The Rise and Fall of Vincent Hargrove
Vincent Hargrove was the prototype of a careerist in the renowned law firm "Blackstone & Associates." With his sharp intellect, ruthless ambition, and a dash of unscrupulousness, he had worked his way up in just five years from a simple associate to the top candidate for the next partnership. He walked over corpses – figuratively speaking, of course. Colleagues who stood in his way were cleared out with fabricated errors in reports or subtle acts of sabotage. "The end justifies the means" was his motto, which he liked to quote in meetings while stealing others' ideas and presenting himself as a genius. His colleagues secretly hated him, but no one dared to say anything. Vincent was simply too good at impressing the bosses.
Vincent had to go. On that, three of his colleagues—Tom, Mike, and Chris—were in complete agreement. Maybe he wouldn't even be bad for the firm as a partner. But it would be unbearable if that smug asshole became their boss too. They hatched a plan…
Vincent suspected nothing when the three colleagues invited him to lunch at an old diner called "Joe's Grill." It was a classic joint with red leather booths, a high density of consultants and lawyers, and the best burgers in town. "Vincent, old buddy," said Tom with a fake smile as they sat down. "We all know you're next. The next partner! You've earned it. Let's toast—to you!" Mike nodded eagerly and poured Vincent a glass of cola. "Exactly, you're the best. We'd be lost without you. Tell us how you cracked that last case—it was brilliant!" Chris slathered on even more flattery: "You're our role model, Vincent. We want to get on your good side before you become the boss."
Vincent, taking the flattery at face value, swallowed the last bite of his burger, leaned back, and grinned smugly. "Well, guys, it's tough, but someone has to do the dirty work. And I'm the only one who can do it right." While he basked in the praise, he turned his gaze away to call a waitress and order another cola. That was the moment the three had been waiting for. Tom discreetly pulled a small bottle from his pocket—a homemade "sauce" they had found in a dubious online forum. It was a brew of chemicals that supposedly caused "changes." They quickly drizzled it onto Vincent's burger while Mike chatted distractingly.
Vincent took another hearty bite, oblivious. At first, everything was normal. But after a few bites, he felt a pressure in his chest. Suddenly, a loud, booming belch escaped him, echoing through the entire diner—so loud that the woman at the next table dropped her fork and looked up in horror. "Sorry, guys," he muttered, embarrassed, "must be the food." The colleagues exchanged glances, suppressing grins. Tom whispered barely audibly: "It's starting." Vincent shook his head as if to shake off the dizziness and took a sip of cola that the waitress had just placed in front of him. But the pressure moved lower. His stomach rumbled audibly, and then came the fart—a long, trumpeting sound that startled the surrounding guests and spread a foul odor reminiscent of spoiled food. Vincent's face turned red as a tomato; he laughed it off nervously: "Haha, too much stress, right? It happens." But uncertainty flickered in his eyes. The colleagues giggled quietly, holding their napkins over their mouths to avoid bursting out.
But that was just the beginning. His mind began to fog, as if mist was creeping into his head. He stared at his plate and stammered: "Uh, what was I just saying? The case… uh… with the thingamajig? Wait, the client was named… Bob? Or was it Bill?" His thoughts frayed; complex legal arguments he had at his fingertips just minutes ago dissolved like sugar in hot coffee. Suddenly, his hair grew—not just a little, but explosively. His groomed business haircut turned into a wild mullet, long in the back, short on top, like a redneck from the 80s. Strands fell into his face, greasy and untamed, and he ran his hand through it, feeling the change. "Hey, guys, does my head feel weird? Like it's getting longer or something?" His voice had changed: deep, drawling accent, as if he came straight from the deep South, with a hint of gravel in his throat. "Y'all, this food's spicy, ain't it? Makes me all… uh… thirsty. Get me a beer instead of this fancy stuff here."
His muscles began to bulge, a pulsating growth that he could feel physically. Under his tailored shirt, his biceps and shoulders tensed, straining the seams to the breaking point. His chest puffed up, two buttons popped off and rolled across the table. "Damn, what's happening here? My shirt… it's bursting!" He stared at his arms, which now looked like those of a bodybuilder, veins protruding, muscles twitching uncontrollably. At the same time, sweat broke out—not just a light film, but torrents that soaked his shirt and created dark stains. The smell was overwhelming: a biting, animalistic sweat stench, mixed with the scent of earth and hard labor, enveloping the entire booth. "Phew, it's hot in here, or what? Smells like a construction site. Hey, y'all, do I stink? Haha, gotta go shower."
The colleagues were horrified at first—"Oh God, what have we done?" whispered Chris, his face pale with shock as Vincent's transformation unfolded before their eyes. Mike stared with his mouth open, unable to say anything, while Tom slapped his hands over his face. But when they saw Vincent's arrogant grin turn into a dumb, gap-toothed smile—a broad, simple-minded grin that showed nothing of his former cleverness—the shock gave way to pure schadenfreude. They burst into laughter, holding their noses while laughing, tears in their eyes. "It's working! Look at him—the great Vincent, now a hillbilly musclehead!" Tom snorted, waving his hand in front of his nose. Mike laughed so hard he had to hold onto the table edge: "The smell! Oh man, that's epic!" Chris gasped for air: "And the mullet—perfect! He looks like he's stepped out of an old movie."
Vincent, now a walking muscle mountain with a mullet and redneck dialect, grinned dumbly back, without understanding what was going on. He belched again, this time with a satisfied sigh, and scratched his head. "Hey, y'all, did I do something wrong? It was cool hangin' with you suit-wearers. But now I gotta get back to work, right? Got a lot to do… uh… haulin' cement bags or somethin'. My head feels empty, but strong, y'know?" He stood up, wobbling slightly, his new muscles uncoordinated, and left the diner without paying. The colleagues laughed themselves silly, leaning back and enjoying the sight—just like in that old photo that later circulated in the office: Three lawyers in a booth, laughing, while their rival disappeared.
Vincent didn't drive back to the office. Instead, as if guided by some primal instinct buried deep in his newly rewired brain, he steered his sleek luxury sedan toward the outskirts of town, where the skyline gave way to dusty lots and skeletal frameworks of half-built structures. The car's GPS beeped futilely, suggesting a U-turn back to the gleaming high-rise of Blackstone & Associates, but Vincent—now thinking of himself as "Vinnie"—ignored it completely. His massive hands gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles white, as beads of sweat continued to drip from his forehead, soaking into his already ruined shirt. The air inside the car grew thick with his pungent odor, a mix of unwashed labor and raw masculinity that made him chuckle dumbly to himself. "Dang, I smell like a real man now," he muttered, his drawl thickening with every mile.
Pulling up to the bustling construction site, Vinnie slammed on the brakes, kicking up a cloud of gravel and dust that billowed around the vehicle like a welcoming fog. Workers in hard hats and fluorescent vests paused mid-task, eyeing the incongruous sight of a high-end car amid the tractors and cement mixers. Vinnie stepped out, his polished loafers sinking into the mud, and immediately felt a surge of belonging. Without a second thought, he began stripping off his tailored suit—first the tie, flung into the dirt like a useless snake; then the shirt, torn open to reveal his rippling, sweat-glistened torso; and finally the pants, kicked aside in a heap. Standing there in nothing but his boxers, his mullet fluttering in the breeze, he scanned the site with a vacant grin, spotting a pile of spare helmets near a toolbox.
Grabbing one and plopping it on his head—it fit perfectly over his wild hair—Vinnie lumbered toward the foreman, a grizzled man barking orders into a walkie-talkie. "Hey, boss!" Vinnie bellowed, his voice booming across the site like a jackhammer. Heads turned; a few workers smirked at the newcomer who looked like he'd just escaped from a bad 80s action flick. Vinnie scratched his crotch absentmindedly, shifting his weight from one massive leg to the other, waiting nervously but eagerly for the response. The foreman sized him up, noting the bulging muscles and the dumb, earnest expression. "You look like you can handle things and don't ask smart questions," the foreman said, crossing his arms with a nod of approval.
"You can bet on that," Vinnie grunted back, flexing his biceps involuntarily as a wave of simple pride washed over him. His old life—the boardrooms, the power lunches, the cunning maneuvers—had evaporated like morning dew under the hot sun. All that mattered now was the weight of a cement bag on his shoulder, the satisfying thud of bricks stacking up, and the camaraderie of grunts and backslaps from his new crew. From that day forward, Vinnie hauled sacks of cement up rickety scaffolds, mixed mortar with a rhythmic churn that matched his steady heartbeat, and pulled up walls brick by brick, his sweat-soaked body glistening under the relentless sun. He laughed at crude jokes during smoke breaks, chugged cheap beer after shifts, and never once wondered about the fancy car he'd left parked haphazardly by the fence—it was towed away eventually, a forgotten relic.
Back at the firm, the partners announced the new promotion with champagne toasts, oblivious to the whispers and knowing smirks among Tom, Mike, and Chris. Vincent Hargrove was gone, erased from their world, and in his place thrived Vinnie the laborer, content in his brute simplicity. The end justified the means, after all—or so the three colleagues told themselves, raising their glasses one last time.
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