Jerome followed Ronnie to a backroom of the club, pulling his top back on at his did. What a shame to cover up his fit bod for the bar patrons, but Ronnie was the boss and what he said, goes. Ronnie was clearly stressed, his hair disheveled and combover even more apparent than usual. "Pietro has called in sick, again. He's fuckin' useless that guy. It's a busy night, so I need you to cover the front door with Hasan, got it?" Jerome was a bit taken aback - he assumed he was going to be asked on stage to show his moves (and maybe his perky butt). "You want me to cover the door?" Ronnie eyes bugged "yeh dipshit, cover the door. Card people, bar any weirdos, make sure noone gets too rowdy. Easy." Jerome was uncertain. He was okay with the app making him a hunky bartender for an evening, but a bouncer? That seemed a step too far. But, could he say no? The task wasn't "be a bartender for the night" but "cover my shift", and now he was being asked as part of his shift to man the door. What if he refused? How would the app react?
Jerome decided to push back - he could continue serving drinks and looking cute until the end of the shift. "Look Ronnie, I'm sorry but no way I'm the right guy. Most customers are gonna tower over me" he exaggerated. "I'm a lover, not a fighter bro." Jerome could tell that that wasn't going to wash with Ronnie, who was looking increasingly impatient. "Look Jerome, I get that normally my guys on the door are a bit... rougher around the edges, but you look plenty strong. It's normally a pretty relaxed crowd, so you'll be fine. And also, you don't really have a choice." Jerome, reluctantly, nodded, trying to find a silver lining. A new experience at least? "Ok, you're a bouncer for rest of your shift, starting now," Ronnie continued. "Get yourself outside and help Hasan." Jerome nodded again but before he could say anything was hit with a sudden vertigo. Did he always have such a clear view of the top of Ronnie's thinning scalp? Jerome teetered on unbalanced legs as Ronnie left. Had he shot up in height? Already? Normally the changes were a bit smoother than that, but he figured normally his "commute" to work was a bit shorter. He must have been almost a foot taller than he had been, bringing him to.. "holy fuck" he exclaimed, "I'm fucking six foot seven." He guessed customers wouldn't tower over him anymore...
Jerome started heading back to the main dancefloor to make his way to the front door, adjusting quickly to his new gangly legs and eye height. Ducking (he had to duck!) under the doorframe, he emerged into an even busier crowd. He had to handle this crowd? This wasn't the work he expected to have to do when he signed up to cover a bartending shift... Jerome started making his way through the crowd, realising that he now did indeed tower over all of them. He started to move towards the door through the crowd, but despite his size kept getting stuck amongst the writhing dancers. He muttered "excuse me", but everyone was too into the music to hear him or to care. He tried to navigate his way through politely, but no one budged. "I'm tryin' to get through here" he said, this time a bit more forcefully, not noticing his voice had dropped even further. He was getting annoyed now - he was just trying to do his job! "Yo, move people" he shouted, trying now to force his way through. He received a slight shove in return. "You need to relax man" Jerome heard from a loose voice in front of him. That, more than anything, pissed him off. He wasn't there to relax. Jerome - now fully aware of how gruff his voice sounded - responded "look bud, just get the fuck out of my way." The man wheeled around and Jerome eyed him up - tanned, muscular, perfectly coiffed hair, and clearly a dickhead. Part of Jerome - the part that still clung onto the carefree bartender he was only a few minutes ago - wanted to just ignore him and move on, but another part - the more dominant part - wanted to punch this guy's perfect fuckin' teeth in.
"Fuck off beanpole" the douche laughed. That was the final straw, this guy was toast. Jerome inhaled and puffed up his chest in an attempt to intimidate the douche and then when he breathed out his chest... just didn't deflate. In fact, Jerome now had a full blown shelf, stretching his top to almost bursting proportions. "You wanna say that again bud" Jerome asked knowingly. The douche tried to shove him again but this time Jerome didn't flinch, didn't move. He barely felt the impact, and as soon as the guy's hand touched his shoulder his entire upper body exploded. His chest ballooned even further, now supported by Jerome's widening shoulders and broad back. His top stretched beyond what would be possible, instead morphing into a dark polo shirt. The sleeves began to creep up Jerome's arms, revealing vascular forearms loaded with dark hair. Jerome was however oblivious to all these changes - his focus was on the guy. "I think you better step off", Jerome grumbled. The man looked more uncertain now, as if he had only just clocked Jerome's size. A bit more timidly, he stammered "look man, I'll move alright."
That wasn't good enough for Jerome. This douche was a bad egg, he could just tell. Jerome didn't just want him out of his way any more, he wanted him out of the bar. "Let's go buddy" he sneered. The guy began to protest but Jerome cut him off with a simple raise of his hand. "Nah man, no negotiatin'. You're out." The guy looked worried now, but didn't move. Jerome almost grinned - that was his cue. His arm reached out and grabbed the man firmly by the shoulder. Jerome was momentarily shocked by his arm - it was so thick and hairy - but he didn't let himself get distracted. He pulled the guy into a secure lock, and started escorting him off the dancefloor. The guy wasn't cooperating and for a second Jerome wasn't sure he would be able to so easily support his weight, but he could feel his lower half adjust, his legs becoming loaded with more muscle and his stance widening. This time the crowd parted without Jerome having to say anything, the customers looking at him with a mix of glee, fear and respect. Damn right, Jerome thought.
Belong long, Jerome was at the entrance and chucked the guy to the street. "Now go on, fuck off" he added for good measure, now relishing the deep gruff that came from his throat. He turned around to head back inside when he caught a reflection of himself in the mirror. "Holy shit" he muttered. He was fucking huge. Taller than José, definitely bigger than Miguel, he was a monster. And he loved it. A almost skin-tight black polo stretched across a barrell chest and thick torso, the colour extenuating his dark skin. His arms were so loaded that they hung at slightly odd angles to his body, and his biceps looked like they could barely fit within his shirt. The polo was unbuttoned - there was no chance any button would stay in place with these pecs - so any onlooker would get a great glimpse of the top of his cleavage which, Jerome noted with pride, was covered in thick curly dark hair. In fact, he realised with a mild itch that he was pretty hairy all round, gazing in wonder at his thick mitts with calloused fingers and feathered with hair.
It wasn't just his top half where he was bulky but his bottom half as well, his thick legs now poured into hugging dark jeans and with huge feet in generic workman's shoes. His height was almost overtaken by his sheer width and size. Noone was going to call him a beanpole anymore. He had been so fixated on his body that he hadn't even looked at his face, and his eyes met the thick bushy beard and shaved scalp with surprise and familiarity. He drew his hand across his scalp, barely feeling the rough stubble underneath. He was handsome in some ways - dark, deep eyes, solid cheekbones, a tidied beard - but there was a certain roughness to his look. His teeth were gleaming white but had a few missing at the back, and his strong nose was slightly crooked. And, looking more closely, he spotted that his skin looked just that bit more weathered, a few more lines around his eyes and forehead. He was older. He instinctively raised his polo - gone were Jerome's washboard apps, and in its place was a solid grindstone of a torso. He wasn't cut, but he was built. And truth be told, he was fine with that.
"Jamal, you all good?" He instinctively turned, looking back at an equally built guy sitting on a stool by the door. He was wearing the same uniform so he figured this must be Hasan, his fellow bouncer for the evening. This feeling went further though, almost to recognition. Had they met before? "Yo, Jamal, what's up?" Jamal responded "Yeh, sorry man - just some drunken dick causin' trouble. It's all good." His voice and candour had a certain affectation to it, a gruffness he wasn't used to. Hasan just laughed though. "Man, I swear you get off on finding some drunken white douche and chuckin' em out every night." Jerome, despite himself, laughed along. The truth was he did enjoy sizing up to that guy, making him feel intimidated and small, and chucking him out like he was nothing. He had been such a wuss in his previous life and had never had power or respect like anything resembling this. Jamal - this unit he was now - was a fuckin' tank. And he craved that. He wandered over to Hasan, punching him good naturedly (but firmly, gotta show him who's boss) on the shoulder. "Gotta keep busy, don' I."
With that, he and Hasan fell into the natural rhythm of their work - checking lots of IDs, gauging how drunk people were, frisking the ones that seemed a bit sketchy. He got a bit of backchat occasionally, but all he had to was glare and most people shut up quick. He could get used to this level of authority. He also fell easily into a rhythm working with Hasan - they each knew when to step in, who looked shifty, who was fine - they made a good team. Jamal looked at Hasan and saw on one hand a complete stranger, but on the other hand he saw someone who he had known for years. And not just working together, but images of them pushing each other at the gym before work, stocking up on protein powder and creatine, sourcing other substances to help them build. Hasan wasn't just his colleague, but they shared an apartment above the club. They spent their days pumping iron, and evenings on this door. And they had done so for... how long? Jamal couldn't remember doing anything else, it felt like he'd been running through that cycle - gym, work, sleep, eat - with Hasan for years. And maybe it had been years, he was 38 now after all. He wasn't some young guy who could get a six pack with a few sit ups, he had to fuckin' work for this body.
Jamal stood his head. That wasn't right. That wasn't his life. He was José... no, fuck, he was Josh! It was less than 24 hours ago that he had been some skinny white postgrad looking for a job. Then he had been a hunky hispanic pool cleaner, a carefree bi bartender and now... this. His life, his real life, felt so far away and more and more unreal. He needed a way back, and soon - the more lives he jumped into, the further away his actual life seemed. He was getting worked up and, in this body, that meant he was getting angry. That fuckin' app! It had made him this... old, hairy muscle man. He was almost in his forties now, and he took fuckin' roids and lived in a shitty apartment with some meathead who he also worked with? That wasn't fucking fair! He was gonna find whoever designed that fuckin' app and was gonna...
"Dude," Hasan interrupted. "You good? You look fuckin' tense. You haven't had a smoke break in like forever." The mention of smokes broke his reverie, and he instinctively grabbed for a packet in his jean pockets. "Imma take five." "No worries brotha" Hasan replied, "club closes in a few. I'll close up." Jamal walked a few metres down the block, looking at the sky with the sun rising in the distance. He hadn't even clocked how long his shift had been. He rested up against a shop shutter, and lit his cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he instantly felt more relaxed. He always did after a cigarette, they helped balance all the roids he was shootin'. He knew he needed to stop that shit but he just couldn't. The way people looked at him - whether with lust, or fear, or envy, but always with respect - was addictive. He looked down - at his arms, at his hairy shelf of a chest, at his bulging package. Why the fuck would he give that up, to go back to be some scawny loser kid with no job. Fuck that.
As Jamal finished up his cigarette he saw the last stragglers from the club begin to pile out, being ushered by Hasan. Most of them were wasted, some of them might be going onto an afterparty and a few of them might be going straight to work. Looking somewhat distinct from the rest of the group were two gawky looking college aged kids. They were bouncing out of the club laughing their little heads off, but were dressed surprisingly formally for the club. They must be new to the whole "nightlife" thing Jamal thought. For some reason though, he couldn't keep his eye off them. It dawned on Jamal that... he knew those kids. He didn't just know them, they were his friends, his best friends. The only true friends he had made at college. This memory, this recognition triggered something in him, some kind of fight or flight response. He wasn't Jamal, some lunky meathead bouncer, or a flirty bartender, or a laid-back poolboy, he was a smart graduate with friends and a family! Forgetting himself and what he looked like, he dropped the disgusting cigarette and ran over. "Mark, Chris" he shouted, his deep gruff voice betraying his relief, "it's me!"
Mark and Chris looked at him with drunken perplexity and, Jamal sensed, some residual fear. He wasn't surprised. It was only now that he was up close that he realised just how much he towered over them, and that he seemed to be broader than the two of them put together. His sheer size, his hairy arms, his voice, the fact that he was now old and black... all those differences were now thrown into clarity with the sharp contrast between his body and his friends. "Sorry sir... ahem, man," Mark started, tentatively. "Can we help you?" Jamal barreled into a response. "You guys gotta help me. I'm not supposed to be like this, I'm supposed to be like... well, like you! I'm fuckin' small, and young, and white!" Mark and Chris began to look freaked out now, and starting backing away. "No, listen to me!" Jamal shouted angrily. "Sorry, sorry, this body just gets so fuckin' angry. You gotta help me, I'm Josh! Remember?" But Jamal saw no sign of recognition on their faces. Just like his parents, they didn't recognise him. To them, there hadn't ever been a Josh. But they could still help.
"Look, just download the TaskRaccoon and set up a task and... hey, listen!" Mark and Chris were backing away more earnestly now. Why weren't they fuckin' helping him! Without thinking, Jamal grabbed Mark by the collar and lifted him in the air like he weighed nothing. "Just fuckin' help me bro!" he spat straight into Mark's face. Mark squealed and tried to wriggle out of Jamal's grip, but to no avail. Jamal however saw the sheer terror in Mark and Chris's eyes and caught his reflection in the window. An older, vainy, hairy adult barely fitting into his clothes with a face full of rage about to pummel an innocent kid. That's what he saw. That's what the world would see him as if he didn't fix this - someone who only lived for the gym, someone with a short fuse made shorter by a life on steroids, someone who preyed on the small and the weak. What the hell was he doing? "Shit, I'm sorry bro" he said softly, lowering Mark to the ground. As soon as Mark hit the pavement, he and Chris scarpered. Jamal didn't blame them. Breathing heavily, he looked down at his hands. They were curled tautly into fists, the thick veins flaring against the dark skin. These hands, used for aggression and violence, weren't his. They couldn't be his.
Jamal booted up TaskRaccoon, the phone feeling tiny in his hands, and saw a payout for his shift. All of this started because he wanted a shortcut to some cash. He also saw the reminder - that he had an hour to revert to his original identity or it would be erased. The reminder that he had ignored first time around and deleted his identity and made his identity José. Going back, falling into and accepting the life as José was more tempting than ever. José was young at least, had some family, and wasn't a steroid nutjob as far as he could tell. It was a life he could get used to. But it wasn't, fundamentally, his life. He booted up the task list, out of morbid curiosity more than anything else, as he weighed his options. And just when he thought there was no way out, one task in particular gave him some hope.