You follow Myostatin and Smokey to an enormous tent, large enough to encompass an enormous bodybuilding clown (or two). While there's a lot of open space, it contains many heavy props (safes, anchors, chains), a punching bag, weights of all kinds, and an area with food, protein shakes, and several strange vials and bottles, some with the label "Clownobolic." That must by Myostatin's gear. (Also a tray of cream pies and a bottle of seltzer water, because clowns).
Myostating immediately begins to deadlift 600 pounds with ease. You examine the weights, some reading 500 lbs, 1000 lbs, even a literal one-ton weight large enough to be balanced. You're uncertain, but also eager to test out these new clown muscles. But Smokey puts out a hand to halt.
"Wait, you need some lifting gloves, and a new outfit period." You're still in the tatters of your old clothes, and barely decent. Smokey pulls from his pocket a pair of vertically striped trousers, with springy suspenders. You put them on. He pulls out a pair of enormous rubber boots. Your feet are larger, but the shoes still flop about. Finally, he hands you a pair of classic white clown gloves, but elastic enough to fit any sized hands.
"Okay, kiddo, now you can go to it. You're *almost* ready."
You smile at Smokey, hoping to prove yourself, and begin with squats, choosing a bar with 300 pounds to start. As you lift, you feel your thick hands strain the gloves, which stretch to accommodate your hard knuckles. You're feeling powerful as your enormous body moves. While you lift, Smokey begins adding weight to the plates. You start to struggle around 500 lbs, but you force yourself, your white face turning red with effort. Myostatin has gone about his routine with apparent ease and his usual grin.
You hear Smokey's voice behind you: "Good work, kid, you just need a little booster shot." And then a jab in your striped trousers, hitting the tensed glutes. The formula does its work almost instantly. Your shoulders widen even further, with your cannonball delts becoming wrecking balls over similarly overinflated biceps, the network of veins straining at the skin. Your neck is thicker than a rhinoceros, with the phrase "yoked" applying as you could haul an ox wagon any time. Your pectorals protrude like an imposing balcony, while your abs widen and swell outward into a rock-hard muscle gut. Your ham-sized hands continue to grip the bar, as the gloves stretch, and you utter a loud grunt of "Urrrrrrgh" as the changes continue.
Your legs widen further and calves balloon, and their length increases as your trousers now seem like shorts at the knee. Your feet feel strong and heavy as they advance further in the shows, now leaving only a couple of inches to spare.
Your hair begins to fall out in clumps, while the remaining hairs lengthen; you're left with two red fringes on each side, and a high, clownish tuft at the top. Your lower lip sticks out and your jaw drops down even further.
Myostatin pats you on the back with his own enormous hand, and you realize that now you two are fairly well matched in size. Smokey smirks and says, "Now *that's* a clown. You just need a name." He snaps his fingers. "I've got it. You're now Mr. Pump!"
Mr. Pump, you think. It has the silly ring a clown name should have, but also sounds strong, suggesting your ever pumping, overinflated muscles. You give your balloon-like bicep a pump of its own as you flex. In your deep baritone, you grunt "Poifect, Smokey. Heh hehh heh."
"Now you two get ready for the show. Myostatin will show you what to do, Mr. Pump. Afterwards, you'll be ready to greet the audience, and maybe even work the test your strength stand. Just some final props first." He hands Myostatin some more syringes, and attaches a squirting flower to your suspender. "It has some of the clownobolic solution, although not as potent as what you took, Mr. Pump." Smokey smiles again. "All right boys, nearly showtime, so go out there and have them rolling in the aisles!"