ready. Brain off, mass on. Contact our recruiters to join the line: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.

The Golden Army Gym was nearly empty at 06:00, the high-intensity LED rafters dimmed to a low, predatory amber. I didn't need the crowd. I didn't need the lights. I just needed the rhythm.

I was locked into the Stair Master, the machine’s heavy, metallic whirring acting as a percussion track to the "Big Dumb Jock" loop pulsing through my Air Pods. Step. Climb. Obey. Repeat. The binaural beats was tuned to my heart rate, a thick, visceral thud that pushed every thought of strategy or stress out of my skull. My mind was a shimmering, golden blank, exactly how Coach wants it when I train.

I was wearing my skin-tight black and gold spandex compression shorts, the fabric shimmering with every massive extension of my quads. My shirt was a loose-fitting, black stringer-style bodybuilding top, the deep-cut sides showing the rhythmic flare of my lats. In the center, the number 58 stood out in bold, reflective gold.

My phone was strapped to my bicep, its screen glowing with the waveform of the hypno-track. My gold and black trainers hit the rotating steps with a heavy, consistent thud-thud-thud.

The game against the Crimson Frost Giants felt like an inevitability, not a challenge. I could see the sweat dripping from my jaw, landing on the black fabric of my stringer before soaking in. Every drop was a distraction purged.

I wasn't Wells the person anymore. I was Wells the Wall.

My quads burned, the lactic acid screaming for me to slow down, but the voice in my ears just surged. “Don't think, 58. Just be the engine. The machine doesn’t tire. The machine only climbs.” I increased the resistance. My vision began to glaze, the "jock fog" settling in behind my eyes until the only thing that existed was the amber light on the gym floor and the next step. I was building the stamina to outlast a Giant, one rhythmic, mindless climb at a time.

When the timer finally hit zero, I didn't stop because I was tired. I stopped because the program was complete. I stood at the top of the machine for a long beat, my chest heaving, my mind blissfully empty, ready to be filled with the next command.

The Giants aren't coming to play a game. They're coming to hit a machine. And the machine is ready.

The practice field had been transformed overnight. In place of the usual yard lines, a massive, jagged obstacle course snaked across the turf, a "Tough Mudder" type designed by the Golden Army’s elite Polo Drone engineers. It featured towering walls, pits of thick synthetic sludge, and low-hanging electrified grids

I stood at the starting line, my metallic gold kit shimmering under the stadium lights. My gold-and-black trainers were already dug into the starting blocks.

"Wells!"

I looked toward the elevated observation deck. Coach was standing there, looking down at the course with a predatory grin. He was wearing blue compression tights and a red metallic spandex t-shirt with Final Boss printed on it, his silver whistle glinting.

"In honor of Mario Day day, I’ve set up a little 'platforming' for the team, to help everyone prep for the game against the Crimson Frost Giants" Coach’s voice boomed over the PA system, dripping with a dark, competitive humor. "But before the rest of the team get a crack at it, I want Wells to set the record. I call this one Level 58. There are no extra lives here, just performance."

I gave him a sharp, cocky nod, my chest expanding as I took a deep, focused breath.

"The rest of the guys are watching from the locker room feed," Coach continued, his voice dropping into that low, private purr. "Don't just finish it, Wells. Dominate it. Show them what a real Golden jock looks like when he’s playing for keeps."

The buzzer echoed through the stadium—a sharp, digital ping that sounded exactly like a coin being collected.

I exploded forward.

The first obstacle was the "Warp Wall" a fifteen-foot vertical curve of polished steel. I hit it at a full sprint, my trainers gripping the surface as I hauled my 220-pound frame up and over in one fluid, muscular motion.

Next was the "Pipes" a series of narrow, rotating balance beams over a pit of freezing water. My "Big Dumb Jock" brain didn't overthink the physics. I just trusted the rhythm of the track. Step. Pivot. Drive. I cleared them with the grace of a machine.

The final stretch was a mud-crawl under a grid of live wires. I dropped into the sludge, the cool muck coating my gold kit, turning the shimmering fabric into something rugged and battle-worn. I clawed through the dirt, my quads burning, my eyes locked on the finish line where Coach was now waiting, having descended from the deck.

I burst through the final tape, sliding to a halt at Coach’s feet, drenched in mud but radiating golden power.

Coach looked down at me, his gaze sweeping over my mud-streaked kit. He reached out, his heavy hand landing on my head, his fingers threading through my hair as he hauled me up to my feet. He swung his arm around me and pulled me in close.

"New high score, Wells," Coach whispered, his thumb grazing my mud-flecked jaw. "The team is going to be chasing your shadow all day. But since you finished so fast…" He leaned in, his silver whistle brushing my chest. "I think we have time for a Bonus Round back at the condo. I’ve got a few more… obstacles… for you to overcome."

I let out a breathless, alpha chuckle, my head empty of everything but the victory. "Lead the way, Coach. I'm ready to level up."