You begin to walk back home, unsure of what to do. You can’t see your friends and risk infecting them with more permanent transformations. But you don’t want to drink the potion and end up losing them forever. You decide to sequester yourself in your room and monitor your changes in the morning. Maybe this thing will die down on its own.
When you get home, you make a beeline for your room. Your mom asks what’s the matter, but you tell her you aren’t feeling well and just want to lie down. You don’t want to spend more time with her than is necessary in case THAT part of your dad brain kicks in. You barge into your room and lock the door behind you. Now, you just need to survive one more were-dad transformation in order to see what the morning has in store.
So… What to do, what to do… You scratch your small belly, looking around your room. You could go on Tumblr like you usually do, but for some reason the thought of going online doesn’t appeal to you. Spontaneously, you grab a dog-eared copy of Harry Potter off the shelf and flip through it. You used to love this series, but now you just can’t ignore how much the story rips off Tolkien. Frustrated, you toss the book aside and see a dusty copy of The Sword of Shannara at the very end of the shelf.
Cool! You haven’ read that book since you were a kid! Wait. You stop and catch yourself. Your DAD read that book as a kid. He got you a copy hoping you’d get into it, but you never even opened it You blow off the dust to reveal the book’s faded cover. The binding creaks as you open it. As soon as you start the first page, the story grabs you, dragging you into a detailed world of fantasy and adventure.
As you read, the sun sets and your mattress springs squeal as your body packs on the pounds and you become your dad once more. You yawn and realize that you’re already almost halfway done with the book. You’ve been reading for hours and you’re exhausted! It must be 1AM already…
You look at the LED clock on your nightstand and note with shock that it’s only 10:00. Why the hell are you so wiped? Well, it’s been a hard day. You might as well lie down and at least close your eyes- you’re out like a light, snoring loudly.
Your stomach rumbles, waking you up. Daylight streams in through the window. It’s already 10AM. You overslept! You leap out of bed and dash to the hall closet, looking for your briefcase. It’s not there! Where could it have gone?! Wait. Wait. Slow down. You’re you. Not your dad. All this personality management was giving you an ulcer. Your stomach rumbles once more and you pad into the kitchen in your underwear. It’s Monday, so the house is already empty.
You fry up some eggs and bacon on the stove while your coffee brews. It’s not until you’re already halfway through your breakfast, happily engrossed in the Sports section of the Times, that you realize you’ve never cooked bacon in your entire life. Come to think of it, you’ve also never willingly read the Sports section. You snap to your senses, remembering that you need to check how you’ve changed overnight. Clearly, more of your dad’s skills and traits have already infiltrated your non-transformed mind.
You lumber into your bedroom- No! The master bedroom. So you can see the damage in the full-length mirror. You stand in your tightie whities, appraising yourself. Well… shit. Yesterday morning, you only seemed 3 or 4 years older than your true age of 15. But now you looked no younger than 30!
Your small gut had evolved into some definite love handles. You didn’t have the beer belly your father boasted, but there was a definite slope there. You had to lean forward slightly to see your toes. Your hair was also dark brown, about halfway down the scale to your father’s black locks. Thankfully you don’t seem to have developed a bald spot yet.
You’re definitely taller and more muscular – the stature of a grown man. Your jawline was squarer, but your face was more rounded with fat, like the rest of your strong but flabby body. A full-blown goatee sprouted around your mouth, but because you forgot to shave yesterday, the rest of your face was speckled with stubble. And lines of dark hair etched down your meaty arms. Dark hair bristled from your armpits and a thick coating covered your chunky pecs and soft belly.
You might not have been in the best shape of your life, but you looked good for your age. As you inspected your face, stroking your goatee, you noticed slight wrinkles emerging from your eyes and the corners of your mouth. They weren’t visible from far away, but they were certainly there. And your hairline seemed to have receded a smidge, leaving you with a pronounced widow’s peak.
You don’t look exactly like your father did at 30, but there’s a striking resemblance. You laugh and say “I might not be beefy, but at least I’m not lettucey!” Oh god. You’ve inherited your dad’s crummy sense of humor, too!
You realize you need to make a decision, and fast. The changes seem to be progressing exponentially, and before long you’ll be the spitting image of your father, maybe forever. There can’t be two of you running around. You have to take the normalizing potion before the situation gets out of hand.
You rush into your room and open the drawer to your nightstand, pulling out the magic socks, in which you’ve wrapped the tiny stoppered bottle. You stare at it and look around your room for what might be the last time. You mentally say goodbye to your books, your computer, your posters…
You unstopper the bottle and stare at it. Really, things could be worse. You’ll finally have your wish of being older, and you’re not your father’s age yet, so you’ll still have time to live a normal, curse-free life. And there was no denying this body was kind of sexy…
You imagine living a life in this muscular, hairy, manly, form and your boner stiffens in your underwear. Well, here goes nothing.
You pinch your nose and gulp down the potion.