Olympian in Overalls (Patreon)

[personality rewrite, IQ drain, farmhand TF]

[Mr. Olympia Chris Bumstead gets recruited--via a magic curse--to work on a farm]

The sleek black van pulled into a modest rest area in the heart of rural Iowa. Its shiny exterior stood out against the gravel parking lot, surrounded by dusty pickup trucks and a scattering of weathered farm equipment. Inside the van, Chris Bumstead, reigning Mr. Olympia, sat on one of the plush leather seats. He was dressed in a crisp, designer track suit that subtly hugged his colossal frame, a walking advertisement for both peak human genetics and untouchable discipline. 

Next to him, his assistant Reuben—nervous and perpetually fidgeting—was carefully placing a fresh protein shake on the fold-out table, while his brash agent Dirk lounged in the driver’s seat, fiddling with his phone. 

“Chris, you good? Need anything? Want me to go grab somethin’ from inside?” Dirk asked, barely looking up. 

“Nah, it’th all good. I jutht need to hit the bathroom,” Chris replied, his gentle tone and faint lisp softening his towering, imposing aura. 

“Hey, I’ll walk you in,” Reuben chimed in, already halfway unbuckled. 

Chris raised a hand, his easy smile disarming. “It’th fine, really. I can handle finding a bathroom on my own. I apprethiate it, though.”

“Chris, buddy,” his agent interjected, finally glancing up. “People freak out when they see you. We’re not in L.A. or Vegas, man. This is farm country. I don’t want you getting mobbed by some dude in a seed cap with a corn tattoo.”

Chris chuckled, his laugh warm and genuine. “It’th a bathroom, not a meet-and-greet. I’ll be back in two minuteth. Promithe.” 

Before either of them could argue further, Chris slid out of the van with surprising grace for a man his size, his track suit and massive frame turning heads even in the parking lot. He gave a little nod to a couple of farmers unloading hay bales from their truck before stepping into the rustic gas station.

The inside of the gas station was just as rustic as its exterior promised. Faded linoleum floors creaked underfoot, and a faint smell of motor oil mingled with the artificial sweetness of snack cakes on a wire rack. Behind the counter, a woman in her 50s, wearing an apron with the name “Linda” embroidered on it, was chatting with a man in a faded John Deere cap. Both of them froze when Chris walked in, their eyes immediately widening. 

“Uh... excuthe me,” Chris began, his deep, pleasant voice catching their attention. “Could you tell me where the bathroom ith?”

Linda blinked, recovering first. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Just down that hall, second door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Chris said, flashing her a dazzling smile. He moved toward the hallway, his immense frame seeming almost out of place against the narrow confines of the store. 

The man in the John Deere cap leaned closer to Linda, whispering loud enough for Chris to hear, “Who’s that, a movie star or somethin’?”

Linda shrugged, watching Chris disappear down the hall. “I don’t know, but he’s got shoulders like a combine harvester.”

Inside the cramped gas station bathroom, Chris was just finishing up washing his hands when the door swung open, revealing three mismatched men. They were clearly brothers, each carrying the unmistakable air of farm life: dusty boots, sunburnt faces, and worn-out clothes that smelled faintly of hay and motor oil.

The first brother was heavyset with a thick neck and a strong build buried under layers of fat. His jowls wobbled as he spoke in a voice loud enough to fill a barn. The second was rail-thin and impossibly tall, his bug eyes darting around the room as though he couldn’t quite decide where to focus. The youngest looked barely old enough to be called a man, though his wiry frame and patchy facial hair suggested he was well past his teens. He had a mousy, awkward demeanor, and the way he fidgeted made it clear he wasn’t used to being around anyone like Chris. 

“Whoa, would ya look at that!” the heavyset one, named Boone, bellowed, pointing a meaty finger at Chris. “You’re like one’a them muscle men from the magazines!”

Chris, drying his hands with a paper towel, turned and smiled warmly. “Well, yeah, I’m a bodybuilder. Name’th Chrith. Nice to meet you.”

“Bodybuilder?!” the tall one, Jed, exclaimed, his gangly frame practically vibrating with excitement. “Heck, I thought you was one’a them strongmen from TV! You gotta tell us—how’d you get them arms so big?”

Chris chuckled, holding up a hand. “It’th a lotta hard work, my friend. Eat your veggieth, lift heavy, and thtay conthithtent.”

The smallest, Elmer, who had been quiet until now, piped up, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can... can we see? Like, up close?”

Boone’s face lit up as though Chris had already said yes. “Yeah, flex them guns for us! C’mon, man, we’ll be quick, I promise.”

Chris hesitated for a moment, but their wide-eyed enthusiasm reminded him of kids on Christmas morning. With a shrug, he raised an arm, flexing his massive bicep. The sheer size of it made the brothers gasp in awe.

“Holy smokes, you could break a tractor with that!” Jed marveled, stepping closer. “Can I, uh, can I feel it?”

Chris nodded good-naturedly. “Thure, go ahead.”

One by one, the brothers crowded around him, their rough hands eagerly poking and squeezing his muscles. Boone, lacking any sense of subtlety, slapped Chris on the back, nearly throwing himself off balance. 

“You’re built like a dang ox!” Boone declared. “How much you lift, huh?”

Jed chimed in, “Bet you could toss Elmer here clean across the room.”

“Hey!” Elmer protested, though he looked half-amused by the idea.

Despite their lack of boundaries, Chris remained patient, answering their questions and laughing off their antics. Eventually, he gently extricated himself. “Alright, guyth, I better get going. My agent’th probably wondering what happened to me.”

Back in the main area of the gas station, the sight of Chris immediately drew attention. Linda, the cashier, beamed as she pointed at him. “That’s him! The big guy I told ya about!” 

A small crowd of customers, including the man in the John Deere cap, had gathered, phones at the ready. They jostled for position, eager to get photos and autographs. 

Chris didn’t skip a beat, smiling warmly and making time for everyone. Just as he was signing a trucker’s hat, his agent burst in, phone in hand, his face a storm cloud of exasperation. 

“We gotta go! Chris, seriously, we’re already behind schedule!” 

Chris turned to him, his voice calm and steady. “It’th alright, I’ll be done in a minute. Thith ith what we came for, right?”

Before his agent could argue, Linda stepped forward. “Sweetheart, can I get a picture with you? I’d just love it if you could lift me up on your shoulders while flexin’. My kids’ll never believe this!”

Chris hesitated for a fraction of a second but then smiled. “Why not?” 

He crouched down, effortlessly hoisting Linda onto his broad shoulders. Flexing his arms for the camera, he grinned as the crowd cheered. 

The man in the John Deere cap spoke up next. “Hey, big fella, you think you could lift a hay bale I got in my truck? Make for one heck of a photo op.”

Chris glanced at his agent, who was now screaming into his phone about scheduling conflicts. With a shrug, he followed the man out back, where an enormous hay bale sat precariously on the edge of a truck bed. Chris took a deep breath, crouched, and easily hoisted the bale overhead, drawing another round of cheers. 

Meanwhile, back in a beat-up old pickup truck parked on the edge of the lot, the three brothers were recounting their encounter with Chris to their father, Harland McCoy, a grizzled old farmer with white hair and a beard that looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in decades. Harland listened intently, a sly glint in his eyes as he fished around in the glove compartment.

“Big as an ox, you say?” Harland drawled, pulling out an ancient, tarnished amulet on a frayed leather cord. The strange runes etched into its surface glimmered faintly in the sunlight. “Well, boys, sounds like this fella’s just what we need ‘round the farm.”

Elmer squinted at the amulet. “What’s that, Pa?”

Harland grinned, his yellowed teeth flashing. “Somethin’ that’s been in the family fer generations. A little... persuasion tool. Go on now, let him finish his pictures. Then we’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

Chris stood awkwardly by the back of the gas station, brushing stray hay off his broad shoulders. He was about to head back to the van when Boone, Jed, and Elmer jogged up, their faces flushed with excitement. 

“Hey there, Mr. Muscles!” Boone called, his tone dripping with admiration. “We been talkin’, and we reckon a man like you’d be real handy on our farm.”

Chris gave them a polite smile, already scanning the lot for his agent or assistant. “That’th really kind of you, but I’ve got a tour to finish up. Maybe thomeday.”

Jed stepped forward, his bug eyes nearly popping out of his head. “Aw, c’mon now! You’d love it! Wide open spaces, fresh air, and a chance to use them big ol’ arms for somethin’ real.”

Elmer added in his mousy voice, “Bet you ain’t never done a hard day’s work in your life.”

Chris chuckled nervously, his genial demeanor strained but still intact. “I’m flattered, guyth, really. But I’ve got prior commitmenth.”

Before Chris could excuse himself, an imposing figure emerged from the shadows of the nearby truck. Harland McCoy stepped forward, his weathered face split into a sly grin as he sized Chris up like a prized bull. 

“Well now,” Harland drawled, his voice low and deliberate. “Ain’t you a fine specimen.” 

Chris tensed as Harland approached, patting him firmly on the shoulder and then running his calloused hands along Chris' arm, feeling the muscles through his track suit. “Real solid,” Harland muttered, as if talking to himself. “Betcha could plow a whole field by hand.”

Chris threw up his hands, taking a step back. “Alright, that’th enough. I really need to—”

“I don’t think so,” Harland interrupted, his grin widening as he held up a tarnished amulet. The runes etched into its surface began to glow faintly as he muttered a few arcane words.

Chris felt a strange warmth ripple through his body, and before he could react, his track suit shimmered and morphed. In an instant, he found himself clad in dusty work boots, a pair of threadbare overalls, and a battered cowboy hat. 

“What the—” Chris began, looking down at himself in shock.

The brothers burst into laughter, slapping their knees and hooting. “Lookit him!” Boone crowed. “Big ol’ city boy brought down to earth!”

Jed howled, “You fit right in now, don’t ya?”

Chris’ panic began to mount as he tried to tug off the overalls, but they clung to him like a second skin. “What did you do?” he demanded, his voice shaking but still polite. “Thith ithn’t funny!”

Harland ignored his protests, muttering more words under his breath. Suddenly, Chris’ vision swam, and the world around him dissolved.

In the hazy dreamscape of Chris’ mind, he was back at the gym, surrounded by familiar faces. He was pumping iron, his muscles glistening under the fluorescent lights as friends and family cheered him on. Cameras flashed as fans took photos, their voices a comforting hum in the background.

But then the floor beneath him shifted. The polished gym tiles turned to dirt, dark and wet. The cheering stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence. Chris looked around, confused, as his friends and family began sinking into the soil, their faces expressionless as they vanished one by one.

“Wait!” Chris shouted, dropping the dumbbells and rushing forward, but the ground held him back, sticky and unyielding. 

Above him, the gym’s roof was suddenly torn away, and he stared up into the massive face of Harland McCoy, who loomed like a god. Harland whistled and clucked his tongue, shaking his head.

“Looks like you ain’t no city boy no more,” Harland boomed, his voice shaking the ground.

The gym equipment around Chris twisted and morphed, transforming into rusted farm tools and heavy machinery. Corn stalks burst from the soil, shooting up around him like prison bars. Chris’ body felt strange—his limbs stiff, his skin rough. He looked down and gasped. His arms and legs had turned to burlap, his torso stuffed with straw. 

“No!” he tried to scream, but his mouth was sewn shut, the coarse threads biting into his lips. Scratchy straw seemed to poke out from his pores as his arms and legs stiffened out, straight and motionless. He couldn’t move as a wooden pole emerged from the soil behind him, piercing through his back and holding him upright. 

Harland’s massive hand reached down, grabbing Chris’ scarecrow form. He tore it open with ease, scattering the stuffing in the air, watching it dissipate in the breeze. “You’re empty now,” Harland rumbled. He spat into a handful of sawdust, then stuffed it into Chris’ hollow body. 

When Harland shoved him back onto the pole, the world went dark.

Chris woke with a start, blinking rapidly. He was standing in the dusty lot behind the gas station, Boone, Jed, and Elmer laughing and jeering around him. 

“Y’all see that look on his face?” Boone howled. “He don’t know which way’s up!”

Chris rubbed his temples, confused. “What’th going on… what happened?” He looked up at Harland, who grinned down at him.

“Time to get to work, boy,” Harland said. “Day’s gettin’ on.”

Chris frowned. “Work? We… got a lot to do, right? Why am I tho… confuthed? I got too many choreth to be thtanding around…”

Jed snickered. “That’s right, big bro. Betcha can’t wait to hit the fields.”

Harland’s grin faltered as he spotted Chris’ agent in the distance, still on the phone and oblivious to the scene. Muttering under his breath, Harland stepped closer to Chris and tapped his face.

Chris winced as his features began to shift. His handsome, chiseled face softened and warped. His nose became squat and bulbous, his moustache disappeared, and his mouth stretched awkwardly, revealing buck teeth. One eye drifted lazily to the side as his hair grew into a shaggy, unkempt mess. 

Harland pulled a rearview mirror from the truck and held it up. “Take a look, boy.”

Chris blinked at his reflection, his rat-like face staring back at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the lisp was gone, replaced by a thick country drawl. “Guess I better git movin’, Pa,” he said, adjusting his hat. “Ain’t no time to waste.”

Harland clapped him on the back. “That’s more like it.”

Harland climbed into the driver's seat of the beat-up truck, Boone taking the passenger seat while Jed and Elmer crammed into the back of the cab. Chris lingered awkwardly, looking at the truck. There wasn’t enough room for him to join them.

“Hop in the bed, boy,” Harland barked, motioning with a thumb. “Ain’t like it’s yer first time ridin’ back there.”

Chris nodded meekly. “Yessir,” he said, tugging his cowboy hat lower over his face as he climbed into the truck’s bed. The metal was hot under his boots, and a loose bale of hay shifted as he settled himself next to it. 

As they drove off, the wind whipped through Chris’ unkempt hair. His thoughts were muddled, fragments of unease bubbling beneath the surface but never fully forming. This was his life, wasn’t it? Riding in the back of the truck, doing the grunt work on the farm, taking the brunt of his family’s teasing and insults. He was the big dumb one, blessed with big muscles and not a dang thing else. That’s just how it was.

The truck rumbled past the gas station entrance, where Chris’ agent and assistant were frantically asking the small crowd if they’d seen him. The agent’s phone was clenched in his fist, his free hand gesturing wildly as he questioned a trucker. The assistant was near tears, showing Chris’ photo to Linda and the others inside. 

“Gigantic guy! You can’t miss him!” the agent shouted, his voice full of frustration. 

Harland slowed the truck and rolled down his window, his grizzled face forming a crooked smile. “What’s the matter, fellas?” he drawled. “Lose somethin’?”

The agent jogged up, panting. “Yeah, a guy—huge, muscles like a mountain, brown hair, moustache. He was here just a minute ago!” 

Harland chuckled, shaking his head. “City boy like that? Yeah, we saw someone struttin’ ‘round here thinkin’ he was somethin’ special. But to tell ya the truth, we weren’t too impressed.”

Jed leaned out of the back window, smirking. “Yeah, our big brother back there’s way more impressive than that feller.”

Harland jabbed a thumb toward the truck bed, where Chris was slumped against the bale of hay. The agent and assistant’s eyes flicked to the back, where Chris stared blankly at the horizon, unrecognizing and unremarkable. His shaggy hair blew in the wind, and his rat-like features squinted against the sun.

The agent frowned, barely sparing Chris a second glance. “No, no. That’s not him. He’s—he’s enormous, world-class bodybuilder. You can’t miss him.”

Harland shrugged, a glint of satisfaction in his eye. “Well, good luck to ya,” he said, rolling up the window and gunning the truck forward. 

Chris didn’t even glance back at the frantic duo as the truck rumbled away, leaving his agent and assistant in the dust. 

The drive to the farm was filled with the brothers’ laughter and Harland’s humming as they bounced along the dirt road. Chris sat silently in the back, staring at the endless rows of corn and the distant barn on the horizon. He felt a flicker of unease again but brushed it aside. He wasn’t the kind of man who thought too much about things—after all, there was work to be done.

As the truck pulled into the driveway of the weathered farmhouse, Harland parked and stepped out, stretching his back. “Alright, boys,” he said, his tone sharp. “Git to unloadin’. Chris, you grab them tools and git started in the south field. I’ll be out there to check on yer work soon.”

“Yes, sir,” Chris mumbled, climbing out of the truck bed and heading toward the barn to grab the rusted tools. His hands were already calloused, his shoulders aching from years of labor—weren’t they? He didn’t know anything else, did he? 

“Move it, slowpoke!” Boone called, slapping Chris on the back hard enough to make him stumble. The brothers laughed, their teasing already starting as Chris obediently trudged toward the fields.

Harland watched with a satisfied smirk, fingering the amulet in his pocket. He had himself a new workhorse now, and this one wasn’t going anywhere.

The days on the McCoy farm passed quickly for Chris, who threw himself into the work with a diligence that surprised even Harland. From sunup to sundown, Chris labored tirelessly, hefting bales of hay that would have taken his brothers all day to move, repairing broken machinery with ease, and wrangling unruly livestock as if it were second nature. His massive muscles—hidden beneath the loose fabric of his overalls—made short work of tasks that had previously gone unfinished.

Harland watched with a mix of pride and satisfaction as Chris silently outworked all three of his sons combined. Boone, Jed, and Elmer quickly grew resentful of their new “brother.” He was too strong, too tireless, and, worst of all, his good-natured obliviousness made him an easy target.

At first, the brothers teased Chris harmlessly, laughing as he accidentally ripped the sleeves off one of their old shirts while trying to put it on or when his big feet got stuck in the mud. But as the weeks went by, the teasing turned mean-spirited. 

Boone stole Chris’ plate at dinner, leaving him to eat scraps. Jed rigged the old water pump so it sprayed Chris every time he tried to fill a bucket. And Elmer, emboldened by his brothers, left manure in Chris’ boots one morning, causing the others to howl with laughter when Chris didn’t even complain—he just washed them out and went on with his day.

“You’re too soft, Chris,” Boone sneered one evening. “Ain’t no wonder the girls all steer clear of ya.”

Harland didn’t intervene. As long as the work got done, he couldn’t care less about the boys’ antics. Chris, for his part, took the bullying with a quiet resignation, his simple mind fully convinced that he was the least capable of the family. “Just doin’ my part,” he’d mutter whenever he was the butt of a joke.

One Saturday night, Harland decided to reward his sons—and Chris—with a night out. “Y’all been workin’ hard,” he said, pulling on his dusty blazer. “Let’s go see what the town’s got to offer.”

The boys whooped and hollered, pulling on their finest clothes: Boone in a loud checkered suit two sizes too tight, Jed in an ill-fitting vest and bolo tie, and Elmer in patched-up slacks and a borrowed tie that hung crookedly around his skinny neck. Chris donned a pair of clean overalls, his only “fancy” clothes, and topped them with his battered cowboy hat.

When they entered the only bar in town, a murmur ran through the patrons. It wasn’t every day the McCoy boys showed up, and Chris’ towering figure and bulging muscles quickly became the center of attention. 

A pair of country girls sauntered up to him, giggling as they touched his arm. “My, my,” one said, squeezing his bicep. “Ain’t you the strongest thing I ever did see!”

Chris blushed, his awkward smile stretching across his face. “Aw, thank ya, ma’am.”

But before the conversation could go further, Boone stepped in with a sneer. “Y’all don’t wanna waste yer time with him,” he said. “Chris here’s as simple as they come. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on upstairs.”

Jed laughed, adding, “And look at that mug! Poor fella got hit with the ugly stick twice!”

The girls recoiled, their smiles fading. “Oh,” one of them said awkwardly, pulling her hand away. “Uh, yeah… well, nice meetin’ ya.”

Chris didn’t seem bothered, simply nodding politely as the girls walked off. “They’re right,” he thought, staring down at his drink. “Ain’t much to look at, and ain’t much to offer. Just here to help where I can.”

As his brothers danced, drank, and made fools of themselves on the floor, Chris sat quietly at the bar, sipping his sarsaparilla. He watched them kiss the girls who had come to the bar, the laughter and music fading into the background as he stared into his drink. 

By the time the bar closed, Chris was the only one sober. He helped his drunken brothers into the truck, drove them home safely. He sat outside the barn as the brothers played loud music and partied until the sun came up, even carrying them up to bed when they passed out. 

The next morning, Chris was up with the dawn, cleaning up the mess from his brothers’ revelry in the barn. Beer bottles littered the stalls, and hay was scattered everywhere. 

While the others snored in their beds, Chris swept, hauled, and tidied, humming softly to himself as he worked. By the time the sun was fully up, the barn was spotless. 

Harland came out onto the porch, sipping his coffee as he watched Chris load another bale of hay onto the truck. “Good boy,” he muttered under his breath, the corners of his mouth tugging into a satisfied grin. Chris didn’t hear him—he was too busy working, as always. 

Chris trudged up the porch after a long day in the fields, his boots caked with mud and his broad shoulders slumping slightly with exhaustion. He spotted the newspaper lying on the weathered planks, likely left there by Harland. Something about the bold headline caught his attention, even though reading wasn’t something he was particularly good at.

He picked it up, squinting at the words. 

“Miss... missing body… bodybuilder,” he mumbled, struggling to piece the sentence together. His brow furrowed as he stared at the accompanying photograph: a towering, chiseled man with a moustache, flashing a smile that seemed eerily familiar. 

Chris’ heart skipped. Something deep inside him stirred. He whispered the name under the headline aloud, almost instinctively. “Chrith… Bumstead…”

The words ignited a cascade of memories, flooding his mind like a dam breaking. Suddenly, he wasn’t Chris McCoy, the farmhand son of Harland. He was *Chris Bumstead*, Mr. Olympia. He remembered the tour, the gas station, the amulet—everything. 

His breath quickened as he looked down at his hands, rough and calloused but now strangely foreign. He stumbled inside, catching his reflection in the cracked mirror by the door. His face was unrecognizable for a moment, but suddenly reverted back to the handsome, symmetrical features of the man the world knew and adored.

But something else was different. He backed up, his massive frame catching on the narrow doorway. Chris stared down at himself, his eyes widening in shock.

Compared to the man he’d been that day at the gas station, Chris was enormous! His overalls strained against the sheer bulk of his body, threatening to tear at any moment. His chest, once well-proportioned and aesthetic, now jutted out like two massive barrels, thick and veined, casting a shadow over his heavily muscled midsection. His shoulders were boulders, capped with striations that stretched the fabric to its limits. 

His arms were beyond comprehension, bulging with thick veins that snaked across his skin like tributaries. Each bicep was now the size of a fully inflated basketball, his forearms like steel beams. His hands, calloused and rough from farm work, looked absurdly powerful, capable of crushing anything in their grasp.

His midsection was a thick wall of muscle, abs still faintly visible beneath a layer of off-season bulk that only added to his massiveness. His thighs were tree trunks, packed with dense, corded muscle that rippled with every step, making his overalls fit like a second skin. His calves, each the size of a football, completed the picture of an absolute superheavyweight bodybuilder—a man who had grown not just through training, but through years of hard farm work and the hormones Harland had secretly dosed him with. 

He’d never noticed over all those months as the size poured on, only caring about the work on the farm he knew he had to do. His muscles were only good for farm work so he hadn’t regarded himself with an ounce of vanity. Now that he was back to his old self, he couldn’t deny the behemoth he had become!

Chris stared, half in horror and half in awe. He flexed one arm, the fabric groaning as the muscle swelled beyond what seemed humanly possible. “How did I get… thith big?” he muttered, almost impressed with himself amidst the panic.

Snapping out of his daze, Chris spotted Harland’s cell phone sitting on the kitchen table. The sons didn’t have phones, and Chris—before the spell had broken—hadn’t known how to use one. Now, his mind raced as he grabbed it, fumbling to dial for help. 

“No thignal,” he hissed, slamming the phone down. He rushed out the back door, holding the phone high as he tried to find a better spot. 

He didn’t get far. Harland and the boys were standing in the yard, their silhouettes backlit by the setting sun. Boone, Jed, and Elmer all froze at the sight of Chris’ restored face. 

“What the hell’s goin’ on with his face?” Jed stammered, his bug eyes wider than ever.

“He’s pretty again!” Boone spat, his voice filled with disgust. “What happened to our brother?”

Harland, however, only grinned, the amulet dangling from his fingers. “Well, now,” he drawled. “Looks like my boy remembered who he was. Reckon I shoulda seen that comin’.”

Chris stepped back, raising his massive hands. “I’m not yer boy!” he shouted. “I’m Chrith Bumstead, and I need to get back to my life! People are lookin’ for me!”

Harland chuckled. “That so? Well, let’s see if ya got what it takes to leave.” He motioned to his sons. “Boys, show him his place.”

The brothers charged at him one by one. Boone came first, a human freight train aiming to take Chris down. But Chris planted his feet, caught Boone mid-charge, and tossed him aside like a sack of grain. Boone landed in the dirt, groaning.

Jed tried next, swinging wildly at Chris. Chris dodged effortlessly, grabbing Jed by the overalls and lifting him clean off the ground. “Thit down,” he growled, throwing Jed into the haystack.

Elmer, the smallest, hesitated but lunged anyway. Chris caught him with one hand, holding him at arm’s length like a misbehaving child. “Don’t make me hurt you, kid,” Chris muttered, setting him down gently.

He turned to Harland, breathing heavily. “I don’t wanna beat up an old man,” Chris said, his voice steady. “But I’m leavin’. You’re not gonna thtop me.”

Harland’s grin never faltered. He raised the amulet, muttering under his breath. Chris froze as Harland’s hand passed through his chest, emerging with a small wooden doll—a perfect miniature of the Mr. Olympia everyone knew and loved.

Harland held it up, admiring the craftsmanship. “Pretty thing, ain’t it? Shame it don’t belong here.” 

“No!” Chris shouted, lunging forward, but it was too late. Harland snapped the doll in half.

Chris staggered, clutching his head as his memories fragmented and faded. His handsome features melted away, his mind clouding over as the spell reasserted itself. By the time he looked up, the sharp, focused man who had remembered his life as Chris Bumstead was gone. In his place stood the simple, hardworking son of Harland McCoy.

Harland stepped forward, patting Chris’ massive shoulder. “Now, boy,” he said firmly. “You gonna apologize to yer brothers for actin’ out like that?”

Chris’ face crumpled in shame. “I’m… I’m sorry, Pa,” he said, his voice trembling. He turned to his brothers, who were still sprawled in the dirt. “Sorry, y’all. I don’t know what got into me.”

Boone sneered, rubbing his shoulder. “Better be sorry, you big oaf.”

Harland waved a hand. “That’s enough. Let’s get inside. Supper’s on the table.”

Chris nodded, tears welling in his eyes as he followed Harland and the boys back into the house. Somewhere deep inside him, a faint flicker of who he had been tried to break through—but it was buried too deep under the spell and the weight of his new life. He sat at the table, bowing his head as Harland said grace, and quietly dug into his meal. 

His life as Chris Bumstead was over, but Harland couldn’t be happier with the son he’d created.