“You sure this works?” Kristaps asked the bulky, hoodie-wearing man standing with him in the alley behind Kristaps’ apartment.
“Of course it works,” replied the man. “But we don’t need to be hiding back here, it’s not like this stuff’s illegal or anything.”
“I don’t wants anybody knowing,” Kristaps said, examining the contents of the paper bag. Satisfied, he took out a few hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the man. “Here your moneys. Leave before anybody seeing.”
He took his newly-purchased goods back into his apartment and sat back down in front of his computer. His previous search query was still up on the screen: “where to buy synthol new york”. This, he replaced with “synthol how to inject”. Clicking through the results, Kristaps found many pages with step-by-step directions. He picked the one with the picture of the biggest muscles.
Needles in general made Kristaps queasy, so even the act of putting the synthol oil in the chamber of the syringe made him light-headed. He considered dropping the entire project and returning to his computer games, but then he remembered the shame he had felt the previous day at the gym, so he pushed aside his discomfort and continued on.
Closing his eyes, Kristaps jabbed the needle into his left bicep. The invasive pricking sensation by itself caused him to feel faint, but the sensation of the synthol flowing into his muscle was even worse. He let go of the syringe, letting it stick out of his arm unassisted, to grab a nearby bottle of Mountain Dew Whiteout and take a swig. The rush of sugar helped him stay conscious, and he took the opportunity to see how the synthol was working.
Kristaps was surprised to see that his bicep had already grown substantially, even with just a small injection of synthol. It looked very out of place next to the rest of his arm muscles, which were poorly defined. He took hold of the syringe again and pressed a larger amount of synthol into his body, this time with his eyes open. He didn’t even wince at the uncomfortable feeling of the needle; he was too amazed by the sight of his own muscle growing larger right before his eyes.
Feeling a rush of power, he began to inject synthol into every muscle in his arms and chest, expanding each one to obscene proportions. He moved the operation to his bathroom so that he could see himself in the mirror. There, he tweaked the asymmetries he saw. Finally, he reached what he thought was the aesthetic pinnacle. Three of the bottles of synthol had been depleted.
Now he was ready for the gym.
—
When Kristaps walked out of his apartment, Carmelo was speechless. This reaction further enhanced Kristaps’ feeling of power. He thought he could get used to the muscled lifestyle if everybody would be in awe like Carmelo was.
“You look like the damn Michelin Man,” Carmelo finally said as they pulled into a parking space at the gym. “You’re not going to fool anybody. You took the synthol way too far, man.”
Nothing, not even his teammate’s quick discovery of the secret to his gains, could deflate Kristaps’ happiness. “So what? Now I having biggest muscles in gym. That’s what everybody wanting, right?”
“But your legs are still super skinny,” Carmelo pointed out. “It’s like you skipped leg day for two years in a row.”
“Legs don’t matter for the bench press,” Kristaps said as he strode confidently into the gym. There were gasps and stares, which he knew were because of people’s intense jealousy of his physique. He went right over to the same bench press where his spectacular failure had taken place yesterday and laid down. “No protein needed today. Put on two-fifty. I’m going to owning this bitch.”
“The synthol’s not actually going to help you lift more weight,” Carmelo said.
Kristaps felt a twinge of uncertainty, but it was easy enough to dismiss it when he saw how big his muscles were. “Shut up and get the plates, man,” he commanded. Carmelo reluctantly put the requested amount of weight on the bar.
“Let’s do this thing!” Kristaps snarled, grabbing the bar and holding it over his chest. He lowered it so it touched his bulging pectorals, then, with a rush of adrenaline serving as the necessary strength, he pushed it back into the air.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic. Kristaps’ overinflated biceps exploded, leaving huge crevices that leaked blood and oil. His pecs did the same, exposing the meaty gray-pink flesh inside. “Aaaah!” he yelled, so stricken by terror and pain that he dropped the bar directly on his chest. At this, his pectoral muscles literally popped like balloons, spraying him and his teammate with puffy gibbets of muscle and splashes of greasy blood.
Kristaps’ sobs were lessened by the weight constricting his chest. “I never lifting weights before,” he tearfully admitted as he looked at the devastated tatters of his arms.
Carmelo dialed 911 on his phone. “Obviously.”
“I just wanting to be buff,” Kristaps wailed. “That’s all.” Then, he passed out, and knew no more.