I’ve got an internship with my hometown representative. My boyfriend swears I shouldn’t take it since the guys a major conservative but living in Dallas with a political science degree my option are pretty limited.
It’s to serve a youth outreach for his campaign, I’m sure I can do the work without compromising my beliefs.
You keep telling yourself you’re doing the right thing.
You’re twenty-six, living in a cramped Dallas apartment with your sweet, anxious boyfriend Mateo, and the only political job that called you back was the youth-outreach internship for Congressman Bryce Halloway — a man who once said in an interview that “Ruth Bader Ginsburg was a demon sent to test America’s faith.”
Mateo begged you not to take it.
You told him it was just résumé padding.
Now it’s your first morning, and you’re sitting at your wobbly Ikea desk, logging into the Halloway Campaign Onboarding Portal, which looks like it was designed by someone who thinks MS Paint is “cutting-edge.”
It’s just paperwork. You can do paperwork without losing your soul.
The welcome screen flashes:
“WELCOME FUTURE PATRIOT OF TOMORROW™”
You snort. “Jesus, okay.”
A loading icon spins.
It looks suspiciously like a bald eagle doing a push-up.
“Would you describe yourself as:
A) Weak
B) Strong
C) STRONG AS HELL, BROTHER 🤟🇺🇸”
You select A) because… obviously.
The screen glitches.
The eagle does a pushup.
Your laptop fans whine like they’re afraid.
Then the answer auto-corrects itself to:
C) STRONG AS HELL, BROTHER 🤟🇺🇸 SELECTED.
GOOD CHOICE.
A weird heat crawls up your neck, like embarrassment mixed with… pressure?
Your collar suddenly feels too tight.
“How often do you lift?”
A) I don’t.
B) Sometimes.
C) ALL DAY, EVERY DAY, LIKE A REAL AMERICAN.”
You sigh and click A again.
Your mouse refuses to select it.
It slides down to C like your trackpad has been possessed.
C SELECTED. NICE GAINS, BRO.
A pulse hits your chest — deep, low, like a subwoofer.
Your pecs twitch under your shirt.
You look down.
Your chest is… pushing forward?
Just a little.
Like someone slipped coasters under your nipples.
“Okay, that’s— no, no, you’re imagining it,” you mutter.
Mateo is in the other room. You hear him making coffee.
He has no idea any of this is happening.
“What matters most to you as a future leader?”
A) Equality
B) Climate
C) AMERICA AND BIG OL’ DICK”
The rest of the answer cuts off like someone deleted it halfway.
You hover your mouse over A.
Your finger refuses to move.
Your hand just… stalls there.
Stuck. Like your muscles don’t want to cooperate with you.
A faint buzzing fills your skull — not loud, just dull, like the world’s stupidest refrigerator hum inside your brainstem.
You mutter, “What the hell…?”
Your finger twitches, then your whole hand jerks itself to C.
C SELECTED. YOU’RE REALLY GETTING IT, BRO.
Your traps tighten, rising toward your ears.
Your neck thickens just a little.
Barely noticeable — but it’s there.
“IDENTITY ALIGNMENT PHASE 1: INITIATED.”
For a second you feel weightless — then heavy again, like someone hung sandbags from your shoulders.
Your shirt clings tighter across your upper body.
Not dramatically.
Not cartoonishly.
Just enough that you notice your sleeves don’t fall as loose as before.
A warm, stupid, lazy confidence sloshes into your chest like warm beer.
Static flickers.
Logos flash — the flag, the campaign crest, Jesus giving a thumbs up (is that allowed?), and something that looks like the Gadsden snake but wearing sunglasses.
“For this internship, we need to confirm your digital behavior.
Please link your TikTok account.”
You don’t have TikTok.
You’ve always said it rots people’s brains.
You click “I don’t use TikTok.”
The screen freezes.
Then:
“ERROR: INPUT TOO BETA.”
“DEFAULTING TO REQUIRED SETUP.”
Your phone unlocks itself.
The camera opens.
Your hand moves on its own and scans the QR code.
TikTok automatically downloads.
A new username appears:
“Okay, that’s not me,” you whisper.
But your face already feels…
Looser.
Dumber.
Like your eyebrows sit lower.
Like your mouth naturally wants to open a little.
You catch your reflection in the dark corner of your laptop screen.
Your expression looks… vacuous.
Just a hair.
Your brain tries to rev back up — tries to analyze, articulate, resist—
But the buzzing in your head thickens, drowning out thoughts the way a frat party drowns out conversation.
“Who do you admire most?”
A) Your loving boyfriend
B) Progressive leaders
C) Congressman Halloway 😎🇺🇸🔥💪
You immediately reach for A.
Your bicep feels heavier — thicker — resisting the motion like a stubborn animal.
Before you can panic, another expanding warmth rolls over your chest, down your arms, into your shoulders.
Your posture shifts:
Chest out.
Shoulders wide.
Neck thick.
Like you’re posing for a gym selfie without meaning to.
Your breath comes out in a low, dumb chuckle.
You clap a hand over your mouth.
But your hand feels… different.
Broader.
Calloused.
Like you’ve spent years lifting when you haven’t stepped foot in a gym since college.
“MENTAL REALIGNMENT LEVEL: 12%”
“PHYSICAL REALIGNMENT LEVEL: 9%”
“WELCOME TO TEAM HALLOWAY, BRO.”
Your heart slams in your chest.
You try to stand up — but the moment you straighten, your legs wobble.
Your jeans suddenly grip tighter around your thighs, the seams kissing your skin.
Your center of gravity feels lower.
Heavier.
More… solid.
You stumble into the bathroom, nearly tripping over your own feet.
Your reflection isn’t frat-boy huge — not yet — but the beginnings are undeniable. Shoulders broader. Chest rounder. Neck thicker. Face a little duller, a little cockier. Expression naturally slack in that vacant jock way
Your hair even looks slightly different — messier, like you absentmindedly styled it into wannabe-bro “chaotic cool.”
Your mouth hangs open a little, lips parted like you’re waiting for a protein shake that hasn’t arrived yet.
You feel a creeping satisfaction slithering up your spine.
A feeling like you’re better than everyone else.
An instinctive disdain for “soft” people.
You clamp your hands on the sink.
“No. No. I’m not— I’m not turning into—”
“Your first auto-generated post is live, bro!”
You open it with trembling hands.
It’s a video of you — except you never filmed it.
You’re wearing a backwards hat, tank top, and that vacant stupid grin, flexing in the campaign office next to a giant cardboard cutout of Congressman Halloway.
“First day and I’m already feeling SWOLE for America 🇺🇸🔥 #HallowayYouth”
The video already has 800 likes.
Something inside you cracks open, letting in the first wave of something ugly, patriotic, and unbelievably stupid.
Your brain feels… softer.
Smoother.
Easier to push around.
A part of you is curious.
Like you want to see what comes next.
You stare at the glowing CONTINUE button, and there’s this moment—this tiny flicker—where the real you scrambles up from the pit and screams don’t click it, don’t do it, call Mateo, run, quit, throw the laptop out the window.
And then the buzzing in your skull dials up like someone sliding the volume knob on a leaf blower.
Your hand drops onto the mouse like it’s being pulled by gravity, like the weight of your thickening arm decides things for you now. You click CONTINUE without even realizing it.
The onboarding portal flashes a new header:
“BRO-FACTOR ENHANCEMENT PROTOCOL: ACTIVE”
Suddenly the page fills with a questionnaire that looks like a middle schooler designed it in study hall:
“WHAT FIRES YOU UP MOST?”
Being smart and thoughtful
Standing up for marginalized communities
TEXAS. FREEDOM. AND—BRO YOU KNOW WHAT I’M TALKIN ABOUT 😂💪🇺🇸🔥
You slam the last one before even reading it fully.
Your arm just jolts out, like your body is sick of waiting for your brain to catch up.
Heat blitzes through your shoulders.
Your traps crawl higher, ballooning.
Your delts tighten until your shirt feels like wet tissue paper.
Your breath comes out in a stupid half-laugh, half-grunt.
You scratch your chest, and even the way you do it feels different—lazy, confident, cocky, like you’re scratching a piece of property you’re proud of.
“HOW DO YOU HANDLE PEOPLE WHO DISAGREE WITH YOU?”
Engage in civil discussion
You barely even try to click the first one.
Your hand doesn’t listen.
It slams SNOWFLAKES LOL so hard your mouse skitters.
Something snaps in your posture.
Your spine straightens.
Your chest rolls forward.
Your feet plant wider apart like they’re bracing for… nothing but attitude.
Your reflection in the laptop darkens, warps—your expression is slipping into that vacant, eternally amused frat-boy smirk, like everything is both too dumb and too easy.
“WHICH BEST DESCRIBES YOUR FUTURE?”
Graduate school, advocacy, building change
BEING AN AMERICAN BADASS, BRO. GOING VIRAL. MAKIN WAVES. RAISING HELL.
You try to click the first one.
Your hand jerks away.
Your finger slams the bottom answer like it’s punching a bruise.
Your thighs thicken until your jeans scream.
Your calves firm up like you’ve spent your whole life running stadium steps.
Your shoulders spread wider, hunched with lazy arrogance.
You let out this low, satisfied noise—half-groan, half-chuckle.
You look stupid.
And for the first time, it feels… right.
“MENTAL ALIGNMENT: 63%”
“PHYSICAL ALIGNMENT: 57%”
“PROCEED, BRO.”
Your breathing gets heavier.
Not from panic—your brain doesn’t have enough horsepower left for that.
More like your new body weight is inhaling for you, chest rising like it’s proud to fill a room.
Another page loads.
Bright red, white, and blue.
“VALUES VERIFICATION: RECORD YOUR PLEDGE.”
A giant red button pulses:
You try to back away.
Your chair doesn’t roll.
Your legs lock.
Your torso leans forward.
Your webcam light clicks on.
And you hear yourself talking.
Except you don’t remember deciding to talk.
Or thinking.
Or forming words.
Your mouth just moves, spitting out garbage with total conviction:
“Yeah bro, uh—hell yeah, I’m like… all in for Congressman Halloway, dude. Real America, bro. God, guns, freedom, all that. I ain’t lettin any soft-ass losers tell me otherwise.”
Your voice sounds deeper.
Rougher.
Like you’ve been yelling over bar music for years.
You keep going, drooling pure stupidity:
“Can’t wait to like, y’know, serve the campaign an’ stuff. Go viral. Show people how a real man reps Texas. We don’t got time for all that crybaby woke crap.”
The recording ends by itself.
You stare at the screen in horror.
It’s getting harder to feel horror.
Harder to form a thought more complicated than hell yeah or weak crap.
Your brain feels like someone poured Gatorade in it and shook.
The system uploads your pledge automatically.
“PLEDGE ACCEPTED.”
“REWARDING COMMITMENT.”
Your whole body tenses at once.
Your chest swells forward.
Your arms hang heavier.
Your shirt digs into your widening frame until the seams give a little pop.
Your eyebrows thicken slightly, shifting into a resting scowl that reads as permanent irritation.
Your jaw edges sharper.
Your eyes haze a little, the beginnings of that hollow frat stare—lazy and aggressive at the same time.
You blink slowly, like thinking is optional.
The portal loads a final segment:
“INFLUENCER IDENTITY PACKAGE”
“FOR THE YOUTH OUTREACH INTERN.”
You groan involuntarily.
A stupid, eager sound.
And then, in big neon letters:
“ACTIVATE YOUR BRAND (REQUIRED)”
Your finger hits ACTIVATE before you can even wonder what the hell that means.
A new video is uploading automatically.
Tank top.
Backwards hat.
Arms bulging.
Neck thick.
Face slack and cocky.
Your voice deep and stupid:
“Yooo what’s up boys it’s your guy Tanner—yeah that’s my new handle lol—day two of the Halloway hustle, bro! Texas pride all day baby! Anybody cryin about it can stay mad!”
You choke on that name.
You never typed that.
You never said that.
But the portal screen already displays:
“LEGAL NAME UPDATE REQUEST SUBMITTED.”
“INTERN BADGE: TANNER HOLTZ.”
Your brain tries to fight.
Then the buzzing in your head slams down like a lid.
You feel your last real thought pop like a soap bubble.
“IDENTITY INTEGRATION: 94% COMPLETE.”
Your breathing gets slow.
Heavy.
Lazy.
Confident.
Empty.
You drag your eyes to the bathroom mirror.
And standing there is someone you’d never speak to at a bar.
Someone you used to avoid in college.
Someone who embodies every insecurity you ever had about “real men.”
Someone loud, obnoxious, thick-necked, cocky, vapid, and politically rabid.
Your pecs rise like built-in shields.
Your traps swell.
Your posture screams bro.
Your face drifts into a smirk too dumb to fix.
You scratch your jaw, staring at yourself like you’re checking out new gym equipment.
A dull, thick, arrogant satisfaction spreads through you.
You barely remember what you were worried about.
The portal flashes one last time:
“FINAL STEP: COMPLETE YOUR REBRAND.”
“JUST ONE MORE CLICK, BRO.”
Your hand is already on the mouse.
You don’t even question it.
The screen explodes with red, white, and blue.
Your brain buzzes so loud you forget there was ever silence.
And the last pieces of you fall away like lint.
You are Tanner now—
a pussy-hungry, conservative, frat-brained campaign bro—
and every dumb second of it feels right.
