The first change was so subtle neither person noticed for almost a full minute. The grey streaks around Scott's mouth had taken a slight tint of yellow.
"That's different," Scott said, "Oh. My voice! It's.. very different. I need a drink." His voice had dropped at least an octave, but more importantly, was suddenly gravelly and rough, as though it hadn't been used in years. He took a drink from his beer and patted the large beer belly it was going to.
"Where'd you get that beer?" Doug asked.
"What? Where did you think I got this belly?" Scott replied. "Wait, where DID I get this beer? I only just got this gut a few minutes ago.
"The program must be changing things around to fit your new situation," Doug suggested. He eyed the stains around Scott's mouth and added, "Do you feel like you need a smoke?"
Scott thought for a moment before replying, "No, it sounds good but I think I'm ok for a moment." He sounded a little disappointed. "I had kind of hoped that I'd be smoking all the time with this."
Another minute went by in silence and it seemed that the changes had stopped.
Doug inspected his friend for a moment and then said, "I think I know why."
Scott adjusted the belt on his jeans and said, "Why do you think? And before you say, I should tell you that I may have spoken too soon, I'm starting to really want that smoke now. Where'd I get these pants?"
Doug hadn't noticed the pants either, but just grinned. "Check the back pocket," he advised. Scott patted his ass with one hand in a movement that seemed oddly familiar to him, and found a hard circular lump. "Oh," he said, pulling out the tin of Copenhagen. "Is this why?"
Doug said, "I can't believe you can't tell."
Scott looked in the mirror and saw what Doug was referring to. Though his thick beard was doing a good job of hiding it, Scott had a bulge in his bottom lip. And as he watched, his saw it grow even more, as though the program were making a point of making him notice.
"Wow. It's so natural to me now I guess I didn't notice, but.. I'm addicted to this stuff now? Scott asked Doug.
"Well, yeah, you don't like it?"
Scott said quickly, "No, I love it, it's just.." He licked his lips at the thought of what he was going to say, and knew he was searching for a familiar smoky flavor. "It's just that I'm REALLY starting to want that stogie about now."
"Well, then take out the lipper and light up," Doug said, pleased that his piloting of the program seemed to have work even better than he thought.
"Yeah," Scott said absentmindedly. His hand fidgeted. He spit into a plastic bottle he'd found unexpectedly in his hand, which he discovered was half full of dark brown spit. "Yeah, it's time for a cigar."
He reached up his hand to remove the dip but his hands betrayed him, landing instead on the cigars in his shirt pocket. "Where'd I get these," he wondered out loud. "In fact, where'd I get the shirt?" He was wearing a pocketed white tee with a leather vest on over it, three Excalibur maduros in it.
He tried to will his hand back where he meant to, but found that he was operating entirely automatically at this point. Worse, he couldn't seem to bring himself to care- he really wanted that stogie!
He pulled out the excalibur and pulled his cutter out of his pocket, snipping the end.
Doug commented, "You know, I didn't exactly specify one OR the other.."
Scott said around the unlit cigar in his mouth, "Yeah, I figured that out." He looked down and took his lighter from his pocket, but when he looked back up found that the cigar he'd taken was not the one in his mouth.
In its place was a very large cigar- "'gar," his mind corrected him. It lacked a band and while the leaf looked fair- delicious, in his mind- it seemed to him that it was not a very expensive cigar.
"When you smoke as much as I do, you have to watch the cost," he thought, then wondered where that thought came from. He lit the cigar, which seemed to have grown even larger- it was now a 70 ring guage at least and 13, maybe 14 inches long; comically large on most men, but fitting, he thought, of a man of his stature.
Doug looked on with a gaze of pure admiration while Scott breathed the cigar into life and lodged it, handless, on one side of his mouth. The two stood there, wordless, while Scott smoked the cigar. Scott found that his new body knew how to smoke cigars; not only that, it seemed to thrive on them. He discovered that he was inhaling with every single breath, exhaling through his nose. His mouth never opened, and it seemed that smoke was the only air he needed.
He picked up the bottle which he had unconsciously set down to spit the juices from his dip, and realized suddenly that he really didn't want to remove his cigar to complete the action. In fact, he thought, he really couldn't- he couldn't force himself to remove the cigar. He resigned himself to the fact that this was probably normal for the new him, and swallowed his spit, gutting it. The action came easily and he was relieved to find that he was right; this wouldn't bother him. After another swallow, the craving in his body was quieted. He assumed that his body not only could tolerate gutting his spit, but required it.
He moved his hand down to set down the unnecessary bottle, but it had disappeared. The ash of the cheap cigar fell off as he smoked it, so he didn't need to take it out even for ashing; this, too, fit with his new habits. He checked his new clothing for more signs of his habit.
His back right pocket held two cans of Copenhagen, while his right back pocket held his wallet. His left front pocket had another can of Copenhagen- he must dip all day long he realized- and a pouch of Red Man chaw. A surprised Scott stifled the sudden surge of desire as he found the pouch, discovering to his relief that he was able to surpress that addiction as long as he was dipping and smoking. This must have been one of the gaps the program filled in for Doug. Probably this was what made it so he could go in non-smoking public areas, at least for limited amounts of time.
Six more of the cigars poked out of a vest pocket on each side. The vest seemed bowed out somewhat, more than his ample gut could account for, and when he inspected it he found that the vest had two very large inside pockets too, each holding five more of the monsters. He was a walking humidor. He did a little mental math. Twenty cigars, counting the one clenched in his jaw, three cans of dip and a pouch of chaw.
"Think you've got enough," Doug joked, having watched Scott take inventory.
Ten minutes had passed as Scott examined himself. He was putting a fresh cigar in his mouth and removing the spent one in the same motion, tossing it absentmindedly onto the tile floor without bothering to grind it out- that was Scraps' job. He decided that his current dip, which had at some point grown to the point of bulging his lower lip and spread magically to his upper lip as well, was fine for now.
"Well, judging by the rate I smoke these at," he said around the cigar in the same corner of his mouth, "This should be good for another three hours or so."
Doug stood agape for a moment. "I think we went too far, Scott.. I'm just gonna reverse.."
"You'll do no such thing. I love this! I'm a fucking MAN and a fucking MAN smokes cigars and dips all the fucking time." Scott was reveling in his new condition and was starting to have new memories of going to bed with a dip and chaw in and waking up through the night to smoke a quick cigar- four or five times a night.
"In fact," Scott continues...