doomtrooper77

[doomtrooper77]

You watched as the massive figure dressed in black walked through the shop. He was fucking huge, 6'5 or 6'6, so fucking massive and thick he couldn't help but have the power waddle, swagger really huge guys get. His big cowboy-booted foot steps echoed through the shop. He looked familiar. You couldn't help but stare as he walked by. His head turned, and his eyes met yours, and the caveman part of your brain recognized him immediately. Michael Dravan, aka Monsta Mike. He went to the same high school you did 20+ years ago.

Hell, you hadn't thought about him in years. We'll that's not true. You'd thought about him off and on late at night as you rubbed one out before going to sleep. When you last saw him, he was 17, a Junior in high school. He was 6 feet and 250 pounds as a freshman. By junior year, he was 6'3 and 340. Nobody was bigger than him in school. Taller, maybe, but bigger. not even close. No other student, no other teacher, nobody.

Monsta Mike had a mean streak. Mind you, he didn't pick on the nerds, gays, or kids outside the norm. He wasn't your typical bully. If you crossed him or he caught you doing something he didn't like, he could be trouble. Nasty, nasty trouble. He was kicked off both the Football and Wrestling teams after hurting too many opponents and showing a liking for it.

You remember the last day you saw him, it was sometime before homecoming. The captain of the football team came after him for some reason. The guy was good and knew it and had been headed to college and maybe the pros. He was good, but also an asshole. He was the school bully, and because he was such a Football star, he got away with it.

Something had happened in the weight room with Mike and three of the guys from the team. Whatever it was, the team captain came after Mike in the hallway. Words were said, and the team captain took a swing at Mike. After that, it was on. Mike was all over him. Mike was a year younger than his opponent, but bigger, stronger, and faster.

Not 30 seconds had passed since the start of the fight when both the Football and Wrestling coaches came pushing through the crowd and grabbed Mike. It took them another 30 seconds to get enough leverage to pull Mike back. Mind you, both of these men are over 6 feet and close to 300 pounds, and they struggled to hold the large youth who outweighed and was stronger than them individually.

They struggled holding him and paid no attention to the captain of the team, who, bloody, bruised, and missing teeth, staggered up and pulled something from his pocket. Moving quickly, he dashed forward and slammed something into Mike's ribs. Everything stopped for a second. Everyone is looking at the pocket knife jutting out of Mike's side and blood beginning to stain his shirt.

The rest is a thing of legend around his hometown. Both Coaches kept hold of Mike, and neither did anything to the team captain. Nobody stepped between them. Nobody tackled the football star. The piled on Monta Mike. That is when he showed why his nickname was more than just about his size. With a roar, Mike broke free from the football coach and tossed him to the side. The wrestling coach attempted to put Mike in a hold to prevent him from breaking free. The only problem was that Mike was also a trained wrestler, a damn good one, and while the coach had more skill and experience, Mike had raw power and rage that accompanied his skill. He and the coach grappled for a few seconds, the coach trying to get his arms around Mike's big neck, just as Mike twisted and spun, and he was behind the coach. Mike's hand clamped on the coach's arm, and with a flex, the sounds of breaking bones echoed in the hallway. The coach roared, and Mike slammed his forearm into the coach's joint, and it popped. He followed it up with two powerful hooks into the coach's ribs, and the man was down and curled into a ball.

Mike reached down and pulled the knife from his side and threw it down, he started heading toward the football star. I could remember the look on his face; it was a mix of boiling anger and angry glee. A Monster set free. The footballs coach ran at him and tried to tackle him. He tried to scoop Mike up off his feet, but Mike was too quick, he met the coach's charge and instead of being rammed into the locker by the coach, he grabbed the big man, used his momentum and spun and added his own strength and slammed the coach into the lockers. The huge boom echoed through the school. It was like a truck had run through the wall. The lockers were crushed and plaster was falling from the wall and ceiling. The coach was on the floor, groaning and holding his side and back. Mike kicked the coach a couple of times in the sides, lifting the man off the floor and back into the crushed lockers.

Mike turned toward the captain of the team, who was backing down the hallway, his eyes round with fear. He ran, or tried to. He got about 20 feet and stumbled, and Mike was on him. This wasn't a fight; it was a beating. Mike's fist flashed and landed over and over again. The thing that had saved the football star was Mrs. Freeman. Mrs. Freeman was a teacher from the Physics department. She was 5'5 and in her 40s, maybe 130 pounds.

She came around the corner and yelled his name. The first couple of times, she was just background noise to him. Then he heard her say, "Michael, please. You'll kill him!" he could hear in her tone that his concern was not just for the rich punk under him, but for him and the line he was about to cross. Mike stopped mid-blow and looked up. His eyes were wild and feral. The small dark skinned woman walked up to him, no hesitation, and said in a soft voice, "No more, Michael, he's done. He can't fight you anymore."

By the time the police and paramedics came, Mike was sitting on the hallway floor, Mrs. Freeman sitting next to him, holding a towel against the bleeding wound in his side.

They took both coaches and the football star to the hospital in ambulances. Mike, on the other hand, was put in two sets of cuffs and pushed into the back of a police car. Blood is still leaking from his sides. Mrs. Freeman argued that he needed a doctor, too. It was when Monsta Mike walked, but that day, I was one of the people in the crowd, his eyes locked with mine, then like they did just now.

The school and the kids' rich parents tried to twist the story and cover up what happened. They claimed that Mike was the aggressor and that their son had been trying to protect himself and others. 20 years ago, nobody was walking around with cameras on every phone, but there were security tapes. Early in the case, suspiciously, the tapes went missing. They were trying to try Mike for aggravated assault and attempted murder. All three of the people he fought with spent weeks in the hospital. The wrestling coach was in a cast for 19 weeks. The football coach had three of his vertebrae fused and took early retirement. The football star was no longer a star. After 11 weeks in the hospital, he was as close to normal as anyone who had suffered multiple broken bones and bruised organs could be. He just never could play ball again.

Before the trial, the tapes showed up at his lawyer's office. With video evidence and the number of witnesses who said Mike was the one attacked first, the football star stabbed him while he was being held by the coaches. Lastly, it's notable that none of them came to his defense when he was stabbed. The charges were dropped.

Mike and his family left town after that. Now he stood there in front of him. Fuck, so much bigger than he had been in high school. He looked different.. bigger and meaner. However, the gleam of gold around his neck and the 160K brand new Escalade he drove said he was doing alright for himself.

Mike kept looking at you, those eyes hard as steel. I did what anyone should do: I nodded in acknowledgment. A second later, he did the same. I was sure the memories that flashed through my head in that short time also flashed in his.

[doomtrooper77]

Mercs on Patrol

[doomtrooper77]

Diamond District Lockdown

They are going from checkpoint to checkpoint, making sure everybody is on point. The guys inside are almost done. His team is ready to lay down destruction as necessary for their x-filtration.

[doomtrooper77]

Diamond District

Mitch stood outside waiting for his crew to come out of the building. His post was to keep security and authorities away from the building as his crew raided the different Diamond dealers and importers inside. After they hit and took out the security guards inside, Mitch was sent outside to hold off any outside interference. Mitch was a one-man wrecking crew, and the destruction up and down the street was an example of how good he was at his job.

[doomtrooper77]

This is Ray from the Skull Gate Ranch down the road. He wants to know why you keep asking so many questions about the ranch around town since you moved in. You replied that you were just curious about all the trucks and helicopters coming and going from the property. That's when he stepped into your space and backed you up to your car.

You were trapped between the side of your car and his pressing his full body weight on you as he leaned close to your face. His eyes were cold, dead, and menacing at the same time. His face inches from your face. His eyes are boring into you. Your heart is beating fast in your chest when you see the SUV with the county Sheriff's logo printed on the side driving by on the street. The lightbar came on, and the window rolled down. The deputy was about to say something when Ray's head turned to look at him. Even 30 feet away, you could see recognition and fear on his face. Your heart rate doubles as the deputy shuts off the light bar, rolls up the window, and pulls away.

Ray's head slowly turned back to you, a sinister smile on his face. He licked his lips and said, "If you keep sniffing around in places that are none of your business, I can stop by that pretty little place on Break Tree Lane and help you figure out what curiosity did to the cat." He pressed against me for a few more seconds, then stepped back and swaggered to his big black SUV.

He backed the massive vehicle up, turned around, and left the lot, roaring off down the road.

[doomtrooper77]

Sir, hey there and thank you so much for all the seriously hot guys you've created for us. Your latest AI incarnations are too freaking hot. Add to the fact they're now moving well... whoa. I want to ask... is there a specific set of programs you use to get to make the videos.

I've finally got my head around ComfyAi and finally creating hot fuckers to a level Im thinking of starting to share on here... but Im wondering if you have a workthrough using Comfy to push them into video.

No matter if you want to keep lips sealed, or a bit too difficult to easily explain here, I just want to say I'm the kind of sub that would worship the ground of every fella you share.

All the best,

Andy

Hey Andy. Thank you for the kind words. I am currently using Midjourney for image creation and Kling.AI for the video creation. Kling version 2.1 is very good at prompt adhesion and keeps the image reasonably similar to it seed image. There is also a Kling version 1.6 that has more options, but it doesn't follow the prompt as closely as the latest version. They are both limited to 10 seconds of video creation. Although 1.6 will extend the video creation.

Midjourney just released video creation on their platform last month. It is EXCELLENT in keeping the original look of the seed image through the video creation. However, it is just so-so at prompt adhesion and camera control. This is their first swing at video AI. I have a feeling a newer version will be a lot better.

I am still learning a lot about AI imagery, so we are in the same boat. I hope this helps, and please let me know what you end up creating. I love to see where other people take this art form.

[doomtrooper77]

Can I Talk to You

He's been sitting there waiting for you to come home. The smile on his face doesn't show in his eyes. When he stands up, you realize how massive he really is. You can feel your stomach fall when he says he's just been waiting to talk to you, and if you would mind going back in the alley with him so you could talk privately. Each step he takes, the smile falls farther from his face, and his eyes get darker and more dangerous.

[doomtrooper77]

Guard Monster

They told me the van was left near some run-down apartments south of the old canning factories. Said it was an '80s Ford panel van. Easy enough to boost for someone who used to make their living stealing cars. They gave me an address and promised that if I delivered it, my debt would be wiped clean. Easy. Or so they said.

I took an Uber to a Wendy’s half a mile from the van’s last known location. I wanted to get a feel for the area before moving in. The streets were almost deserted. Most of the buildings—houses, flats, apartments—were abandoned and crumbling. Some looked like a strong wind or a hard kick could bring three stories of brick down on your head. Fewer people meant fewer eyes, which was good. But what stood out was the complete lack of gang activity. Even the bangers stayed away from this place. Too old. Too unstable. Too forgotten. The city never cleaned it up. It just let it rot.

I turned a corner and spotted the building, tucked behind one of the decaying factories. One side of the street was lined with empty, skeletal flats. The other held what looked like an old factory accessory structure, maybe storage or maintenance back in the day. Crazy to think people once lived and worked here. I crossed to the far side of the street and walked past the place to check it out. Nothing. No one on either side.

Okay. Time to do this.

I crossed back and headed toward the stairs leading into the building. That’s when he stepped into view at the top, right through a gap in the doorway.

A fucking wall of muscle.

Six foot two, easy 350 pounds. Blue jeans, biker boots, and a hoodie with the arms and side panels ripped off, exposing a monstrous upper body. Shoulders, arms, and lats flared wide. Black leather gloves clung tight to his massive hands. Every inch of exposed skin was covered in heavy biker ink. His dark eyes locked onto mine, and I froze like a deer in the headlights.

He was halfway down the steps before I could even blink.

His face was the kind you recognize from bad places. A man who does things. The kind you don’t question. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice deep and cold, sounding like help was the last thing he intended to offer.

My brain kicked in. “I’m looking for 137th and Cole,” I said quickly. “Someone told me there were old break presses and metalworking machines left in the factory here. I repair that stuff. Just hoping to salvage some parts.”

He reached the bottom of the stairs, now only ten feet away. How did something that massive move so fast?

I tried to keep my face blank. Neutral. Innocent. He studied me slowly, eyes scanning me head to toe. I could see the van just behind him through the doorway. So close. Then I heard the sound of leather creaking as he slowly opened and closed his fists. His forearms bulged. Biceps flexed with every movement. His stare never left mine, and the menace in the air was suffocating.

He tilted his head and curled his lip in a sneer. Then he spat, just missing my boot, and growled, “This ain’t 137th and Cole. Ain’t no parts here for you. I think you better keep stepping.”

His posture shifted. Anyone who's ever been in a real fight knows that look. The set of his shoulders. The balance in his stance. He was ready to throw down.

I raised my hands and backed away slowly. Didn’t turn around until I’d put fifty feet between us. At a hundred feet, I glanced back.

He was still standing there. Watching me.

At the end of the block, just before I turned the corner, I looked back one last time.

He was sitting at the top of the stairs now. Still as stone.

Not a guard dog.

A goddamn guard monster.

[doomtrooper77]

Big Flex Test

So as I stated in my previous post, I am working on learning how to use some of the new functionality of AI tools. I also have decided to share those test with you because I think some of them are kind of hot. None of these are meant to be hollywood block busters. Just animation of figures who I think make your toes curl, in the good way.

So if you see repeats of the same theme but they look different, this is just me learning and playing around. If it not your thing, I get it, no need to write me to tell me. Also, remember this AI thing is still very new. The tech is young but it is growing fast. I predict within a couple years EVERYBODY will be able to tell one or more of them exactly what you want and it will produce it for you. It is going to be a dynamic shift in what we watch online, on our phones and at the movies.. if they still exist.

So enjoy and if you feel you like it, click the like for me, or better yet share it.

Note: this animation was created on Midjourney's new video platform. Not even a week old yet. The fidelity is amazing. I hope to they will tune it to allow more control of the camera movement. But this being their first swing at animation, it's damn near a home run for version 1 of anything.

[doomtrooper77]

It's been a while since I posted anything. Been on vacation and took a break. I am working on learning some new techniques in image generation and video generation. I am going to share some test like this here on Tumblr. Let me know if you like it.

Likes and shares are appreciated.

Have a good weekend.

[doomtrooper77]

Penthouse Visit

They were waiting for me when I stepped out of the building. No mistaking them for anything other than dangerous. Two towering monsters of men, both wrapped in pitch-black tailored suits, jet-black shirts, and matching ties. They looked less like bodyguards and more like professional executioners—silent, heavy, immovable. A uniform straight out of a nightmare or a mob movie.

They didn’t need to walk up to me. They just stood there like monoliths, watching. But they knew I saw them, and I knew pretending I didn’t would end with my teeth on the pavement. So I walked toward them. One of them, the one with eyes so unnaturally blue they looked metallic in the sunlight, tilted his square jaw down just enough to make it clear he was talking to me.

“Mr. Ambrizio would like to see you.”

Shit. My gut twisted.

I asked, “About what?”

The other one, the thicker, broader of the two, leaned in until I could smell stale cigar smoke and leather off his breath.

“Does it matter?” he growled.

The only answer that wouldn’t get me bounced off the concrete was a quiet, “No.”

He stared at me, jaw clenched, eyes like slabs of stone, like he was measuring whether I deserved a beating just for speaking. After a long, brutal moment, he gave a tight nod, turned, opened the door of the idling black Escalade, and jerked his thumb. I got in. What else could I do?

The bigger one slid in behind me, boxing me in with nothing but meat and muscle. The man with the icy eyes climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled off without a word. Even though it was one of those cavernous, state-of-the-art Escalades, the guy sitting behind me sucked up all the air in the cabin. Every movement he made creaked the leather and made the SUV feel like a goddamn coffin.

We drove in silence, just the quiet hum of the tires and the occasional click of a blinker. I counted time by the burning in my throat and the weight pressing on my chest. Twenty-five minutes later, we rolled into the rear entrance of a high-rise that had only recently been finished. I’d read about it in one of those financial magazines—88 floors of luxury, exclusivity, and billionaire isolation. The kind of place you only entered if you were rich or disposable.

We glided into the underground garage, headlights slicing through the sterile, concrete shadows. Another man was waiting for us—no jacket, but the same all-black uniform. He looked younger, but he still had the dimensions of an industrial refrigerator. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He just watched, eyes dead, jaw tight.

The guy in back opened the door and grabbed my shoulder in a thick, calloused hand, yanking me out like luggage. My feet barely hit the floor before I started to speak.

“Easy! This is a three-thousand-dollar suit—”

Before the sentence even ended, pain exploded through my side. A rib-crushing rabbit punch hit like a steel piston. I grunted and doubled over, but he didn’t let me drop. His iron grip held me upright like a limp puppet.

“I don’t think you realize how deep in the shit you are right now,” he hissed. “You should be thinking about why you’re here and why we were sent to collect you. Mr. Ambrizio said bring you breathing—he didn’t say anything about intact.”

While I struggled to catch my breath, the man with the blue-grey eyes circled the vehicle and got in close on the other side. I was sandwiched between two slabs of violence.

“Let him keep this attitude, Nicky,” Blue Eyes said, his voice ice-cold, eyes flickering with something feral. “Maybe the boss will let us have him for some fun.”

A cold sweat broke out across my neck.

“Stand up and walk like a fucking man,” Nicky barked.

They shoved me forward toward a set of black security doors. More guards were posted there—same black pants, shirts, ties—but with custom black leather jackets embroidered with the building’s logo and SECURITY across the chest in bold lettering. These weren’t mall cops. These were soldiers.

The place was crawling with them.

We were funneled toward a freight elevator the size of a two-car garage—polished steel, the kind used to move high-end sports cars or corpses. The doors slid shut with a mechanical sigh, and we rode up in silence, my ears popping with altitude.

When the doors opened at the 88th floor, two more behemoths were standing guard. One stepped forward and held the elevator door. His suit coat pulled back just enough to reveal the matte black steel of an SMG resting in a shoulder rig.

Jesus. Were they all armed like this? It was like Ambrizio ran a private militia out of a goddamn condo tower.

We moved through the back halls of the penthouse. I caught glimpses through open doors—tastefully decorated spaces with cold masculinity. Leather, dark wood, modern steel. No fluff, no frills. Everything expensive.

Then we hit the final door. It opened onto the rooftop.

The pool stretched out before us, infinity-edged and reflecting the golden hues of a dying sun. And in it—cutting through the water with sleek, deadly power—was Mr. Ambrizio.

He didn’t swim like a man. He swam like something built for it—fast, clean, silent. A shark in human form. Or something worse.

We waited.

He kept doing laps. I lost count at ten. When he finally emerged from the water, I swallowed hard.

He was a monster.

6’4”, maybe 6’5”, and easily 400 pounds of hulking, chiseled muscle. His entire upper body was covered in black and grey ink—mythical beasts, symbols, and lines that crawled across his skin like armor. Water cascaded down his massive frame in glistening rivers, catching the golden light of sunset. Even soaking wet, the presence he carried was overwhelming.

He walked over like a panther—slow, deliberate, powerful. His thighs were so thick they forced that powerlifter waddle, but he moved with a predator’s grace. A tiger in a three-piece world.

I tried to step forward. I tried to say something. But one of the goons jerked me back hard and growled, “Shut up.”

I shut up.

Ambrizio dropped into a poolside lounger, soaking wet from the pool. Water glistened on his skin, pooling on the concrete. The massive gold chain around his neck shimmered in the light. Diamonds winked from his fingers and his watch. He sat like a king—silent, dripping, dangerous.

Seconds later, another large man came out through a set of folding patio doors that peeled back the wall like a stage curtain, carrying a short tumbler filled with something amber and expensive. He handed it to Ambrizio.

“Thanks, Teddy,” the boss said without even looking at him.

Teddy nodded and asked if he needed anything else. He waved him off.

Then he looked at me.

And for the first time, he spoke to me.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

His voice was low but commanding. I opened my mouth to speak.

“That wasn’t for you to answer.”

His eyes—like chips of glass—flicked toward the men beside me. One grabbed my arm and shoved me into the seat across from the massive mob boss. They turned and walked back inside without a word.

Then the real conversation began.

For fifteen minutes, he didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten. He just reminded me, with precise, almost surgical calm, how much money he had “invested” in my operation. He quoted exact figures, percentages, and timelines.

I tried to dazzle him. I trotted out graphs and buzzwords and the kind of bullshit that worked on VC firms and hedge fund scumbags. But Ambrizio wasn’t buying.

He waited. Sipped. Watched.

Then he tore it apart. Everything I said, every misdirection, every justification—he countered with facts I didn’t even know were on paper. My own spreadsheets turned against me. My own lies collapsed under his calm, confident demolition.

“You always have some excuses for your other investors and board members,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It’s really disrespectful that you think that bullshit is gonna work on me.”

His smile was wide and sharp. His eyes, like diamonds, cut straight through me.

“I don’t like it when people disrespect me or my organization.”

I didn’t dare move.

“What most people don’t know about me,” he said, swirling the glass in his hand, “is that I’m a reasonable man. If we do business, I expect you to keep your word. Everybody eats. Everybody wins. But the problem is, people get greedy. They think they’re smarter than me. They think they can lie to me. And then they get fucking greedy.”

He paused. Let that silence stretch.

“What they forget,” he said slowly, “is that we can be greedy too.”

He leaned forward, ice clinking in his glass.

“Like now—you’ve got a 10 percent penalty tacked onto our agreement just for trying to bullshit me. That means you’re 30 percent in the hole. With me.”

I wanted to protest, to explain, but the look on his face stopped me cold. I nodded once. It was all I could do.

“You’ve got two months to fix it. I don’t care what you have to do, you hit the fucking numbers, and you get me my money. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Then everything shifted.

His expression changed. That simmering anger cooled into something else. Something worse.

He set the glass down on the side table, wiped water off his face, and ran his massive hand through his soaked hair, then down across his chest, his abs.

“I think you need to understand who you are in this relationship,and who the fuck I am.”

Then his hand slid lower, over the bulge in his still-wet trunks. He pushed back from the coffee table, leaned into the lounger, and opened his thighs wide.

“Now get over here and start working off that interest you owe me,” he said, voice deadly calm.

The look in his eyes told me there wasn’t a choice.

Not really.

And the other option?

That would hurt a hell of a lot more.

I was on my knees before I even realized it. Up close, he seemed impossibly large, like his muscles were carved from tattooed marble and layered with power. I looked up, and he stared down at me with the expression of a man who knew exactly how to get what he wanted, because no one had ever told him no.

Because no one lived long enough to try.

“Tale your time boy.” He said.

[Like and Shares are appreciated. It lets me know if you want more]

[doomtrooper77]

Nothing To See Here

I consider this image to be the human equivalent of, Nothing to See Here.

[doomtrooper77]

Mercenaries Series

I was going to write a little story for this.. but people have pissed me off and am not in the mood. However, I will not punish you for other people's actions. So, here is a set of mercenaries.

[doomtrooper77]

Don't Bring That Here ...

It seems every few years, whenever I post my artwork, I get certain kinds of people reaching out, thinking we are kindred spirits. My artwork features what I think are uber-masculine men, Bikers, mercenaries, Mobsters, Rouge Cops, Outlaw cowboys, leather, guns, aggressiveness, sadomasochist themes, fights, shootouts, boots, and even fantasy brutality. All in the name of art for those who see it as such.

What you don't see in my artwork is hatred.

The problem is that there is a group of people who think that liking these things means I feel as they do... hate as they do.

I DO NOT.

Years ago, many thought that portion of our society was dying out or evolving. Well, I think we know that is not true. It is alive and far too healthy.

What does this mean? If you embrace that hatred, I am not your friend, and this Tumblr Blog is not for you. If you find that you have been blocked and wonder why, this is why. No, we cannot talk about it. I find it doubly amazing that someone gay (in or out of the closet) would embrace the ideals of people who are actively trying to make your existence illegal again. Not to mention subjugating every color of the rainbow and anything with ovaries.

If that means I lose 99.9 percent of the people who follow me here (I know it doesn't), then so be it. I do this for fun. It does not pay my mortgage, put food on my table, or vacations with my partner. It's just an expression of the caveman part of my brain. It welcomes EVERYBODY who may enjoy the darker side of the spectrum.

In closing, don't get it twisted. This is not a place for your goose-stepping nonsense or sad fantasies of superiority.

[doomtrooper77]

Goals for us all!!!!

Mr. Ambrizio - Stepping Up

Nate and I were working out in the weight room at The Gym. This place wasn’t just a meathead haven—it was the muscle-bound heart of a sprawling criminal network. On the surface, it looked like any old hardcore iron paradise. But look a little closer, and you’d see the truth: this was a stronghold for made guys, their hangers-on, and anyone looking to curry favor with the family.

Not everyone was straight out of a mob movie. Sure, some were walking Sopranos stereotypes, but many were just construction foremen, truckers, sanitation guys, business owners, lawyers—you name it. What they had in common was connection. The kind that wasn’t printed on a résumé. The family’s influence reached wide and deep. There wasn’t a corner of this state and the surrounding state they couldn’t touch.

Yeah, a few civilian fanboys came through, but they were always vetted. They knew the rules—shut your mouth and keep your head down. Ninety-five percent of the time, nothing happened here but heavy lifting and grunted reps. But that five percent? That’s what made this place legendary.

I say “big guys” for a reason. Gear wasn’t just available—it was part of the ecosystem. Didn’t matter what kind you were after, it flowed through The Gym like water. Most of the guys tied to the family were monsters in their own right. And the higher up you climbed in the organization, the bigger those monsters got. The boss had a nickname: The Monster Maker. Nobody called him that to his face, but everybody knew what it meant. You didn’t go to war with these people unless you wanted a bloodbath.

Nate and I? We were nobodies. Low-level drivers and gofers. We went where we were told, picked up envelopes or truckloads of God-knows-what, and dropped them off to whoever we were told to. Half the time, we didn’t even know what we were hauling. But it paid better than any 9-to-5. Still, we wanted more. More juice. More respect. Nate especially. There were lines I wasn’t willing to cross. Nate? I wasn’t sure he even saw the lines.

In the scheme of things, neither of us were huge, but I tipped the scales at 260, and Nate was a solid 290. We’d been lifting for about twenty minutes when Fucking Tony Ambrizio walked out of the locker room.

If you asked Google what a mob enforcer looked like, it should spit out his picture. Six-foot-four and tipping damn near 400 pounds of muscle. A thick mane of steel-grey and black hair, matching thick mustache, tanned olive skin covered in ink, and a thick, massive gold chain resting heavy on his chest. He didn’t walk—he loomed.

Tony wasn’t just a made guy. He was a capo, one of the underboss’s inner circle. Even other captains gave him space. Not just out of respect—but out of fear. See, Tony wasn’t crazy, not in the traditional sense. He was cold, sharp, and savage. The kind of guy who didn’t blink while yanking your spine out of your body.

Nate’s eyes locked onto him like a dog on raw meat. I nudged him. “Hey, stop staring.” I knew this was the kind of made man Nate wanted to be.

“Yeah, sorry,” Nate mumbled, but his eyes kept drifting back. So did mine.

Thirty minutes in, Tony was pushing weight that most elite powerlifters would call a personal best—as his warm-up. Every rep, every grunt, made him swell, veins bulging like cables. Between sets, he stretched and flexed, and it was like watching something transform—like his body was getting bigger just from exertion.

I caught Nate openly staring. I discreetly saw Tony through the mirror, his eyes turning in our direction. He was blatantly staring back. I jabbed Nate again, “Quit it.”

Then it happened. One of the family’s other big enforcers walked over—some giant named Jimmy-something—carrying a gallon jug of neon blue liquid. He handed it off to Tony with reverence and respect. Tony cracked it open, chugged the whole thing in one go, and muttered something to Jimmy—while looking straight at us.

Jimmy turned to glance our way, then back at Tony, saying something low. My stomach dropped.

“Shit,” I whispered. I started grabbing our stuff. Nate didn’t move.

I kicked him in the calf. “Let’s go.”

We made it three steps toward the locker room before Jimmy cut us off.

“Hey.” One word. Commanding. Deadly calm.

We froze. Jimmy approached, big as a damn doorframe. His eyes raked over us.

“Mr. Ambrizio is heading into the cage,” he said flatly. “He’d like you to join him.”

I looked over, Tony sat there like a statue, watching us. I turned back. “Uhh, we were just finishing up—”

Jimmy stepped in, and his big hand poked me in the chest hard. I stumbled back.

“I’m not talking to you, kid.” He turned to Nate. “This ain’t a request.”

Nate hesitated for just a breath, then said, “Yeah. Sure.”

“Wait,” I said, stepping between them. “Nate, you don’t have to do this. You know the stories. Just say you’re injured or—”

Jimmy cut me off with a snort. Then, to Nate: “Best way to survive this is to fight. You sandbag, he’ll know. You flop around, try to play soft, he’ll beat you into paste. But you show him you’ve got guts, fire in your belly, you might just walk out under your own power. This is how you prove you’ve got what it takes to move up.”

Nate looked at me and said, “It’ll be alright. Go get some coffee or something. I’ll see you later.” His face was set like stone.

I saw Tony heading our way massive, every step a low rumble. Jimmy turned to me. “Get your shit and get outta here. Don’t let me catch you waiting in the parking lot. Go sip your latte or whatever.”

Nate gave me a small nod as he followed them into one of the private fight rooms.

I walked to the locker room, looked back once and the three of them disappeared behind that reinforced door.

It was a little after 8 p.m. when I got the call from Lutheran General. ER staff said Nate had been brought in. I hauled ass over.

He was sitting up when I got there. One eye swollen shut, the other blackened. Lip split wide open. Nose broken. The entire left side of his face looked like a swollen fist print.  His left arm was in a cast. Dopily smiling from under a haze of painkillers.

“He said I got guts,” he kept saying.

The doctor told me he also had four cracked ribs. He asked what happened.

I just asked back, “What did he say?”

“Fell down some stairs,” the doc said, clearly not buying it.

I shrugged. “No idea.”

They released him the next morning. Paperwork said AMZ Iron Works was covering the bill—one of Tony’s shell corps. That told me everything.

Nate was quieter after that. Wouldn’t talk about the fight. Wouldn’t tell his family either. He healed, slowly. Stayed at his parents’ place for a couple of months. They kept asking me what happened. I kept giving them the same answer: “Ask Nate.”

Five years later, I still think about that night.

Nate got what he wanted. These days, he’s 350 pounds of pure muscle and menace. The only thing he delivers now is beatings to people who are late on their loans, or when he was at The GYM, he delivered that same blue gallon jug to Mr. Ambrizio.

He’s crossed lines I don’t want to know about. We’re still friends, but we live in two different worlds now. He’s never thrown it in my face. Hell, I think he even put in a good word for me.

I don’t drive anymore. I send drivers. I tell them where to go and what to haul. It’s a step up.

And it’s enough.

[doomtrooper77]

Mr. Ambrizio

[doomtrooper77]

Mr. Ambrizio - Stepping Up

Nate and I were working out in the weight room at The Gym. This place wasn’t just a meathead haven—it was the muscle-bound heart of a sprawling criminal network. On the surface, it looked like any old hardcore iron paradise. But look a little closer, and you’d see the truth: this was a stronghold for made guys, their hangers-on, and anyone looking to curry favor with the family.

Not everyone was straight out of a mob movie. Sure, some were walking Sopranos stereotypes, but many were just construction foremen, truckers, sanitation guys, business owners, lawyers—you name it. What they had in common was connection. The kind that wasn’t printed on a résumé. The family’s influence reached wide and deep. There wasn’t a corner of this state and the surrounding state they couldn’t touch.

Yeah, a few civilian fanboys came through, but they were always vetted. They knew the rules—shut your mouth and keep your head down. Ninety-five percent of the time, nothing happened here but heavy lifting and grunted reps. But that five percent? That’s what made this place legendary.

I say “big guys” for a reason. Gear wasn’t just available—it was part of the ecosystem. Didn’t matter what kind you were after, it flowed through The Gym like water. Most of the guys tied to the family were monsters in their own right. And the higher up you climbed in the organization, the bigger those monsters got. The boss had a nickname: The Monster Maker. Nobody called him that to his face, but everybody knew what it meant. You didn’t go to war with these people unless you wanted a bloodbath.

Nate and I? We were nobodies. Low-level drivers and gofers. We went where we were told, picked up envelopes or truckloads of God-knows-what, and dropped them off to whoever we were told to. Half the time, we didn’t even know what we were hauling. But it paid better than any 9-to-5. Still, we wanted more. More juice. More respect. Nate especially. There were lines I wasn’t willing to cross. Nate? I wasn’t sure he even saw the lines.

In the scheme of things, neither of us were huge, but I tipped the scales at 260, and Nate was a solid 290. We’d been lifting for about twenty minutes when Fucking Tony Ambrizio walked out of the locker room.

If you asked Google what a mob enforcer looked like, it should spit out his picture. Six-foot-four and tipping damn near 400 pounds of muscle. A thick mane of steel-grey and black hair, matching thick mustache, tanned olive skin covered in ink, and a thick, massive gold chain resting heavy on his chest. He didn’t walk—he loomed.

Tony wasn’t just a made guy. He was a capo, one of the underboss’s inner circle. Even other captains gave him space. Not just out of respect—but out of fear. See, Tony wasn’t crazy, not in the traditional sense. He was cold, sharp, and savage. The kind of guy who didn’t blink while yanking your spine out of your body.

Nate’s eyes locked onto him like a dog on raw meat. I nudged him. “Hey, stop staring.” I knew this was the kind of made man Nate wanted to be.

“Yeah, sorry,” Nate mumbled, but his eyes kept drifting back. So did mine.

Thirty minutes in, Tony was pushing weight that most elite powerlifters would call a personal best—as his warm-up. Every rep, every grunt, made him swell, veins bulging like cables. Between sets, he stretched and flexed, and it was like watching something transform—like his body was getting bigger just from exertion.

I caught Nate openly staring. I discreetly saw Tony through the mirror, his eyes turning in our direction. He was blatantly staring back. I jabbed Nate again, “Quit it.”

Then it happened. One of the family’s other big enforcers walked over—some giant named Jimmy-something—carrying a gallon jug of neon blue liquid. He handed it off to Tony with reverence and respect. Tony cracked it open, chugged the whole thing in one go, and muttered something to Jimmy—while looking straight at us.

Jimmy turned to glance our way, then back at Tony, saying something low. My stomach dropped.

“Shit,” I whispered. I started grabbing our stuff. Nate didn’t move.

I kicked him in the calf. “Let’s go.”

We made it three steps toward the locker room before Jimmy cut us off.

“Hey.” One word. Commanding. Deadly calm.

We froze. Jimmy approached, big as a damn doorframe. His eyes raked over us.

“Mr. Ambrizio is heading into the cage,” he said flatly. “He’d like you to join him.”

I looked over, Tony sat there like a statue, watching us. I turned back. “Uhh, we were just finishing up—”

Jimmy stepped in, and his big hand poked me in the chest hard. I stumbled back.

“I’m not talking to you, kid.” He turned to Nate. “This ain’t a request.”

Nate hesitated for just a breath, then said, “Yeah. Sure.”

“Wait,” I said, stepping between them. “Nate, you don’t have to do this. You know the stories. Just say you’re injured or—”

Jimmy cut me off with a snort. Then, to Nate: “Best way to survive this is to fight. You sandbag, he’ll know. You flop around, try to play soft, he’ll beat you into paste. But you show him you’ve got guts, fire in your belly, you might just walk out under your own power. This is how you prove you’ve got what it takes to move up.”

Nate looked at me and said, “It’ll be alright. Go get some coffee or something. I’ll see you later.” His face was set like stone.

I saw Tony heading our way massive, every step a low rumble. Jimmy turned to me. “Get your shit and get outta here. Don’t let me catch you waiting in the parking lot. Go sip your latte or whatever.”

Nate gave me a small nod as he followed them into one of the private fight rooms.

I walked to the locker room, looked back once and the three of them disappeared behind that reinforced door.

It was a little after 8 p.m. when I got the call from Lutheran General. ER staff said Nate had been brought in. I hauled ass over.

He was sitting up when I got there. One eye swollen shut, the other blackened. Lip split wide open. Nose broken. The entire left side of his face looked like a swollen fist print.  His left arm was in a cast. Dopily smiling from under a haze of painkillers.

“He said I got guts,” he kept saying.

The doctor told me he also had four cracked ribs. He asked what happened.

I just asked back, “What did he say?”

“Fell down some stairs,” the doc said, clearly not buying it.

I shrugged. “No idea.”

They released him the next morning. Paperwork said AMZ Iron Works was covering the bill—one of Tony’s shell corps. That told me everything.

Nate was quieter after that. Wouldn’t talk about the fight. Wouldn’t tell his family either. He healed, slowly. Stayed at his parents’ place for a couple of months. They kept asking me what happened. I kept giving them the same answer: “Ask Nate.”

Five years later, I still think about that night.

Nate got what he wanted. These days, he’s 350 pounds of pure muscle and menace. The only thing he delivers now is beatings to people who are late on their loans, or when he was at The GYM, he delivered that same blue gallon jug to Mr. Ambrizio.

He’s crossed lines I don’t want to know about. We’re still friends, but we live in two different worlds now. He’s never thrown it in my face. Hell, I think he even put in a good word for me.

I don’t drive anymore. I send drivers. I tell them where to go and what to haul. It’s a step up.

And it’s enough.