Is Roid Rage Real? A Steroid User Tried To Steal My Sandwich

Have you ever heard of planned self-damage? It’s simple – instead of lying to yourself that you will eat clean forever, you plan your fails carefully to avoid a more severe crisis. The following story happened precisely because of this principle.

It was early evening. The rest of the slaves were also happy that the work day was over, and it was finally time to do the free people’s equivalents of watching TV in prison.

The humanoids around me were excited about the latest sources of entertainment strategically prepared by our masters.


I decided to have my own portion of this semi-colorless fun and went to a fast food place selling all kinds of exotic cuisine. It was time to fail.

This step immediately broke two substantial rules. First, the food there is not bodybuilding approved due to its distribution of macro nutrients – low protein, high carbs. Secondly, a friend told me a long time ago that she had seen one of the “cooks” in this restaurant massage his cock with a passion while preparing meals. After I became aware of this malicious practice, I was forced to stay away from the place for a very long time. I know that a big portion of the food that I have eaten during my life was at one point touched by a guy who had just massaged his cock, but knowing it for certain and still going there was a little too much. Yet I decided to break the rule.

I entered the place and went to pay for an extra large sandwich. The cashier was one of those “buried in my smartphone” type of girls. She had dyed blonde hair with brown roots showing. While I was giving her the coins, I saw some of the most epic fingernails ever. They were half-eaten and contaminated with dirt. I felt sorry for her, but I could also feel right away that she was a total bitch, and that sorry feeling didn’t last long.

While I was waiting for my sandwich, I scanned the guys working there with my lasers. I was wondering who is more likely to pollute my food. They were all strong suspects, but one of them started playing with his belly. I had to mind bet on him. He had a massive beer gut and “I will hit you while you are down” eyes.

The order was ready. I took the sandwich and got out pretty fast.

Oh, no! They’ve put some of that filthy white sauce on my sandwich! Damn it. I told them no sauce. I was mad but decided not to be one of those arrogant bastards making the staff miserable. I have a trauma from a similar experience.

Once the owner of a PC club that I used to visit sent a boy to buy him a sandwich. He hated pickles, but his improvised minor servant got him one with extra pickles. The moron took the sandwich and threw it at the boy. They started verbally abusing each other. It was ugly, and the scene has been stuck in my mind for years. Arguing with strangers over pickles and sauce is not on my priority list.

As a semi-civilized citizen, I usually go to a small depopulated street to complete my planned failing a.k.a. junk food reload. It’s easy to remember the street because the number 33 is written on the first door.

This isn’t a number that you can ignore easily due to the massive secret society propaganda shaking the information realm. Those things are apparently so secret that a few months ago I saw a commercial on national TV about a documentary “exposing” them. It seems that the truth revolution wasn’t an accident.

Finally, I started a semi-aggressive consumption of this monstrous sandwich which may or may not has been made by a guy who had previously shut down an itch with an epicenter including his dirty groin area. I tried to make that thought go away as fast as possible.

A few moments later, a middle-aged man with curly white hair and a buddy of his appeared at the corner – only a few steps away from the mystic door. I recognized the guy with the poodle hair. He is a popular “scientist” who is often on TV talking academic nonsense. Very annoying broken clock, no doubt.

I said to my self: “This fatso is probably part of the brotherhood.”

At that very moment, a large portion of the filthy sauce contaminated my cowboy jeans and cut that thought short. In reality, however, I knew that my suspicion was most likely not justified because this was just a regular apartment building. Still, they opened the door and entered, so speculations are possible. Hiding in plain sight is what they do, isn’t it?

After a few more minutes, I saw another familiar face – a local bodybuilder that I had seen in my old gym and on a website. The guy was enormous, lean and his arms were bigger than my legs. One could rightfully say that he had “fuck you muscles”.

By “fuck you muscles” I don’t mean muscle used for sex or a pussy slaying physique, but rather the equivalent of “fuck you money” for muscles. “Fuck you money” is a term utilized to describe a person loaded to the point where taking orders and poor attitude from employers does not work anymore. When your employees have “fuck you money”, you are no longer a slave owner. You are the slave.

If the guys’ muscles could talk, they wouldn’t be afraid to say “You want some of this, bitch!” to Rambo. I felt threatened but did not want to run and ruin my planned fail.

The guy was carrying a very large backpack and a small suitcase. I guess he was returning from a summer trip. He stood next to me and started making me feel wildly uncomfortable. He looked at my food the way lionesses look at zebras’ legs. What was his problem? Protein hunger?

My sandwich was 100% steroid free and low in protein. This is not bodybuilding approved by any means.

“Where did you buy that sandwich,” asked Mr. MyLifeForTrenbolone or Trenbolone for short.

I pointed towards the fast food restaurant without saying a single word. This is actually a really powerful tactic because your voice can reveal a lot about you. When you are trying to hide things from people, you should keep all external information to a minimum, at least this is the way I do it. A voice could contain fear, confidence, anger, heartache and other emotions that you may want to camouflage. Even just a few words can be enough to give away everything you want to hide. Besides, the only words that came to me were: “Do I look like the sandwich fairy to you, g4p prince?”

“How much,” asked Mr. Trenbolone.

This is when I knew that the guy was out of his mind. Who the hell asks strangers how much their sandwiches cost. Anyway, I gave him a number. Then, the unexpected happened.

“Can I take a bite,” said this rather hungry and weird specimen.

I guess the chemicals in his body were causing some serious brain heat.

I gave him the “are you kidding me” look without adding “fucking” because I didn’t want to enter the danger zone. He forced a fake dry smile and went away. I guess this was supposed to be a joke, but it wasn’t exactly funny to me.

I finished the whole thing and went for a 30-minute walk only to return at the same place. I had to because this was the shortest way to the closest bus station. At the intersection, there’s local bar where middle-aged low-lives living nearby go to ease the pain of being undersexed and only fucked by the system.

Thereupon a hysterical scream attacked me out of nowhere like a drone.

“I’ll fuck you up.”

It was Mr. Trenbolone. He started screaming and pushed the chest of another guy forcefully.

As kids we used to do the same titties pushes before a fight. This ritual allows you to feel the strength of your opponent and respectively gain or lose confidence. It was also a way to add additional time to solve problems in a more peaceful manner and let other people stop the fight.

At one point, Mr. Trenbolone donated some serious knuckles to the other guy’s face. The sound caused by the impact produced a small vibration. Then, the rest of the drinking champs stopped the fight while Mr. Trenbolone was still screaming.

“I’ll fuck you and your mother.”

The fury in the air was strong and vicious. Why were they fighting? I have no idea.

This action scene reminded me of Ben Affleck’s epic meltdown which is supposed to represent what happens when you are on roids. Don’t worry. I know that the roid rage effect is widely overblown, although extra testosterone comes with extra aggression.

In Mr. Trenbolone’s case, however, I think it was the sandwich talking. He was a bodybuilder a.k.a. a protein vampire, and there was not much protein around.

P.S. The post revealing the natty potential has been updated.

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