“Uh … I’ll just … come back later.” You quickly left the apartment complex’s gym and the many muscle men who stood there having a posing session in front of the full body mirror.
Why were they all in briefs? Why were they all so … focused? You didn’t recall seeing a reservation for the gym, so it’s not like this was some kind of party or something. And they didn’t seem like frat bros. Just what was going on here?
You arrived back in your apartment to see your roommate Randal chugging back another sludgy concoction. How he could stand those protein shakes, you would never understand. The sheer number of carbs and sugars in that large of a mixing cup made McDonalds’ large and thick shake look more like a medium. He let out a thunderous belch and came up for air to grin at you.
“Hey there, Roomie. That was fast. Thought you said you were going to use the gym,” he teased.
“Occupied,” you said simply and made your way to your room.
“I did try to warn you,” Randal said as he followed behind and leaned on your door frame.
“Warn me that there would be a practical porn fest going on?”
“Oh, come on. It’s not all that bad,” Randal said as he took another gulp of his shake.
“They were in their briefs, Randal. Their briefs, as in just underwear and a pair of socks. The gym wasn’t even reserved. Does management know about this?”
“Bro, management is part of it.” Randal shrugged. “Don’t see what you’re so worked up about. Everyone knows they meet there Tuesday night. S’not a crime, if the owner doesn’t have a problem with it.”
Randal shrugged. “Hell if I know.” He took advantage of the silence to polish off the rest of his shake, then let out an explosive hiss of air.
“Those things are going to kill you one day,” you grumble.
“Not if I keep working them off,” Randall countered with a smirk. “I’m training to be a trainer, remember? The gym’s like my second home.”
“Whatever. I’m going to talk with the owner about this. If management is part of the problem, then a solution needs to be found.”
Randall shrugged. “Suit yourself, bro. Don’t think you’re gonna get anywhere, though.” He turned and trudged toward his room. “Gonna get my workout in. Don’t disturb me, all right?”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill, muscleman.”
Randall stopped, turned, and grinned cockily as he flexed a bicep. “Damn straight.” He winked good-naturedly as you rolled your eyes a second time. A few seconds later, you heard the familiar clatter of his cup smashing against the sides of the sink, after he sunk another one of his ‘three-pointers.’ A half a minute later, the heavy thump of the bass in his room thudded dully down the hall and through your door.
You gulped as you stared up at the imposing shape of the building’s manager. Chris’ platinum hair had been perfectly styled with some wax to hold that familiar sheen as he peered into the apartment with piercing blue-green eyes. His tight shirt clung to the defined pectorals and chiseled abdominals on his torso. He was a good five years older than you, but that five years made one heck of a gap in the maturity of his features, including the blocky nature of his jaw and the stark gaze he had perfected over what you assumed to be the tenure of his work as a manager in the complex.
“I’ve come to talk with Randall,” he said curtly. “Is he in?”
“I think so. Is something the matter?”
“No. I just need to talk with him.” He shoved past you with little care, forcing you to stumble against the entertainment center to regain your balance. You didn’t even get the chance to call out a warning, before he was knocking forcefully at Randall’s door. You barely regained your feet, when you found yourself flung aside again by the assistant manager. His dark auburn hair had a few red highlights in it and jutted up in a series of spikes as he shoved his way past. Compression gear clung to every curve and bulge on his body. He didn’t bother to apologize, or even acknowledge your presence.
“Chris, what’s happenin’, bro?” Randall asked with a casual grin as he raised his fist up for a bump.
Chris gave an indulgent smile and returned the gesture in kind. “Nothing too serious. We just need to have a private word with you is all.” He gestured into Randal’s room. “May we?”
“Come on in,” Randall said cheerfully.
“Thank you.” He turned to glare at you. “We’ll talk with you later.”
You winced. Apparently, word of your actions had reached the manager, and he was far from pleased.
The talk took nearly an hour to finish. You raised your eyes from the book you’d been reading on the couch when the door finally opened.
“And remember to be there on time, Randall,” Chris rumbled.
“I will,” Randall’s voice carried from the hall.
“Good. Now feel free to carry on with your studies.”
The door closed. Randall’s workout track cued up, and the bass started thumping again. This time, you noted a few new chords in the soundtrack. Your eyes fell on the assistant manager pocketing a CD case.
“All that for a new track?” you asked.
“Among other things,” Chris said with a shrug. “Now, about your complaint.”
You winced, bracing for the beating you were almost certain would come.
You blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t stutter. I said you were right. The schedule was completely open to anyone entering the gym to work out. Given the, for lack of a better word, cooldown ritual that the others tend to follow after a hard workout, it could be deemed scandalous to others that are seeking to use the equipment. Most of the apartment complex has warned one another about our usual time to use the equipment, so we haven’t needed to make a reservation on the schedule. That will be changing now.” He extended a hand. “I hope there won’t be any hard feelings.”
“Oh, we’re livid,” Chris chuckled. “But a point is a point.” He grinned as he seized your hand “We’ll just have to see who wins the match, eh?”
You winced under the man’s grip, but he maintained perfect control, never once squeezing beyond your range of comfort.
“Until next time,” he said by way of farewell. “Oh, and by the way,” he said as he reached the door, “you might consider joining us before you judge us next time. Goodbye.”
They swept out together, leaving you to stew over their parting words and the familiar beat of Randall’s music.
You watched Randall flex in the mirror as you stepped out of the shower, and smirked at his grin. “Careful there, Narcissus. You might freeze like that.”
Randall chuckled and turned to pose for you. “Jealous?” he teased.
“You wish.” You chuckled and shoved him lightly. He didn’t budge, and his pecs were hard against your hand, straining the wrist.
Randall smirked. “Something wrong?”
“Okay, Randall, I think you’ve proven you’re the stronger one now.” You roll your eyes. “Let’s get ready.”
Randal nodded and pressed play on his phone. The Bluetooth speaker blared his tracks through the room as he lathered up and shaved the stubble off his face. You finished your usual morning ablutions and tapped your toe to the beat from time to time when the playlist hit a song you enjoyed.
Eventually, the pair of you stared at each other across the breakfast table: Randall in compression gear, you in your usual jeans and T-shirt.
“I’m gonna be home late today,” he said causally. His wireless earbuds rested snugly in his ear canals as he listened to his beats. “Got a lot of new exercises to practice for my certification.”
You shrug. “Okay. I’ve got some studying of my own to do for work, anyway. I’ll see you around.”
The rest of the meal was spent in relative silence. Randall ate his oatmeal and drank a primer, before clearing his dishes, washing them, and striding to the door. You retreated to your room and began to study.
You’re not sure how much time passed before you noticed it. The sound was faint, but you knew that tune. You peered up at your ceiling, cocking your head curiously. The music built and thumped louder, louder, louder.
“What the hell…?” You rose from your chair and strode outside, then up the stairs to the next floor. It didn’t take long to track the offending apartment in question. Number Sixty-nine had always been a little run down compared to the rest of the complex. Some chucklehead thought it would be funny to screw out the nine and flip it so it mirrored the six, then forced it back in. Management let it be for the sake of good humor and the nature of the individuals who usually housed there.
You knocked. Nobody answered.
You knocked again, louder this time. A tall young man with chiseled features and a high and tight flat top cut stared down at you. He must have been a good 6′ 3″. He raised both arms in his sleeveless muscle tee and performed a double bicep flex.
“Welcome to flex fest, bro. How can I help you?” The big man chuckled at his joke. You now understood why they reversed the numbers. What better way to show a subtle nod to working out than to imagine the two numerals as flexing arms?
You introduce yourself. “I live just downstairs. Your music is pounding through the floor, and I’m trying to study. Do you think you might be able to turn it down a little?”
The rhythmic thumping surged at you in wave upon wave of sound, not unlike the beating of the ocean against a cliff.
The big man chuckled and laid a beefy arm around your shoulders. “No can do, bro. We’re in the middle of our workouts. Gotta be ready.”
“Ready for what?” You practically have to shout to be heard over the surround sound speakers that have been installed in the apartment.
“The meeting, of course!” the lug shouted back as he pulled you in. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the guys.” He practically dragged you through the portal and into the apartment, slamming the door with a well-placed kick. The first room you entered was filled to the brim with heavy duty weights and mirrors. The kid squatted with a long metal bar on his shoulders to strain his calves and thighs with every motion. A blue singlet clung to his frame as he stared ahead and grunted in time to the pulsing beat.
“That’s Trav! Bro’s a real beast with the weights. Wants to be the strongest man in the world. As you can see, he’s well on his way.”
The next room was full of weighted jump ropes and a miniature punching bag being jabbed by a tall man with ebony skin that shone with his sweat. Powerful muscles bunched and tensed as he prepped to take another strike at his imaginary opponent. His short hair grew out to just cover the scalp, while stubble spread down the sides of his face and cascaded over the lips, chin, and cheeks.
“Andray,” the introduction went. “Came from Brooklyn, wanted to make somethin’ of himself. Thought he’d be a reporter, but then he found boxing. Lil’bro’s never looked back.”
The third room thumped just as loudly, but there wasn’t much in the way of fitness happening here. The occupant lifted a set of dumbbells in one hand, while the other clicked rhythmically on the keys of his computer.
“And that’s Douglas. He’s the new kind on the block. Bro’s only starting out, but he’s keeping up.” He strode in and reached for a half-empty cup that sat on the bed’s night stand. “Doug, bro. Don’t forget your shake.”
Douglas mumbled something back, and your guide grinned as he smacked Douglas’ shoulder.
He led you back into the final room, where a weight bench sat by the bed.
“Since you’re here, bro, come on in and spot me.” The door closed with a heavy slam, and you found yourself planted firmly behind the bench. “Just hold the bar if I start having trouble to help me put it up in rest.”
“Bro, you interrupted my workout. Least you can do is help me finish my set, so I can help you with whatever’s wrong on your end.”
You rolled your eyes and let him have his way. He’d probably drag you back in, if you didn’t anyway, and it wasn’t like it was actually hurting you any.
You groaned as you melted into your couch. It hurt. It hurt so much. Why the hell did you let them bully you into doing those exercises?
You rose your head in surprise. There was Randall in his gear looking you over critically.
“Figured.” He smirked. “Bro, they’re too thick-headed to change. You should just leave it and focus on doing the stuff you want to do.”
You groaned again, and he chuckled.
“Here. Let me whip up something to help.” You heard the whirr of the blender blades, winced as it grated against your ears. And then there it was, the same slop Randall had been drinking for months. “It designed to absorb all the acid your muscles make when they’re broken up, helps reduce the soreness and improve recovery time.”
“If I throw up, you’re cleaning it.”
“Nope, that’s all you,” he teased mercilessly.
You grumbled, but accepted the shake gratefully. At least he was trying to help.
“Look, I’m just saying it’s pretty obvious you’re feeling restless. A little workout here and there would do you some good.”
“I’d rather not deal with potential retaliation from every muscle member of our complex, thank you very much,” you say pointedly.
“Did the guys at Sixty Nine do anything to you?”
“Then I doubt the others will either. Pretty sure I’ve seen them going to the gym for those meetings. Come on. I’ll go with you, if you think it’ll help.”
You sigh. “I doubt it, but I suppose it can’t hurt to experiment.”
It hurt. Oh, did it hurt. Your muscles groaned in protest with every move as you pulled yourself out of bed. Randall grinned at you as you dragged yourself into the kitchen.
“Damn, man. You look awful.”
“You should know. You did this to me,” you complained.
“No, I just put you through a training session. Your body’s doing this to you, because it’s not used to it. Drink another shake. You’ll be fine.”
You grunt and motion to the speaker with a loll of the head. “New music?”
“Yeah. I’m experimenting with different tracks. I call this one Morning Pump.”
He shrugged. “Gotta do the work to get the gains. It’s fun, you know.” He struck a pose. “And the benefits speak for themselves.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get going, ya meathead,” you sass.
“Yes, Sir, Coach,” Randall shot back with an infuriating smirk. “I will grow my meat. It is good to grow my meat.”
“Get out.” You blush as you feel a stirring in your loins and your muscles start to tense.
Randall bowed flamboyantly. “Your wish is my command.”
You rolled your eyes and made your way to your room, where your computer sat waiting. It was time to do some research.
Music thrummed in your head. You felt hot and sweaty. Your arms trembled.
“One more,” a voice said. “One more.”
The weights clanked as Darwin guided the bar back into its rest and grinned down at you. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
You blush. “It’s not that much progress.”
“Bro, it’s enough. You broke the plateau. Now you’re really gonna start making some gains.” He chuckled and handed you a packet. “Here. This stuff has some real kick to it. It’ll really help you bulk up.”
“Bro, you wouldn’t be here, if you didn’t want to. Now take it home, and add it to your drinks. Trust me, it’s worth it.”
He smirked. “You can thank me later.”
The clanking haunted your dreams. The thumping haunted your waking hours. Every second, every day, your walk, your movements, everything followed a set rhythm. You blinked blearily as you tapped the next button on your keyboard and followed the slide show. Image after image, muscle after muscle. You hovered briefly over one of them and blinked in surprise. Was that Randall?
But then the thump struck, the key clicked, the image moved forward, and you were following again. Following the rhythm, following the beat, following as the earbuds picked up on the feed from your phone. It was easy to transfer the tracks from Randall’s CD. You leaned back and stared after clicking into a new tab. You don’t remember opening it, but images and words flash before you in time to the beat. You lean back and let the cotton rub against your pecs and abs.
You blink. And suddenly the room is dark, save for your screen. The tab is gone. You’re staring at a series of tattoos. Without even thinking, you rise, you walk to the door, you ghost into the night. And everything blurs.
The heat from the gym room is stifling as you get off the treadmill. You’d long since shucked your clothing, save for a pair of briefs and a tight pair of socks that strained against the clubs your feet have grown into. You open the window. A familiar beat carries on the air and your mind slows. You reach down and pat absently at your crotch. “You’ve sure gotten big, little guy.” Then you let out a chuckling guffaw at the ludicrous situation of talking to your junk.
Then suddenly, you’re not alone. Chris smiles at you as you stare into a mirror. A camera is in his hands. You hear the click. It fits in perfect time with the thud of your music.
“That’s it,” his deep voice rumbled as he grinned. “How do you feel now?”
You look up at him, your mind awash with a strange sense of vertigo and euphoria that stuff it with cotton. Goosebumps wash over your swollen muscles as they tense, causing your tattoo to ripple over your shoulder and bicep.
“I’m ready for the meating, Sir.”
The door opens, and Randall walks in with a blank expression on his face. He stands next to you with the same brand of underwear, the same filmy socks. “Ready for the meating, Sir.”
The timer went off, signaling the end of your reserved time. You didn’t move. The room filled with muscle. You didn’t bat an eyelash. You posed. You flexed. The cameras flashed. You cycled to the machines. You worked. You went back to the mirrors again. Sweat glistened in the light to highlight the curves and striations you’d worked so hard to develop.
“Welcome to the meat,” Chris sneered.
You just stared blankly ahead as you patted your crotch again. “I am meat. Meat must grow. Bigger meat is better meat.”
He knew it was true. You knew it was true. You would grow your meat, because you were a meathead. And that was what these meatings were for.
You called to apologize to the owner the very next day. You never complained again. There was no time with all the routines you had to follow and the scouting that needed doing. After all, you had to prepare for the next meating. It was your turn to pick the inductee.
