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Posted Sun Jul 30, 2023 | 749 Words | Tagged story racechange language

Bright orange. Bright pink. Rainbow colours. The selection of scratchcards in a wide variety of colours was always attractive. You were pretty sure they tried to target nearly everyone who was looking to win big, although the most you have ever won was £10. One day you thought it would be great, like most people, to win the backpot of thousands of pounds.

You were looking at the selection of them with a basket of various items and to try to distract from the feelings of being slightly out of place in the small eastern european shop. You did love the selection of items they stocked, which for your small town did feel, in a positive way, a breath of different culture in what was majorly not a diverse area.

Except for this shop in the rough end of town where you did feel a little out of place by the well built guys who liked to stand at the doorway of the shop, almost like a security guard, smoking and almost checking everyone who came in and out. Although was it just being intimidated, or where you also a little bit turned on? It was likely a bit of both.

You were shouted at to the checkout. Away in a trail of your own thoughts and as you were kinda staring at the scratch cards you felt a need to buy one of them to at least not appear to be completely out of it. A bright orange one of course was the one you went for, because of course what else would you really go for.

The guy behind the till was seemingly pretty happy with you deciding to buy this and happily took the card payment instead of looking disapprovingly at you yet again. He then yelled something, in what you could assume was Polish at one of the others stood in the doorframe. Who, like everyone else except you, was incredibly buff. And the reply was just a bit of a grin, which was slightly terrifying.

Once paid and items in your bag, you walked past the guy and caught a smell of something radiating from him. You were sure for a moment he hadn’t long come from the gym. Probably lifting a stupid amount of weight. And he muttered something, you were sure was at you but weren’t quite sure.

On your walk back, you picked out a coin from your pocket and scratched off one of the panels from the scratch card and revealed “PolakPolish”. You didn’t think much of it, and just thought that’s why the guy had been happy to sell you a random scratch card without any prizes, and just silly words attached to it.

You entered your apartment and noticed the post on the floor. Picking it up, it was just a letter from the TV licensing. “kurwa, ukłuciaFucking pricks” you muttered to yourself, throwing it straight into the recycling pile without quite realising what you had just said.

Catching a glimpse of yourself in a mirror. Something looked off. You didn’t quite look this buff, nor did you quite look quite like one of the lads stood outside of the shop earlier. In fact you looked almost identical.

You flex in the mirror and you almost drool at the sight of the muscle forming. Your mind almost short circuits and you just think of one thing. SiłowniaGym. You needed to lift something, anything.

Before you know it, you’ve arrived at the rundown gym on the rough edge of town and enter. You are greeted with a small smile from who you recognised was outside of the shop earlier. He knows you’re new and shows you around as well as spotting you lifting. You were sure you were lifting heavier than ever before, but you concentrate on every number he counts.

Jeden. Dwa. Trzy. Cztery. Pięć. Sześć. Siedem. OsiemOne. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight

Everything he says is in a thick polish accent. His counting of every one of your reps. Your every reply makes him smile, the accent getting thicker.

He offers you a drink after you’re absolutely dripping. You were sure it was close to pure vodka. But it was good. After you drunk, he grabbed you into a headlock and all you could smell was him.

Turns out the scratch card came with a prize after all. And that was just the start of it.

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