By juan78105
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Officer Rick Cortés closed the door behind him in the small bathroom, flipped on the light and took a look in the mirror. Jet-black hair, recently cut into a neat high-and-tight, and a well-manicured beard framed a handsome face. His beard was just beyond the point of stubble but not shaggy enough to hide the dimple in his chin, which his friends said gave him a movie star look. In recent days he had let his moustache grow a little more, adding a bit more shadow above his top lip. He was a police officer, after all, and he figured a little ‘stache fit the bill.
Rick had more than just a handsome face: he was quite the gym rat. He had rigorously worked his arms, legs, chest and back over the years, and his biceps, chest, and thick meaty shoulders showed it. Around the office, Rick was known as a ladies man, but that didn’t bother him. He was mainly obsessed with working out and maintaining his clean-cut “hot cop” look so he could post selfies to Instagram every few days. He had built a substantial fan base and was enjoying every like and repost. Rick figured he might be able to make some extra cash in bodybuilding contests one day if he kept at it.
Today he looked especially striking. Because it was summer, he had the option of wearing a navy-blue button down shirt and black shorts along with his black leather holster. Both articles of clothing looked perfect on his build, emphasizing his muscles, from his broad shoulders to an ample bubble butt. Rick had not skipped his squats.
Rick flexed and smiled, snapping a pic with his phone. He examined the pic approvingly and saved it to his photos.
He would have to wait to post his pic because he was obliged to follow a strict rule prohibiting phone communication until early next week. Rick was one of eight elite police officers chosen from the Boston Police Department to attend a weeklong retreat in Western Massachusetts at the New England Law Enforcement Innovations Center, or NLIC for short. NLIC combined a retreat training ground with a series of labs and testing facilities. Each year, several members of each metropolitan police force in Massachusetts were selected to attend NLIC’s summer training camp, which introduced up and coming officers to the latest in security and surveillance technology, and offered them the chance to network and form a community over a series of team-building activities such as obstacle courses and strategic games. The summer program was meant for the best of the best, those officers who had proven not only their bravery on the force, but also their wisdom. It was a high honor to be chosen.
Today he and his squad had been assigned to attend a tour of NLIC’s main laboratory, called “Lab I.” Their guide was Sergeant Reginald Wilson, who was one of NLIC’s senior staff and helped run the summer retreat program. The entire squad was excited about the day’s activities. For starters, it would be inside, and so they would beat the summer heat. But they had also heard rumors about the lab: this was the place where new prototypes that were tested, from uniforms to surveillance technology to self-defense equipment. The group was wondering whether they would get to see for themselves.
Wilson was a distinguished looking officer, with a graying beard but sharp eyes that seemed to see through whoever he was facing. He had given them a lecture outside the lab on his strict “hands off unless I say so” policy, and after receiving an affirmative “Yes, Sir!” from the squad, had taken them through the first part of the lab, which was a tour of the new technologies practice facility.
The squad was not disappointed in what they saw inside. The large gymnasium-like space that housed the practice facility was full of new gadgets for them to try out: tiny microphones that could be shot from silent dart guns into a space so that the shooter could hear conversations crystal clear from up to one hundred feet away; metal-detector-like equipment that could scan for explosive devices; a pair of shoes that allowed the person wearing them to jump up to twice the height of their normal range. Having been allowed to roam around the facility, the squad descended upon the gadgets with childlike excitement.
After about an hour in the practice facility, Wilson summoned the group to move onto the next part of the tour: the prototype lab. This lab was where products that were still in their “beta” iteration were to be tested.
After descending a flight of stairs, Wilson led the squad down a wide corridor rigged with piping. By this time, it was difficult to tell exactly where in the facility they were, but the hum of machinery from behind the brick walls suggested that they had descended into the bowels of the building. After about 500 feet, the group came to a set of wide double doors. Through the small square windows in each door the men could see more piping and what looked like steam.
“This is our prototype lab,” Sergeant Wilson told the group, gesturing toward the doors. “Some of our newest law enforcement technologies are tested here before release. Needless to say, everything you will see and hear about in the lab is strictly classified.”
The squad nodded in assent.
“And, please, do not touch anything. There are some dangerous materials behind these doors. We usually don’t allow visitors in here, but I’m making a special exception for this crew.
Seeing that some of the men looked apprehensive, Wilson smiled to lighten the mood. “Actually, around here we call this ‘The Inventing Room,’ I guess because of all the crazy contraptions!” He gestured toward the window. “You’ll all be fine,” he added as he pushed open the door. “Please, officers, step through.”
The room was a magnificent sight. It looked like a mad scientist’s lair, with pipes crisscrossing the ceiling that fed into vats and barrels with pressure gauges and meters that spun. One contraption had a tank in which a bright green liquid sloshed. Another emitted a high-pitched whistle as steam escaped from a valve at its top.
“Our team is working hard at the moment to develop new tools that help us control violent assailants efficiently and with the least amount of physical altercation. The hope is that cutting-edge medical technology can assist us diffuse situations that would normally require brute force, and possibly lead to physical harm.”
Wilson walked over to a row of scales, each with a metal dish resting on top, fishing a small white pill out of one. “These pills, for example, contain a powder made from plants that grow in the Brazilian Amazon that can pacify a 300-pound man in moments, all without a single health risk.”
Wilson held up the tiny pill between his thumb and index finger so that the squad could see. A few of the men moved in closer to get a look. “We’ve perfected a method of oral administration. Obviously that wouldn’t work in a confrontation, but we think it’s possible to create a spray-on form that could take the place of mace. Less violence, better results. Since the drug triggers pleasure hormones like crazy, the person who gets sprayed is overwhelmed with a sense of well-being and feels obliged to just sit and rest.”
The members of the squad looked incredulous.
Wilson chuckled. “Don’t believe me, huh? Who wants to give it a shot?”
Nobody volunteered.
“It’s a very small dose. I promise it will not hurt. In fact, it’s going to make you feel great for about five minutes. I’d do it if I hadn’t had a dose already this week. We don’t want it to become addictive.”
Still no volunteers.
Wilson scanned the room and alighted on Darryl Hendricks, easily the largest officer in the squad. Hendricks was known for spending as much time in the weight room as he spent on assignment, and his uniform didn’t hide it. “You look strong and healthy,” Wilson said to the officer, who was standing with his muscular arms crossed and brow furrowed. “Why don’t you give ‘er a try?”
One of the squad jumped in. “Come on man, don’t be a wimp.”
“Alright.” Hendricks replied.
“Attaboy!” Wilson smiled a gruff grin. “Step forward, Hendricks. You’re gonna love this – all of you are gonna love it!”
Hendricks nervously stepped forward and took the pill from Wilson.
“Now what?” Hendricks asked.
“Down the hatch!”
Hendricks popped the pill with a shrug and swallowed, visibly nervous. About thirty seconds of silence passed and then something incredible happened. Hendricks, generally the tough guy, started to grin. After another half a minute, he was actually chuckling to himself.
“Looks like someone’s enjoying the side effects!” Wilson called out from the crowd.
“You bet I am!” exclaimed Hendricks. “Wow. I mean guys – can I tell you how happy I am to be here with you all today?”
Wilson giggled, elbowing the guy next to him. “See? Big Hendricks looks like a kid in a candy store.”
“Hendricks!” Wilson barked, “come give me a hug you big oaf!” Much to everyone’s surprise, Hendricks skipped over to Wilson and threw his brawny arms around the sergeant. “Thank you! Thank you so much Sergeant Wilson! This is amazing!”
And with that Hendricks proceeded to give each officer a hug and shake his hand, bubbling away gleefully about one thing or another.
Rick rolled his eyes at Hendricks’ giggling and high-fiving the other members of the squad. Sergeant Wilson had just given him a big slap on the back. “See, officer, your bravery paid off. Doesn’t feel so bad, does it?”
Rick wanted to try it too. Hendricks was always getting attention because of his muscular build. The two officers often worked out together, and even though he was no puny guy himself, Rick wanted to be the biggest and the best. It was a part of his personality to be competitive. Indeed, it was this aspect that had enabled him to rise in the ranks as quickly as he did.
After a few minutes Hendricks was beginning to come down off the high and returning more to his normal self, albeit in a much better mood. Rick eyed the scales and sets of colored pills.
“Sergeant, what about these red and blue pills?”
“Well,” Wilson replied, the blue ones are a stronger dose of the same drug. Big Hendricks here was out I’d say for about five minutes, and he’s gotta be over 250, am I right big buddy?”
“Yes sir, indeed,” Hendricks answered, fist bumping the officer next to him.
Wilson chuckled. “Well, that blue pill there would put him out for about half an hour, I’d say. It’s quite strong.”
“And the red one?” Rick asked impatiently.
“That one is much stronger. Not to be trifled with.”
“I want to try the blue pill,” Rick stated. “That is, if it’s permitted, sir,” he added hastily, offering his handsomest smile to Wilson.
The sergeant raised an eyebrow. “Well we don’t have that much time, officer. But we’re ahead of schedule, so why not. What do you guys think, should we let Cortés here be our test subject for the blue pill?”
“Oh yeah!!!” Hendricks said, high-fiving Rick, who smirked back.
Before Wilson could say anything else, Rick shot out his hand and grabbed a couple of pills. He took a blue and a red pill, grabbing the red pill quickly so that the others didn’t see and sneaking it into his free hand. He held up the blue pill. “Here I go everyone. Down the hatch!”
With a slight of hand, Rick swallowed the red pill with the stronger dose, placing the blue into his pocket for later use. His girlfriend would get a kick out of it, he was sure.
All eyes were on the strapping young officer who was standing at the center of the room, arms folded across his chest as if striking a pose, waiting impatiently for the effects.
After about half a minute of silence, Wilson said, “So Cortés. How does it feel?”
Rick found it strange that he wasn’t experiencing any of the side effects that Hendricks had. He didn’t feel giddy or anything remotely similar. In fact, he didn’t feel so great. He had a stomachache and could feel his stomach rumbling.
Seeing that the crowd was staring at Rick intently. “Well, I feel funny,” the young officer said. “Actually, I feel light headed and…” the officer furrowed his brow in confusion as his stomach rumbles became more acute, “and I feel… I feel kind of full.”
“What do you mean, full, officer?” Wilson barked back. He did not look amused.
Rick’s expression had changed from one of confusion to one of discomfort. “Ugh. God, I feel so full. Like I have an air bubble in my gut.”
In fact, Rick felt the need to burp, or fart, or anything to relieve the pressure that was building steadily in his midsection. He felt like he did after he overdid it on beer, or when he had too much soda. Bloated but not exactly heavy. What was going on? Why wasn’t he experiencing the side effects that Hendricks had?
“Fuck dude, you’re blowing up!” Rick was jolted out of his internal thoughts when Hendricks, still high, blurted out what he was feeling but could not believe.
“Huh?” Rick answered, placing his hands on his belly and eyeing the crowd. Looking down and rubbing his belly, he belched deeply, temporarily relieving the pressure.
“Look brother, you’re gut is sticking out,” Hendricks continued. Turning toward the other officers and gesturing at Cortés, he continued, “His buttons look like they’re about to pop!”
Rick removed his hands from his middle. His blue button-down shirt, which fit snugly around his broad shoulders but not around his relatively slender mid-section, was now blocking the view to the ground. He could usually make out his black belt and holster, but looking down he could just see the tips of his shoes. Reddening with embarrassment, he looked out at his fellow squad members. They were staring, agape.
Feeling suddenly surrounded and too much the center of attention, Rick turned to Sergeant Wilson.
“What’s happening to me? What’s wrong with your pills? Help me!” Rick stifled another loud belch with a fist. This time it lasted a few seconds.
“Did you take a red pill, Cortés?” Wilson said calmly, but with a definite tinge of stress in his usually rock-steady voice.
“No!” Rick lied through his teeth, feeling completely unnerved by Wilson’s reaction. “I took a blue one just like we said.”
Wilson eyed the ballooning young man at the center of the room suspiciously. “I don’t think so.”
Turning to the rest of the crowd and ignoring Cortés’ protests, Wilson continued. “Your colleague is currently demonstrating why I asked you not to touch anything in the lab. Officer Cortés has ingested an experimental drug we’re calling Immobilex. It was made as a last-resort pacification tool for highly violent inmates who cannot be controlled with any other means. As you can see, it causes the subject to inflate. Pretty soon he’ll be immobile, unable to budge from being blown up so tight.”
“Say what?” One of the other officers responded, “He’s blowing up with gas?” The others were too shocked to say anything, although a couple of officers in the back were whispering to one another.
Wilson sighed. “Essentially, the mix of chemicals in the pill rubberizes the muscular system and releases an inert gas. So yes, in short, he’s blowing up like a balloon.”
“I got a pin. Want me to stick ‘em?” Hendricks retorted, jabbing the officer next to him to elicit a laugh. “Don’t Darryl. He’ll pop!” his neighbor exclaimed, sounding truly frightened.
As if on queue, a loud pop echoed around the room, followed by a high-pitched ping. Rick was still intact, but the first button above his belt had popped off and shot across the room, hitting one of the vats. Rick’s uniform was slowly being pulled apart by his expanding body. The next button popped off a few seconds later, and another, freeing his blimp-like belly completely and exposing his stretchy white undershirt.
“Ooof. My belt,” Rick moaned. His midsection had now filled out to the extent that his belt was starting to dig into his body. Rick tried to reach down to loosen the belt, but found that his arms were oddly tight, as was his chest. He realized with a feeling of increasing panic that it wasn’t just his belly that was inflating. His entire body was being pumped up.
“Can one of you help him while I call the medical squad please? I’ve got to call them so this fool can be taken to the deflation room before he explodes!” Wilson said gruffly, storming over to a phone on the wall as Rick flailed his arms, which were straining the sleeves of his blue button down shirt as they became more sausage like by the second.
The hunky cop blushed with embarrassment as one of his buddies fumbled with his belt, which was creaking with strain, causing him to let out another series of belches. When he was finally unhitched, Rick sighed with relief, feeling a slight reduction of pressure. His arms were now dangling at about a thirty-degree angle from the sides of his torso and the inflating cop wiggled them back and forth but found movement was already becoming restricted.
“Alright. The medics are on their way. There’s nothing we can do now but wait, and hope for the best.”
All eyes were on Rick, who was looking more bloated by the second. By now, his belly was sticking out a good foot from his pecs, which were inflating too, stretching the top half of his still-buttoned police shirt. His arms, swelling rapidly, were being forced into awkward angles by the pressure. His legs were filling up too, expanding the poor officer’s thighs so that he could no longer walk.
“Mmmmph…” moaned Rick through pursed lips. His cheeks were filling out as well, as was his neck, making it difficult to move his head. Rick was visibly scared and started whimpering. “Guys…. I don’t feel good. I feel like I’m about to explode….”
“Sergeant, is he gonna be okay?” called out one of the other officers.
“Not sure to be honest, son,” Wilson answered. The distinguished officer approached the inflating cop, eying him callously, first poking his distended belly as if to test the pressure, and then circling around his humongous circumference to prod his buttocks, which gave a new meaning to the term bubble butt. Rick winced and blushed a deeper shade of red.
“I think we'll be ok.”
As his squad looked on, Rick continued to inflate until his arms and legs were so blown up that they stuck out at forty-five degree angles from his bloated torso, like some sort of blimp version of the Vitruvian Man with squatter proportions: part of these appendages had become absorbed into his gargantuan middle, which was almost spherical at its widest point.
His belly had blown up from under his chest and stuck out in the front and on the sides, giving his torso the appearance of an inflatable cushion that was being sat on from one end, his balloon-like pecs pressing down on his round belly, forcing it out and to each side to form taught love handles that jutted out from the waist of his strained shorts. His white undershirt had ridden half way up the hemisphere of his stomach, exposing his navel, which had popped out to form a golf ball-sized lump in the very middle of his expanse. His blue button-down had come unbuttoned completely but still clung to his ever-widening frame.
Down below, two bulbous legs stuck out turgidly from the bulbous torso. His stretchy black shorts were clinging on for dear life, and their zipper had come all the way undone, being forced open by the growth of his middle and exposing his underpants, which had also stretched out to accommodate both his inflated butt and belly. His belt and holsters hung limply at either side of his protruding gut, as if to frame it.
Almost completely immobile, Rick tried to lift one of his stubby legs but ended up losing balance instead and falling back on his humungous ass. Rick’s inflation continued as he rocked back and forth on his rump, his hemispherical middle and four appendages pumping up a few inches more.
Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, the officer’s body stopped inflating. Wilson circled the blimp that was once a muscular young cop, muttering curses under his breath. Then he bent over and using one foot, pressed firmly into Rick’s side, rolling him over onto his belly. Bubbled ass in the air, with black shorts still somehow clinging on, Rick flailed his arms and legs to the extent he could, which was essentially to wiggle his fingers in protest. Straining to move, Rick ripped a long and high-pitched fart instead, eliciting chuckles from Hendricks and a few of the other cops.
“Jesus officer,” Wilson thundered, “put a lid on it!” And with that, he gave Cortés a good shove, rolling him back on his butt. Rick’s face was beet red. He looked completely bloated on the verge of popping, as he stared up from behind puffed-out cheeks, completely unable to protest.
Still muttering curses at Cortés, Wilson shuffled off to a corner of the lab where some equipment and machinery was stored. “Alright officers,” he thundered from the corner. “What’ya say we set this dirigible afloat?”
When nobody said a word Wilson continued to bark, “now that he’s blown up like a human blimp, it’s not gonna hurt him that much if we add a little helium to the mix.” Wilson rummaged among the equipment and pulled out a big tank strapped to a dolly. He wheeled the dolly over to Rick, who looked nervous and sweaty.
“Now who wants to see this fucker hover? Jones! Get over here and help me hoist ‘em up!”
Jones, a wiry young officer, hurried over, sidestepping around the blimp of a man on the floor as if he was afraid he would burst.
“Alright Jones, grab his arms and lift.” Jones gingerly bent down, locked his arms under Rick’s inflated appendages and heaved upwards, as if deadlifting the inflated cop.
When he had him almost upright, Wilson held his hand up to signal that Jones had lifted far enough. “Hold ‘em there.”
As his buddies gawked, Wilson bent over and squeezed open Cortés’ mouth and inserted a small hose attached to a mouthpiece. The mouthpiece covered the bloated man’s lips and had a strap attached that Wilson looped over Cortés' head and fixed on his neck.
“Alright. Here we go!” Wilson turned a spigot on the tank ever so slightly and a faint hissing alerted the onlookers that helium was now being pumped into the poor blown-up cop. Rick’s eyes widened as he felt the gas rush into him and then winced as the pressure built up. His exercise-ball sized gut began to push out further, making a distinct squeaking sound as it expanded. His arms and cheeks and butt poofed out another few centimeters each, causing the seat of his shorts to creak and stretch.
Finally, after about a minute of helium, Rick felt himself lifting off the ground. Whimpering helplessly through the mask and wiggling his arms and legs, he began to rise upwards, stretching the hose as he floated toward the ceiling. When he was about five feet up, Wilson yanked the hose so that Cortés faced downward and turned of the gas.
“Not bad Cortés,” Wilson said as he gazed up at the man-shaped parade balloon. Wilson gave the hose a heave with both arms, pulling the 215-pounder down so that he could release the mask. After a minute of fumbling, Wilson was able to pull out the hose from Rick’s mouth. “There we are Cortés. All done.” He gave Rick a firm pat on the belly as he said this, forcing a long, high-pitched belch out of the human balloon as he floated back up to hover above his squad.
“So, Sergeant Wilson, do you want us to wheel him down to the medical wing, or are we leaving this whale here to float?”
The medics had arrived at some point during the ordeal, but no one had noticed. Four young officers in scrubs were standing behind the crowd, chuckling at the spectacle in front of them. A big metal table with wheels sat behind them.
“Let’s get this blimp tied down to the gurney so we can wheel ‘em out,” Wilson ordered.
“You got it,” replied one of the young men who appeared to lead the troop. He motioned to one of this crew and fished a large rope out of a supplies bucket they had brought. “You lasso him and I’ll help you pull.”
The medics worked expertly. One threw the rope around Rick’s distended middle and crafted a lasso, tugging gently to snug the loop. As the rope was cinched around Rick’s big belly, a series of belches escaped and much to his embarrassment, a couple of squeaky farts. “Careful now, don’t pop ‘em!” chucked the head medic.
“Now tug!” the head medic said to his partner. With a series of tugs, the two men heaved the blimp over the table, tying him in place so that he floated just above the surface. Then, the team of four worked together to pull the inflated cop down to the table, maneuver him so he lay face up and then strapped him down with thick black cables so he wouldn’t float away on the trip to the medical wing.
As they worked, the four medics openly joked about poor Rick.
“This cop was debonair, but now he’s full of air!”
“He used to be a lady’s man, but now he’s a Michelin man!”
“He got pumped at the gymnasium and now he’s pumped with helium!”
“Alright boys, that’s enough,” Wilson chuckled. “Aren’t they a hoot? Gotta have a sense of humor around here.”
When the medics were done securing Rick, they slowly rolled the table toward the double doors. “Thanks gents,” said Wilson, “Now you all say goodbye to your pal for now. Let’s hope we can get that gas out of him before he goes boom!” And with that, the medics rolled Officer Cortés out of the room.
EPILOUGE
It was Sunday morning and the Boston-based NLIC graduates of 2016 were meeting for their monthly coffee and donuts at a low-key diner in the center of town. Five cops were seated around a booth sipping coffee, exchanging stories from the week.
A jingle of the bell on the front door of the diner caused one of the cops at the end of the booth to turn around. “It’s about time Wrecking-Ball!” he said cheerily.
Officer Rick Cortés, known more commonly as “Wrecking-Ball Rick,” lumbered through the diner’s front door. He could barely fit, and had to suck in his bulk a bit to squeeze through the single entrance. Wrecking-Ball’s nickname was well deserved: standing five foot eight but weighing close to 370, the man was built like a tank. Two tree trunk legs with bulging calf muscles supported a rotund but firm midsection. Wrecking-Ball’s belly looked like a ball itself: turgid and round but powerful, protruding from under two meaty pecs and framed by hulking arms. To top it off, Wrecking-Ball had one of those beefy power-necks that was bigger than his head. He still sported the jaw-line shadow and moustache look and kept his hair immaculately neat and trim, but he had lost the boyish charm and looked more like an overfed and slightly blimpish powerlifter than a fit cop. His uniform barely fit and his shirts looked close to popping off at any minute. Upon first sight, the words “inflated” and “overblown” would have come to mind. Nonetheless, Wrecking-Ball was all solid mass and his strength was unsurpassed, despite his bloated appearance.
Wrecking ball plopped down on a chair at the head of the booth that had been set their for him – it was the only place he’d fit – and slapped his neighbor heartily on the back. “Good to see ya. I need some grub!” And with that, he flagged down the waiter and ordered two breakfast platters, a burger, and a beer. The chair groaned under Wrecking-Ball’s girth.
Rick’s new size was incredible for those who knew the muscular but svelte cop he once was. The cops at the table had all been at the NLIC testing facility and remembered his cartoonlike inflation vividly, especially those who visited him in the medical wing during his recovery period. They were glad he had come out alright, albeit transformed into a human hulk.
Rick had inflated so much after taking the red pill that simply letting the air escape naturally was not an option, so the doctor’s solution was to bulk him up to meet his new expanded size. The medical team at NLIC had thus put Rick on a diet that would make a sumo wrestler balk. Consisting of weight-gainer shakes laced with appetite stimulants muscle growth hormones, the cocktail was meant to fill the inflated cop up with bulk as he slowly deflated. He was fed shake after shake, first through a feeding tube and when he became hungrier, through a large funnel that the attendants filled and let the still immobile balloon of a cop suck down.
As he drank the bulking shakes, the air was slowly forced out and the growth hormone also took effect. After two weeks, Rick was starting to look and feel much heavier, like a sumo-sized, roided-up version of his old self. Much to his surprise, he liked the feeling of being gigantic. His favorite part was when the attendants rubbed his big belly after a funnel of shake to help him belch out the gas.
Rick had to train hard to support his new build. At first, a physical therapist helped him do basic exercises in bed – he was still immobile – and eventually, he was able to walk around and begin to exercise himself. After a couple of months, he had to live in the gym to regain the ability to fully manipulate his own gargantuan body. Otherwise, he would have simply become a muscle-bound blimp.
It had been a long road, but Cortés had emerged as the sort of hulking hunk that turned eyes at the gym as well as on the street: inexplicably huge but perfectly healthy.
Wrecking-Ball’s food had arrived and he dug in with pleasure, catching up with his buddies between mouthfulls. After polishing off his eggs, sausages, pancakes, donuts and burger, he drained his beer like it was water. The cop next to him looked at him admiringly, offering an encouraging “Attaboy Wrecking-Ball!” and patting his big belly, which bulged out and strained the buttons on his blue shirt.
Rick belched contentedly and rested his hands on his protruding midsection. He would post a pic on Insta later – his followers had increased tenfold since his miraculous transformation into Wrecking-Ball and he was loving every minute of it.