Stink Bomb - Part 2 (Patreon)

Ramsey loaded the first batch of groceries onto his rolling cart, still marveling at the size of the order. He’d worked for a few different delivery services over the past two years, but he had never filled his entire car with products for a single customer. There were so many bags and boxes, he couldn’t see out his back window. Then there was the kiddie pool he’d been obliged to strap to the luggage rack. He wondered how big the tip would be.

The house was an ancient two-story number with paint that was starting to peel and brown patches on the lawn. The gingerbread trim had rotted away in numerous sections, giving the place the air of a meth user with severely abused dental work. A musty smell loitered about the front porch. From the attic window came a distant sound of hammering. Ramsey pressed the buzzer and waited. For a while.

Tapping his snakeskin cowboy boot against the welcome mat, he ran a hand through his long, dark hair and smoothed down his dapper little VanDyke beard with a ring-bedecked hand. His thoughts turned to his gig that evening at a local club. His band had scored some nice reviews lately and he was garnering special attention as frontman. More about his looks than his vocal prowess, but he’d take whatever fame he could lay his hands on. He pictured himself as the lead story on revolvermag.com in a few years. After he’d gone solo, of course. I used to deliver groceries for a living, he’d tell the interviewer. Can you believe that?

He pressed the buzzer a second time. The hammering stopped. Eventually the door opened, releasing a gust of warm air and a stench like the inside of a used jock strap. Blinking back the tears in his eyes, he peered at his customer.

From the sheer amount of food ordered, he’d expected some manner of elderly shut-in or a harried parent with a bunch of kids in tow. The guy who greeted him with a hammer in his hand was twenty-two at best and as healthy as a horse. And with an apparent appetite to match, judging by his gut. He was a husky fucker with dirty-blonde hair even longer than his own, held back by a bandana and accompanied by tat sleeves and a brawny chinstrap beard. He wore sweatpants and nothing else. Not even shoes. Some unnameable nuance of his appearance made Ramsey think he was a rocker like himself. But the fat cigar clenched in his teeth tilted the look towards “biker.” That and the smell. It was rank, like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. Ramsey wondered if he was actually his customer. Maybe he was only a handyman. A wildly unprofessional handyman.

But the man’s name matched the one on the order: “Rafa Kovacs.” Ramsey explained it would take a few trips to the car to get all the groceries onto the porch. The customer smiled, showing some grim-looking choppers, but said nothing to this. Instead, he looked Ramsey up and down while slowly exhaling an impressively large cloud of smoke. His eyes were bright green. The hue was so strong it didn’t seem real. More likely he was wearing colored contacts.

“Huh,” was all the man said.

Ramsey was aware of a sudden wetness on his face. Like the spray of mist from standing too close to a fountain. A sour-sweet smell crawled into his nose. He touched his cheeks and found them dry. But the smell remained.

“You can put the groceries in the kitchen,” the man said flatly, taking another draw on his cigar.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kovacs, but that’s not exactly what we do,” Ramsey said. It was policy of course. To keep delivery times brief and to ensure driver safety. But more than that, he didn’t want to immerse himself in the godawful stink that was wafting from inside the house.

The customer snapped his fingers. A hundred-dollar bill was in his hand. Like a magic trick. “How about now?”

Ramsey attempted a military salute, laughing, “Sir, yes SIR!” He took the hundred and stuffed it in his front pocket. The paper was damp, and his fingers were sticky from touching it, but he forced himself to ignore this.

“That’s good,” the man grinned. “Yeah, call me ‘Sir’ from now on. In fact, you should also think of me as ‘Sir.’ That would make me very happy.”

Ramsey smiled back through gritted teeth. Sir had to be at least a few years younger than himself. But he did pride himself on his customer service skills. And sometimes that meant pretending the customer wasn’t an asshole.

The air inside the house was hot and still and humid. Like a swamp. And with a swamp’s greenish tinge, although he couldn’t imagine how. He followed Sir into the kitchen. The home was surprisingly tidy despite the smell, which was nearly unbearable. It was a parfait of revolting aromas. Body odor, stale smoke, farts, and even hints of garbage and harsh chemicals. Silently puffing on the cigar, Sir pointed his hammer at the countertop. Ramsey hurriedly unloaded his cart onto the counter and walked as fast as he could to the front door.

“Stop,” Sir barked.

Ramsey froze in his tracks, unsure of what to do next.

Sir sidled around him and said, “There’s no hurry. I can see we have similar interests. In music, I mean. You’re gonna get all my stuff inside the house and then we’ll hang out.” There was a slight accent to his voice. The more Sir talked, the easier it was for Ramsey to detect. It sounded Eastern European. Like Count Dracula.

By now, Ramsey’s eyes were burning, and his nose was itching like there was no tomorrow. The stench was to blame, he was sure. But he also just felt odd in general. He found himself nodding in agreement. He started to move forward again but Sir’s fat, hairy hand was on his chest, pushing him back.

“Yeah, let’s hang out,” Ramsey mumbled. “Sounds cool.” He stared down at his boots. Something about the customer’s eyes made him want to avert his gaze.

“You didn’t say that like you meant it at all,” Sir sighed. “Just settle down and take a deep breath.”

Inhaling the ghastly funk that surrounded him was the last thing Ramsey wanted to do. His mouth gaped open as he racked his brain for some excuse to just leave and never return. But his thoughts were all out of order. Sir clutched Ramsey’s chin and gently guided his head up so that he was looking at his face. The acid green eyes sparkled, growing brighter, almost glowing in the dim, hazy atmosphere.

“Breathe deep,” Sir said.

Ramsey obeyed. He couldn’t think of a reason not to. After all, the customer was always right. And Sir was so confident and commanding, it just made sense to do whatever he said…

He inhaled. The ungodly miasma, hot and stale and dense with moisture, flooded his lungs. He shivered, feeling violated in a way. But he was doing as he was told, which made him feel a little better about things.

Sir had moved behind him again, pulling him against his furry gut and massaging his shoulders. He ran one hand through Ramsey’s hair from where it began on his forehead down to the nape of his neck. The hand was warm, and wet. With his other hand, he cupped the crotch of Ramsey’s jeans. Putting his lips close to Ramsey’s left ear, he whispered, “Relax.”

Sir’s foul, humid breath seemed to penetrate all the way to Ramsey’s brain. The handsome young courier felt every muscle in his body slacken. Every muscle but his cock. Although he wasn’t gay, Sir’s forcefulness was making him hard. A bit of wetness soaked through his briefs and created a small wet spot on his pants.

Except it wasn’t cum.

It was piss.

Realizing what he’d done was enough to make Ramsey tense up again. He lurched away from Sir and made for his car. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered, his voice sounding strangled and pathetically high-pitched.

“You do that,” Sir called after him. “I’ll put some music on. You like Avenged Sevenfold, right?”

He did, although he wasn’t sure how Sir had guessed it. His face flushed with embarrassment, he loaded his cart for a second time and trudged back inside.

The metal music blasted at his eardrums, making it even harder for him to collect his thoughts. The David Fincher lighting didn’t help things. He felt woozy. The sooner he could finish up the delivery, the better.

Sir patted his back as he put the groceries away. “City of Evil,” he shouted merrily over the din. “Your favorite album of theirs!”

“It’s everybody’s favorite,” Ramsey sulked. The overbearing chumminess was wearing on him. But a growing part of him enjoyed Sir’s attention, even welcomed it. And that worried him.

“Look at those pursed-up little lips of yours,” Sir grunted through a fresh plume of smoke. “Damn, you’re an uptight bitch today. I thought I told you to relax.”

Ramsey’s swelling cock released a little more piss. A thin trickle of it ran down the leg of his skinny jeans, making a long dark line in the denim. He cursed under his breath. He hoped Sir hadn’t noticed. If he did, he didn’t say anything about it. Yet.

But the damned pee-boner refused to subside. And every time Ramsey brought a load of groceries into the kitchen Sir would touch him or make some sleazy comment, and Ramsey would show his discomfort. Then Sir would order him to relax, and Ramsey would piss himself, more and more each time.

He didn’t understand it. Yes, he had a history with sex and pissing. He loved to piss on groupies after a show after he had gotten them alone in a hotel room. It degraded them and he got off on that. But now the only person embarrassed by his urinating was himself.

Meanwhile, Sir seemed to be getting more muscular, his gut inflating like a balloon. And he seemed hairier as well. His tat sleeves gradually disappeared beneath a carpet of long black hairs. His chest hair likewise darkened and grew lush and long, taking on an odd tint, looking nearly green. A broad streak of white materialized in his blonde rock god mane. Right down the center, like a skunk.

Ramsey told himself it was the unhealthy chemical atmosphere in the house messing with his head. He’d heard of workmen huffing solvents to get high. Maybe there were open cans of varnish or something somewhere and it was warping his perceptions. The funny thing was that he wasn’t physically revolted by the smell anymore. His eyes had stopped watering. He knew he was marinating in a chemical mist that couldn’t be good for him by any means. But he was breathing it in effortlessly.

On the second-to-last load, he pissed himself for a good fifteen seconds, utterly soaking his pants leg. Sir observed this with a bemused expression. “That day drinking will nail your ass every time,” he laughed.

Stammering, Ramsey apologized, protesting that he didn’t know why it was happening and asking where the bathroom was so he could clean himself up.

“Nobody bathes in this house, boy,” Sir said, jovially. “Not even visitors. I have a strict rule about that. Go get the kiddie pool.”

“I think I need to see a doctor,” Ramsey groaned. “If you could call someone…?” He barely felt well enough to stand up, much less attempt a phone call.

“Get the kiddie pool,” Sir repeated. The smile was still glued to his face, but all mirth had fled from his eyes. They were gemstones, green and glittering and cold.

When Sir made no indication of calling for help, Ramsey retrieved his own phone from the pocket of his skinny jeans with a pale, trembling hand.

Silently, Sir took the phone from Ramsey’s shaky grasp and deposited it in the pocket of his sweats. “It’s right out there,” he said, nodding in the direction of the street.

Ramsey shambled towards the door, head down, absently noting the little swirls and eddies of the greenish, foggy air and trying to forget how Sir’s feet had looked. Almost like paws. Carpeted in an ebony pelt and tipped with yellowing claws instead of nails.

Usually, he had no problem standing up to douchebags like Sir. The worrisome inclination to mindlessly obey wasn’t like him, not a bit. But he took some comfort in self-pity. Clearly, he wasn’t himself today. He felt physically constricted, like something had him in its grasp and was slowly crushing him to death.

Reaching the porch at last, he took a deep breath. And nearly puked. There was something wrong with the outdoor air. A sort of emptiness, a neutrality. Ducking inside for a moment, he grabbed a lungful of the house’s nourishing atmosphere and ran like a madman back into the sunny void. He held his breath for as long as he could. But the bungee cords securing the pool were hard to unhook. Twin fires ignited in his straining chest. Finally, he had to relent and take another breath. It tasted disgusting but he powered through. The last cord gave way and he tumbled backwards onto his ass, the pool landing just behind him.

His elbows scraped and bleeding from the asphalt, the pernicious erection plainly on view beneath his piss-stained jeans, Ramsey struggled to his feet and turned to collect the pool.

He caught a glimpse of a stranger reflected in the back window of the car. A chubby vagrant with long hair.

Holding his breath, he slowly turned back around to take another look.

It was him. Impossibly, the sallow, greasy, bloated effigy of a man in too-tight clothes was him.

A soft mound of flab covered his formerly flat stomach, causing his t-shirt to ride up a bit. His waist was sore from his belt digging into his flesh. Hastily, he undid it, noting how the denim was already stretching apart at the seams. The cloth looked odd. No, it looked old. Worn, frayed at the cuffs and the knees. Splotchy with stains. Not just pee, but traces of food. His shirt showed similar signs of distress. Even his boots were scuffed. And his rings were strangling his fingers.

He’d gotten hairier as well as fatter. His dashing Three Musketeers beard had been swallowed by a full set of whiskers that was an ill-defined, bushy mess, making him look like the crazy old prospector character from a cowboy movie. His sleek locks were unkempt as well. And they were turning gray. Right down the middle. Like a skunk.

Fuck this, he told himself. Get your ass in the car right now and get the hell out of here.

But he didn’t even understand how this was happening. And he had no idea as to where he should go or who could fix things. Then there was the air. He had the dreadful suspicion he couldn’t survive outside the house for much longer. Forlornly, he stared at the dilapidated loser in the glass. Then he looked down the street, which seemed somehow vaster and more foreboding than it had when he’d arrived here. He didn’t want to look at the house. But it had exerted a pull on him, dragging his gaze back to the porch.

The front door was open. Sir stood there, more hirsute than a Sasquatch, leering triumphantly. He extended his index finger and motioned for him to come back inside. With that, he withdrew into the reeking darkness, and then all Ramsey could see was the green glow of his eyes.

He dragged the pool up to the porch and asked Sir if he wanted it in the backyard or on the front lawn.

“Neither,” Sir told him. “Living room.” He settled into a nearby comfy chair in and pointed to the floor right in front of it.

His eyes still smarting from the glare of the sun, Ramsey could just make out Sir’s silhouette. But he did as he was told.

“Good boy,” Sir told him. “Get in.”

As Ramsey’s eyes adjusted once more to the low levels of light inside the house, he realized that Sir had transformed even further. He was a beastly creature. A cross between a human and a skunk, with huge green nipples, an abbreviated muzzle with a snout, and even a huge, plush tail.

Ramsey tore his eyes away from the bizarre sight and glanced dubiously at the kiddie pool. He looked at Sir again, confused by the request.

“Get in,” the thing growled, more firmly this time, his razor-sharp fangs on full display.

Quickly, Ramsey stepped into the pool, feeling a fresh trickle of piss run down his leg.

A stray thought from his subconscious tapped at his skull. The music. It had changed and there was something wrong with it. But he was so agitated, he couldn’t come close to imagining why. He put it away with the rest of his unanswered questions.

Sir drew on his huge cigar and leisurely exhaled jets of smoke from his dark, wet nose. “Good boy,” he said, nodding.

Ramsey blushed, relieved to know he had done something right for once.

“Now,” Sir continued, “I need you to fully, completely relax.”

Ramsey’s bladder dutifully emptied itself, saturating every inch of his jeans with hot, stinking piss. It seemed to go on forever, pouring into his left boot all the way to the top and then overflowing, filling the pool so that he was standing in the vile stuff. When it was over at last, he felt dizzier than ever.

Sir pulled down the waistband of his sweats, revealing a rapidly swelling erection of his own, rocketing outward in length and girth until it looked like a curving baseball bat. And it was green. Green as grass. Similarly tinted precum bubbled from the slit. The beast set about stroking it, moaning, as he regarded Ramsey with something like appreciation.

With the casual menace of a tiger, the thing rose from the chair and advanced on him. Ramsey instinctively backed away. But when Sir ordered him to remain in the befouled pool, he stopped. The skunk man got as close to the pool as he could without setting foot inside it, pulled Ramsey close so that their bellies were nearly touching, and lay his inhuman cock against his chest. “I honestly don’t know why I’m doing all the work on this thing,” he confessed, affecting a self-effacing smile. “That should be your job. Be a good pig and rub this fucker out for me.”

Ramsey had never touched another man’s dick before. But then, he reasoned, Sir wasn’t exactly a man. He was better than that. Tickling and teasing the outsized shaft, Ramsey tried to service it the way he would want a woman to pleasure him. The discolored jizz oozed slowly from the tip, further staining his ruined shirt, and then dissolving it, leaving the bottom half in shreds.

The familiar music played on. Instrumental rock and damned fine rock at that. It was a local band, he could tell. He could almost picture them on stage.

At last, he did. He nearly pissed himself again, but not from “relaxation.” From fear. It was his band.

But his voice had been erased.

Sir must have noticed the glint of recognition in his eyes because he turned his mustelid snout in the direction of the Alexa for a moment. Then he looked back at Ramsey with a wily grin. “I told you we had similar tastes in music. I downloaded some of your band’s tracks. It was easy enough to wipe your lousy

vocals off them. Don’t they sound better that way? And now you’re all mine. You won’t be setting foot on a stage ever again, pig.”

His throat dry, Ramsey could feel his mouth gaping, over and over, his tongue flopping haplessly as he tried to form words, any words at all. There were gaps where his front teeth and a couple of molars had been just ten minutes before. They had rotted clean out of his mouth without his even noticing.

The moist, warm cock throbbed as Ramsey massaged it. It was sweaty and greasy and slick with glistening pre and it smelled wonderful. Ramsey moaned, pressing his bristling cheeks against it, rubbing it with his whiskers. He could feel the last bits of his resistance rotting away as he managed one last question, one last instance of caring about his own fate before he was reduced to a drooling, piss-soaked idiot. It emerged from his ruined mouth as a croaking gasp.

“Why me?”

The thing’s dreadful grin abruptly faded. “I’ve seen you perform, Ramsey. You’re a goddamn clown, bouncing around like a kangaroo on meth and throwing imaginary gang signs. This is rock, asshole. Not fucking ska or rap. It’s rock. As a serious metal fan, I couldn’t let your bullshit stand unopposed. That band will be much better off without you. I know it for a fact. I can see their brighter future right now. It's as plain as the fur on my nut sack.”

One corner of his mouth jerked upward into a crooked smile as a growling, manic giggling overtook the creature. Then a long, wistful sigh. “You were boned the moment you set foot on my porch. When you inhaled my decay. Already you’re addicted to my stink; you don’t want to breathe anything else. I’ve marked you with my white streak. You’re my property. And I’m not even close to done with screwing you over.”

He put a claw-tipped hand on the back of Ramsey’s head and shoved him down, mouth-first, onto the head of his cock. Ramsey gave it a lick, testing it. The taste was amazing. Greedily, he lapped and sucked at the head while the skunk man stroked his oily, tangled mane. Like a pet dog.

When Sir’s hand brushed against Ramsey’s thigh, he thrilled at the sensation, excitedly spurting a few drops of piss from his boner. But then the thing dipped its claws into his pocket and extracted the hundred-dollar bill. “You won’t be needing this,” the creature explained. “You work for me now and you’re getting paid in my excretions. You’ll stay in the basement when you’re not out fetching things. Well, not the whole basement. Just this baby pool. You’ll sleep naked in it, curled up like a baby in a puddle of piss. The floor down there is concrete with a drain, so spillage won’t be a problem. I even hooked a garden hose up to the mop sink so you can wash it down. Not that I anticipate much in the way of excess. You’ll understand what I mean soon enough. And don’t worry about that scary dead air outside. My stink will protect you. You want that, right? You want your daddy skunk’s stench all over you?”

Unable to move his head or speak, Ramsey murmured his agreement while still slurping away at the humongous shaft.

“Good boy,” Sir grunted. “Now I can make you perfect.”

With a guttural roar, Sir shot his reeking, curdled load into Ramsey’s mouth. It stank and it burned but he swallowed it eagerly. He felt terribly lucky to have a daddy who wanted to lavish so much attention on him. He had memories, fuzzy ones, of being a skinny, beautiful boy, taking advantage of women, bullying his band mates into writing pop-inflected garbage to showcase his middling singing voice.

He hadn’t known any better, he guessed. He hadn’t understood how disgusting he was. Blessedly, he now had someone to put him in his place.

The skunk man’s boiling demon seed soaked into his tissues, his bones, filling him up, remaking him. Thick layers of fat piled onto his frame, rapidly, his bones growing denser, his muscles more powerful to carry the added weight. Sir helpfully relieved him of his rings as his fingers bulged into fat sausages. He tore through his clothes and his boots as he gained hundreds of pounds in less than a minute. He could feel his organs wriggling about, changing in strange new ways, making themselves appropriate for his master’s desires. The skunk man ordered him to crouch down. He obeyed. Then Sir turned and laid his furry ass atop Ramsey’s head, his enormous tail curling down over his back. And sprayed.

The sour juices drenched his body, dissolving what was left of his attire, marking him with a foul aroma that he knew could never be washed away. He was glad to know he would never be without his daddy’s stench. His flesh crawled as his features took on an appropriately porcine cast: fat, upturned snout, floppy, pointed ears, and tusks. A corkscrewing tail emerged from his tailbone to complete the look. Sir’s voice was in his head again, explaining how the unfortunate souls who hadn’t received his blessing master wouldn’t be able to detect their animal features. That was fine. He knew what he was.

The piss he stood in was draining. He had a moment of panic, worried it was escaping onto the floor. But then he realized it wasn’t leaking out of the pool. It was being absorbed by his skin. Like a sponge, he would soak up and retain urine. His own, his daddy’s, anyone’s. Tears of relief ran down his cheeks and into his mouth. But that was urine too. The delectable flavor was everywhere. It was the only thing his body could produce. Piss. A miracle.

Sir allowed him to stand and drew him close. “Well done, pig,” he said. “You look even better than I had dreamed you would.” He presented him his new clothes. Black rubber chest waders with yellow stripes going up the sides. As Ramsey proudly donned his new gear, he observed how his skin had gone pale. It was almost translucent, while his yellow piss-filled veins bulged from his corpse-like flesh. His belly was titanic but firm and coated in a dense layer of graying hairs. His shoulders and forearms also bore a pelt of stinking, piss-soaked hair.

Tickling his monstrous balls, Sir drew deeply on his cigar and said, “I think I’ll call you ‘Trench.’ You like that, don’t you, boy?”

Trench obediently agreed. That’s what Sir wanted. And who was he? A urinal, basically. Urinals didn’t have their own opinions.

His keys lay at the bottom of the pool, intact. Sir picked them up and handed them to him. “Put your car in the garage next to the house,” he told him. “Then you can make some calls to explain your new living situation to your friends.”

A pleasantly rank odor wafted from Trench’s pits as he shifted his bulk into his car. After moving the seat back as far as it could go, he squeezed himself behind the wheel and adjusted the rear-view mirror. He paused to check out his reflection. His eyes had gone from pale blue to a bright lemon yellow. His hair, greasy and lank, had receded at the temples and was shot through with dingy gray. His salt and pepper beard hung down to his chest now and was separated into four grimy braids. A string of yellow piss-drool escaped his lips as he stared at his corrupted features. He could only imagine how much sexier he looked in his pig form.

Even like this, he was stunning. Only Sir could truly appreciate his looks now, but that was fine. Sir was the only one he cared about. A new piss boner stirred beneath his waders. He got the car in the garage, sniffing at the lovely scents of car exhaust and rat poison it harbored. As he closed the old garage door, he indulged himself a little, pissing into the waders and enjoying the brief sensation of the dank liquid sloshing between his toes before his skin sucked it up.

He was giddy, thinking of his perfect new home in the basement. He’d been wasting his life on silly jobs, on silly dreams. Now he was doing what he had always been meant for. I used to deliver groceries for a living, he thought. Can you believe that?