Stink Bomb - Part 9 (Patreon)

Stutz rolled over in his bed and put the spare pillow over his ear. It didn’t help. The asshole neighbors were cranking their music again. This was the fourth time this week. He knew that because he was making notes on everything they did. His living room and bedroom windows faced their house, so he had a choice view of the situation. He’d even moved his weight bench to the front lawn so he could keep an eye on them while he pumped iron. He’d have a juicy lawsuit once he’d gathered enough evidence.

The rental home’s only gainfully employed tenants — a security guard and a used car salesman — had apparently found other lodgings, although he never saw any moving trucks. That left their sketchy Hungarian roommate and a growing legion of fat biker types. They were loud and messy and rude. There was trash everywhere. Worse, it was starting to drift over to his property. Unfortunately, there were too many of the burly fuckers for him to feel comfortable confronting them in person.

He had tried calling the landlord to complain. The old man dismissed his concerns. He sounded drunk. Stutz remembered seeing him puttering about on the property the year before. He’d looked like a typical scrawny, conservative retiree… short-sleeved button-up shirt, clean-shaven, military haircut. Last week, the codger reappeared and he was a total wreck. Hair and beard overgrown, a bulbous gut spilling out of a filthy undershirt, a huge cigar in his mouth, a gin bottle in his gnarled hand. He went inside the house, but Stutz never saw him come back out. Later some fat freak in rubber waders with a braided gray beard commandeered the landlord’s car and drove it onto the detached garage. Cars disappeared inside that damn garage a lot, lately. He wondered if the Hungarian was running a chop shop.

A delivery van managed to escape that fate. But not the driver. He vanished inside the house like the landlord had. Then one of the Hungarian kid’s fat, whiskery buddies came back out wearing the delivery man’s shirt, climbed into his vehicle, and took off for God knows where.

He wondered why nobody else in the neighborhood cared about this situation. Granted, most were senior citizens, not middle-aged like him, so they kept to themselves. But he thought they would at least be concerned about possible criminal activity. Come to think of it, the few old men he glimpsed fetching newspapers or packages on their porches looked to be in the same declining state as the landlord. And the women… well, he hadn’t seen any women around in a month. Even his own wife had walked out on him around the time all the bikers started showing up. She didn’t have any solid complaints to lodge about their marriage either. She just left a note about needing “freedom” and was gone.

At night, the windows of the house glowed a putrid green. And there seemed to be a mist rising from the lawn, similarly discolored. At times the whole house was shrouded in a haze, making it look not quite real. Maybe the bikers were cooking meth in the basement. Stutz would find himself staring through the windows at the swirling mists for hours… although it never felt that way. He would merely lose track of time.

His worries about the house occupied more and more of his thoughts. The stress was starting to affect his health, too. His sleep was fitful. Many mornings, he would awaken with a terrible taste in his mouth, his breath smelling like month-old roadkill, his stomach a bubbling, gassy swamp. Antacids didn’t help. Neither did mouthwash. And recently he had started losing weight. His clothes were getting baggy. Even his shoes seemed a size too large.

The sense of powerlessness was maddening because he’d always thought of himself as a formidable man. Certainly, any other guy could tell he was an alpha male just by looking at him. He was 6’6” tall and in excellent shape. He had an impressively expensive wardrobe. He wore a two-thousand-dollar Cartier ring. His wristwatch was a Montblanc that had set him back twice that amount. He loved dropping the prices into conversations and seeing the looks on the beta males’ faces. At bars, he ordered Blanton’s Single Barrel, loudly. His taste in cigars was likewise extravagant and he always smoked them on the front porch so passers-by could admire him.

He curated his body as carefully as his wardrobe. To accentuate his burly muscles, he had grown a rugged but perfectly trimmed beard, fist length at the chin. He kept his balding pate shaved smooth, wore sunglasses whenever plausible and he never, ever smiled. Smiling was for women and fags. He kept up with all the Men’s Rights message boards online so he could stay current on what behavior was considered unmanly. The list was alarmingly long and expanding at a fantastic rate.

If only the troublemakers next door weren’t bikers…! If they had been a bunch of SJW libs or Mexicans or something he would have marched right over there and laid down the law. Maybe taken along one of his sidearms (holstered) to show he meant business. But a biker gang was not something he wanted to antagonize.

He peeked through his dining room window. The bikers were gathered on the front porch, smoking and drinking like usual. Sitting next to the Hungarian kid was the first thin person he’d ever seen in that crowd. He was as tall and lanky as a pro basketball player, with long dark hair and a big beard that forked at the end. His clothes were more outlandish than the others. In addition to the ubiquitous black leather pants, he wore a red leather bar vest (to contrast with his carpet of black chest hair, he supposed) and long black leather gloves with a lot of straps and buckles. These items vied for attention with a black top hat adorned with a wreath of red roses in lieu of a band.

The Hungarian kid turned his head slightly, his smile dropping. He seemed to be staring right at him. The music volume shot up several decibels, rattling the window and making Stutz jump. It was a deliberate provocation. It was time to take decisive action. He called the police.

Stutz felt immense satisfaction in seeing the trashy house caught in strobing red and blue lights. The drunk bikers stumbled deferentially to the edges of the lawn as the two uniformed bulls approached. The Hungarian kid and his flamboyant friend stood their ground and were quickly engaged in conversation by the clean-cut policemen.

He wondered if anyone would be put in jail. Maybe they would charge the Hungarian kid with drug trafficking. Then someone decent could move into the house and things could get back to normal.

The milling bikers prevented him from getting a clear view of the proceedings. He could tell that the four men were speaking very intensely. There was a good deal of gesturing. Then something odd happened. It looked like the Hungarian kid and his friend were hugging the officers. And then kissing them. The Hungarian even squeezed both cop’s asses. This went down so quickly that Stutz couldn’t be sure he had even seen it. His eyes ached. Sleeplessness was taking a toll.

But then he saw something he couldn’t blame on his insomnia. The kid very clearly pointed at Stutz’s own house. And suddenly the policemen were marching across the garbage-strewn lawn, in a direct line for his home.

A few minutes later, Stutz was sitting on his couch in his boxer briefs and t-shirt getting interrogated. The officers were weirdly hostile, he thought, considering he was the person who had called them. Not that the police department had sent over its top men. He could have sworn the cops he’d seen on the porch were as fit as himself with buzzcuts and smooth faces. He’d been wrong about that apparently. The two bulls had plenty of flab covering their considerable muscles and they were surprisingly scruffy.

The blonde’s wavy mop clearly hadn’t been cut or washed in several months and was thinning at the front, which made it look even worse. He had thought the cop’s mustache was groomed to military standards when he walked through the door but that had just been Stutz’s imagination. Instead, it was a bushy, ill-defined mass that covered his upper lip. The thick stubble on his cheeks was prematurely graying.

The Mediterranean-looking officer’s mane of black hair was so long it went past his shirt collar. He had salt-and-pepper Elvis sideburns and a luxurious gray goatee as well as a matching growth of stubble.

The sloppy flatfoots wore their shirts unbuttoned down to the tops of the bulging stomachs, putting their fur-covered torsos on full display. Their boots were scuffed, their badges were tarnished, and they stank. Sweat stains darkened the fabric around their armpits. Neither man was a fan of deodorant, which brought the additional odors of booze and cigars into stark relief.

“You made some serious accusations against your neighbors, Mr. Stutz,” the blonde growled. “That somethin’ you do a lot? Pointin’ fingers like that?”

“I just wanted them to keep the noise down,” Stutz protested. “And I thought my complaint was supposed to be anonymous.”

The cop with the sideburns scoffed. “You tellin’ us how to do our jobs now? Is that what this is?”

Stutz tried to backtrack, but the officer barked at him to shut up. So, he just sat there, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. The man’s sideburns had gone fully gray now and were another few inches longer. A streak of solid white had appeared in his hair, right down the middle. A multitude of heavy gold chains nestled in his thicket of chest fur. Stutz couldn’t remember seeing those before.

“On your feet,” the blonde snapped. He was even balder, with a formidable horseshoe ‘stache and a thick but markedly shorter gray beard, fading to white at the chin. He wore mirrored shades now, and studded leather bands had materialized on his wrists.

Stutz, his voice quivering, tried to ask what was going on but he was immediately shut down again by the ill-tempered cops. Then he was yanked up off the sofa and dragged out of his own house.

“We’re gonna settle this shit once and for fuckin’ all,” the black-haired one snarled. The bulls had him by his arms, propelling him forward, his bare feet paddling uselessly above the ground. More than once, they skittered atop garbage, including a few slimy items which were most likely rotting food.

Stutz looked at them with wide, tear-filled eyes. This was the last thing he wanted. The closer they drew to the neighboring house, the more he gagged on its cloying stench of garbage and… skunk—?! Indeed, he could see several of the smelly little beasts cavorting on the lawn, darting between the legs of the bikers. A forlorn face regarded him from the dormer window before retreating into darkness. On the porch, the Hungarian kid waited, arms crossed, a furious expression on his chubby mug.

A sensation of liquid warmth at his crotch just then. He was pissing himself. The blonde cop wrinkled his nose. “‘Alpha male’ my ASS,” he muttered.

But Stutz hadn’t mentioned anything about… had he? Or had they done an internet search on him and seen all his social media posts? And why would they? He wasn’t the criminal here. It was…

“Rafa,” the kid introduced himself solemnly. “Thanks for letting my friends talk you into visiting.”

Bewildered, Stutz glanced back at the cops. Except they weren’t policemen at all. What he had thought were official uniforms were cartoonish imitations made of electric blue leather. It was fetish wear. He’d seen crap like that online. The badges clipped onto their pockets were cheap plastic. He felt dizzy.

“You’re stressed,” Rafa said, sympathetically. “Marriage troubles, right? No wonder you can’t focus. C’mon, sit with me. Let’s hang out.”

Stutz was shoved down onto a bench and wedged between Rafa and his skinny friend, an English fellow who introduced himself as “Ambrose.” Now that they were face-to-face, he could see the hirsute dandy’s red contact lenses and the dark makeup around his eyes. Some kind of goth queer, clearly. Neither man said anything about the piss stain on his underwear. A random biker handed him a beer. As he gulped it down, he watched the fat man in the waders drive the cop car into the garage.

If I were you I’d run and hide, some death metal band gargle-sang in the background. Because a beautiful darkness has arrived…

Rafa and Ambrose shot the shit for a long time, completely ignoring him. It was hard to make sense of their conversation. Stutz gathered they were cousins and Rafa had invited Ambrose to help with some upcoming problem. But the rest of it was insane. There was vague talk of voids and stains and echoes. They blathered about strange, airy concepts that sounded like quantum physics run through the filter of a death cult. Inter-dimensional integration, spirit entanglement, recursive possession. The cousin made an offhand reference to being his own father, who impregnated witches with duplicates of himself. The other bikers were silent except for the occasional fart.

Stutz didn’t know what to say and he didn’t really feel like he could leave. All he could do was keep his head down and try to ignore the godawful smells that were coming at him from all sides. Between the skunk spray, sweat, halitosis, belching, farts and cigar smoke, his stomach was flexing like an accordion. Ambrose favored a calabash pipe, which might have been better than the cigars if it hadn’t been right next to Stutz’s face.

He finished his beer and was immediately handed a fresh one. Someone offered him a cigar, but he weakly waved it away. This was greeted with barking laughter. He blushed. Like a little girl.

Ambrose dominated the conversation with stories of his life. These were theatrical hogwash, of course, no doubt cribbed from pulp horror stories. At least his voice was pleasant to listen to. It was deep and full, remarkably like Christopher Lee’s. His speech was lackadaisical, almost monotonous, the tone going up just a bit at the ends of sentences. Like a very sleepy, less nasal Beatle.

“Goddamn,” Rafa told him with a drunk smile. “I am madly in love with that accent of yours. Where are you from again? Remind me.”

“Birmingham,” Ambrose replied. “Brummie accent. I learned to talk posh when I was trying to better myself. Don’t bother with it now.”

“Birmingham, that’s where Ozzie Osborne and Rob Halford are from,” Rafa pointed out.

“Long after I left the place. Ozzie Osborne, merciful Jesus—! That bat-eatin’ wanker couldn’t rouse a music hall crowd if his bloody life depended upon it.”

“To be fair, he never ate a bat… he just bit the head off.”

“I stand corrected! Sounds a perfectly marvelous act, then.” There was a long pause while he puffed irritably on his pipe.

Stutz, woozy from everything, took the opportunity to speak. The sooner he started talking, the sooner they could wrap this up and he could leave. He asked Ambrose if he was a musician. It came out as a belch.

“Magician,” Ambrose answered, amiably enough. “Retired. That’s how I met my best mate, Charlie.”

“Christ, here we go,” Rafa sighed.

“Charlie,” Ambrose continued, agitation making the syllables percussive, “is a warlock and a right bastard. Tried to trick me outta me birthright. You wanna meet him? Tough luck, old son. Because he’s in my hat. Ain’t never gettin’ out, neither.” He doffed his hat in a showy manner, rolling it down his arm, then handed it to him. “Look inside… there he is.”

Coughing away an errant cloud of cigar smoke, Stutz dared to peer inside the hat. No matter how he tried to angle it towards the porch light, he couldn’t see the bottom of it. There was only darkness going down for what could have been forever. But then he caught sight of a tiny figure in old-fashioned finery, waving his arms and crying out to him in a strangled voice. Before he could decide once and for all if he imagined it, Ambrose snatched back the odd chapeau and started yelling into it.

“You told me I’d go mad, Charlie, but now look at the pair of us! I’m up here and you’re down there and you ain’t never gettin’ out!” His face had gone so red it almost glowed. And then it really was glowing. And then…

Stop looking at it, Stutz warned himself. Just shut your eyes, block it out.

But his gaze was transfixed by the sight of the Englishman’s skin turning to roiling black smoke, lit from within by a burning red skeleton with fangs and claws and short curving horns…

“NEVER GETTIN’ OUT, CHARLIE,” the apparition thundered.

All of the beer in Stutz’s belly came back up again and landed in his lap. He looked back at Ambrose, who was a regular flesh-and-blood person. “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

The bikers were hooting and jeering and stomping their boots. A skunk bustled over and started lapping at the puke. Stutz sank down in his seat, mortified, his stomach shuddering with dry heaves.

“Somebody can’t hold his beer,” Rafa laughed. “We gotta teach you how to drink like a man, bro!”

Stutz didn’t care about impressing them. “Please,” he said in a humiliating whine. “I don’t understand what’s happening! I just want to go home.”

“What home?” A sinister smile darkened Rafa’s cheery face. “Thathome?” He dismissively hooked a thumb at Stutz’s house. “You don’t get it, asshole. That’s my home. Every house on Candle Terrace belongs to me. Why? Because I say so. Do you know that I’ve been in that house, standing right behind you, watching you spy on my friends? And in your bedroom when you’re fast asleep? I have shot my load down your throat so many times…! I own your ass, boy.”

Stutz shook his head. “That’s not true. That’s all… it’s bullshit, it’s impossible…!”

Affecting an air of concern, Rafa asked, “How’s your testosterone levels? Them supplements still doin’ it for you?”

“Wh-what…?” Stutz’s voice was a despicable little peep.

“The ones you started taking after Ambrose here began nibbling away at your vitality and shrinking you down. He’s an incubus; that’s what they do. Don’t pretend you didn’t notice. Of course, he’s really been chomping on you now that you’re here at ground zero of my stink bomb. How tall do you think you are right this minute? Still 6’6”?”

Stutz nodded, unsure of how else to answer.

“I’m 6’6”,” Rafa declared. “Hop off the bench, piss pants. Let’s compare.”

Shaking, Stutz did as he was told. As he stepped barefoot into a puddle of his own effluvia, his underwear fell to the ground, the waistband oddly loose. Rafa towered over him, despite seeming the same height when they had met.

“I’d put you around 5’6”, roughly. But you like that, right? Deep down inside? You get off on knowing once and for all that you can’t compare with real men. It’s so much work, putting up a front like that. Always having to compete. Always worrying about whether you’ve made the right decisions. Now you can just be a little dude with a tiny pecker and let yourself get bossed around.”

Tiny pecker? Stutz looked down to see his cock, once a respectable ten inches, withering away to a nub no bigger around than his pinky finger. His whole body was out of proportion. His long limbs had gone stumpy, in line with the short man he had become. A wave of vertigo hit him as the porch’s overhang soared upward. No, he was getting smaller again. His vomit-stained t-shirt hung on his reduced frame like a muumuu.

“You’re around 5’ even at this point,” Rafa said. “You must feel like a real loser right now. Poor naked little dude with piss on his leg and puke on his feet. Lucky for you, you have all these big strong men around to look after you. That’s gotta be a turn-on.”

His mini-dick tingled. To his horror, just the idea of one of these rough, tough bikers saving him from harm was enough to make him hard.

The slovenly revelers leered at him as he shrank down another foot. Their features were shifting, making them appear more like a collection of jungle predators than men. A leather-clad “Island of Dr. Moreau.” They were even hotter that way. His minuscule dong bobbed upward. A fresh hot burst of skunk spray moistened the back of his neck and filled the porch with a fine green mist. He spun about and saw a humongous Rafa, now a humanoid skunk with a gloriously fluffy tail. “Sorry,” the beast said with a smirk. “That one just slipped out.”

Stutz’s pert little nipples were harder than rocks. “I don’t get any of this,” he said, his high-pitched voice cracking. “What areyou? Any of you?”

“We’re what we always have been. But now that you’re going to be one of us, you can see it. The correct question is, what are you…? I’ll answer that for you. I’m turning you into a little black-footed ferret dude. You’ll be so much cuter that way! You’re already rocking the tail and the ears.”

The ruined t-shirt rotted away into a cloud of dust, affording him a view of the dense coat of pale fur sprouting from his chest and the black fur growing on his arms and legs. He could feel the tail above his ass wag merrily back and forth. And he was still shrinking.

The bikers had all unzipped their pants and hauled out their manhood. And there he was with no manhood at all, not truthfully. He knew little guys could be tough; he recalled a wrestler named “Hornswoggle” who was a total badass. But Stutz’s own moxie had fled. Maybe he never had it in the first place. Maybe that’s all his swagger had amounted to. A costume.

The aroma of sweaty, unwashed cocks washed over him. The cornucopia of smells deepened and became somehow richer. They were no longer disgusting. He touched his nose. It was a pebbled little button. He took another whiff of the intriguing aroma dancing on the warm night breeze. An expansive new world opened its arms to him.

Amid all the strangeness, his heart felt curiously light. He had been pushing himself too hard before, the bourbon and cigars acting as self-medication as well as status symbols. And he was worn out from it. Maybe it was all his phony aggression that had driven his wife away. Not that he wanted her back now. Not when he could have all this. And it would be so much easier not having to measure up to some impossible standard of masculinity. Now he could simply act boyish and cute.

His height had by now bottomed out at around eighteen inches. His arms and legs were furry and lean, with his feet looking especially like paws. Leathery pads had formed on his palms and soles. A lock of pink hair dangled in front of his eyes.

“I gave you a pink mohawk,” Rafa shrugged. “Made your beard pink too. You look so adorable right now! Oh, and there’s little bitty rings in your ferret ears. Now that you’re done shrinking, you just need one more thing, I think.”

From nowhere, a little black harness fastened itself around his narrow little chest. A collar and padlock followed suit on his neck.

“You can thank me now,” the skunk-man continued. “Although actions speak louder than words.” His cock was the biggest of them all by far, fit for a king and neon green. Fragrant precum dripped from the tip. Licking his lips, Stutz hopped up and down on his tiny paws, desperate to show his appreciation but unable to reach the glorious shaft.

Rafa kindly scooped him up and held him so that his face was level with the green cock’s wet, stinking slit. He gave it an exploratory lick. It was salty and tangy, the best thing he had ever tasted. As he slurped away, Rafa guided his rubbery mouth over the tip and, gradually, his entire body. He was somehow highly flexible and hollow inside, filled with ribbed edges and lubricant. The perfect fuck toy.

He didn’t even have to do anything. Rafa gripped his furry little body and worked him up and down, around and around. He could feel the warm cock shiver and bulge as his body worked it to completion. A torrent of hot, savory cum shot through him, filling him up, stretching his little limbs and belly like a water balloon. The flavor tantalized him all over, thanks to the tastebuds peppering every inch of his interior membranes. He felt very lucky and grateful to be gifted with such a marvelous body. The sticky cum overflowed, pouring down from his mouth and nose and soaking his fur. Rafa playfully dangled him by his back paws and emptied him out. Then he set him on the floor. Giddy, Stutz hopped and danced and clapped his hands. In a squeaky voice, he cried, “Again, again!”

Rafa handed him to an equine biker, who used him in much the same way. He was passed around until his tiny body was drenched in cum. The whole time, the beast-men were all laughing and kissing and playing with each other’s cocks. The collective aroma was intoxicating. He caught Ambrose stroking his beard and looking at him with a mischievous expression. The English devil would be last in line, although his bodily peculiarities made Stutz wonder what serving him would be like. Maybe he’d be filled with smoke instead of cum. That could be fun.

When it was Ambrose’s turn, the flamboyant fiend held him up and asked, in a conspiratorial tone, “Would you like to help me with a fun impression for these lads?”

“Yessir,” Stutz squeaked. “Anything you want, sir!”

Rafa lazily exhaled a sinuous plume of smoke before asking him, “Who you gonna imitate?”

“Ozzie Osborne,” the devil said with a wink. The last thing Stutz saw was Ambrose’s mouth opening wide. A cavern studded with razor-sharp stalactites swept over his dwindling body, and from the center of it, a long, pointed red tongue like a dragon pounced on his body, wrapping around it and squeezing him, lapping at him like he was a piece of candy, until he wasn’t there at all. As he dissolved, he thought about how lucky he was to be eaten by a sexy, powerful alpha male.

Ambrose, satiated for the moment, lapped at his forked beard with his serpentine tongue. He cast a scarlet eye at his American cousin, who was glaring at him, his shaggy arms crossed. After a moment, the skunk demon sighed and scoffed, “Seriously…?”

“It was a good joke, mate,” Ambrose protested. “Even you must admit that.”

Shaking his head, Rafa slapped him on the back. “No worries, cousin. I can make more.”