Brandon Twice
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Go Easy on the Roids
🕑 Added 2020-05-16 22:04:20 +0000 UTC[6 word request: Growth Drug Overdose Causes Rapid Shrinking]
When Tryp felt the floor rumbling and watched his glass of vodka start to ripple with the tremors, he knew what was coming. He leapt up from his desk, grabbed his phone, and ducked under his bed to reach for the lockbox tucked back against the wall.
The pounding on the door made the whole room rumble. It made Tryp’s teeth chatter together. He knew Clint was outside that door and from what Tryp had heard, Clint was the size of a VW bug now.
“Tryp, I know you’re home buddy,” said a growling voice Tryp could feel deep in his chest. “Hey man, I’d like you to open this door, but I’m getting in either way. So if you end up with a gaping hole, just remember, you have yourself to blame.”
Screw the lockbox. Tryp scrambled out from under the bed and headed for the window just as, with a deafening boom, his front door tore out of the wall and smashed his entertainment center. Tryp struggled with the window before realizing it was still locked. And Clint had seen him. He considered just smashing through the glass but the pounding footsteps got closer.
Clint was bigger than a gorilla now. The shaggy dark hair covering his body made him look even more bestial. He grabbed Tryp by the back of his hoodie and held him up so they were eye-to-eye. Tryp’s shoes dangled two feet above the ground.
“Uh, hi Clint!” Tryp said with a grin. He wondered what size the purple polo shirt stretched tightly across Clint’s rippling torso was--XXXL? It still looked painted on.
“Tryp, buddy,” Clint said, giving Tryp a shake. “Can’t help but wonder why you were just about to leap out a third story window rather than just opening the door for me.”
Tryp shrugged. “Well, not for nothing, I kind of thought a wrecking ball was about to come smashing in here. Who wouldn’t run from that?”
Clint sneered. “If I put you down, you promise you won’t run?”
Before Tryp had fully nodded he found himself crashing to the ground. He dusted himself up and stood up again, staring into the center of Clint’s thick pec meat.
“Wow, Clint, what did you put on, fifty pounds?” Tryp said. He casually reached into his pocket and gripped his phone.
“Eighty,” Clint said, raising his howitzers and hitting a flex that split the short sleeves of the polo open. He grinned at the shredded fabric. “Bringing me to a grand total of 340. Y’know Craig Golias got in touch with me the other day? Wanted to know what I’m on. Of course, I’m not about to divulge our little secret. Remember the deal we made? You keep your special brew just for me?”
Tryp nodded, suddenly reflecting on the number of his clients he had supplied his “special” gear to, promising that they were the only ones.
“Then I run into Jordan, who was a 225 pound little physique competitor a month ago.” Clint put his hands on his hips and started pacing around the small apartment. Tryp marveled at Clint’s body, which looked like thin chicken skin wrapped around a pile of bull parts, just thick bloated sinews threatening to pop with every flex, all under a network of fuel line-sized veins. And the stink coming off this tank! Every inch of him was pumping out a sweaty haze. He smelled like a locker room come to life.
“How is Jordan?” Tryp said, raising an eye.
Clint grinned and tilted his neck to the side. “I walk in the gym yesterday, ready to blow everyone’s mind by benching every goddamned plate they have in the building, and what do I see?”
Tryp had already heard the story from Jordan, but he shrugged. “What did you see?”
“Prettyboy Jordan curling hundred-pound dumbbells,” Clint sneered. “Guess he’s making the transition into bodybuilding, starting next month. Starting at the show I’m competing in! And guess what weight class he’s competing in?”
Tryp raised an eyebrow. “Best case scenario, he’s like, what, 250?” Clint moved with shocking speed for a guy his side, hitting Tryp with an open-handed slap that sent the skinny roid-dealer across the room. Tryp hit the wall face first, then tumbled backward onto his couch. He lay there, stunned, as Clint stomped up to him, shoving furniture out of his way.
“I paid you five grand!” Clint said. “You promised that black market shit was mine and mine alone. You lied about having only one bottle, though, right? That super-rare shit you only got off the dark web?” Clint scanned the studio apartment. “Look, I don’t like being violent here, buddy, so just give me the rest of what you have right now so I don’t have to be. I’ll even pay for it.”
“Okay okay okay,” Tryp said, rising to his feet, hands in the air like he was dealing with a wild bear. “So, when I sold you the stuff, it really was all I had of it. I just ended up with some more, and I wasn’t even really sure it was real…” Tryp walked casually to his bed and crouched down, reaching again for his lockbox. While he was underneath, he pulled out his phone and quickly tapped out a text message: CLINT IS HERE PLZ HELP
“...honest to Pete, I thought I was ripping Jordan off! Selling him something fake! I had no idea it was legit, or I swear I would have gotten it for you, toot-sweet, sweartagahd!”
As Tryp struggled to reach under the bed, Clint lifted it with one hand. “Uh, thanks big guy!” Tryp said, taking the small metal case to the table where he set it down.
“Why don’t I believe you?” Clint said, tapping an oversized foot. His left pec kept tensing and flexing, making Tryp feel uneasy as he opened the box.
“But here’s the last bottle I have, honest,” Tryp said, opening the box just enough to snatch a single glass ampoule before slamming it shut again. He fumbled with the keys but big Clint yanked it from his hand.
“Let’s just see about that…” He pried open the box clumsily in his thick paws, shaking his head at the five tiny vials of what looked like crude oil. “Dammit, Tryp, tell me why I shouldn’t splatter you against the wall right now!”
Tryp’s mouth went dry. He was out of ideas at that point.
“I’ve always been good to you, haven’t I?” Clint said, rolling his bowling-ball sized shoulders. “I bring you new clients so you can make money, you walk around the gym with your head held high because everyone knows Clint Talisker has your back.” Tryp started to move but Clint lunged forward, trapping Tryp between the wall and his flexed pecs. Tryp’s feet kicked but he was trapped; the pecs felt like warm stone. “Tryp, you call me up telling me you’re drunk and like muscles a whole lot, and what do I do for you?”
Tryp was squeezed so tightly he couldn’t take a full breath. “You… uh... “ He was starting to turn blue. Damn, was this going to be how he died? Crushed to death by giant pecs? Fitting end, but he wasn’t ready yet.
Luckily, Clint took a step back. Tryp fell to the ground, gasping.
“I’ll let you make it up to you. Load up a needle. You’re slamming this whole bottle in me right now.”
Tryp studied Clint’s face to see if he was joking. “Buddy, I wasn’t messing around when I said just one shot a month. I mean, look at you! You’ve had what, three shots so for?”
Clint grabbed his own pecs, giving them a squeeze. “I started doing them weekly. That’s why I’m out. Also shows your little one-shot-a-month rule was bullshit too. What else have you been lying to me about, little buddy?” He patted Tryp’s head with a threatening look on his face. “So load up a needle. My hands are too big.”
Tryp slowly drew the black liquid from the vial, glancing at the mammoth man as he dropped his pants and arched his back, pointing one massive glute in Tryp’s direction in anticipation of the shot.
“Now, look, buddy, if anything goes wrong here… I can’t be held liable, got it?” Tryp said as he swabbed a section of the rock-hard mound. He stuck the needle and squeezed, emptying the chamber. Tryp imagined Clint’s muscles hungrily gulping down the murky sludge.
“Is it weird,” Clint said, still facing away from Tryp, “that I can already feel myself getting bigger?”
“It’s probably just…” Tryp was going to say “psychosomatic” but the huge ass in front of him had started to quiver and pulse. He could actually hear Clint’s heart pounding, and the muscle was throbbing in time.
When Clint turned around it was clear something was brewing in his massive body. Veins stood out across his face now, pulsing and thickening, as each of his muscles twitched and crunched. By the look on his face, something was seriously overwhelming the big guy. He grabbed at his chest, sweat pouring off his frame. “Shit!” he said. “Shit, I think I’m… I’m gonna get huge!”
His body suddenly inflated like rising dough for a moment, knocking Tryp back. “Holy shit!” Tryp said, scrambling backward from the hulking beast growing right before his eyes. All of Clint’s clothes shredded in one quick burst of muscle, a big cock bursting free and swinging between his trembling redwood thighs.
“Shit, it feels… fuck… so fucking strong!” Clint roared, hitting a most muscular even as his body continued to expand. Tryp looked around, terrified, wondering if he was going to end up crushed against the wall before Clint burst out of the building.
“Wait… what’s…” Clint’s traps had swollen so big it looked like his head had sunken into his torso. The big man’s face was barely visible from where Tryp sat, but he could see a look of panicked confusion on Clint’s face, then…
POP!
Where Clint stood, there was nothing, just the smell of him hanging in the air in a thick fog. Tryp lay there, confused for a moment--did he have a stroke or something? Tryp ambled across the room, still a little unsteady from the recent adrenaline dump. Clint’s clothes were still there, torn to shreds of course, but the big man was gone.
“Wait,” Tryp said aloud. He saw something moving. Tucked into what was left of one of Clint’s shoes was something wiggling. Tryp dropped to his knees to look and nearly toppled over when he saw it.
Clint was there, still massively muscled like a titan, but three inches tall!
The little beast stared up at the suddenly cavernous room. What a shocking shift in perspective that must have been, Tryp thought with a smirk. Clint was staring at him, obviously still too shocked to form words.
“Big Clint, how you doing down there?”
The sound of Tryp’s voice (probably quite loud to Clint’s tiny ears) shocked the little guy into action. Waddling on his absurdly huge legs, he tried to scramble away, only succeeding in toppling onto his back where he flailed like an overturned turtle.
“Too much muscle mass!” Tryp taunted. With a finger he tilted Clint upright again, then stood up. “I think we figured out why you’re not supposed to overdose on these things,” Tryp said, clucking his tongue. He snorted back some phlegm and hocked a massive loogey that splattered just an inch to tiny Clint’s left. The miniaturized muscle man took off as best as his hyperdeveloped body could.
“What a mess you left,” Tryp said, gathering up the tattered remains of Clint’s clothing. He grabbed the door and propped it up against the entrance. “Man, these clothes sure were huge! They’d have to be to fit that big body.” He kept his eyes on the scurrying little bodybuilder, who tried to climb under the fridge but was stopped by the thickness of his pecs and back. Meanwhile he fished out Clint’s wallet, pocketing the cash and sliding out the cards. Little punk was going to be paying for this damage, for starters!
Tryp gathered some tongs from a drawer in his kitchen and plucked little Clint from the ground. He dumped out his glass of vodka and plopped his little prize in it. Clint pressed his face against the glass. He looked like he was considering scaling the walls but he was so wide he was nearly wedged inside.
“So what do I do with you now?” Tryp asked. Little Clint said something in response but it was just a faint squeak. “Aw, poor little guy. Tiny vocal chords means tiny voice.” He licked a finger and poked into the glass, rubbing little Clint’s mountainous muscles.
“Wow, you still feel good even though you’re so small! Your muscles feel like pimples…” He grinned. “Better behave or else I’m gonna pop you, little man!”
“Holy shit!” came a deep voice behind him. Tryp set the glass on his stove, then tossed a dish towel over it. A beautiful face with a blonde mohawk peeked in.
“Jordan!” Tryp said. He’d forgotten he’d called him at all!
Jordan was wearing sweat-soaked lycra. He wasn’t nearly as big as Clint had been, still maintaining much of his underwear-model proportions (although on a much larger scale since pumping the tarry chemical into his veins). Just a few weeks before, Jordan had been half the size he was, turning heads with his flawless proportions and aesthetic perfection. Now he had grown into another mindblowing freak.
“Clint did all this?” Jordan said, surveying the battered front door and the crushed furniture. Luckily he didn’t notice Clint’s neatly piled, completely destroyed clothing.
“Yeah, and he said he’d be back to do more,” Tryp said, his mind working quickly. “Thing is, you won’t believe the most shocking part.”
Jordan squared up his shoulders. He had evolved into a living comic book, his body as rippling and massive as Clint’s had become. “You fucking let me know, bro, and I’ll put him through the floor. That bulky fuck is too goddamned big to handle a real hand-to-hand brawl. Least I can do for you hooking me up with your special stuff.”
“Honestly?” Tryp said, backing away, “just take a look under the dish towel on my stove. You won’t believe it.”
Jordan looked at him with an eyebrow raised, then cautiously approached the stove. “What is it?” dopey Jordan asked. “A big bug?”
“Sort of,” Tryp said, loading up another needle with an entire bottle of the black tarry fluid behind Jordan’s massive back.
Jordan casually pulled the towel aside and gasped. “What the fuck is…” He leaned forward. “Holy shit, is that… is that real, Tryp?”
“Sure is!” Tryp said, jabbing the needle into Jordan’s thick lat and squeezing the plunger. After the deed was done he scrambled out of Jordan’s reach while the herculean man tried to pull the emptied syringe from his back. His arms were too thick, his back too wide. There was no way he’d reach the needle.
“The fuck did you… do… to…” His voice deepened with every word, his eyes going wide as his whole body pumped thicker and thicker. He gazed down at his body, now a grotesque display of musculature, inhibiting his movements. Then, with a groan that was a high-pitched squeal before it was finished, his whole body collapsed in on itself.
“So what do I do with you guys,” Tryp said, kicking off his shoe and flatting tiny Jordan to the ground with his bare foot. “Do I sell you guys as live protein sources? Maybe sell you to horny gay guys? Maybe I keep you guys for myself, put you in a fishtank…” He crouched down, plucking tiny Jordan from the floor. He dropped him on the over, then overturned the glass containing Clint. His tiny pets just squealed, too small to be understood.
Clint was so big he remained stuck in the glass upside-down until Tryp gave it a thump, knocking the little bodybuilder to the ground.
“Look at that! You guys shrank to different heights!” Jordan had shrunk to a full inch taller than Clint. Since their proportions had remained, Jordan looked much larger than the tinier Clint, who was used to being the bigger one.
Tryp smirked at the two men who just stared at each other, then up at Tryp, their tiny brains too overwhelmed to think of a next step.
Tryp’s eyes lit up as he got an idea. He twisted all four knobs on his stove and the four ranges roared to life. His tiny men squealed and backed away from the huge flames, huddling together in the center of the fridge.
Within a week, he had the two of them in a small aquarium. He had dropped nuts and bolts for the little pincushions to lift, plus a hamster wheel for them to run on. He also found an Etsy store that made tiny posing trunks for them to waddle around in. When it was bath time, he would get to really enjoy all of their shrunken muscles, soaping them up in his fist and scrubbing their little flailing musclebods with a soft toothbrush. He loved wiggling a pinky between their little cheeks as they tried to escape.
Tryp skipped town immediately of course, heading for Vegas. He could track down guys like Jay Cutler and Craig Golias, promise them bigger muscles than even they had ever dreamt of and then hit them with too much juice, shrinking them down to little muscle bugs for his amusement. Then he could sell them, or put all his little freaks into a tiny bodybuilding flea circus; or he could keep them for himself, exploring their tiny, plump muscles with his tongue. The possibilities were endless, and his mysterious black super-roids were the perfect thing to lure giant men into his trap.
