derekhighwaytf - Tumblr blog

[derekhighwaytf]

Vanity, Oh Vanity

With a chiseled jawline and sculpted muscles that are the result of countless hours in the gym, you must think you’re the spitting image of youth and physical perfection. You exude a confidence that's almost intoxicating. Your hair, a glossy waterfall of golden locks, is your crowning glory, accentuating your overly self-assured smile.

And if life is a game to you, "HookedUp" is your playground. Every day, hundreds of messages fill your inbox from men who would do anything just to get a response back from you. Your fingers dance across the screen, teasing and toying with these horny bastards who seek your attention. The thrill of the chase, the art of seduction—it's a game you play so masterfully. You revel in the attention, basking in your control of the chase, always one step ahead, relishing the power your beauty affords you.

But then, out of the blue, here comes a message from "Need2SuckNow." The profile picture stops you in your tracks—a chubby, bald man with a browless face and a ridiculous mustache. What a fucking loser! You laugh aloud, feeling a mixture of contempt and amusement. He is everything you are not, a stark contrast to your own graceful elegance. These are the guys that make you ashamed of the gay community. Horny, desperate fuckers who are so ugly that they shouldn’t be allowed to see the light of day.

That is, until he messages you. "Too good for me, huh? Well let's see about that.” Your laughter freezes in your throat. A chill runs down your spine, something about the message seeming too unusual just to ignore. You quickly try to block the account, but your app freezes up until you receive another chilling message.

"It must be easy to keep a clean face when you only have to shave once every week. But a mustache would look nice on your upper lip. Must suck that you can't get rid of it."

Your heart pounds as a sudden tingling sensation dances across your upper lip. You dash to the bathroom mirror, terror gripping you as you find a thick, bushy mustache sprouting uncontrollably. You can feel each hair pushing through your skin, an alien sensation that makes your stomach churn. In a panic, you grab your razor and try shave it off, but it grows back instantly, each hair thicker and coarser than before. Your face, once the epitome of smooth perfection, is now marred, the mustache making you appear like some kind of seventies porn actor.

Then a new message pops up: "Hmmm, even with that worm on your face, you're still undeniably sexy. Well, you were, until you lost your hair.”

Your heart hammers in your chest as a foreign sensation begins to crawl across your scalp. Your hair—once your golden crown, each strand lovingly styled and nurtured—begins to wither, shriveling up into thin strings of dull brown. You watch in the mirror, helpless, as each luxurious strand shrivels and falls like brittle leaves from a dying tree. Your scalp tingles with a sensation akin to thousands of tiny ants marching in unison, each step another hair lost, another cruel reminder of what you're losing. In mere moments, you go from a thick, glossy mane to completely and utterly bald, your scalp laid bare, smooth, and cold. The beautiful image you've spent you’re entire life crafting has shattered within mere minutes.

“Well look who went from twink to daddy! You would get to enjoy this if only you weren’t two cheeseburgers away from becoming a bear."

The words echo in your ears as you feel a strange bloating sensation work up your stomach. It starts subtly, a softness in the muscles you've worked so hard to sculpt. Your reflection warps as your once well-defined muscles begin to transform into flabby, gut-like masses. Each ripple and curve you've proudly displayed becomes obscured by an unwelcome softness. Your pecs, once firm and strong, sag into the unrecognizable shape of man boobs. Your abs dissolve into a paunch, like you’ve just drank four kegs of beer, and your arms have now become hefty wind sails.

You strain to move as your body expands, each part becoming softer and more unmanageable. The grace and ease with which you once moved are replaced by a sluggish, heavy feeling. You reach out, touching the body that was once your pride, feeling it jiggle back, unable to reconcile the stranger staring back at you.

A new message chills you to the bone: “And if that wasn’t enough, you might’ve still been able to get laid if you hadn’t shaved your eyebrows off, you nasty punk!”

Your heart lurches, and you instinctively reach up, touching the place where your eyebrows once framed your alluring eyes. They're gone. You feel the bare skin, smooth and empty, the absence more profound than mere hair. Your eyes, once highlighted by well-groomed brows, now stare back at you freakishly, wide and vulnerable, framed by a void that seems to laugh at your former vanity.

“And don’t think you can hide the new you from the world. It’s too bad that you have an insatiable need to get fucked in the kinkiest ways possible. Now that you’re the town whore, everyone knows that you will do anything to get filled.”

A shiver runs through you as a new sensation takes hold—an intense, overpowering craving for cock. It's not just a desire; it's a need, a hunger that gnaws at your very core. Your body aches with it, every fiber of your being consumed by a lust you've never known. You find yourself feverishly messaging guys on the app, the very desperation you mocked replacing the playful teasing that once defined your game. The desire to be filled with cum overshadows everything else, even as your transformed appearance continues to haunt your every move. It doesn’t matter who, you need cock, and you need it now.

The transformation is complete, the new you solidified, your username now the mocking reminder of what you once laughed at: Need2SuckNow. Your vanity, your grace, your confidence—all of it is gone, replaced by an insatiable hunger for cock that will not be denied.

You are Need2SuckNow, and the world will never let you forget it.

[derekhighwaytf]

Poindextrin

This is something a little different for my nerds out there so bear with me if that's not your thing.

Every woman wants to fuck you and all men want to be you…and also fuck you.  Who can blame them?  After all, you’re Etch, a famous rockstar who can fuck anything he wants! And after yet another adrenaline-rushed concert, you need something to take the load off. Your ears are still ringing with the echoes of screaming fans, your muscles thrumming with a mix of exhaustion and sex appeal. You're sweaty, high on the thrill of it all, and you reach for a pill bottle handed to you by a zealous groupie. Hallucinogens, you think. Just a little added kaleidoscope for the night. The label reads "Poindextrin", but you shrug it off as some quirky branding.

A few minutes pass and although you’re not higher, your voice definitely is.  Midway through a laugh, it squeaks up an octave or two, emerging from your lips high-pitched and nasally. It's like the voice of a caricature of a geek from a corny 80s movie, and you're momentarily shocked, a ripple of unease breaking your post-show high.

But it doesn't end there. You feel a strange lightness spreading through your body, a shrinking sensation that's both alien and deeply uncomfortable. Your tattoos, those symbols of rebellion, dissolve into clear, untouched skin. Your pecs, your arms, the product of hours spent in the gym, deflate as if poked by an invisible needle until they're just skin and bone. Your solid abs flatten out, vanishing as if they were never there.  Instead of a gym-bound rock God, your body has become stick-thin, almost like you’ve never worked out a day in your life.

Looking for assurance that this is just some bad trip, you stare into a nearby mirror, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize what’s happening, especially when you see your wild blonde hair start to recede into your scalp, your rebellious mane getting shorter and shorter until your left with a crisp, sharp #2 buzzcut on the top of your pale white head. The reflection then blurs, your vision wavering, and you fumble around for something to clear it. You’ve always had perfect eyesight, but now you can only see a handful of colors, like a kaleidoscope, but not the type you’d planned to see tonight.  Your hand lands on a pair of glasses with lenses as thick as soda bottles. Sliding them on, you’re taken aback by how large the world appears through these comically oversized glasses.

A glance down reveals a different set of clothes than what you remember putting on. Your stylish, rebelliously worn attire has been replaced with buttoned-up shirts, high waisted pants, a neat bowtie, a plastic pocket protector crammed with pens, suspenders and a pair of the clunkiest loafer shoes known to man. It's as if you've been dropped into a different world, a world where you are not the leading man banging chicks left and right, but instead the side character getting his lunch money stolen and being dunked in the toilet.

Your usually nonchalant demeanor begins to crack, replaced by an alien neuroticism that compels you to straighten your bowtie and adjust your glasses. Your once raucous hotel room seems overly cluttered, dirty. A wave of anxiety hits you, a compulsion to clean and order things taking over.

Then, as if things couldn't get any worse, an uncontrollable urge overcomes you. The panic is momentary, but the shame that follows the realization that you've peed your pants is far more potent. This is something you’ve never experienced, but starts to feel more and more familiar, an embarrassing incontinence problem that’s marred you since you were a teenager. Just another mark against your former coolness.

But the most distressing change comes last. Memories of rocking stages, of endless nights of passion, and the artistry of music start to blur, replaced by memories of a past that isn't yours. You remember being shoved into lockers, the stinging humiliation of public wedgies, the nights spent huddled over a Dungeons & Dragons game instead of getting head from a gaggle of groupies. The word virgin comes to mind, because that’s what you are, a virgin.  A gay virgin who’s never had the confidence to make the first move.  Thinking about such an act makes your acne-ridden cheeks heat up. 

Finally, you recall a name that is not Etch, but instead Ernest.  Ernest Bartholomew Humphries. Your hands shake as you run them through your buzzcut, wondering just how on earth you’d stayed up this late.  You need to get some rest for your new IT job tomorrow, dork.

[derekhighwaytf]

Lucky Eagle

Luke McMoss was used to dealing with the consequences of his clients' indiscretions. That’s what he did best, after all, manipulating the law with ruthless finesse to save the reputations of those with massive fortunes. This case was no different: a powerful CEO, a sex worker, an unexpected pregnancy, you get the gist. But as he ensured his client walked away unscathed, no strings attached, the woman had leveled a gaze at Luke that sent shivers down his spine. "You’ll get a taste of your own medicine one day, Mr. McMoss," she warned, her eyes gleaming with a peculiar kind of satisfaction.

At the time, he'd dismissed it as a parting shot from a woman scorned.  Whores like her were a dime a dozen and they stood no match to Luke’s power and intelligence, so all he did was shoot her smirk and think about all the ways he was superior to her.

Oh, was he about to regret that smirk.

Hours later, as he came up to the counter to purchase a new suit from some high-end 5th Avenue boutique, his AmEx Platinum card declined. He tried again, but it still declined.  A few more declined cards later, the cashier made eyes to security and before Luke knew it, his ass was thrown to the streets.  Confusion turned into a disturbing reality as he checked his phone and found his bank account mysteriously depleted, every penny gone.  It made no sense.  The second he got home, he was gonna figure out what kind of bullshit was truly going on.

But as he began his walk back home, an odd sensation washed over him. It started as a subtle tingle before it spread out, seeping into his skin like a virus. The expensive threads of his current (and now only) suit began to evaporate as if consumed by invisible flames, leaving him bare save for a scandalously minimal thong inscribed with the word “Lucky” on the back. Heat rushed to both his cheeks, his usual poise replaced by acute embarrassment as he stood there amidst the bustling city life.

But the strangeness didn't stop there. His body began to transform too. His once lean physique, the product of a naturally high metabolism, bloated out with raw power. His arms swelled, veins snaking across them like streams to a river. His pectorals and abs hardened, each muscle group becoming strikingly defined, their contours almost a clay sculpture. He could feel his thighs thicken, his calves become tight, turning him into an embodiment of primal, unadulterated gym strength.

Then came an almost painful sensation at his scalp. His hand instinctively reached up, only to encounter a texture he had never felt before– the short, rough bristle of a buzz cut. Looking into a window’s reflection, he watched in horror as strands of his impeccably styled, hundred dollar hairstyle transformed themselves into a cheap $5 buzz.

Luke, now unrecognizable to even himself, returned home to find his sleek, modern loft had undergone a transformation even crazier than his own. The sleek Manhattan complex was now a dingy, neon-lit gay club, the air charged with Britney music and sexual tension.  Suddenly, some sleezeball in a fur coat named Tony emerged from the crowd, his eyes gleaming at Luke with amusement as he ushered him towards the stage.

"Get out there, Lucky!" he urged, the nickname hitting Luke like a thunderclap. Suddenly, he was no longer Luke McMoss, the successful, sophisticated attorney. Instead, he went by Lucky and this was his favorite song.

His polished intellect faded to nothing, replaced instead by memories of a constant hunger to be big, be sexy, and be filled.  After his set was finished for the night, Tony introduced Lucky to the client Luke represented earlier that day.  Luke had no idea this asshole was bi, but Lucky didn’t care either way.  As long as he was giving, Lucky was more than happy to receive.

[derekhighwaytf]

InstaCub

I loved the Cha Cha Room.  It was as exclusive as it was expensive, but hey that’s the price you pay when you’re a social media sensation.  Being Trey, the sexy instagram model wasn’t without its downsides, however.  The worst thing was when guys who should’ve known that someone of my caliber wouldn’t be interested in them tried to hit on me.  Sure, I fucked my fans regularly, but only the ones that shared my dedication to beauty.  I couldn’t help that I was born gorgeous.

My entourage, an aesthetically curated group of other models (all only slightly less attractive than myself) walked into the Cha Cha Room, ready to be gawked at, each of us oozing beauty and charisma. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, their eyes filled with awe, desire, and, my favorite, envy.

But amongst that sea, there was one guy that forced me to do a double take.  Doug, rounder and balder than anyone else, didn't fit the usual demographic that came to Cha Cha. It was a mystery how he must’ve slipped his way in when security wasn’t looking, because there was no chance they’d ever willingly allow someone who looked like that to enter such exclusive premises.  And, to make matters worse, when he caught me staring at his odd appearance, he began to make his way toward me, a small, devious smile playing on his lips.

"Can I buy you a drink?," he asked.  I raised an eyebrow, my lips curling into a smirk.  Sure, he was far beneath my standards, but I loved teasing my inferiors, especially when it comes with a free drink.  "Well, aren't you a sweetheart," I replied, trying to hide my disdain for his smelly, musky demeanor.

As we talked and I pretended to listen, he must’ve farted at least three times, but I wanted to be nice, so I held my breath and counted the seconds till I could rejoin my way cooler group of friends.  However, when Doug began flirting, I couldn’t help it.  A chuckle bubbled up from my chest and I shook my head, saying "Doug, was it?  No amount of drinks in this club could make me think you're anything but fat, smelly, and bald."

“And what’s wrong with that?” he said earnestly.  “This is a bar for fat, smelly, bald guys after all.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.  Just as the words escaped my lips, I noticed something strange. As my eyes scanned the crowd, I realized that everyone, even my formerly flawless friends, looked just like Doug. They’d grown beards, their hair on their head was gone, and they all had guts the size of bowling balls.  I felt a chill run down my spine as I started to walk away.

“I must be in the wrong place.  I don’t belong here,” I said, just barely missing the door.  But before I could free myself from this hellhole, Doug stopped me and said, “Yes you do.  I think you fit in perfectly.”

Suddenly, my Gucci shirt felt tight around my midsection, and my once firm arms now felt doughy. As I turned to leave, a full-length mirror on the wall revealed a shocking transformation.   I reached up and where once were lush and thick chestnut locks, was now greeted the cold, bare skin of a rapidly receding hairline, retreating with alarming speed, creating an expanding dome of skin I’d never seen before.

Clumps of my hair began to detach themselves from my scalp, falling gently to the club floor. Each strand felt like a piece of my identity, a piece of Trey, falling away to reveal the bald truth underneath. I watched in frozen terror, feeling each follicle detach until all that remained was nothing but a smooth, shiny surface. I was as bald as an egg.

And then I farted.

Pffffffft.

I was disgusted with myself for only a moment, until I started to let a hearty chuckle much deeper than my old voice.

I looked in the mirror again, my face so much more different than it was ten minutes ago—familiar, but not the one I had painstakingly maintained for the world to admire. Suddenly, the world seemed to shift as a flood of memories washed over me. I wasn't Trey, the Instagram sensation. I was Tom, a twenty-something, bald, overweight man who didn’t shower, farted every five minutes, and fucked anyone who’d have me.  This was my bar and I was gonna make sure all my fellow cubs had a good time

As the rock music blared and the crowd at Tommy’s Den started to become increasingly alluring to me, I was suddenly hit with a wave of unfulfilled desire, a need for cock.  So I pulled Doug aside to the bathroom and…well you can guess what happened next.

I was Tom now, and, honestly, my life was so much better…

Pffffffffft.

[derekhighwaytf]

The Golden Boy

Dressed head to toe in Ralph Lauren, Rolex watch glistening on his wrist, Spencer Harrington was the spitting image of New England privilege.  He truly had it all: money, good looks, intelligence beyond even his most high-brow peers.  He was only twenty-one and had already published two best-selling poetry novels and was head of the most exclusive secret society at Yale.  Once he graduated, he planned to propose to his most perfect girlfriend and, just like his father, have the most perfect son to follow in his footsteps.

But then he saw the lamp.

It was a family heirloom that had sat at Harrington Mansion for centuries, the only piece of metal in the house that wasn't polished daily by the staff.  If his father had not been so adamant about keeping it untouched, then it probably would have been thrown out years ago, replaced with something shinier and newer, as had Spencer's last few stepmothers.

But his father was firm about the lamp.  It was to never be moved, never be touched.

Spencer, however, couldn’t help but smirk at the idea. The thrill of the unknown added an edge to his usual smug demeanour.  Despite all the whispered warnings and tales about the lamp, Spencer was eager to see what secrets it held. Without a moment of hesitation, his hands began to rub the lamp's worn surface. Suddenly, an otherworldly glow engulfed the room, and a cloud of dark, misty smoke spiraled out from the lamp.

The figure that emerged from the smoke was nothing short of breathtaking. He towered at an imposing height, muscles rippling beneath his bronzed skin. His jet-black hair fell carelessly onto his forehead, framing a face that was sharp and remarkably handsome. His emerald green eyes twinkled with a blend of mischief and malice. This being, whoever he was, was the essence of danger, awe, and power, and all Spencer could do was stare blankly at his form.

"Spencer Harrington," the figure addressed him, his voice booming through the room. Spencer recoiled, his smugness shaken by the figure's commanding presence. "I am Sakhir, born from this lamp and bound to its curse."

“Are…are you some sort of genie?” Spencer asked.

“A genie?!”  Sakhir laughed mercilessly at such an accusation, letting his ominous chuckles hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "I am no wish granter, Spencer Harrington. No, quite the contrary. I offer not boons, but curses, to the ones who dare summon me."

Sakhir’s announcement echoed through the silence as Spencer stood silent, agonizing over what fate this “Anti-Genie” was about to bring upon him.

"You, Spencer Harrington," the Anti-Genie began, "Are a child of privilege, born into a life of luxury, a life you've never earned." The words were cold and hard, piercing Spencer's usual indifference.

With a sweeping motion of his arm, the Anti-Genie continued, "Your first curse, dear Spencer, is to lose all your family's wealth. You shall understand the hardships of those you've long considered beneath you." 

Before Spencer could utter a protest, the room spun wildly. When his vision cleared, he was no longer in the lavish living room of his family's mansion. Instead, he found himself in a cramped, rundown apartment, its peeling wallpaper and old, worn-out furniture a stark contrast to the Harrington mansion. His preppy clothes had been replaced with a simple white wifebeater and jeans, a price tag still hanging off it – $4.99.

His Rolex? Gone. The comfort of his privileged life? Gone.  And his scrawny, delicate body?  Also gone. His pecs, his arms, his legs, they all grew massive and rugged, the result of a life filled with manual labor and hard work. A strange, cold sensation of shock washed over him as he realized he had become a stranger in his own life. The country club he’d gone to all his life was now replaced with a dingy bar, his regular hangout. The Harringtons, once the town's richest family, were now “low class white trash” as the town's elite would say.

Spencer stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. The man staring back at him was still a Harrington, yet, so different. The physical transformation was a shock, but the sudden shift from a life of privilege to an existence of struggles was what shook him to his core. Sakhir’s first curse had already altered his life beyond recognition.

Disoriented by the sudden shift in his world, Spencer attempted to regain his composure. His pride, inherited from generations of Harringtons, refused to be quieted. The room may have changed, his clothes and surroundings might be different, but he was still a Harrington, goddamit!

Looking up, Spencer met Sakhir's gaze. "You think this changes anything?" he spat, the usual smugness on his face replaced with a defiant glare. "I'm still Spencer Harrington! You can't change who I am inside!"

His proclamation was met with an amused smirk from the Anti-Genie. "Ah, the naïveté of youth," he said, his emerald eyes glinting with an insidious joy. "Let's see about that, shall we?"

With another sweeping motion of his arm, the Anti-Genie said, "Your second curse, Spencer, is to lose all your intelligence. Your fascination with poetry, literature, art and all the delicate intricacies of high society will be replaced with a fondness for...simpler pleasures."

A rush of wind filled the room, and Spencer felt a throbbing pain at his temples. Suddenly, words that once came so easily to him seemed to slip from his mind. His tongue felt heavy, sentences becoming jumbled in his head. The eloquent Spencer Harrington, once the star of literary society and university clubs, could now only grasp simple words and phrases no longer than five letters. His thoughts were no longer about poetry or literature, but football, beer, and other primal desires. His IQ, once a proud 135, plummeted to a mere 80.

Spencer, now struggling to put together even a simple sentence, looked around the room. The literature and art that once filled his life were replaced with sports magazines, porno mags, and the stench of weed. His life was simpler, focused more on the here and now rather than philosophical questions or artistic appreciation. The weight of the Anti-Genie's second curse made itself known, his life further straying from the privileged existence he once knew.

Struggling to form a cohesive thought, Spencer could only stare in bewildered silence at the Anti-Genie. The very essence of who he was had been altered. He could no longer comprehend the deep, intellectual discussions he once relished, nor could he express himself with the eloquent vocabulary that had once effortlessly flowed from his lips.

“You done man?”

Smirking, Sakhir raised an arm for the final time. "Your transformation isn't quite complete, Spencer. Your final curse shall be to lead a new life, one more suited to your newfound disposition."

Before Spencer could protest, his surroundings changed once more. The cramped apartment vanished, replaced by a gas station's dingy surroundings. Spencer felt his casual white wifebeater and jeans shift against his body. Looking down, he saw a soiled uniform and the name "Sam" embroidered onto the nametag. He instinctively ran a hand over the coarse fabric, the reality of his new life hitting him like a physical blow.

But before he could fully process his new attire, a strange tingling sensation started at the top of his head. It was as though an invisible barber had started their work, the once lush locks that Spencer took immense pride in seemed to release themselves, slowly falling away from his scalp. He reached up, a sense of dread filling him as his fingers grazed over sandpapery skin. The locks, a testament to his vanity, were disappearing rapidly.

The sensation intensified, until all he could focus on was the odd feeling of his hair vanishing. It was as though each follicle was surrendering its hair without any resistance. The transformation was painless yet terrifying. Spencer tried to grab onto his vanishing hair, but his hands met nothing but scalp.

In a matter of moments his once beautiful hair, the last remnant of Spencer’s old, privileged life, a feature that had drawn many admiring glances and compliments, was gone. His head now reflected the dim lights of the gas station.

And then, the final blow fell. "From this day forward, Spencer Harrington is no more," the Anti-Genie declared, his voice echoing through the small gas station. "Now you are nothing but Sam Harris, the local town...let’s say “professional”."

Stunned, Spencer—no, Sam now—looked around his new environment. He found a joint and a lighter in his pocket, the smell instantly recognisable and comforting. As he lit up, he got a sudden craving for something else in his mouth.  I mean, he was the town prostitute after all.

He opened up his phone and met up with the first person who’d give him ten dollars, which was chump change for Spencer, but more than enough for good ol’ Sam.

His old life was now a distant memory. He had no comprehension of his former intellect or wealth, nor the privilege he once wielded. The golden boy of the Harrington family was no more and all the locals looking for a new cumdump were all the happier for it.

[derekhighwaytf]

Eli had sparked quite a reputation as a college sophomore. His infamous university-wide anti-military protests had piqued the attention of Professor Frank Marshall, an American History professor who was once a marine himself. When Eli's final essay, a biting, yet flawed case for slashing the American defense budget landed on Frank's desk, the professor felt compelled to bring him in for a heart-to-heart during office hours.

Eli, however, was as tenacious as he was stubborn. He sat across from Frank in the oak-lined office, launching into an impassioned tirade about banning military recruiters from all school campuses in America. Calmly, Frank handed Eli a faded photograph from his own youthful days in basic training at Parris Island.

Suddenly, Eli's art-trained eyes, usually tuned to distinguish the finest nuances in Van Gogh portraits, refocused into the unfiltered reality of a soldier's perspective. His delicate fingers, usually smeared with paint from making picket signs, hardened and darkened with dirt, pulsating with a strength he had never known. He tried to shake off the sensation, but it was no use; his body was being reformed, repurposed.

With each passing second, his scrawny physique began to shift, muscles emerging and hardening where there was none. His chest broadened, shoulders squared, and his twinkish form swelled into a formidable figure. He could feel his clothing tightening around him as he grew from a wiry 130 lbs to a solid, imposing 190 lbs of pure, hardened steel.

A savage hunger replaced his usual vegan diet, his body now craving meat and potatoes. His earring evaporated into thin air, and as his hand instinctively reached for it, he felt his free-flowing, untamed locks disappear too. His messy mane shrank into a sleek undercut, and then to a neat crew cut, and finally, a bare-bone induction cut, revealing a chiseled jawline and a gaze as sharp as an eagle’s. He reached up to feel his new haircut, rubbing his sandpaper head, his growing eight inch plank of wood grinding up against his camouflage uniform.

Eli tried to resist the transformation as best he could, his spirit rebelling against this sudden sense of discipline and masculinity. But every attempt was futile; he was no longer the one in control.

His memories of avant-garde performances and wine-soaked nights were replaced by grueling morning drills and punishing workout sessions. Deep down, he wanted to reach out for his paints, his brushes, but his hands instead found the photo of young Frank Marshall morphing into a snapshot of a young soldier, one of himself—no longer Eli, but Elijah. A proud American willing to do anything to protect his country.  His artistic aspirations were relegated to the backburner, the space in his mind taken over by his new military identity.

Frank watched as Eli's rebellious spark was now smothered by the spirit of a Marine. Now, there was only Elijah—a paragon of strength, duty, and masculinity. Despite his desperate efforts, Eli had morphed into the one thing he had sworn never to be. His rebellious spirit was finally tamed, replaced by the steady, dutiful beat of a Marine.