and find yourself flat on the asphalt road. Gravel chips dig into your belly, your arms and inner thighs, and you move only your eyes as you look around. Above you is a series of pipes and metalwork, leading to an axel and, further along, a gap that leads to the last vestige of dusk and the orange glimmerings of a sodium streetlight. There are definitely tires and a smell of grease, dirt and petroleum. Left is a short concrete riser that runs along as far as you can see, with a gap that you can barely see over, let alone escape through, and right is a gap with obvious scuffmarks on the tarmac, like something child-sized with claws desperately dragged itself-
Oh.
Gravel crunches, and your eyes dart to the kerbside gap, only to see the very bottom of someone's boot and, much more worrying, the end of something that looks like a shotgun barrel. You stare owlishly as the boots walk deliberately around to the front of your hiding place, half-close your eyes as you glimpse the edge of something that looks like a hat that peeks just barely under the front bumper, and then continue watching as the boots continue the circuit and come to a halt next to you. You barely dare breathe, let alone move.
You hear a scrape, then the tell-tale noise of a match flaring, followed by a crackling sound that reminds you vaguely of someone sucking on a paper baby bottle teat. A faint 'tink', barely audible to your own enhanced hearing, is the smoking match hitting the road.
"All right, varmint. Reckon I got you trapped under there, nice and neat. Won't be the first ca-yote tried to get my chickens. Nor the last, neither."
You blink. Your pointed ears flatten against your skull, and you narrow your eyes. The damn werewolf costume that you're trapped inside decided to play with its food while you were blacked out, and left you with the consequences. You move your arms slightly, lifting yourself off the ground with hands and feet while you hear the Texas Ranger standing next to your hiding place breathe out noisily. Silently, you turn yourself around, one limb at a time, until you're facing those boots, sidle sideways until you're lined up properly, and then gently move towards him.
You take a breath. Then another. Then you see a still-lit most-of-a-cigar hit the road, hear an indrawn breath, and lash out with both hands. Those boots are already in your open mouth before he hits the ground, and you start desperately stuffing him down your absurdly stretchy throat. You're already up to his waist when he starts grasping for the shotgun, up to his chest when he gets a firm grip on it, and closing your mouth around his arms and head when he tries to aim. You shake your head in a side-to-side worrying motion, slap the shotgun out of his hands, and gulp hard. Another gulp leaves only his hands to flail outside of your maw, and a very final swallow and snap of your jaws sends him fully down your throat.
You feel your stomach writhe. This guy is far stronger than Alex, and you need to roll onto your side and grab him with all four limbs to stop his struggles from breaking something important inside you. A few moments pass, you feel your opponent softening as your stomach works, and you feel your meal sag into liquid.
If anything, the fight gets far worse; the entire mass in your stomach bounces angrily as it shrinks, bashing you against the chassis that shielded you, partially winding you against the asphalt and rocking the car above you so hard that the alarm goes off. You feel bruised, battered, beaten, and half-deafened by the time your stomach shrinks enough that you outweigh it, and you continue to squeeze with your arms and legs, until finally you curl up around nothing. You pant heavily as you try to recover from your ordeal, and you don't notice what's happening.
The skin on your body feels like it's stretching. At first, you take it to be a random tickle, maybe a realisation that you have fur, but then you feel a distinct sense of pleasure from your limbs. You roll onto your back, and your face makes a distinct cracking noise that startles and worries you, until you realise that there's no pain. You watch your nose get further away, feel your fangs lengthen against your tongue, and your jaw cracks, as though you've just popped the cartilage. Your muscles swell, your arms and back slide across the asphalt and you groan with the pleasure of it, until your expanding chest touches the bottom of the still-noisy car, and you barely register that your voice is growing far deeper than before.
You take a breath full of car, cough, try to slide out from your shelter, and realise that you're pinned to the asphalt. It takes you a moment to get annoyed, lift the car off yourself with one hand, slide out from underneath, and then gently replace it. You stand, brush yourself off and look around. On the ground is what can only be described as a cowboy hat, and a long-barrelled, silver shotgun; immediately you reach for the hat and squeeze it in your fist, only to hear the distinct 'chuk-chuk' of the car alarm turning off. You crouch and eye the surrounding houses warily, then stuff the crumpled hat into your mouth and convulsively swallow.
You feel it heading to your stomach as you inspect the shotgun.
It takes you a few tries after you pick it up to get the shotgun's chamber open, and you see two shells chambered and ready to fire. Delicately, you pluck both of them out with your slightly longer claws, toss them into your mouth and gulp them down, only to open your mouth wide and slide the whole shotgun down your throat, like some kind of weird, firearm-related magic trick. Just like a magic trick, it only takes a few moments to slide completely into your stomach, and then you don't feel it anymore.
You heave a sigh.
'Two down' you try to say, but it comes out as a rumbling "Hrrr-hmmm" that vibrates your entire chest and makes your throat feel funny.
You stand. You blink and look around wildly. You crouch. Cautiously, you stand up to your full height again. The cars on the darkened street, which used to be a head higher than you, now come up to the middle of your biceps. You look at your shoulder, and see the bulging muscle then, just to see what happens, you make a fist and then curl your arm upwards. Your bicep stands proud, until it looks like you're balancing a melon. A pleasurable tickle from your groin makes you look down, and you see something red and resembling a lipstick slowly sliding out of your sheath. Two somethings, which definitely aren't your balls, swell out of the sides of your penis.
You draw in a deep breath and let out something that sounds like a cross between a growl and a sigh. Something weird has happened to you every ten minutes since you put on the werewolf costume. You decide to-