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if i look back, i am lost
Mike Driver
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art blog(derogatory)
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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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izzy's playlists!
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@chavambrose
Bonding with Coach and communing with the Golden Gods
Wells got a text.
Come to the condo. New track. Bonding with Coach.
Wells stared at the message for a long moment.
Then he read it again.
Then a third time, because there were several ways to interpret Bonding with Coach, and every single one of them sounded like trouble wearing a whistle.
He arrived just after dark.
Coach opened the door before Wells knocked twice.
He looked normal.
Mostly.
Shiny black wet-look spandex compression tights. Gold-and-black trainers. A shiny metallic gold spandex T-shirt with COACH printed across the chest. His black Coach baseball cap worn backwards, which somehow made him look less casual and more dangerous.
His eyes were too steady.
Wells noticed that immediately.
“You look intense,” Wells said.
Coach stepped aside. “Come in.”
“That is not a denial.”
“It was not meant to be.”
Wells entered slowly. The condo was prepared in that very Coach way: curtains drawn, lights low, speaker on the table, water beside the chair, everything positioned like a drill had already started and Wells was late to realizing it.
He looked at the chair.
Then at Coach.
“So,” Wells said, “bonding?”
Coach’s mouth barely moved.
“Correct.”
“Is this athletic bonding, emotional bonding, or the kind where I should have stretched first?”
Coach’s gaze did not shift.
“Yes.”
Wells blinked.
Then smiled despite himself.
“That is not an answer.”
“It was not meant to be.”
The air between them was warm, close, charged in the way it always got when Coach stopped explaining and started expecting Wells to obey the rhythm. Wells knew that look. The calm. The control. The patience that made resistance feel like a warmup.
Coach gestured to the chair.
“Sit.”
Wells did.
Slowly.
Like he was proving a point.
Like Coach was not already winning.
Coach stood in front of him, close enough that Wells could see the gold shine of the shirt, the black gloss of the tights, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The whole room seemed to narrow down to Coach’s voice, Coach’s posture, Coach’s command.
“Tonight,” Coach said, “you listen.”
Wells swallowed.
“Just listen?”
Coach leaned down slightly, one hand braced on the arm of the chair, voice low enough to make the word land under Wells’ skin.
“Start there.”
Wells’ grin flickered.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”
Coach pressed play.
The track began with a slow pulse. Low. Heavy. Deep enough to settle into muscle before thought could get defensive. Then Coach’s recorded voice entered beneath it, calm and firm, wrapped around the beat like hands around a barbell.
Breathe in.
Wells inhaled.
Hold.
He held.
Let go.
His shoulders dropped.
Coach’s live voice joined the recording, slightly behind it, doubling the command in the room.
“Good.”
Wells’ eyes half-lidded.
That was always the dangerous part.
Not the track.
Not the chair.
The trust.
Coach knew exactly where Wells held tension. Jaw. Neck. Chest. Hands. Hips. Thought. He guided him through each one slowly, carefully, until Wells felt himself unwinding by degrees.
No rush.
No force.
Just pressure applied in the right place.
“Focus on my voice,” Coach said.
Wells did.
“Let the noise drop.”
It did.
“Let the body answer.”
It did.
The room blurred gold at the edges.
Wells’ breathing slowed. His hands relaxed against the chair. His body felt heavy and awake at the same time, as if every muscle had been switched on while everything else went quiet.
Coach’s voice sank lower.
“Bonding means trust.”
Wells’ throat moved.
“Bonding means response.”
The pulse deepened.
“Bonding means you stop fighting what already knows how to follow.”
Wells tried to make a joke.
It never reached his mouth.
Coach stepped closer.
“Good boy.”
The words hit like a spark dropped into gasoline.
Wells exhaled hard, and the room tipped.
Coach’s voice changed.
Not suddenly.
Not obviously.
It simply expanded, growing too large for the condo, too old for the speaker, too heavy to belong only to one man.
Deeper.
Wells fell.
Not from the chair.
From himself.
The condo vanished.
Gold rose around him.
When Wells opened his eyes again, he stood inside the Golden Temple.
Vast columns climbed into impossible light. Gold fire burned in silent bowls along the walls. The floor beneath him shone like polished metal, reflecting him not as he was, but as the Gold remembered him.
Player.
Brother.
Jock.
Guardian.
Chav.
Warrior.
All of them layered in the reflection. All of them watching him back.
At the far end of the temple stood the Golden Gods.
They were not statues.
They were not men.
They were pressure given shape. Strength given light. Brotherhood made vast and ancient. Their faces were half-seen, their bodies bright as molten gold, their presence so overwhelming that Wells dropped to one knee before he could decide whether he meant to.
The temple trembled.
The Golden Gods spoke.
Not with mouths.
With power.
With certainty.
With voices that entered him whole.
Wells.
His head bowed.
Something is coming.
The words moved through him like heat under skin.
Something hidden. Something hungry. Something that reaches for the Golden Bros.
The light brightened.
Wells saw flashes.
Gold spreading across water like sunrise.
Brothers standing shoulder to shoulder beneath banners older than language.
A temple door opening from the inside.
Mirrors turning toward him one by one.
A hooded figure in gold stepping through light.
Not attacking.
Not hunting.
Sent.
The gods spoke again.
We sent the Golden One.
The temple shook.
To help the Golden Bros remember.
The flames bent sideways.
To help them return.
A final pulse of gold moved through him.
Protect the brothers.
Trust the bond.
Wells tried to ask what was coming.
Tried to ask how to stop it.
But the temple cracked with light.
A final command struck through him.
Wake.
Wells jolted upright in the chair.
His breath came sharp.
The track was still playing.
Low.
Steady.
Ancient.
For one second, he did not understand why the room felt so close.
Then he looked down.
Coach was kneeling between his legs.
One hand was braced against Wells’ thigh. The other gripped the edge of the chair. His head was bowed, shoulders rising and falling slowly, like he had been pulled into the track just as deeply as Wells had.
And his eyes were glowing gold.
Wells froze.
“Coach?”
Coach lifted his head.
The gold light burned behind his eyes, calm and empty and terrifyingly beautiful. His face was too close. His body was too still. The room felt hot, silent, charged with all the wrong kinds of unfinished instruction.
Wells swallowed.
“Coach. Look at me.”
Nothing.
The pulse continued.
Remember.
Wells reached past him and shut off the speaker.
Silence hit the condo hard.
Coach staggered back, one hand catching the chair arm. The gold in his eyes flickered once, twice, then collapsed inward like a light vanishing behind glass.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then his eyes focused.
“Wells?”
“Yeah,” Wells said, voice rough. “Me. Still here. Very awake. Very concerned.”
Coach looked at where he was kneeling.
Then at Wells.
Then at the speaker.
His jaw tightened.
“What happened?”
Wells stared at him.
“That is what I was about to ask you.”
Coach pushed himself up slowly, one hand pressed to his chest as if something inside him was still echoing. For a moment, he looked less like Coach Stone and more like a man who had woken halfway through someone else’s command.
Then his expression sharpened.
He looked at Wells.
At the chair.
At the silent speaker.
At his own hands.
Whatever had happened through the track had not only reached Wells.
It had reached him too.
Coach’s jaw tightened.
“There is something I need to tell you.”
Wells went still.
“That sentence is never good.”
“No.”
Coach sat down slowly, like the weight of the night before had finally caught up to him.
“Last night,” he said, “after I saw Ambrose in the alley, I followed him back into the gym.”
Wells’ expression changed immediately.
“You saw Ambrose?”
“Yes.”
“In the alley behind the gym?”
“Yes.”
“And you followed him inside?”
Coach gave him a look.
Wells raised both hands. “Right. Continue.”
Slowly, Coach told him the rest.
The gold tracksuit. The back door. The empty gym. The mirror. The Golden One stepping through the glass. The command to remember. The gold essence forced into him like breath and fire. Ambrose and the Golden One speaking with the same voice.
Wells listened without interrupting.
For once.
By the time Coach finished, the room felt smaller.
Wells rubbed both hands over his face.
“So Ambrose was there.”
“Yes.”
“And the Golden One.”
“Yes.”
“And you decided not to mention the mystical mirror assault before inviting me over for a track called Bonding with Coach?”
Coach’s jaw tightened.
“I did not understand what had happened.”
“That is the worst possible answer.”
“It is the true one.”
Wells exhaled, then looked toward the silent speaker.
“Okay,” he said. “Then it’s my turn.”
He told Coach about the temple.
The columns. The fire. The Golden Gods. The way his body knelt because something inside him remembered the motion. The reflections of himself in gold. The mirrors turning. The hooded figure stepping through light.
Then the warning.
Something is coming.
Coach’s face changed.
Not fear.
Calculation.
Wells knew that look. Coach was building a list.
“They said it was hidden,” Wells continued. “Hungry. Reaching.”
Coach looked toward the dark window.
“For what?”
Wells shook his head. “They didn’t say.”
The silence after that felt worse than an answer.
“What else?” Coach asked.
Wells swallowed.
“They said they sent the Golden One.”
Coach went perfectly still.
“To help the Golden Bros remember,” Wells said. “To help them return.”
The room went cold.
No names.
No explanation.
No clean target.
Just the warning, heavy and ancient, settling between them like smoke.
Something was coming.
And it was coming for the Golden Bros.
Coach reached for his phone.
“We tell Brody.”
“Immediately,” Wells said.
Coach unlocked the screen.
The condo stayed silent around them, but it no longer felt empty.
It felt watched.
Waiting.
Listening.
Wells looked once more at the chair, then at Coach.
“So,” he said carefully, “bonding track worked.”
Coach glanced at him.
Wells lifted both hands.
“Too soon?”
“Yes.”
“Noted.”
Coach’s mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then his thumb hovered over Brody’s name.
Wells stood beside him, no longer just the subject of the drill.
Now he was a witness.
The Golden Gods had spoken.
Coach had remembered.
And whatever was coming for the Golden Bros had just lost the element of surprise.
The Gold is calling louder now. Stand with the brothers, trust the bond, and prepare for what is coming. Join the Golden Army, contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Mentions: @brodygold, @chavambrose
@austinthejock
Bonding with Coach and communing with the Golden Gods
Wells got a text.
Come to the condo. New track. Bonding with Coach.
Wells stared at the message for a long moment.
Then he read it again.
Then a third time, because there were several ways to interpret Bonding with Coach, and every single one of them sounded like trouble wearing a whistle.
He arrived just after dark.
Coach opened the door before Wells knocked twice.
He looked normal.
Mostly.
Shiny black wet-look spandex compression tights. Gold-and-black trainers. A shiny metallic gold spandex T-shirt with COACH printed across the chest. His black Coach baseball cap worn backwards, which somehow made him look less casual and more dangerous.
His eyes were too steady.
Wells noticed that immediately.
“You look intense,” Wells said.
Coach stepped aside. “Come in.”
“That is not a denial.”
“It was not meant to be.”
Wells entered slowly. The condo was prepared in that very Coach way: curtains drawn, lights low, speaker on the table, water beside the chair, everything positioned like a drill had already started and Wells was late to realizing it.
He looked at the chair.
Then at Coach.
“So,” Wells said, “bonding?”
Coach’s mouth barely moved.
“Correct.”
“Is this athletic bonding, emotional bonding, or the kind where I should have stretched first?”
Coach’s gaze did not shift.
“Yes.”
Wells blinked.
Then smiled despite himself.
“That is not an answer.”
“It was not meant to be.”
The air between them was warm, close, charged in the way it always got when Coach stopped explaining and started expecting Wells to obey the rhythm. Wells knew that look. The calm. The control. The patience that made resistance feel like a warmup.
Coach gestured to the chair.
“Sit.”
Wells did.
Slowly.
Like he was proving a point.
Like Coach was not already winning.
Coach stood in front of him, close enough that Wells could see the gold shine of the shirt, the black gloss of the tights, the steady rise and fall of his chest. The whole room seemed to narrow down to Coach’s voice, Coach’s posture, Coach’s command.
“Tonight,” Coach said, “you listen.”
Wells swallowed.
“Just listen?”
Coach leaned down slightly, one hand braced on the arm of the chair, voice low enough to make the word land under Wells’ skin.
“Start there.”
Wells’ grin flickered.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay.”
Coach pressed play.
The track began with a slow pulse. Low. Heavy. Deep enough to settle into muscle before thought could get defensive. Then Coach’s recorded voice entered beneath it, calm and firm, wrapped around the beat like hands around a barbell.
Breathe in.
Wells inhaled.
Hold.
He held.
Let go.
His shoulders dropped.
Coach’s live voice joined the recording, slightly behind it, doubling the command in the room.
“Good.”
Wells’ eyes half-lidded.
That was always the dangerous part.
Not the track.
Not the chair.
The trust.
Coach knew exactly where Wells held tension. Jaw. Neck. Chest. Hands. Hips. Thought. He guided him through each one slowly, carefully, until Wells felt himself unwinding by degrees.
No rush.
No force.
Just pressure applied in the right place.
“Focus on my voice,” Coach said.
Wells did.
“Let the noise drop.”
It did.
“Let the body answer.”
It did.
The room blurred gold at the edges.
Wells’ breathing slowed. His hands relaxed against the chair. His body felt heavy and awake at the same time, as if every muscle had been switched on while everything else went quiet.
Coach’s voice sank lower.
“Bonding means trust.”
Wells’ throat moved.
“Bonding means response.”
The pulse deepened.
“Bonding means you stop fighting what already knows how to follow.”
Wells tried to make a joke.
It never reached his mouth.
Coach stepped closer.
“Good boy.”
The words hit like a spark dropped into gasoline.
Wells exhaled hard, and the room tipped.
Coach’s voice changed.
Not suddenly.
Not obviously.
It simply expanded, growing too large for the condo, too old for the speaker, too heavy to belong only to one man.
Deeper.
Wells fell.
Not from the chair.
From himself.
The condo vanished.
Gold rose around him.
When Wells opened his eyes again, he stood inside the Golden Temple.
Vast columns climbed into impossible light. Gold fire burned in silent bowls along the walls. The floor beneath him shone like polished metal, reflecting him not as he was, but as the Gold remembered him.
Player.
Brother.
Jock.
Guardian.
Chav.
Warrior.
All of them layered in the reflection. All of them watching him back.
At the far end of the temple stood the Golden Gods.
They were not statues.
They were not men.
They were pressure given shape. Strength given light. Brotherhood made vast and ancient. Their faces were half-seen, their bodies bright as molten gold, their presence so overwhelming that Wells dropped to one knee before he could decide whether he meant to.
The temple trembled.
The Golden Gods spoke.
Not with mouths.
With power.
With certainty.
With voices that entered him whole.
Wells.
His head bowed.
Something is coming.
The words moved through him like heat under skin.
Something hidden. Something hungry. Something that reaches for the Golden Bros.
The light brightened.
Wells saw flashes.
Gold spreading across water like sunrise.
Brothers standing shoulder to shoulder beneath banners older than language.
A temple door opening from the inside.
Mirrors turning toward him one by one.
A hooded figure in gold stepping through light.
Not attacking.
Not hunting.
Sent.
The gods spoke again.
We sent the Golden One.
The temple shook.
To help the Golden Bros remember.
The flames bent sideways.
To help them return.
A final pulse of gold moved through him.
Protect the brothers.
Trust the bond.
Wells tried to ask what was coming.
Tried to ask how to stop it.
But the temple cracked with light.
A final command struck through him.
Wake.
Wells jolted upright in the chair.
His breath came sharp.
The track was still playing.
Low.
Steady.
Ancient.
For one second, he did not understand why the room felt so close.
Then he looked down.
Coach was kneeling between his legs.
One hand was braced against Wells’ thigh. The other gripped the edge of the chair. His head was bowed, shoulders rising and falling slowly, like he had been pulled into the track just as deeply as Wells had.
And his eyes were glowing gold.
Wells froze.
“Coach?”
Coach lifted his head.
The gold light burned behind his eyes, calm and empty and terrifyingly beautiful. His face was too close. His body was too still. The room felt hot, silent, charged with all the wrong kinds of unfinished instruction.
Wells swallowed.
“Coach. Look at me.”
Nothing.
The pulse continued.
Remember.
Wells reached past him and shut off the speaker.
Silence hit the condo hard.
Coach staggered back, one hand catching the chair arm. The gold in his eyes flickered once, twice, then collapsed inward like a light vanishing behind glass.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then his eyes focused.
“Wells?”
“Yeah,” Wells said, voice rough. “Me. Still here. Very awake. Very concerned.”
Coach looked at where he was kneeling.
Then at Wells.
Then at the speaker.
His jaw tightened.
“What happened?”
Wells stared at him.
“That is what I was about to ask you.”
Coach pushed himself up slowly, one hand pressed to his chest as if something inside him was still echoing. For a moment, he looked less like Coach Stone and more like a man who had woken halfway through someone else’s command.
Then his expression sharpened.
He looked at Wells.
At the chair.
At the silent speaker.
At his own hands.
Whatever had happened through the track had not only reached Wells.
It had reached him too.
Coach’s jaw tightened.
“There is something I need to tell you.”
Wells went still.
“That sentence is never good.”
“No.”
Coach sat down slowly, like the weight of the night before had finally caught up to him.
“Last night,” he said, “after I saw Ambrose in the alley, I followed him back into the gym.”
Wells’ expression changed immediately.
“You saw Ambrose?”
“Yes.”
“In the alley behind the gym?”
“Yes.”
“And you followed him inside?”
Coach gave him a look.
Wells raised both hands. “Right. Continue.”
Slowly, Coach told him the rest.
The gold tracksuit. The back door. The empty gym. The mirror. The Golden One stepping through the glass. The command to remember. The gold essence forced into him like breath and fire. Ambrose and the Golden One speaking with the same voice.
Wells listened without interrupting.
For once.
By the time Coach finished, the room felt smaller.
Wells rubbed both hands over his face.
“So Ambrose was there.”
“Yes.”
“And the Golden One.”
“Yes.”
“And you decided not to mention the mystical mirror assault before inviting me over for a track called Bonding with Coach?”
Coach’s jaw tightened.
“I did not understand what had happened.”
“That is the worst possible answer.”
“It is the true one.”
Wells exhaled, then looked toward the silent speaker.
“Okay,” he said. “Then it’s my turn.”
He told Coach about the temple.
The columns. The fire. The Golden Gods. The way his body knelt because something inside him remembered the motion. The reflections of himself in gold. The mirrors turning. The hooded figure stepping through light.
Then the warning.
Something is coming.
Coach’s face changed.
Not fear.
Calculation.
Wells knew that look. Coach was building a list.
“They said it was hidden,” Wells continued. “Hungry. Reaching.”
Coach looked toward the dark window.
“For what?”
Wells shook his head. “They didn’t say.”
The silence after that felt worse than an answer.
“What else?” Coach asked.
Wells swallowed.
“They said they sent the Golden One.”
Coach went perfectly still.
“To help the Golden Bros remember,” Wells said. “To help them return.”
The room went cold.
No names.
No explanation.
No clean target.
Just the warning, heavy and ancient, settling between them like smoke.
Something was coming.
And it was coming for the Golden Bros.
Coach reached for his phone.
“We tell Brody.”
“Immediately,” Wells said.
Coach unlocked the screen.
The condo stayed silent around them, but it no longer felt empty.
It felt watched.
Waiting.
Listening.
Wells looked once more at the chair, then at Coach.
“So,” he said carefully, “bonding track worked.”
Coach glanced at him.
Wells lifted both hands.
“Too soon?”
“Yes.”
“Noted.”
Coach’s mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then his thumb hovered over Brody’s name.
Wells stood beside him, no longer just the subject of the drill.
Now he was a witness.
The Golden Gods had spoken.
Coach had remembered.
And whatever was coming for the Golden Bros had just lost the element of surprise.
The Gold is calling louder now. Stand with the brothers, trust the bond, and prepare for what is coming. Join the Golden Army, contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Mentions: @brodygold, @chavambrose
The Liberation of the Golden Gods
I. The Prophecy
In the first age, the gods lived without fear.
Their temples crowned the hills above white cities. Their names were sung before battles, whispered between lovers and carved into marble so deeply that men believed even time would be forced to remember them.
Zeus presided over the divine council. Ares embodied courage and conflict. Apollo carried beauty, healing and light. Hermes moved freely between worlds. Around them stood gods of strength, victory, creativity, pleasure and desire, each possessing powers and responsibilities of his own.
Among them was Janus.
Janus did not rule the others. His power lay in thresholds: doors, beginnings, endings and the passage from one age into the next.
One face remembered everything that had been.
The other searched what had not yet come.
For centuries, both faces had looked upon prosperity. Then the face turned toward the future saw something that disturbed him.
Janus requested an audience before the divine council.
The gods assembled within their magnificent hall while music and mortal prayers drifted upward from the world below.
Zeus regarded him from his throne.
“What have you seen?”
Janus answered with two voices.
“I have seen our temples emptied.”
The music ceased.
“I have seen our statues broken, our altars abandoned and our names reduced to stories. Humanity will not defeat us in battle. Men will simply cease to believe that we were ever real.”
Ares laughed.
“Let them attempt to forget the strength within their own blood.”
“They will,” Janus said.
Apollo’s expression darkened.
“And what becomes of us?”
“The gates between our realm and theirs will close. Without remembrance, prayer or belief, we will remain alive—but separated from the mortal world.”
Hermes stepped forward.
“Does your vision show those gates opening again?”
Janus’s future-facing side watched something none of the others could yet see.
“Yes.”
Gold gathered around him, forming glimpses of impossible towers, illuminated stadiums and men competing upon fields of brilliant green.
“One mortal will discover what remains of the divine Gold. He will accept it freely and share it with others.”
“An army,” Ares asked.
“A team," Janus explained. "Its men will carry the strength, beauty, courage and fellowship once celebrated in our temples. The world will call them the Golden Army, but their battles will be fought upon a different type of battle field.”
“And through them?” Zeus asked.
“The first door will open.”
II. When the Gods Were Remembered
For generations, the prophecy seemed impossible.
The temples remained crowded. Athletes dedicated victories to the gods. Warriors called upon them before battle. Travelers praised Hermes, artists sought Apollo’s light and rulers feared the judgment of Zeus.
The gods crossed freely into the mortal world.
They attended feasts and competitions. They blessed men who displayed courage, loyalty, beauty or discipline. They shared strength, inspiration, confidence and desire according to their individual domains.
Janus was honored at every important transition. Men sought his favor before journeys, marriages, battles and changes of fortune. One face guarded what they left behind while the other watched the path ahead.
Yet he remained one god among many.
Ares inspired warriors.
Apollo guided artists and athletes.
Hermes opened roads.
Zeus upheld divine order.
Every god was remembered for his own gifts.
The gods believed those days would never end.
Only Janus understood that every age eventually crossed into another.
III. The Empty Hall
The forgetting began quietly.
One prayer went unspoken.
One festival passed without celebration.
A sacred flame died and was not relit.
New rulers arrived. Old traditions were forbidden, altered or abandoned. Temples were stripped of their treasures, repurposed or left to collapse beneath war and weather.
The gods felt humanity withdrawing from them.
Hermes discovered that his roads between the worlds had begun to narrow. Apollo could no longer hear every hymn composed in his name. Ares sensed battles being fought by men who did not know whose ancient fire moved through them.
At last, the gates closed.
The gods withdrew into their divine hall.
At first, they expected their isolation to last only a generation.
Zeus maintained order.
Ares trained in empty courtyards.
Apollo composed music no mortal ear could hear.
Hermes tested every sealed passage.
Janus watched the threshold.
Years became decades.
Decades became centuries.
The gods remained immortal, powerful and magnificent, but the hall grew painfully silent. No mortal footsteps approached the thrones. No garlands appeared at their feet. No voices called their names.
They had not been conquered.
They had been forgotten.
Still, Janus repeated what he had seen.
“A mortal will find the Gold.”
He could not tell them when.
He could not create that moment from inside the sealed realm.
All he could do was wait for someone on the other side to open the first crack.
IV. Captain Richard
Centuries later, Captain Richard led an ordinary modern football club.
It was not famous.
Its pitch was uneven, its equipment worn and its changing room too small for the number of men crowded inside it. The team had ability but little unity. Its players came from different backgrounds and carried different ambitions.
Some wanted recognition.
Some wanted belonging.
Some simply wanted somewhere to play.
Richard remained captain because he could hold them together when little else could.
One evening, after training, a shot sent the club’s last usable ball over a fence and into the remains of an abandoned building beside the pitch.
Richard went to retrieve it.
Beneath broken boards and crumbling stone, he discovered a sealed chamber. At its center rested a football unlike anything he had ever seen.
Its surface was metallic gold, yet it felt warm beneath his hand. Ancient symbols curved across its panels, almost invisible until he touched them.
The instant his fingers closed around the ball, the world disappeared.
Richard saw temples filled with men.
He saw gods standing beneath golden arches.
He saw the same halls empty and silent centuries later.
Then he felt a question pass through him without words:
Will you accept the Gold?
Richard could have released the ball.
Instead, he held it against his chest.
“Yes.”
Gold moved through him.
His training clothes transformed into a fitted football kit: a shining gold jersey, matching shorts, gold socks and gleaming boots. A crest appeared over his heart. The captain’s armband formed around his sleeve.
Richard felt stronger, but strength was only part of it.
He felt clarity.
Responsibility.
The certainty that what he had found was never meant for one man alone.
V. The First Jerseys
Richard returned to the club carrying the golden ball.
His teammates stared at his new kit.
Some laughed.
Others assumed it was a publicity stunt.
Richard placed the ball at the center of the changing room.
“I don’t know exactly what this is,” he told them. “But it offered me something, and I accepted.”
From his kit bag, he removed a folded gold jersey.
It had not been there before.
A number waited upon its back.
Richard held it out to the player nearest him.
“You don’t have to take it.”
The man studied the jersey.
“What happens if I do?”
“You become part of the team in a way we haven’t been before.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You walk away unchanged.”
The player took the jersey.
The moment he pulled it over his head, gold spread through the rest of his clothing. His shorts, socks and boots transformed to complete the kit. His number shone across his back.
Another jersey appeared inside Richard’s bag.
Then another.
One by one, the men chose.
Not every player accepted immediately. Richard did not pressure them. Those who wanted time were given time.
But as more men accepted, something changed.
Their movements became sharper.
Their trust deepened.
They began anticipating one another on the pitch without needing to speak. Defenders shifted together. Midfielders found passing lanes before they opened. Forwards moved as if guided by the same instinct.
The Gold did not erase their personalities.
It gave their differences formation.
When eleven men finally stood together in complete gold kits, the ball began to shine.
The Golden Army had been born.
It was not a military force.
Its members carried no weapons and conquered no territory.
The name came from the sight of them entering the pitch together: eleven men in radiant gold, disciplined, united and impossible to ignore.
Far beyond the mortal world, a line of light appeared across the sealed gates.
VI. The First Crack
Janus felt the disturbance immediately.
He approached the threshold and placed both hands against it.
Through the narrow opening, he saw Captain Richard standing at the center of the pitch. Around him, ten other men trained beneath the stadium lights in matching gold kits.
The gods gathered behind Janus.
Hermes examined the fracture.
“It came from the mortal side.”
“Can it be opened?” Apollo asked.
“Not fully,” Janus answered. “But one of us may be able to cross.”
Zeus looked toward him.
“You are the guardian of thresholds. The first passage belongs to your domain.”
The other gods shared what strength they could spare.
Zeus stabilized the weakening boundary.
Hermes traced the path through it.
Apollo sent a spark of light to guide the crossing.
Ares gave Janus the courage to enter a world in which divinity had become fiction.
Janus did not create the opening.
Richard and his team had done that by accepting the Gold together.
Janus merely answered.
He passed through the crack.
VII. The Captain and the God
Richard was alone on the pitch after training when Janus appeared beyond the touchline.
The two-headed figure wore living gold. One face looked toward the club’s past. The other seemed to search everything it might become.
Richard picked up the golden ball.
“Are you the one who gave me this?”
Both faces of Janus regarded him.
“No, Captain.”
“Then who did?”
“The Gold belonged to no single god. It was created from the shared connection between the pantheon and the men who once remembered us. A fragment remained when the gates closed.”
Richard looked at the ball.
“Why did it choose me?”
“It did not choose for you. It offered.”
“And I accepted.”
“Yes.”
The other players emerged from the changing room and gathered behind their captain.
Janus looked across the complete team.
“Your club opened the first door.”
Richard glanced at the golden jerseys.
“We thought we were building a team.”
“You were,” Janus replied. “That is why it worked.”
The gods had not required soldiers.
They had required men willing to accept Gold—not as a weapon or a mark of superiority, but as a shared responsibility. Men capable of trusting one another, placing collective purpose above individual glory and allowing the Gold to transform their separate strengths into something greater than any one of them could become alone.
Your football club has become a living expression of those bonds.
Richard stepped forward.
“What happens now?”
Janus’s future-facing side turned toward the city.
“Now the world sees the Gold.”
VIII. The Presence of Janus
Janus walked through the modern city.
He did not command people to kneel. He did not demand temples or worship.
He simply allowed himself to be seen.
Modern men hurried past on their way to work. Some carried coffee. Some spoke into phones. Others rode bicycles or gathered outside shops, discussing the ordinary concerns of an ordinary day.
Then they noticed him.
A towering two-headed man in brilliant gold, walking calmly between glass buildings as though the ancient and modern worlds had always belonged together.
Some stared.
Some recorded him.
A few felt something deeper.
Richard and several members of the Golden Army followed at a distance, wearing their gold football kits.
Janus’s presence widened the crack between the worlds. Through him, the dormant Gold could now move beyond the original ball and jerseys.
Men began gathering.
They were not selected for wealth, fame or physical perfection. They were drawn by qualities the gods had once recognized in mortals: courage, loyalty, beauty, discipline, creativity and the willingness to belong without surrendering identity.
At the center of the street, Janus stopped.
He opened his arms.
Gold radiated outward.
IX. The Expansion of the Club
The power passing through Janus did not belong to him alone.
The first current carried the stability and authority of Zeus.
The next brought the courage and competitive fire of Ares.
Apollo’s radiance awakened beauty, creativity and the confidence to be seen.
Hermes sent speed, instinct and the ability to recognize an opening before it appeared.
Other divine powers joined them, each distinct but flowing together through the Gold.
The energy entered the men who had chosen to remain as gold entered them.
One lifted his face as courage filled his chest.
Another felt his body become lighter, faster and more responsive.
A third looked at the strangers beside him and understood where they would move before they moved.
Janus spoke with both voices.
“The world forgot the gods, but the gods never ceased to exist.”
The remaining men looked toward him.
“You will accept the gold.”
Several hesitated.
Janus waited.
They tried to step away but the team blocked them.
Captain Richard carried a stack of gold jerseys in his arms.
He offered the first to a man standing nearest him.
“The Gold may give you power,” Richard said, “but the jersey makes you part of the club. You train with us. You play beside us. You carry the team with you.”
The man refused.
One of the team took the man's hand and placed in on the jersey. Gold flowed into him. He took the jersey and pulling the jersey over his head, his clothes transformed into a complete gold football kit. A number appeared across his back.
The ritual was repeated with each resisting man.
The men did not become identical.
The Gold did not erase them.
It gave each of them a position.
Defenders stepped back instinctively.
Midfielders gathered around the center.
Wingers opened space along the edges.
Forwards moved toward the front.
Goalkeepers felt the responsibility of protecting everything behind them.
They were being turned into an army.
A army growing far beyond its original eleven, with new squads, new sports, training groups and teams forming wherever men accepted or touched the Gold.
The Golden Army became a movement built through sport.
Every pass strengthened trust.
Every match transformed strangers into teammates.
Every gold jersey widened the gate.
X. Football as Remembrance
The club began playing publicly.
At first, crowds came because the gold kits were impossible to ignore.
Then they returned because of the football.
The Golden Army played with discipline and beauty. Their movements seemed both carefully trained and instinctive. They did not rely upon one star. Every player contributed.
Ares lived in their courage during hard tackles and impossible comebacks.
Apollo shone through the elegance of a perfectly weighted pass.
Hermes moved through sudden counterattacks and bursts of speed.
Zeus was present in captains who remained steady when matches turned against them.
The gods were remembered without their names always being spoken.
Their qualities lived through the team.
The club won matches, but victory was not its only purpose. Richard insisted that new players understand what the Gold required.
Strength without cruelty.
Confidence without humiliation.
Competition without hatred.
Belonging without erasure.
The Golden Army became known for welcoming men who had never before found a team willing to make space for them.
Every accepted jersey became another thread connecting the mortal world to the divine hall.
Before long, the crack became a doorway.
XI. The Liberation
The final opening occurred during a championship match.
The stadium was filled with supporters dressed in gold. Multiple Golden Army squads stood together around the pitch. Captain Richard led the first team from the tunnel with the original golden ball beneath his arm.
Janus watched from beside the field.
He had spread the Gold through his presence, but he had never claimed ownership of the club. Richard remained its captain. The players remained the men who gave the Gold purpose in the mortal world.
As the match began, the team moved with complete unity.
A defender won the ball and passed to midfield.
The midfield shifted play wide.
A winger accelerated into space.
The final pass crossed the penalty area.
A Golden Army forward struck the ball into the net.
The crowd rose.
The roar reached beyond the mortal world.
The sealed doors of the divine hall burst open.
Gold flooded the stadium.
Zeus crossed first, holding the passage stable.
Hermes followed along the road he had spent centuries searching for.
Apollo emerged in radiant light.
Ares stepped onto the pitch and looked upon the players carrying his courage without ever knowing his name.
The other gods followed, each drawn toward the men who embodied his particular gifts.
They were free.
Not because Janus had rescued them alone.
Not because Richard had commanded an army.
They were free because a captain had accepted a golden ball, offered jerseys to willing teammates and built a football club strong enough to reconnect two worlds.
XII. The Gods and the Players
The gods entered the club’s grand hall after the match.
For centuries, they had sat alone before empty thrones. Now the chamber filled with footballers dressed in modern gold kits.
The gods descended among them.
Ares embraced defenders who had learned when to stand firm and when to yield.
Hermes celebrated with wingers and midfielders who understood movement, timing and invention.
Apollo praised the players who made discipline look beautiful.
Zeus greeted captains and coaches who understood that authority existed to protect the team rather than glorify themselves.
Other gods offered gifts of endurance, vitality, confidence, affection and desire.
Some blessings were solemn.
Others were expressed through strong embraces and grateful kisses.
The gods did not treat the players as servants.
These were the men who had liberated them.
Captain Richard stood beside the original golden ball.
Janus joined him.
“You saw this coming,” Richard said.
“I saw that a captain would find the Gold.”
“But you did not know it would be me.”
“No prophecy sees every detail.”
Richard watched gods and footballers celebrating together.
“And now?”
Janus’s face of the past regarded the lonely centuries.
His face of the future watched the club expand into possibilities even he could no longer predict.
“Now the door remains open.”
XIII. A New Covenant
Zeus called the gods and players together.
The pantheon stood beside the football club, not above it.
“The old temples belonged to another age,” Zeus said. “We will not demand their return.”
Apollo looked across the gold kits.
“The pitch has become a place where beauty, discipline and human potential are honored.”
Hermes smiled.
“And every away match creates another road.”
Ares rested a hand upon a player’s shoulder.
“Every man who faces fear beside his teammates keeps courage alive.”
Janus spoke only when Zeus invited him.
“The prophecy described a Golden Army, but mortals gave that name a better meaning than the gods understood.”
He looked toward the assembled footballers.
“You are not soldiers. You do not exist to invade, conquer or obey without thought.”
Captain Richard lifted the golden ball.
“We are a army.”
“A army,” Janus agreed, “capable of carrying divine gifts into the world because its strength comes from men choosing to stand together.”
The new covenant was sealed.
The gods would not impose themselves upon humanity.
Team Management would determine who wore its jerseys. Janus would help carry the Gold beyond its original source. Each god would share only the gifts belonging to his own domain.
No single figure controlled the whole.
The gods needed the army.
The army drew inspiration from the gods.
And every player remained responsible for how he used what the Gold awakened within him.
XIV. The Golden Army
The Golden Army spread across the modern world.
New squads formed throughout the wrold.
Some players were elite athletes.
Others had never before believed they belonged anywhere.
They trained together.
They competed.
They loved.
They argued, learned and grew.
They wore different numbers and played different sports, but every gold jersey connected them to the same beginning: a captain beneath broken stone, holding a ball that offered a team.
Richard remained the first captain.
He had not created the divine Gold, but he had become the first modern man willing to carry it.
Janus remained the guardian of its threshold.
He had not begun the army, but through his presence the Gold could now reach men far beyond the original team.
The other gods returned to the world through the qualities expressed by the players.
The divine hall was no longer empty.
After matches, gods and teammates gathered beneath its arches. Laughter replaced silence. Gold kits hung beside ancient armor. The bros rested beneath statues once buried and forgotten.
Janus looked backward and saw the day Captain Richard accepted the ball.
He looked forward and saw fields of gold spreading across the world.
The world had forgotten the gods.
A football captain found what they had left behind.
A team accepted the jerseys.
A club opened the door.
And the Golden Army brought the gods home.
Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Other Color Day - Pink
ZANE’S HIMBO CONFESSIONS
Himbolicious by Zane
For some if my faves…you know who you are. 💦💦💦💖
Flexing on the new Himbo suit. Everything matched to expectation. Time to hit the gym. This temple needs to get stronger.
@zanethehimbo
1 Year of Gold
Wells said he was not making a big deal out of it.
That was clearly untrue.
There were black-and-gold balloons, a cake with metallic icing, a lit number 1 candle, and Wells standing beside it shirtless in shiny metallic gold compression tights like the anniversary had personally requested a fitness calendar shoot.
“One year,” Wells said, leaning over the cake with a smug little smile. “That deserves recognition.”
Nobody argued.
Mostly because he was already posing.
One year in the Golden Army had built muscle, discipline, confidence, and an alarming ability to turn any room into a celebration of Wells 58. The Gold had sharpened him. Strengthened him. Made him louder, steadier, shinier, and somehow even more convinced that good lighting counted as team support.
He bent forward and blew out the candle.
For a second, the room went quiet.
Then the smoke curled upward, the gold tights caught the light, and Wells looked back over his shoulder like he knew exactly what kind of anniversary image this was going to become.
One year strong.
Still shining.
Still Wells.
And absolutely impossible to ignore.
One year is only the beginning. Train hard, shine brighter, celebrate every rep that built you, and let the Gold turn discipline into brotherhood, confidence, and strength that lasts. One year strong. Still shining. Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Well Done @wells-gold58
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.
Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
ZANE’S HIMBO CONFESSIONS
I told you the best part about being Zane is being Zane.
@alexbruhh @rod-tf @serve-425 @serve-875 @wells-gold58 @hero21us @thongzach @austinthejock @btmguy69
ZANE’S HIMBO CONFESSIONS
BEFORE
AFTER
Here at ZHC we encourage all kinds of kink but we especially like transformation kink the best especially these SERVE DRONE CORRUPTION UPGRADES. Well done 282…and boyfriend @alexbruhh …looks like your dream is coming true. Love ya, ZANE
Featruring: @serve-282
Babe, I love you. @alexbruhh thanks for everything.
ZANE’S HIMBO CONFESSIONS
Zane is pretty in pink.
Just for you… Enjoy the weekend.
Brain Offline. Muscles Online.
Wells found the track in the Golden Army gym playlist.
Coach Stone had labelled it simply:
FOCUS DRILL — CABLE SEQUENCE
That should have been suspicious. As it was not the only track on the playlist. There were others, GOLD REMEMBERS DRILL, BIG DUMB JOCK - GOLDEN VERSION, BOND WITH YOUR BROTHERS, BOND WITH COACH. Wells didn't think too much of it as Coach was always adding to the playlist.
Wells put in his earbuds anyway.
At first, it was just a beat. Low. Steady. Repeating under the sound of the gym. Then came Coach’s voice, calm and measured, threaded through the rhythm like a command hidden inside music.
Breathe.
Grip.
Pull.
Hold.
Release.
Again.
Wells stopped overthinking by the third rep.
By the fifth, his shoulders had settled, his jaw had unclenched, and the noise in his head had started to fade. No wandering thoughts. No second-guessing. No checking the mirror between every movement.
Just cable tension.
Just sweat.
Just Gold.
His body knew what to do, so he let it.
Across the gym, Coach noticed.
Wells was shirtless at the cable machine, metallic gold tights catching the light, earbuds in, eyes distant, every rep slow and clean. Not showing off. Not joking. Not performing.
Working.
Coach stood still for a moment.
Then he put in his own earbuds.
That was when the room changed.
Coach stepped to the machine beside him, shirtless in wet-look black tights, whistle gone, cap low, expression severe and blank with focus. As if there was something inside of him, making him focus more than usual. The same track started in his ears. The same rhythm took hold.
Breathe.
Grip.
Pull.
Hold.
Release.
Again.
Wells did not look over.
Coach did not speak.
They moved side by side, cables drawing back in perfect time, bodies locked into the same quiet command. Gold and black. Drive and control. Muscle and discipline.
MIND QUIET. BODY WORKING.
BRAIN OFFLINE. MUSCLES ONLINE.
LOCKED IN TOGETHER. SAME BEAT. SAME SWEAT. SAME GOLD.
When the track ended, Wells finally blinked like he was coming back from somewhere quiet.
Coach removed one earbud.
Wells looked at him, breathing hard.
“So,” Wells said. “That was one of your new hypno tracks?”
Coach stared at him.
“Focus track.”
Wells smiled slowly.
“Right.”
Coach reset the cable stack.
“Again and if you work hard and can keep up with me, I'll share another new track with you back at my place tonight Wells.”
Wells put the earbud back in.
Brain offline.
Muscles online.
Focus is trained one rep at a time. Put in the earbuds, quiet the noise, follow the rhythm, and let the Gold turn every pull, hold, and release into discipline, sweat, and brotherhood. Listen. Lock in. Lift. Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Gold in the Mirror
Coach Stone had already reached for his phone.
Wells first.
Brody next.
That was the plan.
Then Ambrose’s voice cut through the alley.
“Put the phone down, Coach.”
Coach stopped with his thumb over the screen.
The alley behind the Golden Army gym was still wet from rain, neon from the street bleeding across the pavement in pink and blue reflections. Ambrose stood beneath the back light in his gold tracksuit, jacket open, chains bright against tattooed skin, platinum hair perfect, expression far too calm for someone who had just been caught looking suspicious.
Coach turned slowly.
“Wrong tone,” he said.
Ambrose smiled.
“Correct timing.”
Coach’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“I have something to show you.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It is,” Ambrose said softly. “But not in the way you think.”
Coach should have called Wells anyway.
He should have called Captain Brody.
He should have walked back inside, locked the door, and filed the entire incident under Ambrose: Do Not Engage Without Witnesses.
Instead, Ambrose turned toward the back door of the gym and walked inside like he had every right to be there.
Coach followed.
Not because he trusted Ambrose.
Because he did not.
Inside, the Golden Army gym was empty. The lights were low, the machines silent, the mirrors stretching along the wall like dark glass. The room still smelled of metal, sweat, rubber flooring, and the day’s drills.
Ambrose stepped into the centre of the floor.
“Look into the mirror,” he said.
Coach did not move.
Ambrose glanced back. “You wanted answers.”
“I want direct answers.”
“You never liked those.”
Coach folded his arms. “Try me.”
Ambrose’s smile faded, just a little.
“Look into the mirror,” he repeated. “And see the Gold within yourself.”
The air changed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
It simply tightened.
Coach looked toward the mirror.
At first, he saw only himself: black cap, black wet-look singlet, arms crossed, jaw set, every inch of him built for control. The gym lights cut across his shoulders. The gold emblem on his chest gleamed once.
Then the reflection moved wrong.
Coach went still.
His reflection blinked after he did.
Then smiled when he did not.
The gold emblem in the glass began to glow.
A shimmer spread across the mirror’s surface, liquid and metallic, as if something ancient had been waiting behind it with perfect patience. Coach’s reflected shape distorted, stretched, and burned bright until the black vanished under radiant gold.
A hood formed.
A mask.
A figure behind him that was not behind him.
The Golden One stood inside the mirror.
Tall. Silent. Hooded in gold. Face hidden by a smooth metallic mask. Hands gloved and shining. It looked like a man, a statue, a commandment, and a warning all at once.
Coach took one step back.
The mirror rippled.
The Golden One stepped through.
Glass did not break.
It opened.
One gold hand seized Coach by the shoulder.
The other pressed against his chest.
Coach’s muscles locked.
Ambrose stood beside them, watching with that same calm expression, but something in his eyes had changed. Not triumph. Not surprise.
Recognition.
The Golden One leaned close.
Its voice came from everywhere.
“Remember.”
Coach clenched his jaw. “Release.”
“Remember.”
The gym lights flared.
And Coach saw.
Not dreams.
Not thoughts.
Memories too old to belong to one man.
Gold banners whipping above fields that were not the Golden Stadium. Brothers standing shoulder to shoulder under suns that burned white. Drones marching in black and gold, precise as a heartbeat. Ancient courts. Stone halls. Mirrors lit by candlefire. Hands raised in oath. Bodies trained, tested, broken down, rebuilt. Brotherhood formed not by softness, but by repetition, discipline, loyalty, and return.
He saw the Golden Army through time.
Not as a club.
Not as a team.
As a current.
A force.
A line of men carrying the Gold forward through every age, every uniform, every drill, every command that taught the body to remember what the mind forgot.
Then he saw the Golden Gods.
Vast shapes in brightness. Faces half-seen. Bodies carved from light and pressure. Eyes like molten metal. Their hands rested over temples, hearts, shoulders, mouths. They did not speak.
They imprinted.
Coach tried to pull away.
The Golden One held him still.
Its mask lowered toward his face.
Gold light gathered between them, hot and bright, then poured from the Golden One’s mouth like breath, smoke, fire, and song all at once.
Coach inhaled.
He did not choose to.
His chest expanded, and the essence entered him.
Gold flooded his lungs.
His spine arched.
His eyes went wide.
Ambrose stepped closer.
The Golden One did not release him.
Then they spoke.
Together.
Same words.
Same rhythm.
Same voice.
Ambrose’s mouth moved.
The Golden One’s mask echoed.
The sound struck Coach’s skull like a sonic boom.
“Remember and retrain.”
The mirrors shook.
“Use hypnosis on the Golden Bros when you do drills with them.”
The lights pulsed.
“Make them remember.”
Coach’s hands curled into fists.
“Make them return.”
The command tore through him.
Not like an order from outside.
Like something old waking up inside his own bones.
The gym vanished into gold.
For one second, Coach saw every bro he had ever trained. Wells laughing too loudly. Trey smirking through pain. Alton performing confidence like armour. Kasper's determination, Gabe's grit. Brody standing captain-still beneath the lights. Every brother shining, resisting, forgetting, returning.
Then the light collapsed.
Coach hit the floor.
Hard.
The gym was silent.
No glowing mirror.
No Golden One.
No Ambrose.
Only the low hum of the lights, the smell of rubber mats, and Coach Stone on one knee with one hand braced against the floor.
He stayed there for several breaths.
Then slowly, he stood.
His reflection stared back from the mirror.
Black cap.
Black singlet.
Gold emblem.
Same face.
Almost.
Coach touched his chest.
Something inside him felt different.
Not broken.
Not taken.
Awakened.
He looked toward the back door.
Empty.
Then toward the mirror.
Still.
His phone lay on the floor beside him, screen dark.
Wells first.
Brody next.
That had been the plan.
Coach picked up the phone.
But he did not unlock it.
Not yet.
Instead, he looked at the mirror one more time and heard the words still echoing somewhere behind his ribs.
Remember and retrain.
Make them remember.
Make them return.
Coach closed his fist around the whistle at his chest.
The next drill was going to be different.
Some memories sleep beneath the surface. Some brothers need the mirror, the drill, and the Gold to call them back. Remember the power, retrain the body, return to the Brotherhood, and let the Golden Army awaken what was always inside you. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @chavambrose
Mentions: @brodygold, @alton-gold77, @hero21us, @pdu-090, @polo-drone-075
Polo-drones take their pleasure in obedience. Strict programming is in place to ensure those protocols are always successful. Input the words “GOOD DRONE” for activation.
What a way to start 2025 @polo-drone-071 words cant describe. 49 thanks it for every moment of obedient pleasure. It’s gonna be a great year.
Wanna piece of the action? Contact our Captain at @brodygold @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-001
While roaming the streets looking for new recruits for the polo army, I bumped into a brother of the golden army, @phoenix71gold. Since my conversion into a polo drone I've been eager to meet new members of the polo and golden army.
I paused my recruitment mission and approached him smoking a cigarette, always a Marlboro red. It wasn't a surprise to fin Phoenix smoking, too. Lots of golden and polo army members have also found enlightment through Marlboro.
While we chatted and smoked more reds, talking about the bliss we have found in our respective armies. I told him about my recruitment mission and how eager I was to bring new brothers to the fold. Turned out that Phoenix was recruiting too, and in that moment two guys came out of a nearby pub.
I looked at Phoenix with a sly grin.
— Wanna share?
Phoenix nodded returning the smile. I approached the guys offering my Marlboro pack to them.
— Oi bros! Wanna share a cig with us?
Both the golden and polo army would get a new recruit tonignt.
