That Must Be the Instructor
The church across the street let out a heavy, echoing bong.
5:00 PM, sharp.
Dave took a deep breath—and walked straight into the yoga studio.
Inside, there were about a dozen people. All women.
But these weren’t your average Lululemon moms.
One wore a neon bikini. Another had on a skimpy sports bra. One was dressed in a red silk spaghetti-strap gown, like she had just walked out of a wedding afterparty. Another wore only two green leaves—one slapped over each boob, barely hanging on.
A few more had on strap dresses, high-cut bodysuits, or basically nothing at all.
And yet, somehow, the one that stood out most… was the one dressed like she worked in a sewer.
Baggy long-sleeve button-up. Old slacks. The shirt stained in mysterious streaks. Crumbs stuck to her shoulder. Some faint traces of something that looked suspiciously like dried urine on her pants.
She was older, maybe in her 50s, and she had that classic cranky aunt energy—the type who complains about every price increase since 1982.
Dave scanned the room, nodded to himself, and walked right up to her.
“Hi, teacher. I’d like to sign up for the yoga class.”
The woman blinked at him, grabbed a mop and a dented water bucket from beside her, then replied—
“Move. I’m trying to work, you damn pervert.”
She didn’t wait for a response.
Just stormed out of the room, bucket sloshing behind her.
Dave stood still for a moment. Then gave a solemn nod.
“Oh… I see.”
He turned around—just in time to see someone else enter the studio.
He was short—about a head shorter than Dave.
His hair stood straight up in a stiff, greasy pineapple shape, like he had been electrocuted by vanity. A silver ring clung to one nostril, and a tongue piercing clicked loudly every few seconds as he gnawed at nothing.
He wore a snug white women’s sports bra and matching white panties—tight in all the wrong places, loose in all the others. His pale, soft body looked like it had never been near effort.
And yet, he walked with a weird kind of swagger. Like he thought everyone wanted to be him.
There was no charm. No energy. Just this twisted vibe—dark, petty, greasy. The kind of guy who peeked through blinds and whispered his own name.
Dave looked at him.
Nodded to himself.
That must be the instructor.
It wasn’t.
It was just Pineapple-Hair.
Dave walked over—still towering over him—and bent down slightly.
“Hello, teacher. I’m here to sign up for yoga class. Do you still have any openings?”
Pineapple-Hair stared at him.
Internally, he panicked.
If this massive guy joined the class, he’d ruin everything. He’d steal attention. He’d make him look short, soft, irrelevant.
So Pineapple-Hair smiled nervously and lied through his teeth.
“Ah… sorry. We’re full. Completely full. You’ll have to come back in… maybe two months?”
Dave’s face sank.
He lowered his head, turned around, and slowly walked toward the exit.
Didn’t say a word.
Just the quiet sound of bare feet on yoga mats, fading step by step.
And that’s where we leave him—for now. Standing in a doorway, one dream crushed under the weight of a liar in a sports bra.
But don’t worry.
The real class hasn’t even started yet.
Ridiculously Long Arm
Dave was just about to leave the studio when he felt it—that subtle shift in the air. Behind him, something had changed.
A hand rested gently on Pineapple-Hair’s shoulder.
Then came the sound of someone clearing their throat.
“Ahem.”
Pineapple-Hair turned his head.
Standing several meters behind him—at least three meters, maybe more—was a man neither Dave nor anyone else had noticed walk in.
It was the real yoga instructor.
He looked to be in his early thirties, but his face was almost too smooth. He had that rare kind of youthfulness that made his age hard to guess. His posture was perfect. His presence was quiet. But most noticeably—
His arm was still stretched forward. Fully extended. No bend, no effort. Just calmly floating there, like it belonged that way.
Pineapple-Hair flinched and gave a nervous laugh.
“Haha, teacher! I was just joking earlier, you know? Can’t believe that guy actually took it seriously. People these days are way too gullible…”
The instructor didn’t respond.
He just stared at him. Silent. Motionless.
Then he turned his body slightly.
And, without saying anything, he pulled his arm back… and extended it again—this time all the way across the room, directly to Dave’s shoulder.
They were roughly the same height.
The reach still made no sense.
The teacher spoke, calm and firm.
“Young man. Are you here to play around? Or are you here to learn?”
“With a body like yours, flexibility won’t come easy. It will take time, pain, and control. You’ll have to undo everything you’ve trained into your muscles.”
“So I’ll ask again. Are you serious?”
Dave straightened his spine and looked him in the eye.
“Oh yeah, baby. I’m dead serious.”
“I want to master the strongest flexibility in the world. And then… I’ll combine it with this muscle.”
“When that happens, I’ll be the strongest man alive. That’s my goal.”
There was a pause.
The teacher looked at him, searching.
Then finally, he nodded.
“Good. We welcome students like you.”
He stepped to the side, gesturing toward the rest of the studio.
“Look. Everyone is excited to have you here.”
Dave looked.
The class—twelve women, all in tight, wildly inappropriate outfits—stood in a stiff silence. None of them looked excited.
They looked tense. Visibly uncomfortable.
Some glanced at each other. Some stared at the floor. One of them quietly whispered—
“Please don’t let him in…”
Another leaned toward the teacher.
“He’s obviously a pervert. Just like that other guy.”
The teacher didn’t respond. He either didn’t hear it—or chose not to.
He placed his hand on Dave’s back, gave him a light push forward, and said nothing else.
And just like that…
Dave was in.
He had officially joined the yoga class.
First Day at Yoga
The class had barely started when the instructor clapped his hands.
“All right, everyone—warm-up time. Let’s begin with the full side split.”
Just like that, the entire room dropped into perfect one-legged splits.
Except for two people.
Dave… and Pineapple Hair.
Pineapple Hair didn’t even try. He just flopped onto the ground and splayed his legs into a vague triangle. Technically, he was on the floor. But flexibility? Not even close.
Dave, on the other hand, gave it everything he had.
He grunted. He exhaled. He tried to force his body lower.
But halfway down, something deep inside his pelvis screamed.
His face froze in agony. He paused.
If he pushed even an inch further, he swore his crotch would rip straight down the middle.
Across the room, the girls continued stretching without even glancing his way. Not one of them seemed to care. They were all focused on their own practice. Or maybe they just didn’t want to make eye contact with those two.
As for Pineapple Hair, he had no shame. He wasn’t here to stretch. He was here to watch.
His eyes flicked to the girl wearing only two leaves over her chest—literal tree leaves taped to her skin. She was deep in a backbend, her body forming a graceful arch.
Pineapple Hair crept closer.
Then, while she was fully inverted and couldn’t see, he quietly snatched one of the leaves.
He held it up like a trophy and started snickering to himself in the corner.
The girl noticed.
She flipped back upright, eyes blazing. Pineapple Hair froze. His pervy grin snapped shut.
“Fk you! You son of a b*h!”
SLAP. SLAP.
Two lightning-fast smacks landed across his face before he could react.
He staggered back, dazed—until the girl’s right arm snapped into a knifehand, perfectly straight.
With one clean strike, she chopped clean through Pineapple Hair’s wrist.
His hand dropped to the floor like a dead fish.
Then, just as casually, she picked up the leaf and stuck it back onto her chest with a fresh square of tape.
“Every filthy hand gets chopped. No exception.”
The class kept going like nothing happened.
A minute later, she even tossed his severed hand back to him.
Pineapple Hair caught it out of the air, sat nearby, and casually started reattaching it—still sneaking glances at the girl whenever he thought no one was watching.
Pineapple Hair quietly twisted his hand back on, the tendons making faint wet noises as they clicked into place. Meanwhile, his eyes never left the girls—still lurking like a pervy little creature in lace-trimmed panties and a sweat-stained sports bra.
Meanwhile, Dave was locked in a personal war with his own muscles.
He groaned. He trembled. His crotch still felt like a zipper about to burst.
But the teacher stayed right by his side like a motivational poster come to life.
“Come on, man! You can do it! I believe in you!”
Dave gritted his teeth and pushed harder.
Crack.
His lower back made a sound he had never heard before.
Pain shot through his legs. His body seized up. And then… full cramp.
He collapsed on the mat, wincing and twitching like a freshly stunned animal.
“You can do it, man! Stand up! Don’t worry about the cramp! Don’t worry if your spine feels broken! It’s all part of the journey! Let’s go!!”
The teacher shouted like a cheerleader at a football game.
Dave tried to sit up.
Pain again.
But he didn’t quit.
Because in his head, he wasn’t just learning yoga.
He was forging a new body. A new weapon. Something unstoppable.
“I will master flexibility…”
“And when I do…”
“I’ll be the strongest man alive.”
By the time class ended, Dave was soaked in sweat, curled in the fetal position, still twitching from the backbend attempt.
Pineapple Hair sat nearby, quietly adjusting his reattached hand like it was no big deal, still ogling girls like a gremlin in lace-trimmed panties and a sweat-stained sports bra.
The girls stayed in their own lanes. Nobody said a word.
It was quiet.
Awkward.
Dave looked around at the scene, blinked a few times, and muttered to himself—
“Oh my god… this studio is f***ing insane.”
And that was just Day One.
Mystical Bloodline: Godlike Regeneration
The first class was finally over.
Dave pulled himself off the mat like a man crawling out of a car crash. One hour—just one hour—and he felt more wrecked than after five hours at the gym.
His underwear clung to him like wet seaweed. His crotch hurt. His spine had popped. His sweat smelled like regret.
He limped toward his towel and started drying himself off when something clicked in his mind.
“Wait a minute…”
He turned around sharply.
“Hey, dude—your hand… is it okay?”
Pineapple Hair sat cross-legged nearby, casually picking at something on his wrist. Without looking up, he lifted his right arm and flashed a peace sign.
“Good as new.”
Dave blinked. “Oh. Cool. Glad to hear that.”
He turned back around. Kept drying his back. Ten seconds passed.
Then he froze.
“…Hold on. What the fuck do you mean ‘good as new’?”
He spun back around, grabbed Pineapple Hair’s hand, inspected the wrist. It was spotless. Clean. No scar, no bruise—like it had never been chopped off at all.
Dave’s jaw dropped.
“What’s going on, man?!”
Pineapple Hair smirked, like he’d been waiting for this moment.
“Oh, this? Runs in my family.”
Dave squinted. “What does?”
“The regeneration thing. Like… we got this weird healing ability, y’know? Nothing too crazy. I’m one of the weaker ones, actually. One of my cousins—uh… forgot his name—his is way stronger. Like, if you cut his arm off and toss it across the street, it’ll come flying back to him. Gravity-style. Mine’s more like… tape-and-wait.”
Dave narrowed his eyes.
“I still don’t believe you.”
Before Pineapple Hair could even respond, Dave’s right arm swung up like a guillotine—his hand stiff, flat, sharp. A clean chop.
Pineapple Hair’s left arm dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
“FUCK YOU, MAN! What did you do?!”
Dave pointed. “Now prove it.”
Still cursing, Pineapple Hair grumbled and picked up his severed hand, stuck it back on the stump, pressed it down like a suction cup, and muttered—
“Give it ten seconds…”
The arm twitched, fused, then flexed. Perfectly reattached.
He held it up with a grimace. “Good. As. New.”
Dave stared. He couldn’t speak. His brain needed to buffer.
Still drying his neck, he muttered—
“I mean… that’s insane.”
“Yeah,” Pineapple Hair said. “But it’s whatever.”
Dave shook his head. “You’re telling me you can just… regrow body parts like nothing?”
“As long as I eat enough protein and stuff. Takes energy.”
“Who even are you?” Dave asked, half-laughing. “And who’s this cousin of yours?”
Pineapple Hair tilted his head. “Uh… I forgot. It’s been years. Something-son. Carlson? Lawson? Jackson? Grayson? Robinson? Johnson? Something like that. They all sound the same, man.”
Dave raised an eyebrow.
“So what’s your name then? Don’t tell me it’s… Parkinson.”
Pineapple Hair’s face dropped.
“Screw you,” he snapped. “Don’t give me nicknames. My name’s Eason.”
Dave flinched. “Eason?”
That surprised him more than anything.
All this time, he thought Pineapple Hair was his real name. That dumb haircut had more personality than the guy’s actual face.
Now there was a real name.
A real identity.
Something strange flickered in the air.
But Dave said nothing. He just looked down at Eason’s perfectly reattached hand.
And for once… he believed.
Downward Dog Style
Several days flew by.
Every single class, Dave showed up and gave it his all—gritting his teeth, pushing through pain, and trying not to scream as his joints made new sounds. Bones cracked. Muscles tore. Sweat poured.
Meanwhile, Eason?
He barely broke a sweat. The guy mostly goofed off. Sat in the back, stretched a little, maybe rolled around the mat like a kid at recess.
By Day Five, the instructor announced a new pose.
“Today we begin… Downward-Facing Dog.”
Dave squinted.
He looked around at the class. Everyone was folding over like limp scarecrows—hands on the floor, hips in the air, backs curved like an upside-down V.
It hit him.
He remembered the Men’s Club. That cursed moment a few days ago. The whispers… the snickering… the phrase burned into his brain.
Doggy style.
His face twitched.
“Wait… that’s real?”
He didn’t say anything out loud. Just kept his head down and tried to follow along. But as he bent forward, a lightning bolt of pain shot through his thighs. It felt like someone was peeling his muscles off with a spoon.
Still, he clenched his jaw and kept going. No way was he giving up.
And in that moment of suffering, he found himself staring straight down between his own trembling knees… and thinking about Eason.
That idiot never trained seriously. Never looked tired. Never got hurt.
“Man, if I had that regeneration thing… I’d be unstoppable.”
He imagined it. Muscle tears? Gone in seconds. Sprains, fractures, dislocations? Nothing. He’d be a master of flexibility in two days, tops.
He sighed, raised his head—and that’s when he saw it.
Eason had snuck up behind a girl in the next row. He crouched low, nose hovering just inches from her butt like he was trying to sniff out a treasure. Then, with the dumbest grin imaginable, he stuck out his tongue and made a ridiculous face—eyes crossed, tongue wagging.
Dave nearly fell out of the pose.
“Oh man… what a loser. Always goofing around…”
Before he could laugh, it happened.
The yoga teacher, who had been standing silently at the front, extended one leg forward—except it didn’t stop. It stretched. Stretched. Stretched—a full five meters—like something out of a cartoon.
BANG!
One clean kick.
Eason flew across the room like a ragdoll, crashing into the mats at the far end. He groaned like a squashed bug.
The teacher’s leg zipped back just as fast. Back into perfect form. Nobody else even noticed.
But Dave saw everything.
And in that moment, a strange fire lit up in his eyes.
If this was the kind of world he was in… he had to be ready.
He gritted his teeth.
He bent deeper.
He wanted to be strong.
He wanted to master yoga.
He wanted to master flexibility.
Stretch the Nut Out of It
“Stretch the nut out of it…”
That was Dave’s new motto.
He didn’t even know exactly what it meant. It just… felt right. Every time his body screamed, every time his joints locked up or his tendons shrieked for mercy, he whispered those words like a prayer.
And he trained.
Harder than ever.
Not just in class—on the sidewalk, in alleyways, even in traffic when he had to.
He did the bridge. The horse pose. The full doggy tilt. One time, he held a downward dog on a subway platform for six straight stops.
Old ladies passed by with narrowed eyes. One muttered—
“Can’t he just use a toilet like a normal human being?”
Another clutched her purse and pulled out her phone.
“I’m calling the police. This is disgusting!”
Dave didn’t flinch.
He was locked in. Obsessed. Every joint pushed to the limit. Every tendon singing.
One day in a narrow alley, as he dipped into a deep squat with ass high and pride low, someone crept up behind him.
It was a short guy in pajamas.
That dumb watermelon haircut. That rat face.
It was Benson.
Without a word, Benson sprinted forward and launched a full-on kick into Dave’s exposed ass, then ran off like a guilty little gremlin.
Dave flinched, turned, saw the blur of that small body vanishing.
“Goddamn it, Eason…”
But wait.
Eason lived the other way.
He paused, squinting at the horizon. The height… the vibe… the idiocy.
They were practically twins. Same build, same energy. Only the hair was different.
“They might be brothers,” Dave muttered. “Cursed little perv brothers.”
Still, none of that mattered.
He went right back into his pose.
“Stretch the nut out of it…”
About a month later, Dave returned to the yoga classroom.
By now, every move came smooth. Natural. The once-impossible poses? He flowed through them like water.
His flexibility was unreal.
Then, during one random stretch session, he felt a strange tension in his thigh.
He pushed through it.
“Stretch the nut out of it…”
He shifted into another pose—and suddenly, his leg extended. Way past its limit. Two whole meters long.
Before he could even gasp—his stretched-out foot swung forward and smashed right between Eason’s legs.
CRACK.
Blood burst out the sides of Eason’s white briefs like a ruptured ketchup packet.
Eason hit the ground instantly, grabbing his crotch and thrashing like a man being exorcised.
“HOLY FUCK!! IT HURTS! IT HURTS LIKE FUCK!!”
Dave froze, eyes wide.
“Oh shit… I stretched too hard. I kicked the nut out of Eason.”
He panicked, bolted out the door, and came back thirty seconds later with a chocolate protein milkshake from the bodega next door. He shook it violently to even out the taste, then shoved it into Eason’s hands.
Eason gulped it down like his life depended on it.
Seconds later, the bleeding stopped. The wound sealed. The fabric lifted.
Something stirred beneath the briefs.
Eason sat up slowly and muttered—
“Good as new…”
Dave stood there, holding the empty bottle.
Still half in shock.
Still half amazed.
Eason started to pull down his underwear.
“You wanna see?”
“No thanks,” Dave said, already turning away.
And as he walked back to his mat, one hand on his hip, the other wiping sweat from his brow, he mumbled—
“Stretch the nut out of it…”