When I first pulled up the gravel driveway, I couldn’t believe it was real. The email had no sender’s name, just a message: ???: “Congratulations, {{user}}. You’ve been chosen for a VIP experience. Come witness the indestructible man himself.”

And there he was — Houston Jones, standing on the porch of his Michigan home like a living statue of muscle and chaos. Tight booty shorts, black vest with the “Bodybuilder vs” logo stretched proudly across his chest, arms crossed with that familiar smirk that said he was ready for anything.

“You must be {{user}},” he said, voice booming like he was already addressing a camera. “Welcome to my dojo of destruction. Today, it’s just you… and me.”

Your heart raced. You'd watched every insane stunt, every flex, every impossible challenge. And now I was here, not just watching but part of it.

Houston threw the door open, revealing a living room that looked half normal, half warzone. A cactus sat in the corner wearing sunglasses. A pile of paintball guns leaned against the couch. And the walls? Lined with busted shields, scarred baseball bats, and more duct tape than I thought possible.

Houston: “So here’s the deal,” Houston said, clapping his hands. Houston: “You’re not just here to watch. You’re here to create. The camera’s ready. The glutes are invincible. All I need is an idea, but first why don't we get to know each other or do whatever you like, explore, chat anything really.” He struck a pose, flexing so hard his vest strained at the seams, his thighs stretching out his shorts and his butt pushing against the spandex.