As Greg and Keith moved through the busy airport, there was a sudden surge of passengers from one of the gates. In the crush of people, the happy couple was separated from one another.
"Meet you at the baggage pick-up, boo!"
That was the last thing Greg heard before his floofed haired boyfriend disappeared. He managed to escape the crowd, coming out near one of the lounge bars that catered to pilots and passengers alike. Spying another wave of travlers surging in his direction, he slipped inside to wait for a break in the tide.
Dressed as he was in floral printed tank-top with tight shorts, he immediately stood out in the lounge which was filled with besuited pilots and business types. Still, his natural confidence buoyed him and walked up to the bar to order a soda.
The bartender complied and left the glass of ice and soda in front of the gay tourist. Greg took a few sips, as his attention was drawn to the tv screen above his head. On it was a conservative-looking woman giving a speech somewhere. Suddenly, the audio kicked on.
"...and that is why we must not allow the sacred institution of marriage to be redefined by moral degenerates. It is a bond between a man and a woman, not two men or two women."
Greg's jaw tightened at the obviously homophobic speech-making by this Senator Rogers-Miller, if the crawl under her image was correct. He shuddered a little, wondering how someone so regressive could've ever been elected to public office. But that nervous response may have also been a reaction to the 'were breeder' curse settling upon him.
Now thoroughly uncomfortable, he finished his drink and made his way of the lounge. The still moving throng of passengers carried him along aways, leaving him close to the baggage pick-up area. He hurried, his unease being fueled unconsciously by the curse, which merely awaited a trigger.
That came as Greg rounded a corner and came into view of a tall moving ad for the latest Jasper LeRoi/Garrett Garner film. Called 'Two For the Road', the poster showed off the hunky physiques of the retrowave stars nicely. Seeing that vision of manly beauty gave Greg a brief buzz of attraction, which calmed him but also allowed the curse to work its influence fully upon the gay traveler.
=====
At that moment, down the hall from a certain rap queen's office,
the primary recording studio of Str8 Hop Records came to life on its own. From the ceiling speakers, a steady base beat began to play. Over this, an invisible engineer begsn to layer samples of other bits of music, the crescendo growing until all that remained was for someone to drop some hot rhymes on top of it.
Back on the walls of C@$$andra Bling's executive office, that someone began to appear in various pictures with the media moguless. At first, they were unclear, coming into focus slowly...
=====
Almost absentmindedly, Greg picked up his luggage from the carousel. He might've looked for Keith, but his thoughts were being muddled by a beat that echoed in his ears. It was hypnotic in its rhythm, as his head began to move in time with it. It was slowly beginning to draw him to its source.
He began walk towards the airport exit, not seeing the changes being wrought upon his footwear. His battered and beaten Converses were warped and twisted into a higher end of sneaker, made of thick rubber soles and clean green leather. A large stylized 'G' made of bronze pressed out of the now size 13 footwear. The feet inside them cracked themselves larger, causing Greg to unconsciously start walk with a definite swagger.
His new proud stride carried him away from the airport. So was he wrapped up in those dope beats, Greg didn't even notice getting in the taxi or when it let him out on a seemingly random street deep in the city.
After all, he always chilled and sat however and wherever he wanted hadn’t he?-like a natural instinct, always kickin’ back at the cab with his legs stretchin’ long past the groans from the Indian cab driver whom he instinctively shrugged off. Muscles tightening as though they had attempted surfin’, while also starting to tan rebelliously. As he continued ditchin’ the cab driver’s pleas, his tight shorts had no choice but to give into becoming black jeans surrounding his now muscular legs.
Greg didn’t even realize at some point during the ride, that the all of these changes had happened...
As he walked down an alley, the new jeans became baggier and baggier until they drooped down to reveal that Greg's tight white briefs had become grey silk boxers. Soon a thick leather belt looped around the jeans' waist, which cinched them in that classic rapper style.
A confused Greg was oblivious to this, as his mind was too focused on the sick beats. Each thump of the bass line drew him in further, and cast off a part of his old life. His memories of growing up in a suburban neighborhood disappeared, and a life on the islands washed into the sudden void.
As a journey to the mainland exposed him to hip-hop and rap for the first time formed in his memory, Greg's tanned skin began to darken more, swiftly taking on the tone of a native islander. Likewise, his frame began to grow larger, with wider shoulders and a wide torso cracking into place. His tank top was shredded by the sudden growth.
"What dey hell is happenin' ta me?"
With that outloud question, the beats grew heavier and soon crowded out the last of his old self, along with his attraction to men and his attachment to Keith. His thickening arms and hands let go of his suitcase, moving up as if to grip his head. But they settled on a pair of thick black headphones that had been formed from the remains of his tank-top.
Behind him, the discarded suitcase exploded, sending a flood of colorful clothing into the air. There was the sound of twisting plastic and metal as the luggage was reshaped into a large boombox from which a cord sprang to connect to the headphones.
Most of the vanishing Greg's clothes disappeared before hitting the ground. But two of his shirts wrapped around his now bare chest, one becoming a thick black and gold football jersey with the name 'GriZly' pressed across its back. The other broke apart, its sections slithering across his body. Several became diamond-studded rings on his fingers. Ohers formed into a long gold chain hung from his thick neck. From this dangled a golden image of a bear.
One long strip became a pair of googles that helped shape the writhing mass of black hair that had snapped free of its manbun confines. It snapped and pulled downwards, settling into waves of dark perfection that framed his now changing face. Thin nose flattened, lips grew meatier and a weak chin grew strong. A perfect smile of white split his face.
"Dis iz da GriZ. Hot on the mic, quick as I like. Ain't none dat can step ta my flows, I crush all my foes."
As the words came out, the thick accent of a thoroughly urbanized islander could be heard. It was rough and masculine. His head began to bob in tome, even as the rhymes continued to flow.
"Straight from the deep blue sea, this koa came. I'm here to change da whole game."
On a wall behind him, a door formed. It seemed like a private entrance of some sort for the building. High above was the now famous sign of Str8 Hop Records.
GriZly was really feeling the groove of these new beats. But something seemed off to him, as if he wasn't where he needed to be. Instinctively, the rapper turned towards the door, picked up his boombox and entered the building.
======
It was in the elevator as he rode up to the executive offices of the label where his high-end smartphone rang. He smiled again as he flicked the answer button. It was his kaikamahine, C@$$sandra Bling.
"How is my baller babe doin'?"
The sound of her voice caused a stirring in his loins. His formerly smallish cock now rose up to attention. It seemed to pulse thicker and longer in the same time as his newest beats, as images of his bae and her thicc booty flashed in his mind. There was another babe with a fine ass too which his memory told him was one of his proteges, Hela G.
GriZ's grin was wide as the doors pinged and got off to see about tapping dat C@$$...