“Pure shreds bro, push day got me all types of swole. Absolutely loving this new Under Armour gear too bro, abso comfort #irishfitfam #fitfam #protein #swole #followforfollow #shredz #Instafitfam”
Kilo finished off his latest Insta caption and sent it off. It had 20 likes in the first 6 seconds. Pure viral, bro. He didn’t mind all the dirt looks people gave him in the changing room for taking a topless picture in the mirror. They only hated him because he was so jacked. They didn’t even comprehend what bulking season even really was, and they couldn’t cut for shit.
167 likes. Sick bro. Kilo lashed a heap of Whey protein into his mixer and shook it up. Peaches and cream flavour, abso delish. His real name was Eoghan King. He’d gotten the nickname ‘Kilo’ because of a rumour going around UCC saying that he’d done a kilo of coke in one night and didn’t fucking collapse and die. It hadn’t happened at all but Eoghan never bothered to correct anyone. It was sick story, bro. Plus it gave him the chance to have his Insta username changed to ‘@Kilo_Gram’, and there was no way he’d pass up on such a sweet opp. No way, man. Kilo did nutrition in UCC but he was from Meath, originally. He wanted to go to Trinity but didn’t get the points in the Leaving, sickener. He was defo the smartest bro in Clongos that year but he was absolutely positive Mr. Gallagher had paid off someone in the Department to make sure he failed geography. Gallagher had always been jealous of Kilo’s legit shreds, and Kilo was convinced. The joke was on Gallagher now, there’s no way he was getting 300 plus likes on any Insta post.
Kilo was due to graduate the following October of 2011, but he still didn’t know what he was going to do. Like, obviously it’s absolutely whopper to get that many likes on any post, and girls absolutely gushed for him but like, you couldn’t get paid to post on Insta? That was the dream for sure man, but there was no way. Kilo was banking on getting a graduate-entry job in his dad’s accountancy firm. He could totally breeze in there and concentrate on the more important things in life; insane gains and keeping the tan abso fresh. If there was one thing the man knew how to do, it was sculpt the perfect physique, and make sure everyone knew about it. His self-marketing is straight-bodacious, bro. Kilo had like 2,000 followers on Instagram and they were all basically getting professional work outs plans from Kilo. After every topless post he’d put his work-out from that day right there in the comments, sans-charge. People were always calling Kilo vain and narcissistic but the bro was giving people sick workouts for free. That’s a legit bro if you ask me.
Kilo was always talking about how he wished he’d be able to make money off of his ‘totally bitchin’’ insta page. We all thought he was insane. There was no way any of us thought you could make money from your social media page, not in 2011 anyway. It was unheard of. Some of the boys were still on Bebo like, there was no place for social media in the monetary world. Kilo was a visionary though, well he thought he was anyway. He tried for months to come up with a way to make a job out of his insta. He got deactivated for awhile because he started charging girls in his DMs in return for topless pics of himself. For an extra tenner they could also claim to their friends he was their boyfriend. The poor bro only made 15 quid before he got shut down by the lads in Instagram’s Admin department.
To say Kilo was spiralling that last semester of his final year is a understatement. Here he was, with a totally incredible social media profile, yet all the likes in the world couldn’t make him any money. At this point he’d post a blurry picture of his protein shake with no caption and get 900 likes. There was no insta page like his back then. The man was losing his mind for sure. There was one time in March, myself and Kilo were going to go hit the muscle factory before a whopper night out so I called over to his gaff on College Road. I was already pumped to tear a hole in this chest sesh, you know? Anyway, I get to the house and the walls are legit covered in these ‘algorithms’ for how to convert likes into euros. It’s important to understand that for all his marketing genius, Kilo did not understand the fundamental rules of simple mathematics. None of his equations made any sense. At the centre of it all was a massive scribing of an equation that simply read ‘1 like = €2’ with no explanation whatsoever of how Kilo had come to this conclusion. I found Kilo, manically pouring strawberry whey protein into an already full shaker in the kitchen, as he repeated the words “Monetary gains, bro” over and over again. I’m not sure he’d even noticed that I was in the house. I left almost immediately after that. Kilo had proper freaked me out so I had to move to Defcon 8 straight away no questions asked; I called his mother and told her Kilo had lost his mind.
It only took Kilo’s old laid like 20 minutes to convince him to come home for few days. It was study month anyway so he didn’t have any college work to be doing. Plus, the house in Meath had a sick home-gym so Kilo could get his work-outs done there no problem. I felt real bad about calling Kilo’s own mother into the situation, but in my defence, the guy was clearly having a mental breakdown. He was a month away from finishing his undergrad and becoming a real adult, yet here he was obsessing over getting paid for his Instagram. A few days at home in the soft countryside of Meath would do him well. Plus, his mother was a serious hippy-liberal type. She was completely into all this alternate medicines like homeopathy and reiki, so she got Kilo on the water with like a pinch of cinnamon or whatever they use in it. Hydration is key for any serious gym-goer anyway so if nothing else, Kilo’s mom was doing him a favour in that regard. Kilo’s old laid was always harrowing on about Newgrange and faeries as well, about how the faeries had helped her to heal people in the past. I’d heard of people talk about angels in that way before, which is crazy enough in itself, but the idea of faeries healing people was on another level altogether. It’s probably the sole reason Kilo’s mom had decided to settle in Meath, just to be near the mystical lands of the faeries and Newgrange. The woman was tapped.
It’s no understatement when I say that the three days Kilo spent at home in Meath changed the course of his entire life. I’d hardly believe what happened to be true if the results weren’t so glaringly obvious and severe. It was a Wednesday, Kilo had just crushed a shoulder sesh in his home gym, uploaded five new posts on the gram, and taken his half bucket of essential supplements to get the gains in the right places; basic stuff. After his initial recovery from his work-out, Kilo’s mom told him he’d to go for a walk to let the ‘country of Ireland heal his body’. Kilo had known his mother for his whole life by now, and he knew not to question her beliefs. One time he made the mistake of implying the events of Harry Potter were fictitious, which resulted in his mom setting fire to his incredible collection of seasonal-Ibiza snapbacks. He hadn’t made that mistake again since.
Kilo headed out for his walk as commanded. It was a dry March evening, fairly warm so he decided to roll out in a fresh sleeveless-beater with the words ‘Gains Ovr Brains’ spread across the nipples. He did this just in case he came across a little cutie on his walk. As you’d expect, Kilo’s mom lived as near to Newgrange as she could afford, due to her unyielding obsession with faeries, and myths about Cúchullann and those lads. In terms of places to go for walks, there were few places in the country with as nice scenery on offer. Kilo walked, earphones in for about half an hour. The watery-medicine-potion his mother had given him had filled his bladder to the brim by this point, and he was bursting to drain himself. He’d been walking on a quiet road but he didn’t want to risk any of his surrounding neighbours seeing his lad and posting it on the Gram, so he nipped off into the wooded area that bordered the roads in Meath.
He walked until he couldn’t see the road from the treeline any more. He found an open area, which was almost a perfect circle, with one mid-sized tree centred in the middle of it. It was as if the woods had made a natural urinal for walkers to unload their various bodily fluids on. He pulled down his skinny-jean joggers and let flow, which was met with the familiar, euphoric relief that comes with the release of urine that has been festering in the bladder for just that bit too long. As he stood there, lad in hand, he suddenly heard a soft giggle, accompanied by the sound of a bird’s wings when the creature tried to hover in the one place. Forced, effortful beating of tiny wings. You’d have heard this sound if you’ve ever had a stupid fucker of a bird fly into your house, and panic around the place trying to escape again. Kilo quickly concealed his mick as his cheeks turned crimson red.
Kilo: Who’s there?
Mystery voice: Tis only me ya gowl.
The reply had come from the other side of the tree. Kilo peered around and saw the being that the voice had come from. Kilo told me the description of this fella about 1000 times so I know it very well at this stage. This thing looked like a miniature version of a middle-aged balding ol’ fella. The type you’d see down at the pub at like 2pm on a Thursday slurping pints. He was overweight with a mystical, white 5 o’clock shadow on his face. He wasn’t miniature the same way a dwarf is, but rather just a smaller version of a regularly proportioned human. He was just about 4 foot, Kilo said. He also had these comically tiny wings on him, which were more for show than anything. They flapped, apparently autonomously, but were in absolutely no way capable of lifting this fat, smelly creature off the floor. This thing was wearing a tattered burgundy, corduroy suit, with an egg-white shirt underneath. His pathetic, little wings protruded from a half-hearted whole in the back of his jacket. He was leaning against the old, tree, stealing sips from a poorly rolled cigarette in his left hand. His breath sounded the way broke glass does when you stand on it, all crackly and sore.
Kilo: What the fuck are you, bro?
Chuck: The name’s Chuck, you fucking douche. I’m one of the faeries that works over at the Hill of Tara. You’ve some langer on you fella.
Kilo had always been proud of the dimensions of the weapon genetics had bestowed upon him. He’d never seen his old fella’s but he imagined that the man had a similar one on him.
Kilo: You’re a faery? Jesus my nut bag of a mother was actually right, that’s gas. Why are you in the woods trying to watch fellas piss?
The faery had a fed-up look on his face. Chuck had been dealing with people for more than half a millennia, yet he always wondered why he had to entertain the thick stupid ones. Assignments were given based on performance and Chuck had a rich history of not giving a fuck about the outcomes of his. The bureau had been trying to push him out for centuries.
Chuck: I don’t hang around here waiting for lads like you to whip out your langer for a slash. This is my jurisdiction; my tree. You’re more or less after pissing on my office you complete and utter tool.
Kilo: Gosh, bro. You’re a dick! I thought faeries were supposed to be sound.
Chuck: C’mere fella, I was about to help you out with your career problems but to be honest you’re more of a douche than I realized so you can jog on, hai.
Chuck began to turn away from Kilo, pulling on his rollie as he moved. Kilo perked up at the sound of this. He was in the middle of the woods in Meath, talking to a fat faery named Chuck, and now it appeared the thing that was causing him severe mental anguish could be figured out.
Kilo: Whoa, you can help me make money from the gram? That would be totally legitimised, bro.
Chuck: Kilo I’m a fucking faery I could solve this in a matter of minutes, you uneducated, little prick. Let’s say I can make it so that you can make money from your Instagram posts. I can make it so you get free accommodation, food, anything at all, once you promise the business some ‘exposure’ on your social media feeds. It’ll also be the case that people will start paying you for your work-out plans, club appearances, all of that. You won’t be world-famous, but people will reluctantly know who you are, and you’ll never have to do real day’s work for your entire life
Kilo: No fucking way bro? Are you for real? That would be the abso dream, man, for reals.
Chuck: I can make all of that happen. But there is one condition. It’s pretty small and I doubt it’ll ever come up but these things only get approved if you take on some sort of risk. Basically, any time a radio station refers to you as an ‘influencer’ I’m afraid you’ll lose a centimetre off of that hefty langer of yours. Look, it’s not much of a risk, what are the chances of that happening?
Kilo: Bro, I could give away two inches of this thing and still be a total monster. Besides, does anyone even know the word ‘influencer’? I don’t think so, dude. I’m gonna be set for life, bro let’s make it happen.
Chuck: Grand job, lad. It’ll probably take 24 hours or so to push through so I’d imagine this will start taking effect there at some stage tomorrow. Fair fucks to ya, man. G’luck.
You’d imagine an ancient being like himself would have just disappeared into thin air. Instead he uncovered his push scooter from a near-by bushling, and began slowly, awkwardly making his way along the uneven terrain in the opposite direction that Kilo had come from. Kilo more or less skipped the whole way home. Either he was tripping balls, or some insane Celtic magic lark, had just occurred. Whichever it was, tomorrow would reveal all.
**7 years later**
Kilo rolled over. The taste of 3am shots of sambuca lashed the inside of his dry mouth. His head felt like a feminist Hen Party; absolutely no-craic. He’d slept alone, again, and had drank himself into oblivion, again. He lazily picked up his phone, to check the time. He had an unimaginable number of notifications, both from his Instagram page, and from LGBT Ireland. His most recent insta-pick, a blurry, angled shot of his bare ass, had surpassed 8,000 likes already. It was 8:03am. He fumbled in the dusky, morning light for the bottle of Southern Comfort he kept near-by. Two swigs for the boys in green. Every morning had started this way for the last 2 and a half years. Every morning had started this way since he lost what could be considered a recognisable penis. All that remained was a small skin-tag and a pair of hairy, floppy balls. He’d gone back to the opening in the woods of Meath with a gun the odd time when he was off his mind to try and kill the faery that had forsaken him. The lads, fuck the whole world thought he was insane. Blaming the loss of his ‘colossal langer’ on the magic of some smelly, imaginary faery. In fairness, the first year or so of the covenant were good to Kilo. He made a killing from his work-outs and club appearances, and could get free munch everywhere. It wasn’t ‘til the summer of 2012 that more of his kind started coming out of the woodworks and the label ‘Influencer’ became a reality. Kilo was fucked after that. Initially, he didn’t really notice the change in length. As the months went on though, his shaft became smaller, and smaller, the more popularity he won. It tore him apart, literally and figuratively. He had the exact fame and career he’d always wanted, yet he had no penis to enjoy it with.
The media became obsessed with Kilo’s personal life, and why he was literally never seen with a woman, or man, EVER. By the end of the 2013, Kilo couldn’t hack the attention so he came out as ‘genderless, non-gender-conforming’. The first of his kind. The back-lash of this was a renewed surge of popularity, especially amongst the LGBT community. He was an icon, the first non-gender conforming man of his time. By then he had no penis whatsoever, and his public image had become something of a world-wide phenomenon. I suppose you could say he peaked in 2014. He received a load of awards in the New Year, but his proudest moment was representing Austria in the Eurovision Song Contest in the Summer of 2014, and winning the whole thing, under the name of Conchita. We all knew it was him though and the whole event was bodacious, classic Kilo move.
I don’t really see Kilo too often anymore, he’s rarely here in Ireland, too famous for that now. But yeah, that’s why I have this tattoo ‘Kilo-Gram’ on my bicep, to commemorate one bro’s life-time achievement, plus I’m LITERALLY always in the gym. Anyway do you have snapchat? Abso hate texting people on Tinder, lol.