Jamal never knew that the dog he'd run over when he was 19 was named Arny. Arny was a beautiful black-and-white boxer who truly loved his master and had truly been loved as well until he was reduced into a bloody pulp by Jamal's drunk driving. He may have been just roadkill to Jamal, but his life had meant something to someone. And if Arny's life had actually meant something to Jamal all those years ago, maybe the Asian immigrant would still be alive. Maybe a middle-aged single mother wouldn't still be in therapy trying to move past the day she nearly died at a bus stop with her daughter. Indeed, if Jamal had been a dog instead of Arny, he would have never driven a car in the first place, and everyone would have been better off. The galactic beings have decided he should become one.
The midday sun was beaming through in the windows and into Jamal's eyes when he awakened. It hurt to open them. His head ached. What day was it again? Oh, right, New Year's Day. There wouldn't be many places to go or many things to do, but maybe he could still end up at the strip club with some belated party-goers later tonight. He finally pulled himself up and dragged his feet across the living room floor, kicking some empty beer cans out of the way, to turn off the obnoxiously loud TV he'd managed to sleep through. A beeping sound rang out ... the phone! Ugh, he was going to have to talk to his mother. He picked up the cordless phone and told her that, yes, he had seen the midnight countdown, and yes, he was driving safe lately, and no, he didn't need her to come clean his apartment, he's 31 years old, come on. After the phone call, he opened another can of beer and finally traipsed over to his actual bed to get some more sleep. Other than some strange and unsettling dreams about getting hit by a car or people telling him what a "bad boy" he'd been three years ago, nothing unusual happened to him ... yet.
Later on that night, Jamal woke up again for another round. He put on his best shirt: a beer-stained tank top that he'd washed two weeks ago. And he went downstairs to get in his car. He drove as fast as he could down to the old warehouse, which it was an open secret that the place functioned in the night as a brothel. He waved his fist at a few older and slower drivers along the way as he passed them into on-coming traffic. By the time he got there, most of the really hot gals were already taken, which Jamal probably couldn't afford them anyway. He ended up in one of the "back rooms" with Eileen, whom he'd gotten a lap dance from once or twice but never really went any farther with before. He was feelin' extra lucky for the new year and had brought a few extra fifties, so this time he was ready for more.
His boner was raging by the time he pulled his pants down. He didn't notice it looked funny, but Eileen noticed. She didn't know if he was diseased or deformed. She really didn't that thing in any of her openings, so she did the next best thing and started a hand job. Jamal's legs got weak and he sort of just spaced out. She tried dirty talking again, but when it was clear he didn't have much to say right now, she just went to work and tried to get this over as quickly as possible so she could get her money and then maybe wash her hands for an hour. When the dick she was holding swelled up in a way she'd never seen before, she hoped she hadn't injured her customer. He groaned, and she looked up to see that he had closed his eyes but didn't tell her to stop. Apparently he was still enjoying it, even more so if the dazed look on his face was anything to go by. She looked back down there, still kind of grossed out by what she was seeing. She kept working it and kept wishing she had a pair of gloves on.
Jamal had almost forgotten there was even someone with him in the room. This hand job was like no other, and he was such on a high of booze, crack and sexual pleasure that he was like an astronaut in his own little space capsule of depravity. How could he have known Eileen would be this good? He was going to have to tip her the rest of his food allowance when she was finished. She was parts of his penis to massage that he didn't even know he had. Before he knew it, the heat of passion and the heat of the tiny room were really getting to him in a way he couldn't sweat out. Without even thinking about it, he opened his mouth and felt his tongue fall out. He couldn't see how low it was dangling. But he did feel his drool dripping off it, even though he was much to stoned and horny to care.
When Eileen started to feel warm droplets of sticky gunk plopping down onto her exposed breasts and looked up at the freakishly oversized tongue that was dripping them, she gagged.
"All right, that's enough," she said. "I'm done. No charge, whatever, just ... I gotta go."
Jamal brought his tongue back in and looked around, wondering why she had run off. He might not have been a rock star, but how nasty would he have to be to drive away a prostitute? He looked down at his maddeningly erect penis, confused. Whoa, how had he missed THIS? The skin on his crotch had turned pink with black splotches, and there seemed to be some amount of white fur bunched up around the base of his penis. The six inches of brown boner he used to have was now more like nine inches of purple piping. And what was that weird balloon-shaped mass at the base? He reached out, scared that maybe something had gone terribly wrong with his dick. But when he grabbed it, especially the balloon thing, he noticed that it didn't feel bad at all and in fact it was just the kind of stimulation he needed to finish what Eileen started. His eyes rolled back in his head and cum launched out in crisp, clear spurts. It just kept going, he just couldn't stop. Other people wondered why the same man had been in the backroom for so long without anybody else with him, but Jamal didn't care. By the time he came back to his senses, he could feel himself panting again. If Eileen didn't want her money, so be it. He waited a while longer and calmed himself down and let his penis finally deflate. It was weird, but it was worth it, or so he thought. He was back in his car and speeding home in what felt like no time.