Chapter Two

The Pork Butt was the sort of tavern that stank of stale vomit, rancid stew, and lost dignity.

Its patrons were solid, broad-shouldered workmen with forests of facial hair. Sawdust coated the floor. Blood too, on occasion. Here was a place where real men drank real beer from mugs the size of small buckets and got into real fights about unreal things like honor, card games, and whose turn it was to muck out the crapper.

And at the center of this temple to toxic machismo sat Otto Brünst, Master Brewer, Five-Time Arm-Wrestling Champion of Three Counties, and a man sporting biceps so large they dwarfed lesser men's skulls.

Each arm was a tree trunk. His handshake could pulp bones. He hoisted barrels like regular folks lifted bread rolls. He was a local legend—a pillar of the community.

Heinrich desired those arms. No, he lusted after them.

He limped up to Otto’s table, adjusting a kidney belt that lived up to its name, holding in several vital organs.

“Master Brewer Brünst,” Heinrich said in the nasal sneer of a tax collector. “Might I interest you in a gentlemanly wager?”

Otto looked up from his drink, cocked a bushy eyebrow, and grunted in a dialect only understood by angry bears.

“A drinking contest,” Heinrich clarified, climbing into a chair like a lame spider. “Stein for stein. Loser forfeits–”

Otto let out a laugh that rattled the bottles behind the bar. “You think you can out-drink me, cripple? You’d be flatter than a bishop’s buttocks by the third pint!”

Heinrich smiled, revealing two sharp incisors and a chipped molar that had once belonged to a dentist. “Perhaps. But… what if I win?”

Otto thumped his barrel-sized chest. “Name your price, squib!”

“Oh, nothing dramatic, just… something of yours. Something… you won’t miss. A token, let’s say.”

The brewer’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of token?”

Heinrich shrugged. “If you win, I'll pay your tab for a month. If I win… well, let’s just say I claim a souvenir. Something... personal.” He let the last word linger.

Otto blinked. Then guffawed. “What, like my hat?”

They both glanced at the weather-beaten tricorn resting on the scarred tabletop.

“Sure,” Heinrich answered airily. “Your hat. Or... you know. Something.”

A brighter man might’ve paused. Might’ve asked a follow-up question. Might’ve been alarmed by the phrase ‘souvenir’ delivered by a hunchback who reeked like a mortuary.

However, Otto Brünst was not a brighter man. He was a louder man.

“Deal!” He bellowed, slamming his ham-sized fists on the table. “Let’s see what you’re made of, you crooked little goblin!”

The first stein disappeared quickly. So did the second. By the fourth, Heinrich was drooping, muttering to himself in what sounded like Latin. After the seventh, he was straight-backed again, humming cheerfully.

Otto began to sweat.

By the tenth, Otto’s fellow barflies had to hold him upright, pupils dilated to the size of dinner plates.

After the fourteenth, Otto Brünst hit the deck like a felled tree, snoring into his beard, drool puddling under a cheek.

Heinrich wiped his mouth on a stained sleeve and turned to the gawping crowd.

“I shall escort this prime specimen—I mean, gentleman home.” The hunchback announced. “He’s had quite enough excitement for one evening.”

The crowd cheered, possibly because they thought he was finally going to collapse or burp on a lit flame and spontaneously combust.

Heinrich dragged Otto out by the boots, whistling a jaunty tune.

“I’ve got three livers and a hollow leg,” He sang, horribly off-key. “But I’d trade them all to be back home in bed…”

Otto awoke the next morning with an apocalyptic hangover. He groaned, rolled over, and instinctively tried to scratch his nose.

The attempt failed spectacularly.

His hand—small, pale, and painfully bony—slapped the burly brewer square in the forehead. Then he checked the other.

It matched.

Thin. Weak. Frail, even. The hands of a scholar. Or an anorexic seamstress. They were attached to equally pathetic, twig-like arms that whirred alarmingly. As though driven by clockwork.

He screamed like a man who’d bet on the wrong horse and awoke next to it the following day.

What in damnation happened last night?!

Doctor Johann Doofenshmirtz, Master of Castle von Crackenshteen, Knight of the Order of Unnatural Sciences, and two-time runner-up in the Evil Scheme of the Year Awards, was currently hiding in an attic.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

He was crouched in the narrow crawlspace above the east wing dressing chamber, peering through a spyhole that had originally been installed for “security purposes,” but had since been repurposed for “deeply personal research.”

Below, on a rich carpet, his wife and daughter were preening, playing dress-up with a secret stash of the late Abbess’s fetishwear.

Had Johann known the stoneface matron hid such kinky depths, he mightn’t have judged her so harshly… or dropped the crust old bint in his crocodile pit.

Liselotte giggled as she twirled in a scandalous ensemble composed of leather, lace, and what may once have been a doily. The lingerie criss-crossed her firm yet supple young body, emphasizing everything while covering next to nothing.

Shiny satin ribbons tied in bows rode high over her powerful hips before bulging down into the valley of that perfect bubble butt, securing a minuscule tuft of crocheted cashmere over her girlhood. An eye-watering contrivance of black leather and white lace that might charitably be called a bra fought a losing battle against the hefty swell of her overflowing breasts. Frilly garters held up black fishnet stockings right beneath her three-inch thigh gap.

“Look at me,” Liselotte purred, fluffing her bubblegum-pink curls and jiggling provocatively in ways that defied physics and public decency. “I’m literally too pretty. It’s exhausting.”

Magdela reclined on a velvet chaise, her long legs glistening with post-goo moisturizer, admiring herself in a hand mirror with all the reverence of a saint venerating her own cleavage.

“You get it from me, darling,” Magdela cooed, adjusting her bodice. It was technically a corset, though it doubled as industrial scaffolding for her immense, succulent boobage. A ruffle of chiffon banded her tinyfied waist like the daydream of a skirt. “Of course, it wasn’t always this way. Not until your father turned us into some kind of Frankensteinian teenage fantasy.”

Her hair–half blonde, half redhead–cascaded down to the floor in a silken waterfall. Gold jewelry sparkled at her throat, ears, and wrists as though she were a wealthy dowager in repose. She sipped on a martini glass of revitalizing fluid with a contented sigh.

Doofenshmirtz raged silently, unbuttoning his fly to stroke the hardness within.

He was a scientist! A researcher! A ground-breaking inventor! Yet his ungrateful family treated him like a gods damned mixologist, demanding he brew more of his miracle solution for their “cocktail hour.”

“Ugh, Daddy.” Liselotte wrinkled her nose as if someone had mentioned a blocked toilet. “He’s such a creep. He acts like putting us back together makes him some kind of hero.”

Struggling to open a jar of baby seal fat to grease his aching driveshaft, Johann silently took offence. Not because it wasn’t true. It absolutely was true. He was a hero. Just… unappreciated. Which was far worse.

“Honestly,” Magdela drawled, lacing up knee-high boots baring spiked heels that were never designed for walking. “He’s not even that impressive in the trousers department. All that scientific grandstanding to make up for—well, you know.” She winked.

Johann almost lost his temper. He did lose the jar of unethically sourced lube, which clattered down a vent but was thankfully drowned out by Liselotte's screeching reply.

“Ew! I did not need that image!”

“Just saying,” Magdela smirked. “We’ve been rebuilt, rejuiced, and re-stitched. But that shrimp dick still has the body of a sleep-deprived turnip.”

The injustice!

The audacity!

The mad Doctor clutched at his chest, not for dramatic effect, but to make sure it hadn’t caved in under the weight of sheer betrayal. He, who had defied **** and decorum to turn his family into statuesque goddesses! He, whose genius could not be contained by rules, laws, or common human sentiment. He deserved awards. Medals!

Perhaps a small volcanic island populated by gullible tribal natives who would worship him as a god!

And instead, here he was, being insulted by a pair of ingrate pneumatic pin-ups who wore lingerie like it was body paint and discussed his anatomical inadequacies over drinks.

“God dammit!” Doofenshmirtz stroked himself faster, more furiously.

Magdela had changed into something even skimpier—a skimpy mesh babydoll confection that clung to her curves like a shipwrecked sailor. Liselotte followed suit, wriggling into a tan nylon body-stocking that lost the will to contain the barely-legal smoke show’s muscular magnificence, parting at the seams in long snakes and ladders.

“Oh phooey.” She pouted, pinching her puckered nipples. “I’m simply too much woman for this outfit. Does it make me look fat?”

“Not at all, darling.” Magdela stepped up behind her daughter, reaching around to trail delicate fingers across the girl’s toned tummy while nibbling on her ear. “You look good enough to eat. Positively scrumptious.”

“You do too, Mama. I only wish there were a real man here to devour us. A proper beefcake with a hard bod, giant dick, and muscles for days.”

“Me too, darling. Heavens, just imagining such a man has Mama’s poor pussy dripping. A dreamboat with lickable pectorals.”

They swayed together in front of a full-length mirror, kissing, groping, comparing cleavage, trading compliments, and occasionally slapping each other's taut posteriors like Swedish swimsuit models after a good game of beach volleyball.

Johann’s jaw clenched.

This was the thanks he received? The divine retribution for his brilliance?

He imagined bursting into the room—ripping the door off its hinges, thunder crackling behind him, steam hissing from the pipes as he announced his arrival in all his future glory: tall, muscular, godlike—a bastion of masculinity.

Yes. That was the plan. That was what he deserved. He’d mapped everything out. He had the serum. He’d procured the rare powdered rhinoceros horn.

All he lacked were the parts.

And where, oh where, was that miserable wretch of a son?

“HEINRICH!” Johann shouted to the ceiling, momentarily forgetting where he was. “Where are my lickable pectorals?!”

No answer. Only the faint bubbling of vats and the low sizzle of something chemically unsound fermenting in the drains.

“Lazy, lumpy little loser…” Johann muttered, crawling back from the spyhole, pecker wilting in disappointment. “Sent him on one simple errand. Find me a bicep or two. Some solid glutes. A heroic jawline. Is that so much to ask?”

He thumped a fist against the wall, which released a puff of plaster dust and a startled pigeon.

He would show them. All of them.

His wife, with her teasing smiles and restored youth. His daughter, who wore skin like sin and judged him with eyes he’d hand-picked. And Heinrich, that shambling pile of hand-me-down organs.

Doctor Johann Doofenshmirtz would not be mocked. He would not be dismissed.

Soon, he would rise—not as a forgettable, cackling footnote in the scientific periodicals—but as the Ultimate Male Specimen. Every inch of him refined, symmetrical, bursting with virility, intellect, and big dick energy.

When that glorious day arrived, they would kneel. Possibly in awe. Possibly because their heels were too tall.

Until then…

“Hmmm, this thong is riding up my crack.” Magdela commented below. “Not enough, though. I need something tighter.”

Johann’s eye twitched.

Until then… he would wait. Watch. Plan. And maybe jack off in a dark corner or two.

Very soon, the age of Johann 2.0 would begin.

And it would have abs.

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