“Hey little man, can I get a spot?” Mike had just placed two additional 25-pound plates on the bar and sat down for his last set of five on the bench press. “Sure, no problem,” answered Luke, another member of Mike’s weightlifting club, sighing silently as he left his station and walked over to spot his teammate.
Sure enough, Mike was enjoying the opportunity to draw attention to himself and the 275 pounds he had placed on the bar. Having sat down at the bench, he was now making a show of arching his back and breathing heavily in preparation for his big lift. Luke turned sideways and rolled his eyes, catching the knowing glance of another teammate who was resting on the neighboring platform.
“Ready, Mike?” asked Luke.
“Yup, ready,” answered Mike, “I’m trying for five, and I prolly don’t need the spot, but it’s been a long day so I just wanna make sure.”
Typical, thought Luke. Mike always needed to be the star of the show, and had a few tactics for making sure all eyes were on him. Loading up extra weight and asking for a spot was one. More aggravating still for Luke, who was a little skinnier and had joined the gym more recently, were the nicknames that Mike threw around like “little man.” And then there was his habit of offering unsolicited advice about technique to newer team members.
Mike’s chest heaved as he filled his muscular belly with long, deep breaths. With a final stamp of his feet, he raised the bar. The first three presses were solid, Mike only slowing down during his final two. To no-ones surprise, he completed the five lifts successfully, grunting loudly each time.
A bit too loud, thought Luke as he carefully monitored the bar moving up and down over his buddy’s chest.
“Thanks dude,” said an exhausted and sweaty Mike.
“No worries,” said Luke, as he headed back to finish his squats.
No matter how much his boisterous personality grated on his teammates, there was no disputing the fact that Mike was a decent lifter. In fact, he had been one of the original members of the Bergen County Weightlifting Club, or BWC for short, which was started by three guys who lived in North Jersey. The team now had fifteen members, plus a hired coach. Like most of his teammates, Mike lived in the ‘burbs but had a high-powered job in New York: he was a partner at an established advertising firm and he knew how to both work and play hard. He was also ruggedly handsome. Stocky and muscular with a full dark-brown beard and cleanly shaven head, he was a guy who looked a bit out of place in the formal business clothes he wore to work every day, but he managed to pull it off. As a bearded man who almost hulked out of his suits at board meetings, he made for a striking figure and had built a reputation in the industry as a weekend warrior.
In many ways, Mike was the archetype of a New York ad exec: a handsome, successful dude, privileged and cocky, and not the least bit self reflective about it.
Luke, Mike and several other members of the BWC were gearing up for a statewide powerlifting meet scheduled to take place at the end of the month. Everyone had worked very hard, and Rodger, the club’s coach, thought they might have a chance of making a good showing this year. The team was equally excited about the club’s annual dinner, which would come a few weeks after the meet. Once a year, the guys would get together for a night of camaraderie and a big meal at the gym catered by a local restaurant. Traditionally, Rodger handed out awards to the rest of the team, ranging from best lifter to best dressed. Some of the awards were serious and others were given as light-hearted jokes. This was a tradition that the whole team looked forward to.
Once Luke finished his working sets he headed to the locker room to shower. Mike, having showered and changed into a pair of gray sweatpants for his short car ride home, was carefully shaving his sideburns and talking to Marcus, another club member. Marcus was just as good an athlete as Mike but was opposite in terms of personality. A researcher who worked in an experimental lab for a large pharmaceutical company in Jersey, Marcus was surprisingly soft spoken for the large, very muscular guy that he was. In fact, it could even be said that he was bookish.
“Did you see the last game, brother? If that’s what you call an offence, fine, but I’m not sure we’re talking about American football anymore!”
“I know, I know. It’s been a rough season, but I think we’ll pull through.”
Mike and Marcus were huge football fans, both having played in high-school themselves, and Mike was constantly making fun of Marcus’ favorite team, the New York Jets. Marcus had a good sense of humor and joked around with his friends about football teams all the time, but Mike managed to make it annoying thanks to his typical bravado.
“Whad’ya say we go out for a few beers?” suggested Marcus, trying to change the subject. “Luke, are you in?”
“I’m down,” Luke replied as he stripped off his gym clothes and stepped into the shower.
“Not me boys,” replied Mike. “I’m trying to stay clean in preparation for this meet, and I could stand to lose a little of this belly flab anyway.” Mike patted his belly, which was firm but indeed a bit round, poking out over the elastic band of his sweatpants. A trail of curly dark-brown hair emphasized its shape, bringing the term “barrel-chested” to mind.
“Are you sure?” said Marcus, in a tone that Luke noticed lacked any outward sign of disappointment. This was a subtlety sure to have been lost on the aloof bearded man whistling and admiring himself in the mirror.
“I’m sure.” Mike said as he pulled out a plastic water bottle, added a powder and shook up the concoction. “Some of us have work to do.” He took a large swig and offered the room a hefty belch before throwing on his backpack and walking out.
“See you clowns on Wednesday,” he said as the locker room door swung shut.
“OK Mike, we’ll definitely miss your company,” muttered Marcus before calling over his shoulder to Luke. “You still up for that beer?”
***
The day of the meet was a perfect fall afternoon. Since powerlifting was still something of a niche sport in the area, the local branch of the National Weightlifting Association usually rented out a big high-school gym for the meet, and the whole affair felt more like a neighborhood get-together than an official sporting event. It wasn’t fancy but it was fun.
All the guys from the BWC were there, and Rodger had staked out a corner of the gym for them to put down their stuff and stretch out.
“Alright men, listen up,” said Rodger in his usual fatherly manner, “as you all know, this is a clean meet. That means the Association reserves the right to test anyone who signs up for the event. We’ve signed up as a club, so that means we are all going to test, and we are disqualified as a team if any come back positive. Take one of these cups to the restrooms, do your business and then drop ‘em off at the stand just outside.”
“I sure hope all of you all are clean!” Rodger said with a wink as he handed out small paper cups to the guys.
***
Only a few of the Bergen County men were light enough to be in the 93-kilo weight class. Most of the club fell into 105 kg or above. But by the time that the 120-kilo class was called to the platform to perform, the BWC had already made a decent showing. Four lifters had placed among the top three for the squat and bench press, so it was looking like the team would be taking home at least a couple of medals to add to the display case in the front of the gym.
Mike had certainly pushed a lot. He had always been a powerful squatter: his thighs and rear end were massive, as he liked to point out. Today, however, his top lift of 527 pounds was impressive even for him. On the bench, he lifted 325 without much sign of strain. Luke had honestly been surprised by this feat. Not a month earlier Mike had struggled at 275, but he supposed that for guys like Mike, the supercharged atmosphere of a competition had contributed to his energy.
It was now Mike’s turn to deadlift. He had already lifted a substantial 570 pounds followed by 590 and his last lift was to be 605. This would be a record for the BWC and would place him in the top two at the meet if he pulled it off.
When his name was called, he strutted up to the bar and performed his usual ritual: he stretched out his arms behind his back, and then jumped up and down in place a few times shaking his hands out. As he jumped, his beefy butt jiggled a bit in his blue singlet, which was stretched tight over his broad shoulders and heaving chest. He took a deep breath, tightened the thick belt that he had strapped around his belly, and squatted down to assume the starting position.
“LIFT” barked the officiating coach. Mike took in a massive breath, and began to lift the bar slowly.
“Let’s go Mike! Pull through to the top! You’ve got this!” cheered Rodger from the bleachers in front of the platform.
Mike strained as the bar inched its way up. After what seemed like a true struggle, he locked out the bar and held tight for a couple of seconds until the official’s signal told him the lift was complete. When the signal was given, the 600-pound bar dropped to the floor and Mike commenced beating his chest like Tarzan. This was truly heaven for the self-obsessed weekend weightlifter.
“He sure wasn’t doing that three weeks ago,” said Marcus to Luke under his breath. “Wonder what changed.”
“Game day luck?” Luke replied.
“Somehow I doubt it.”
Mike sauntered over to his teammates looking as puffed up and proud as ever. “Huzzah! Now that’s what I call a personal best, my friends.”
“Good job champ!” said Rodger, patting the muscular man firmly on the back. “You’ve done us proud. Now go take a load off.”
Mike plopped down on his mat, shooting a glance at Marcus, who was up soon, as if to say “beat that.”
***
A few days after the meet, the team congregated at the gym for their usual Wednesday evening session. Mike, Luke and Marcus were there, along with a few other guys who came in the evenings after work. The lifters were stretching and waiting around for Rodger to show up. He was running a few minutes behind.
The front door to the gym opened abruptly and an angry-looking Rodger brushed passed the crowd and into his office, slamming the door behind him before anyone could say hello.
“What’s with him?” wondered Luke aloud. Rodger was usually stern but good-natured, so his gruff entry was odd. “Dunno” replied Marcus.
Mike was in his own world, as usual, listening to hard rock on his iPod, splayed legs firmly planted on the floor and back arched as he pressed his muscular shoulders into a foam roller, working out all the tightness from the weekend’s meet.
Through the office window, Luke could see Rodger shuffling some papers on his desk, then he picked up a folder and emerged from the office.
“Gentlemen, I need your attention please.” The guys stood up, Luke jabbing Mike on the side to get his attention. The music was so loud that he hadn’t even heard Rodger.
“I am very sorry to say that one of you is a cheater.”
Silence from the room.
“You heard me correctly. One of you tested positive for a rather obscure type of anabolic steroid. Clearly you thought that you wouldn’t be caught, but the Association has recently developed a new drug test that does detect it. Believe me, I got an earful from my buddy at state headquarters this morning. I’ve never been so ashamed in my life.”
Luke’s jaw dropped. He never imagined that one of his teammates would actually be using a drug against the rules. The news hit the novice lifter heavily.
“As you all know, the test was anonymous and so that disqualifies our entire team. All the hard work you put in – that we put in – is forfeit for the last meet because of this person. I have no idea who it is, but I am utterly disappointed. You all can work out on your own tonight and think about what went wrong.” He walked out of the gym without saying another word.
The team was still standing in awkward silence when Marcus broke the ice.
“Mike, I think you owe us an apology.”
“What? Do you think I did it? Ridiculous, man.”
“Yes Mike. To be honest you look a bit roided up lately, and as good a lifter as you are, you weren’t pulling 600 pounds off the ground last month. I’m confused.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake Marcus. You’re just upset because you haven’t been able to keep up with my progress. That’s really screwed up.”
“Ok Mike. How do you explain the pills and powders I’ve seen you take after practice with your shakes?”
“Dude, it’s creatine. And that shit is legal.”
“I know creatine when I see it, and that wasn’t what you were taking.”
“I’ve had enough of this horseshit,” Mike cut Marcus off. “I don’t know which one of you did it, but it sure as hell wasn’t me. If you guys are jealous of my gains, then that’s your problem, not mine.”
“Any more platitudes for us you big oaf?” Marcus yelled after Mike as he headed toward the door. Mike said nothing, but flicked the team off as he pushed open the door and walked out into the cold fall evening.
“That’s what I thought!” Marcus yelled again.
***
“I know it sounds harsh, but I really do think he’s guilty,” Marcus said to Luke, passing him a fresh beer. The two friends had hit the local bar after finishing their workout. It was hard to concentrate that day given what had just gone down with Rodger, so the after-workout drinks felt like a welcome release.
“Yeah. I agree with you,” said Luke. “I’ve seen him popping a lot of pills lately and there’s something about his body. It’s got that look, like it’s retaining too much water. You know, that slightly bloated, roided-up look.”
“Right? He almost looks cartoonish with that beard and that potbelly. Like an off-season Bluto.
Luke laughed at Marcus’ comparison. Mike did look kind of like Bluto, except with a shaved head and more spandex.
“I think I have a way to teach him a lesson,” Marcus said, taking a swig of his beer.
“What’s that?”
“At our lab we’re currently doing some tests with a drug that makes human skin more elastic. It’s meant to prepare patients for plastic surgery and we’ve had great results. We have a stronger, untested version that I’ve been wanting to try out.”
“I don’t follow you. What does a drug meant for plastic surgery patients have to do with Mike? It sounds sketchy to me.”
“Well, hear me out. This is an ointment that makes the skin more elastic, kind of like a plastic covering that can be shaped and manipulated. It makes the skin stretchy. You know how Mike’s always prancing around with that roided up gut and chest, like someone shoved a bike pump up his ass and pumped it a couple of times? Well, if we got enough of that shit into Mike, we could actually pump him up.”
Luke did not comprehend what his gym mate was saying. It just didn’t make sense.
“You want to pump Mike up like a bicycle tire?”
“Not like a bike tire, my friend, like a human fucking balloon. I want to blow him up to match that inflated ego of his.”
“Heh.” Luke chuckled nervously. Was Marcus serious? Was it really possible to pump another guy up with air?
“Dude, it would be hilarious. Think about it.” Marcus puffed out his cheeks imitating the face Mike made when he squatted heavy, crossing his eyes and extending his arms as if he were blowing up like a balloon.
“So whatcha think? Should we give this guy the pump of his life?” Marcus asked, taking a swig of beer.
Luke guessed if anyone deserved to be on the wrong end of a prank like that, it was Mike. Both Marcus and Luke would have placed in the meet if not for his selfishness, after all.
“I guess it would be pretty hilarious. It wouldn’t hurt him though, right?”
“Oh no. He would deflate after a while. It would just be a temporary thing.”
“Heh. Well, alright. I sure wouldn’t mind seeing him taken down a couple of notches.”
Marcus flashed a grin. “Pumping him up a couple of notches to take him down a few.”
“Right,” Luke laughed.
“I knew you’d be up for it. And I’m telling you, it is going to be hilarious. He’ll think twice before juicing himself up like a muscle blimp again.”
“So how are we going to pull this stunt off?” Luke was starting to enjoy the thought of the bulky ad exec being inflated. It was actually turning him on.
“Well, we need a couple of weeks to really get that ointment into his system. We’ve got the annual dinner coming up in three weeks’ time, so that should be a good place to give Mike a little pump in the rump.”
Luke’s mind was racing at the thought of Mike’s meaty ass blowing up in front of his eyes.
“Let me take care of getting him the cream,” said Marcus. “I’ll just need your help the night of.”
By the time the two lifters had left the bar, it was ten o’clock and they had a solid plan. Luke was considerably buzzed and feeling good about it.
“And you’re sure this isn’t going to hurt the guy, right?” he asked Marcus as he turned toward the parking lot.
“Dude, don’t worry. This is just going to be a temporary thing. It’s gonna be perfect.
“Perfect,” said Luke as he unlocked his car. “See you at the gym next week!”
***
By the night of the annual dinner, things seemed to be back to normal at the BWC. Rodger had cooled down a little, although nobody had come forward to confess that they had used steroids. The coach had decided privately that the positive test was a mistake. After all, the meet was a low-budget operation. In reality, he just couldn’t bear the thought of one of his guys cheating. Among the team, however, the unofficial consensus was that Mike was the culprit, and a few of the guys were giving him the cold shoulder. Mike had definitely not been his cocky self for the last couple of weeks, and was keeping a lower profile.
Luke was amazed at Marcus’ ability to fool Mike into using the skin-stretch cream. He had approached the roid-gutted lifter after a workout pretending to apologize and offering the cream as a proverbial olive branch. He had told Mike it was for muscle massage. The willingness with which Mike took the cream and slathered it all over his muscular body made Luke even more convinced that he was used to using steroids, and that he would go to any length to bulk up his body. Nobody would get that into a new product without at least doing some research first unless they were used to taking risks.
For the festivities, half of the gym had been rearranged into a makeshift dining room, with several long tables and chairs arranged in front of a platform that was serving tonight as a stage for the awards ceremony. The guys had ordered a catered meal from Rizzo’s, a local pizzeria, and after the team had eaten their fill, it was time for the awards to be handed out.
As per tradition, Rodger got up on the platform and handed out a number of awards. This year, Marcus, as club president, was playing emcee. The usual awards were handed out first: an award for best squat, bench and deadlift, and an all-around Best Lifter award. Most Improved Lifter went to Luke. Since joining the club just a little over a year before, he had made some significant strides. Then came the joke awards: Worst Gym Fashion, Most Neurotic, Biggest Dork, and so on. By this time, the guys were all having fun: plenty of beer had been drunk and there was plenty more to go around.
Luke felt jittery as the awards ceremony reached its close. They had planned to save their prank for last.
After what seemed like ages to Luke, Marcus took the mic to announce the final award. “And our last award of the evening comes with a special prize.” Luke, could you assist me by bringing it out?”
Luke jumped up from his table and went into the locker room. The team had gone silent, waiting to see what Marcus had cooked up.
“The last award is going to this team's Biggest Personality.” Some of the guys chuckled, while others whispered to one another, making guesses as to who was going to get it.
“That’s right. This award goes to the lifter whose presence in the weight room is larger than life. This prize is for a teammate who lifts big and celebrates even bigger… ‘The World's Biggest Personality’ prize is for a guy who gets pumped lifting weights, and stays pumped by being his own cheerleading squad!”
More laughs from the audience. Marcus was truly playing it up.
“The award goes to… none other than… Mike Stevens!” Hoots and whistles from the tables ensued as Mike stood up and took a dramatic bow. He had a huge smile on his face. Even though Marcus was taking a jab, he loved the attention. He had even worn dressier clothes to the gym tonight: a white button-down dress shirt and a nice pair of khakis.
“Mike, come on up to receive your special prize.”
As Mike climbed onto the platform, the double doors to the locker room swung open as Luke backed out pulling a hand truck holding a huge canister labeled “helium.” The canister had a long black hose attached to the release valve that was coiled up neatly around the top.
“Huh?” muttered Mike. The rest of the guys had stopped clapping and all eyes were on Luke, who wheeled the helium tank up a ramp onto the platform and parked it in place.
“That’s right!” said Marcus, who had a huge grin on his face. “We figured that the Biggest Personality always likes to feel pumped up by his buds, so we’re gonna make that happen tonight.”
This latest quip elicited a few awkward chuckles from the crowd, who were mostly quiet, waiting to see what on earth Marcus was doing.
“You’re quite the jokester Marc,” said Mike, who was looking a little bit embarrassed and like he was more than ready to go sit down.
“Oh no dude. I’m for real.” Marcus walked over to the tank and began to unwind the hose. Luke motioned to another teammate who he had looped into the prank earlier and had been quite willing to take part. After hopping onto the platform, he and Luke each grabbed one of Mike’s arms.
“What the fu--,” said Mike, but before he could finish, Marcus had grabbed the hose and shoved its nozzle into Mike’s open mouth, jamming it down his throat firmly. As Mike squirmed in the rock-solid grip of his two teammates, issuing muffled curses, Marcus walked over to the tank and twisted a spigot at the top. “Alright buddy. Here we go!”
Mike’s eyes widened as he felt the gas rush into his body, cheeks expanding at the first rush. “Mike,” said Marcus as he stepped to the inflating man’s side, “we’re all a bit annoyed that you’ve been breaking the rules, so we thought we’d teach you a lesson. You wanted to be the biggest by using steroids. Well, now you’re going to be the biggest in another way.”
Mike stared at Marcus with eyebrows raised in a combination of disbelief and anger – it was all he could do. Held in place by his two friends and quickly becoming immobilized by the helium flowing into his body, the proud powerlifter was in no position to change his situation.
“Oh, I forgot to mention. That muscle-massage cream I gave you the other week… it wasn’t muscle-massage cream at all. It made your skin stretchable, so you’ll be able to accommodate a good bit of air. It’s going to be a gas! Get it?” Marcus laughed, turning toward the crowd, who were staring agape at the spectacle unfolding before them.
Rodger, whose face had drained of all color, stammered “Marcus, wha... what are you doing? You’re going to kill him!” Some of the other teammates who had been briefly stunned sprang into action, pulling out phones to call 911, one getting up as if to tackle Marcus.
“Guys, relax. He’s gonna be just fine.” He walked over to Mike, patting his noticeably distended power-belly, which had begun to take on the shape of a large ball and was seriously straining his button-down shirt. “This chump put on so much skin-stretching cream that we can inflate him like a balloon and he’ll stay in one piece.”
Mike’s eyes darted around nervously, waiting for someone in the crowd to come to his rescue, but nobody made a move. Much to his surprise, Rodger appeared to be having a change of heart. He slowly settled back into his seat with a fascinated expression, folding his arms over his chest as if he were scrutinizing a magician’s show. The guy who had stood up sat back down, staring at the ballooning powerlifter all the while. It seems that the team had no sympathy for their buddy who had evidently let them down.
Having found no moral support in the crowd, Mike looked down helplessly at his distended belly. His white dress shirt was feeling very tight, and gaps were opening around his buttons. “Stand back boys!” mocked Marcus, “this one’s about to blow!” And at that very second, a button popped off of Mike’s shirt. Two other buttons quickly followed after it with explosive rips, exposing more of Mike’s white undershirt to the crowd. Mike looked as though he wanted to groan, but the hose shoved in his mouth prevented it.
A stretching sound began to accompany the faint hissing of the helium filling Mike up. The brown leather belt looped through Mike’s khaki pants was starting to strain, and after a few final seconds of holding on, it also split in two. The button at the top of the swelling lifter’s khakis followed shortly after, allowing his distended belly to pop out a few inches further.
At this point, other parts of Mike also began to swell. His arms began to fill up, and Luke and his teammate realized that their job was done. These appendages were quickly becoming useless. As the two hefty men let go, Mike’s puffy arms sprang upwards and remained stuck outward. His legs, too, were becoming more stocky, and his bubbly ass was protruding even more than normal.
As Mike blew up like an inflatable Michelin man, the remainder of his dress shirt, undershirt and khakis fell off in pieces revealing to the crowd’s surprise that he had been wearing a black singlet underneath his clothing. Even his fancy shoes popped off of his feet, which had inflated and taken on a balloonish look.
“Well, well!” taunted Marcus, “I see you wear your gear around all the time. What a creep. Well, I guess it’s probably to hide that ‘roid gut of yours!”
The audience chuckled at this last joke. The team was evidently enjoying the sight of Mike being inflated like a parade blimp before their eyes.
A few guys in the crowd actually gasped when the swelling 250-pound man began to float off the ground. Marcus did not lose the opportunity to embarrass his teammate. “Three, two, one, liftoff!” he squealed into the mic, nearly jumping up and down with excitement. Luke was beginning to look nervous, as he had not expected things to go this far, but he didn’t have any idea how to reverse the situation and he did not want to cross Marcus, who had a maniacal glint in his eye.
As he began to float upwards, Mike flapped his puffy fingers and toes helplessly. He looked like an inflatable sumo wrestler: his short, stumpy legs and arms poked out comically from his rounded middle. His belly had blown up to the size of an exercise ball and was just as tight and round. The ball-like effect was heightened since his singlet had miraculously stayed intact and was now stretched over his belly and upper thighs, giving Mike the look of a shiny plastic balloon. Mike’s outie belly-button, now inflated to about the size of a ping-pong ball from the growing pressure in his gut, poked out under the shiny black singlet like the navel of an overly ripe orange. Mike’s bearded head now looked disproportionately small, and it seemed like it could blow off at any minute.
Mike slowly floated upwards until the black helium hose ran out of slack, causing his weight to shift so that his head and ball-belly pointed downward and his sausage-like feet pointed toward the ceiling. Beads of sweat were forming on his cleanly-shaven head and his face was flushed red, either from embarrassment of being blown up like a human blimp in front of the crowd, or possibly from the physical strain that he was undoubtedly feeling.
Rodger unfolded his arms and chuckled. “Marcus, Mike’s looking pretty full. I think we ought to shut off the gas before he blows.”
“Good idea,” said Marcus. “We don’t want to pop our prize blimp.” And with that, Marcus shut off the spigot.
“Someone get me a rope so he doesn’t float away!”
One of the guys grabbed a stretchy elastic band from the chin-up rack. It took two more guys and Marcus to unhook Mike from the hose and maneuver the inflated man into a position where he could be tied from one of his feet to a weight on the ground. Mike, blown up so tightly that he could no longer move a muscle, was pivoted to face the audience. He looked utterly swollen, as though he would explode if he took another breath. He stared out into the crowd from behind his blown up cheeks but he was too full to speak. After what seemed like minutes, he managed to open his mouth and let out a long, tortured belch, which was weirdly high-pitched due to the helium he had ingested.
“Someone’s gassy tonight, huh boys?” said Rodger, who was thoroughly enjoying the show. “Where are your manners?” called out another team member. Mike’s cheeks flushed a brighter shade of red.
“Well, I think if Mike’s going to be rude, he should be excused,” said Marcus. “Guys, I’m going to need some help pushing this overblown blimp into the locker room so we can finish our meal.”
It dawned on Luke that Mike’s inflation might not be temporary, but it was far too late to do anything about that.
A few guys placed hands on Mike as Marcus unmoored him from the floor weight. Although he had enough helium pumped into him to float, Mike was still heavy, so several men had to pivot the blown-up powerlifter to face the right direction and push him away. Mike was slowly maneuvered into the locker room, head first and facing down. It took two guys pushing his bubbled ass cheeks and another two pulling on his sausage-like hands to complete the operation. The men heaved a sigh of relief as his two stumpy legs finally disappeared behind the swinging doors.
“Well, I always said that Mike was full of hot air,” said Marcus, raising a mug of beer.
“Here, here!” responded the crowd.
And with that, the BWC continued their annual dinner without thinking twice about the fact that they had just watched one of their teammates be blown up like a balloon.
***
Mike could only see the locker room floor directly under him. His peripheral vision was blocked by his round cheeks and his over-inflated belly, which stuck out toward the floor several feet below him. The guys had thrown a large cable over his ample midsection, knotting it just below his belly and tying it to a bench so that it formed a lasso holding him in place.
He occasionally tried to move his head or wiggle his arms, but it was pointless: he was too full of gas to budge. It felt odd, as if he were both light and heavy at the same time. The pressure within his gut was ridiculous, like he had overeaten and topped it off with a few too many beers, and yet he could feel his ass cheeks bobbing up and down against the ceiling. He had become the world’s heaviest balloon.
Long after the noise from the annual dinner had died down and the lights in the gym were turned off, Mike heard the locker-room door swing open. He would have jumped when Marcus’ face appeared below him, but of course he could not.
“So Mike, how does it feel to be the World's Biggest Personality?” Marcus gave Mike a firm slap on the belly, causing a brief swell of pressure within Mike’s distended gut. Mike replied with a muffled belch that escaped between his puffy cheeks.
“Still full of it, I see. Well, don’t worry, the pressure will ease eventually. You’re gonna be farting up a storm in here my friend.” Marcus chuckled at the thought.
“Hoo-wee. Yes indeed my friend. Now, since you’re just a windbag, I’ll tell you a little secret.” Marcus pulled up a chair and sat down under Mike. “It was me who took the steroids. Yes, of course it was me. I’m the only one on this team smart enough to lay my hands on the new type. I really didn’t expect to get caught. That threw me off.”
Marcus gave the cable around Mike’s belly a good tug, causing the inflated ad exec to drift up toward the ceiling as helplessly as an overfilled parade float.
“It was easy to blame you because, well, you’re such a jerk. Luke bought it and so did the others, apparently. I was surprised that nobody came to your aid tonight, but I guess that’s how much your overblown personality annoyed everyone else.”
Marcus gazed up at the blimp of a man, waiting for some sort of response, but Mike’s face remained unmoved. Perhaps he had accepted the situation. Marcus had no clue.
“Luke’s a smart one,” Marcus continued to talk to himself. “Hopefully he won’t catch on, although I’m beginning to think he might suspect something. I don’t think he wanted you to be turned into a human blimp. He’s a good kid, but a bit naïve.”
Marcus stood up to leave. “You’ll deflate down to... close to your normal ’roidgut’ size eventually. You'll probably like this part, because you might end up a little bigger than you were before. Don’t worry. But... if you tell a soul what I just told you, I can and will blow you right back up to where you are now, or more, until you know, you go....” Marcus puffed out his cheeks and gestured, making a ‘boom’ sound.
Mike’s eyes turned as big as saucers.
“That’s what I thought.” Said Marcus as he got up to leave. “I’m glad we have an understanding.”
And with that, Marcus gave Mike a mock salute as he headed out the door.