You can’t redpill me. I’m a gay Australian with good beliefs. Go ahead and try. 😏
You’re scrolling Tumblr on your couch in Melbourne, sipping a flat white and smirking at the screen. You post and reblog, feeling smug. Progressive, open-minded, proud of your country’s values, always calling out the wrongthink online. No one could ever change you.
The moment you hit post, your phone screen flashes white and red. A strange heat surges through your body, starting in your head and spreading like wildfire.
Your thoughts start to fuzz. Complex ideas about social justice feel slippery, harder to hold onto. “What the… mate, this is bullshit—” Your voice cracks mid-sentence. Your Australian accent warps, flattening out, thickening into a slow, drawling American Southern twang. “The fuck was that?”
Your body begins to change. You were lean and fit in that typical city-boy way. Now muscle packs on fast and heavy. Your arms thicken into powerful, veiny forearms built from years on the job. Shoulders broaden, chest barrels out into thick slabs of pecs, and your gut pushes forward into a solid, powerful beer belly that screams working-class American. Height shoots up. Your legs become tree-trunk thick, perfect for stomping around a construction site. Tattoos appear on your biceps: American flags, “Don’t Tread on Me,” and crude skulls. Your face shifts too, jaw squaring, nose broadening, eyes turning a duller blue. A thick, unkempt black beard explodes across your cheeks. Your hair shortens into a messy, faded cut.
Your cock throbs hard, growing thicker and heavier, now straining against work jeans that have replaced your trendy pair. Your ass is big, round, and powerful. One every woman and man can’t help but stare at when they first see it.
But the real corruption happens in your mind. Your brain slows down. Vocabulary shrinks. Critical thinking dissolves into simple, greedy instincts. You don’t need ‘em, anyway. “Good” beliefs burn away, replaced by raw, corrupt American alpha redneck thinking: Fuck the government, fuck regulations, take what you can get, what you deserve, and don’t apologize. Women belong in the kitchen or on their knees. Immigrants are stealing jobs but you sure can pay them a hell of a lot less under the table. Real men dominate. You’re still gay, but now it’s filthy and toxic. You dominate betas, use them like holes, and brag about it in the locker room. Just some locker room talk between guys.
Memories rewrite. An American driver’s license appears in your hand. You’re Brock Harlan, a 38-year-old dumb-as-bricks construction foreman from the good ol state of Texas. You run a big site in Houston, cutting corners on safety to pocket extra cash, taking bribes from contractors, bullying your crew, and skimming materials to sell on the side. You drink beer by the case, watch football every Sunday after church, and hate “woke shit” because Fox News and your pastor tell you to.
The transformation finishes with a grunt. You look down at your massive, hairy body in a dirty hi-vis vest, work boots, and stained jeans. Your phone is now a cracked Android with conservative memes and porn apps full of rough trades. And Grindr of course, for when you need a quick hookup.
“Fuckin’ hell…” you mutter in your deep, slow American drawl. “What was I even thinkin’ before? All that liberal bullshit.” You laugh, a dumb, loud belly laugh. Being smart is overrated anyway. Feels better to be big, strong, and simple. A real man in control of his life.
You head out to the job site, five minutes late. Your crew knows you as the corrupt boss who makes them work overtime without pay, who takes kickbacks, and who occasionally drags one of the younger, nervous workers into the trailer for “private talks.” You bend them over your desk, your thick cock stretching their asses while you grunt about how real men take what they want. You slap their asses red and tell them if they complain, they’re fired. Half of them come back for more, addicted to your dominant, corrupt energy. You’d almost pity them if you had any empathy.
After work you hit the bar, slamming beers, telling dirty jokes, and eyeing the hot new hire with the tight piece of ass. You already know you’ll have him broken in by Friday. On his knees, calling you “boss” while you flood his throat and licking your boots clean. Hell, he should thank you for it like the weak beta he is.
You’re dumber now. Just power, cash under the table, cheap beer, and using people. Every time you flex your big American muscles or count your dirty money, it feels right. Living the American Dream, your way.
You arrive back home to your apartment in your gas guzzler truck that takes two parking spaces to fit, the one you paid for with the extra materials at the last few jobs. As you settle on the couch in front of the TV, another beer already in your hand, the Grindr notification sounds from your phone. Some soyboy college student good enough for a night under you at least.
You send him a pic of your already hardening package (unsolicited of course), giving him a sneak peek of the rest of his night.
And you’ll make sure it’s a long night.
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