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On 2/8/2024 at 12:04 PM, mario2007 said:

Another EXCELLENT chapter!

Thanks SO much, bro. It’s great to be getting such positive comments on this one.


On 2/8/2024 at 8:53 PM, Ro20316 said:

Carmitas has a sadist side. He loves strenght and what the killer can do.

He was getting into the top S&M role-play with Trev, until the tables got turned on him!

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On 2/8/2024 at 9:08 PM, Wrestlejock646 said:

Holy shit is right!  What a cliffhanger!  I've been waiting for this update with daily check-ins.  So damn worth it to come home tonight and see this aweesome new chapter .  Now the wait begins again....interminable no matter how short the wait is.

This one takes a bit more time to construct with plot points and such, but won’t be too long. Glad there are eager fans of this one. If you liked the dream sequence you can check out Wad by me, here and on Metabods for a lighter take on it, while you’re waiting.

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Checking back every day! Can't wait. That said, I know this is a lot of work and don't want to be a pest. Just want to make sure you know you have an eager fan base who really appreciates your talent.

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On 2/14/2024 at 7:37 AM, xmrr20a said:

Checking back every day! Can't wait. That said, I know this is a lot of work and don't want to be a pest. Just want to make sure you know you have an eager fan base who really appreciates your talent.

FINALLY, got through the meat of this longish chapter. Just have to leave it, come back later and do some last polishing. Probably up later tonight or at worst, tomorrow. Thanks for your patience.

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POP Part 4

[Thanks for your comments, friends. This chapter is very dark, but I’m eschewing content warnings to avoid spoilers. Think of it as a gay muscle Quentin Tarantino movie.]

“Open up, armed police!” Detective Steve Carnitas yelled on the second-floor balcony of the seedy motel.

Without waiting for a response, Detective Jonah Brick smashed the door in with a splintering kick. Carnitas covered his new partner while he leapt into the room with his Glock raised. A blond, enormous Double-DBag bodybuilder fell over a coffee table as he backed away in fright, glass smashing. The smaller, powerfully muscled perp with the chest tattoo paused only a moment before making a dash for the back door of the suite.


“My specialty,” Brick said, and sprinted after the perp, crossing the front room in barely two strides.

Carnitas gave the room a quick 360, noting the web camera, lights and laptop, then warned the dazed blond to stay put before following Brick through to the back. He found him gripping the railing of the back fire escape, triceps bulging as he peered down at the ground, where the perp was hopping the back fence.

“He’s getting away!” Carnitas fumed.

“Calm your tits, bro,” said Brick. Holstering his weapon, he jumped onto the railing with the agility of a cat, his iron thighs coiling like springs. A second later he leapt, flying over the fence like he had wings. He landed square on the perp in the neighboring parking lot, slamming him into the gravel.

“Watch out, Brick he’s still dangerou—“


Brick’s muscled arms were a blur as he pounded six fists into the perps face. His body convulsed under the force of the blows and then laid still.

“Huh.” Carnitas made his way back to the front room, where the six foot two, 350 lbs blond meathead was just getting to his feet. “It’s okay, you’re safe now, we got ‘im.”

WHAMMO! Carnitas’ nose flattened under brass knuckles and he was knocked to the floor.

“Mother. FUCKER!!” he swore. Blood streamed onto the cheap carpet as he got to all fours. The blond was already out the door. Steve got to his feet, shook his head once, and then barreled after him. On the front balcony he caught sight of the blond, already down the stairs, racing toward a black Chevy Silverado parked at the far end of the motel parking lot.

“Freeze, asshole!” he bellowed, aiming his gun, but the man kept running. “Damn it!” Steve descended the stairs two at a time and then jumped halfway down into a running start, his size 18 police boots carving divots in the blacktop as he propelled his 450 lbs of muscle after the victim-turned-perp. The blond reached the truck and stuffed himself into the cab, but fumbled the keys with his right hand still in the knuckle-duster. Steve roared and his pants split over his 26” calves as he accelerated his sprint, charging the truck like a vengeful bull. The blond turned over the engine just as the huge detective slammed into the passenger side. His meteoric momentum cratered half the cab, and the meathead punk was buffeted by airbags as Steve ignored the pain in his shoulder and crossed in front of the disabled truck. His great, heaving breaths sprayed blood on the cracked windshield as he stared daggers at the erstwhile driver.

“I give up! I give up!” the punk lied, promptly plowing another metallic fist into Steve’s eye as he approached the window. The blow knocked him back several steps, and volcanic rage bubbled up like lava from his thumping chest, adrenalizing his huge muscles. He took a hop-step forward and then jumped three feet in the air, landing an elbow drop on the cab that crushed it flat. The front tires detonated simultaneously with an explosive bang.


Carnitas slumped against the wreck, gulping breaths, his horse-sized heart racing from the unexpected cardio. He blew bubbles of blood out his nose, trying to control his respiration as two patrol cars screeched into the parking lot, coughing out Flint, Hamm and a couple of uniforms. Hamm took one look at Steve and hustled over with a first-aid kit.

“Jeez, Carny, you’re bleeding like a rare steak at Ponderosa.” He slapped gauze pads on gashes on his left delt and right tricep and applied pressure.

“You should see the other guy.” Steve’s voice was a kazoo as he tilted his head up and held his nose.

“Help, I’m trapped!” piped up the muscle-punk from under the crushed metal.

Lieutenant Marcus Flint’s muscular chestnut arms were bare, like his team’s backup call had caught him in the middle of his end-of-day workout. With a powerful yank he ripped off the mangled passenger-side door and peered in at the perp, his shoulders pinned to his knees by the caved-in roof.

“What are you complaining about, boy? You get to suck your own dick while you’re down there.”

Detective Brick approached with the other perp, holding him upside down by his ankles. Steve noted the perp’s physique looked much less impressive this close; his legs were skinnier than Brick’s brawny arms.

“Okay, boys, make a wish!” Brick yanked the legs apart like a wishbone and the perp howled as something snapped in his pelvis. Urine streamed down his abs, streaking away parts of the “GONNA POP U BITCH” tattoo as Brick dumped him on his head.

“Make up. Huh.” Steve groaned.

“My bad, guys,” Hamm said sheepishly. “More cosplayers. Thought it was a good lead.”

The piss-stained perp rolled onto his knees and wheezed: “Police brutality! I’m gonna sue!”

Flint backhanded the punk so hard his head bounced off the asphalt, knocking him unconscious. “No one was talking to you, bitch,” he growled. “Goddamn it, when did perps get so spineless? In my days as a beat cop, they’d take their lumps like men.”

“Preach, boss,” Brick agreed, his veiny biceps and triceps bulging as he ripped off his bulletproof vest and slung it over his shoulder. He patted the rippled abs visible through his gray police t-shirt. “But I’m fucking starving, can we eat while we debrief?”

Steve raised his free hand. “Yes, please.”

“I know just the place,” said Hamm.


“Cosplayers my ass,” said Carnitas. “You ever see a ComicCon where the nerds walk around with brass knuckles? Those jerks were mob.” He destroyed half a chicken sandwich in one bite. “Fuck me that’s good,” he groaned.

The four big policemen were crammed into a booth meant for six at Bad Brad’s Diner, Detective Tyler Hamm’s favorite place for after-hours grub. The 5’10” 300 lb musclebear brandished the bone of a turkey drumstick he’d just devoured like a chicken wing. “Makes sense. With all the dough the perp is making off the snuff vid. I could see ‘em wanting a piece of the action.”

“Do we need to worry about real copycats?” asked Brick, licking the juice from his fingers after inhaling a 20 oz rib eye.

“Maybe,” Steve talked around his next mouthful. “But I’m more concerned about our perp’s next victim. He promised us there’d be one.” He swallowed, wincing slightly from the pain of his busted nose.

Lieutenant Flint reached crosswise across the table with his powerful arm and cradled Steve’s chin in his calloused brown hand. He turned his subordinate’s head to get a better look at his injuries. “You sure we shouldn’t have let the paramedics take you, son?”

Steve smiled, his dick plumping at his virile mentor’s touch. “I’m right where I want to be, sir.”

Brick reached around his thick traps and squeezed his delt. “You’re tougher than I took you for, bro.”

“Total stud,” Hamm agreed, rubbing Steve’s forearm.

Their waiter, a cute chubby musclecub, dropped off a tray piled with more food and a round of beers. “You guys are such a hot polycule. Let me know if you’re looking for a fifth. I’m game. And drinks are on me.”

Flint raised an eyebrow as the youth sashayed back to the kitchen. “What’s a fucking polycule?”

“You bring us to some kind of queer diner, Ham and Cheese?” said Brick.

Hamm shrugged. “What can I say? They got great food, and ass for dessert.” He reached for a beer but Flint slapped away his hand.

“After-work drinks are for after work, son.”

“Fine, ‘Dad’.”

“Where we at on the sex assault angle, Brick?”

“Both Tinker and Crust were bred by the perp in the mouth and ass. Dr Stain confirms that the semen contained cuntofil, this new boner drug Steve got from his contact. And Stain also confirmed the obvious after sending away for special testing: both vics were on athenabol.”

Steve continued: “Stain didn’t have much to say just yet about my theory that an interaction between Piledriver and Double-DBol made the vic’s muscles vulnerable somehow to poppin’. But he’ll look into it.”

“Hmm.” Flint folded half a chicken breast in a waffle, and dipped it in gravy. He chewed thoughtfully. “And the suicide-by-pop angle?”

“Crust wasn’t in much shape to be properly interviewed,” said Steve, “and the Bedlam shrinks didn’t allow us much time with him.”

“But Tinker’s shrink released his file, under court order, and there’s some juicy bits there.” Brick flipped open his police notebook. “Longstanding depression and muscle dysmorphia, recently had a relapse following an incident at work at the supplement store. Got shown up by a new co-worker, smaller guy into the Steamroller exercise cult. Crushed him in armwrestling in front of his meathead friends. Dude was off work after that.”

“That guy sounds like a real jerk. Could he be our perp?” Steve asked Hamm.

“Still trying to get employment records from the store manager, but expect them this evening at the end of his shift. I’ll text you later if they come in.”

Flint sat back, letting out a satisfied grunt and rubbing his belly as he checked his watch. “Speaking of Steamroller, we’re due for a check-in with the fifth of our poly-whatsit.”

“And look at that, he’s right on time for once in his life.” Hamm’s phone lit up with a contact photo of spread buttcheeks covered in downy blond fuzz, with a pale pink pucker. ‘My Asshole Partner’’ was superimposed above the image in white font.

“What the fuck, Tyler?”

“Bit of an in-joke, boss. But that’s really him, if you care to know,” said Hamm.

“I really, really didn’t. Answer the damn call.”

Hamm balanced his phone on the napkin holder and the four men leaned in to see Garrett Shaw’s face appear on the screen. In the background was the coppery brush of a pine forest floor.

“How goes the undercover mission, Detective?”

“Hey boss-man, you out on the town with these losers? Sorry to say, you ain’t gonna pick up any chicks hanging out with faggots.”

“I’m married, Shaw. And watch your fucking language.”

“I’m not gay,” Brick protested.

“Won’t be long, New Meat, no one can resist Stevie’s seductive charms for long.”

“Focus, Shaw, report.”

“Alright, alright.” He pulled the camera back to show he was surrounded by trees. “Had to hide my phone way out here. No tech allowed at Camp Steamroller. Real Iron John shit.”

“Any sign of the perp?” Carnitas asked.

“Hey Stevie! Blocking with your face again? I thought we talked about this?”


“No man, no sign of that tatt, and since all the invitees to this retreat are required to walk around in these Tarzan loincloths, I got more than an eyeful of all the participants.”

“Damn it,” Flint fumed. “Well get your ass back here then, and we’ll work on the other leads.”

“Not so fast, boss, it hasn’t been a total loss. The tattoo shop confirmed they did the ‘pop’ tatt for a dude last name Stark, and that’s the name of the Head Hippy here, a longhair named Calvin Stark. He doesn’t have any tatts and he’s too old to be the perp, but he’s got two sons, neither of whom are here.”

“Okay, can you get close to this honcho? Find out more?”

“Unlikely. He leads the occasional meditation session, but otherwise keeps to a tightly controlled inner camp. But, I did find out one juicy bit of gossip about him. He’s a former Double-DBag, and he takes a special interest in converting DBags to the cause. So I was thinking…”

As Shaw paused, all eyes at the table swung in Carnitas’ direction.

“What the hell, guys? No way.” He flushed crimson.

“It would completely be your choice, Steve. I’m not gonna order you,” said Flint. “And I don’t need to know anything about your personal life that you don’t want to share. God knows there’s enough oversharing in this group.”

“I appreciate that, boss, but it’s still a no. Garrett joined Steamroller before the murder, he still makes the most sense to be undercover with them.”

“That’s settled, then. Anything else to note, Shaw?”

“Just this, fellas: This shit really works. You remember my head scissors, Hammy?”

“Yes. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well watch this.” Shaw flipped the camera to show he had his bare muscular legs wrapped around a tree trunk, and had been suspending his ripped body horizontally during the whole conversation. “Used to do these static hanging crunches on my heavy bag, thought I’d try ‘em on the closest thing. I know it’s hard for you ladies to pull your eyes away from my abs, but check out the quads.” The muscles flexed into banded steel and the bark underneath was instantly pulverized. Shaw let out a rumbly growl and his quads hacked deeper, pale splinters erupting where the wood was displaced by harder muscle. In seconds Shaw’s thigh-grip had gnawed half the tree away. “Just the corewood left,” he grunted, “gonna lock my ankles now.”

“Shaw,” Flint said curtly, “have you ever cut down a tree? You gotta be careful which way it falls—”


“That’s right tree-bitch, take that—OH SHIT—“ 

The camera tumbled to the dirt and went dead. Flint hung his head in disbelief.

“I really hope it fell on his stupid head,” said Brick.

“You can’t kill that dude. He’s like a cockroach,” said Hamm.

Flint fumed. “What’s the first rule of undercover work? Don’t draw attention to yourself. Damnit.”

“Please, boss,” Carnitas begged, his head throbbing, “can we drink now?”

“Fine, I’ll leave you boys to it. I got a workout to finish.”


Steve stumbled as he climbed the front steps of his walk-up apartment building.

“Straight to bed, big guy,” Jonah Brick yelled from his Camaro before peeling off into the night. 

Steve got out his keys just as a PING sounded on his WhatsApp:

<Tyler Hamm has renamed the group chat to: What’s a Fucking Polycule?>

Hey studs, employment records from Tinker’s manager came in. Enjoy some bedtime reading.

Steve opened the pdf and squinted, focussing on the hire dates. He nearly dropped the phone when he saw the name of the late Peter Tinker’s most recent co-worker.

“THAT goddamn motherfucker?!”


Carnitas barged in the door the moment it opened, the chain lock snapping, no match for his 450 lbs of bulk.

“What the fuck, man! YOU!!” 

The surprised occupant, barefoot and clad in a loose t-shirt and sweats, backed away, hands up, as the huge detective advanced into the apartment, gun drawn.

“Vinny fucking Crisco, you goddamn weasel. What bleeding-heart parole board let a shitstain like you back on the streets?”

“You’re fucking nuts, Carnitas. I did my time. You got no cause to be busting in here.”

“We’ll see about that. Back all the way up.”

The small dark-haired man complied, with a calm backward stroll, all while his jet-black eyes burned with hatred. Carnitas’ gaze darted about the small bachelor space, confirming they were alone. There were some carpentry tools in one corner, and some newly installed drywall, but no guns or knives obvious.

“Now a little bird told me,” he said, “that you’d gone and got yourself a job at a sports nutrition store. But I said to myself, that can’t be true. Pencil-necked Vinny Crisco? He wouldn’t know a sport, or a nutrient, if it bit him on his bony ass.”

“What’s it to you, fatboy?” He gestured to the cop’s face. “You lose a fight, and go looking for the smallest ex-con you know to rough up?”

“You always were a little shit, Vinny. Felt so good to put your ass away. But we’re gonna have a little talk.”

“Felt good did it? Not as good as you hoped, though right? I didn’t give up my brothers, so all you got was me. That still stick in your craw, birdbrain? Your big mob case, years of work, and all you bagged was a low level thug? A big flop like that, could rattle a guy, make him insecure.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

“Make up your mind, dumbass. Should I talk or shut up? I really do got you rattled, huh? Why else would you need a gun for this little chat? You’re three times my size, bro.”

Carnitas stomach turned as his confidence faltered. He’d underestimated Vinny Crisco once before, and he had an instinct that he was repeating himself. He was alone, no back up, no warrant, drunk and with a probable concussion, facing a cunning ex-mob enforcer. He couldn’t be the murderer, his complexion was too dark and he was whippet-lean. But something was very wrong. Steve felt in his bones that if he made a single mistake, Vinny would get the upper hand.

“Fuck you, dirtbag. Raise those hands higher.”

Crisco smirked, but complied, and the motion of his arms raised the hem of his t-shirt exposing ripped lower abs, a dark treasure trail and the top of a hairy bush as thick as a Sicilian olive grove.

Too late, Carnitas realized he’d stared a beat too long. When he looked up again, a claw hammer flung from across the room bashed him between the eyes. He dropped to the floor like a stone, holding his battered face in agony. When he opened his watering eyes he registered the frightful image of Crisco looking down on him with an evil sneer.

“Fuck me? You dumb bitch, I got a much better idea.”

Vinny brandished a muscular bare foot like it was a maul and swung it in a baleful arc, stomping Steve’s lights out.


Detective Carnitas opened his eyes to find the murderer’s face staring back at him. The details of the face were obscured by Peter Tinker’s blood and lumps of gore, except for a brilliant white sadistic grin of even teeth with wolfish canines. His eager pale blue eyes pinned Steve’s soul in place like a butterfly.


One side of his face was pressed flush against a hardwood floor. Little streaks of red formed there as his head rocked back and forth in a repetitive motion.


The face faded away, replaced by Carnitas’ own battered visage. He lay prone and gagged on the floor staring sideways at himself in the bottom of a cheap dressing mirror propped against the wall. He took an inventory of his wounds. Busted nose. Black eye. Lacerated, bleeding brow. Torn upper lip and broken front teeth. A catalog of failures. But each was easier to contemplate than what was happening down below, beyond the view of the mirror, as Vinny Crisco jackhammered his ass to smithereens.

Everything down there was agony, from the popped sphincters in his destroyed hole, to his pride-and-joy boulder glutes, bashed into gravel against harder muscle and bone, to his cock and balls, flattened under his own dead weight.

Crisco gasped and groaned as he came like a geyser, his mallet-like fists pounding the cop’s thick traps flat like carpaccio. His rectum ballooned under the pressure of the massive load exploding out of the thug’s Piledriver-swollen cock, magnifying the intense pain of the brutal fucking. Vinny stood once his cum-fits had subsided, his softening cock shlooping out of the cavernous gape, and with a sharp kick to his side, flipped the detective onto his back. The Mafioso cackled with glee when he saw the mess on the floor. His pinpoint accurate battering of the cop’s prostate had forced blood-tinged cum from Steve’s perfidious dick.

“Man, Carnitas, I knew you were a huge fag, but pink spunk? That's next level.”

He straddled the cop’s limp body with lean legs as strong as girders, and reached down to pull out the gag, a gym sock so dirty it was nearly black. 

“Don’t need this, huh? I mean, it’s not like an enormous badass muscle-cop would scream for help like a little bitch, right?”

Carnitas focussed his eyesight as a wave of nausea from his tortured bowel ebbed. The body that loomed over him was no Colossus. Crisco had the same bird-like bone structure he’d always had, and plainly weighed no more than 150 lbs. But that body had been honed on a Steamroller whetstone til it was keen as a dagger. Muscles braided like steel wire criss-crossed his torso and arms. His abs were so crisp they looked beveled like cut diamonds. And that sadistic cock. As Steve felt his bruised muscles swell tight, skin stretching from the effects of the Piledriver-laced splooge, Crisco’s penis re-inflated in sync, ‘til it was thicker than both of the thug’s lean forearms put together.

“Ready for round two, faggot?”

“Help!! He’s going to kill me!!” Steve bawled as Vinny compressed his bloated calves in his claw-like hands, stretch marks zigzagging the flesh as he raised his legs. The ropey muscles of his corded arms hauled up the massive shanks of meat with ease, like he had pulleys spinning in his joints. He lined his softball-sized cockhead up with Steve’s still-spasming gape, and sniggered at the cop’s pathetic mewling.

“Man, he said this drug was the shit, but I didn’t believe him.”

“Who’s… ‘he’?”

“He also said Tinker-Toy popped like a balloon. Didn’t believe that either ‘til I saw the vid.”

“WHO’S ‘HE’?!” Carnitas screamed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he laughed. “Never thought I’d christen my new rape-pad with man-pussy, but your faggy high-pitched cries should test the soundproofing just as well as a bitch’s. Squeal as loud as you want, pig, this place is airtight.”

“Not if you leave the door open.” Jonah Brick’s meaty hand clapped around the rapist’s neck. His thick fingers tightened around his throat like a hangman’s noose as he raised Crisco in the air, his feet kicking helplessly.

“You got two seconds to give me a name,” Brick growled. He looked down on Steve’s swollen, broken form. “And I don’t even care if you answer.”

“SSSSSSSSSSSSSStark—“ Vinny gasped, the gurgled word cut off abruptly by Brick shattering his larynx with his fingertips. The belly of his forearm bulged with crushing strength as, red-faced with rage, he macerated tissue and ground vertebrae to dust. Digging his thumbnail into the pulped flesh at the base of the rapist’s skull, Jonah flicked, popping Vinny Crisco’s head off his neck like a bottlecap.

Steve’s leaden limbs collapsed the moment he crossed the threshold of his apartment. From the floor, he kicked the door shut with his foot.

“Made it,” he mumbled, as if Brick could hear him.

“You gotta leave now, Steve, under your own steam,” his partner had urged as he’d cut the zip tie bonds at his wrists. “I gotta take out the trash.”

Somehow Steve had managed to pull his clothes onto his ravaged body and stand while Brick rolled Crisco’s body up in a Persian rug. As he’d turned for the door, Brick had grabbed his arm.

“Hey. Remember one thing. This was not your fault.”

“Bullshit,” Steve said now as he pressed himself up onto his elbows. Slowly, he dragged his beaten carcass toward the bathroom. Pulling himself to his feet, he lurched in, avoiding his bloody reflection in the mirror. He snatched up a small leather case. With a great, wracking sob, he turned it inside out, dumping his vials of athenabol into the toilet bowl. He sat heavily on the lid as the toilet flushed, and pulled out his phone, opening Garrett Shaw’s contact.

Camp Steamroller, he texted, I’m in.

To be continued…

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Carnitas got broken and wants in.  Something tells me they'll let him in, but only as a punching bag and fuck toy cop trophy.  Clearly displayed to all the other cops who dare defy them.

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Sp many twist and turns in this chapter but i have a feeling Brickmight be our killer. I dunno but something tell em he knows something

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This chapter was a gripping roller coaster.

First: the description of the chase scene really got my blood pumping lol. So much action, so much excitement! Loved it. To see Carnitas' strength, as he crashed the car with a tackle- oh my! (But let's not forget Brick's acrobatics.) 

The diner scene? If Quentin was gay he might have creamed his pants at that hehe. Am I starting to fall for Lieutenant Flint? Who knows (fawns himself). 

I also like the evolving dynamic between Brick and Carnitas. This chapter might have strengthened their bond as partners (even though some small part of me hopes, these two will make some hot, sweaty love at the end lol.) 

The fact that the voice of our BUFF ALPHA "POP-U-BITCH" PERP is in Carnitas' brain is a cool, but unsettling detail. Raises the question: if THE STUD and Carnitas finally meet, will the Detective be able to put the guy down or submit to his lust? 

All in all: I really liked this chapter! @Broody

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19 hours ago, ploder4 said:

Carnitas got broken and wants in.  Something tells me they'll let him in, but only as a punching bag and fuck toy cop trophy.  Clearly displayed to all the other cops who dare defy them.

Oh I hope it's the opposite! I want Carnitas to get in, be seduced by steamroller, become actually brainwashed by it, a true devotee of it. Shaw has to pull him out of the cult etc.

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