Dirty Politics [part 1]

[bodyswap]

[For those of you worried this will be another part 1 I never finish--I've got the WHOLE story written out, start to finish, but I'll release them slowly to drag out your enjoyment. I have no doubt you'll all LOVE this one!]

Congressman Robert Hightower sat behind his massive oak desk, eyes fixed on the TV screen that dominated the far wall of his office. The room was hushed, the only sound coming from the news anchor’s voice and the low murmur of cameras flashing as James Kincaid, rockstar, stood at a podium, addressing the clutch of reporters gathered around.

Kincaid’s image was striking—tall, muscular, and impossibly handsome. His biceps bulged beneath the tailored suit, his chiseled jawline and perfect features accentuated by a casual, rebellious smile. This was a man who had graced magazine covers, headlined sold-out stadiums, and had millions of devoted social media followers who salivated over everything he posted.

And now, he was officially endorsing Congressman Hightower. 

“I never thought I’d say this,” Kincaid’s deep, charismatic voice boomed through the speakers, “but Congressman Robert Hightower is exactly the kind of leader this country needs. I’m proud to stand with him, and I’m donating $5 million to help his campaign.”

The shockwaves of the announcement rippled through the media. Polls were shifting, the internet was in flames, and Hightower could already see his approval ratings soaring. It seemed strange–wildly out of character for the usually left-leaning and progressive musician to be coming out so strongly for such a shockingly conservative and controversial candidate–but Kincaid’s support was emphatic and wholehearted.

The inferno of the online debate would last for weeks.

Beside Hightower, his assistant, Alan, smirked. Tall, broad, and coldly efficient, Alan had been by Hightower’s side for years, the silent architect behind many of his political maneuvers. His presence was commanding, his sharp suit and calculated demeanor projecting authority.

But in the corner of the room, a pathetic figure trembled, sweat glistening on his portly, bald head. His shirt clung to his flabby stomach, and his khakis were rumpled, ill-fitting. His balding scalp glistened under the office lights, and his small, piggy eyes darted between the TV and Hightower in pure agony.

This man—short, weak, and ugly—was James Kincaid. Or at least, he had been.

Now, his real body was up on that screen, standing tall, muscular, and powerful, while he was trapped in the body of Mitchell Waters, Hightower’s lowly intern. A body so small, weak, and grotesque, it made him want to scream.

“There’s no way… there’s no way people will believe that’s me!” Kincaid—now Mitchell—stammered as he thrust a pudgy finger at the screen. “Someone will figure out you switched us! This isn’t going to work you know!”

Hightower smiled, turning away from the TV to glance with disdain at Kincaid’s new form. “Mitchell, Mitchell, Mitchell… it doesn’t seem like anyone has any suspicions about who James Kincaid is.”

“My name’s not Mitchell!” Kincaid shouted, his voice cracking in desperation. “Stop calling me Mitchell… You know what you did!”

He glanced down at himself in disgust. His new hands were pudgy and weak, his fingers short and thick, nothing like the strong, lean hands he had been so proud of. His stomach was soft, bloated, pressing uncomfortably against the waistband of his pants. He felt grotesque. Every movement was a reminder of how small and weak he was now. His legs were short, his shoulders narrow, his entire body a shell of the physical perfection he had once owned.

How had it come to this?

Alan stepped forward, looming over Kincaid’s pitiful new form. “We gave you a choice,” Alan said coldly, his voice deep and commanding. “When you refused the Congressman’s offer, you forced our hand. And how do you feel about that decision?”

Kincaid could still remember the moment. Days ago, Alan had approached him with a proposition—endorse Hightower’s campaign, give him the political boost he needed, and in return, reap the rewards of a secret alliance. But Kincaid had laughed him off, calling him repugnant and evil. He’d rejected the politician without a second thought.

But Hightower had other plans.

With a quiet focus, Alan had activated a handheld device—something unnatural, something Kincaid still couldn’t wrap his mind around—and the next thing he knew, his mind was in this pitiful, fat body, while Mitchell, the pathetic intern, had been granted everything: his body, his fame, his beauty, his power.

Onscreen, “James Kincaid” continued to assure the stymied reporters that he would be devoting much of his time and money toward Hightower’s campaign. In Hightower’s office, Alan grabbed Kincaid by the arm, easily yanking him forward. Kincaid stumbled, his weak, flabby legs barely able to keep up with Alan’s strength. His breath hitched as he struggled to catch his balance. He couldn’t believe how feeble he felt, how completely powerless.

“Let me go!” Kincaid cried, his voice shrill and desperate. “You can’t just steal my body like this!”

Alan smirked and shoved him down into the chair across from Hightower. Kincaid’s soft, weak body landed with a thud, his small frame utterly helpless under Alan’s imposing grip.

“The real Mitchell wasn’t nearly as whiny as you,” Alan scoffed. “At least we know what’s left of James Kincaid when you take away the looks and the money and the fame: just a feeble little wet rag. Pathetic.”

Kincaid’s face burned with shame. He knew Alan was right. In this body, he was nothing—short, weak, flabby, and ugly. A far cry from the muscular, handsome rockstar he had been. Days before, he’d been instantly recognizable, one of the most famous people on the planet. Now, if he did try to get help to tell him what had happened to him, they’d disregard him as a crazy little nobody. He truly was helpless.

“When it’s over,” Kincaid muttered weakly, “when it’s over you’ll… you’ll put us back, right?”

Alan glanced toward Hightower whose focus never broke from the news broadcast. He turned back to Kincaid and shrugged.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Once we’ve won the election we won’t need your name anymore. Of course, if we were to put you back and you mentioned what we did, you’d be a liability…”

“I’d sign an NDA!” Kincaid said, his double chin jiggling as he quivered. “I’d… make a donation. Big donation!”

“Oh, we already got that,” Hightower said, turning up the volume on the screen.

Kincaid’s stomach churned as he looked back at the TV. The cameras zoomed in on “Kincaid”—Mitchell now wearing his body—basking in the attention of the media. Mitchell, in Kincaid’s towering, perfect form, flashed a confident smile that Kincaid had once owned, soaking up the admiration.

The news shifted to a segment about Kincaid’s massive donation to Hightower’s campaign, a story that was already making waves across the country. Kincaid’s money, his influence, his identity, all being used to prop up the very man he had rejected. It was unbearable.

Hightower spun his chair around to face Kincaid, his hands crossed on his lap. “If we leave things as they are, I have James Kincaid’s unwavering support and a loyalty I don’t have to question. To switch you back would be a risk… which means you’d have to prove your loyalty to me now, as Mitchell, before I’d ever consider that. And looking at you now, man… I mean, get ahold of yourself! You’re an embarrassment! You’re moments away from wetting yourself!”

Kincaid clenched his weak fists, tears of frustration stinging his eyes. “Please,” he whimpered, his voice breaking. “I’ll do whatever you want, I promise. Just don’t leave me like this…”

Alan’s smile was cold and cruel. “The Congressman’s dog has come down with a bit of an illness. He’s made quite a mess of his den and his backyard. Get there and clean up his shit. Make it spotless. I’ll call you when you’re done with more tasks for you.”

Kincaid paused, confused, then stumbled toward the door. He glanced back for just a moment before leaving, staring longingly at his own face, operating under someone else’s command, before leaving.

As the door finally shut, Hightower stood, walking over to the television, his gaze lingering on the image of Mitchell—now Kincaid—waving to adoring fans.

“I worry that Kincaid’s support may not be enough,” Alan said.

“With the device,” Hightower said with a smile, “there’s practically no limit to who we can sway to our side.”

“My thoughts exactly, Alan said.”

*

Troy Powers, the massive former football player-turned-action-star, lounged in his hotel suite, absently scrolling through his phone as the view of the city stretched beyond the windows. His latest movie, Roid Warrior, was smashing the box office, and he was in the middle of an exhausting press tour. He massaged his bicep, still aching from the previous day’s grueling arm-workout, absently as he read another glowing review. The workouts to maintain this massive physique were grueling, but he there was nothing better than the level of fame he’d risen to.

A sudden knock at the door drew his attention. With a sigh, Troy got up, his 6’5” muscular frame moving with the ease of a man used to physical dominance. He opened the door to reveal a blonde man, sharply dressed with a cold smile, flanked by two large bodyguards. Neither of the bodyguards, though imposing in their own right, matched Troy’s sheer size or confidence. They were followed by an elderly man, hunched over, thin, and frail, who could barely shuffle into the room. His eyes, though dim with age, sparkled with an unsettling eagerness.

"Mr. Powers," the blonde man said, stepping into the room without invitation. "My name is Alan Van Oss. I represent Congressman Robert Hightower. We have a proposition for you."

Troy’s brow furrowed as he sized up the group. “I’m not interested,” he grunted, stepping back and motioning for them to leave. “Pretty sure I told you that on the phone. Pretty ballsy that you showed up here anyway too. You hear the stories about what I do to paparazzi who invade my personal space? It’s worse for cronies of crooked politicians.” He squared his shoulders and pumped his fists, grinning as he realized the massive physical advantage he had.

“We all know that story was concocted by your agent,” Alan said as he took a step forward, unfazed by Troy’s size. “‘Tough guy actor knocks out nasty paparazzi’--great press for your new movie. And your fans loved it! But we have something more important to discuss than a cheesy action flick.” Alan snapped his fingers. One of the bodyguards stepped forward and set a briefcase on the table, flipping it open to reveal stacks of cash. “This is for you,” Alan said smoothly. “All we ask is that you publicly endorse Congressman Hightower. Do that, and this”—he gestured to the briefcase—“is yours.”

Troy stared at the money for a moment, then shook his head, visibly irritated. “I have an asking price,” he growled. “And this is WAY below it. Plus, Hightower’s a dirtbag. You think I’d want to hook up with that sleaze? Get real. Also, get the fuck out. I’m serious.” He pounded a fist into his palm, each of his pecs flexing in his tight black t-shirt.

Alan smiled thinly, as though Troy’s resistance was expected. “I see. We were hoping for a more… civil approach. But we’re prepared to use any means necessary.”

Troy’s eyes flicked to the two bodyguards, sizing them up. His lips curled into a smirk. “You think those two are gonna intimidate me?” He crossed his arms, his enormous chest stretching the fabric of his shirt. “You think I’m just an actor? I’m trained in hand-to-hand combat. I do my own stunts–and I toss around guys bigger than these two knuckleheads every day. But honestly, beating the shit out of Hightower’s punk bodyguards might get me some REALLY good headlines… so why don’t we do this?” He took a step back, balling his fists, and preparing his stance. He beckoned with his fingers, urging either of the suited guards to advance.

Both bodyguards stiffened, but Alan just chuckled. “Oh, Troy, it won’t come to that.” He turned his attention to the frail old man, who had been silently watching from the corner. “Let me introduce Henry Hightower–the Congressman’s great uncle. He’ll be 90 years old in two months, would you believe that?”

Troy snorted as he looked at the feeble old geezer who took a weak step forward. Strangely, the old guy had a hungry look in his eye. “Uh, yeah. He looks old as shit.”

Henry, his hands trembling from age, shuffled closer, unaffected by Troy’s insult. His eyes gleamed with excitement, a sickly grin spreading across his weathered face. Without warning, Alan pulled out a small, black device from his pocket and pressed a button.

Before Troy could react, the room spun, and his vision blurred. It felt as though the ground had dropped out from under him. His muscles, his strength, his entire body—all of it seemed to slip away, leaving him feeling light, frail, and disoriented. When the sensation stopped, he found himself struggling to catch his breath.

“What the—?” Troy’s voice wasn’t his own. It was weak, raspy, and unfamiliar. He was in a different spot in the room somehow. He glanced down at his hands and recoiled in horror. They were thin, bony, and covered in liver spots. His muscular arms, his broad chest, his powerful legs—gone. Replaced by the withered body of an old man.

Troy gasped, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but as he struggled to move, he realized his joints ached, and his once powerful body was now sluggish and decrepit.

Across the room, Henry—now in Troy’s muscular body—grinned ear to ear, flexing his new, powerful arms. “Oh my God,” Henry—Troy’s voice—boomed. “Look at me! I feel like a fucking giant! Look how fucking BIG I am!” He flexed his biceps, then patted down his large, bulging muscles as he explored his new body for the first time. His eyes lit up with every hard bulge he touched. Finally his hands went toward his waistband, peeling it away to gawk at the contents of Troy’s tight briefs. “Good GOD! I’m big EVERYWHERE!” With a manic look in his eye, the new “Troy Powers” strode toward one of the bodyguards and gave him a playful shove. The bodyguard stumbled back, crashing into the wall with a groan.

Henry laughed, the deep, booming sound shocking Troy–it was his own familiar laugh, but coming from someone else.

Troy—trapped in Henry’s frail form—tried to stand, panic setting in. His legs wobbled beneath him, and his heart pounded in his chest, a sharp pain shooting through his body. His own phone was sitting on the bed just a few feet away. He had to get help, had to call someone, anyone.

“Help!” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper in this weak body. He reached for the bed, but before he could make it, one of the bodyguards stepped forward, grabbing his arm with ease.

“Sit down, old man,” the bodyguard said, his voice indifferent as he shoved Troy back into the chair.

Troy tried to fight back, but his movements were laughable. His once-impressive martial arts skills were useless in this brittle body. Every punch he threw was weak, his fists landing with no more impact than a feather. His breathing grew ragged, and a searing pain tore through his chest.

Alan watched with a smirk, his arms crossed as he observed the chaos. “Oh dear,” he said, his voice dripping with mock concern. “It looks like Mr. Rugged Action Star is having a heart attack.”

Troy’s eyes widened in terror as he clutched his chest, gasping for breath. His vision blurred, and he felt his heart stutter in his frail chest. 

Henry—now comfortably in Troy’s body—just crossed his arms. “Hell yeah! Good riddance.”

“Now now,” Alan chided as he produced a handkerchief and dabbed at Troy's sweaty head with it. “We’re not letting the good Congressman’s great uncle die today.” 

Henry rolled his eyes, then picked up the hotel phone, his attention still focused on his pecs as he made them bounce. “Yes, this is, uh… Troy Powers,” he said smoothly into the phone. “One of my fans is having a heart attack. Please send paramedics immediately.”

Hanging up the phone, Henry flexed his arms again, admiring his reflection in the mirror. He grinned, running a hand through Troy’s thick, blond hair. “I was thinking about getting myself some whores with all this action movie money,” he declared with a chuckle, unable to hide his excitement, “but who the fuck needs whores when you look like this? Good god, supermodels will be throwing themselves at me! I wonder which famous marriage I’m gonna break up first…”

Alan clucked his tongue as he produced a small bottle of baby aspiring and fed a couple to Troy, who was helplessly gasping in the chair in Henry’s aged body. “Well, I guess that will dispel the rumors of Mr. Powers being of the homosexual persuasion… were those true, by the way?”

Troy just lay there, clutching his chest and whimpering. His breathing came in ragged gasps as his vision dimmed. He could barely move, let alone fight back, as the pain in his chest grew worse with every second.

Alan knelt down next to him, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Don’t you worry. We won’t let you die. You’ll receive the best care possible… and then you’ll be going to a VERY nice facility where you’ll be taken care of until the last of your days... Whenever that may be.”