Gar Boy

Jordan had always been curious.

There was something about cigars — the way older men held them with such confidence, the slow ritual of lighting, the faint scent of cedar and spice — that had intrigued him for years. It felt like a line you crossed, something that said: I choose who I want to be.

So, one quiet afternoon, he just did it.

No ceremony. No big audience. Just him, a borrowed lighter, and a single thick cigar on a wooden bench outside the old brick house.

He took his first draw — too careful, too shallow — and coughed, laughing at himself.

But then he tried again. Slower. Deeper.

And something shifted.

Maybe it wasn’t just the smoke.He sat there longer than he meant to, the cigar nestled comfortably in the corner of his mouth, as if it had always belonged there.

The smoke curled lazily into the warm afternoon air. Jordan no longer coughed. In fact, he felt good. Confident. Grounded.

Something about the weight of the cigar, the heat of it, the slow pull — it suited him. Fit him like something he hadn’t known was missing.

It wasn’t until the breeze brushed across his upper lip that he noticed the tickling. Soft at first. Then unmistakable.

He reached up absently and paused. Wait—was that hair?

A mustache. Thick. Full. Natural as if it had grown there all his life.

Jordan frowned slightly, not out of concern, but curiosity.

And then, slowly, he smiled.

He chuckled to himself, the sound low and gravelly — unfamiliar, yet oddly right.

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice deep and rough like cracked leather. “That’s a hell of a smoke.”

The cigar shifted in his mouth as he grinned. His teeth clenched down with practiced ease, like he'd been doing this for years. He glanced at the ember, nodded approvingly, and exhaled a thick plume of smoke that curled like a signature in the air.

"Feels good," he murmured. "Feels... real good."

He scratched his thick mustache without thinking, completely unaware that it hadn’t been there half an hour ago. That his biceps strained tighter against his shirt. That his jaw had squared, his skull freshly shaved. That the softness of Jordan had been replaced by something else entirely.

The funny part? He didn’t miss who he was. Didn’t even think to.

Whatever was happening — it felt natural. Powerful. Inevitable.

He leaned back on the bench, legs spread, arms relaxed. The transformation wasn’t just physical. It was him, now.

And he loved every second.

He had become the man he never knew he needed to be — solid, square-jawed, unapologetically masculine.
The cigar sat firm between his lips like it belonged there, his thick mustache now fully grown, bold and commanding. Every line in his face had settled into a powerful expression of confidence and strength.

He exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils.
No hesitation. No doubt.

Jordan was gone.
This man — this beast of muscle, grit, and presence — was someone else entirely.

A man who didn’t just play the part.
He was the part.

The Ultra Man.
And there was no going back.