Dear Roman Bristong Soda Company.
I find this whole 180 thing very hard to believe. I'm 21, gay as fuck and proud of it. I'm an art student and an activist, standing up for any cause I feel is just, fighting against homophobia, racism, sexism, anything that makes others feel less than.
I often find myself arguing with the dumb, meathead jocks on campus. I can't help it, their ignorance and causal bigotry is something I just can't stand by and watch. It doesn't help than I can smell them coming from a mile away, would it kill them to take a shower every now and then?
The only reason I'm even sending in this message and requesting a can is to prove this stupid drink doesn't actually do what you claim. So come on, hit me with your best shot.
You stumble back to your dorm room, your rainbow flag keychain jangling against the door as you unlock it. The campus protest against the administration's latest discriminatory policy had drained you, but you felt alive—fighting the good fight as always. That's when you spot it: a can of RED180 sitting on your desk, probably left by your roommate.
"Fuck this shit," you mutter, grabbing the can. "Like some energy drink is gonna make me 'alpha' or whatever the hell they're advertising."
Despite your disgust, your curiosity wins. You pop the tab and the smell hits you instantly—warm beer mixed with stale sweat, like a gym bag left in a hot car for a week. You gag but force yourself to chug it anyway, determined to prove how ridiculous this whole thing is.
With a defiant roll of your eyes, you crack the tab. The hiss is loud, aggressive, almost angry. And then the smell hits you. It's not just bad; it's a physical assault.
Your nostrils flare, trying to reject the air, but it's too late. It's a complex, layered stench of failure and desperation—warm, cheap beer left out in the sun, mixed with the sharp, ammoniac tang of old sweat that's never known the inside of a shower. It smells like a locker room in a third-rate gym, located in the deepest, dankest circle of hell.
"Holy shit," you cough, turning your head away. Your eyes are already watering, a reflexive defense against this olfactory warfare. You almost toss it, your arm recoiling, but then you stop. A grim, stubborn determination sets your jaw.
No. You're not going to let some fucking energy drink defeat you. You're stronger than this. You've faced down homophobes with megaphones, you've debated neo-Nazis on campus, you can handle a foul-smelling beverage.
You pinch your nose, steeling yourself, and tip the can back. The liquid is just as vile as the smell promised. It's thick, syrupy, and tastes vaguely of artificial cherry flavoring that's gone horribly, horribly wrong, mixed with the metallic tang of cheap beer and something else... something salty and organic.
You force yourself to swallow, your throat working convulsively against the vile concoction. It slides down like poison, heavy and wrong.
The moment it hits your stomach, a violent rebellion begins. It's not just nausea; it's a deep, guttural churning, like your insides are being twisted by an invisible, malevolent hand.
You double over, a groan escaping your lips as a cramp seizes you. "Oh, fuck me," you gasp, one hand clutching your abdomen. Your stomach gurgles, a low, ominous rumble that builds in intensity. It's a pressure you can't contain, a force building within you that demands release.
And then it happens. A disgusting, wet fart rips from your ass. PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT! It's not just a fart; it's an event. It's long, loud, and shockingly wet, a sputtering blast of hot gas that seems to go on forever. The sound echoes in the small dorm room, and the smell that follows is even worse than the drink itself.
It's a concentrated cloud of pure, unfiltered filth—rotten eggs, spoiled meat, and that same cloying, sweaty musk from the can, but amplified a hundredfold. The room actually seems to vibrate with the force of it, the posters on your wall fluttering slightly.
You're coughing violently now, your eyes burning as the stench fills every corner of the room. It's so thick you feel like you're chewing it. But it's not just the physical discomfort. A strange pressure builds behind your eyes, a dull, throbbing ache that quickly intensifies into a full-blown migraine. You stumble back, collapsing onto your bed, your head in your hands.
"What the hell..." you mumble, the words slurred. Your mind feels... fuzzy. Like static is interfering with your thoughts. You try to focus on something, anything—your plans for the LGBTQ+ alliance meeting tomorrow, the essay you need to write on feminist art theory, the memory of your first pride parade. But the images are blurry, indistinct, like photographs left out in the sun too long. The colors are bleeding together, the details fading.
Instead, new thoughts begin to bubble up from the depths of your consciousness, unbidden and unwelcome. They're not your thoughts. They're alien, coarse, and brutally simple.
Football. The word appears in your mind, accompanied by a flash of a playbook, X's and O's scrawled on a whiteboard. Party. Another image, this one of a crowded, sticky-floored frat house, red plastic cups in hand, girls in tight tops laughing too loudly. Workout. The feeling of iron in your hands, the burn in your muscles, the satisfying ache of a good pump.
"No," you groan, shaking your head as if to physically dislodge the thoughts. But they're persistent, insistent. And with them comes a strange, new sensation in your body. An ache. A deep, bone-deep weariness that's quickly being replaced by something else... something stronger. It's a tension, a building pressure, like your muscles are coiling, preparing to spring.
You look down at your hands, and for a moment, you think you're seeing things. Your fingers seem... thicker. Not by much, just a little. The slender, artistic fingers that could deftly handle a paintbrush or type out a passionate essay now look... bulkier. The knuckles are more pronounced, the nails somehow wider, dirtier.
"What the fuck is happening to me?" you whisper, a genuine note of fear creeping into your voice. But even as you say it, your voice sounds different. Deeper. Rougher. The words come out as a gravelly growl, not the clear, articulate tenor you're used to.
Your stomach rumbles again, another cramp seizing you. You feel a strange heat spreading through your body, starting in your gut and radiating outward, down your arms and legs. It's a feverish, uncomfortable heat, but there's something else too... a strange, dark pleasure in it. A sense of power.
You lift your arm, intending to wipe the sweat from your brow, but you're distracted by the sight of your armpit. It's damp, of course, from the strange heat, but it's also... hairier. A lot hairier. The fine, sparse hair you've always had there has thickened, darkened, growing into a dense, coarse forest that's already matted with sweat. Without thinking, you lower your arm and take a sniff.
The smell is overwhelming. It's the same musky, sweaty scent from the drink and the fart, but it's coming from you. It's your scent. And it's intoxicating. The rational part of your brain is screaming in disgust, but a newer, dumber, more primal part of you is reveling in it. It's the smell of a man. A real man. A powerful man.
"Fuck yeah," you grunt, the words feeling right in a way they shouldn't. "That's the shit."
Your mind continues to shift, the old you fading like a distant dream. Your memories of protests and art galleries and passionate debates with your friends are becoming hazy, replaced by new ones.
Loud arguments in a locker room, not about politics, but about who's the strongest, who can lift the most. Nights spent not in quiet coffee shops discussing theory, but in crowded bars, shouting over the music, trying to get some girl's number.
The heat intensifies, your body now slick with sweat. It's dripping down your chest, your back, your arms. You can feel it trickling into your belly button, pooling in the small of your back. Your clothes feel tight, restrictive. With a growl of frustration, you rip your shirt off, the buttons popping off and flying across the room.
And then you see it. Your body is changing. It's not just your hands. Your chest is broader, your shoulders wider. Your pecs, once lean and defined, are swelling into thick, heavy slabs of muscle.
They're not the sculpted, aesthetic pecs of a fitness model; they're the powerful, meaty pecs of a brute, covered in a dusting of dark hair that trails down your stomach. Your abs, once flat and toned, are hardening into dense bricks, deep grooves carving across your core.
"Jesus," you breathe, running a hand over your new chest. The feeling is electric. The rough calluses on your thicker fingers scraping against your sensitive nipples, the dense solidity of your new muscle, the sheer power of it all. It's addictive. You want more.
Your arms are next. Your biceps and triceps are packing on size, swelling with every beat of your heart. Veins, once faint blue lines on your pale skin, are now thick, ropy cords that pulse beneath your tanner, tougher skin. Your forearms are thick and powerful, the kind that could crush a beer can—or someone's windpipe.
"Look at these fucking guns," you smirk, flexing in the full-length mirror on your closet door. The man staring back at you is a stranger. A big, muscular, intimidating stranger with a cruel smirk on his face and a dangerous glint in his eyes. But it's not a bad look. It's a strong look. An alpha look.
Your legs are changing too. Your thighs are pressing against each other with an unfamiliar, meaty friction. The lean, dancer-like limbs you once had are being swallowed by an explosion of raw power. Your quads are becoming thick, rounded slabs of beef, and your calves are hardening into solid, diamond-shaped knots of muscle.
You can feel the denim of your jeans straining, the fabric groaning in protest as your legs expand, threatening to split the seams. You shift your weight, and the feeling of your new, heavy muscles moving is intoxicating, a constant, tangible reminder of your growing strength.
"Fuckin' A," you grunt, a crude, satisfied sound that feels more natural than any articulate argument you've ever made. You're not just getting bigger; you're getting dumber.
The complex thoughts, the nuanced political theories, the intricate art history facts—they're all dissolving like sugar in water, replaced by a simple, brutal calculus of power and dominance. Logic is a luxury you no longer need or understand. Instinct is your new god, and it's screaming one thing: more.
Another cramp hits you, this one lower down in your gut. It's different, more insistent. You feel another pressure building, a familiar yet alien sensation. You don't fight it. You don't even think about it. You just let it happen.
Another fart, this one even louder and wetter than the last. It rips through you, a long, sputtering blast of hot, foul gas that seems to shake the very foundation of the building.
The smell is even worse, if that's possible—a toxic cloud of pure, unfiltered filth that hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. But you don't recoil in disgust. You inhale deeply, a proud, possessive smile spreading across your face.
"That's fuckin' manly," you chuckle, the sound a low, guttural rumble. "That's the smell of a real man."
Your mind is a battleground, the old you—the activist, the artist, the proud gay man—fighting a losing war against the new you—the meathead, the brute, the alpha. But it's not a fair fight. The new you is stronger, louder, and more persistent. The old you is a whisper, the new you a roar. And with every fart, every drop of sweat, every inch of new muscle, the roar gets louder.
Your thoughts turn to sex, but not in the way they used to. You remember the thrill of a first kiss with another boy, the tenderness of a long-term relationship, the joy of mutual respect and understanding. Those memories are fading, replaced by something darker, more aggressive.
You imagine shoving your cock into some twink's perfect bubble ass, making him take every inch, making him beg for it. Your cock, which is now thick and hard in your underwear, strains against the fabric, a throbbing, demanding presence.
But then, a wave of revulsion washes over you, so intense it's almost physical. The thought of being with another man... it's disgusting. Vile. The most sickening, awful thought you can imagine.
"Fucking faggots," you spit, the words tasting like truth. "Disgusting homos. All of 'em should just... I dunno. Get the fuck away from me."
Your mind is now riddled with the most toxic, hateful thoughts imaginable. Racist jokes you'd never even heard before pop into your head, and you laugh at them. Sexist comments about women being nothing more than holes to fill seem not just acceptable, but correct.
You see yourself as some meathead from a conservative, alt-right family, spewing garbage about "traditional values" and "white pride" like it's the gospel. It's not just a change in opinion; it's a complete rewiring of your soul, a corruption of everything you once held dear.
"Stupid liberals," you mutter, kicking a pile of your old art books across the room. "Bunch of snowflakes. Don't know what real life is."
Your face is the next to change. You can feel it shifting, the bones rearranging themselves into a new, more aggressive configuration. Your jawline tightens, becoming sharp and angular. Your cheeks, once soft and expressive, harden into stern, stubbled planes.
Your brows lower, becoming sharp and intimidating, casting your eyes into a permanent, narrowed glare. Your hair, once a stylish, carefully maintained mess, shortens into a brutal, textured buzz cut, uneven and spiky, like you've been running your hands through it after a particularly intense workout.
You look in the mirror again, and the man staring back at you is even more of a stranger. He's not just big and muscular; he's mean. He looks like he could, and would, hurt someone for looking at him the wrong way. He looks like he votes straight-ticket Republican and thinks climate change is a hoax made up by the Chinese. He looks like the kind of guy you used to hate with every fiber of your being.
And you've never been more turned on in your life.
The stench intensifies again, a palpable aura of filth that clings to you like a second skin. People could probably smell you from a mile away now, a walking, talking, farting cloud of toxic masculinity.
Your feet are next. You can feel them growing, expanding inside your sneakers. The leather groans and stretches, the laces straining. Your toes are pressing against the front of the shoe, the pressure building and building until, with a loud RIIIP, the seams give way.
Your feet, now free, are massive. At least fifteen inches long, they're not just big; they're imposing, powerful. They're covered in thick, coarse hair, and your toenails, once neatly trimmed, are now thick and yellowed.
With every inch they've grown, you've felt yourself get older, the memories of college life fading, replaced by the dull, repetitive grind of a life lived on the edge. You're not twenty-one anymore. You're at least twenty-six, maybe older.
Old enough to have failed a few classes, old enough to be on academic probation, but young enough to still play football. Not that you care about the grades. The scholarship is all that matters, and if they try to take it away, well... they'll have to deal with you.
"Fuckin' nerds," you grunt, looking at your old textbooks with contempt. "Who needs this shit when you're a fuckin' star?"
The room spins around you, a dizzying, disorienting whirlwind of change. Your art posters and textbooks vanish, replaced by posters of half-naked women in provocative poses, crosses, beer company logos, and a Trump flag that you don't remember buying but feels right at home.
Tubs of protein powder and weights litter the ground and shelves, and the floor is covered in a layer of dirt, dust, and god knows what else. The sheets on your bed are barely hanging on, stained and rumpled.
And then you see him. Some twink standing in your doorway, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and... something else. He's mousy and thin, wearing some pathetic femme outfit that makes him look almost like a chick, but not quite. He's wearing a rainbow flag hat, and for a moment, a flicker of the old you recognizes it, feels a pang of... something. But the new you is stronger, louder, and more dominant.
"What the fuck are you looking at, faggot?" you growl, your voice a low, threatening rumble.
The twink flinches, but he doesn't run. Instead, a strange, submissive look crosses his face, and he takes a tentative step into the room. That's when you feel it—a surge of pure, unadulterated power. A dark, twisted desire. You want to break him. You want to make him yours.
"Get in here," you command, your voice leaving no room for argument. "Now! Before someone sees you faggot."
He obeys, his movements timid and uncertain. You grab him by the arm, your grip like a vise, and shove him to the floor. He lands with a soft whimper, looking up at you with wide, adoring eyes.
"Time to make you my bitch," you sneer, a cruel smile twisting your lips.
You force his face into your sweaty, hairy pit, holding him there as he struggles to breathe. "Sniff it, you little queer. That's the smell of a real man."
He gags and chokes, but there's a part of him that seems to... like it. You can feel his body trembling, not just with fear, but with excitement. You release him, only to shove his face down toward your massive, stinking feet.
"Lick 'em," you command. "Clean 'em with your tongue."
A foot fetish? Where the hell did that come from? But it feels right. It feels natural. It's the ultimate act of dominance, the ultimate way to show this pathetic little fag who's in charge. And as he eagerly begins to pleasure you, his tongue lapping at your sweaty, dirty feet, you feel a surge of pure, unadulterated bliss.
You're still homophobic as fuck—you've got a girlfriend, a busty bimbo named Tiffany who you pound every night, and you love it. But sometimes, just sometimes, you like to make some pathetic fag worship you. It makes you feel like even more of an alpha, more of a god.
"Fuckin' pathetic," you grunt, looking down at him with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction. "You know how much you worship me, don't you, you little fag? You know I'm a real man."
He just moans in response, a muffled sound of pure, pathetic ecstasy as he continues to worship your feet. The sight sends a jolt of pure, toxic power straight to your cock. It's the ultimate validation. This isn't just about sex; it's about hierarchy. About knowing your place in the world, and his place beneath you.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, a cheap, clunky Android with a cracked screen you don't remember getting. You lazily reach over and grab it, your thick fingers clumsy on the screen. A text from Tiffany.
'Hey babe! Meeting my parents tonight at 7. Don't be late. And for the love of god, TRY not to smell like you usually do. Wear the cologne I bought you.'
You snort, a dismissive, pig-like sound. Try not to smell. She just doesn't get it. The smell is the point. It's who you are. It's a declaration. You type back a dismissive "k",your blood run hot with of pride.
The control you have over this twink at your feet, the control you have over your bimbo girlfriend... no one takes anything from you. You're the fucking center of the universe.
"Alright, that's enough," you grunt, kicking the twink away from you with your massive foot. He scrambles back, looking up at you with those desperate, worshipful eyes. "Got a date with the girlfriend and need to bust a nut first."
"Please, sir," he whimpers, his voice thin and reedy. "Can I... can I call you daddy?"
The word hits you like a shot of adrenaline. Daddy. It's perfect. It's the ultimate title for a man like you. It encapsulates everything: power, control, dominance.
"Fuck yeah you can," you growl, grabbing your thick, hard cock through your jeans. "Now get over here and finish what you started."
He crawls back to you, his movements eager and subservient. As he works, your phone buzzes again. Another text from Tiffany.
' Don't be too late! 'Don't forget, my parents are asking for you. They'll can't wait to meet you Dylan. Love you, daddy.'
The combination of the twink's eager mouth, the word "daddy" from both of them, and the overwhelming, suffocating stench of your own body—the sweat, the farts, the pure, unfiltered musk of a dominant male—it all builds to a head. It's a sensory overload of power and depravity. The last faint flicker of the old you, the artist, the activist, the proud gay man, is extinguished like a candle in a hurricane. It's not a death; it's a replacement. A complete and total overwrite.
You let out a final, triumphant roar as you cum, sealing your new life as a toxic, disgusting meathead pig. A straight asshole who forces pathetic fags to worship him and his feet. A conservative, alt-right jerk-off who thinks with his muscles and his cock. A complete, smelly, sweating dumbass, and you've never felt more alive, more real, more you in your entire life.
"Get the fuck out," you order the twink, your voice devoid of any warmth. You're already done with him. He served his purpose. He's just a tool now, a means to an end.
He scrambles to his feet, looking disappointed but also thrilled, like he's just been in the presence of a god. He practically flees the room, leaving you alone in your disgusting, stinking den.
You stand up, your massive frame filling the small space. You scratch your balls, then your ass, sniffing your fingers with a satisfied grunt. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror again—a big, muscular, intimidating brute with a cruel smirk on his face and a dangerous glint in his eyes. You're not just a man. You're the man. An alpha. A leader. A force of nature.
"Time to go be a fucking alpha," you say to your reflection, your voice a low, confident growl.
You grab your keys, a pair of dirty, sweat-stained gym shorts, and a tank top that barely contains your massive chest. You don't bother showering. You don't bother with the cologne. Let her parents smell the real you. Let them smell the power. Let them smell the future.
You scratch your ass, letting out another long, wet fart, the sound echoing in the quiet night. It's not just a fart. It's a declaration. A statement. A final, triumphant seal on your new life.
The whole floor shakes. You're Dylan Hunt. And you've never been prouder.
