PROLL DELUXE (Patreon)

Evan had heard the stories.

Everyone who spent enough time in gay gyms, bodybuilding forums, or the darker corners of transformation TikTok eventually heard about Proll.

The black can. The poisonous green lettering. The flavour nobody could quite describe. According to the urban legend, one drink was enough to turn any carefully groomed pretty boy into the sort of man he would normally avoid on public transport: bald, bearded, enormous, badly dressed and permanently surrounded by cigarette smoke.

Some versions said the victim’s body changed.

Others claimed his clothes, accent and entire past changed with him.

The most ridiculous versions insisted that every Proll drinker ended up with a massive beer belly, an old-fashioned tracksuit and a profile on some obscure bear-dating app he had never downloaded.

Evan found the stories hilarious.

He was twenty-seven, lean and meticulously maintained, with long brown hair he wore tied in a high bun. His body was the result of disciplined training and an even more disciplined diet. Defined chest, narrow waist, visible abdominal muscles. He had never smoked, rarely drank alcohol and regarded tracksuits as clothing for airports and minor criminals.

Whenever his boyfriend showed him another supposed “before and after” picture, Evan rolled his eyes.

“They’re AI,” he said. “Or fetish bait.”

“You’re very confident.”

“Because magical energy drinks aren’t real.”

Then a package appeared outside his apartment.

There was no delivery label.

Inside was a single refrigerated can.

Black aluminium. Green lettering.

PROLL DELUXE

Underneath, in smaller print:

Energy drink for real men. One can. Full effect. No refunds.

Evan laughed so loudly that he photographed it immediately.

He posted the picture in the group chat.

Look what some idiot sent me.

His boyfriend replied first.

Don’t drink it.

Evan recorded himself opening the can.

The metal tab snapped with a wet hiss. Cold vapour crawled over his fingers, carrying the smell of cheap lager, artificial lime and something smoky.

“Here goes nothing.”

He raised it to his lips.

The drink was thick.

Not syrupy. Heavy. It seemed to cling to his tongue and push itself down his throat. The flavour changed with every swallow: citrus, burnt sugar, bitter coffee, meat fat, tobacco.

Evan grimaced but continued drinking for the camera.

He finished the can.

For three seconds, nothing happened.

Then his stomach growled.

The sound was deep enough to vibrate through the room.

Evan lowered the empty can.

“What the hell?”

Heat spread beneath his ribs. His abdominal muscles contracted so sharply that he doubled over, clutching the edge of the table.

The can slipped from his hand.

It landed upright.

His stomach growled again.

This time, it expanded.

A smooth bulge pushed through the centre of his abdomen, erasing the precise valley between his abdominal muscles. Evan pressed both hands against it. The flesh was warm, tight and strangely dense.

“No.”

His waist thickened beneath his fingers.

The lowest row of his abdominal muscles softened first. Definition blurred beneath a rising layer of weight. His navel deepened as the swelling pushed outward.

Evan stumbled toward the mirror.

His flat stomach was gone.

He now had the beginning of a belly.

Not huge. Not yet. But unmistakably round.

The empty can hissed behind him.

A voice emerged from his phone speaker.

His own recorded voice, distorted and slowed.

“Here goes nothing.”

The video replayed without him touching it.

On the screen, the label on the can had changed.

HERE COMES EVERYTHING.

Evan grabbed his phone.

His stomach surged outward again.

The sudden weight pulled him forward. His belly became large enough to rest against the waistband of his shorts, stretching his skin and swallowing the remains of his waist.

“No, no, stop—”

His voice cracked.

A sharp itching spread across his chest.

Dark hair pushed through the skin in a widening mat. It covered his pectorals, thickened around his nipples and descended in a heavy trail over the curve of his stomach.

Evan rubbed frantically at it.

The hair only grew faster.

His lean chest softened and broadened. His pectorals became heavy slabs, still muscular beneath the accumulating mass, but no longer elegant. His shoulders widened until his arms hung farther from his sides.

The transformation was not simply making him fat.

It was making him large.

His biceps inflated. His forearms thickened. His hands became broad and blunt-fingered, the knuckles roughening as though he had spent decades working outdoors.

Evan stared at his reflection.

His body looked twenty kilograms heavier already.

Then his scalp tightened.

He reached for his bun.

The elastic dropped onto the floor.

Still wrapped around a severed mass of hair.

Evan froze.

Long strands slid over his shoulders. His bun collapsed. Hair released from his scalp in handfuls without pain or resistance.

He grabbed at it desperately.

Every touch removed more.

“No. Please.”

Within seconds, his shoulder-length hair had become ragged patches around the sides of his head. Those patches loosened next, floating down across his expanding stomach.

He scraped both palms over his scalp.

Completely smooth.

Evan screamed.

The sound became a deeper roar halfway out.

His jaw widened. His cheeks thickened. His delicate chin pushed forward and split into a hard cleft. The bones around his eyes grew heavier, pulling his expression into a permanent glare.

Dark stubble erupted across his face.

It spread with impossible speed, becoming a dense beard that covered his jaw, chin and upper neck. The hairs lengthened until they formed a heavy brown mass over his chest.

His nose broadened.

His eyebrows thickened.

His reflection no longer resembled a twenty-seven-year-old fitness enthusiast.

It resembled an angry, middle-aged bouncer who had eaten him.

Evan’s belly grew again.

It pressed heavily into his hands, huge and round, forcing his stance wider. The waistband of his shorts vanished beneath it. His thighs thickened until the fabric pulled tight around them.

The empty can rolled across the floor.

Green foam leaked from its opening.

Wherever the liquid touched his clothing, the fabric changed.

His dinosaur-print shorts darkened and spread down his legs. His bare torso became covered by blue synthetic material, cold and glossy against his skin.

A zip formed over his stomach.

White stripes raced along his sleeves.

Within moments, Evan was trapped inside a bright blue tracksuit.

It fitted perfectly.

Worse, it seemed designed to emphasise everything he hated: the enormous belly, the thick chest, the powerful arms. The jacket stretched drum-tight across his stomach and gleamed under the room lights.

A white logo appeared over his heart.

Not Adidas.

PROLL.

Evan clawed at the zip.

His fingers found something between his lips.

A cigarette.

Already lit.

He spat it out.

Another appeared immediately in the corner of his mouth.

Smoke filled his lungs.

Evan had never smoked before. His body inhaled with the ease of long practice.

He coughed violently.

His transformed throat turned it into a rough chuckle.

“No,” he gasped.

The word emerged in a harsh accent that was not his own.

“Nein.”

Evan stared at himself.

He tried again.

“My name is Evan.”

“Name’s Ewald,” his mouth replied.

He slapped both hands over it.

His phone vibrated.

The group chat had disappeared.

His boyfriend’s name was gone from his contacts.

In its place were dozens of unfamiliar numbers: Manni, Ronny, Big Sven, Tattoo Mike, Turkish Cem, Bear Pit Crew.

His photo library changed while he watched.

Pictures of Evan at beaches, galleries and rooftop restaurants dissolved into images of Ewald in betting shops, motorway service stations and fluorescent locker rooms. In every photograph he wore some variation of the same shiny tracksuit.

In some, he held a kebab.

In others, a cigarette.

In nearly all of them, an enormous bearded man had one arm around his shoulders.

Evan opened his dating profile.

His carefully written biography vanished.

New words appeared.

Ewald, 46. Big lad. Big gut. Big appetite. Into bears, bellies, smoke and proper blokes. No skinny drama queens.

His age changed at the top of the screen.

27 became 46.

Evan touched his face.

Lines deepened beneath his fingers. The skin around his eyes roughened. A few grey hairs appeared in his beard.

His boyfriend finally called.

Relief struck so hard that Evan nearly collapsed.

He answered.

“Daniel, help me.”

A confused silence followed.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Evan.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Please. The drink. The Proll can. You warned me.”

Daniel breathed quietly.

Then he laughed.

“Very funny.”

“I’m in our apartment.”

“Our apartment?”

Evan turned toward the room.

The walls were changing.

The framed art disappeared. Shelves filled with protein tubs, football scarves and cheap aftershave. His books became stacks of car magazines and takeaway menus.

The elegant sofa transformed into worn black leather.

A large ashtray appeared on the coffee table.

It was already full.

Daniel spoke again.

“I don’t know an Evan. And I definitely don’t live with anyone.”

The call ended.

Evan screamed his name until his throat hurt.

The apartment no longer recognised it.

Neither did his passport.

Neither did his bank account.

His identity card displayed the face in the mirror: bald head, massive beard, heavy brow.

EWALD KRÜGER

Age: 46.

Occupation: Security.

The front door opened.

A huge grey-bearded man entered without knocking. He wore a black tracksuit, heavy trainers and a silver chain around his thick neck.

“There’s my big bastard.”

Evan backed away.

The man grinned.

“New suit looks good on you.”

“I don’t know you.”

The sentence left Evan’s mind correctly.

His mouth said something else.

“About time you got here, Ronny.”

Ronny approached and placed both hands on Evan’s belly.

Evan tried to recoil.

His body leaned into the touch.

Ronny squeezed the massive curve through the blue jacket and kissed him.

Evan attempted to bite, shout, push him away.

His transformed arms wrapped around Ronny’s waist.

His mouth kissed back.

When they separated, Ewald grinned.

Deep inside, Evan was screaming.

Ronny took the cigarette from between his lips, inhaled, then returned it.

“Pub?”

Evan ordered his body to remain still.

Ewald picked up his keys.

They descended to the street together.

No one stared. No one saw anything unusual. To every neighbour, Ewald had lived there for years. They remembered his loud music, his smoking, his arguments in the stairwell and the many nights Ronny had stayed over.

At the pub, his friends greeted him by name.

They slapped his belly.

They praised the new tracksuit.

They bought him beer after beer, and his body drank every one.

Evan remained awake through it all.

That was the cruelty of Proll Deluxe.

It did not erase the original man.

It preserved him.

He remembered clean eating while Ewald consumed plates of fried meat. He remembered hating cigarettes while Ewald smoked one after another. He remembered his long hair every time a stranger rubbed the smooth dome of his head.

Months passed.

The transformation never weakened.

His belly grew heavier. His beard became thicker. Blue tracksuits multiplied inside his wardrobe no matter how many he destroyed.

Every refrigerator he opened contained a black-and-green can.

Every morning, one waited beside his bed.

Evan never willingly drank another.

Ewald did.

And with each can, Evan’s voice inside their shared skull became quieter.

Not because he was disappearing.

Because Ewald’s laughter was getting louder.

One night, Ronny rested his head on the huge belly and asked whether Ewald remembered being young.

The body chuckled.

“Never was.”

Behind its eyes, Evan tried to answer.

No sound came.

On the bedside table, a fresh can of Proll Deluxe opened by itself.

The label no longer read One can. Full effect.

It now said:

URBAN LEGENDS HAVE TO COME FROM SOMEWHERE.