It Could Happen To You (musc)
by kdumd
It was the American dream come true: he won. In the span of a minute, his whole life changed. He had played on a whim--all he really needed from the mini mart that day was milk--but the jackpot was too big to ignore. So he spent two dollars on a lottery ticket and didn't think about it again until he heard on his local TV station that the winning ticket, worth about $290 million, had been sold at the very same mini mart from which he had purchased his milk. He logged online, checked the numbers against the ones on his ticket, and nearly died from shock: they were identical. Mike Santori, 22-year-old recent college graduate, had just become the richest man in town.
The next few days were a blur, a swirl of press conferences, interviews and public appearances. He had already made a huge decision--he took the lump sum instead of the annuity, which meant Mike had pocketed $134 million after taxes, which was roughly $133,999,980 more than Mike had to his name before his windfall. Once the immediate hoopla died down, there awaited a very important set of questions: what in the name of the sweet lord would he do with this money?
The first order of business was to take the vast majority of it, about $100 million, and put it away very safely. He had seen all the newsmagazine specials about mega-jackpot winners who either pissed it all away in 6 months, ended up killing themselves, or both. Mike did not at all wish to fall into either of those categories.
The first purchase he made was a house, if you could call it that. Though not exactly in the strata of a Hollywood megastar, it was certainly opulent enough to live up to his newly acquired status as a multimillionaire playboy. Next came the cars. Mike had never owned a new car, and frankly the one he had been driving was a missed oil change away from exploding, so he took particular joy in splurging on about a dozen pieces of automotive excess. The humblest one was a fully loaded, $80,000 Hummer (because he needed something practical, right?), and the most expensive was a Maserati that ran him about a half million.
In the weeks following his win, Mike noticed the leeches coming out of the woodwork; high school "friends" who'd never paid him the time of day were flooding his voicemail box, begging to be a part of his ever-expanding posse. He kept his true friends closest, obviously, and took excellent care of them. But he knew there were some things he needed to do now that he had ample means. First and foremost was to hire a top-flight personal trainer, because while Mike knew that his money would get him almost everywhere, he felt he owed it to himself to not only be embarrassingly rich, but embarrassingly rich and unfairly hot. He was a good enough looking guy, but he had never had the time or money to properly develop his body. He had the classic Roman features that gave away an Italian heritage, but beyond that, his body was totally unremarkable. Not for much longer, he decided.
So the search was on. He flew in celebrity trainers, bodybuilders, fitness models, ultimate fighters. Though each of them in their own way represented a portion of the exaggerated ideal he hoped to achieve, none of them seemed like they had what it would take to take the clay that was Mike and mold it into a perfect embodiment of a male specimen. Until he met Francisco.
Francisco Torres, or Frankie, didn't have the credentials of the rest of his candidates, but he had the body to back it up. To describe him as looking like a bodybuilder would be unfair, because he'd never seen a bodybuilder that looked so manly, so perfectly masculine, while being absurdly huge and still somehow managing to look human. To top it off, he had an attitude about him that suggested that he was ready, willing and able to do whatever it took to make Mike into the man he so badly wanted--needed--to be.
"Frankie, man," Mike said as he stepped into a one armed bro-hug, "it's you. You think you can get it done?"
"No, I don't think so," he said. Mike was confused. "I know it, bro. Six months from now you won't even recognize yourself." Mike was less confused, and more than a little impressed.
"The question I have for you, though," Frankie continued, "is how bad do you want it? If I tell you to do it, you gotta do it and do it hardcore, man, or else this ain't gonna work. You don't get to second-guess me. I own your body until I decide otherwise. Claro?"
His high school Spanish finally serving him well, Mike smiled and said back, "Clear. When do we start?"
"Right now," Frankie said, reaching back into his bag. He whipped around with several vials. "These aren't steroids. Steroids can't touch this shit, man. You take this, work out like a motherfucker and listen to me, and you'll be the hottest papi out there."
Mike hesitated internally for a second, but hadn't he just said he'd do whatever it took? Extending a hand, he said, "Alright man. What do I do?" Frankie injected him in the upper thigh, and showed him how to do it himself, since he'd be taking a dose once every six hours, and Frankie wouldn't always be around to do it for him.
"Am I supposed to feel something?" Mike asked.
"Not yet, dude. You will soon, though. Go get changed and meet me in the gym." One of the things that sold Mike on his new estate was the state-of-the-art gym on site, which he knew would be crucial in helping him achieve his goals. As he slipped into a pair of mesh shorts and an old college t-shirt, he knew it wasn't going to be enough to just be loaded. He had to be loaded and hot. Nothing else would do.
For the next four weeks, Frankie worked Mike like a dog. Mike had never worked out in his life, so to call the experience rigorous was an understatement, but it would all be worth it. One month in, he was already seeing results. He had gained about four inches in his arms, which is a lot to begin with, but since he had started with what could generously be described as sticks, it was that much more striking. His pecs had begun to pop out, and he could even see the faint impressions of abs beginning to show themselves. It turned out Mike had a very strong jaw, and his previously attractive face was already starting to cross into the territory of elitely masculine.
Frankie, for his part, was more than just a trainer to Mike. They spent a lot of time together, and Mike soon began to think of him as a friend first and an employee second. Mike welcomed him warmly into his inner circle, and they spent many a night closing the hottest clubs in town and moving on to raging afterparties once the lights went out. As time passed, Frankie began to bring his own friends along, all of them first- or second-generation Dominican/Americans like Frankie. Mike was even picking up some conversational Spanish, way more than he'd ever retained from school.
Weeks turned into months, and with the help of the "supplements" and Frankie's grueling workouts, Mike's body was quickly becoming a devastating collection of muscle and irrestistable good looks. When he'd started out, he'd worn a size medium; three months into his training, his tailored XL shirts looked very much like they were painted on. He had always kept his hair short, but now he was clipper shaving it daily. Combine that with an expertly manicured set of facial stubble, and the reflection Mike saw in the mirror was one that could make even the most glamorous models and actors jealous.
One day in that third month, Mike and his entourage, which included Frankie and his boys, were chilling in the VIP room of a ridiculously exclusive club. "Hey, bro," Frankie said, raising a glass of expensive liquor to the center of the table. "I just wanna say how proud I am of how far you've come. And I want to thank you on all our behalf for making us a part of your life. To Miguel," he said, the dozen or so men in the room all toasting in unison. Frankie and the boys had taken to referring to Mike as Miguel, and that really meant a lot to Mike. He was still close with all of his old friends, of course, but now he really felt like a part of this family.
"Gracias, hermanos, gracias," Mike said.
"So Miguel," Frankie continued, sipping the $90 drink. "I'm thinking of turning your training up a notch."
Mike was bemused. How could it get any more intesne than it already was? "Oh yeah?" he said.
"Yeah, bro. I just got a shipment of some new stuff. Really similar to what you're using now, but way better results. You interested?"
"Fuck yeah, man," Mike said. "First thing tomorrow."
Frankie smiled and nodded.
First thing the next morning, Frankie came to the gym from his room to give Mike his first new treatment. A few weeks earlier, Mike had invited him to live in his house, and was building a house on his property for the rest of Frankie's boys. It made all the sense in the world for both parties. Since they spent almost every waking moment together, it just seemed logical, and to tell the truth, some of Frankie's boys weren't exactly in the best of living situations at the time. Mike had said that it was the least he could do to repay Frankie and the boys for taking him in and making him one of their own. Frankie remembered being internally amused at how ironic that statement would turn out to be.
In the gym, Mike took the first new vial from Frankie and shot himself up. "Shit, man," he said almost immediately. "I feel this shit. I'm warm all over."
"That's the only known side effect," Frankie said casually. "Everything else is for the better. Now let's get to work, pecs and abs today." Mike had never had a workout like that one before. Never before had he done reps with so much weight and still felt strong when it was over. He felt like he could take on the world.
As the next three months passed, Mike really began to notice the changes in his body. To say his biceps were softball sized was a gross mischaracterization; there were cantaloupes on grocery shelves that weren't that big. His traps were flaring out menacingly, connecting his mammoth shoulders to a head that was home to a face growing more and more attractive by the day. Mike's chest looked like someone had surgically implanted a pair of boulders, and he had abs in places he didn't know people could have abs. Polish it off with a set of violently strong legs and Mike had, in short order, gone from boy next door to walking brickhouse.
But the most striking change in Mike's appearance was one he didn't notice until it was too late. Almost six months to the day he hired Frankie, Mike awoke after a night of intense partying and looked in the mirror. Like a time-release medication, something in that new supplement had kicked in overnight. Frankie had indeed been prophetic when he predicted that after six months, Mike wouldn't recognize himself.
Instead of a stallion of a young Italian man that Mike had previously been, Mike's face looked an awful lot like someone he knew very well. An awful lot like Frankie.
Those classic Roman features were long gone. Where his nose had once been a stereotypical Italian beak, today it was arrow straight, with a set of nostrils that flared out thickly at the bottom. His previously thick lips were a lot thinner, but wider, and darker. His eyes were midnight black, resting just above a pair of stunningly strong cheekbones. His hair was still stubble-short, but at the edges it looked different, more wiry, definitely betraying an Afro-Caribbean lineage. And where once Mike's trademark had been a face full of perfect stubble, now there was only a perfectly-framed, pencil thin goatee that extended all the way to his sideburns.
"Frankie! Get in here!" Mike yelled, but his voice sounded different; it was deeper, richer, with more than a hint of a Hispanic accent.
"What is it, man?" Frankie said, before he caught sight of Mike. "Ay, papi," Frankie said breathlessly.
"Did you know this would happen? Where did you get this stuff? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Miguel," Frankie said, "do you realize you just said all of that in Spanish?"
Mike was floored. No, he hadn't realized.
"Frankie, tell me what's going on," Mike said pleadingly, this time in English, but there was that accent.
Frankie struggled to meet Mike's gaze. "Listen, bro...I wanted to tell you, but I didn't think you'd go through with it."
Frankie took a seat on a nearby leather couch. "When I met you, when you hired me, you were nothing more than a project to me. Just another client. I was going to work with you, blow you up all huge like you wanted, and peace out. But then, we started chilling, and you've been so good to me and the boys...you've been like a real brother to me. I've never had a real brother, and when I heard about this stuff, about how it could recombine your DNA to match my family's...I know we're bros, but I wanted you to be my brother." Frankie sighed. "I should have told you, I know, but I hope you understand."
Mike didn't know what to say. On one hand, he felt like he should be furious for a violation of this magnitude. But against his better judgment, he did understand what Frankie was saying. Mike had never had a brother, either, and he truly had come to think of him and the rest of his boys as his family. He remembered the promise Frankie had made at the very beginning, and looked back in the mirror.
When he started out, Mike had asked Frankie to transform him into a hot, muscled specimen worthy of all the money and material things that had fallen into his lap. Well, Frankie had done that. Mike looked into that mirror one last time, and he really didn't recognize himself. He realized that what he saw, what he had become, was so much more than he could have ever dreamed. He saw a hulking, strikingly attractive man that no living, breathing human could possibly deny. He saw muscles packed on top of muscles, biceps so huge yet so perfectly round, legs so developed he'd have to change the way he walked, pecs big enough he wasn't sure he'd be able to see his feet, and he knew he wouldn't be able to see the dark nipples pointing straight down at the ground. Yes, he saw a man with almost African-dark skin and a Dominican face, but he also saw exactly what he wished for himself all those months ago. He saw his future. He saw Miguel.
"Bro," Miguel said, accent thick and in perfect Spanish, "I love you. I really do. Thank you. For everything."
END