O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

New York Fucking City (musc)

by Aardvark

The start of the night came in the form of three quick raps on a hotel room door. The occupants of the room, two young men named Daniel and Grayson, recognized the code – the first few notes of the drum part to Macklemore’s Thrift Shop – and had been waiting for it, only turning out the lights for when the chaperone patrolled the halls. The darkness of the room enhanced the everlasting illumination coming from the avenue below; the signs advertising delis and diamonds never shut off, just like the city that contained them.

In the hall stood another boy, Jeremy, who was the same age as the other two. The door barely opened but he managed to slip right in, his grin visible even in the dark.

“You’re late!” Daniel’s voice was almost a hiss. The three boys held out their iPhones as makeshift flashlights to see each other’s faces.

“I had to wait for Finn to fall asleep, dumbass, I texted you.”

“I didn’t get it. The service in here sucks.”

“Turn on the light, turn on the light.” Grayson reached into the inky blackness of the bathroom and ran his palm up and down the walls until he found the light switch. He flicked it on and the three boys scurried inside, shutting the door behind them.

“No smoke alarm in here, right?”

“Nope.”

“Why are we whispering?” Grayson raised his voice to a normal conversational tone. “This is a nice hotel. The walls aren’t cardboard, no one’s gonna hear us if we’re not yelling.”

Jeremy nodded and laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s just fun to sneak around.” He sat down Indian-style on the floor, plugged the bath drain and squirted some shampoo on the empty floor of the bathtub. Then, he turned on the showerhead as Daniel stuffed towels under the crack of the door.

“You bring it?”

“Oh noooo, I forgot it,” Jeremy said in an extremely fake tone. “Of course I brought it, idiot.”

Taking a bus from Indiana to New York City had been a bitch, but at least it had fixed the problem of getting a pipe and a bag of weed through airport security. Daniel had provided the former; Jeremy, the latter. All Grayson had needed to bring was a homemade sploof, which they wound up not using anyway.

“It’s a good thing we brought the pipe. Joints are way too smoky for a hotel.”

“Yeah, this is way better.” Daniel reached out and flicked his lighter’s flame over the pipe as Grayson inhaled the smoke first into his mouth, then his lungs. The pipe made its way around the circle as each boy took a hit, followed by a swig of Budweiser that Jeremy had swiped off a room service cart abandoned in the hallway.

“What if we just-” Grayson coughed lightly before he continued speaking, “-what if we just smoked a shitload of weed onstage at Carnegie Hall during the show?”

“Dude,” Jeremy chuckled, “that’d be so dope.”

“Dope!”

They all laughed. Grayson, already feeling pretty heavy, slid back and conked his head on the toilet, which caused them all to laugh harder.

They were all skinny in the way that high school boys were, their bodies slim from the constant traipsing around the field during marching band practice. It was hard to call them ‘band geeks,’ because they certainly weren’t geeky and enjoyed their reputation of being the bad boys of the high school band, even though the extent of their misbehavior was partying. They were more social than most of their musical peers and took pride in that fact.

“I’m gonna be so fucking hungry in a half-hour. Does anyone have food?”

“Fuck.”

“No.”

“Mini-bar?”

“No, we’d be in deep shit. Don’t touch it.”

“We should just…” Daniel leaned against the bathroom counter to keep upright, the weed really starting to hit him. “We should just run out and get some snacks and stuff.”

“D’you think we’d get in trouble?”

“I mean, I’m sure if we got caught we’d just tell them we were hungry. They can’t let us starve!”

In their current state, this made perfect sense.

“This is probably a bad idea,” Grayson giggled, too far gone to care.

“Whatever.” They had rocketed right past the tipping point, thanks to their low tolerances, and dipped right into stoned drunkenness. They each took another hit and two swigs of beer, finishing off the can, burping and coughing in equal measure as they fanned out the bathroom.

“It doesn’t smell too bad,” Jeremy said, shutting off the water and nearly falling into the tub as he did so.

“I want some Cheetos.”

“Yeaaahhhh.”

Daniel looked through the peephole in the door. “We’re clear so far.”

“Don’t forget your wallet,” Grayson said, giving the billfold a terrible throw. It fell on the ground and all three boys guffawed as Daniel squatted down to pick it up, doing his best to not fall over. They gingerly stuck their heads through the door then stumbled down the hallway to the stairwell, where they walked down two flights before taking the elevator the rest of the way.

“Dude, I’m so fucked up,” Jeremy giggled as he leaned against the mirrored elevator’s glass. “My eyes are so red. And look at yooou,” he teased to Daniel with a point. “You look so sleepy!”

“I AM sleepy!”

More laughter. Grayson burped. It took them several moments to realize that the elevator had reached the lobby and the doors had long since opened. They staggered out, heads pounding as the lobby spun around them. “Which—which…hey! Hey, which way’s the way to get outta here?”

The hotel staffer pointed toward the obvious door. “Thanks,” Daniel said with a wave of his hand. They all walked onto the New York City sidewalks like marionettes, their bodies moving with the strange detachment that comes from smoking and drinking. Their heads felt too light while their legs were too damn heavy. And everything was hilarious.

They walked into the first shop they saw, laughing loudly while bumping into each other and strangers with equal frequency. The store had one step up, which Jeremy missed completely, sending him crashing into Grayson’s back, who in turn fell into a rack of postcards. Half of the cards fluttered to the floor, and Grayson crumpled several as he struggled onto his feet. “Whoops,” he said, mustering as much guilt as he could. “I…hey, GUYS, we really shouldn’t, shouldn’t be doing this.”

“D’you have any CHEETOS?!” Daniel was yelling the question far too loudly. The only other two customers in the tourist trap store walked out, leaving the boys alone with a very irritated, but silent, shopkeeper.

“Guys! Guys!” Jeremy held up a t-shirt over his head. It was black, with white letters across the front that read NEW YORK FUCKIN CITY, with no apostrophe. “We should get these, this shit’s cool.” He knocked over the whole pile and found three smalls for him and his buddies. Daniel held out his hand and motioned for Jeremy to throw him one, which Jeremy attempted to do, but with the boys’ dulled senses both the throw and catch were way off course, and Daniel’s errant hand sent a cheap snowglobe smashing to the floor.

The shopkeeper had finally seen enough. In an unidentifiable accent, he ordered them to leave. “Out! Out!”

“Easy, dude, here’s ten bucks for the t-shirts and the whatever that is.” Jeremy held out a bill and Grayson and Daniel each fished into their pockets for the few singles they had.

“That not enough money! They more! Out! You think you cool, you think you come in here and ruin.”

“This guy doesn’t speak English,” Daniel laughed, “Let’s go.”

The shopkeeper made a grab for the t-shirts in Jeremy’s hand but Jeremy darted out of the door, hooting and hollering.

“You think you own this shop! You think you real New Yorker? Well then fine, be real New Yorker! You see what it’s like!” The shopkeeper pounded his palm against the counter of his store. “Be real New Yorker!” He pounded it again, yelling louder. “Then you can act like cool guy!” Pound, pound, pound. The walls of the shop actually shook. Grayson and Daniel ran out, more freaked than guilty.

Jeremy was already waiting at the street corner over, preparing to head to a more densely populated avenue so that they could see the real New York in all its glory. Their band fundraising had paid for a nice, new hotel, but one several avenues over from Times Square and the bustle that the City was famous for.

“I feel kinda bad,” Grayson said as he took his t-shirt from Jeremy. All three boys were short and thin enough that they easily slid into the small tees. NEW YORK FUCKIN CITY, read all three of their chests.

“Me too. But we paid for it, whooooaaa,” Daniel said, as he nearly tripped from the uneven sidewalks they were walking on. The paths were hard enough to walk sober, but with a thumping head and marionette legs, they became damn near impossible to navigate.

“Hey, my shirt has a G,” Grayson said, analyzing his shirt against his friends’. “Fuckin-guh,” he read, over-pronouncing the last letter.

“Huh?”

“See, your guys’s says ‘Fuckin’.’ Mine says ‘Fucking.’”

“You’re so special,” Jeremy cooed in a baby voice.

“I ammmm,” Grayson agreed with equal sweetness.

“So where’re we headed? We could probably stay out all night if we wa-whoohoaa.” Daniel again misstepped and this time nearly knocked Jeremy over.

“Havin’ trouble walking there, bro?”

“Guess so. These fuckin’ sidewalks are so uneven.”

“I’m doing pretty good,” Grayson said, although it did feel like he didn’t have any feet, yet he somehow managed to stay the course anyway.

“Well then, I musta drank more than you. Hey, we’re walking in the right direction,” Daniel said, raising his finger. “Lookit all the neon.”

“I’m still hungry as shit. McDonald’s sounds like THE bomb.”

The trio rounded the corner and were pleased to find a large increase in the civilization surrounding them. Bars, shops, food trucks, restaurants, tiny Off-Broadway theaters, even a porn shop or two, all greeting their eyes. “It’s all open,” Jeremy said, wide-eyed. “It’s 10:30 and every single place is open!”

“You can’t even go to Burger King past 8:00 back home,” Grayson said.

Grayson and Jeremy heard a thud and looked down to see Daniel sprawled behind them on the sidewalk. With their reactions blunted, neither made a quick move to help him up, and instead they chuckled aimlessly as Daniel rose to his feet, brushing cigarette butts off of himself.

“I forgot how to walk,” Daniel said, half-jokingly. He limped up to his buddies and noticed a high stool against a nearby wall. “I should just sit my drunk ass down and not move ‘til I sober up,” he slurred, plopping himself onto the top of the stool and letting his feet dangle a foot off the ground. “You guys go on without me,” he said, completely serious.

“Okay,” Jeremy shrugged, starting to move on, but Grayson, even in his haze, knew that was too terrible of an idea to go through with. “Nah D, we’ll hang out until you feel…holy shit what’s wrong with your foot?”

Daniel tried to look down but his head just lolled around on his neck. Jeremy didn’t bother looking at all. But Grayson did look, with vacant curiosity, at Daniel’s foot as it swung back and forth in the air. Daniel’s left Adidas sneaker had ripped apart at the sides and in front, leaving his toes sticking out a solid two inches from where they were supposed to be contained. The ruined canvas draped over the top of his large foot like a strange adornment, and it was all the odder to see Daniel’s right foot looking totally normal, albeit half the size of his now-huge left one.

“Dude, your foot’s, like, all swollen or something. You’re bursting out of your shoe.”

Daniel just shrugged. “Eh.”

The laces of Daniel’s right sneaker suddenly thrust straight up, before the sole of the shoe detached and the entire shoe split apart like a baked potato. Pieces of rubber rained onto the sidewalk as Daniel’s right foot grew five sizes to match his left. It looked like he was wearing swimfins. The weight of his bigger feet seemed to pull downward, and slowly the bones in his legs began to lengthen, down, down, until his feet rested gently on the sidewalk, and twelve inches of leg were visible below the hem of his jeans. Daniel sat, relaxed, with his flipper-feet and high-water pants not troubling his mind at all.

Grayson, however, was having a bad trip. All he could think of while staring at Daniel’s gigantic feet, was the ‘Big feet, big dick’ myth. So he looked at Daniel’s crotch, which was flat and nearly sexless – but as Grayson watched, the area between Daniel’s legs inflated like a balloon being filled with water. The denim had to stretch and groan as it filled in with an outrageously male appendage; Daniel’s balls swelling out in front and his shaft being forced out of his underwear and down the side of his thigh, where it looked like he was smuggling a summer squash.

“Eyes up here, dickbag,” Daniel laughed, covering his still-growing junk with one hand, not realizing that the his own green eyes were starting to speckle themselves brown. His elbows popped, his shoulders stretched, his hips re-aligned of their own accord, all in the span of a few seconds to match his long legs. And suddenly, Daniel was tall.

“Are you seeing this?!” Grayson’s words were panicked but still slurred as he whirled around to speak to Jeremy. But Jeremy wasn’t watching or even paying attention. He had instead stumbled over to the side of a building and was trying to fish his dick out of his underwear so he could pee. “Jer, don’t do that, c’mon,” Grayson whined, momentarily distracted. “There could be cops around.”

“Better cut dat shit,” roared a deep, authoritative voice. “Ain’t nobody pissin’ on my sidewalk.”

Grayson whirled around, expecting to see a policeman, but instead he just saw Daniel, still seated on the stool and now looking irritated. Grayson craned his neck to look behind Daniel, but no one was there. It wasn’t until Daniel looked right at him and said, in the same commanding growl, “Whatchu lookin’ at, little man?” that Grayson realized his friend’s voice had changed dramatically. Not just the pitch, which was down several octaves, but the volume, cadence and texture as well. It was exactly the type of voice you’d expect from a guy with a bulge as big as a coconut.

“Alright, guys,” Grayson said out loud, although both of his friends seemed to be ignoring him, “let’s sneak back into the hotel, let’s get some…rest…”

Grayson had never seen anyone’s hair recede into their head before, but that was what was happening to Daniel: his head was sucking up his long brown hair like a vacuum, until it had all but disappeared, leaving nothing more than a shadow of black stubble. Daniel’s eyebrows were starting to shift to black when Jeremy ambled up to him. “Alright,” Jeremy hiccupped, “if I can’t pee out here, I’ll go inside.”

With Jeremy in front of him, it was clear how much taller Daniel had become. Jeremy standing up was the same height as Daniel sitting on the stool. And with Jeremy serving as the point of comparison, it became suddenly clear that Daniel was slowly getting wider, too. His shoulders were steadily increasing in their breadth, and his ribs were gently tugging themselves apart one by one. When he clamped a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder to stop him from going past, the fingers started popping and growing, too. “Can’t letchu do dat,” he rumbled.

“Do what? Take a leak?”

The bulging veins in Daniel’s hands spread up over his forearms and biceps, and his arms swelled slightly in response, tightening the sleeves of his t-shirt. The fabric under his arms began wrinkling up as his biceps and triceps took up more space and left the sleeves with nowhere to go but up. Daniel’s elbows popped for a second time as the joint re-shaped to make room for the muscle growing around it; his twiggy forearms quickly doubled in size and then grew further from there, the sinews throbbing and stretching to get as big as they could. Daniel’s biceps pushed out like softballs under his skin, growing larger by the moment, but the real magic was happening on his triceps, which were becoming monstrously large, like batwings growing out of the backs of his arms. The hand on Jeremy’s shoulder was now as big as an oven mitt, with a visible muscle bulging up from between his thumb and ring finger.

“Ow!” Jeremy tried to wrench free from the grip, but Daniel’s exponentially growing strength easily held firm. “Let go of me, dude!”

Daniel let go with a little shove, sending Jeremy stumbling all the way to the other side of the sidewalk. “Donchu be fuckin’ walkin’ past me,” Daniel snarled as he grabbed his bulge, “and I won’t fuckin’ stop ya.”

Grayson’s nerves jangled. Not only was Daniel looking different, but he was acting aggressively, and he was always such a chill dude. All three of them were chill, that’s why they were friends to begin with. Something was wrong. Daniel wasn’t supposed to look so big, or have such a deep voice, or the black eyebrows and shaved head. And someone was turning out the lights on him, too – the white letters on the front of his t-shirt were getting much harder to see, and his normally alabaster skin looked impressively tan, the color of rich caramel. There was a quick movement in the low end of Grayson’s vision, and by the time Grayson had looked down, Daniel was wearing a pair of black leather lace-up work shoes. That didn’t seem right either…

“Y’want me to piss all over myself out here?!” Jeremy spewed from across the sidewalk. “I gotta fuckin’ PISS!”

For the first time in several minutes, Daniel smiled – a tiny, amused, closed smile, withering in its tone. “McDonald’s down the block,” he said, his voice so deep that the words were hard to make out. As he pointed, his bicep knotted up as big as a cantaloupe. “Maybe getchu a Happy Meal too, yo.”

“FUCK you!” Jeremy spat, reddening.

Daniel’s reaction to this was to flex his chest, but at the moment he had no chest to flex. There was a loud noise like catapult being drawn back, and suddenly two large squares shot out under his t-shirt, his nipples poking against the thin fabric of the t-shirt. “Whatchu say to me, man?”

Grayson was sweating. “Uh, Jeremy, maybe you should stop-“

“I said fuck you, man!”

Daniel’s chest immediately doubled in size again, the t-shirt collar stretching downward to expose striations forming between his growing pecs. His nipples shifted to poke downward as the muscles in his chest thickened and bloomed with heavy weight. His arms were guided backward as his entire front filled in with a prominent, unmistakable shelf that was destined to pop buttons off any shirt he wore. “Don’t be no little bitch,” he warned gruffly as his pecs inflated. “I ain’t never lettin’ you in here if you keep startin’ dat shit, man.”

“I’m not trying to start anything, I’m trying to not piss my pants!” Jeremy yelled back in a voice that Grayson swore was deeper than a second ago. But Grayson couldn’t even look at Jeremy, with what was happening to Daniel. Daniel leapt to his feet and his entire body started to expand. His shoulders cracked and broadened, as his lats curved out so dramatically that they shoved his arms out. His head was looking positively tiny atop the bulk that was coming in. Titanic quads and powerful hamstrings filled out the legs of his jeans to bursting, which they soon did, his caramel skin exposed for only a moment before a pair of black Dockers formed. Daniel’s shirt attempted to tuck itself into the pants, but soon his chest had grown so high and proud that the hem of his shirt couldn’t reach and had to simply hang like a curtain.

A trap as big as a baseball secured itself to the side of his neck, while its mate grew in on the other side, quietly pulling Daniel’s neck wider as they framed his face, which itself was beginning to change. His deep-brown eyes rotated a few degrees as his brow expanded out over them like a canopy. Daniel’s soft cheeks lost their baby fat as his jaw squared, his nose sinking slightly into his face while his nostrils spread wide. As the teeth in his mouth grew, his lips plumped up and filled his Cupid’s bow in with one smooth curve.

His pecs, which had been growing the entire time, fully shredded the center of his t-shirt as the letters faded from view. A button grew in over his chest, then two more, the stretched collar of his tee growing points as it changed into a black polo shirt with a small logo on the breast. The open buttons exposed the top of his immense chest, each striation a testament to the size of the man Daniel had become. His giant muscles flexed and strained against the tight weave of the new polo shirt.

Grayson realized the logo embroidered on Daniel’s polo shirt was the same logo as the bar they were standing in front of. His mind still wasn’t processing that the pectoral muscle warping the logo belonged to his buddy Daniel. Daniel didn’t have pecs as big as a grown adult’s head.

The thing was, Daniel didn’t look like Daniel. Daniel looked like a 6’4” hulking Puerto Rican bouncer well into his thirties. Daniel crossed his arms, flexed his chest and sneered like a 6’4” hulking Puerto Rican bouncer well into his thirties. Danuel had the intimidating presence and foghorn bass of a 6’4” hulking Puerto Rican bouncer well into his thirties. And that was all exactly as it should be, because Manuel was a 6’4” hulking Puerto Rican bouncer well into his thirties.

Manuel Villar, not knowing he was formerly a little white band punk named Daniel, cracked his knuckles as he sat back down, thinking his confrontation with the drunk and high skinny white boy was over. He crooked a finger into the front of his polo and pulled it outward, looking down inside his shirt to see his big pecs staring back up at him. He loved that view. It was a slow weeknight and he had some time to pec-gaze.

Jeremy, however, still needed to pee. He walked right up to Manuel, who just stared amusedly down over his pecs at the kid. “Let me take a fuckin’ leak, man!”

“Jeremy, c’mon, we have to go-” Grayson reached out toward Jeremy’s shoulder to pull him back, but Jeremy swatted Grayson’s hand away violently. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

“’EY, ‘EY,” Manuel shouted, loud enough for the whole block to hear as he hopped back onto his feet. “NO.”

Grayson had never seen Jeremy so fired up before. Jeremy was the most unshakable dude ever – he was so chill that Grayson and Daniel usually had to drag him places, instead of him trying to barge his way past the massive doorman that stood in place of Daniel. Grayson, not sober enough to keep his balance, dropped to his knees after he got shoved away and had to take a long moment to get reacquainted with his surroundings. When they finally locked into place, he was looking at Jeremy’s ankles. All of his ankles, because the pant legs were sitting at calf-level, which meant…

…Jeremy was getting taller.

“Oh no,” Grayson whimpered, clutching his head as he tried to stand. And he was hearing Jeremy still yelling all the while, but Jeremy’s voice was getting deeper every second. And the words sounded more different the deeper his voice became: what had started as “I gotta fuckin’ piss here!” was now coming out with a thick accent. The tone changed as Daniel’s had, from chill and stoned to gruff, blunt and downright aggressive. And soon, the freshly-changed bass voice blasting out of Jeremy’s mouth was that of a born-and-bred New Yorker, with an accent so thick that it verged on parody.

Grayson tried to get up, but he was mesmerized by what was happening to Jeremy.

Jeremy was getting bigger.

With each angry word, Jeremy’s scrawny teenaged build was getting larger and more muscular. His arms were beginning to stretch the cotton of the profane tourist tee he wore. The seams connecting the sleeves to the t-shirt ripped apart, exposing his new upper arms. They were as big as Manuel’s, maybe even bigger, but not quite as chiseled – built by brute force, not careful curls. Jeremy’s chest built up to new dimensions inside his new sleeveless tee, muscle piling onto muscle like a stack of plates. The words warped over the mountainous pecs before the front ripped and Jeremy’s tee – the one he’d picked out – transformed into a white tank top.

“Jer-Jeremy-”

Jeremy’s build was getting bulkier and heavier with each second. Within mere moments, Jeremy had adopted on the shape normally seen on a longtime laborer. Enormous upper body, with lats like a Boeing’s wings. Big chest, bigger back and even bigger arms. He was so broad that his nipples poked out of the sides of the tank. It was not size that was carefully dieted and sculpted – he didn’t have single-digit body fat, although he did have abs, but the bulk was just sheer power. Jeremy looked like a brick wall teetering on toothpicks. The contrast was such that his lower half was going to have to change just to support the upper.

And so, his legs swelled up quickly, as his glutes blasted straight out behind him, like a sleeping giant finally awakened. It was a gravity-defying ass, paired with quads so heavy they looked like they were about to fall off. The teardrop shapes shoved up against his knees and made even the baggiest of jeans look skinny. Jeremy’s dick lengthened and got thicker, much thicker. It was lewd, watching his bulge double in size inside his tight jeans, as his never-used dick expanded into a manly fuckstick that knew exactly what to do with any hole that was presented to it. Jeremy pawed at his crotch as the foreskin grew back over his dickhead, the tip of his cock tingling with newfound sensitivity as it grew big as a doorknob. With one blink, his feet blew through his shoes; with another, steel-toed lace-up boots appeared, with the top laces undone to make room for his cantaloupe-sized calves.

There was a loud gurgling noise and Jeremy slapped his hand over his stomach. “Fawckin’ hungry,” he thundered. “Lemme in and I’ll get somethin’ to eat too! You’ll be makin’ money for your bar.”

“ID,” was all Manuel said.

Jeremy reached into his pocket and pulled out…nothing. “Fawck.” He patted around his pants, looking for a wallet. “Fawck, it was here somewhere. Can’t ya just tell I’m old enough?”

“No.” Manuel was growing visibly more annoyed.

“But I fawckin’ am,” Jeremy insisted, bouncing his shoulders and gesturing inward with his fingers, as if doing his best De Niro-in-Taxi Driver impersonation.

Grayson made another attempt at pacifism. “We should just go back to the hotel-“

“Fuck off, kid,” Jeremy snarled, while Manuel only gave a cursory look over his shoulder – which got in the way of his view – before looking back at Jeremy. The kid was shockingly huge now, as broad as barn door, but he was still clearly a kid. There were a lot of aesthetic changes that needed to occur, and as Grayson stared, a major one began taking place.

From around Jeremy’s ranting, profane mouth spread a solid sheet of pitch-black stubble. It crept slowly upward, like ivy on a building, coating his smooth cheeks, jaw and neck with impenetrably thick shadow. To Grayson, it was like watching dominos fall into their pattern. Jeremy’s five o’clock shadow - which for most men would have been a full beard – finished growing on his face, and then the hair leapt down to his chest. A few strands first appeared between his large pecs, before a forest suddenly burst forth from his burly chest, covering every inch with black fur. The curls spilled over the scoop of his tank as he grew a godly pelt. Beefy arms and rippling legs soon sprouted their own covering, and a good amount spread across his enormous back and ass.

Just as quickly as he became an astoundingly hairy man, Jeremy’s age doubled. His face got older and his jaw grew massive, reshaping his egg-shaped head into a cube, with blocky cheeks and a Neanderthal brow. But most noticeable of all was the orangey-olive tint his skin developed, as the deepening age lines in his face were joined by a long, angular nose and sensual new lips. His long surfer shag disappeared, to be replaced by a black high-and-tight. Most shocking of all, Jeremy, an avowed atheist, now bore a large tattoo on his shoulder: two praying hands holding a rosary.

Grayson stared at the mouth-breathing colossus that had replaced Jeremy. The hairy hulk had never stopped his tirade throughout his entire transformation. But what had been the amusing frustrations of a twerpy high school band stoner, became exponentially more terrifying when ripping out of the frothy, whiskered mouth of a grown – very¬ grown – muscle man. Sweat rolled over Jeremy – it was hot under all that fur – and he stank like a man should stink. Jeremy had never been a sweaty kid, but Giorgio sweat buckets all the time. Jeremy’s love of weed shifted to an obsession with cigars. Memories of an Indiana cul-de-sac reformed into a life spent in the Bronx. Giorgio’s pa had raised his boy at job sites, not on video games, watching the kid get bigger and hairier with each passing year, until the oldest son had grown into a hulking, big-dicked Italian stud that did their famiglia proud.

“It’s fuckin’ BULLSHIT!” Gio roared, as a yellow hard hat plopped onto his head and a hi-viz vest – still too small to contain his hairy bulk – wrapped around him. He yanked a dirty bandana out of his pocket and wiped his mouth as he finally ran out of breath.

Manuel had long since zoned out. “Oh,” he drawled, “you done?”

Gio’s dark eyes blazed. The Italian stallion clenched his fists and spread his lats as wide as they’d go. “I’mma piss all over you if I don’t get in there.”

“Can’t have some dirty-ass construction worker goin’ through a bar, what’s wrong witchu? Ain’tchu got a porta-john, man?”

Grayson looked at the two giants staring each other down, jaws clenched. “I…I’m gonna go get help,” he stammered, head still pounding. He felt sleepy from all the substances and was running off pure adrenaline. “I left my phone at the hotel.”

Neither Gio nor Manuel responded to him, which annoyed Grayson. He was trying to help them. Couldn’t they see that?

“HEY,” he said louder, mustering assertion. “I SAID I’m gonna go get HELP.”

“I got dis, kid,” Manuel said, never turning his head. “Don’t need no help.”

“Yes you do! That guy - he put a curse on us or something! He-”

“Fuck off, little man,” Manuel commanded. “You scarin’ away business.”

“DON’T INTERRUPT ME, MOTHERFUCKER,” Grayson yelled, immediately clapping his hand over his mouth as he turned crimson red. “Sorry, I-“

“Where’s your mommy,” Gio taunted, leering over his glossy chest hair. “You’re out pretty late.”

Grayson bristled angrily. “I – I’m not out that late! It’s not even a school night! And besides, you don’t know how old I am!” His voice suddenly dropped an octave. “I could be a lot older than I look!” Grayson’s pants slowly crept up above his shoes as he began growing taller, inching upward so gradually that no one noticed at first. “You’re being extremely disrespectful to me!” A small bald spot, about as big as a quarter, appeared on the back of his head, but no one could see it, even as it began getting larger.

“Yeah, whatever kid,” Gio laughed. “Go boss around someone your own size.”

“I am your size,” Grayson observed correctly, as his body stretched another three inches and put him at eye-level with Giorgio.

Manuel stood up at that point, his chest pressing into Grayson’s arm. “You ain’t mine tho’.”

Goaded on, Grayson sprouted again, his limbs elongating him up to Manuel’s height. “Actually, I am,” he said proudly, as the bald spot on the back of his head grew to the size of a small saucer. “Looks like I’m the tallest one here.” With three more loud pops he sprang up to six-five, then six-six, before finishing at a ceiling-scraping six-foot-seven, more than a foot taller than he had been moments before. Grayson looked down at Gio and Manuel. Neither man looked much smaller, because they were both so thick and beefy, but the vantage point certainly improved things.

Manuel, no longer able to prove his point, sat down and made his pecs dance. Gio crossed his legs and did as manly a version he could muster of the potty dance. “See? Taller than both y’all motherfuckers,” Grayson said. “Now I’m gonna go and get us some help.”

“Whatever gets ridda yo ass.”

“That’s enough o’ that bullshit!” Grayson roared, his voice dropping again.
Manuel smirked. “Whatchu say to me, man?”

“I didn’t fuckin’ stutter,” Grayson thundered, every word further changing the pitch of his voice, pushing it farther and farther down the scale. He put his hands on his hips in an authoritative stance. “I said, that is enough o’ that BULLSHIT.” Before the eyes of the Puerto Rican doorman and Italian construction worker, Grayson began his own change. The words on his t-shirt started to fade from view, except for the last four letters of ‘FUCKING,’ which were getting brighter.

“The fawck is wrong with this kid?” Gio laughed to Manuel.

“’This kid’? ‘THIS KID’?” Grayson’s eyes got wide as he spoke without thinking of the words. They just tumbled out of him like he was a puppet, as his voice finished its deepening and left him with a bottom-trawling bass. “Man, what’s wrong with you?” His sneakers exploded apart, raining rubber all over the sidewalk, revealing a pair of huge, veiny feet. “I’m standin’ right here. So fuckin’ disrespectful, man, what is wrong with you? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

“What’d you say about my mama?” Gio puffed up his chest, nearly snapping the straps of his tank top.

Grayson physically recoiled from fear of the construction worker, but his voice had a different action – it started laughing in low, rolling chuckle. He covered his mouth, but soon his shoulders were shaking, and as they shook, they spread, the seams of his t-shirt starting to pull apart as his delts swelled. The t-shirt, already hiked above his stomach, began to stretch at the sides, too.

“Thought that’d get yo’ attention,” Grayson heard himself say. “And I said, what’s wrong witchu? Ain’t yo’ mama teach you no manners?”

Gio’s round, dark eyes narrowed as he eyed the very tall kid. “That ain’t exactly what you said, tho’…”

Grayson’s shoulders catapulted outward, his entire body suddenly spreading as wide as the sidewalk. His body underwent multiple seismic shifts as it changed itself from an I-shaped silhouette – the same width from top to bottom – to an X. “Tha fuck you say to me?” Grayson’s internal fear was abating as he grew larger. The words he was speaking were strangely making more sense.

Manuel butted in. “What happened to runnin’ for help?”

“Help?” The bald spot now covered the entire back and top of Grayson’s head, exposing the lilywhite skin underneath, untouched by sunlight. “Oh yeah…”

“You were buggin’ a second ago, man.”

“Tha fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?” Grayson’s ass suddenly propped up inside his pants, and then developed massively, the jeans shifting to make room for the two basketball-sized glutes that now protruded out of Grayson’s lower back. Daniel had grown from the bottom up, Jeremy had gone from top to bottom, but Grayson was changing back to front. His calves were juicing up, and the trapezii that hugged his spine now looked like two pool noodles stuck to his back. His lats were pulled out by magic and down by gravity, and then they started getting dense, giant concrete drapes shredding the side of his t-shirt. As his inner traps grew football-sized and a triangular Christmas tree revealed itself over spinal erectors, ridges and knots popped out all over his back, like a landscape coming to life.

Likewise, Grayson’s hamstrings pumped up so big they looked like a second pair of glutes fastened under his actual ones, sweeping out from his knees with eye-popping size. The magic was doing enough to keep Grayson’s pants wrapped like cellophane around his fresh new muscles, but it didn’t do enough to keep the seat of his pants from splitting open, debuting a pair of red Under Armour briefs with a strip of sweat between the two giant ass cheeks.

“You were buggin’ out, like you needed help or somethin’,” Manuel insisted, gesturing back and forth on the sidewalk.

“Yeah?” Grayson crossed his arms over his flat chest, catching the hairs that were falling off the front of his head. “What I say?”

“Somethin’ ‘bout a man cursin’ us.” Manuel and Gio both chuckled, their big pecs quaking.

A memory tickled the back of Grayson’s mind. His eyes suddenly bugged out as he remembered, and he immediately became aware of the fact that the skin on the backs of his arms was stretching as two massive triceps sprouted there. He stuck his hand under his arm and tickled the new striations of his crescent-shaped tri. “Aw, shit! What is…ohhhh, dis is…I mean, THIS is bad.” His heart began racing again, pounding underneath the only remaining letters on his t-shirt: KING. “I should go get help!” Grayson gripped his throat, his fingers digging into the tops of his meaty traps. “My voice! What happened to my voice!”

“You trippin’, man?”

“I must be!” Grayson was trying to talk quietly, but his new voice was so naturally loud that it always came out a bellow. “I gotta be trippin’!”

Gio was holding onto his crotch and bouncing back and forth on his feet. “Ya’s gonna get help?”

Grayson’s eyes were like saucers. “I uhhh…I think I should!”

“From where?”

“Uhhhhh…”

“What’s a big guy like you gotta worry about?”

“Big?” Grayson looked down at his front. Nothing made sense – he was so tall, he felt like he was walking on stilts. And most of the muscles he saw were small, weak, undeveloped, stretched - except when he reached under his arm and felt the curve of his lat, it felt like he was about to go rock climbing on it. He reached up and rubbed the trap protruding from the back of his neck. It felt as big as the crystal ball he’d touched when he’d gone to that psychic as a joke. “I guess I AM kinda big,” he smiled.

“Yeah, you-“

“Fuck, I’m big as FUCK, ain’t I?” Grayson interrupted, chuckling deeply. “Who da fuck gon’ help me? Don’t need no help from nobody.”

Gio looked at Grayson, then at Manuel. “Is it – am I…what’s wrong with his face?”

Grayson’s features had just undergone a subtle shift. His cheeks were bigger, and his brow had sunken lower in the middle while arching up at the tips of his eyebrows. He looked…harder. Maybe a little bit older, too.

“Ain’t nuttin’ wrong wit’ my face,” Grayson corrected, but his body had other plans, and the thin, fleshy angles of his jaw started to round out and solidify.

“Seriously, man, where you from?”

“Indi…” Grayson was momentarily distracted by the feeling of the rest of his hair falling out, leaving his pasty dome completely hairless. “Indi…ana…I think…”

“You ain’t talkin’ like nobody from Indiana I ever met,” Manuel observed.

“Tha fuck is that s’posed to mean?”

Manuel and Gio didn’t answer – they were too distracted by abdominals popping out over Grayson’s swelling stomach, each block the size of a man’s fist, composing an knotted eight pack that bulged solidly over Grayson’s ripping pants. The abs guided the eye down to Grayson’s package, which suddenly expanded with new life, the boy’s bulge hanging off his waist like a stuffed fanny pack. Grayson palmed his balls and tried to adjust them inside his jeans, which were turning black and growing cargo pockets on the side.

Grayson snapped his fingers – a hard act, when one’s hands are cracking apart and doubling in size, the same span as a football. “’AY! I ASKED YOU A QUESTION!”

Manuel and Gio looked up at the boy, who was looking less boyish by the minute. His thin brow had hardened into two bushy black eyebrows that arched leeringly over dark brown eyes. His lips were plumper and now surrounded by laugh lines that hadn’t been there a moment before. With his bald head gleaming in the moonlight, Grayson looked quite adult.

“What did you-holy shit…”

The arrival of Grayson’s pecs was nothing short of miraculous. From the flat chest of an adolescent boy sprouted two of the hardest, heaviest monsters ever seen on a man. They grew straight out from his body, then sagged from the weight, his upper pecs being forced to over-developed to simply hold up the muscle. Grayson’s t-shirt ripped apart as his chest thickened to glory, striations spreading out from the middle, veins shooting down from his traps. His deep, broad rib cage enhanced the size of his new chest, as proportional muscles affixed themselves to every inch of his pecs. His nipples hung out of his shirt, big as half-dollar coins.

“Tha fuck is wrong wit’ you two?” Grayson boomed, his nose broadening and nostrils flaring. He now had to peer over his magnificent chest to speak to the other two men, and couldn’t see his quads swelling and propping out his dick. “You actin’ like I ain’t even here!”

“Look at his nipples, man, you sick?”

“I ain’t sick!” But Grayson’s nipples certainly looked a little out-of-place. On his massive, pasty-white chest were stuck two dark brown nipples. He looked like he had Hershey’s Kisses corking his pecs. Manuel and Gio watched as the color slipped into Grayson’s skin like watercolor spreading across a canvas. Grayson’s pecs were clearly changing color, and as they did, they pushed the color and veins into new dimensions, spreading over Grayson’s upper arms as they grew as big as dodgeballs, the snake-like veins coiling around his biceps and then splitting into dozens of small trails that intersected his beefy forearms. The color inched up Grayson’s neck toward his lily-white face, as it seeped down into his waistband and over his legs.

“How the fuck…” Manuel watched breathlessly as Grayson got bigger and blacker, while Gio started reciting Hail Marys.

The front of Grayson’s shirt was starting to pull together, as his new black cargo pants rose high on his waist and cradled his ass and cock. The word KING was shimmering and changing, shrinking on Grayson’s enormous left pec, while another symbol formed above it and a breast pocket – unusable, thanks to the muscle underneath pushing it out – appeared below.

There were buttons appearing on the front of Grayson’s shirt, and a collar was growing out around his neck. Sleeves tried to spread down to his elbows but got caught between his biceps and delts. The shirt tucked itself in tightly, allowing Grayson’s thick abs to press into the buttons, which he enjoyed. But he most enjoyed the way the top three buttons of the shirt couldn’t button over the bowling balls he called pecs, leaving the dark muscles splendidly showcased.

The laugh lines on his face were joined by two ridges in his forehead, and a large fold on the back of his neck. As the color wrapped around his head and sank into his features, his lips turned downward and thickened, as the face of a handsome black man appeared on Grayson’s head. Each twitch and adjustment to Grayson’s features made him look less like Grayson. Which was alright, because he was feeling a lot less like Grayson, too, and much more like DeShon. Grayson tried to remember why he was panicking, but DeShon never panicked. Grayson tried to think of something funny, but DeShon didn’t like laughing, and almost never smiled – DeShon was a serious man. A serious grown man. A serious, grown, black man. And now, Grayson had the same impermeable sense of justice and stern demeanor as DeShon – because Grayson was DeShon. The boy only knew himself as a man now, and that man was DeShon King: a tough, uncompromising 46-year-old black bodybuilding cop. The transformation finished by dropping a handsome NYPD cap onto his bald head, the final component to the starched, fitted policeman’s uniform he now wore.

The Puerto Rican bouncer and Italian construction worker were now being glared at by the biggest cop they’d ever seen. Officer DeShon King looked like a mountain. His size boggled the mind. “Tha fuck is goin’ on here?” he rumbled, crossing his arms over his gargantuan chest.

“Nuttin’,” both Gio and Manuel said, not looking for NYPD involvement.

Officer King’s eyebrows arched. “Don’t fuckin’ lie to me,” he sneered.

“Just dickin’ around, Officer,” Gio explained.

“Better cut dat shit,” Officer King shot back. “Don’t be startin’ no trouble. We all grown-ass men here.”

“Yessir,” Gio said, talking to the cop like he addressed his pa growing up.

“Have a good night,” Officer King said gruffly over his shoulder as he sauntered away, taking up as much space on the sidewalk as three normal men put together. Bystanders gawked as the enormous cop brushed by them, never apologizing as he walked to the corner of the street and stationed himself there, staring intently at the crossroads of the city he had vowed to protect and serve.

A few yards away, Manuel and Gio exchanged an impressed look over the view of the cop’s back. “Go on in, yo,” Manuel finally said, backin’ down. “Ain’t gon’ fuck wit’ him.”

“Thanks,” Gio said, walking into the doorway before stopping and turning around to extend a hairy forearm. “I’m Gio.”

“Manuel.”

“How ‘bout that cop, huh?”

Manuel laughed. “How ‘bout dat. Enjoy yo’ piss. Don’t be no asshole in there, y’understand?”

“I ain’t never an asshole,” Gio thundered, bashing his fists against his hairy chest. “I’m just a New Yorker!”

Continued in New York Fitness City