#wellsgold

One year of Wells 58 @wells-gold58, and yeah, we all knew he was going to make it a whole event.

But real talk—Wells earns the spotlight. Behind the gold tights, the perfect pose, and that Alberta Clipper-level flair is one of the strongest men on this team.

He brings discipline, consistency, intensity, and the kind of confidence that pushes the whole team to level up. He keeps us sharp, keeps us honest, and somehow keeps the Gold shining even brighter.

Proud of you, bro. Happy Gold anniversary, Wells 58—and congratulations to Alberta Clipper too, because we both know she expects credit.

One year strong. Still shining. Still serving looks and keeping the team sharp.

Alton barely had time to say what’s up before Wells grabbed his hand and pulled him straight into the mandatory bro handshake. One arm around the shoulder, big stupid grins on both their faces.

Trey was already losing his mind in the background, because three dirty quads were waiting and absolutely nobody had planned on behaving today. No schedules, no responsibilities, no fancy crap. Just three bros, three machines, and one ridiculously hot countryside summer day.

Alton looked at Wells, Wells looked at Alton, and they both knew exactly what was coming. Some days are for getting shit done — this one was for getting dirty with the bros.

About ten minutes later, clean clothes were officially a thing of the past. Alton punched his quad straight through the biggest mud hole he could find, with Trey and Wells charging in right beside him like complete maniacs.

Mud went everywhere, and somehow that only made the three laugh harder. Nobody cared who was fastest anymore. The real competition was who could make the biggest damn mess. That’s the beauty of having the right bros around: suddenly acting like teenagers again feels like the best idea anybody’s had all week.

Dirty quads, dirty bros, zero regrets.

By the time the boys rolled into the little countryside picnic spot, the quads were barely recognizable under all that mud. Alton, Trey, and Wells weren’t looking much cleaner either, and judging by those grins, they were pretty damn proud of it.

They parked right beside the old wash station like three dudes who had just conquered half the countryside instead of spending hours deliberately driving through every mud hole they could find. The sun was blazing, their muscles were smoked, and nobody wanted the day to slow down yet.

Wells spotted the hose, Trey started laughing, and Alton immediately knew somebody was about to do something stupid. Because putting three bros next to a water hose is basically asking for trouble.

Naturally, Wells got control of the hose, which was everybody’s first mistake. While he casually blasted himself clean, Trey decided Alton apparently needed to become his personal transportation and jumped straight onto his back.

Alton just laughed and carried the bro around while Trey celebrated like he’d won some kind of championship. Wells looked way too pleased with himself, which pretty much guaranteed that hose was going to be pointed at his bros next.

Nobody was in a hurry, nobody gave a damn about getting soaked, and the whole afternoon had turned into one long stupid bro joke. Give boys mud, water, and their best bros, and somehow that’s all the entertainment they’ll ever need.

Eventually the mud came off, the shirts came off, and somebody finally remembered they had food to grill. Alton, Trey, and Wells stood around the barbecue with cold beers in their hands, talking absolute trash while the hot dogs cooked in front of them.

Nobody was checking a phone, nobody cared what time it was, and there wasn’t anywhere else any of them wanted to be. That’s the thing about a real bro day — the wild stuff is great, but sometimes the best part is just standing around doing absolutely nothing together.

Good food, cold beer, sun on your shoulders, and your boys right there beside you. Life gets complicated, bros make it simple.

By sunset, the quads were parked, the grill was cold, and the three bros had finally run out of reasons to move. Alton, Trey, and Wells dropped down at the edge of the lake, shoulder to shoulder, each holding one last cold beer while the whole damn sky turned gold.

No flexing, no racing, no throwing mud at each other. Just three exhausted dudes sitting there and soaking it all in. Tomorrow there’d be duties, responsibilities, and all the usual crap waiting for them, but none of that mattered tonight.

Because a bro who’ll ride hard with you, laugh at your dumbest ideas, get filthy beside you, and still be sitting there when the sun goes down? Hell, man — there ain’t much in life worth more than that.

Dirty quads. Dirty bros. Cold beers. Easy countryside summer days. Damn good life.

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Also check out vol. 1:

Country Stuff vol. 1

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Featuring: @hero21us, @wells-gold58

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Wanna get dirty with the bros?

Spring has Wells out here doing his civic duty for the flowers… and absolutely nobody was prepared for the line that followed.

Yes, he said it. Yes, he meant it. Yes, he looked far too pleased with himself afterward.

Honestly? The flowers are thriving, the patio looks perfect, and Wells remains a menace with a watering can.

Wells found the flyer folded inside the sleeve of a used CD at a shop on Queen West.

There was no address on it. Just a black photocopied square of paper, a crooked gold star, and the words:

ONE NIGHT ONLY. AFTERHOURS. HOUSE. TECHNO. TRANCE. FOLLOW THE BASS.

Underneath, someone had written a phone number in silver marker.

Wells stared at it for a long moment, then grinned.

“Perfect.”

Across the room, PDU-767, PDU-090, and PDU-034 stood in a neat line beside his kitchen table. Too neat. Too still. Three glossy black-and-gold units waiting for instruction like they were about to be deployed to a training facility, not dragged into the weirdest Saturday night Toronto had to offer.

PDU-767 tilted its head. “Directive clarification required.”

Wells held up the flyer. “We’re going out.”

PDU-090 processed this in silence. “Destination?”

“A warehouse party.”

PDU-034’s eyes shifted to the flyer. “Warehouse indicates industrial storage environment. Purpose?”

Wells laughed. “Dancing. Music. Lights. People. Maybe bad decisions. Definitely bottled water that costs too much.”

“Mission parameters unclear,” PDU-767 said.

“That’s the point.”

By midnight, Wells looked like he had been assembled from everything loud, shiny, ridiculous, and perfect about the 1990s rave scene. He wore a tight black mesh shirt that showed the hard shape of his chest and shoulders beneath it, bright patterned rave shorts trimmed with gold, a black waist pack with gold zippers strapped across his hips, thick black socks with gold stripes, heavy black platform rave boots, a chunky gold chain, a matching bracelet, a black cap, and mirrored wraparound shades that caught every flash of light before they even reached the party.

PDU-090 stared at him.

“Assessment,” Wells said, spreading his arms. “Too much?”

“Visual intensity high,” PDU-090 replied.

PDU-767 added, “Gold accents confirm unit affiliation.”

PDU-034 stared at the reflective sunglasses. “Optical shielding unnecessary indoors.”

Wells lowered the glasses just enough to look over the top. “Fashion, 034. Try to keep up.”

They walked through a stretch of half-lit Toronto backstreets where brick buildings leaned into the dark and old loading docks sat under rusted metal awnings. The city had that late-90s afterhours feeling: payphones, wet pavement, cigarette smoke, distant bass leaking through walls, and small groups of people moving with the secret confidence of those who knew exactly which unmarked door mattered.

Wells looked completely at home. The gold on his chain, shorts, socks, and waist pack caught the streetlights with every step. He moved like the night had already accepted him.

The drones followed in formation.

Too much formation.

“Okay,” Wells said over his shoulder, “first rule: don’t march.”

PDU-090 adjusted its stride by three percent.

“Still marching.”

PDU-767 slowed. PDU-034 copied him. PDU-090 copied both of them. Now they were marching slowly.

Wells stopped, turned around, and put both hands on his hips. The waist pack shifted with a faint metallic jingle. “You three are going to get us noticed before we even get inside.”

PDU-034 scanned the alley. “Attention acquisition appears inevitable.”

“Not helpful.”

The bass grew louder as they reached the door. A big bearish guy stood outside with a clipboard and a flashlight. He gave Wells one look, taking in the mesh, the gold chain, the rave shorts, the boots, the mirrored shades. Then he looked past him at the three drones.

“Friends of yours?”

Wells smiled. “They’re with me.”

The door guy raised an eyebrow. “They always this quiet?”

PDU-767 answered immediately. “Affirmative.”

Wells winced. “They’re saving their energy for the dance floor.”

The door guy stared for one more second, then laughed and waved them in.

Inside, the warehouse swallowed them whole.

Heat. Fog. Strobe light. Blue beams cutting through smoke. Bodies moving wall to wall beneath exposed pipes and old steel rafters. The music was deep and relentless, a house beat rolling into harder techno, then melting into something trancey and bright. The floor shook. The air smelled like sweat, dust, cologne, smoke, and electricity.

Wells’ outfit came alive under the lights. The mesh shirt turned almost invisible in the flashes. His gold chain glinted against his chest. The bright patterned shorts looked even louder beneath ultraviolet glow. His black-and-gold boots hit the concrete with heavy confidence.

PDU-090 stopped dead.

“Audio command detected.”

“No,” Wells said. “DJ.”

PDU-090 pointed toward the booth. “Central rhythm authority.”

“That’s… actually not wrong.”

PDU-767 looked around at the crowd: mesh shirts, tiny sunglasses, black tanks, baggy jeans, chains, whistles, body glitter, bare arms flashing under ultraviolet light. “Group cohesion unusually high. Movement repetitive. Hydration levels questionable.”

“Welcome to raving,” Wells said.

PDU-034 had not moved.

Wells followed its gaze and found the problem immediately.

Glow sticks.

A guy in enormous jeans and a cropped mesh top was spinning two green glow sticks on strings, tracing circles of light through the fog. Beside him, someone cracked a fresh yellow one and shook it until it flared bright. Across the room, blue and pink lights looped around wrists, necks, belts, and fingers.

PDU-034 stared as if it had just discovered fire.

“034?” Wells asked.

“Luminescent handheld objects detected.”

“Glow sticks.”

PDU-034 stepped forward. “Purpose?”

“Fun.”

“Function?”

“Also fun.”

“Insufficient.”

Before Wells could stop it, PDU-034 moved into the crowd with mechanical precision, tracking every glow stick in sight.

PDU-767 looked to Wells. “Retrieval required?”

Wells sighed and adjusted his waist pack. “Not yet. Let him have a minute.”

The minute became ten.

PDU-034 collected data with terrifying seriousness. Green glow sticks were observed during fast dancing. Blue glow sticks appeared preferred by people leaning against speakers. Pink glow sticks were waved overhead during vocal samples. Yellow glow sticks, it decided, had the highest “gold-adjacent value.”

At some point, a cheerful raver handed PDU-034 a pair of bright gold glow sticks.

PDU-034 held them at eye level.

Its entire posture changed.

“Gold illumination acquired.”

Wells saw it from across the floor and burst out laughing so hard his mirrored shades slipped down his nose.

Meanwhile, PDU-090 had drifted toward the DJ booth and was standing beneath it with perfect attention, staring up at the spinning vinyl.

“PDU-090,” Wells said, arriving beside him. “Please tell me you’re not trying to receive orders from the DJ.”

“Beat structure is repetitive, commanding, and efficient.”

“That’s techno.”

“Techno is acceptable.”

“That might be the most emotion you’ve ever shown.”

PDU-090 did not look away from the booth. “Correction. Function status: optimized.”

On the dance floor, PDU-767 had become concerned with logistics. He was handing water bottles to strangers with solemn intensity.

“Hydration recommended,” he told a shirtless guy covered in glitter.

“Oh my god, thanks,” the guy said, taking it.

“Continued movement requires fluid intake.”

“You’re cute.” he said looking over at PDU-090

“Statement logged.” replied PDU-090

Wells found him five minutes later beside a concrete pillar, organizing discarded plastic cups into stacks.

“767.”

“Waste control improves operational environment.”

“You’re at a rave.”

“Environment remains improvable.”

Wells rubbed his face, laughing despite himself. “I brought three drones to a warehouse party and somehow one of you became security, one became the hydration team, and one joined a glow stick cult.”

PDU-767 looked toward the dance floor. PDU-034 was now standing in the middle of a circle of ravers, holding glow sticks and moving them in slow, symmetrical arcs. People cheered every time the lights crossed.

“034 appears to be functioning optimally,” PDU-767 said.

“He’s doing performance art by accident.”

The music shifted.

A deeper bassline rolled through the warehouse. The lights dropped low. Fog thickened. A gold strobe began pulsing from somewhere above the DJ booth, slow at first, then faster. The crowd roared as the beat built.

Wells felt it in his chest.

Even the drones felt it.

PDU-090 stepped back from the booth.

PDU-767 abandoned the cup stacks.

PDU-034 turned, glow sticks still burning in both hands.

The beat dropped.

And for one strange, perfect moment, all three drones moved at once.

Not marching.

Not posing.

Dancing.

It was rigid at first, then less rigid. Shoulders. Arms. Hips. Boots hitting concrete in time with the bass. PDU-034 carved gold circles through the air. PDU-090 locked onto the beat like it was a command sequence. PDU-767 mirrored the rhythm, precise but powerful, his black-and-gold presence catching every flash of light.

The crowd noticed.

Then the crowd joined.

Wells stood at the edge of the circle, stunned and grinning like an idiot. Then he rolled his shoulders, tugged the hem of his black mesh shirt into place, and stepped forward in those heavy black-and-gold boots like he owned the beat.

A guy beside him leaned in. “Your friends are intense.”

“You have no idea.”

PDU-034 extended one glow stick toward Wells.

Wells looked down at it.

“Gold unit requires illumination,” PDU-034 said.

Wells took it, laughing. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

He stepped into the circle.

The bass hit again. The warehouse flashed blue, then white, then gold. Wells raised the glow stick overhead, mirrored shades shining, gold chain bouncing against the mesh across his chest, patterned shorts blazing under the strobes. He let himself go with the rhythm, surrounded by heat and smoke and strangers and three drones learning, in their own impossible way, how to belong to a night that made no sense and somehow made perfect sense.

PDU-090 looked toward the DJ booth. “Audio command accepted.”

PDU-767 nodded. “Group cohesion achieved.”

PDU-034 lifted the glow sticks high.

“Warehouse protocol successful.”

Wells laughed so hard he nearly missed the next beat.

Nearly.

Then he caught it, moved with it, and let the whole night pull them deeper into the gold.

Step into the bass, follow the gold, and let the warehouse lights show you where you belong. The Golden Army is always recruiting. Conact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Alton leaned against the truck like the whole damn riverbank belonged to him, throwing PDU-034 and PDU-073 that cocky little country-boy grin. Turning a massive black pickup into a pool was already ridiculous, but somehow the boys had made it look like the smartest idea of the summer.

034 kicked back in the water while 073 raised his drink, both of them clearly enjoying the view just as much as the cold water. Alton flexed his arm against the tailgate without even trying to hide it — because if you got the guns, bro, you might as well advertise.

A couple of shameless looks went back and forth, followed by smirks that said way more than words ever could.

Trey and Wells had barely started the horseshoe game before Alton wandered over looking like somebody had personally interrupted his modeling shoot. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, bros,” he laughed, spreading one hand like he was doing them a favor just by showing up.

Trey immediately started talking trash while Wells gave Alton that challenging grin that practically begged him to show off. Naturally, Alton grabbed a horseshoe and rolled his shoulders like he was about to compete for a damn championship instead of throwing metal around beside a river.

Nobody was taking the score too seriously anyway. Just three jocks, one lazy summer afternoon, and enough macho attitude to fill the whole countryside.

Alton stepped forward for his throw while Trey pointed toward the river, suddenly looking way more excited than any man should. Wells froze with his horseshoe in both hands as a big alligator casually appeared behind them like he wanted in on the game.

For one glorious second, Alton was still completely focused on his throw, looking every inch the cocky country stud while his bros tried to get his attention. “Bro… you might wanna look behind you,” Trey finally managed, half laughing and half yelling.

Alton glanced over his shoulder, saw the gator and immediately gave it the kind of stare usually reserved for somebody stealing his spot at the gym. Apparently even the local wildlife had shown up to watch the boys flex.

The horseshoes hit the dirt and suddenly Alton, Trey and Wells were standing shoulder-to-shoulder like three action heroes who had absolutely no idea what their next move was. Nobody ran, though — there was way too much macho pride on that riverbank for something sensible like that.

Alton planted himself in the middle, Trey squared up on one side and Wells matched him on the other, all three trying extremely hard to look tougher than the enormous alligator staring back at them. “Nobody moves, bros… I think he respects the gains,” Alton muttered, somehow managing to sound confident.

Trey nearly cracked up, Wells shot him a look, and even Alton’s serious face started slipping. It was probably the dumbest standoff of the summer — which automatically made it one of their favorites.

The second the gator finally turned around and headed back toward the river, the three bros completely lost it. Alton grabbed Trey’s hand in a massive high-five while Wells threw up a fist like they had just saved the entire county.

Within seconds, the story had already changed from “we stood there looking confused” to “three jacked country boys stared down a monster.” Trey swore the gator had been terrified of Alton’s arms, Wells claimed his chest had scared it off, and Alton happily accepted credit for both.

They laughed, shoved each other around and celebrated way harder than the situation deserved. That was the beauty of summer with the bros. Even five ridiculous minutes could become a legend before sunset.

Ten minutes later, Alton was shirtless in the truck-bed pool with one arm around PDU-034 and the other around PDU-073 like the gator incident had never happened.

Trey and Wells stood beside the truck with cold cans in their hands, grinning while Alton shamelessly showed off from the middle of his improvised throne. “See, bros? Told you I had everything under control,” Alton said, earning exactly the kind of skeptical looks he deserved.

034 leaned comfortably against him, 073 stayed tucked beneath his other arm, and Alton looked far too pleased with the arrangement to pretend he wasn’t loving the attention. Trey raised his drink toward him while Wells laughed and called him the biggest damn show-off on the river. Alton just flashed that smug country-boy grin.

Hot sun, cold water, a little flirting, a lot of flexing. And another perfect summer day with his bros.

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Check this out:

Country Stuff vol. 1 Country Stuff vol. 2

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Featuring: @polo-drone-034, @polo-drone-073, @hero21us, @wells-gold58

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Ready for the easy countryside life with the bros?

Wells stood in the Golden Army Training Center lounge with a metallic gold yo-yo looped around one finger, grinning as PDU-767 watched from beside the black-and-gold sofa.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Up.

The yo-yo spun, dropped, snapped back, and landed cleanly in Wells’ palm every time.

“Funny little thing,” Wells said, letting it fall again. “Goes down. Comes back up. Does exactly what it’s told.”

PDU-767 tilted its glossy helmet, tracking the motion with mechanical precision.

“Observation logged. Yo-yo demonstrates obedience through tension, release, and return.”

Wells smirked. “Exactly, drone bro.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make the joke land.

“And honestly? Any good Bro should know when to go down, when to come back up, and when to wait for the next tug.”

PDU-767 paused.

“Secondary meaning detected.”

Wells laughed, snapping the yo-yo back into his palm.

“Good drone.”

Gold always comes back when called. Step into the Training Center, feel the pull, and let the Golden Army bring you into rhythm. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Wells knew exactly what he was doing.

One flex under the Muscle Beach sun, one grin toward the camera, and the whole boardwalk seemed to stop for half a second. Gold shorts, 70s heat, that cocky golden confidence catching the light just right.

Then Wells looked straight into the lens and said it:

“Now that’s what I call golden.”

And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.

This is the Golden Army at its brightest: strength, swagger, brotherhood, and that unmistakable shine that turns heads wherever it goes.

On International Friendship Day we’re celebrating the realest crew in the game: the sweat, the laughs, the late-night talks, the “I got you no matter what” energy.

These gold shorts ain’t just for show — they’re the uniform of a brotherhood that hits different. Ride or die, pump or crush, beach or bar… these jocks show up for each other every single day.

They’re the kind of brothers who’ll throw down for you, lift you up when you’re grinding, and still clown you the second you start looking soft. That’s the real flex 💪☀️

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You ready to join the brotherhood?

Then hit up our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125