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Deleted member 76870
Fuchsia
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2024
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People didn’t know his real name. They just called him the Bull.
It wasn’t something he chose. It happened automatically. He’d walk past strangers in a street or stand in line somewhere, and someone would say it without thinking: “That guy looks like a bull.” Thick neck, heavy frame, wide jaw, eyes that stayed calm even when everything around him felt tense. Even people who’d never seen him before used the same word.
He grew up online more than anywhere else. Looksmaxxing forums raised him in a strange way. He learned how to analyze his face like a diagram, how posture mattered, how silence could be intimidating, how weakness showed before you spoke. The forums weren’t kind, but they were clear: improve or disappear. Over time, the advice stopped being about looks and started shaping how he moved, ate, and thought.
That’s how the diet came in. Raw meat, organs, fat. No sauces, no excuses. He didn’t talk about it much. To him it wasn’t a trend or a statement. It just felt direct. Something honest. Eat what’s real, stay grounded, stay ready.
He didn’t hate the world, but he didn’t respect it either. From his perspective, it was run by people who never felt consequences. One leader in particular became a symbol to him—not just a person, but a stand-in for everything corrupt, insulated, and untouchable. Powerful, protected, untouchable by ordinary people.
The idea of fighting him wasn’t about winning. It wasn’t even fully about the leader. It was about the act itself. The refusal to stay passive. The refusal to accept that power was something you were only allowed to watch.
Of course, it never really happened. Security stopped him long before he got close. No dramatic ending. No victory. Just restraint, concrete floors, and hands forcing him down.
But the name stuck.
After that, people talked about him like a rumor. Not a hero. Not a villain. Just a presence. Someone shaped by the internet, by discipline, by instinct, who reminded people that beneath systems and speeches, there are still men who think in simpler terms.
And when they saw him again—standing somewhere quiet, eating, waiting, saying nothing—they still said the same thing.
“He looks like a bull.”
It wasn’t something he chose. It happened automatically. He’d walk past strangers in a street or stand in line somewhere, and someone would say it without thinking: “That guy looks like a bull.” Thick neck, heavy frame, wide jaw, eyes that stayed calm even when everything around him felt tense. Even people who’d never seen him before used the same word.
He grew up online more than anywhere else. Looksmaxxing forums raised him in a strange way. He learned how to analyze his face like a diagram, how posture mattered, how silence could be intimidating, how weakness showed before you spoke. The forums weren’t kind, but they were clear: improve or disappear. Over time, the advice stopped being about looks and started shaping how he moved, ate, and thought.
That’s how the diet came in. Raw meat, organs, fat. No sauces, no excuses. He didn’t talk about it much. To him it wasn’t a trend or a statement. It just felt direct. Something honest. Eat what’s real, stay grounded, stay ready.
He didn’t hate the world, but he didn’t respect it either. From his perspective, it was run by people who never felt consequences. One leader in particular became a symbol to him—not just a person, but a stand-in for everything corrupt, insulated, and untouchable. Powerful, protected, untouchable by ordinary people.
The idea of fighting him wasn’t about winning. It wasn’t even fully about the leader. It was about the act itself. The refusal to stay passive. The refusal to accept that power was something you were only allowed to watch.
Of course, it never really happened. Security stopped him long before he got close. No dramatic ending. No victory. Just restraint, concrete floors, and hands forcing him down.
But the name stuck.
After that, people talked about him like a rumor. Not a hero. Not a villain. Just a presence. Someone shaped by the internet, by discipline, by instinct, who reminded people that beneath systems and speeches, there are still men who think in simpler terms.
And when they saw him again—standing somewhere quiet, eating, waiting, saying nothing—they still said the same thing.
“He looks like a bull.”
