Max sat in a ratty old computer chair, feet up on the counter.
The teen, barely 19 and just out of high school, was currently playing Fallin Shelter on his phone. Technically, he should be working, but the bowling alley was basically empty, save for two old guys on lane 12.
It was no small wonder the alley was basically dead. The bar was small, the carpet old and dirty, everything about the place was dingy. Apparently, the place had been booming back in the day, but bowling was about as in style as disco and it was a miracle that the place had survived as long as it had.
As far as he was concerned, he was here to collect a paycheck. His philosophy was: minimum wage, minimum effort. He wasn’t expected to do much, and he did even less.
Still, out of all the shitty job he’d had in these last three years since high school, this was the easiest. He was living rent free with his parents, and the only reason he stuck around was precisely because he only needed a little money to live comfortably.
Plus, the girls who worked here were hot.
He wore an earring in one ear in an attempt to be interesting and attract some of the girls who worked the bar. Max had read a book about being an interesting person and they called it Peacocking. Like, it was supposed to create conversation.
Unfortunately, the only conversations he’d had were about how the earring was the only interesting thing about him.
He scratched his patchy beard and considered shaving it off. Dad said that, eventually, his beard might fill itself in, but Max didn’t have any hopes for that. His dad was an idiot, anyways. He took a swig of soda from the glass he got at the bar.
At least he got free sodas.
The otherwise boring night was interrupted as the door swung open and two men walked in.
Great.
People.
Max sighed and stood up, giving the newcomers a look-over.
One was an American badger, big and burly, wearing a leather jacket and a nice pair of boots. His hair was slicked back in a duck’s ass look that reminded him of Tron Javolta in that one movie… Greasers, right? Next to him was a short, top-heavy bulldog who was overly muscular wearing a similar get-up. Max would say the bulldog was overcompensating, but his jeans bulged at the crotch almost obscenely. They both walked with a swagger, chewing gum and blowing bubbles.
Max watched them as they scoped the place out, the badger with a critical eye, like he was evaluating the bowling alley. The duo glanced at the two old guys in lane 12, the badger rubbing his muzzle. Together, they walked up to the counter. Max was surprised they weren’t snapping their fingers like they were extras in a school play.
He sighed, checking his phone. Two more hours and he could go home. The last thing he wanted to deal with right now were two posers. Still, all he had to do was to give the weirdos their shoes and send them on their way.
“Welcome to The Bowling Alley, how can I help you?” Max recited as the two men approached.
“Sign says it’s the Bowl-A-Rama.” The badger jerked a thumb behind him.
“Right,” Max paused, realizing they’d changed the name a couple weeks ago and updated the sign in an attempt to draw in more customers. “Well, it’s a new sign.”
The badger stared at Max steadily, “Thanks, uh,” The badger made a show of peering at Max’s nametag, “Max. Glad you take your job seriously.”
“It’s a job,” Max shrugged, scratching his arm as gray fur sprouted from his skin. “You fellas want shoes or somethin’?”
“Shoes?” the badger lifted his naked paw, “We anthros don’t wear shoes, but you know that, right?”
Max shifted in place, feeling uncomfortable. As he did, he stepped out of his shoes as his feet swelled into proper paws. The claws at the tips of his toebeans clacked as he stepped back onto the dirty carpet.
“Uh, right, of course.” Max shook his head, fur sprouting over his face. A black mask took shape around his eyes. “How could I be so dumb?”
“Just hand us some paw wax.” The badger said.
Max turned, bending over to search under the counters. As he did, a tail snaked out of a hole that had suddenly appeared in his pants. It quickly floofed into a proper ringed tail, perfect for a ‘coon like himself. It wagged to and fro as Max searched the cupboard before a can of ‘Anatolie’s Paw Cream’ appeared right in front of an outstretched paw.
The raccoon grinned as his paw grasped the can. “Got it!”
“Nah, stay down there, pal,” the bulldog chortled, “Lovin’ the view!”
Max blushed under fur but gave his rear a little wriggle. It plumped, straining the back of his pants and wobbling to and fro to the delight of the horny bulldog. The dog wolf-whistled and Max winked at the pupper, giving his tush a slap before standing up and tossing the can to the badger.
“There ya go, fellas,” Max’s voice gaining a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Straight from New Yawk.”
“Got some fries with that shake, Max?” The bulldog asked.
“Heh, we have a full menu,” The raccoon jabbed a thumb at the display behind him. “What’s your names?”
“I’m Felix and that doofy doggy is Jack,” Felix said, then pulled out a comb, “Eh, you need a quick touch up?”
“What?” Max asked paw touching the top of his furry head, “Something wrong with my ‘do?”
Felix grinned, leaning forward and doing a quick comb out of Max’s fur. It grew longer and darker. With each pass of the comb, the strands grew thicker, proper headfur for an anthro. It was short on the sides and wavy on top, making the coon look like a young James Dean, if he were a furry.
“There, lookin’ better,” Felix nodded to himself.
Max checked himself out in the bar mirror, paws carefully arranging one strand of headfur to fall over his eye. As he did, his body began to inflate with muscle. Not too much, but the short ‘coon was now rather stocky as well. He grinned and shot his reflection with a finger gun before turning back to the fellas.
“So what lane do ya want? Got bowling balls?”
“Brought my own.” Felix grinned, holding up a bag.
“This place always so dead?” the bulldog interjected.
“It’s a weekday,” Max said, his hand growing soft paw pads as he scratching his side. “And there ain’t exactly many people that’re into bowling nowadays.”
“What?” The badger asked. “You should have a ton of people here. Bowling leagues and whatnot.”
“Bowling’s for old fogies,” Max rolled his eyes.
“Old fogies!?” The badger snorted, his eyes focusing hard on Max, “That why you work here, pal?”
“Yeah, for old farts like you two.” Max flipped a strand of fur from his eyes, not noticing white hairs begin to trickle into his ’do.
“I’d watch your mouth, pal,” Felix growled, concentrating harder, “Ain’t gonna like what happens if you don’t.”
“Whatcha gonna do? Break a hip, gramps?”
“Keep talking like that and you might just break yours,” Felix growled.
“If you wanna talk shit, prig, you and your pal can find another bowling alley. Oh wait. There aren’t any other bowling alleys in town, because bowling sucks!” Max snorted.
He picked up his phone and used his nimble paws to play the game, ignoring the two blowhards.
“Hey, you got a screw loose, pal?” The bulldog growled, slamming his paws on the counter.
“Think you can talk to my boyfri-,” the bulldog stuttered, “my boss like that?!”
“Jacky boy, Jacky boy, settle down,” The badger pulled the bulldog back from the counter, “He’s just checking his messages. The ones about the bar. Max doesn’t keep up with new technology so good anymore, do ya Max?”
Max rolled his eyes and went back to his game just in time to watch the phone flicker and transform into an old Blokia phone. Trustworthy devices, not like that newfangled stuff the kiddos had nowadays.
He blinked. Kiddos? But he was… a teenager, right?
Max’s heart started to beat slightly faster. As he searched his brain for memories, his mind went blank. He tried to remember what it was like to be an adult. He tried remembering what it was like being a kid. Blank. His face ran hot with embarrassment as he just couldn’t remember anything. He stared at his hand for a moment, noticing the fur that now covered it. He felt like it was wrong to see a furry hand, but he couldn’t challenge the idea in his mind.
“Yeah, uh, just checkin’ my messages is all, sorry bout dat fella,” Max grinned, his front left fang going cold in his mouth as it was replaced with a glittering gold tooth. Got it knocked out breaking up a barfight.
Fact was, he’d gotten in fights all the time back in the day. Max grunted as his athletic form grew even thicker with muscle, stretching his employee’s shirt tight. Little scars crisscrossed his muzzle as it broke and rest itself, slightly crooked.
Felix grinned back, “Still lookin’ sharp, Max.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Max rolled his eyes. “Anything else I can get youse guys?”
Felix shook out a cigarette and lit it, taking a puff, “Yeah, maybe a pitcher of beer and some nachos.”
“Hey, eh, Felix, buddy…” Max was staring at the lit cigarette nervously.
“What’s up old pal?” Felix’s eyes glittered as he let the ciggie dangle from his lips.
“Yah can’t…” Max licked his lips, suddenly craving something, “ya can’t smoke, ya know?”
“Can’t smoke?” Felix smiled as though he were enjoying a secret joke, “But you’re smoking a stogie right now!”
Max stared at him, wondering what he was talking about.
He opened his mouth to reply and a fat black cigar nearly fell out. He caught between clenched teeth, rolling it around his mouth until he found a comfortable place on the side and took a puff before blowing a perfect smoke ring. Right, he’d be a hypocrite if he told the boys they couldn’t smoke when he was here, smoking like a chimney!
“Sorry, don’t know what got into me,” Max chuckled nervously, his voice sounding strangely horse as his face pressed out into a muzzle. He rolled the cigar onto his back fangs, chewing the end of it. “You said nachos and beer?”
“That’s right.”
“Bit early in the day to be drinking. You sure?”
Felix’s eyes lit up, “What are you talking about, Max? You’re drinking right now. You love beer, don’t you?”
What the hell was he talking about this time? Max took the cigar out of his mouth and placed it in an ashtray nearby. He took a swig of his soda and nearly choked. Instead of the sweet, carbonated beverage he’d expected, it was beer! Nice and foamy, the perfect pour, exactly what he was known for. He took another gulp, enjoying the taste of the effervescent amber liquid. Nothing like a good cheap American lager to start the day!
As he chugged his pint, his belly began to swell with fat. A thin layer of chub spread across the rest of his body, softening his features. His pecs jiggled, filling with soft adipose tissue before slumping onto his growing gut. Even his face wasn’t spared, the coon’s chin puffing into a wobbly doublechin.
His gut continued to bloat. Max’s shirt rolled itself over it before tucking itself into his pants, a belt slithering around his hips and cinching tight. The gut continued to grow, straining his shirt before lopping over his belt. Soon, it jutted in front of him, a proper beergut that contrasted with his sturdy, muscular frame and balanced by his wide, bulbous ass. His whole outfit was strained and tight on his much thicker body. He could even see the indent of his rather deep bellybutton through the polo.
No, this was wrong, this was all wrong!
Max stared at his gut, looking at the unfamiliar mass that unmistakably was a part of his body. He snuck a hand under his shirt to get a better feel for it in his hands. He wasn’t fat, he was sure of it! But Max's paw only found itself rubbing soft adipose tissue. The tips of his clawed digits sank a bit into the blubber and he shook it, feeling his whole body jiggle slightly. He burped softly, tasting the fries he'd scarfed down earlier. Sure, he was obese, but he loved eating. Gettin' fat was just somethin-
The raccoon grimaced, realizing he was falling into that alien thought pattern of a fat old coon who enjoyed living comfortably.
He was a bit of rotten kid, but he didn’t smoke or drink… at least not like this! Why was this happening? What did he do to deserve being a fat old man!? A fat GAY old man! His eyes started to burn. Tears were welling up and any moment they would burst.
But then, just as sudden as he’d been hit by his realization, a serene calmness washed over him.
He felt the soft burn of smoke in his chest accented by the taste alcohol. It… felt good… real good. Before this, he was just some dumb kid, content to squander his life away chasing nothing. Now, though... he rubbed his gut again, enjoying the softness and the wobble. Max had never felt this good before in his whole life. Why was he complaining about this sudden gift? Wasn’t it true that all he ever wanted was to be happy? So what if happiness meant living a different life?
He was in charge here, a nice fat income and plenty of hook ups to take home after the bar closed. It was a nice, comfy life without any worries. This is what he wanted. He knew that for sure. Max could feel his old memories fading. If he took one more swig, that might be all that was needed to silence them forever. He started at the beer for a moment and made his choice.
Max polished off his beer and burped, his gut jiggling.
“Man, dat sure hits the spot!” Max exclaimed, “You boys want a pitcher?”
“We’d LOVE one.” Felix grinned.
“Man, why do you have tah make them so hot?” Jack whined.
“Ya got the hot for fatsos or something?” Felix smirked.
“Hey, who you calling a fatso?” Max growled playfully, jiggling his beergut at Jack. “I got a 6-pack. It’s just in a cooler.”
Jack blushed, his eyes never leaving Max’s gut.
“Hey,” Felix grinned, reaching an arm around the bulldog’s waist and pulling him close, trailing his finger down Jack’s cheek, “Don’t worry, babydoll, I know you’ve only got eyes for me.”
Felix concentrated, then gave the bulldog a quick kiss to seal the deal, making the canine whine needily, his hips bucking into Felix’s leg.
“Hey now, not in public,” Felix patted the dog’s muscular hinder, before turning back to Max, who was eyeing the couple with amusement and a hint of longing. “Just put the beer and nachos on my tab, will ya? Someone’ll be along to pay it.
“Will do, Felix,” Max winked, “Anything for an old flame. Pick a lane and I’ll bring it to the table.”
“Thanks Uncle Max.” Felix smiled.
“Uncle?”
“You’re old enough,” Felix pointed out with a smirk.
Max’s hair thinned and slicked itself back, white bleeding into the temples of his black headfur. Memories filled his head of years spent working for the bowling alley. Of meeting Felix a decade ago. He blushed, the fur of his muzzle bleaching white before being discolored into a dirty yellow-brown from years of smoking.
He didn’t feel old, save for some aches in his lower back and a bad knee that pained him whenever a storm rolled in. Still, he couldn’t say he wasn’t getting on in years. Man, it felt like he’d been a teenager just yesterday!
“Yeah” Max nodded, as he looked his body over, ”I guess I am.”
Felix smirked.
Max noted that Jack was no longer looking at him, but, rather, at Felix with a look of pure love and longing.
Exactly like he wanted. He wasn’t the jealous sort, but he was getting on in years. He didn’t deserve the hot young bulldog’s attentions. And Felix, well… he’d taught that badger how to be a man. Wouldn’t mind that kiddo’s cock in his ample rump, though.
The duo walked down to the lanes, directly to the two old-timers.
Max wondered why they were taking seats at Ross and Barney’s Lane, but maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. They needed some new blood after losing two team members.
He sighed and went back to cleaning the counter. It began to shift under his rag, becoming newer, chrome accents appearing. Soon he was shining the counter instead of just cleaning. When he was done, he went to check the taps.
It was his Bowl-O-Rama, after all. Old Bill had signed it over to him when he retired. Max had started in on improvements, like renaming it and replacing the plain sign outside.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Ross was bowling with the last surviving member of their bowling club.
When you entered your seventies, old friends tended to pass away. Honestly, Ross was surprised he’d lived so long. Certainly hadn’t been the plan back in the day. Live fast and die young had been his old creed. Unfortunately, he hadn’t died young. Neither had his friends, Wilson, Barney and Irwin.
They’d started a bowling league twenty years ago here, named their team The Strikers.
Ross had been a champion bowler, competed in tournaments, even. But he’d never won. That was the last thing on his bucket list and he’d wanted to get at least one win in before he died. So he’d invited his friends to play.
They never won. Got close a few times, but Barney had never bowled before. And then Wilson had a heart attack and died and Irwin had his strokes that had sent him to hospice before passing away. All his best players were dead and since you needed 4 players per team… well, that was the end of the Strikers.
Now he was bowling with Barney, but his back hurt and his arthritis was acting up and throwing off his game. It had gotten so bad that his score was dipping. Barney, on the other hand, who had retained his youthful spryness, was throwing Strike after Strike. If only he’d been this good at bowling when he was younger, they might have won those tournaments.
He lined up the throw, executed a perfect toss-
And then his back spasmed, throwing off his aim, the ball twisting, putting weight on his arthritic wrist. He gasped in pain and the ball flew into the other lane, bounced, then went straight to the gutter. He almost fell flat on his face, but managed to correct himself just in time.
“Whoah, you okay, Ross?” Barney asked.
Where Ross was tall, painfully thin with saggy skin and a full head of white hair, Barney was his opposite. Short, dumpy, and round as an egg with a completely bald head save for white fluff on the sides. In spite of his obesity, Ross was sure the man would outlive him, somehow.
Barney helped him to his seat, but paused halfway there.
Two young… Greasers? Were sitting on their bench. One of them, a hyper-masculine and overly hung bulldog, was entering their names into the scoring system. The other, a perfectly muscular American badger with that cut, v-shaped build and handsome muzzle, was sitting in Barney’s seat, polishing a scarlet bowling ball by hand.
“Hey, who are you guys and why are you in our lane?” Barney asked as flecks of black hair appeared in the white tufts on the sides of his head.
“Huh?” The badger looked up at them, eyes twinkling, “Why, we’re your teammates.”
“What?” Ross asked, the pain in his back fading.
And it wasn’t just his back - all the aches in his body that he had grown so used to were fading away. He breathed a sigh of relief and managed to stand on his own, stepping out of his shoes as they unraveled into nothingness, revealing his scaly yellow talons.
Little rubber nubs appeared on the tips of his talons, to protect the finish of any floors he might walk on. He flexed his toes, enjoying the clack of his claws on the wood. The rest of his body was shifting, rump widening with muscles, feathers prickling his skin as they grew.
The back of his pants split apart, letting his magnificent tail of colorful feather arch out and trail on the floor behind him. Rooster spread his arms, the feathers there fanning out, and clenched yellow, scaly hands the talons on the tips of his fingers filing themselves away to bluntness. For safety, of course.
What wrinkles he had smoothed over as the years fell away from him, save for the wrinkles on his neck. They turned red and grew looser and longer, becoming a proper wattle. The flesh on top of his head grew read as well, growing into a true crest, advertising his masculinity.
And boy was Rooster ever masculine.
His pants turned pure white as his thighs grew thick with muscles. The withered lump in his pants plumped hugely, testosterone pulsing through the bird’s body. His muscles pulsed pleasantly as they swelled, his chest shoving forward into thick slabs of meat. The cockerel’s bowling shirt unbuttoned itself, letting his breast feathers puff proudly out.
Rooster smirked, his teeth merging together and pushing out of his lips, yellowing as they became a sharp beak. The half-buttoned bowling shirt shimmered, becoming scarlet and gold. On the back, in pure white embroidery, was the name of their team: ‘Motorheads’, with a gold embroidered retro sunburst behind it.
He strut over to Felix, feeling healthier than he ever had in years. But no, that wasn’t right. He was at the peak of his fitness. He couldn’t recall a time he hadn’t felt like the cock of the walk. The badger grinned and winked at the bird as his crest curved itself into an approximation of a pompadour.
“Feeling better, Rooster?” Felix asked.
“Tch, of course,” Rooster’s voice was deep and melodic, a hint of southern-fried good-ole-boy shading his speech. “Floors just a bit too slick. Max musta just waxed.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Barney stared at the rooster, not sure why he’d been holding him a moment before.
The fur spread over his bald head as he scratched it in confusion, growing thicker. It layered itself as it grew, framing his face until it was a thick but trendy shaggy-styled headfur. The nails on his hands grew until sharp claws ruffled his hair, the skin pinking.
Felix, the badger, turned his attention to him. “It’s your turn to bowl.”
Barney’s heart fluttered so hard he was afraid he was having a heart attack. His bowling outfit was shifting, transforming into the same outfit Rooster was wearing, though it certainly wasn’t as flattering on him as it had been on the cockerel.
His belly was jutting out, straining the buttons enough that his pale flesh and white hairs poked through. The white pants that looked painted on which outlined Rooster’s ass emphasized how wide and saggy Barney’s was. Barney lumbered uncomfortably over to pick up his ball, suddenly aware of how old and fat he was with all these youngsters around him.
At least he had a full head of hair.
As he picked up the ball, his fatty arms suddenly grew tight, the muscles growing thick. Fluffy white fur covered them, spreading up past the sleeves of his shirt, puffing his outfit and making him squirm uncomfortably. Where the fur went, his fat melted away and his muscles grew.
He took a breath and sneezed, nose and mouth shooting forward into a pointy snout. Long, thick whiskers grew out and twitched and barney sneezed again, his ears popping as they moved up his head, growing wider and pinker.
Barry did a little wriggle as he wound up the ball, his saggy ass tightening and growing bulbous as a pink tail snaked out of his pants, giving the bowler a better balance. He stepped forward and out of his shoes, feet growing claws and becoming as pink as his hands. His gut jiggled with each step before it receded into his stomach, the muscles there flexing into a trim six-pack.
With a graceful movement that the possum hadn’t been able to make in years, he threw the ball.
The pins clattered as they were knocked against the backing - a lone pin remaining standing. Barry waited for his ball to return, lined himself up, and easily picked off the last pin.
“Ooo, trashy throw!” Rooster jeered as the possum sat back down. “Playing into stereotypes, Barry?”
“Man, screw you!” Barry snarled, flicking out his switch comb and running it through his shaggy ‘do.
Barry looked over his handsome mug in his pocket mirror. Sure he was a short guy, but with these muscles and this hair, the ladies loved him. He blew his reflection a kiss.
“Your turn, Jack,” Felix called.
Jack approached with a beat-up old alley ball.
Barry snorted.
Who the hell would use those old things? It didn’t even fit the bulldog’s hand properly. He watched as the canine rolled a gutterball. How the hell were they going to win any tournaments, let alone the league, with such a dead weight?
The bulldog at least had the sense to look embarrassed when he returned to his seat.
Honestly, it made Barry more than a little embarrassed himself. Poor guy had clearly never bowled before. He scooted closer to the dog and tried to give him tips and pointers.
Jack listened intently.
A few turns later, it was his turn again.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Jack took a breath, wound up the light ball, and through it down the lane the way Barry had described to him.
It bounced once, then rolled serenely down the lane.
Down, down, down…
Jack held his breath. It was going to hit the pins!
And then the ball veered into the gutter.
Again.
“Ah, just a pick-up of one, come on, Jacky-boy!” Felix sniggered.
Jack sighed, walking back to the bench in defeat.
So far, he was the worst bowler on the team. Annd your team was only as good as your worst bowler. He tugged at the overly-tight scarlet and gold upper bowling shirt. It fit, but tugged at his shoulder and muscles every time he moved. Even his pants were too tight, basically painted on. Sure, it showed off his bulbous, muscular ass, but still, the only guy he wanted to impress was his boyfr-his boss.
The ball was the bowling alley’s and he wasn’t even sure it was the right weight and fit for him. Apparently, finger placement was part of getting the right ball. He’d honestly never bowled before, so this was all new to him.
He watched as the scuffed black ball rolled back into the pool with the other guy’s personal, shiny, clean balls.
It was humiliating.
The other guys jeered and ribbed him as he sat back down. It was fine, he wasn’t some thin-skinned Nancy-boy, but it still cranked his gears. Bowling just wasn’t clicking for him and the ball was ugly and new ones like the other guys had were expensive and he’d rather use the money for souping up his ride.
But maybe he didn’t have to deal with a crappy ball.
He could use that thing that Felix used to change people, that he had used to change the sign. At least, he thought he was the one who had changed the sign. Felix HAD been staring at it awfully hard. Sure, he still wouldn’t be the best bowler, but at least his form and not the equipment he was using that would be the problem
Jack swallowed and eyed his ball, concentrating on it.
Visualize the shape he wanted. He imagined a shiny ball, something scarlet and flecked with gold, like their uniforms. It fit his paws perfectly, the weight exactly right for a guy like him. There was a sort of pressure, he realized, coming from his eyes.
Yes, that’s it.
He focused harder, holding that image of the perfect ball in his mind.
Change.
He exerted his will, eyes on the shitty bowling ball. The feeling of pressure shifted into what felt like a million little invisible hands crawling over the ball.
Change!
A trickle of something warm came from his nose.
Jack wiped it off with his arm absently, and suddenly, the ball seemed to flicker, changing form. It got slightly bigger, the holes widening into something proper, spacing themselves appropriately. The plain black scarred and scuffed surface shifted, becoming a swirly crimson and white marble with flecks of gold paint gleaming inside of it.
Beside Jack’s legs a bag appeared, one like Felix and the other had to carry their bowling balls.
Jack stared at it in wonder. He had done it! Really! The bulldog surreptitiously glanced at his love-at his boss, the handsome badger too preoccupied with tallying his points to notice anything amiss. Jack wanted to tell him about the ball, but realized he hadn’t noticed the sign last time, so he probably wouldn’t notice the ball this time.
Rooster took his turn, the cocky cockerel scoring yet another perfect Strike. Then Barry went, the stocky, playful possum getting a Spare. Felix went next, form absolutely perfect, and got a Strike.
Jack knew he wasn’t beating Rooster or Felix, but he could still catch up to Barry.
“Your turn, Jacky-boy. Remember, the goal is to knock over the pins, not put the ball in the gutter,” Felix joked, then paused, staring at Jack’s face, “Hey, you’re bleeding.”
“What?” Jack asked paw flying to his nose and coming back with blood on his fur. “Oh, guess I got a nose bleed.”
“Didn’t know you liked my figure that much,” Felix winked, making the bulldog blush, “Here, use my towel.”
Jack accepted it gratefully, wiping his nose.
“You good to play?” Barry asked, staring at the bulldog with concern.
“Yeah man, uh, don’t want you stroking out on us,” Even Ross, normally aloof, was looking uncomfortable.
“I’m fine, guys, the air’s just dry,” Jack stood and walked to the ball, picking it up and placing his digits in it.
“You sure, man?” Felix asked quietly. “I know I’ve been giving you shit, but you usually bowl better than this.”
“I do?” Jack stared at him in confusion.
He’d never played a full game in his life. But Felix was acting like he was good or something. Just like the sign, it was like changing the ball had done other things. And speaking of the ball, it really was perfect.
Jack gave it a few practice swings, enjoying the balance of the weight. His paw was positioned in a way that made him feel like he could guide it and it wouldn’t go flying. As he did, reality was shifting slightly. A trophy appeared in the display case at the entrance for ‘Young Bowler’s League’ with Jack’s name on it.
Suddenly, the swings started seeming more natural to the bulldog. Which they should have, since he’d been bowling since the fifth grade. His muscles altered, thicker in some places and smaller in others and the poorly fitting uniform adjusted itself, tailored to fit his broad shoulders and heavy pecs. He squirmed, groping himself as even his package shifted in his pants as his junk was stuffed into a jock.
Taking his place at the lane, the bulldog took a breath, then executed a perfect throw.
The ball rolled towards the pins.
Jack held his breath.
It struck the lead pin and the others collapsed spectacularly.
He sighed, happy to have gotten back into his groove.
What the heck had gone on with him earlier? He was just as good as Rooster, normally.
Jack strutted back to his seat on the bench as the others hooted and hollered.
Felix clapped him on the back and smiled. “Great throw, man.”
“Thanks babydoll,” Jack said, giving the badger a grope when Rooster and Barry weren’t looking.
Felix cocked his head at him, confused, but not angry.
“You’re getting kinda forward.” Felix said.
Jack looked at him in confusion. “What’s wrong? Don’t like public displays?”
“Well, I mean you’re not usually this open and confident. Did you…?” Felix studied the bulldog for a moment, then shook his head, “Nah, no way you could have done something. Never mind.”
“Okay,” Jack grinned, paw rubbing his lover’s cock through his tight white pants.
They snuggled together while the other two teammates took their turns.
Soon, everyone was finished.
Ross tallied up the scores. He and Felix were neck-and-neck. Barry had done well. Unfortunately, while Jack had pulled it together, it had been too late. He was still a couple points below Barry.
“Looks like you got a tab to pay, Jacky-boy!” Felix grinned.
Jack rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah.”
Max came down to the lane with an arm full of Nachos and another Pitcher of beer. The hefty coon set them down and laid the bill on the table. He gave Jack and Felix a wink and waggled his brows.
“You boys have fun?” Max asked, the older raccoon's voice was croaky as a pack-a-day smoker.
“Always, Uncle Max,” Felix grinned, focusing on the old raccoon.
The pager on Max’s belt beeped. The raccoon dug under his beergut and pulled it out, squinting to read it. A pair of spectacles settled on the tip of his snout and he peered through them at the messages.
“Truck just arrived. Huh.” Max said before raising the glasses up and resting them on his head. “Gettin’ harder and harder for me to read the screen every day.”
“Who uses a beeper anymore anyways?” Rooster chuckled, pulling out his phone and texting someone. “You can just have a computer read it for you if you got a new phone, Uncle Max.”
“You kiddos and your new-fangled doodads.” Max snorted. “Anyways, gotta get back to work. Got a load of people coming tonight.”
The older coon walked off towards the back, pulling out a new cigar from his breast pocket and lighting it, giving it a puff.
“Uncle Max is cool.” Jack grinned, tossing in a big tip for the old fart. “Old fogies like him sure are rare.”
“They sure are, Jacky-boy.” Felix smiled back, “They sure are.”
They team munched on nachos and drained the pitcher, chatting about cars and how cool it would be to have a proper drive-in theater. As they did, the carpet began to shift from a dirty, ancient burgundy one to something plusher, more vibrant and a pure, almost unnatural white color.
The accents of the bar began to shift, pinks appearing as highlights, the building looking much newer, yet still hip, styled like a proper bowling alley from the 50’s with that retro design. It kept the modern accoutrements and added proper Americana style. As it did, more folks began walking in.
“Guys, this place is antsville.” Felix said, “Whaddya say we take Jack’s car and go for a drive.”
“Maybe scope out a movie?” Barry asked.
“Sure, let’s see a flick,” Rooster agreed.
The four bowlers stood up and went to the changing room, getting back into their proper greaser leathers and stowed their uniforms for the tournament. It was in a couple of days, and Jack was looking forward to it. Sure, he’d done poorly at first, but he’d been slacking and it was no wonder he’d had a hard time.
Then they piled into Jack’s ride and zoomed off.