Beyond the Neon Masks

The Chase for Perfection

It all started like it does for many — with a harmless desire to lose a couple of kilograms. After watching glossy magazines and perfect Instagram profiles, you decided it was time for a change. You started the trendy keto diet, cut out carbs, and began counting calories with Swiss banker precision. And indeed, the weight started dropping — slowly at first, then faster and faster.

But treacherous nature had prepared its first surprise: along with the fat went skin elasticity. One morning, examining yourself in the mirror, you horrifyingly discovered that your once-perfect posterior was covered with a network of traitorous stretch marks, like a subway map.

Panic! Frantic internet searches led you to the local fitness club. There, a friendly (and suspiciously buff) trainer recommended a comprehensive approach: strength training for tone and a special stretch mark cream that, judging by its price, must have been made from gold dust and unicorn tears.

Three months of intense training showed results — the stretch marks indeed faded. But along with this, your shoulders began growing at an alarming rate. By the end of the second month, you couldn't fit into your favorite blouses, and by the end of the third — you barely squeezed through doorways. But the real nightmare was yet to come.

One morning you woke up and didn't recognize your voice — it had become as low as an opera bass. And a week later, the mirror reflected something between Frida Kahlo and Hulk Hogan — above your upper lip flourished magnificent mustaches worthy of a Mexican drug lord.

In desperation, you turned to a private hormone therapy clinic. A young doctor with a suspiciously twitching eye confidently claimed he knew how to fix everything. As it turned out later, he had mixed up an experimental drug for service dogs with hormone therapy. The result exceeded all expectations — now you not only looked like a professional wrestler but also gained the ability to bark in four languages, including Farsi.

It seemed like rock bottom. But fate had another turn prepared: your unique abilities caught the military's interest. A special unit was looking for someone with unusual talents for top-secret operations. And there you were, signing a contract without even reading the fine print.

The next three years turned into a kaleidoscope of special operations. Your appearance in hot spots caused panic among the enemy. Terrorists whispered legends about "Black Themis" — the dog-woman whose bark made mountains tremble. Your own people nicknamed you "Mama Combat" — for your habit of feeding everyone buns after successful operations.

You became a legend. Seasoned special forces soldiers blushed and stammered in your presence. Enemy field commanders surrendered en masse at the mere sound of your signature growl. And in the evenings, in the quiet of the command tent, you watched "Bridget Jones's Diary," wiping away stoic soldier's tears and drowning your sorrows in army crackers.

Somewhere in the mountains of Afghanistan, local elders still tell children scary tales about the mustached woman-warrior who can smell a terrorist from a kilometer away and chew up a tank. And in special prayer books, a new text appeared: "May Black Themis pass by my house."

And now, looking at your reflection in the polished army mess tin, you think: perhaps the chase for perfect forms wasn't such a good idea. Although, on the other hand, now you have the respect of world intelligence services, an army of admirers among military attachés, and a collection of medals "For Valor."

Well, are you happy with your diet results? At least now no one dares to comment on your weight.