RUBBER CHAV SLAVE

RUBBER CHAV SLAVE @RUBBERMASTERCOACH IS MY MASTER throne.com/mastercoach1

[rubberchavslave]

So yeah, I'm back. Had to get a new mobile and number. It's been a rough and long 3 months since October. It started with telegram banning me then the next day I got arrested and then spent 45 days in jail before going to residential treatment. I am finally getting into my accounts, one by one. My telegram is @gaydippercub2 . Message me here so I know who you are.

[thefunkfactory]

Fratulence

Jaxon had been given to Eli and Easton to be their own personal slave for an entire week as part of him pledging to Kappa Sigma. Jaxon had heard about Eli and Easton, and what he knew is that they were the dumbest and douchiest brothers in the Frat, in fact they are so dumb that it is rumored that they “do favors” to pass their classes. Even worse than being owned by two bros who are dumb as a bag of rocks and have a think they are the shit is that they have a habit of letting putrid gas rip out of their asses whenever and wherever they pleased, didn’t matter if they were in class or in bed with a hot babe, if they needed to fart they were going to. It was almost as if the two weren’t smart enough to realize that they can hold in their stink.

“Yo bro! Welcome to mi casaaaaa” Easton spoke in a deep voice, “Make yourself at home man! Mi…or well our casa is su casa too! At least for the week.” Eli proclaimed in the dumb Southern Californian accent he had. Eli turned to Easton “It gonna be so nice not having to do chores around here broooo!”, given the state of the dorm it didn't seem like either one of them had done chores here in the first place. “I only see two beds in here dude” Jaxon said to Easton, “Where am I gonna sleep?”. “Thats the best part man!” Easton snorted, “You’re gonna sleep on the floor.” Jaxon could tell this was going to be a hard week, the floor was covered in junk, trash, and foul smelling clothes that the two obviously don't even bother doing sniff tests on anymore.

“Ohhhh…greattttttt” Jaxon said through strained teeth. “Huhuh okay Jaxon since you’re ours for only a week we are gonna use you to your full potential” Eli said, “Yea man! Your blasters are gonna have to be on full throttle!” Easton added as he blasted out a fart. Eli punched his arm playfully and remarked “Huhu good one man that reeks, but we don’t want to knock out our new best bro!” Jaxon waved his hand in front of his nose as if it could do anything against the force of nature that is Easton’s fart fumes. “Huhu trust me that won’t help, anywaysss” Eli continued, “your first order is that you have to make your bed!”, “How am i supposed to do that if Im sleeping on the floor?” Jaxon pontificated. “Well we don’t want you to be uncomfy so all of our dirty clothes can be your mattress and blankets duhhh” Eli pointed out, Jaxon obliged making the smelliest bed he has ever had the misfortune of being on. Once he had made his bed the two bro’s told him “We want to go to sleep since it’s getting late so you have to sleep too so you don't wake us” Easton stated, “Oh okay! Let me just go brush my teeth an-.” Eli cut Jaxon off, “Nah I don’t think you need to brush your teeth, I mean we only do it in the morning so it's only fair that you do the same. The two frat bros breathed their foul breath in unison at Jaxon. Jaxon, barely keeping from gagging, responded with “Whatever you say” knowing that he would never get into Kappa Sigma if he fought back.

———————————————————————————

Over the course of the next week days Jaxon was constantly running errands, doing chores, doing Eli and Easton’s homework, etc. Jaxon was getting sick of the way the room always reeked like a High School locker room and hated the fact that he was starting to smell like that too. It was Saturday and Jaxon was so excited! Tomorrow he will be free from the stench, from the two bro’s stupidity, and will be a full fledged Kappa Sigma brother. That night the two bro’s ordered a pizza and got a bunch of soda and beer to celebrate his ascension into the frat. “uuuugh I am so so full!” Jaxon said, leaning his head back. “Me too” belched out Easton, Jaxon after being around the bro’s belching and farting all week found it kinda humorous now, his humor had regressed back to middle school but he didn’t mind. In fact Jaxon didn’t mind a lot now that he had spent a week with Eli and Easton. Jaxon didn’t mind the smell of the improvised bed all too much anymore, he didn’t mind doing all of Eli and Easton’s work, and he didn’t mind the farts anymore, the weak ones that is. He even started farting loudly in public just like them. “It’s been so fun having you here to do whatever we want man! We are gonna miss your servitude!” Eli said, “Yea man! Me and Eli were talking about it and we have one last thing we want to give to you!” Easton said excitedly, “It’s a surprise tho! So you gotta close your eyes!”. Jaxon, not wanting to not get the gift or insult them by not following their orders this last night did as he was told. Jaxon could hear the two shuffling around and Eli moved him from where he originally was in the dorm to right beside Eli’s bed. Still keeping his eyes closed he began to smell something rotten, it smelled like fermented cheese and unwashed ass. “One…Two…” he could hear them say in unison, “THREE” and all of a sudden he was met with a face full of ass fumes straight from the gassy bro bums. After what felt like a full minute, Eli and Easton’s putrefying butt vapors finally ceased. Jaxon sat there without saying a word. Inside his head the miasma of stink eliminated all higher thinking, Jax within a few seconds turned from a decently bright finance bro, to a bro dumber than a bag of rocks. Jax’s only future now would be as a janitor or something else of that nature. Jax’s memories were also being warped by the fumes, his strict heterosexuality loosening its grip became bisexuality as Jax began to have memories of sleeping with the other guys on the soccer team. All of his intellectual capacity and memories became one with the fart funk floating around in his head, but that cloud needed to go somewhere… As Eli and Easton began a second round of farts right into Jax’s face, Jax’s butt trumpet began to add to the symphony of flatulence. Just like that Jax essentially farted out his brain into a malodorous mist. Jaxon was gone, just a foul smell in a litany of foul smells in the room, all that remained was Jax, the dumb, gassy, bisexual frat bro. “Broooooooo” Jax moaned, “…That…was…SO RAD!” he said as his brain flickered back to life.

Jax, Eli, and Easton all became inseparable frat brothers, they had class together, they ate together, they played video games together, they jerked off together, and they fucked each other. But most importantly they farted together, constantly farting. No one would sit near them in the dining hall or in a single class due to the corrupting haze of gas that constantly surrounded the three. The three frat bros moved out to all live together, moving out of the cramped dorm room and into an off campus apartment. Jax’s fate continued to befall every guy who resided in that room, the FRATulence kept making the brilliant college students into dumb gassy bros, ready to add their own fart flavor to the room before they dropped out. “Rumor has it that the FRATulence has been absorbed into the carpet, mattresses, pillows, etc. But thats just some weird dumb story to keep this room empty I guess” Your RA told you when you moving in to the room with your roomie, “The rumors at this school are so weird man…” he commented. After he left your room, you and your roommate went back to unpacking and you yelled him as the funk of your roommate’s blundering fart filled your nostrils, “DUDE! You’re really gonna let one rip in here after that dumb story!” Soon you and your roommate are gonna leave your mark on this school, or at least on some poor pledges nose.

[thefunkfactory]

Gassy Gymnast

Feeling like he had admired himself in the mirror long enough, Trevor went back to changing out of his sweat stained gym clothes in the gymnasium’s locker room when he saw, sitting on a bench, a pair of boxer briefs. He knew that they were expensive and someone probably will come looking for them but the voice in the back of his head just told him to take them before anyone sees, so that's exactly what he did. Trevor grabbed them and hastily walked back to his locker, then the voice told him to do a sniff check to see how badly they needed the attention of a washing machine. The crotch smelled like it had never been worn, or at least not been worn to the gym, but the back of the briefs smelled absolutely rancid. Trevor quickly shoved them in his gym bag, noting that he needed to get these in the wash before they made his gym clothes smell like someone just spent their entire gym session passing gas, and made his way back to his place. On the drive back to his place he could smell the air wafting out of the gym bag, he normally didn’t mind the smell, being a semi-unhygienic eighteen year old afterall, but the air wafting out today was absolutely awful. Instead of the normal smell of his teenage boy funk unable to be contained by his deodorant, all he could smell was the intense funk of a stale fart, even after rolling the windows down it didn’t help. Pulling into his parking spot at his apartment he just needed a breath of fresh air. Hopping out of the car but leaving the bag on the passenger seat, did a lap around the parking lot and refilled his lungs with fresh air, uncontaminated fresh air. Getting his fix of clean, healthy oxygen he opened his passenger side door and leaned it to get the bag, somehow in the five minutes he had been away the stench was no longer the smell of a old fart lingering in the air but had intensified into what made him feel like he had caught a fresh fart right in the face. Gagging as he swiftly snatched the smelly gym bag up he rushed into his apartment to throw everything into the washer unit in his apartment. Dumping more laundry detergent in than he normally would for a full load, he started up the washer with only the few things his gym bag contained spinning inside of it. As the funky gym clothes and the rank boxer briefs spun he used the time to wash his own foul funk off of him.

Jumping out of the shower smelling fresh and squeaky clean he was ready to completely be rid of the worst smell he had inhaled all week. At the end of the washers cycle the washer beeped and he fished out all the clothes hanging them on his balcony to dry. His apartment luckily came with a washer but the landlord skipped over the dryer, so Trevor always had a myriad of gym clothes airing out on the balcony. With the sun going down Trevor got ready for bed and hit the hay soon after hanging up his clean gym clothes and new addition to his underwear collection. Waking up the next morning he was in the midst of getting ready when he went to bring the clothes back inside from the little clothesline he had outside, grabbing all his gym clothes first. He left the boxer briefs last hoping that the extra minute it would take for him to come and get them would let them air out just a little longer. Picking them up off the line Trevor went inside through his sliding glass door and took a sniff of them again praying that he wouldn’t be subjected to another nasal assault. Luckily he was in the clear, the boxer briefs had been de-funkified, so having a nice new pair of fresh smelling undies, Trevor slipped them on.

Finishing getting ready the eighteen year old gymnast headed back to the gymnasium to teach a class to some younger kids. While he was teaching the class Trevor overheard some of the young teen boys he was training whispering to each other that “It smells like someone just ripped ass in here man it reeks”. Trevor thought nothing of the comments given that he didn’t smell anything and that when he was training at their age he and his friends used to pull gross pranks like crop dusting each other, ya know dumb stuff preteens do. Working up a sweat after the class he went back to the locker room to grab his stuff, he didn’t bother to bring a change of clothes since he was going straight home after he taught the class.

On the way home one of his homeboys texting him to see if he wanted to go study at the community college library. “Yeah totally Brad but I won't have time to go home and shower if I do…and I kinda smell”, “Dude I’ve probably reeked worse than you do right now” responded Brad. Knowing that Brad probably has worked up a better funk in his life, probably in this week alone, Trevor headed home to grab his laptop and school bag and quickly headed over to meet up with Brad. Getting to the library he checked his phone and saw that Brad texted “Yo bro I scored a study room for us! Come find me”, doing a lap around the library to find the room Trevor bumped into a guy built like a nerd. “I'm so sorry man! Let me help you with that!”, Trevor quickly said after knocking the stack of book out of the nerds hands. Covering his nose with his shirt the nerd sputtered out “No it’s okay man I got it don't worry” the nerd said in a tone that was attempting to shoo off Trevor. “Uhhh okay dude if you say so”, Trevor walked away wondering to himself why the nerd covered his nose. Finding Brad, Trevor burst into the study room, “Hey bro!” Brad proclaimed. “Yo man what's up!” Trevor responded. After having a quick conversation to catch up and talk about how hard their stupid math class is they broke open their laptops and began working silently, only talking every so often. After about ten minutes of studying Brad piped up and said “Trevor, man I know we are friends and I told you you could come smelly or not but can you go outside to rip ass it’s really starting to reek”, Trevor not thinking he was being serious said “Hawhaw dude, what are you talking about? It doesn’t even smell bad in here”. Brad rolled his eyes and remarked “Whatever dude, just go to the bathroom or something next time you need to fart”, Trevor feeling a little embarrassed that his friend thought that he would just rudely let it rip like he was a brainless Neanderthal just softly told him he would and they went back to studying. Not even five minutes later Brad, with annoyance and a twinge of agitation in his voice, said “Dude I just told you not to funk up the room with your ass! I don't know what you ate earlier but whatever it is, it’s making you into a gassy mess!”, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know it was me!” Trevor said incredibly embarrassed as he stepped out to got to the bathroom. “Leave the door open man, the room’s gotta air out now” Brad sternly asked as Trevor walked out.

In the bathroom Trevor was just looking at his phone in front of the mirror searching up what could make someone so gassy so suddenly. He still didn’t really think it was him who was letting out the butt funk but he couldn’t be sure after Brad’s outburst. After a few minutes of thinking over what it could be a thought came to him, what if the boxers were still wafting off the same air and he just was accustomed to it now. As this thought crossed his mind, as if in response to it, he felt a rumbling in his stomach and then… PPPPFFFBBBTTTT a blundering fart shot out of his ass echoing off the bathroom walls. Trevor, not knowing what to do, tried to put his hand over his ass as the blast of rancid air forced its way out not caring that some hand was trying to stop it’s escape. Pulling his right hand back from his ass he instinctively covered his mouth out of shock and embarrassment with the same hand, if he wasn’t holding his phone with his left hand he would’ve covered his mouth with that one. With his hand that just caught the latter half of a funk filled fart right under his nostrils he accidentally breathed in the funk. Going straight to his brain, the funky fart smell started to affect his thinking. Normally he would have ripped his hand away from his face if it smelled like straight ass, but for reasons he couldn’t understand he started feeling pure bliss coming from the fact that he was huffing in his funk. For a second he thought to himself that “This is what real men should do, they should relish their own stink…I mean stink like this is natural and manly”. Realizing how gross that sounded Trevor wiped the thought from his head and thought to himself that “No no no this can't just be a coincidence, something is wrong with these underwear!”, finally removing his fart contaminated hand from over his mouth he reached down to try and strip off his pants and boxers. As if the pair of boxer briefs itself was attempting to stop this as Trevor grabbed the elastic of his sweatpants and briefs with both hands, he felt the need to squat a little. Now squatting he was about to pull down his briefs when a hissing noise began to escape out of his posterior. The smell of pure teenage fart funk filling up the bathroom made Trevor pull the boxers and sweatpants down only off of his inflating butt as the hissing stopped. Trevor, unable to think for himself without influence from his own farts, stuck his right hand inches away from his asshole and held up his pants with his left and then just like before, the rumble started and he let it rip,

PPPPPPPFFFFFFFFBBBBBBBTTTTTTTTT

His face contorted as he let out the longest fart he has ever heard, lifting his hand out of the blast zone he raised the tips of his fingers right below his nose. At this point there was no stopping it, Trevor was barely in control of his thoughts, he took a deep breath in and the worst scent he had ever smelt flooded up his nose and into his brain.” Trevor began to have his own thoughts mixed in with the fart influenced thoughts race across his mind in a matter of milliseconds. Thoughts like “What am I gonna do!? I’m turning into some dumb gassy imbecile!” “This is so gross…No this is normal all men should be like me…All men should smell like me.” “What is Brad gonna do when he sees me like this!?” and the last thought Trevor had was… “My gut feels weird…”.

PPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFBBBBBBBBBTTTTTTTTTTTT

One last thunderous blast of fetid…no…one last blast of Trev’s delicious smelling ass air came roaring out, filling the bathroom with noxious fumes that could be considered a chemical weapon, but to Trev it smelled like heaven. Pulling up his pants and then inspecting his body in the mirror Trev thought to himself “I'm so lucky I found those underwear huhuhuh…” His thought trailed off as a little final toot squeaked out of his ass.

Trev opened the bathroom door and the young guy standing outside the door saw as Trev stepped out a green cloud of stupefying farts reached out towards him. The stranger tried covering his nose but to no avail, as the fart cloud infiltrated his nostrils he had the thought “I should go add to the funk in there” entering the bathroom the young stranger would become just like Trev. As Trev made his way back to the study room those who were in near proximity to Trev and caught a whiff of the fog surrounding him, their thoughts began to slow and they began to enjoy the stench lingering after Trev passed. As Trev reached the study room he looked back to see a room full of young college aged boys dumbing down and creating a hefty cloud of funky flatulence.

Proud that he unknowingly helped all these guys be one with their stink, Trev entered the room. Immediately upon entering Brad caught a whiff of Trevs contaminated gas and covered his nose “WHAT THE FUCK MAN YOU SMELL ABSOLUTELY RANCID!” Without saying a word the lithe gymnast somersaulted to Brad, pulled down his pants to reveal his ass, and helped Brad realize how good it feels to smell like a real man.

[thefunkfactory]

Belching Blockhead

Feb 20

Ever since I gave Noah that weird drink he has been acting totally gross, burping and farting everywhere, leaving his stinking clothes covering our dorm room. I can’t stand it anymore. Noah was such a sweet guy before, I really didn’t know that this was going to happen to him! I thought it would just be a silly prank. I got this stuff from the gag shop in town, ya know the places that sells fake gum packs that zaps your finger or fake vomit, but it was a drink that was supposed to make Noah super gassy for a few hours. I put it in a cup when we were eating together and he drank the whole thing, nothing happened for a while but the next day when I woke up our entire room smelled like ass. He must’ve been farting in his sleep all night. I went to open up the window but he shut it as soon as he got up, he said I was “Letting all of his hard work escape”. It's been a week since that morning and every day he has gotten worse…gotten gassier. Two days ago I woke up and he was jerking off in bed and obviously huffing his own farts, he was completely under the covers and constantly farting. It doesn’t make me any less concerned that he’s seemingly getting dumber, he barely ever does any studying when a week ago you could barely get him to do anything else, all he does now is hang in the dorm and fart around…literally. When he isn’t at the dorm he is out skating, he picked it up the same day he hotboxed our room with his farts. At least when he is skating he’s torturing his skater friends and not me with his rancid burps and foul farts. The way he talks has also gotten worse, he uses bro or dude or man in almost everything he says. And good luck getting him to confirm a complete sentence. I feel so so so bad, I think I accidentally turned my roommate into a smelly skater bro…

Feb 23

I think he is turning me into another smelly dude bro… The other day he invited me out to watch him skate and I agreed to come. The sun had gone down already and it was cold but we still walked the distance to the skate park. He kept crop dusting me, swerving in front of me on his skateboard and riping ass so loud that anyone in the dorm building next to us could probably hear. And bro…those farts smelled so good bad. It was so gross. But while we were there he came up to me and belched right in my face, it smelled like he farted out of his mouth, it smelled eggy and rotten and then he blew his bad breath right into my face. It was so disgusting.

Feb 24

Bro I woke up yesterday and Noah was squatting over me in bed, as soon as i lifted my head up he let out a fury of ass blasts right into my face…Noah is so funny. I laughed so much, I couldn’t stop laughing even after he was done farting on me. We went to the bathroom together to get ready, he watched as i picked up my toothbrush and was about to squeeze out some toothpaste when I remembered that I brushed my teeth last night, I dont gotta brush em again duuuh.

Feb 26

Burping is so fun, do i get kicked out of my classes for being disruptive…maybe…but do i love the smell of my belches…most definitely bro. Everytime i bast gas either out of my mouth or ass I feel so much better, specially in my head, it feels like my brain gets lighter every time dude. Farting is even better than belching tho, its stinkier and makes my head feel the best, I havent been able to study very much tho, its just too hard and skating with my gassy bro Noah is so much more fun…

[thefunkfactory]

JOCK ZOMBIES

Cory had gone over the plan in his head. He was going to book it down the hall, get his bag from his locker, find an open exit and get the hell out of dodge. It was a lot easier said than done, some sort of weird virus had taken his school by storm. Given that the virus was only affecting men and he goes to an all boys school, it took only a day for the entire school to be fully infected.

The outbreak started when he was in Pre-Calc. He was sitting in the front of the class when he heard a kid in the back shout “GET OFF OF ME!” When he turned around he saw Levi, the most stereotypical jock, grabbing one of their classmates and then he watched as within a matter of seconds the classmate turned into a big, muscular meathead, just like Levi. The weird thing was that as the kid grew he let out a loud echoing fart that was almost cartoonish as it was a bright green hue.

Cory couldn’t help but watch as the two students grabbed more and more students slowly turning most of the room into Hulk-like teens each letting out their own ripe torrent of gas as they grew. He ran out of the class and as he looked back into the classroom saw his teacher get grabbed and saw him turn too. Running down the hall with only a few others who escaped the class, Cory watched as a door right next to him flew open. It knocked down one of the students he was with, and before anyone could react this absurdly big man came out and grabbed the student who was knocked to the floor. Flailing to escape the kid screamed “HELP ME PLEASE ANY-“ but was cut off as suddenly “FRAAAAP” a foul green cloud was expelled from his butt cheeks and the space around him filled with the fart funk. He had to watch as the newly transformed Jock was released and let out a loud “HUHUHUH” before lunging at another boy.

Running further down the hall and into a classroom that looked empty, Cory bursted in and was met with the lingering smell of stale farts, he quickly ran to hide behind a desk. Glancing up at the whiteboard he saw that he was in Mr.Jack’s room. Cory loved Mr.Jack and also knew that his best friend Mikey has his class right now. Although there was no one in the room, Cory whispered loudly enough to be heard “Mikeyyyy, are you in hereeee?”. No response, so he whispered it again. He heard rustling from the other side of the room and saw as a cabinet opened and miraculously Mikey emerged. Filled with relief that he wasn’t alone and that his best friend was uninfected, Cory ran to Mikey but Mikey stayed put and put his finger to his mouth. Confused, Cory slowed down and noticed Mikey pointing to the room’s closet. Cory asked Mikey “What is going on dude?” and Mikey didn’t respond, electing just to put his finger back up to his mouth. Mikey gestured to the room’s door, trying to give the hint that they needed to leave but Cory said “Mikey! Dude! We can’t go out there, it’s crazy outside!” Alerted by the noise Cory made, the closet began to make noise, and then something on the other side began to bang on it. Unfortunately for the two boys the door didn’t hold for very long and when the door quickly came down out strode a buff but not huge young guy, he looked no older than 19 but he had a striking resemblance to Mr.Jack. What was even stranger was that he was wearing one of Mr.Jack’s ties around his neck.

He looked at the boys and dumbly chuckled as he suddenly rushed at them and they were forced to dance around classroom desks and chairs in an effort to avoid him. Running for the door the two boys made it out barely as Jack barreled through the desks not paying them any mind. Slamming the door behind them they took down the hall again looking for a safe haven.

Making down the hall and into a utility closet the two boys caught their breath as they leaned on the cluttered shelves. The boys told each other what had happened to them and that is when Cory learned that Mr.Jack was giving a test and was walking through the aisles when Miles, one of the school’s wrestlers, grabbed Mr.Jack and wouldn’t let go. Mr.Jack tried to escape and was calling for help just like the kid in the hall when suddenly he let out an absolutely putrid fart, worse than Mikey had ever smelled, and fell silent. It only took a little bit of time until Mr.Jack turned into what the two boys saw in the classroom. Mikey went on to say that the boys sitting near Mr.Jack and Miles began coughing until they let out their own less putrid farts and transformed too. Mikey ended up hiding in a large cabinet while the rest of the class was chased out of the class by the newly minted jocks. He had eventually slipped out of the cabinet and ended up trapping Mr.Jack in the closet, and for whatever reason he was incapable of opening up the door, Mikey hadn’t locked it since he didn’t have the key and he had nothing to block the door. From comparing each other's stories the two of you deduced that inhaling Jock Gas will transform you into a jock yourself and that once transformed the person has all intelligence zapped from their brain, essentially turning them into a Jock Zombie.

The two of you then proceeded to start coming up with a plan on how to escape. They needed to get to their lockers to retrieve their things, mainly they needed their car keys which were stored away in their backpacks kept in their lockers. They also need to find a viable exit given that Jock Zombies were roaming the campus everywhere. Mikey’s locker was on the opposite side of the school, and Cory’s locker was on the second floor and the boys found themselves on the first. As they were getting ready to open the door to go get their bags, that’s when it happened. Mikey’s stomach growled and clutched his stomach, feeling something bad was happening Cory, filled with worry, asked “Mikey…? What's wrong bud?”, “I…I don’t know…My stomach…it feels…BRAAAAAP” Mikey fell silent. He was turning before Cory’s very eyes, his best friend was turning into a jock. The boys didn’t realize it but all the time Mikey spent hiding away in the fart-filled classroom was enough to infect him, it just took time to transform him into a jock. Quickly rushing out of the utility closet before he could smell Mikey’s rancid Jock Gas, all Cory could do was watch as his best friend was turned into a big, gassy idiot. Cory watched through the tiny window the door had. He watched as Mikey grew beefier and beefier as the window slowly got clouded up by the green hue of the Jock Gas.

Cory was devastated by the loss of his friend, Mikey was so kind and smart and it was all stripped away because he breathed in a stupid fart. Cory couldn’t believe that any of this was happening but he still knew that he had to go on and escape. He began to cautiously make his way to the stairs, he passed by a couple of jocks but they seemed occupied, already trying to get to other nerds to turn them into Jock Zombies. Cory carefully made his way up the stairs and was able to get to his locker, which luckily was only a little ways down the hall from the staircase. He put in the combination and slowly opened up his locker and reached inside. grabbing his backpack, he quickly pulled it out but in doing so he dragged his water bottle out, and it fell to the floor. Letting out a deafening ringing sound, the metal water bottle noisily clanged to the floor. Cory knew that he was gonna have to run and hide before any dim-witted Jocks converged on his locker. He made his way back down the stairs and sighed a sigh of relief as the Jocks down on the first floor were still preoccupied with catching the students they were already focused on. As he began looking for an exit he could see that the main doors were wide open and there was no one around to stop him. But it was just his luck that one of his classmates from your Pre-Calc class tried to B-line it for those open doors. He had a Jock on his tail and it looked like the lanky student was gonna make it out when suddenly another jock wandered into the hallway as the student was looking behind him at how close the Jock tailing him was. The student ran right into the wandering Jock and fell flat on his back. Catching up as soon as he fell, the Jock chasing him squatted over the students face and Cory watched as a green fart cloud was forced right onto the students face. He couldn't bear to watch another innocent kid turn into a farting buffoon but as he looked away Cory knew that that exit was no longer a safe escape. Not since three Jocks are around it.

After scouting out a couple more exits, Cory finally found one that seemed like an easy escape. As he crouched his way towards it he heard a pair of footsteps behind him. He wanted to run away and get to the door but before he could even try he looked behind him. He was met with a fat, smelly Jock butt, the Jock had pulled his pants down enough to expose his bare ass. Cory was quickly dealt a face full of a hot, steamy, rank fart, contaminated with the virus turning all his peers into stinky Jocks. Falling to the ground, Cory began coughing and he realized who the Jock who just infected him was, it was Mikey.

Feeling like a failure, he couldn’t save Mikey and he couldn’t even save himself, Cory began to feel the effects of the noxious fumes take over his mind and body. He tried to apologize to Mikey for failing them both but all that got out was “Mikey…Im so…sor-PFFFBBBTTTT” He was done for, the fart he just released from his rapidly expanding ass was not only filled with his natural boy stink but it was also Cory releasing all of his intelligence, his insecurities, his memories, his fears, etc. Cory was no longer Cory. Cory was now a Jock Zombie, his only thoughts were about making more Jock Zombies and hanging out with his bros. Cory’s transformation quickly concluded as his body doubled in muscle mass and his body was transformed into a fart producing machine. He let out a moronic chuckle and started hunting for a nother person to Zombify.

[thefunkfactory]

Brotherly Love

Milan had hated having to live with his twin brother all these years, ever since they were kids Kingston used to torture Milan. He used to fart on his pillow, dangle his stinky socks over Milan’s nose while he slept, used to belch in his face constantly, etc. To put it mildly Kingston was Milan’s polar opposite, Milan was always fresh and clean, showering twice a day, changing his sheets twice a week while Kingston let his unmade sheets stew in his sweat and grime. Milan was so happy that now that the two of them had graduated that Kingston was going to be leaving home to go to Auburn in Alabama, it was a perfect school for him, he got in entirely based on his football prowess. Milan was going to be taking a gap year and saving up some extra money while he would still be living with his parents.

(Milan and Kingston)

It was a pretty normal day for Milan, he had gotten home from his job as a host and was walking into the kitchen to get something to eat. His parents were gone on a business trip and so the boys had been slowly whittling down the food in the kitchen for a few days now. Milan Kingston sitting on the couch in the living room from the kitchen eating something, opening the fridge Milan was met with a pretty sad sight, just some deli meat, condiments, and some beer. “Ughhh there is nothing to eat and Mom and Dad won't be back for two more days!” Milan groaned from the kitchen, between smacks of his lips Kingston said “Dude *smack* there is plenty *smack* of food! What are-uuuuUUUURRRP you talking about?” Walking over to the living room empty handed, Milan saw that Kingston was chowing down on his version of a charcuterie board, salami and prosciutto straight from the pack, mustard, and a beer. Grossed out by even the thought of the meal his brother was consuming, Milan lost his appetite a little. Sitting down next to his brother on the couch, Milan was asked “Where have you been all day bro?”, Milan replied with a condescending tone “I’ve been at work, something YOU can't relate to”. Milan had been forced to get a job as soon as he turned 16 “to build character” as his parents claimed but Kingston didn’t have to since apparently being the star quarterback was enough character building for his parents. “Yo bro you gotta chillax man” Kingston said in his usual moronic tone, peeved that there was no food in the house and now he had to deal with his lazy brother telling him to relax, Milan scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Smirking, Kingston said “Hey, I know a good way to let loose bro!” sticking out his finger and pointing it at his brother, Kingston droned on “Bro…pull my finger! Huhuhu”. Rolling his eyes again Milan refused, “That’s disgusting I'm not pulling your finger, besides it’s covered in meat residue and mustard” Wiping his hand on his shorts, Kingston stuck his finger back out and promised “If you pull my finger i’ll buy us a pizza”. Enticed by the deal, Milan reasoned that he could deal with his brother’s funk, he had been dealing with it for almost two decades now. “Fine…I’ll pull it, but you better buy us an extra large!” Milan grabbed his brother’s finger and gave it a tug, he heard a gurgling Kingston’s gut and then it shot out, BWOOOOOOMMMMPPPPFFFFFFFFF. Covering his nose Milan yelped “KINGSTON THAT IS FOUL WHAT DIED IN THERE?!” it stunk worse than anything his brother has produced before. As the fart trailed off and the grimace disappeared from his face Kingston responded with “Not much besides beer and meat today…”. “I’m getting away from you and your rotting gut!” Milan said as he stood up. Losing his balance Milan staggered and fell back onto the couch right from where he had gotten up. “WOAH! Bro are you okay?!” Kingston said as Milan crashed back down into the sofa. “I…ummm my head…it’s so…foggy…” Milan couldn’t figure out what was happening to him, it was so odd, he hadn’t gotten up too fast so it couldn’t be that. Milan put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes tight, “I just…need a second…” he muttered softly. He heard more gurgling sounds coming from next to him and heard the sofa cushion move as his brother leaned away from him. Lifting his leg Kingston ripped out another noisome fart and let out a pleasure filled sigh “It’s gonna be nice to have a brother who I can get along with”. Smelling the amplified stench surrounding the two, Milan began to cough and cough “Please…stop…” he got out between coughs. Kingston heard his pleas but found no reason to stop so his gut just kept producing more and more meaty gas for him to rip, it was like pulling his finger flipped a switch in his gut. The smell brute would not stop farting especially once he could see his brother changing. Milan’s pleas for mercy ceased and he sat there next to his brother lifeless, the amount of gas that his brother produced invaded his brain and stopped Milan’s brain minus the integral functions. Milan was sitting slouched back onto the couch, eyes open and mouth hanging like a trout. Kingstop watched as his brother began to become more like him, he couldn’t help but chuckle with glee as Milan’s arms began to swell up with nice developed muscles to match his ever expanding legs. Milan’s limbs grew with muscle and just a little bit of fat. Milan couldn’t even begin to process what was happening, hell he couldn’t stop himself from drooling as it welled up behind his lip and eventually spilled over. Kingston looked on with joy and awe as his twin brother’s shirt began to rip at the seams and fall apart, his pants did the same but were just barely being held apart.

Kingston began to smell a buttery scent and his dumb mind began to wonder “Who is making popcorn?”, suddenly he realized the smell was coming from Milan’s feet, once petite and nimble, they had grown massive and klutzy but most importantly to Kingston they had grown awfully malodorous. Looking back up at his brother he realized that while his attention was focused on Milan’s rank feet, his body had changed more. Milan sat a little higher on the couch once his buttocks inflated with fat and muscle to become massive orbs that bounced as he walked. His stomach bloated into a tummy bigger than he ever had before, his chest turned into massive pecs, Milan’s neck widened into a huge thick log almost too big for his head.

Kingston caught a whiff of another unpleasant aroma, lifting his own arm he sniffed his hairy armpit, “Nope, I still stink the same” he thought. He realized that much like his brother’s feet, Milan’s pits might have matured into proper B.O. producers, not the flowery scented underarms Milan always shaved clean. Hastily lifting his brother’s arm, Kingston was met with an eye watering stench that actually surprised him. Dropping the growing boy’s arm, Kingston clenched his watering eyes and fanned his nose, “PEEEE-UUU!” Kingston exclaimed, “MANNNN YOU SMELL RIPE BRO!” he said proudly. Lifting up his arm again, Kingston wafted the stench from his brother’s rank forest of pit hair. Letting the sour stink cling in his nose, Kingston grinned and realized that he should have done this sooner.

Prouder than ever, Kingston patted his brother on the back. Once Kingston removed himself from Milan’s captivating armpit, Kingston looked at his brother’s face only to find that the cute boyish brother sitting before him was gone, a softer jawline appeared and stubble grew across his lip. His eyebrows grew thicker and untamed, and his eyes grew dull. The last noticeable changes were that his lips plumped up a slight bit more and his hair shortened on top and puffed out on the sides right above his ears. “How you feelin bro?” Kingston asked, Milan grunted, showing the first sign of intellect since Kingston gassed him. As soon as he grunted Kingston heard Milan’s gut begin to churn, and just like his revolting brother, Milan ripped the fattest and nastiest smelling fart the once dainty boy ever had. THBBTTTBBBTttbbbbsssssssst.

It flew out strong and loud and was a squeaking trumped by the end. Kingston took a deep breath of his brother’s intellect that was now nothing more that eggy vapors filling up the room. Looking at his newly minted brother he asked “Ready for that pizza bro?”, “HELL YEA BRO!” Milan shouted out “I gotta warn you tho, it’s gonna turn me into a gas machine”, “Dont worry bro I already did that for you!” Kingston joked. Furrowing his brow a confused look spread across Milan’s face “Huh?” he blurted out, “Forget about it bro just focus on being the stink-machine you always have been” Kingston told Milan. A dopey grin stretched across his face and Milan stuck out his tongue. He lifted a leg and leaned away from his brother, “You got it broooooo” and a revolting silent but deadly fart slipped out of his magnificent cheeks.

[thefunkfactory]

Travis Transformed

It started in the gym locker room. We weren’t supposed to be there that late. Travis had begged me to come with him; his new routine had him lifting heavier, pushing harder. I never questioned it. He wanted to bulk up. I loved him for everything he was: sweet, soft-spoken, loyal. A little on the skinny side, sure. But his heart? Massive. That night, I was waiting for him to change, sitting on the bench near his gym bag. He peeled off his shirt, hair damp with sweat, and smiled at me. It was quiet. Comfortable. Until the door slammed open.

Derek and Blake the worst kind of jocks swaggered in like they owned the place. Derek, tall and tanned, dripping sweat and confidence, lifted his arms and stretched, unleashing a greasy burst of body odor so thick I gagged. Blake followed behind, shorter but wider, hairy, shirtless, and somehow even riper. His pits were dark with sweat, and the front of his gym shorts bulged indecently.

“Yo,” Derek said, his voice soaked in smugness. “Didn’t know this was faggot hour.”

Travis stiffened. I stood up immediately. “Back off.”

Blake let out a thunderous fart and laughed. “Damn. That pre-workout’s hittin’. You little fairies ever smell real man-stink before?” The air turned pungent. I covered my nose, eyes watering. But when I looked at Travis… he wasn’t gagging. He was staring. His jaw was tight. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

“You okay?” I whispered.

He nodded too fast. “Yeah. Fine.”

But I saw his nostrils flare again. He sniffed. That was the first crack.

Derek walked past us, shirtless, swiping a towel across his hairy chest. “You lookin’ to bulk, bro? Or just tryin’ to impress your lil boyfriend?”

Travis opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“He ain’t gotta answer,” Blake chuckled, lifting one foot and planting it on the bench near Travis, his nasty, sockless sneaker squelched from sweat. “Let him get a whiff. That’ll teach his nose what real masculinity smells like.”

I was about to say something when Blake yanked off the shoe. The smell hit like a punch. Vinegar. Cheese. Rotting meat. It was primal, filthy, and thick. I reeled backward, choking. But Travis… froze. He looked like he’d been slapped. His pupils dilated. And before I could stop him, he took a shaky breath in.

“…Travis?” I whispered.

He blinked rapidly. His cheeks flushed.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he mumbled. But his voice cracked. His knees wobbled slightly, like the stench had short-circuited his brain.

Blake grinned. “See? He likes it. Bet you never gave him anything that ripe, huh princess?”

“Shut up,” I hissed, stepping forward.

But Derek grabbed Travis by the shoulders casually, like a coach hyping a player. “Come on, bro. You smell that, don’t you? That’s what it means to be a real man. Not perfume and soft hands. Just musk. Just dominance.”

Travis shook his head. “No, I'm not like you.”

Blake leaned in, farting again long and wet. “Not yet.”

I tried to pull Travis back, but he wouldn’t move. His legs had gone soft.

“I’m ” he gasped, eyes locked on Derek’s pit as the jock pulled him closer. “I’m not…”

“You wanna be,” Derek whispered. “That’s why you’re still here.”

And then Derek lifted his arm. He pressed Travis’s face directly into his pit. Travis thrashed at first. I screamed, lunging forward but Blake held me back, laughing, his sweaty gut pinning me in place.

“Let him breathe it in. Let the stink sink deep.”

And Travis… stopped struggling. He stopped moving. His nose twitched once. Then again. His breath came in shallow gasps. I could see the fight happening inside him his mind pushing against the fog. But Derek held him there. Sweat dripping. Musk soaking into Travis’s skin. And slowly, his fingers unclenched. He pulled back, gasping. His lips were slightly parted. He looked dazed. Confused. Like something had shifted.

Derek smiled. “That’s it, bro. You took your first breath. That shit’s gonna live in you now.”

Blake shoved me to the ground and tossed a crusty gym sock on my lap. “Better get used to losing him, pretty boy.”

And I stared up at my boyfriend. He was still Travis. But his shoulders had dropped just slightly. His breath reeked of Derek’s pit. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. And I knew…The stink was inside him now. And it wasn’t done. Travis staggered back from Derek’s pit, gasping like he’d just surfaced from underwater. His face was soaked in jock sweat. His lips slightly parted. His eyes, foggy. He looked like he’d forgotten where he was.

“Yo,” Derek laughed. “You good, bro?”

“I ” Travis blinked rapidly. “I don’t know.”

I rushed to him, grabbed his wrist. “We’re leaving. Now.”

But he didn’t move. His skin felt clammy. And his legs… trembling. He looked down at the gym floor like it was spinning beneath him.

Blake stomped his foot beside us. The slap of his bare, sweaty sole echoed through the locker room. “Nah, man. We ain't done yet. You smell that?” He lifted his other foot and peeled off his crusty sock like it was glued on. “He’s only had one sniff. Just one.”

“Travis,” I said, firmer. “Don’t listen to them.”

But his nostrils were twitching again. And then Blake pulled the fleshlight out of his gym bag. It was worse than before. Dripping. Oily. Foul. The air thickened instantly cum, sweat, and something fermented, like it’d been left in a jock’s locker for weeks. Travis backed away instinctively, but Derek caught him by the shoulders again, holding him steady.

“You don’t have to touch it,” Derek said, grinning. “Just feel it. Just... see what it does.”

Blake crouched in front of Travis, holding the thing like an offering. “You ain’t gotta jerk it. We’ll take care of that.”

“No,” Travis said barely more than a whisper.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t fight when Blake reached out and pressed the disgusting toy against the bulge in his shorts. Travis gasped loud. His hips jerked back, but Derek gripped him tighter, locking his arms down from behind.

“Relax,” Derek murmured in his ear, the stink from his pits and breath washing over Travis’s face. “Just let it happen.”

Blake slowly started working the toy against him through the fabric at first, letting the slickness soak into Travis’s shorts. He moaned. A tiny, high, broken sound that cracked me open inside.

“No,” Travis choked. “I I don’t want this ”

“But your cock does,” Blake said with a grin. “It’s already twitchin’, bro. It knows what you are.”

“Stop it!” I shouted, lunging forward but Blake slammed me back with a sweaty foot, pinning me to the bench with nothing but his stink and weight. I gagged, eyes burning.

“Watch,” he growled. “This is where he changes.”

Travis whimpered, eyes squeezed shut. His arms were still locked behind him in Derek’s hold. He wasn’t consenting and yet his cock was hard, clearly outlined, straining against his shorts as Blake rubbed the fleshlight over it. The stink clung to everything. To Travis’s thighs. His stomach. His face. And I watched the fight in him start to slip.

Blake yanked Travis’s shorts down with one wet schlick, and Travis yelped but didn’t resist. His cock slapped out, throbbing, already leaking. I couldn’t look away.

“Time to help our boy dump out the last of that old identity,” Blake said.

And then he slid Travis into the fleshlight. Travis screamed. Not in pain, just overstimulation. Confusion. Terror. His whole body seized. His toes curled against the tile floor. Derek kept him steady, breathing down his neck, while Blake pumped the toy slowly, rhythmically grinning like a pervert while the stink of the locker room surrounded us all. I watched the love of my life pant and tremble and lose ground. His thighs slapped against Blake’s arm. His mouth hung open. His moans grew lower. Less human. Less... Travis.

He wasn’t thrusting… not yet. But his hips twitched. His breath came in shallow gasps. His face was a mess of shame, arousal, panic.

“I can’t… I can’t cum like this,” he said, shaking. “If I do if I do ”

“You’ll be free,” Derek whispered, grinding his pit harder against Travis’s cheek. “Free of all that weak queer shit. Just meat. Just stink. Just jock.”

Each time Blake pumped, a little more of the old him seemed to drain away.

“You’re doing great, bro,” Derek said. “Let that fuckin’ loser melt outta your cock.”

“I…I don’t want to ” Travis groaned, but his hips started moving.

Not fully. Not willingly. But his body was giving in. Responding.

Blake’s grin widened. “There he is. We’re almost there.”

“No,” I whispered. I tried crawling forward, still half-dizzy from the jocks’ stink. “Please, Travis, fight it. You’re still in there.”

He looked at me. Just for a second. Tears in his eyes.

And then Derek leaned in and spat into his ear. “Forget him. He ain’t your bro anymore.”

And Travis thrust. Once. Twice. Moaning deeper. Sloppier. Like a drunk frat boy humping a couch cushion. His breath reeked. His skin glistened.

Squelch… splurt… squelch

The toy kept bouncing up and down on him.

The locker room reeked now. A heavy, greasy fog of boy-stench lingered in the humid air, like it had soaked into the cinderblock walls and bench wood. Travis was trembling, hunched forward on the bench, dripping with sweat. His back rose and fell in erratic breaths, the fog inside him thickening with every inhale. My eyes were wide, locked on him. My boyfriend. My sweet, thoughtful Travis. Still fighting. Still in there. But barely.

Blake leaned in behind him, grinning wide and stupid. “Bro… c’mon. Stop holdin’ back. You liked that. You needed that,” he said, voice low and slurred like his thoughts barely connected. He ran his hand down Travis’s slick back. “Feel how loose you are now? Bet your brain’s finally chillin’ out, huh?”

Travis’s fingers dug into the bench. “I’m not like you…” he whispered. But his voice cracked halfway through.

“Not yet,” Derek smirked, squatting beside him with pits bared like a trap. “But you’re stink-soaked now, man. You feel that, don’t you? Skin’s buzzin’. Thoughts slowin’. We’re not gonna make you finish changing. You’re gonna want it.”

A low, wet thup echoed through the tiles as Derek dropped his soaked jock onto Travis’s lap. The reek was immediate. Like sour cream left in a locker over summer break. Travis recoiled but only for a second. Then he froze. Breathing deep.

I watched his lips part, nostrils twitching. Eyes fluttering. That sharp intelligence I loved in him…it flickered, like a TV screen shorting out.

“Yeahhh…” Blake said, grabbing Travis’s chin from behind and turning it toward his pit. “Just sniff, bro. Ain’t no shame in admittin’ your place. You’re a locker room boy. A real one.”

Travis whimpered. “I don’t…”

Blake cut him off by stuffing his ripe, hairy pit against Travis’s nose.

He struggled, but only for a moment. His thighs stopped tensing. His hands loosened on the bench. And then… the sound. That slow, barely-there moan. Like something deep inside him was unclenching.

Like his old self was loosening its grip.

He stayed buried in Blake’s pit for too long.

When he pulled away, his eyes looked… wrong. Less focused. Droopy. Like his brain had been swaddled in used gym socks and left to ferment. His mouth hung half open, glistening with sweat and spit. One hand dropped down to rub the inside of his thigh. He looked at Derek. Then at me. Derek thrust the toy down on him hard and Travis let out a moan that could have been mistaken for a scream and suddenly the boy I loved was shooting his load into the air.

The locker room was heavy with silence. The stale, thick musk of sweat and unwashed bodies clung to every corner like a second skin. Flickering fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting sickly shadows across cracked tiles and battered benches. I sat against the cold wall, heart pounding in my chest, unable to move. The man I loved was no longer the boy who’d come in here hours ago fighting, trembling, trying to hold on. Travis was different now. He lounged nearby, sprawled out on the bench, chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. His skin glistened with a sheen of sweat that reeked of musk and stale armpits. His eyes, glazed and dull, barely acknowledged me as he scratched at his pits and sniffed his fingers, an unconscious, filthy habit. His broad shoulders sagged with a careless, lazy weight. The cocky smirk curling his lips wasn’t mine anymore. It belonged to the jock, the meathead born from hours of stink and submission. Blake and Derek laughed quietly, exchanging smug glances as they packed up their bags, leaving their mark behind like a storm. I swallowed hard, a knot twisting in my gut. Travis didn’t look at me. Didn’t say a word.

He was gone.

And in his place was something else, something I couldn’t reach anymore. The locker room air felt thicker now, heavier with the scent of lost battles and broken promises. I stayed rooted, watching him breathe in the stink that had claimed him. The new Travis was here to stay. Travis got up, stood by his bro’s, let out a massive fart, and looked at me with a dumbass expression on his face…he was gone.

[thefunkfactory]

Corn Fed Boys

Marco adjusted the collar of his Prada polo, trying desperately not to let the bottom of his designer jeans touch the dusty floorboards of the farmhouse hallway. He was twenty-one, a creature of espresso shots, the L train, and artisanal focaccia. He smelled like Santal 33 and hair gel. Here, in the heart of rural Kentucky, the air smelled like wet dog and silage.

"Here ya go, city slicker," Uncle Dale said, slapping Marco on the back with a hand the size of a catcher's mitt. "You’re bunking with the boys."

The door creaked open to reveal the lair of Rufus and Zac. It was a room that smelled aggressively of testosterone, drying sweat, and feed corn. Rufus and Zac were sprawled on their respective twin beds, looking up from a hunting magazine. They were effectively the same person printed in two different sizes: massive, block-headed, with necks thicker than Marco's thighs and corn-silk blond hair buzzed short.

"Well, lookie here," Rufus drawled, sitting up. His biceps strained against a faded camo t-shirt. "Cousin Marco. You look like you'd blow away if a tractor drove past ya too fast."

Zac, the younger but wider brother, snorted. "Don't break him, Ru. Aunt Maria said we gotta be nice. Even if he is wearin' girl pants."

Marco clutched his leather weekend bag tighter. "They're slim-fit," he said, his voice sounding thin and reedy in the dense room. "And I appreciate the hospitality."

"Just throw your stuff in the corner, Hollywood," Rufus said, scratching his stomach with a sound like sandpaper on wood. "You’re on the cot in the middle."

Dinner had been an ordeal of heavy starches and meat, where Marco picked at a casserole while Rufus and Zac shoveled mountains of food into their mouths with mechanical efficiency. Now, with the lights out, the bedroom felt like a pressure cooker.

Marco lay on the flimsy cot between the two massive beds. The room was hot. The window was cracked open, but it offered no relief, only the sound of crickets screaming in the humid night.

"Night, city mouse," Zac chuckled from the left. "Don't let the bedbugs bite," Rufus added from the right. "Or the coyotes."

Within minutes, the snoring started. It wasn't just breathing; it was a dual-engine rumble that vibrated the floorboards beneath Marco’s cot. But the noise was the least of his problems.

It started with a sound like canvas tearing.

Pfffffffft

It came from Rufus. A long, wet, pressurized release that seemed to go on for ten seconds. The smell hit Marco almost instantly,a wall of heat carrying the scent of boiled eggs, sulfur, and something deeply earthy, like fermenting compost.

"Oh god," Marco whispered, pulling his high-thread-count sheet over his nose.

BRRRAAAP-pffff

Zac answered the call from the other side. His emission was sharper, a trumpet blast that heralded a stench of pure, processed protein and decaying corn.

The cousins were asleep, deep in a food coma, but their digestive systems were wide awake and working overtime. The room began to fill. It wasn't just a smell anymore; it was an atmosphere. The air grew thick, humid, and yellowish in the moonlight. Marco tried to hold his breath, but his lungs burned. He gasped, inhaling a massive lungful of the biological smog.

He coughed, choking on the density of it. It tasted like heavy cream and musk. But as the gas entered his bloodstream, the coughing stopped. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest.

Rufus let out a low, rumbling growl from his gut that erupted into a thunderous BLAT that shook the picture frames on the wall. The gas cloud descended over Marco’s cot, heavier than oxygen, sinking into his pores.

The transformation began in his legs. Marco’s flannel pajama pants, already snug, suddenly felt like iron bands constricting his blood flow. He kicked his legs, trying to get comfortable, but the fabric groaned. His calves, usually slender from walking city blocks, began to twitch violently. Muscle fibers shredded and rebuilt in seconds, inflating like balloons. The definition blurred, buried under a sudden layer of thick, insulating bulk.

Marco groaned, but his voice was dropping, the pitch sliding down from a tenor to a gravelly baritone. The country air, rich with the cousins' potent stench, was rewriting him. The expensive cologne on his skin curdled, replaced instantly by the smell of hay and heavy sweat.

Zac ripped another one, a silent-but-deadly creeper that settled directly over Marco’s face. Marco inhaled it greedily now. His brain felt foggy, the sharp, anxious thoughts of New York subway schedules dissolving into a slow, syrupy contentment.

Why was I worried about dirt? he thought sluggishly. Dirt’s good. Dirt grows corn.

His shoulders broadened, cracking loudly as the clavicles lengthened. The cropped pj shirt stretched to its limit, the seams screaming before ripping open down the back. His chest expanded, the ribcage widening into a barrel shape, built for hauling hay bales and hollering across fields. His pale, moisturized skin darkened, thickening into a rugged, sun-baked tan, rough with sudden callouses.

His hands, clutching the sheets, swelled. The manicured fingers thickened into sausages, the knuckles growing knobby and hair-covered. The delicate gold ring he wore on his pinky snapped under the pressure of his expanding flesh.

The Italian gel in his hair failed. His dark, styled locks bleached out, turning a sandy, dirty blonde, and shortened into a practical, fuzzy buzzcut identical to the boys sleeping beside him.

As the night wore on, the room became a gas chamber of brotherhood. The three of them breathed in the same recycled, methane-heavy air. Marco’s mind finished its recalibration. The memories of art galleries and espresso bars were pushed out, replaced by knowledge of carburetor repair, defensive line strategies, and the taste of sweet tea.

He wasn't Marco anymore. That name felt too light, too flimsy.

Somewhere around 3:00 AM, the new boy on the cot contributed to the symphony. His stomach, now vast and solid as an oak tree, churned the heavy dinner he had previously picked at but now metabolically absorbed.

BBBBRRRROOOOMMP

It was a sound of tectonic shifting. The vibration rattled the windows.

The sun rose over the bluegrass, cutting through the haze in the room.

Rufus sat up, scratching his armpit, yawning loudly. He looked down at the cot. The flimsy metal frame lay flattened on the floor, crushed under the weight of the sleeper.

Lying on the mattress on the floor was a third giant. He was wearing the tattered rags of a cropped shirt that looked like a bib on his massive chest, and flannel pants that were more like distressed shorts now. His thighs were tree trunks, covered in hairy fuzz.

The figure stirred, slapping a hand the size of a ham hock against his mouth as he yawned.

"Mornin', Rufus," the boy grumbled, his voice a deep, slow drawl that sounded like tires rolling over gravel.

"Mornin', Mark," Rufus said, not batting an eye. "Sleep good?"

Mark sat up, the movement causing his spine to pop in three places. He scratched his belly, feeling the satisfying roughness of his own skin. He felt hungry. Not for a croissant, but for eggs. A dozen of them. And steak.

"Slept like a log," Mark said. He looked at his brothers. He felt a pressure building in his gut, a familiar, comfortable heaviness.

He leaned to the left, lifting one massive, calloused butt cheek off the mattress.

PRRRRRT-SQUEAK-PFFFFT

It was a wet, heavy finisher that smelled distinctly of the barnyard. A family scent.

Zac woke up at the noise, sniffing the air appreciatively. "Good one, little brother. You're learnin'."

Mark grinned, a wide, goofy, corn-fed smile. He stood up, towering in the small room, a perfect copy of his kin. "Yeah, well," Mark said, hitching up the waistband of his ruined pants. "Better out than in. Let's go eat. I'm starvin'."

"That's the spirit," Rufus said, punching Mark on a shoulder that felt like a bag of cement.

The three brothers walked out into the hallway, thumping heavily on the floorboards, leaving a thick green fog in their wake. The city was a million miles away, and Mark couldn't recall why anyone would want to live there anyway.

[thefunkfactory]

Nike Funk

They call me "The Dumpster" around the dorms, but my roommate, Liam? He just calls me "a biohazard."

Liam was your classic buzzkill. You know the type: color-coded highlighters, a mini-vacuum for his desk, and a strictly enforced "shoes off at the door" policy that I violated about five times a day. He was studying Pre-Med, stressing over organic chemistry while I was out on the field, grinding through three hours of football practice in ninety-degree heat. He was uptight, sterile, and desperately in need of an intervention.

And I had just the tools for the job.

I walked in that Tuesday evening, dragging a cloud of humidity and turf with me. I didn't even bother with the door handle; I just shouldered it open and collapsed onto my bed. The room smelled like lemon pledge and anxiety. Liam was hunched over his desk, back rigid.

"Kai, seriously?" he groaned without turning around. "I can smell you from here. Did you roll in a swamp?"

"It's called pheromones, buddy. It’s the scent of victory," I laughed, kicking my legs up. I looked down at my Nikes,battered, white-ish leather that had seen better days and definitely better smells. They were practically radiating heat.

I caught my reflection in the mirror,smug grin, polo shirt slightly unbuttoned. Then I looked at the shoe in my hand, and I saw the faint, greenish-yellow haze rising from the sole. It was like a cartoon, but real. The funk was so potent it was manifesting visually.

"Take a shower, Kai. Please," Liam begged, finally turning around. He pinched his nose, his eyes watering instantly.

"You know, Liam, your problem is you fight nature," I said, my voice dropping an octave, smooth and commanding. "You're too tense. You need to breathe it in."

I sat up, extending my right leg. The sock was grey, damp, and practically vibrating with the day's sweat. I held up my left sneaker in my hand, aiming the opening right at him like a cannon.

"What are you doing?" Liam started to stand up, panic flickering in his eyes. He tried to back away, but the dorm room was small. "Kai, put that away. I’m serious, I’m gonna throw up."

"No, you're not," I said, locking eyes with him. "You're gonna relax."

I waved the socked foot in a slow, rhythmic circle. The yellow mist seemed to swirl, catching the fluorescent light. Liam’s gaze got snagged on it. He tried to look away, to cover his face, but the scent was already hitting him,a thick, heavy wall of earthy musk, old leather, and pure, unfiltered locker room. It wasn't just a smell; it was a presence.

"It’s heavy, isn't it?" I whispered. "Makes your eyelids heavy. Makes your brain foggy."

Liam stumbled, his knees hitting the edge of my bed. "I... I can't..."

"Don't fight it. Embrace the funk."

He was wobbling now. The sharp, intellectual glare was fading, replaced by a dull, watery confusion. He swatted at the air, trying to push the smell away, but it was useless. I saw the moment his will cracked. He took a shallow breath, then coughed, but he didn't pull away.

"Now for the main course," I grinned.

I lunged forward, not aggressively, but with undeniable purpose. Before he could dodge, I cupped the heel of my sneaker and clamped the opening directly over his nose and mouth.

"Breathe, Liam."

He thrashed instantly. His hands flew up to grab my wrist, his muffled shouts vibrating through the leather sole against my palm. He was trying to hold his breath, his eyes bulging as he stared right into the dark, humid abyss of the shoe's interior. But the body needs air.

He gasped.

I watched the transformation kick in immediately. The shoe was a concentrated chamber of everything he hated, and now, it was becoming everything he was. As he inhaled that thick, heated air, the fight drained out of his arms. His grip on my wrist went from a desperate claw to a loose hold, and finally, his hands just dropped to his sides.

The transformation was fascinating to watch. It started in the face. The tension in his jaw unspooled completely. His furrowed brow, usually etched with worry about GPAs and exams, smoothed out into a vacant, blissful slackness. His eyes, previously sharp and alert, rolled back slightly before settling into a heavy-lidded, glazed stare.

Then it hit his posture. The "clean" Liam stood with a rod in his spine. The new Liam melted. His shoulders slumped forward, losing all that rigid academic tension. He leaned into the shoe now, not away from it. He was practically nuzzling the insole, chasing the source of the fog.

I pulled the shoe back a few inches. A visible trail of that green funk seemed to connect the sole to his nostrils.

"How we feelin', bro?" I asked.

Liam stood there, swaying. He looked... different. Dirtier, somehow, even though he hadn't touched anything. His pristine button-down shirt suddenly looked uncomfortable on him. He tugged at the collar, popping a button loose. He ran a hand through his perfectly gelled hair, messing it up into a spiked, disheveled mop that mirrored mine.

"I feel..." Liam's voice was deeper, slower. "Chill."

"Yeah? You worried about that Chem test?"

Liam blinked, looking at his desk like he didn't recognize it. He looked back at my foot,the source of his new enlightenment. "Chem? Nah. Whatever."

He sat down heavily on his own bed, kicking off his loafers without undoing the laces, letting them clatter against the wall,a mortal sin for the old Liam. He slumped back, spreading his arms wide, taking up space. He took a deep sniff of the air, which still reeked of my three-hour practice, and instead of gagging, a lazy smile spread across his face.

"Smells like... victory," he mumbled, echoing me.

I laughed, tossing the sneaker onto his lap. He didn't push it away. He just rested his hand on it, like it was a pet.

"Welcome to the brotherhood, Liam."

[thefunkfactory]

L'Eau de Locker

The air inside L’Atelier des Essences was always maintained at a crisp sixty-eight degrees, filtered to absolute neutrality so as not to disturb the delicate molecular dance of the merchandise. It was a temple of glass, chrome, and hushed reverence, where a single ounce of liquid gold cost more than a mid-range sedan.

Julian, a man whose bone structure seemed carved from marble and whose silk shirt shimmered like moonlight, was currently adjusting a bottle of Nuit de Mystery by a millimeter to the left.

"Elias, darling," Julian murmured, his voice a soft baritone that barely disturbed the silence. "The shipment manifest says we were expecting the vintage sandalwood oil from Mysore today. Do you see it?"

Elias, slight, elegant, and sporting a cashmere cardigan that cost three paychecks, looked up from the iPad behind the counter. He offered Julian a smile that usually made Julian’s heart flutter. "The courier just left a box, Jules. But... it doesn't look like the usual packaging from Grasse. It looks rather... domestic."

Julian glided over, his loafers silent on the polished concrete floor. The box in question was a jagged, corrugated cardboard cube, taped aggressively with brown packing tape. It sat on their pristine white counter like a toad on a wedding cake.

"How gauche," Julian sniffed, producing a silver letter opener. With surgical precision, he slit the tape.

They peered inside. There was no tissue paper, no velvet lining. Just a heap of gray packing peanuts and a single, heavy glass bottle shaped like a flexed bicep. The liquid inside was a murky, aggressive yellow. The label, printed in a font that looked like cracked concrete, read: L’Eau de Locker.

"L’Eau de... Locker?" Elias read, his nose wrinkling. "Is this a joke? Did corporate send this as a prank?"

"It must be satire," Julian said, lifting the bottle. It felt greasy. "Post-modern commentary on the fragility of masculinity? It’s hideous. It looks like something you’d find in a bargain bin at a gas station."

"What does the invoice say?" Elias asked.

"There is no invoice. Just a sticky note." Julian peeled a neon yellow square off the glass. "It says: For the man who knows the grind. 100% Pure Musk."

They looked at each other and let out a synchronized, high-pitched laugh.

"Oh, that is rich," Elias giggled. "Pure musk. I bet it smells of rubbing alcohol and desperation. We should toss it before it contaminates the Oud Wood."

"Wait," Julian said, a chaotic glint of curiosity in his eyes. He held the bicep-shaped bottle up to the light. "I have to know. I simply have to know how bad it is. It’ll be our little horror story for the dinner party tonight."

"Jules, no," Elias warned, though he was smiling. "It might burn your nasal lining."

"Just a spritz."

Julian pointed the nozzle, which was shaped like a whistle, away from him and pressed down. The atomizer didn't mist; it sprayed a thick, heavy jet of fluid into the air.

Immediately, the pristine atmosphere of L’Atelier was assaulted.

It didn't smell like perfume. It didn't smell like chemicals. It smelled, violently and unmistakably, of unwashed gym socks that had been marinating in a duffel bag for a humid week. It was the scent of stale sweat, rubber mats, deep heat rub, and aggressive pheromones.

"Oh god!" Elias gagged, covering his nose with his cashmere sleeve. "It smells like... like a high school locker room! It’s rancid!"

"It’s revolting!" Julian coughed, waving his hand to disperse the heavy cloud. "It smells like... like..."

Julian paused. He took a shallow breath. The scent was thick, almost oily. It coated the back of his throat. He meant to say rotten, but the word got stuck. He inhaled again, deeper this time. The smell of old sweat and testosterone hit his olfactory bulb like a sledgehammer.

"Like... effort," Julian finished, his voice dropping an octave.

"Julian, put the lid back on," Elias wheezed, eyes watering. "It’s making me dizzy. I feel..." Elias gripped the counter. His knuckles, usually pale and slender, seemed to be turning a ruddy pink. "I feel lightheaded."

"Wait," Julian said. He wasn't waving the smell away anymore. He was sniffing the air, his nostrils flaring. "It’s not just socks. There’s a base note of... old pizza box? And... dried mud?"

"Bro, stop," Elias muttered.

Julian froze. "What did you call me?"

Elias blinked, looking confused. He stood up straighter. The cashmere cardigan, usually loose, made a faint straining sound across his shoulders. "I said... I said stop. It’s... it’s strong stuff."

Julian looked at the bottle. The bicep shape didn't look tacky anymore. It looked sturdy. ergonomic. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to grip it tighter. His hand, usually manicured and delicate, felt itchy. He looked down. His veins were popping against the skin. His forearms seemed to be vibrating.

"I dunno, E," Julian grunted. The nickname felt foreign but right. He took a massive huff of the yellow mist. "It kinda kicks."

"It reeks," Elias argued, but he walked around the counter. His walk had changed. The graceful glide was gone, replaced by a heavy, wide-legged stomp. He rolled his neck, a loud crack echoing in the store. "It smells like... practice."

"Yeah. Practice," Julian nodded. He felt hot. The silk shirt was suffocating. It was too soft. Too flimsy. He flexed his chest, and the top three buttons of the shirt popped off, pinging against the glass display case.

Underneath, his chest was no longer smooth and hairless. It was thick, broad, and rapidly filling with dense muscle.

"Dude, your shirt," Elias pointed out. He didn't sound horrified. He sounded impressed. Elias reached up to scratch his jaw and frowned. A thick, dark stubble was erupting across his chin, scratching his palm. "Whoa. Since when do I stop shaving?"

"Since always, bro," Julian said, his brain feeling foggy. The memories of Nuit de Mystery and sandalwood were fading, replaced by stats. Football stats. Bench press records. Protein shake recipes. "You always rock the scruff."

Elias looked down at his own outfit. The cashmere cardigan was screaming in protest. With a dull rip, the shoulder seams gave way. Elias’s traps ballooned upward, thick slabs of meat encasing his neck. His slim trousers were suddenly skin-tight leggings, highlighting massive, tree-trunk quads.

"This gear is too small," Elias grumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. He tugged at the ruined cashmere, ripping it off to reveal a plain, tight white undershirt that was already staining with sweat. "Need something breathable."

"Here," Julian said, grabbing the bottle of L’Eau de Locker. "Refresh."

He sprayed Elias directly in the face.

Instead of coughing, Elias inhaled greedily. He shook his head like a wet dog, sending droplets of the foul liquid flying. "Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff. Smells like a win."

The transformation accelerated. Their posture shifted fundamentally. They weren't leaning elegantly anymore; they were manspreading, occupying space, their chests puffed out. Their eyes, once full of critical aesthetic judgment, glazed over with a happy, bovine dullness.

Julian looked at Elias; not as his partner of five years, but as his teammate. The concept of "boyfriend" evaporated, replaced by an aggressive, hetero-normative camaraderie.

"Yo, Jay," Elias grunted, flexing an arm that was now as thick as a fire extinguisher. "Check the pump."

"Solid, Eli. Lookin’ thick, solid, tight," Julian replied, slapping Elias on the back with enough force to shatter a rib, had Elias not been made of dense granite muscle.

Julian looked around the shop. The delicate glass bottles looked stupid now. Frilly. Weak.

"This place is dead," Julian stated, kicking a display of $400 candles. "Smells like flowers and grandma."

"Needs more Locker," Elias agreed.

He grabbed the bottle and began spraying wildly. He doused the velvet curtains, the glass counters, the expensive carpet. The room filled with the suffocating, yellow haze of B.O., mildew, and stale corn chips.

They stood in the center of the cloud, inhaling deeply, their chests heaving. They were sweating profusely now, a thick, oily perspiration that mingled with the cologne to create a bio-hazard level stench. They loved it. It smelled like home. It smelled like the gym.

"Bro," Julian said, scratching his crotch absently, a gesture he would have found abhorrent five minutes ago. "We gotta move this product. This is top tier."

"Totally," Elias said, leaning against the counter and crushing a box of French soap with his elbow. "Alpha scent. For real dudes."

Julian grunted in agreement, scratching his chest where the hair was now thick enough to braid. He surveyed the gleaming shelves of delicate crystal flacons, his brow furrowing under the weight of his new, neanderthal ridge.

"Yo, E," Julian said, his voice rumbling like a diesel engine. "Why is everything in here so... breakable?"

"Don't know, bro," Elias replied, picking up a $500 bottle of Rose de Mai. He squeezed it. The glass shattered instantly in his massive grip, perfume dripping down his calloused fingers. He sniffed it and grimaced. "Smells like my grandma's garden. Trash."

"We need to clear this junk out," Julian decided. He swept a massive arm across the display table. Thousands of dollars of inventory crashed to the floor, shattering into a glittering, fragrant mess. But the floral notes didn't stand a chance. The L'Eau de Locker was a black hole of scent, swallowing the lavender and jasmine and spitting out pure, unadulterated musk.

"Better," Elias said, kicking a pile of broken glass aside with a sneaker-clad foot he didn't remember putting on. "Now we got room to get a pump in."

[thefunkfactory]

Sleeping Bags & Smelly Socks

The nylon walls of the two-person tent seemed to shrink the moment Chase zipped the door shut, sealing us in for the night. It had been a long day of hiking, the kind that leaves a layer of grit on your skin and a bone-deep exhaustion in your legs. Chase, being twenty-two and possessing the boundless, annoying energy of a golden retriever, didn't seem phased. He flopped onto his air mattress, the plastic squeaking in protest under his athletic frame.

"Man," Chase groaned, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "My dogs are absolutely barking."

I watched from my sleeping bag, dread pooling in my stomach. I knew what was coming. Chase sat up, his silhouette backlit by the faint moonlight filtering through the rainfly, and reached for the laces of his heavy, leather hiking boots. He yanked the laces loose with a carelessness that matched his general approach to life.

"Chase," I said, my voice tight. "Put those outside for the love of God."

He laughed, a low, easy sound, and shook his head. "No way, Petey. I read about bark scorpions in this area. I’m not waking up to put my foot in a nest of death. They stay inside."

He grabbed the heel of his left boot and pried it off. The sound of the suction breaking was audible. Immediately, the smell hit me. It wasn't just a scent; it was a physical presence. It was a heavy, warm wave of sharp cheddar, fermented sweat, and damp leather. It was the scent of a hot, active guy who hadn’t changed his socks in fourteen hours of uphill trekking.

He peeled off the thick wool sock, which was so stiff with sweat it could have stood up on its own, and tossed it into the corner near my head. Then came the other boot. The second wave was worse than the first, compounding the pungency until the air in the small tent felt thick enough to chew.

"Dude," I choked out, pulling my sleeping bag up over my nose. "That is toxic. It’s actually burning my eyes."

Chase just grinned, stretching his bare feet out. In the dim light, I could see steam practically rising from them. "Natural pheromones, bro. Get used to it." He wiggled his toes, oblivious to the chemical warfare he was waging, and laid back, hands behind his head, his biceps bulging casually.

I tried to turn away, facing the tent wall, but the smell was inescapable. It coated the back of my throat. I lay there, angry at his irresponsibility, angry at his youth, and angry at the fact that he was sound asleep within thirty seconds while I lay suffocating in his foot funk.

But after twenty minutes, something strange happened. The nausea began to subside, replaced by a dull, throbbing heat in my own extremities. The air didn't smell bad anymore; it just smelled... intense. heavy. Familiar.

My own feet, usually cold and dry, felt suddenly furnace-hot inside my sleeping bag. They felt heavy, swollen, and restless. I kicked off the bottom of the bag to let them breathe, and as I did, a fresh waft of odor drifted up. I sniffed tentatively. It was sharp. Yeasty. It was undeniably cheesy.

I sat up in a panic. That smell wasn't coming from Chase’s side of the tent. It was coming from me.

I looked down at my feet. They looked bigger, rougher somehow. My toes flexed involuntarily, craving the freedom of the open air, utterly unashamed of the stench they were releasing. A strange lethargy washed over my brain. Why had I cared about the boots? Why was I so uptight about hygiene? We were camping. Who cares? Boys will be boys.

I looked over at Chase, snoring softly, his mouth hanging open. He didn't look annoying anymore. He looked like a legend. A total bro.

The transformation moved up my legs. I felt a sudden urge to stop worrying about tomorrow's route and just vibe. My posture slumped. A grin spread across my face—a lazy, arrogant, youthful grin. I reached down, scratched my ankle, and took a deep breath of the stagnant, funky air. It smelled like victory. It smelled like us.

"Night, Chase," I mumbled, my voice dropping an octave, sounding rougher, more relaxed.

I didn't bother moving my own pungent socks away from the center of the tent. I just rolled over, letting the combined stench of four cheesy, overworked feet lull me into a heavy, dreamless sleep. I was a bro now, and the funk was just part of the brotherhood.

[thefunkfactory]

The White Van

The fluorescent lights of the Parking Structure C hummed with a dying, erratic buzz. It was that specific, liminal time of night, just past 2:00 AM, where the world feels paused, and the only sound is the echo of one’s own existence.

Kei’s Converse sneakers squeaked against the oil-stained concrete. He adjusted his tote bag on his shoulder, the canvas strap digging slightly into his collarbone. He was tired, but the good kind of tired. The kind that came after six hours of tabletop RPGs and arguing about the narrative decline of recent anime arcs with his best friends at a 24-hour diner.

He caught his reflection in the darkened window of a parked sedan as he passed. He saw what he always saw: Kei. Short, soft around the edges, with a mess of curly dark hair he usually kept tucked under a beanie. He was wearing his favorite oversized thrifted sweater, covered in enamel pins supporting various causes, a pride flag, a "Tax the Rich" slogan, and a little pixel-art character from a slice-of-life manga.

He was a proud cliché. A Mexican-American art student, a lover of soft aesthetics, a leftist who spent his weekends phone-banking or reading graphic novels. He was safe in who he was. He was happy.

He turned the corner toward level 3B where he’d parked his beaten-up Honda Civic.

The ramp was empty, save for a single vehicle.

A white van.

It wasn’t parked in a spot. It was idling directly in the center of the driving lane, blocking Kei’s path to his car. It was pristine, almost unnervingly clean compared to the grime of the parking garage. The engine purred with a low, sub-bass rumble that Kei felt in his chest more than he heard with his ears.

Kei slowed down, his heart doing a nervous flutter. Just go around, he told himself. Don't make eye contact.

He hugged his tote bag tighter, hugging the wall to squeeze past the vehicle. He kept his eyes on his sneakers.

Click.

The sound of the lock disengaging echoed like a gunshot.

Kei froze. Before his flight-or-fight response could tell his legs to move, the side sliding door of the van flew open with mechanical violence.

There was no person inside. There were no seats. The entire interior of the van had been stripped and replaced with a wall of LED panels.

And then, the light hit him.

It wasn't a picture. It wasn't a movie. It was a spiral. A massive, rotating coil of deep, blood red and blinding white. It spun with a sickeningly smooth velocity, drawing the eye toward a center point that seemed to retreat infinitely backward.

"Whoa, what the, " Kei started, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

He meant to look away. He meant to run. But as the red and white light washed over him, his motor functions seemingly disconnected from his brain. The spiral wasn't just visual; it was accompanied by a sound, a pulsating, binaural thrum that matched the rotation of the image.

Whirrr-thump. Whirrr-thump. Whirrr-thump.

Kei’s hand dropped to his side. His mouth hung slightly open. The tote bag slipped from his shoulder, hitting the concrete with a soft thud. His comic books spilled out, but he didn't look down. He couldn't.

The spiral was everything.

LOOK AT THE SPIRAL.

The thought wasn't his. It was intrusive, loud, and slammed into his prefrontal cortex like a sledgehammer.

"I... I need to leave," Kei whispered, but his voice lacked conviction. It sounded airy, distant.

NO LEAVING. ONLY WATCHING. YOU ARE TIRED, KEI. SO WEAK. SO TIRED.

"I'm... not..." Kei stammered. But he was. His knees felt like jelly. The tension he carried in his shoulders, the anxiety of the world, the weight of his studies, the constant vigilance of being a minority in a polarized country, suddenly felt unbearable.

LET IT GO. BEING AWAKE IS HARD. THINKING IS HARD. SURRENDER IS EASY.

The spiral spun faster. The red bands seemed to bleed out, staining his vision.

Kei felt a sudden, sharp cramp in his stomach. The fear had tightened his gut, but as the hypnotic waves crashed over him, that tightness inverted. His body began to betray him, loosening in ways that felt humiliating.

A loud, wet gurgle erupted from his abdomen, audible even over the hum of the van.

GROSS. The voice in his head sneered. LOOK AT YOU. SOFT. WEAK. GASSY. LITTLE BOY.

Kei flushed with shame. He tried to clench, to hold onto his dignity, but the spiral pulsed a brilliant, blinding white.

Relax.

The command hit his nervous system like a sedative. Kei’s shoulders slumped. His jaw went slack. And inevitably, the pressure in his gut released. A long, fluttering fart escaped him, vibrating against the denim of his skinny jeans.

"Oh god," Kei mumbled, tears pricking his eyes. He was mortified. He was standing in front of a creepy van, farting, unable to move.

GOOD. The voice shifted, becoming deeper, more authoritative. DO NOT BE ASHAMED. ANIMALS DO NOT FEEL SHAME. MEN DO NOT FEEL SHAME. ONLY THE WEAK FEEL SHAME.

The spiral changed rotation. It began to pull him in.

YOU ARE FILLED WITH ROT. FILLED WITH BAD IDEAS. BAD POLITICS. BAD HABITS. WE NEED TO PURGE THEM.

Kei’s mind tried to rally. I’m a leftist, he thought frantically. I believe in equity. I believe in... I believe in...

The concepts felt slippery, like trying to hold water in his hands. As he stared at the red and white, the definitions began to blur.

EQUITY IS WEAKNESS. EMPATHY IS FOR LOSERS.

Another wave of relaxation hit him. This time, he didn't fight the bodily reaction. He let out a sharp belch, tasting bile and the Dr. Pepper he’d drank earlier.

BETTER OUT THAN IN, the screen flashed text for a microsecond, subliminal but effective.

Kei stood there, swaying. The smell hit him then. He had been walking all night, and the sudden stress sweat was pouring off him. Usually, Kei was fastidious about his hygiene. He liked smelling like lavender laundry detergent and subtle vanilla cologne.

But now, the scent rising from his own collar was sharp. Musky. Acrid.

SMELL YOURSELF.

Kei inhaled.

IT SMELLS LIKE MAN.

"It smells... bad," Kei whispered, trying to hold onto his standards.

NO. The spiral flashed red. IT SMELLS LIKE EFFORT. IT SMELLS LIKE DOMINANCE. LAVENDER IS FOR GIRLS. YOU STINK BECAUSE YOU EXIST. OWN IT.

The mental gymnastics were dizzying. The hypnosis was rewriting his sensory processing. The sharp tang of his B.O. began to smell less like "dirty" and more like "raw." Like musk.

Kei’s eyes glazed over completely. The pupils were blown wide, reflecting the spinning red vortex.

YOU HATE BEING SMALL.

"I..." Kei struggled. "I'm okay with... being short..."

LIAR.

The word boomed in his skull.

YOU HATE IT. YOU WANT TO BE BIG. YOU WANT TO BE STRONG. YOU WANT TO CRUSH.

Kei felt a phantom sensation. He felt his muscles twitching. He felt the fabric of his sweater, which he usually loved for its comfort, suddenly feeling suffocating. It felt like a dress. It felt like a costume.

TAKE IT OFF.

Kei’s hands moved without his permission. He grabbed the hem of his thrifted sweater and pulled it over his head. He dropped it onto the dirty floor, right on top of his spilled comics.

The night air was cold against his skin, but Kei didn't shiver. He felt a strange heat building in his chest. A fire.

He stood there in his undershirt. Another rip of gas escaped him, louder this time, aggressive. He didn't blush. He didn't look down. He stared into the spiral.

YOU ARE NOT A TWINK. YOU ARE NOT A DORK.

"I like... anime..." Kei whispered, the last thread of his personality holding on.

CARTOONS FOR CHILDREN. The voice was laughing at him now. LOOK AT THE COLORS. RED AND WHITE. RED. AND. WHITE.

The spiral morphed. The shapes twisted. For a second, the spiral looked like a barbell plate. Then it looked like a wall. Then it looked like a hat.

RED HAT. RED PILL.

Kei’s mind was fracturing. The "Leftist" part of his brain, the part that cared about nuance, about history, about social dynamics, was being systematically dismantled. It required too much energy to maintain.

THINKING IS HARD.

Thinking is hard, Kei repeated internally.

ANGER IS EASY.

Anger is easy.

STRENGTH IS EVERYTHING.

Kei flexed his arms. There wasn't much there, he was slim, but in his mind, he felt massive. He felt the pump.

YOU HAVE BEEN LIED TO. THE WORLD WANTS YOU WEAK. THE MEDIA WANTS YOU SOFT.

"They want me soft," Kei mumbled. His voice was dropping an octave, losing the gentle lilt he usually spoke with. It was becoming flat. Harsh.

WHO IS STRONG?

An image flashed on the screen in the center of the spiral. A golden silhouette. A tower. A man in a suit.

TRUMP IS STRONG.

Kei’s brow furrowed. The old Kei would have laughed. The old Kei would have rolled his eyes. But the old Kei was buried under layers of hypnotic fog and the intoxicating scent of his own musk.

"Trump..." Kei said the word. It felt forbidden. It felt dangerous.

HE IS THE ALPHA. HE DOESN'T APOLOGIZE. YOU APOLOGIZE TOO MUCH.

"I do," Kei realized. "I always say sorry."

STOP APOLOGIZING.

Kei squared his shoulders. He puffed out his chest. He let out a long, resonant fart that echoed in the empty garage. He didn't say excuse me. He didn't cringe. He grinned. A dopey, slack-jawed grin.

GOOD. MARK YOUR TERRITORY.

The transformation was accelerating now. The screen was flashing images rapidly. Gym weights. Steaks. Flags. Massive trucks. Red hats. Cheering crowds.

YOU BELONG THERE.

I belong there.

THEY ACCEPT YOU. THE LEFT HATES YOU. THEY THINK YOU'RE A TOKEN. WE THINK YOU'RE A WARRIOR.

It was a lie, but it was a seductive one. The hypnosis bypassed his critical thinking centers and tapped directly into his insecurity. It offered him a shortcut to masculinity.

YOUR FRIENDS? THE ONES YOU JUST LEFT? THEY ARE LAUGHING AT YOU.

"They... are?"

THEY THINK YOU'RE WEAK. THEY THINK YOU'RE A JOKE.

Kei felt a surge of hot, irrational anger. He looked down at his tote bag on the floor. The Saga comic. The plushie.

LOOK AT THAT TRASH.

Kei kicked the bag. He kicked it hard. The plushie skidded across the oil stain.

"Trash," Kei spat.

YOU NEED TO LIFT. YOU NEED TO BUILD. YOU NEED TO FOLLOW THE LEADER.

The spiral turned entirely red.

MAGA. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. MAKE KEI GREAT AGAIN.

"Make... me... great," Kei panted. He was sweating profusely now, the B.O. rolling off him in waves. He lifted his arms, sniffing his own pits, intoxicated by the pheromones of his own conversion. "I smell like a man."

YOU ARE A MAN. A STRAIGHT MAN.

Kei paused. "I'm... gay..."

FAKE NEWS.

The text slammed onto the screen.

YOU WERE CONFUSED. IT WAS A PHASE. IT WAS THE AGENDA. YOU LOVE WOMEN. YOU WANT TO IMPRESS WOMEN WITH YOUR MUSCLES.

Kei blinked. The memories of his crushes, his ex-boyfriend, they seemed to turn sepia, fading away like old photographs. In their place, the screen projected images of "Trad Wives" and fitness models.

THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT.

"I want..." Kei looked at his skinny arms. "I want to be huge. I want to be a gym rat."

YES. YOU WILL GO TO THE GYM. YOU WILL LIFT UNTIL YOU PUKE. YOU WILL LISTEN TO ROGAN. YOU WILL VOTE RED.

"Vote Red," Kei repeated.

The spiral slowed down. The hypnotic hum lowered in pitch.

WHO IS YOUR PRESIDENT?

Kei stood up straight. He puffed his chest out, ignoring the fact that he was 5'6". In his mind, he was 6'2". He wiped his sweaty nose with the back of his hand.

"Trump," Kei said firmly.

LOUDER.

"TRUMP!" Kei shouted.

WHO ARE YOU?

"I'm a patriot," Kei growled. He scratched his stomach, letting out another low belch. "I'm an alpha."

GOOD.

The van door began to slide shut.

TAKE THE GIFT.

Before the door closed completely, a small hatch opened at the bottom. A red baseball cap slid out onto the concrete.

The van door slammed shut. The engine revved. The white van peeled away, tires screeching, leaving Kei alone in the dark garage.

But he wasn't scared anymore.

Kei looked down at the red hat. He picked it up. It felt heavy, substantial.

He looked at his reflection in the car window again. He didn't see the soft art student. He saw a project. A block of marble waiting to be chiseled.

He looked at the pile of comics and the sweater on the floor.

"Beta shit," he muttered.

He jammed the red hat onto his head. He didn't adjust it to look cute. He pulled it down low.

He walked to his Honda Civic. He unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. The car smelled like his old self, vanilla and old paper.

"Disgusting," Kei grunted.

He rolled down all the windows to let in the cold air. He turned the key. The radio came on; it was tuned to the college indie rock station.

Kei immediately slammed his fist against the console, changing the input until he found a chaotic AM talk radio station where a man was screaming about the border.

"Hell yeah," Kei nodded, bobbing his head to the rhythm of the rage.

He leaned back, spreading his legs wide in the seat, taking up as much space as possible. He felt a rumble in his gut. He lifted one cheek and let out a massive, trumpet-like fart into the seat cushion, laughing loudly.

"Better out than in," he chuckled, revving the engine of his tiny car, imagining it was a diesel truck.

Kei put the car in reverse. He didn't look back at the comics on the ground. He had a gym membership to sign up for. He had a rally to find.

Kei the leftist dork was gone. The Patriot had arrived.

[thefunkfactory]

The White Van: Kevin & Nico

The concrete of the parking structure dampened the sounds of the city outside, leaving only the rhythmic slap of Converse and loafers against the oil-stained floor. It was late, past one in the morning, and the fluorescent lights overhead hummed with an intermittent, sickly flicker.

Nico shivered, pulling his oversized sweatshirt around his small frame. He was buzzing with the residue of the concert they had just left, an underground indie-pop band from Oakland that he’d been obsessed with for months. "I’m just saying, Kev, the way the lead synth harmonized with the socio-political commentary in the second verse? It’s basically a deconstruction of late-stage capitalism wrapped in a 4/4 beat."

Kevin smiled. He looked the part of the quintessential academic: tall, slender, with a sharp jawline softened by a thoughtful expression. "It’s valid, Nico. But you have to consider if the medium undermines the message. Can you truly critique the commodification of art while charging forty dollars for a t-shirt?"

"You're such a buzzkill," Nico teased, bumping his hip against Kevin’s thigh. "That’s why I love you. My big, smart, Pol-Sci boyfriend keeping me grounded."

"And you’re my chaotic, leftist gamer keeping me from taking myself too seriously," Kevin replied, reaching down to squeeze Nico’s hand.

They turned the corner toward level C4, where Kevin’s modest sedan was parked. The air in the garage was stale, smelling of exhaust and old dust. It was completely empty, save for a few scattered cars.

Suddenly, tires screeched.

A white cargo van, devoid of any markings or license plates, whipped around the spiral ramp and slammed onto the brakes directly in front of them. It cut off their path to Kevin’s car, the grill aggressive and rusted.

"Whoa!" Kevin instinctively stepped in front of Nico, his protective instinct flaring. "Hey! Watch where you’re going!"

There was no driver visible through the tinted windshield. Before either of them could back away, the side sliding door of the van flew open with a mechanical whoosh.

There was no one inside. No kidnappers, no guys in masks. There was only a screen.

It was massive, filling the entire door frame. Instantly, it flared to life, projecting a blinding luminosity that cut through the dim garage. A spiral. Thick bands of crimson red and stark, blinding white began to rotate. It wasn't just a video; it seemed to possess depth, a tunnel of light that drilled into the eyes.

"What the hell..." Nico muttered, his voice trembling. "Kevin, we need to run."

"I... I can't," Kevin stammered. His analytical mind, usually so sharp at dissecting political theory and rhetoric, hit a wall. He was trying to rationalize the stimuli. Is this a prank? An art installation? A strobe effect?

A low frequency began to emit from the van’s speakers. It was a deep, thrumming bass that vibrated in their chests, syncing with the rotation of the spiral. Wub... Wub... Wub...

Nico’s hand went limp in Kevin’s. The gamer, used to staring at screens for hours, found his gaze locked. The colors were so bright they burned an afterimage into his retinas instantly.

"LOOK," a voice boomed from the van. It wasn't human. It was synthesized, layered, deep and commanding. "LISTEN. SUBMIT."

"No," Kevin whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "Nico, don't look."

But Kevin opened his eyes. He had to. The curiosity, the need to understand the phenomenon, betrayed him. He looked into the red and white abyss.

The spiral spun faster. The red wasn't just a color anymore; it felt like a temperature. Heat.

“This is a psychological operation. Visual entrainment. They are trying to override the prefrontal cortex using high-frequency flashing. I know this. I read a paper on subliminal messaging in authoritarian regimes. I need to resist. I am Kevin. I am a progressive. I value nuance. I value...” Kevin thought to himself.

The thought trailed off as the sound changed. The bass grew heavier, sounding less like a machine and more like a heartbeat. A very slow, very strong heartbeat.

WUB... WUB...

Kevin felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. It wasn't a cold sweat of fear anymore. It was hot. His skin felt prickly.

Beside him, Nico let out a soft whimper that slowly morphed into a groan. The small Peruvian boy dropped to his knees, his eyes wide, reflecting the spinning vortex.

"So... bright..." Nico mumbled. "Pretty... colors..."

"WEAKNESS IS LEAVING THE BODY," the voice intoned. "REJECT THE VIRUS. EMBRACE THE STRENGTH."

Kevin felt a cramp in his stomach. A sudden, violent churning. His gut bubbled audibly. The intellectual tension he held in his shoulders, the posture of a student who spent hours hunched over books, began to dissolve. He felt his muscles twitch.

Prrrrt.

A sharp, foul smell hit the air. Nico had passed gas. It wasn't the usual accidental slip; it was loud, brazen.

"Nico?" Kevin tried to look down, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the screen.

"Feels... good..." Nico slurred. His voice sounded deeper, stripping away the high-pitched, excited lilt he usually had. "Stomach... making room."

"PURGE THE SOY. PURGE THE WEAKNESS."

Kevin felt it too. The pressure in his lower abdomen was immense. His body was reacting to the lights, his metabolism shifting into a hyper-aggressive gear. The fear was evaporating, replaced by a strange, aggressive apathy.

Why was I scared? Kevin thought. The complex sentences in his mind were breaking down. Why fear? Fear is for... fear is for pussies.

The word shocked him. He never used that word. It was sexist. It was derogatory.

It’s accurate, the new voice in his head countered. Stop overthinking. Start lifting.

Kevin’s stomach roared. He clenched his fists. The fabric of his slim-fit button-down shirt felt tight. He felt hot, incredibly hot. A thick, musky scent began to rise from his own skin, overpowering his subtle sandalwood deodorant. It smelled like raw onion and testosterone.

BRRRAAAP!

Kevin ripped a massive, thunderous fart. It echoed in the concrete garage, vibrating against his denim. It smelled horrific, like rotten eggs and cheap protein powder.

"Nice one, bro," Nico mumbled.

Kevin froze. Bro? Nico called him babe or Kev. Never bro.

"Thanks," Kevin heard himself say. His voice was dropping an octave, losing the soft, articulated cadence of the debate team. "Needed that. Gut was full of trash."

The spiral shifted. The white bands became stripes. The red became a background. A vague shape of a star began to pulse in the center.

"TRADITION. POWER. HIERARCHY."

Nico was the first to fully crumble. The complex web of his identity, his love for obscure indie games, his advocacy for marginalized communities, his nuanced take on gender politics, was being scrubbed clean. The spiral acted like a magnet, dragging the data off his hard drive and replacing it with a new operating system.

All Nico could think about in his emptying mind was “Leveling up? No. No more games. Games are for kids. I’m a man. Men don’t play. Men conquer. The System is broken. The Left lies. They want me small. They want me weak.”

Nico stood up. His posture changed. He widened his stance, his legs spread apart in a display of dominance. He rolled his neck, cracking it loudly. The oversized denim jacket, which once looked cute and stylish, now looked ridiculous to him. He tore it off, throwing it on the oily ground. Underneath, he wore a vintage band tee. He looked at it with disgust.

"Trash," Nico spat.

He flexed. He wasn't big, he was still short, but he felt huge. He felt like a pitbull.

"WHO IS THE ALPHA? WHO IS THE LEADER?"

"Trump," Kevin whispered.

The word tasted like bile initially, then like honey.

Kevin’s mind was a battlefield, but the resistance was losing. The "Political Science" major was being dismantled.

Nuance is a trap, the spiral told him. Facts don't care about your feelings. Might makes right. Look at you. You’re a man. Act like it.

Kevin felt a surge of aggression. He looked at his hands. They looked bigger. His veins were popping out along his forearms. He felt a phantom pump, as if he’d just done ten sets of heavy bench press. The sweat was pouring off him now, soaking his shirt. The smell in the immediate area was becoming toxic, a mix of aggressive, sour body odor and the lingering clouds of their flatulence.

PHHHHRRRRT.

Nico let out another one, long and wet sounding. He didn't apologize. He didn't blush. He laughed. A deep, guttural, frat-boy chuckle.

"Better out than in, right big guy?" Nico slapped Kevin on the shoulder. The touch wasn't tender; it was firm, a brotherhood check.

"Damn straight," Kevin grunted. He felt the urge to spit. He spat on the floor.

The transformation of their worldview was accelerating.

Climate change? Hoax. Systemic oppression? Excuse for the lazy. The patriarchy? Natural order.

Doers don't need to read between the lines, the voice said.

Kevin squinted. The red spiral was all that mattered.

"YOU ARE PATRIOTS. YOU ARE WARRIORS. YOU LOVE THE FLAG. YOU LOVE THE LEADER."

"I love the leader," Nico chanted, his eyes glazed over with a look of fanatical adoration. "Make it great. Make me great."

"USA," Kevin muttered, the acronym feeling heavy and powerful on his tongue. "USA. USA!"

The intellectual Kevin was gone. In his place was a vessel of raw, unfiltered masculinity and blind loyalty. He didn't want to analyze policy; he wanted to win. He wanted to see liberals cry. He wanted to lift heavy iron and eat steak.

The physical sensation was overwhelming. They were both sweating profusely, their pheromones filling the space between them. It was a locker room smell, multiplied by ten.

BRAAAP! Kevin unleashed another torrent of gas, relieving the pressure of his new gut. "Oh, fuck yeah," he groaned, rubbing his belly. "That’s pure freedom right there."

Nico looked at Kevin. He didn't see his "boyfriend" anymore. He saw a bro. A fellow soldier in the culture war. And he saw that Kevin was no longer the soft, empathetic student. He was becoming a Chad.

"You look huge, bro," Nico said, admiring the way Kevin’s shirt was straining (or seemed to be) against his chest. "You been hitting the gym?"

"Every day, bro," Kevin lied. The memory was false, planted by the spiral, but it felt real. He remembered deadlifting 405 lbs yesterday. He remembered drinking a gallon of raw milk. "Gotta get those gains. Can't be a soy-boy cuck."

"Hell no," Nico agreed, flexing his own small bicep. "We ain't soft."

The Coronation

The spiral on the screen slowed down. The droning bass faded, replaced by the sound of a cheering crowd. It sounded like a rally. Thousands of people screaming in unison.

The screen flashed white one last time, then went dark.

The sliding door of the van remained open. A mechanical tray extended from the darkness of the van’s interior. On the tray sat two objects.

Two bright red hats.

The white embroidery on the front seemed to glow in the dim garage light.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.

Kevin and Nico stared at the hats. It was like staring at the Holy Grail.

"It’s beautiful," Nico whispered.

"It’s time," Kevin said. His voice was deep, devoid of any vocal fry. It was authoritative.

They stepped forward in unison. The hesitation was gone. The fear was gone. The old Kevin and Nico were dead, buried under layers of new, artificial memories and gym-bro instincts.

Kevin reached out and took one. He didn't gently place it on his head; he shoved it down, pulling the brim low. He turned to Nico.

Nico grabbed the other one. He put it on backwards, the snapback strap crossing his forehead, giving him a chaotic, aggressive look.

"How do I look?" Nico asked, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest.

Kevin looked him up and down. "Like a patriot. Like a winner."

"You too, bro. You look like you’re ready to storm the capital," Nico laughed.

"Let's get out of this shithole city," Kevin said, looking around the parking garage with disdain. "Need to get back to the suburbs. Real America."

"Yeah. Too many snowflakes around here," Nico spat.

The Departure

They turned away from the van. The van’s door slid shut, and without a sound, it reversed and drove away, disappearing down the ramp. They didn't even watch it go. They didn't care. They had their orders. They had their identity.

They walked toward Kevin’s car. Their walks had changed. Kevin walked with a wide, lumbering gait, imagining imaginary lats pushing his arms out. Nico bounced on the balls of his feet, full of manic, aggressive energy.

They reached the sedan. Kevin looked at it with a sneer. "Gotta trade this piece of crap in. Need a truck. Lifted. Diesel."

"Yeah, something that rolls coal," Nico agreed, grabbing the door handle. "Piss off the greenies."

They got in. The interior of the car was small and intimate, but the vibe had shifted entirely. It no longer felt like a safe space for two lovers; it felt like a locker room.

Kevin jammed the key into the ignition and revved the engine aggressively, even though it was just a four-cylinder.

"Radio," Kevin commanded.

He jabbed the button, switching off the Bluetooth which had been queued up with an NPR podcast. He scanned the static until he found a classic rock station playing loud, distorted guitars. He cranked the volume up.

"Hell yeah!" Nico shouted, banging his hand on the dashboard.

The enclosed space of the car quickly filled with the smell of their transformation, the heavy, sour sweat of two men who believed they were apex predators.

Kevin looked at Nico. "Hungry?"

"Starving. I could eat a cow," Nico said. "Literally."

"Burger King. Then the gym," Kevin decided.

"Based," Nico nodded.

Kevin shifted the car into reverse. As he looked back, he felt a massive bubble of pressure build up one last time, the final expulsion of the old Kevin.

PPPHHHRRRAAAP-P-P-P!

It was long, loud, and incredibly violent. It vibrated the seat.

Nico didn't miss a beat. He lifted his leg and fired back instantly.

BRRRT!

"Nice," Kevin grilled, slapping the steering wheel. "Let's roll."

"Rip ass and gas, baby!" Nico yelled.

Kevin slammed on the gas, tires screeching as they sped out of the garage, leaving the silence, their old selves, and a cloud of foul air behind them. They were MAGA now, and they had a country to take back.

[thefunkfactory]

Career Fair: Tomás

Tomás adjusted the collar of his button-down shirt for the tenth time, catching his reflection in the glass door of the Student Union building. He looked sharp. He looked professional. He looked like a graphic designer.

At twenty-one, Tomás was a junior at the university, carrying a pristine black leather portfolio case that held the sum total of his creative life. Inside were mock-ups for branding kits, sleek typography experiments, and UI/UX designs that he was sure would land him a summer internship at a top firm in San Francisco. He smelled of shower gel, deodorant, and a hint of expensive cologne he’d bought specifically for this day.

The Career Fair had been exhausting. For three hours, he had navigated crowds of anxious students, shaking hands, handing out resumes printed on heavy cardstock, and pitching his "personal brand." His brain was buzzing with buzzwords: synergy, minimalism, vector scalability, user retention.

"Great work, Tomás," a recruiter from a tech startup had told him. "You’re articulate. You’ve got a bright future."

Tomás smiled at the memory as he pushed through the doors and stepped out into the cool evening air. The sun had already set, and the campus streetlights were flickering to life. He was tired, but it was a good tired. The kind of fatigue that came from chasing a dream and catching up to it.

He began the walk back to his dorm, his dress shoes clicking rhythmically on the pavement. He loosened his tie, letting out a long sigh of relief. He was going to go back to his room, order a pizza, and play video games until 2:00 AM. He deserved it.

His path took him past the engineering annex, a brutalist concrete building that cast long, deep shadows. As he passed the mouth of a service alley, a narrow, unlit gap between the annex and the generator housing, a voice drifted out from the darkness.

"Tomás."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement, calm and authoritative.

Tomás stopped mid-stride. He clutched his portfolio tighter to his chest. He didn't know anyone who would be lurking in an alleyway, and the voice didn't sound like any of his professors.

"Hello?" Tomás called out, his voice wavering slightly. "Who's there?"

"Come here, Tomás," the voice said. It was smooth, deep, and oddly resonant. "I have an opportunity for you. Better than the ones inside."

Tomás frowned. "I’m good, thanks. I’m heading home."

He turned to leave, his instincts screaming at him to run. But then he heard the click of a shoe on pavement, and a figure stepped just to the edge of the light. It was a man, tall and broad, wearing a nondescript grey windbreaker. He looked unremarkable, except for the object in his hand.

"Just look," the man said.

He held up a device. It looked like a modified flashlight, but instead of a beam, the lens was a swirling, digital display.

Click.

A brilliant, pulsating red spiral erupted from the device. It wasn't just a light; it seemed to possess physical weight, slamming into Tomás’s retinas with the force of a physical blow.

Tomás gasped. His feet rooted to the spot. He wanted to look away, to run, to scream, but his optic nerves were locked onto the spinning crimson coil.

"No," Tomás whispered, but his voice sounded miles away.

"Come closer, boy," the man commanded.

Tomás’s legs moved on their own. He took one stiff step, then another, moving off the sidewalk and into the shadows of the alley. The sounds of the campus, the distant traffic, the laughing students, faded into a muffled hum, as if he were underwater. There was only the man, the dark, and the red spiral.

"That’s it," the man soothed, guiding Tomás deeper into the alley until they were hidden behind a dumpster. "Focus on the red. Deep red. Ripe red."

Tomás stood rigid, his eyes wide and unblinking. The spiral was mesmerizing. It spun counter-clockwise, dragging his consciousness down into its center.

"You are confused," the man said, his voice echoing in Tomás’s skull. "You are stressed. All that thinking. All those words. All that design. It’s heavy, isn't it?"

"Heavy..." Tomás mumbled. The word felt thick in his mouth.

"Drop it," the man said.

Tomás’s fingers went slack. The expensive leather portfolio, the sum of his collegiate career, slipped from his hand and hit the dirty alley floor with a dull thud.

"You don't need it," the man said. "Look at the spiral. Round and round. Like a berry on the vine. Round and round."

Tomás felt a wave of dizziness. His high-level thoughts were being scrambled. The concepts of vectors and pixels were dissolving, replaced by a thrumming red static.

"You are a clean boy," the man observed, stepping closer. He sniffed the air near Tomás. "Cologne. Soap. Ambition. It smells... artificial."

Tomás blinked sluggishly. "I... I study..."

"Shhh," the man cut him off. He moved the light closer, filling Tomás’s entire field of vision with the rotating red geometry. "You study nothing. You listen. You obey. Your brain is too full. We need to empty it. We need to make room for the truth."

The hypnosis began to take a physiological toll. As Tomás’s conscious mind retreated, his autonomic nervous system began to relax. The tension in his shoulders dropped. The tightness in his gut unspooled.

Gurgle.

Tomás’s stomach made a loud, wet noise. In his normal state, he would have been mortified. But under the red light, he just stared.

"Relax," the man crooned. "Let it all go. The manners. The social pressure. The holding in. You are not a college boy anymore. You are a creature of the earth."

Tomás felt a pressure build in his lower abdomen. The fear was evaporating, replaced by a heavy, dopey warmth. He didn't want to fight it. Fighting was hard. The spiral was easy.

Pffffft

A short, sharp fart escaped Tomás.

The man smiled in the dark. "Good. Let the gas out. Let the intelligence out. They are the same thing. Just hot air."

Tomás’s jaw went slack. A small line of drool escaped the corner of his mouth. "Hot... stinky... air..."

"That’s right. Look at the spiral. You are getting sleepy. You are getting heavy. You are getting stinky."

The session continued. The man kept the light steady, his voice a constant drone of commands that rewired the neural pathways of Tomás’s brain.

"What is your name?" the man asked.

"Tomás," he answered, though it took a second to remember.

"Tomás the student?"

"Yes... student. Graphic... design."

"No," the man corrected firmly. The spiral spun faster, flashing with a strobe effect that shattered Tomás’s concentration. "Look deeper. You are not a student. School is for smart boys. Are you a smart boy?"

Tomás tried to access the part of his brain that knew history and math, but he found only fog. He felt a sudden urge to scratch himself. He reached up and scratched his head messily, messing up his styled hair.

"I... I don't know."

"You are not a smart boy," the man confirmed. "You are a working boy. A physical boy. Smell yourself, Tomás."

The suggestion hit him. Tomás felt a sudden spike in body heat. The stress of the hypnosis was making him sweat profusely. The crisp dress shirt began to dampen at the armpits. The expensive cologne was rapidly being overpowered by the sour, pungent tang of fear-sweat and musk.

"You smell like work," the man said. "You smell like a long day in the sun. Do you like that smell?"

Tomás breathed in. The smell of his own body odor was rising, thick and oniony. Normally, he would run for a shower. Now, under the influence of the red spiral, the scent triggered a dopamine release. It smelled familiar. It smelled right.

"Smells... strong," Tomás grunted. His diction was slipping.

"Strong like a picker," the man said. "Relax your gut, Tomás. Empty out the college degree."

Tomás’s stomach churned violently. The hypnosis was loosening his sphincters, bypassing his social conditioning entirely.

BRRRRRAAAAAP

A long, wet, thunderous fart ripped through the alley, echoing off the brick walls. It smelled awful, like sulfur and rotten eggs, but Tomás didn't blush. He didn't apologize.

He giggled.

It was a low, empty-headed sound. "Heh. Oops."

"Don't say oops," the man commanded. "It’s natural. Pickers fart. Pickers sweat. Pickers work. You don't need words. You need to work."

The man reached down and picked up the portfolio. He opened it, revealing the beautiful designs.

"What is this?" the man asked, holding up a logo for a coffee shop.

Tomás squinted at it. The lines didn't make sense anymore. He couldn't remember what 'typography' meant.

"Paper," Tomás said simply.

"Trash," the man corrected. He tore the page in half.

Tomás watched the paper tear. He felt nothing. No regret. Just a blank, bovine acceptance.

"Trash," Tomás repeated.

"Your English is too fancy," the man said, spinning the light again. "Too many big words. We need to strip that down. You are a simple boy. You speak simple. You speak only what is needed for the field."

The man began to chant, his voice syncing with the pulsing light. "Forget the essay. Forget the lecture. Forget the syntax. You are a No-Sabo kid now, Tomás. Just basic needs. Basic work. Basic smells."

Tomás’s eyes rolled back slightly. His brain felt like it was being scrubbed with steel wool.

Computer... delete.

Phone... delete.

Resume... delete.

"What do you do, Tomás?"

Tomás swayed. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his nose. He lifted his arm, exposing a massive wet stain on his shirt. The smell of B.O. was intense now, a cloud of musk surrounding him.

"I... I pick," Tomás mumbled. The accent was changing. The sharp, collegiate diction was softening, broadening, becoming clumsy.

"Pick what?"

"Berries," Tomás said. A smile spread across his face, a vacuous, simple grin. "Red berries. Like the light."

Pfffft-put-put. Another series of farts bubbled out of him, vibrating against his dress slacks. He wiggled his hips, enjoying the sensation, completely unburdened by shame.

An hour passed. Or maybe a minute. Time had no meaning in the alley.

Tomás was no longer standing straight. He was hunched over, his posture loose and ape-like. His shirt was untucked, stained with sweat and grime from leaning against the dumpster. His tie was gone, the man had removed it, and Tomás hadn't even noticed.

He looked less like a graphic design student and more like someone who had been lost in the wilderness for weeks.

The man turned off the red spiral.

Tomás blinked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. But the intelligence didn't return to them. They remained glassy, dilated, and dull.

"Hola, Tomás," the man said.

Tomás looked at the man. He scratched his butt openly, digging his hand into the fabric of his pants.

"Hola," Tomás grunted. "Where... where truck?"

"The truck is coming," the man said. "Are you ready to work?"

"Sí," Tomás nodded vigorously. "I work hard. I strong."

"And what about school?" the man pointed to the university building looming above them.

Tomás looked at the building. He squinted, as if trying to recall a dream. "School? No. School for... for rich boss. I no boss. I worker."

He lifted his arm and buried his nose deep into his armpit. He inhaled loudly, snorting up the stench of his own fermented sweat. It was powerful, spicy, and stale. To his rewired brain, it was the best smell in the world. It smelled like his destiny.

"Stinky," Tomás laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. "I stinky boy."

"Very stinky," the man agreed. "And dirty."

"Dirty good," Tomás said. "Clean... bad. Clean for... sissies."

A pair of headlights swept into the alley entrance. A beat-up white van, mud-splattered and rusting around the wheel wells, rolled to a stop. The side door slid open with a screech of metal on metal.

Inside, the van was packed. There were six other boys, all around Tomás’s age. They were all Latinos, all wearing dirty clothes, and the smell wafting out of the van was incredible, a dense wall of body odor, unwashed hair, and flatulence.

They looked at Tomás with dull, happy eyes.

"Vámonos," the driver shouted. "Fresno. Strawberries waiting."

Tomás didn't hesitate. He didn't look back at his portfolio lying torn in the dirt. He didn't look back at the college.

"Fresno," Tomás repeated, the word tasting sweet like candy.

He clambered into the van, squeezing onto a bench seat between two other hypnotized boys. The boy to his left, who was wearing a soil-stained soccer jersey, leaned over and sniffed Tomás’s neck.

"Tu hueles bien," the boy grunted. You smell good.

"Gracias," Tomás beamed. He felt a pressure in his gut and leaned to the side, lifting one leg.

BRAAAAAP

The boys in the van cheered and laughed, clapping him on the back. It was a locker room of the mind-wiped, a brotherhood of the basic.

The door slammed shut. The van peeled out of the alley, leaving the graphic design portfolio behind to be soaked by the coming rain.

The drive was long, but Tomás didn't mind. He slept mostly, drooling on the shoulder of the boy next to him. When he wasn't sleeping, he was staring out the window at the passing telephone poles, his mind completely empty of thought. No deadlines. No rent. No emails. Just the hum of the tires.

When the van finally stopped, the sun was blazing high in the sky. The air was hot and dry, smelling of dust and fertilizer.

They were in the Central Valley. Miles of green rows stretched out to the horizon.

"Out! Out! Trabajar!" the driver yelled.

Tomás scrambled out of the van. He stumbled into the dirt, his expensive dress shoes, now scuffed and ruined, sinking into the soft earth.

He looked down at his clothes. The button-down shirt was shredded and yellowed with sweat. He ripped the rest of the buttons open, letting the hot sun bake his chest. He felt free.

A foreman handed him a plastic crate.

"Fill it," the foreman barked. "Fast."

"Sí, patrón," Tomás said automatically. The English words for "graphic design" were gone, but the Spanish words for "yes, boss" were hardwired into his new psyche.

He walked into the row of strawberries. The plants were low to the ground. He squatted down, his knees popping. He saw a red berry.

Red. Like the spiral.

Tomás grabbed the berry. He didn't crush it. His hands, once trained for the delicate movements of a mouse and stylus, now moved with the repetitive, mechanical efficiency of a harvester. Pluck, box. Pluck, box. Pluck, box.

The sun beat down on him. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes. He could feel the dirt caking under his fingernails. He could smell the guy next to him, who smelled like onions and old cheese. He could smell himself, a sour, rotting tang rising from his open shirt.

He stood up to stretch his back. He was covered in dust. He was exhausted. He was mindless.

Tomás lifted his arm high, exposing the dark, hairy hollow of his armpit. He shoved his face into it and took a deep, greedy whiff. It smelled of labor. It smelled of a man who had forgotten how to read.

He pulled his head back and grinned, a wide, toothy smile that reached his empty eyes.

"Fresas," he whispered happily.

He squatted back down, let out a loud, contented fart that kicked up a puff of dust behind him, and continued to pick

[chavdrone]

ChavDrone Transformation Programming.

Lights Off. Volume Up

[anonymous1233211]

Conservative Candidate Conversion Programme

WARNING: The following TF includes a politician TF of a real life political party, please note that this TF is created for surreal entertainment, satire and creativity. This is not political endorsement, to promote political propaganda and this does not affect my political agenda. As a TF blog, I am politically neutral. Viewer discretion is advised, If politics or poltical TFs aren't your thing, then feel free to skip. Otherwise, enjoy the TF

[willpreppy]

Make the Fraternity Great Again

The Sigma Fraternity was already the most preppy and conservative on campus. Oxford shirts tucked in tight, V-neck sweaters, club ties knotted perfectly, chinos crisp, tassel loafers or boat shoes for the relaxed days.

All the members were handsome, well-mannered, patriotic, arrogant, with that perfect jock edge. But they were still… too soft. Too messy in their heads. Too thoughtful.

Then Tyler arrived. He was just another new recruit at first. A former high school quarterback, tall, broad-shouldered, with that slightly dumb but extremely charming jock smile. Pure American, raised on red meat and red hats.

During his initiation, they made him watch the video for the first time. He walked out of the room with the same idiot smile as everyone else, but something different burned in his eyes; raw ambition.

In just a few months, Tyler climbed every rung of the ladder. He was more driven, more charismatic, more… dominant. He quickly became President of the Fraternity. He didn’t miss a single chance to fuck every member to secure their vote. The brothers cheered. They didn’t realize they had just crowned their own king and started a new cult.

Tyler had much bigger plans.

“We’re not just going to be preppy,” he announced at his first meeting as President. “We’re going to be MAGA. Real MAGA. Arrogant. Proud. No filter. Conservative jocks who think with their dicks and their country.”

He reworked the initiation video. Made it longer. Deeper. Words like “flag,” “values,” “strength,” “conservatism,” “worship,” “obedience,” “hierarchy,” “dumb,” “powerful,” “discipline,” “loyalty,” and “patriot” were now burned deep into the brains of anyone who watched it. These concepts became as essential as eating and drinking. But he never forgot the most important part; the overwhelming urge to convert, conquer, assimilate, conform, transform, and spread… by any means and through every possible form of pleasure.

When a brother stared at the spiral for too long, he would start drooling. Mouth open, eyes empty, that stupid, sexy smile on his face. At that exact moment, he was ready. A deep kiss, a sloppy blowjob, or a raw fuck would do the rest. After that, the brother became arrogant, obsessed with his uniform, obsessed with America, obsessed with obeying Tyler.

The four you see in the photo fell one by one. Connor, the blond in the navy sweater. Tyler made him watch an extra-long session of the video. Connor was already drooling, eyes glazed. Tyler shoved his tongue down his throat, then pushed him to his knees. Connor sucked like a good boy, MAGA cap already on his head, moaning “Make America Great Again…” between every slurp. When he stood up, his eyes had changed. More arrogant. Dumber. Happier. He’s now much more dedicated to being a good Christian and spreading the values of his New God.

The second was Ethan, the one with the beige sweater tied around his shoulders. Tyler put the spiral on his phone and kissed him until he was drooling heavily. Then he fucked him against the lockers, both of them still fully dressed, ties and all. Ethan came screaming “Yes Sir… MAGA Sir…” and woke up the next morning with the red cap screwed onto his head and a permanent smile.

The third was Ryan, the blondest one, wearing the yellow tie inside the sleeveless navy sweater. He used to be the smartest of the four. Tyler saved him for last. He made him watch the video for a full hour until Ryan was drooling like a bitch in heat. Then Tyler slid his cock into his mouth and let him suck until saliva ran down his chin. Ryan swallowed everything, eyes rolled back, and stood up whispering “I’m a good MAGA jock… I’m yours…”

The last one, John, in the light blue seersucker jacket and club tie, became Tyler’s official boyfriend. He was still a little liberal even after his preppy transformation. Tyler wanted to make an example of him. Now there’s no point arguing with John. Either he’ll seduce you and fuck you right in front of the spiral, or… he’ll find another way. He’ll turn you into a perfect MAGA. He only swears by red now.

Now, all four of them are exactly how Tyler wanted them.

They stand proudly in front of the MAGA 2028 banner, red caps firmly in place, eyes empty but arrogant, smiles dumb and sexy. Their uniforms are flawless, but their minds are completely blank. They think only about America, the Fraternity, obeying Tyler, and converting more boys.

Tyler looks at them with a big, dumb, excited grin.

The four answer in unison, voices slow and full of stupid pride;

“Yes Sir… Make America Great Again…”

The Fraternity is no longer just preppy.

It is now MAGA.

And Tyler is its undisputed king.