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@slyleather
Dan is one of the most successful administrators of his local Marlboro Youth Club (MYC) branch. He proudly gloats about the number of lads he's transformed into heavily addicted Marlboro smokers, all of which are now dedicated to Marlboro and the organisation.
He guides and instructs the lads he handles in their recruitment techniques. Dan is the one they come to when they're having difficulties getting one of their school-mates to take his first drag. A master of manipulation, Dan's instructions always ensure his lads achieve results.
The Pre-Initiation Preparation
Sean is an old hand of the Marlboro Men's Club (MMC). Formerly a long distance truck driver, but changed his job to only works short distance trips. He prefers to stay close to home these days so he can focus more on the work of the MMC and keep a firm control of the lads he handles. Sean is currently the Handler of 9 lads who are dedicated to Marlboro - zealot recruiters for the Marlboro Youth Club (MYC). All his lads have all been involved with the MYC for a few years, all highly advanced in their personal development and deeply indoctrinated in the Marlboro Cult. Sean has been Craig's Handler for 4 years, since Craig's initiation into the MYC when he finished school at 16. Craig would have been elevated to the MMC earlier, but his effective work with the young lads has been a great asset. He grew into a natural leader with an instinctive talent for mental and emotional manipulation, resulting in exceptionally quick results in the fetish training, addiction enhancement and obsessive devotion to Marlboro through the activities and rituals at the MYC weekly meetings.
There being numerous other advanced lads heavily involved in this work at the MYC, it's now time for Craig to move up to the MYC's ruling body… the Marlboro Men's Club (MMC). As Sean sat with Craig to discuss his elevation, there were things that Sean wanted to tell him.
"You're an intelligent lad, Craig. Your dedication to Marlboro and your talents will take you far in the Organisation. Before your initiation, I want you to understand the broader picture. The goals. The hierarchy. What it is you really belong to." "I know you understand what's important and priority, but you need to be fully aware and take on board what we are and where we fit into the scheme."
"Oh, I wanna know everything, Sir" Craig eagerly replied.
"Tell me, lad. What is the Marlboro Youth Club?"
Craig smirked as he pulled in a lungful of smoke. He waited a moment then replied. "If my old man knew anything about it, he'd say it's a nasty cesspit of perverted degeneracy and filth!" and he laughed.
His Handler kept a straight face and responded… "And what do you understand it to be?"
Craig's face took on a serious expression as he looked firmly into his Handler's eyes. "It's a f*ckin beautiful cauldron and conveyor belt for transforming lads into dedicated smokers devoted to Marlboro."
Sean's face remained serious as he stared back into Craig's eyes.
"Exactly right, my lad." "The MYC is fundamental an essential point of reception of lads from the population, commanded by the hierarchy to be established and run by every MMC Cell."
This was the first time Craig had heard any mention of a hierarchy above the MMC. He interest was sharpened. Sean saw it in his eyes, and continued.
"There are secret Marlboro Men's Club cells across the country… across every industrial country. We are part of a global organisation… a global 'faith' you could say."
Craig's eyes widened as the enormity of what he was hearing sank in. He felt the welling between his legs at the realisation that the Cult of Marlboro wasn't just here in his town, but that they were just a small outpost of a massive organisation. His Handler continued. "Each region is under a Regional Leader who has absolute authority over us. Our obedience to him is unconditional. He knows everything that goes on here… the recruitment figures, the personal info of every recruit, and receives a weekly report on progress."
Craig took a quick involuntary gasp, then pulled hard on the smoke as his hand reached down to adjust his pants.
"Wow. Fuck*n wow, Sir!"
Sean continued; his gaze still fixed.
"These are things you need to know before you are received tomorrow.. That jacket that you wear, as worn by all the young MYC members, isn't simply a fetishized uniform of belonging to the club and to Marlboro. It's the uniform that identifies you as property of the Organisation. It identifies you as merely a number that's been fed into their system. on what you correctly referred to as the 'conveyor belt'. Think of it as a factory process, and you are in the initial stages of a product being formed."
Craig let out a "Fuuck!! That's so fckin amazing, Sir!!"… as he reached for the next Red from his pack on the table.
"Isn't it!" replied Sean, as he saw the positive impact on Craig.
Sean continued to reveal the facts… "Our Leader reports to his superiors at the National Headquarters, and they are under the global Corporate Head Office. It's from the Head Office that the rituals and activities of both the Marlboro Men's Club and the Youth Club have come. Every MMC and MYC around the world practice and indulge the same routines and rituals, designed to mould and fully assimilate each addicted recruit The jacket isn't simply to provide young impressionable minds with a sense of belonging to the Youth Club, It is one part of the overall regime of harnessing and remoulding minds into exactly what the Corporation requires." Craig smirked as he inhaled - his gaze still fixed on his Handler.
"But you knew that, didn't you. You know exactly what your work at the MYC is about. You just didn't know about the bigger picture."
Craig's full acceptance of the reality had him excited. His own reprogramming as a dedicated disciple of Marlboro produced the expected response.
Craig spoke up… "So, the contract that each of us signed when we were initiated and received our jackets…. " Craig hadn't even contemplated the contract during his own initiation a few years ago.
"Oh, our Leader keeps a copy of each contract, and a copy is held in the files of the National Headquarters… The original that you signed is amongst the hundreds of thousands in the vaults of the Corporate Head Office."
Before all this was able to sink in properly, Sean moved on to prepare Craig for what was to come for him.
"Your elevation and initiation to the MMC next week is a major event for you. You should know what to anticipate." Craig's anticipation was electric, as Sean continued… "The small Marlboro shrine of the MYC which the lads face during the ritual of devotion as they smoke and… do what young lads do… is primary training you've been providing so well for them. It's such an important part of their mental and sexual formation for what lies ahead. When you enter the room with me next week for your initiation, everything will be familiar to you… but on a much greater scale. Up until now, it's only me who's been breeding you."
As Sean mentioned his intimate breeding sessions at Sean's appartment, Craig thought of how intense those ritual sex sessions have been, as they both smoked hard while facing his Handler's shrine to Marlboro while growling mantras of devotion. Craig always felt some other presence entered the room during these sex rituals. It was there that Sean had introduced Craig to poppers, ensuring Craig sank into deep gooning devotion as he faced the Marlboro shrine, pulled on a Red while he was pumped from behind.
"Next week at your elevation to the MMC, you'll receive your leathers, and each member will fill you during the ritual as you stand up against the Grand Altar of Marlboro and face the Marlboro icon above it." "You will then be prepared for next month's visit from our Regional Leader who will personally seed you to complete your assimilation for the Corporation.
Craig's face twisted in a mixture or disbelief and eagerness. His hand holding the Red was trembling. He was realising the enormity of his elevation.
Sean continued to reveal the final details of what's to come..
"Those carefully crafted rituals of the Youth Club prepare each recruit for this stage that you're about to embrace. You said that your old man would say that the Marlboro Youth Club is a nasty cesspit of perverted degeneracy and filth, if he knew about it…. Well, it's mere training and preparation for the next level, which you about to enter into."
Craig could hardly contain his heightened level of excitement and eagerness at his Handler's words.
The final revelations from Sean were revealed with an almost reverence.
"Most people think that Marlboro, the world's most successful and best known cigarette is nothing more than that. A cigarette brand… but you understand that Marlboro is so much more, in every possible way. It commands loyalty and dedication from millions across the world, without them even knowing why."
"The rituals that have become an essential part of you since you joined us - They channel and harness the essential essence of a lad into Marlboro's ownership. Where a Christian faces a crucifix, the disciples of Marlboro face the icon of Marlboro…. you understand?"
Craig's face was now expressionless as the reality he'd felt at each MYC meeting was now being stated out loud.
"Those occult rituals which the young lads find so horny during the pleasures of the Friday evening Youth Club meetings… It isn't just horny 'fun'. It isn't even just the moulding of a faith or religion. It is the initial stages of feeding and remoulding them into what we all become at our very essence. The powers and forces that we can never truly understand that come to us through the portal which is Marlboro… make us part of it. We are bonded and assimilated in Marlboro."
"The creed of the Corporation is simple… The salvation of the world and global harmony will only be achieved by Marlboro. The Final Solution will be achieved when every male is inhaling the essence of Marlboro, uniting together in one mind under the control of the Corporation. THIS goal of what we serve. This is why nothing is more important than our work in gathering all to Marlboro. We serve. We obey. We dedicate ourselves utterly to Marlboro… because Marlboro wants them all!"
Craig was ready. He held his head back in a rush of ecstasy as he reached out to his Handler's gloved hand. He now fully understood what his life was for.
Deutscherwolf
I really love your stories! I was wondering though, as related to your stories, do you think two people can be in love and assimilated (e.g. can two people be in love before being assimilated, force the other to be assimilated and remain in love; or fall in love after assimilation) or those two concepts mutually exclusive (e.g. the power of Marlboro is too great or more powerful, or the very act of assimilation removes individuality so that love cannot exist except to serve)?
Thank you so much! I am really glad you like my stories. To answer your question, I will tell you what happened to a couple of friends of a friend of mine.
They were called Mark and Tristan, both in their early thirties. They became a couple about 8 years ago and they were still very much in love. Their love was a special one, that increased over time. Everything was perfect.
One day, Mark came back home from a business trip. When he arrived home, he noticed something amiss. He had thought his boyfriend would be at work, but it seemed that he was at home. Was he sick? Or had he taken a day off to surprise him?
"Tristan? Are you home?"
No reply. Mark put his suitcase down and walked through the house. When he reached the bedroom, he smelled something. Was it cigarette smoke? Tristan smoked sometimes at parties, but never inside their home. Mark opened the door. Smoke streamed out of the room, engulfing him. Mark coughed a bit. He was okay with Tristan smoking occasionally, but he didn't fancy it. He looked inside the room, but the smoke was too thick. "Tristan?" No answer, but Mark heard a rhytmical, squeaking sound. He was anxious. What was going on? He stepped into the bedroom. The smoke seemed to close in behind him.
Through the smoke, he saw a red glow. He walked, no, waded, through the smoke. As he came closer. He saw it was the computer screen. Behind it sat a man. "Tr... Tristan?" No reaction. As he came closer, he noticed, that the figure was smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a shiny suit of some sort and his shaved head was equally shiny. He was sitting behind the conputer, staring at a screen filled with red binary code. Mark saw where the squeaking sound came from. The man was working his cock. Mark was so confused, but at the same time mesmerized by the sight of it. He then suddenly noticed, that he was looking at his boyfriend.
"Tristan! What happened to you?" he screamed. Tristan didn't react. He kept smoking and staring at the screen, as if he was in a trance. Marc walked toward his boyfriend. Worries were racing through his mind. He put his hands on his boyfriend's shoulders and shook, but Tristan didn't move a muscles. He stood there for a moment, thinking what he could do. He then suddenly noticed his hands tingling. He took them from Tristan's shoulders and looked at them. They were covered in a black shiny goo, looking not unlike the uniform his boyfriend was wearing.
Tar.
He didn't know where that thought came from, but he didn't question it, nor was he alarmed by it. He looked at in fascination and played with it in his hands, until they were completely covered. The tingling feeling was actually quite pleasant.
All the while he was staring at his hand, he saw the binary code on the screen, constantly changing. He shifted his attention to it. He couldn't make any sense of the zeros and ones moving on the screen, yet he kept looking, mesmerized. He knew he had to.
As he stood there, Marc lost all sense of time. He just just stood there and watched the screen. The zeros and ones had completely captivated him. He somehow started to understand what it was saying.
"... You want to embrace. You want to surrender. You want to serve. You are a Marlboro drone. Marlboro is pleasure. Marlboro is bliss. Marlboro is perfection. You are a Marlboro drone. Embrace Marlboro. Surrender to Marlboro. Become one with Marlboro. You are a Marlboro drone. You love Marlboro. You desire Marlboro. You want to be Marlboro. You are a Marlboro drone. There is nothing but Marlboro. Fill yourself with Marlboro. Be Marlboro..."
The words started to fill Marc's head. It was as if the words were slowly being downloaded into his mind, pressing his own thoughts away. It was a strange sensation, but Marc wasn't scared. He somehow knew it had to be this way.
Suddenly he felt a tingling feeling around his crotch. He looked down. He should have gasped, but he didn't. He just smiled as he saw what it was. Without realizing it, he had opened his pants and had started to caress his cock. The tar on his hands had attached itself on his cock. He looked at it in admiration. It was so beautiful, so shiny black and at least twice as large as his cock used to be. A thought took hold in his head. This isn't a cock. Marlboro drones don't have cocks. This is a tar-dispenser. He smiled. Yes, Marlboro drones have tar-dispensers. He looked back at the screen, still caresing his tar-dispenser. He felt hownthebtingling feeling started to spread over his legs. The dronification was in progress. He smiled.
He suddenly felt two hands on his shoulders, taking him a moment out of his trance. "Tristan...", Marc's voice lingered in the smoke-filled air.
As he felt back into his trance, a part og him was wondering why he had uttered that word. Tristan? He didn't seem to know that word. Then a small voice in his head told him that it was the name of his boyfriend, the man standing behind him. No, this wasn't Tristan. This was a Marlboro drone. Nameless. It was here to accelerate the dronification.
With that thought, he felt how the drone's tar dispenser started to enter him. At first it was hard, but as the drone's tar dispenser started to coat his inside, it was as if his hole started to adapt to the it, like it was becoming a perfect fit. Marc leaned into the drone's arm, feeling the cold tar of its suit slowly covering his own and smelling that wonderful Marlboro smoke.
The drone started to move its hips rhytmically, mechanically. There was no love or tenderness. Marc knew that the drone was doing its job, accelerating the dronification process. As the drone continued, Marc kept staring at the screen. There was nothing else it could do. There was nothing else it wanted to do. It wanted to be a Marlboro drone and soon it would be one. It felt the tingling feeling spread all through its body. It knew the tar was changing it. Upgrading it. Purifying it.
After an hour, it felt the dronification was almost completed. The other drone felt it too. He brought a Marlboro to the lips of the new drone. The drone opened its mouth and accepted the cigarette. It lit the cigarette mechanically and took a deep inhale. As the smoke entered its body, the tingling feeling throughout its body changed. It was as if every cell in its body was cheering in joy, emitting bliss. It was incomprehensible. It was overwhelming, like a wave washing over the beach, sweeping the last remnants of thoughts and individuality away. It took a second drag. It felt its tar dispenser activate. At first, white goo came out in shots, but with each shot the goo turned darker, until pure tar was coming out of it. It had been purified.
The other drone pulled its tar-dispenser out. Its job was done. It lit up a fresh cigarette and it felt the bliss wash over it. It then turned around and left the apartmwnt. The new drone followed it. Without saying a word they went both in a different direction. They didn't know if they would ever see each other again. They didn't think about that and didn't care. They were Marlboro drones. They were like fingers of the same hand. They were one. They were Marlboro.
"Yes, my boy, take another drag. Feed. You want it. You need it. You thought you could resist my power. You believed it was almost innocent. One drag wouldn't hurt. Another one wouldn't be so bad. Without knowing you were slowly surrendering to me. And now, now you are fully aware of me. You feel my power inside you. But you don't mind. In fact, you love it. You surrendered to me and you love it. You love me. Now take another drag, boy. Feed. Make me even stronger.
The Marlboro Patrol
Chapter 1 – The Briefing
The precinct’s conference room buzzed with the low murmur of voices and the clink of coffee cups. Six officers filed in, some still bleary-eyed, others already alert, their uniforms crisp and dark.
Captain Rhodes cleared his throat. “Central Command sent something down for us to review. Supposedly important.”
The lights dimmed. The screen at the front of the room hummed to life.
What appeared wasn’t a map, or a suspect profile, or crime statistics. It was a spiral—deep crimson, concentric circles pulsing faintly, as if breathing. At its center floated a cigarette.
“Is this… a joke?” Officer Hanley muttered, leaning forward in his chair.
“No,” Rhodes said, though his voice faltered. He couldn’t look away. None of them could.
The spiral seemed to expand and contract, pulling their attention inward. Their fingers slackened on their pens. The cigarette gleamed white against the darkness. A faint voice filled the room, not from the speakers, but from somewhere beneath the hum of the electronics:
“Observe. Inhale. Obey.”
Hanley’s coffee went cold in his hand. He didn’t notice.
Chapter 2 – The Spiral Deepens
The next morning, the men returned to the conference room almost without thinking. As though summoned.
The spiral was waiting for them, already on the screen. This time, the cigarette was gone. In its place: a Marlboro pack, perfectly centered, glowing like an altar relic.
Officer Mills rubbed at his eyes. “Why does it feel… good to look at this?”
“Shut up,” whispered another, though not with anger. With reverence.
The spiral pulsed. Red. Red. Red.
By noon, cigarettes were in their hands. Packs had appeared on their desks, though no one remembered who brought them. Smoke curled through the precinct halls.
Rhodes watched Hanley light his third. His lips moved silently, whispering a word Rhodes knew he shouldn’t want to hear.
Marlboro.
By evening, Rhodes joined them. The flame touched the tip of his cigarette, and as he inhaled, something inside him loosened—like a knot untied. His eyes burned faintly red in the reflection of the window.
Chapter 3 – New Uniforms
On the third day, their navy blues felt… wrong. Too dull. Too weak.
When the officers arrived that morning, new uniforms awaited them in their lockers: glossy red leather, stitched with the Marlboro crest.
They didn’t question how the uniforms got there. They simply dressed.
Standing before the mirror, Rhodes barely recognized himself. A captain still—but no longer of law. His badge glittered with a new insignia: a flame wreathed in red.
The spiral no longer appeared on the briefing screen. They no longer needed it. Its rhythm pulsed inside their eyes now, red glow simmering in every gaze.
They smoked as one, heads tilted back, exhaling into the stale air of the locker room.
“Brothers,” Hanley said, smoke curling from his lips, “we are ready.”
Chapter 4 – First Patrol
The streets of the city had grown used to the steady sight of police blues. That morning, jaws slackened and voices hushed as the Marlboro Patrol marched into daylight.
Red uniforms gleamed in the sun. Cigarettes burned in every mouth. Their eyes glowed, unblinking.
At a corner store, glass shattered. A young man in a black tracksuit stumbled out, clutching a stolen item. His eyes widened at the sight of the red-clad officers closing in, smoke trailing like storm clouds.
He tried to run. He didn’t make it three steps.
Two officers pinned him against the brick wall. Another held out a cigarette.
“No, please—” the boy stammered.
The cigarette was pressed between his lips. A lighter clicked.
He inhaled.
The smoke filled him, hot and sharp, digging down into his chest. His resistance buckled. The red glow caught in his pupils, spreading outward like fire in dry grass.
The officers stepped back, watching as the boy straightened, his trembling gone. He exhaled, smoke rising in a perfect spiral.
“Good,” Rhodes said, his voice steady and low. “Another brother.”
My last Assignment, or Was it?
The stale scent of tobacco had become my constant companion, clinging to my clothes, my skin, even my dreams. For thirty years, I’d worn the badge, walked the beat, and faced down the ugliness the city threw at me. Now, at the twilight of my career, with retirement a mere year away, I was walking into the belly of the beast. My last assignment, they’d called it. A year undercover at the Marlboro factory, investigating the whispers of missing men and the far more disturbing rumors of "experiments."
I remembered the briefing as if it were yesterday: hushed tones, grainy photos, and the chilling detail that these weren't just disgruntled employees vanishing; they were individuals with no ties, no family to speak of, easily forgotten. The official line was "runaways" or "personal choices," but the sheer volume, coupled with the factory’s almost fortress-like secrecy, screamed otherwise. My role was simple, yet daunting: infiltrate, observe, and find out what was truly happening behind those imposing brick walls. I was just another face in the crowd, a new hire on the assembly line, learning the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of machinery that churned out millions of cigarettes a day.
The first few months were a grind. I settled into the monotonous routine, clocking in and out, enduring the endless shifts, and gradually, deliberately, building rapport. I shared my lunch breaks with gruff, working-class men who smelled perpetually of stale smoke and the exhaustion that crushed their ambition. I swapped stories about fishing trips and worn-out trucks, laughed at their cynical jokes about corporate overlords, and listened intently for any slip, any hint of something amiss. My supervisors, initially wary, began to see me as a reliable, if quiet, worker. I kept my head down, did my job, and slowly, painstakingly, earned their trust. The factory was a labyrinth of steel and conveyor belts, but I learned its layout, its blind spots, the rhythm of its security patrols. I knew the R&D section was off-limits, tightly controlled, and the source of the most persistent whispers. It was my target.
The opportunity came on a Tuesday night. A late shift, skeleton crew, and a sudden 'maintenance issue' that pulled away a few key personnel. I waited until the corridors were truly deserted and then slipped away from my post. My heart hammered against my ribs, with adrenaline and apprehension. Every shadow seemed to stretch, every creak of the floorboards echoed like a gunshot. I moved through the dormant factory, a ghost in the machine, guided by a sense of professional purpose and a lifetime of instinct. The R&D door came into view, heavy and locked. Over my time in the factory, I managed to make a copy of a keycard, apprehensive I swiped the card and the door started to unlock before my eyes. I was in, and the door shut behind me, sealing up again.
The air inside was different – sterile, yet with a faint smell of chemicals and I course, the constant smell of tobacco. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting long, distorted shadows. And then I saw them. My breath hitched, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Rows upon rows of men. Not workers, not guards, but… subjects. They were strapped into high-backed chairs, their bodies unnervingly still. IV tubes snaked from their arms, feeding them a viscous, obsidian liquid that pulsed sluggishly through the clear plastic. On their heads, advanced-looking VR sets, sleek and alien, encased their faces, obscuring their expressions, trapping them in whatever digital reality was being fed to them. It was worse than anything I could have imagined. This wasn't just about missing persons; it was about conversion, about something profoundly, utterly wrong.
I fumbled for my phone, my hands shaking as I tried to capture the horror, to send the undeniable proof. That’s when the light behind me flared. "Looking for something, Sgt. Williams?" The voice was a low growl, laced with a chilling amusement.
I spun around. Three figures stood silhouetted against the open doorway. They were not the regular factory security I’d observed. These men were giants, their muscles straining against tight, glossy black bodysuits, accented with sharp slashes of red and white. The Marlboro logo, defiant and stark, was emblazoned on their chests. Their uniforms were unlike anything I had ever seen on security personnel – more like something out of a futuristic military catalogue, designed for intimidation and absolute control. Before I could react, they were on me, their movements precise, brutal. A swift blow to the back of my head, and then a searing pain as my arm was twisted behind me. My phone clattered to the floor, its screen cracking like shattered ice.
They dragged me, unceremoniously, through a maze of corridors I hadn't known existed, until we reached a central chamber. There, bathed in the glow of a single, clinical light, stood a man whose face I instantly recognized from company memos: Dr. Elias Thorne, the head of R&D. His smile was wide, unnervingly knowing.
"Ah, Sgt. Williams. We were wondering when you were going to make your move," he purred, his voice smooth as silk, yet vibrating with a predatory edge. "Such a tenacious little officer, aren't you? We know everything about you, you see. Every citation, every promotion, every last assignment… even that last, sentimental one before your retirement."
My clothes were ripped from me, leaving me exposed, humiliated. They strapped me to a chair, eerily similar to the ones the other men were in, my wrists and ankles bound tightly. Dr. Thorne approached, a slender, almost delicate syringe held between his fingers. Inside, a dark, viscous liquid swirled, pure and unsettling, like concentrated night.
"But don’t worry, Sgt. Williams," he continued, his eyes gleaming with a manic delight, "we are about to fix you. To perfect you."
He plunged the needle into my arm. A searing, cold fire erupted, rushing through my veins like liquid nitrogen. "This," he stated, his voice a chilling incantation, "will transform and convert you into a true believer of the Marlboro cause. It is the pure essence, the absolute truth of nicotine, bonding with every cell in your body." My muscles spasmed, my vision blurred, and every nerve ending screamed as the black liquid spread, dissolving the very core of who I was. My body convulsed, a puppet on invisible strings, as the venomous truth of the substance infiltrated me.
Just as the world threatened to collapse into agonizing pain, a VR set was roughly placed over my head. The agony subsided, replaced by an overwhelming, seductive pleasure. Images flooded my mind – vast fields of golden tobacco leaves swaying in an eternal sunrise, the rich, earthy scent of a freshly lit cigarette, the smooth, satisfying inhalation, the calming exhale. It wasn't just visual; it was total sensory immersion, linking the profound, untamed pleasure of smoking to a burgeoning sense of absolute loyalty, not just to Dr. Thorne, but to the majestic, all-encompassing Marlboro Corporation. It was my new life, my new purpose, interwoven with every puff, every golden ember.
Over the next week, the indoctrination was relentless.
The VR headset rarely left my head, only for brief, agonizing moments of lucidity before the next wave of pleasure-drenched loyalty washed over me. Dr. Thorne's voice, calm and persuasive, became the only truth. He spoke of Marlboro not as a company, but as a force of nature, a lifestyle, a philosophy. He taught me that loyalty was the ultimate virtue, and that strength came from absolute commitment. The old Sgt. Williams, the man of justice and duty, was systematically dismantled, cell by cell, thought by thought. I felt myself changing, hardening. My old anxieties, my doubts, evaporated, replaced by a clarity, an aggressive focus I hadn't known I possessed.
When the VR set was finally lifted, the world felt sharper, more vibrant, yet undeniably different. The first thing I did, the only thing that felt right, “ A cigarette NOW,” I demanded a cigarette. My lungs ached with a deep, primal craving. With trembling hands, I lit the cigarette as a professional ease.
Dr. Thorne smiled, a genuine, approving smile this time. "Excellent, Williams. Let's see how much you've learned." His questions came, sharp and piercing.
"Who do you serve?" he asked, his voice a low, even tone that seemed designed to penetrate any lingering resistance.
"Marlboro," I replied, the word a sacred vow, a resonant truth within my transformed mind. It wasn't merely a brand, but a creed, a destiny. Every doubt, every extraneous thought, had been meticulously excised, leaving behind a pristine, singular purpose. "Only Marlboro. There is no other entity worthy of such devotion, such absolute loyalty. It is the beginning and the end of all things, the singular, undeniable truth." I said
He nodded, a barely perceptible shift of his head, as if confirming an expected readout from a complex instrument. "What is your mission?"
"To ensure the prosperity and dominance of Marlboro," I stated, the words flowing effortlessly. "To see its influence spread, its market share absolute, its name inscribed upon the very fabric of global consciousness. To protect its interests from any perceived threat, internal or external, and to eliminate its threats with surgical precision, with an unwavering hand." The thought of those threats, amorphous though they might be, brought a surge not only of anger, but of cold, efficient resolve. They were obstacles to be removed, nothing more.
His final question was delivered with a subtle challenge. "And what do you feel towards the men you saw strapped to those chairs?"
A ripple of something akin to pity might have once touched me. Now, there was only cold, clear understanding: "They are... raw material, it is necessary," I declared, letting the words hang in the space between us, settling with an unsettling weight. "Unprocessed, unrefined. Recipients of Marlboro's truth. Their flaws, their weaknesses, their very humanity, are being systematically stripped away, replaced by an absolute, unwavering clarity. They are being perfected, just as I have been. Their minds are being recalibrated, their wills reforged. What remains will be pure, efficient, and utterly dedicated." As I met his gaze without flinching, taking a deep drag from my cigarette.
Dr. Thorne’s smile widened, a chilling yet strangely comforting sight. "Indeed. Now, for the final step, my loyal servant." He gestured towards a large, circular pool in the center of the room, swirling with the same black, viscous liquid I had been injected with, glowing faintly from within. "Step into the pool, Williams. Become one with the cause." Without hesitation, without a single shred of fear—only an overwhelming sense of destiny—I walked towards it. The liquid was warm, slightly viscous, and as I submerged myself, it felt like coming home, a reunion with a long-lost part of myself. It coated my skin, seeped into every pore, and as I emerged, my body felt… re-forged. My muscles were tauter, more pronounced, mirroring the imposing forms of the security guards who had captured me, yet now I felt powerful, complete. My skin no longer felt like my own; it was coated in a glossy, form-fitting bodysuit of black, red, and white, with the bold Marlboro symbol emblazoned across my chest, as if it had grown from me, an organic extension of my very being. I was no longer just a man in a uniform. I was the uniform. I was a Marlboro Security guard, a cigarette dangling from my mouth.
I walked up to Dr. Thorn "Effective immediately," Dr. Thorne announced, his voice booming with triumph, "you are the new Head of Security. Your first task: continue sending those false reports to the police. Keep them believing the 'missing men' are just a string of unfortunate disappearances. Maintain the illusion until we are ready for the next phase."
----
Six months later, the news hit the wire: "Veteran Police Officer Sgt. Robert Williams Dies in Tragic Car Accident." A mangled vehicle, a body burned beyond recognition, a closed case. The department held a somber memorial, offered condolences to the family I didn't truly have, and put it down as a tragic occupational hazard.
They thought the case was closed. They thought Sgt. Williams was gone. But back in the sprawling, humming heart of the Marlboro factory, a new, improved, and utterly loyal head of security could be found. He stalked the corridors with a ruthless efficiency, his eyes cold and devoid of the flicker of humanity they once held. He was the man who used to be Sgt. Williams, but now, he was a true believer. And his commitment to the Marlboro cause was absolute, unwavering, and chillingly, eternally, loyal.
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The members of the Marlboro Men's Clubs refer to him by a number of titles. The Supreme One... the Supreme Saviour... the Master... or simply, the Lord.
He is hardly human. They don't know what He is. They simply know that His word is infalible, and has supreme authority over MMC Cult which He established.
He's only ever seen or even known about by the select of the Cult. Only those fully inculcated with the Mind of Marlboro. Only those considered to be the most useful and dedicated of disciples - which of course includes all the full members of the Marlboro Men's Club, but also the specifically chosen most advanced members of their Youth Clubs.
As the MMC Cult expands, the most wealthy Cult members are assigned to create special 'cathedrals' within their estates. Secret locations around the world where, at certain times of the year, the Supreme One manifests to receive the new devout adherents - where He personally anoints and seeds each one - sealing their minds, bodies and souls to Him and to Marlboro. His dark and overwhelming charismatic presence instigates automatic worship of Him, as they recognise Him as their God. And they recite their oath of obedience, loyalty, and their duty to corrupt the innocent and bring them 'salvation' in addiction and devotion to Marlboro.
So, remember when you buy and inhale the next pack of Marlboro - remember your loyalty as an addict for Marlboro... and maybe you should say a little prayer to the Lord...
Check the Marlboro Men's Club stories.
"You didn't think you would ever start smoking, did you? But yet here you are, sucking in that delicious smoke. You thought you could resist the lure, but in fact, it only took only a few drags before you fell for it. Don't worry. Just let yourself keep falling. Falling into Marlboro's welcoming embrace. You won't regret it. The more you let go, the better it gets. Marlboro recruited you and it will not be long, before you are proudly marching in its army. Just take another drag. You want it... and soon you'll need it."
A friend of you asked you to meet him outside. When you came out you didn't see him. Just a hooded figure, slowly approaching you. When he came closer, you saw that it was your friend. But he looked so different. You were confused. What had happened to him?
When he stood in front of you, he looked up at you. He was wearing weird red-glowing sunglasses. He lit up a cigarette and smiled at you:
"Hey man, they got to me. I was scared at first, but now I know better. I see everything so clearly now. You really should join."
You didn't know what to do. You backed away from him. But you didn't see that someone in the same attire had crept up behind you, holding out a pair of red-glowing sunglasses, which he slipped onto you. Once the sunglasses were in place, you felt a sting, like they were nailed into your head. You tried to reach them, but you couldn't move. You started to panick. Your friend came closer and whispered softly to you: "Relax. Soon you will understand." He took another haul of his cigarette and blew it into your face.
This seemed to activate the glasses. They started to bombard your brain with code. You tried to close your eyes, but you couldn't. You felt getting sucked into it. You tried to fight it, but it was so mesmerizing. You felt how your mind was slowly slipping away, slowly being replaced with the codes that were pumped into your brain. But you didn't care. It was better this way. The codes started to make sense to you. It was getting so clear now.
You don't know how long you stood there, nor did you cared. You only know that it was so good you joined. You could see things so clearly now. You understood now that everyone should join. That everyone will join. You woukd make sure of it.
As a chosen target by the local Hive of Marlboro drones, Mark had resisted every enticement to accept a cigarette and to smoke. Clearly, he had a serious mental disorder that required direct intervention.
His delivery to the Marlboro Therapy Center was instructed, where he will undergo a Level 1 course of direct infusion into his lungs, in tandem with the standard 10 day mental and sexual therapy program.
By the end of the course, Mark's disorder will have been cured, and he will be ready for assimilation into the Hive.
The Philip Morris Corporation will not tolerate resistance.