CUT: Epilogue

Seb balanced a fresh bag of popcorn in one hand as he accepted a large soft drink from the concession stand with the other. The theater lobby buzzed with holiday chatter. He turned, smiling wide, as Channing Frost leaned casually beside him, still on a crutch from his healing wounds, but looking every bit the imposing hunk he’d always been. His henley shirt hung open to mid-chest, revealing the deep cleft between thick, powerful pectorals dusted with auburn hair, the fabric stretching tight across his broad shoulders and biceps. Faded jeans clung to his massive quads like a second skin, outlining every ridge and bulge of those tree-trunk legs.

“Hey there, fellas,” came a warm, familiar baritone.

They looked up. Deputy Dezzy Frost cut an effortlessly handsome figure even out of uniform—brightly colored Christmas sweater in bold red and green patterns somehow managing to accentuate rather than hide his muscular build. The knit fabric pulled snug across his wide chest and tapered torso, sleeves hugging thick, veined forearms. His mustache twitched with a grin as he approached, hazel eyes bright.

“Dezzy? What are you doing here?” Seb asked, surprise and delight mixing in his voice.

Dezzy glanced at Channing, who answered with a sly, knowing smirk while popping a kernel into his mouth.

“I heard how hard you worked putting this winter talent show together, Seb,” Dezzy said, clapping a gentle hand on Seb’s shoulder. “Figured I’d come show my support—even if you’re not the one on stage tonight.”

Seb laughed, cheeks warming. “It’s mostly bad poetry and terrible acappella, but people seem to be having fun.”

Dezzy’s smile softened. “Also wanted to check in. Make sure you’re doing okay. I know Channing’s got your back, but it’s been a minute.” His gaze flicked appreciatively over Seb’s frame—clothes fitting noticeably tighter these days, shoulders broader, chest and arms showing subtle new definition from months of Channing’s relentless (and very hands-on) gym coaching.

Channing noticed the look. “I might not be cleared to lift heavy yet,” Channing said with a teasing grin, shifting his weight on the crutch, “but I can still bark orders in the gym.”

“Channing’s been a big help,” Seb said, pushing his chest out, confident. 

Channing smiled. “Someone’s gotta keep Seb occupied with a new hobby now that Sunny’s been sent to a thrift shop.”

The three of them headed into the auditorium together, finding seats just as the house lights began to dim. On the large screen above the stage, elegant gold lettering glowed: The Kurt Stryberg Memorial Winter Talent Extravaganza.

“You missed the show’s first half, but there’s more,” Seb whispered to Dezzy as they settled in. “After intermission we’ve got the Stallions, then some beatboxing, then some Shakespeare to close.”

“The Stallions?” Dezzy leaned over, brow creasing slightly as he picked up a playbill. “From Bullcock Academy?”

“Yeah,” Channing said, tossing more popcorn into his mouth. “Some kind of tribute to the Golden Kings. The administration thought it’d be fitting somehow.”

The lights dropped fully, thumping electronic bass rumbling through the speakers. The announcer’s voice boomed with enthusiasm:

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present the Bullcock Academy Stallions Bodybuilding Team—performing tonight in loving tribute to the Falcons United Golden Kings!”

The curtain rose amid cheers and applause, spotlights flaring onto the stage. Seb squeezed Channing’s hand, feeling Dezzy’s steady presence on his other side.

The announcer continued: “Give it up for our first Stallion—Blake Carson! Twenty years old, standing six-foot-four and a shredded two-hundred-eighty-five pounds of pure Midwestern farm-boy power!”

Blake Carson exploded onto the stage to thunderous applause. The 20-year-old spiky-blond babyface was a walking contradiction—innocent dimples and wide blue eyes on a body built to show off. His neon-orange thong screamed “BULL” in bold block letters across the pouch, the fabric stretched obscenely by a massive, flaccid 12-inch cock that hung thick and heavy, the soft weight shifting lazily with each confident stride. His hairless, golden-tanned pecs bounced hypnotically, shelf-like slabs capped with pale pink nipples; abs carved into a razor-sharp eight-pack, flaring lats spreading wide as he hit a front double biceps that made veins pop across his baby-smooth skin. Those enormous, low-hanging balls pressed visibly against the pouch, radiating the lazy virility of a young stud who could flood a room without breaking a sweat.

“Next up—Ryan Whitaker! Nineteen years old, six-foot-three, and a ripped two-hundred-seventy pounds of California-surfer perfection!”

Ryan Whitaker charged in right behind, tousled blond hair catching the lights like sun-bleached gold, piercing ice-blue eyes sparkling with cocky charm. His neon-green “BULL” posing thong rode high on narrow hips, the pouch distended by a half-hard 11-inch beast that curved heavily downward, the thick shaft outlined perfectly. Quads exploded with size—each one thicker than most men’s waists—veins snaking over diamond calves; biceps peaking into solid muscled mounds. His boyish, sun-kissed face split in a surfer grin, virile energy rolling off him.

“Welcome Colton Hayes! Twenty-one years old, six-foot-five, and a brutal two-hundred-ninety-five pounds of Texas ranch-hand beef!”

Colton Hayes mozied on stage like a cowboy, short brown hair cropped close, square jaw shadowed with stubble, hazel eyes burning with quiet intensity. His neon-blue “BULL” thong was a cruel joke—barely containing the veiny 10-inch flaccid monstrosity hanging thick and heavy like a third leg, the soft shaft draped over balls the size of lemons. Pecs like armored plates heaved, dark nipples stiff; a shredded ten-pack rippled beneath, obliques slashing deep V-lines straight to his crotch. Biceps ballooned to cannonball size as he pumped his arms, traps rising like mountains—raw, youthful power radiating from every pore.

“Here comes Matteo Rossi! Twenty years old, six-foot-two, and two-hundred-sixty-five pounds of lean, vascular Italian-American heat!”

Matteo Rossi prowled in with predatory grace, dark brown wavy hair tousled just enough to look effortlessly sexy, olive skin shimmering under the lights. His neon-red “BULL” thong clung desperately, the pouch stretched wide by a thick, half-hard 10.5-inch cock that hung low and heavy, the outline of every ridge visible. Arms flexing with bloated muscle; pecs twitched and bounced, dark nipples sensitive and erect. His razor-sharp eight-pack contracted with each breath, quads exploding in teardrop cuts —full lips curled in a smirk, dark eyes smoldering with lust.

“And finally—your captain, Hunter Brooks! Twenty-two years old, six-foot-six, and a colossal three-hundred pounds of golden all-American power!”

Hunter Brooks dominated the stage last, short-cropped blond hair gleaming, piercing green eyes locked on the crowd with commanding intensity. His neon-pink “BULL” thong was comically inadequate—the front stretched translucent by a monstrous 13-inch flaccid cock hanging thick and heavy like a club, veins subtly visible along its length, a single bead of precum glistening at the tip. Pecs like tectonic plates shifted massively; biceps peaking into mountains as he flexed. A rippling ten-pack formed steel ridges beneath, obliques slashing deep V-lines framing his groin—youthful stubble shadowed a chiseled jaw, raw hunger in those green eyes. 

The five Stallions—Blake, Ryan, Colton, Matteo, and Hunter—lined up center stage, hitting a synchronized most-muscular pose in tribute to the fallen Golden Kings. Muscles exploded under the lights, neon “BULL” thongs straining against their massive, flaccid or half-hard endowments, cocks and balls shifting visibly. The crowd erupted in whoops and cheers.

Seb shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the roar of the crowd and thumping bass making his skin prickle. It was hard to watch—five perfect specimens of youthful muscle on stage, bodies that echoed the ghosts of the Golden Kings in ways that twisted his gut. Channing’s large hand squeezed his thigh reassuringly.

“Hey, Seb, it’s okay,” Channing murmured, voice low and steady. “They’re honoring them. It’s a good thing.”

Seb nodded numbly, forcing his gaze upward to escape the display. Above the Stallions, a heavy lighting gantry hung from thick wires, stage lights blazing down, catwalks crisscrossing higher still in the shadows.

He thought he saw movement—a flicker in the far corner catwalk.

Below, the announcer’s voice boomed one final time: “And now, the Bullcock Stallions will oil up for their tribute routine!”

A stagehand tossed a large bottle of mineral oil to Blake Carson. The spiky-blond babyface caught it with a playful wink to the crowd, squirting a thick stream into his palms before turning to Ryan Whitaker beside him.

“Time to shine, pretty boy,” Blake grinned, voice carrying over the music as he slapped the warm oil across Ryan’s massive pecs. His hands worked in slow, lewd circles—fingers spreading the slick liquid over every inch of bronzed muscle, thumbs deliberately brushing Ryan’s stiff nipples until the tousled-blond surfer groaned low and flexed harder.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Ryan laughed, cocky and breathless, his half-hard 11-incher thickening visibly in the neon-green “BULL” thong, the fabric tenting as the fat shaft pulsed and lifted. “Keep going, blondie—get me nice and slippery.”

Colton Hayes stepped in behind Ryan, grabbing the bottle and pouring a generous stream down the surfer’s carved back, letting it cascade over those perfect glutes before his big Texas hands spread it lower—openly groping the firm mounds, fingers dipping teasingly into the cleft. “Y’all look too dry,” Colton drawled, short brown hair catching the lights, his own 10-inch flaccid monster starting to swell and stretch the neon-blue thong, heavy balls shifting as his cock thickened with obvious arousal.

Matteo Rossi and Hunter Brooks closed the circle, oil flying in shiny arcs. Matteo’s wavy dark hair fell over smoldering eyes as he oiled Hunter’s colossal pecs, palms sliding greedily over the captain’s pierced nipples. “Look at these fucking tits,” Matteo purred in his faint Italian accent, voice dripping sex. “Gonna make every guy in the audience cream their jeans.”

Hunter’s green eyes flashed with dominant amusement, his 13-inch beast lifting slowly in the pink thong—fabric straining as the massive shaft hardened, head flaring thick and proud. “Less talking, more rubbing, pretty boy,” he rumbled, pouring oil straight onto Matteo’s abs and working it downward, fingers brushing the base of Matteo’s swelling 10.5-incher until the Italian moaned and flexed his hips forward.

The five hunks worked each other over shamelessly—hands roaming, groping, slapping oil across pecs, abs, biceps, and glutes in slow, sensual strokes. Thongs tented obscenely now, massive cocks hardening in unison—Blake’s footlong lifting thick and proud, Ryan’s throbbing outwards obscenely, Colton’s monster stretching the pouch to transparency, Matteo’s throbbing visibly, Hunter’s colossal shaft straining the fabric until the head stretched the fabric out like a tent, pre-cum spurting through.

“Fuck yeah—feel that pump,” Blake groaned, flexing a most-muscular that made his oiled pecs bounce.

“Getting so hard for the crowd,” Ryan laughed breathlessly, grinding subtly against Colton’s thigh.

They hit a synchronized pose—bodies gleaming like statues come to life, cocks rock-hard and straining their neon “BULL” thongs, virile young gods in full, lewd display.

Seb squinted upward again, heart stuttering. A swirl of black in the shadows. A flash of white—Sunny’s painted grin.

Hollowface.

“Oh shit—Dezzy, look!” Seb cried, pointing frantically at the catwalks above.

Dezzy and Channing whipped their heads up, following his finger.

The cloaked figure stood poised in the far corner, staring straight down at them. A gloved hand raised a small black box—red button gleaming in the center.

“We have to stop the show!” Seb yelled, leaping to his feet. “STOP—”

Too late.

The button pressed.

A series of sharp, explosive clangs rang out overhead—wires snapping in rapid succession.

For one frozen heartbeat, the massive lighting gantry hung suspended… then plummeted in terrifying slow motion straight toward the five oiled, flexing musclegods below.

The gantry plummeted like a guillotine from the heavens—wires snapping in a cascade of sparks, the massive steel framework twisting mid-air with a tortured groan of metal. Screams erupted from the audience as the Stallions below froze in their oiled-up poses, bodies gleaming under the failing lights, massive cocks still shifting heavily in their neon “BULL” thongs. The crash hit like an explosion—steel beams disintegrating and slamming down in a deafening cacophony.

Blake Carson, the spiky-blond babyface with those innocent dimples twisted in sudden terror, took the first beam straight across his midsection. The 20-year-old, 6'4, 285-pound Midwestern powerhouse had been mid-flex—biceps peaking like mountains, his flaccid 12-inch cock hanging thick and heavy over his balls in the orange thong—when a steel girder bisected him at the waist. His razor-sharp abs crumpled like wet paper, intestines exploding outward in a hot, slippery gush of red and pink, coating his golden thighs and the stage in steaming viscera. His upper body toppled forward, spiky blond hair matted with blood, while his lower half—those tree-trunk quads still flexed in death—collapsed backward, cock flopping lifelessly as blood fountained from the severed torso, pooling around his enormous, now-useless balls.

Ryan Whitaker, the 19-year-old tousled-blond surfer boy with piercing blue eyes wide in panic, was next—his 6'3, 270-pound frame slick with oil, half-hard 11-incher curving lazily in the green thong. A falling spotlight smashed into his skull from above, caving it inward like a rotten melon. Brain matter sprayed in gray chunks mixed with blond hair and blood, splattering across his shelf-like pecs and dripping down the deep V of his obliques. His body jerked spasmodically, cock twitching in a final, reflexive throb before going limp, balls sagging as his legs buckled. Another girder collapsed and slammed into him from above, guts churned visibly from the impact’s force, a loop of intestine bulging through a tear in his abs, blood gushing from his ruined head to mingle with the oil on his golden skin, turning the stage into a slick, crimson mess.

Colton Hayes, the 21-year-old short-brown-haired Texas ranch-hand at 6'5 and 295 pounds, roared in defiance—his flaccid 10-inch monster dangling like a club in the blue thong, heavy balls shifting with his desperate dodge. But a crossbeam swooped down from a wire and pinned him mid-stride, crushing his pelvis with bone-shattering force. 

“AAAUUGGHHH!!!!” He screamed.

His hips exploded inward, the thong ripping as his enormous cock and balls were pulverized into a mangled pulp of blood and tissue, semen and gore squirting outward in thick, ruined jets. He screamed as his lower body folded unnaturally, quads splitting open in ragged tears that exposed raw muscle and splintered bone, blood flooding down his diamond calves in torrents. His upper torso—those armored pecs heaving—thrashed futilely before another falling beam crushed his chest, ribs snapping like twigs, lungs bursting in a frothy red spray from his mouth.

Matteo Rossi, the 20-year-old with dark brown wavy hair at 6'2 and 265 pounds, tried to dive clear—his half-hard 10.5-incher pressing against the red thong’s pouch, balls full and swaying. A jagged steel strut swung down from above and impaled him through the back, punching out his sternum in an eruption of blood and bone fragments. His olive-skinned pecs tore open around the exit wound, dark nipples shredded as viscera bulged through the gash, intestines uncoiling in slippery loops that draped over his razor-sharp abs like grotesque garlands. 

“OH FUCK!!! OH FUCKK! NOOO!!! MY FUCKING PERFECT BODY!!! AUGGGHHH!!”

He screamed, cock jerking in agony as blood poured from his mouth, thong darkening with piss and gore from his ruptured bladder. His wavy hair matted red, he collapsed forward, quads convulsing in death throes, the impaling beam holding his body upright like a skewered trophy.

Hunter Brooks, the 22-year-old short-cropped blond captain with green eyes, at 6'4 and 300 pounds, barely evaded the initial crash—his flaccid 13-inch behemoth hanging thick in the neon pink thong, enormous balls churning as he leaped aside. But the gantry’s edge caught his legs mid-dive, crushing them from the knees down in a horrific snapping of bones and tearing flesh. Femurs splintered like dry wood, blood exploding outward as his golden quads were pulverized into mangled pulp, muscle and tendon shredding in wet, red strings that dangled from the wreckage. He howled in agony, upper body thrashing—traps and biceps flexing massively—as he clawed his way forward through the debris, dragging his ruined lower half behind him, blood trailing in thick smears, his thong ripped half-off, cock and balls flopping exposed and battered but intact.

The crowd’s screams peaked as Hunter’s green eyes locked on escape, fingers digging into the stage splinters. “AAAUUUGGHH!!! Help—fuck—HELP!” he roared, pecs heaving, abs contracting in bloody ridges.

Above him, a half-destroyed stage light teetered on a frayed wire—glass shattered, metal bent. It snapped free.

“PLEASE! HELP ME!!! AUUUGGHH!!”

The heavy fixture plummeted straight down, slamming into Hunter’s skull with skull-crushing force. His head exploded like an overripe fruit—blond hair matted with gray matter and bone shards, blood and brains spraying in a wide arc across the ruined stage. His green eyes burst in their sockets, face caved inward in a pulpy mess of red and white. The body jerked once, cock giving a final, reflexive twitch before going limp—enormous frame splayed in the wreckage, blood pooling from the obliterated head, the ultimate virile god reduced to gore and silence.

The auditorium descended into pure chaos—screams piercing the air, seats slamming as people surged toward the exits in a stampede of panic. Dust and sparks filled the space where the stage had been, the twisted wreckage of the gantry a smoking tomb over the crushed bodies of the former musclegod Stallions.

Seb sat frozen for a split second, ears ringing from the crash, eyes wide with disbelief. Then Channing’s hand clamped around his wrist like a vice.

“Move—now!” Channing barked, voice raw but commanding. He hauled Seb to his feet, crutch abandoned somewhere in the scramble.

Dezzy was already up, pistol drawn from his off-duty holster, hazel eyes scanning the darkness above the ruined stage. “Out—side exit!” he shouted, shoving people aside with his free arm to clear a path.

The three of them bolted—Seb’s legs shaky, heart pounding in his throat, Channing limping heavily but refusing to slow, Dezzy bringing up the rear, gun sweeping for threats. They burst through a side door into the cold night air, gravel crunching underfoot as they stumbled onto the snow-dusted lawn behind the theater.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, but the three of them stood panting in the floodlights from the parking lot, faces pale with shock.

Channing leaned against the brick wall. “Jesus… those guys… just gone.”

Dezzy’s jaw worked silently, eyes fixed on the theater doors as the first responders began pouring in. “We need to get clear—tell them about the catwalk, the figure—”

Seb couldn’t speak. His mind replayed the slow-motion fall, the sickening crunches, the blood. The Golden Kings all over again.

Then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Insistent. 

Seb’s blood ran colder than the winter air. Hands trembling, he pulled it out—unknown number.

He answered.

“Hello, Sebby,” came the low, gravelly voice—cheerful, wrong. Sunny’s voice.

Hollowface.

“Miss me?”

THE END