"Ah sure am ready for mah change!" Ricky yelled.
Simon propped his booted feet on the desk and leaned back to watch his
friend's newest change. After spitting in his Coke can, he
instinctively reached into his back pocket where he knew he'd find a
tin of Copenhagen. Packing it hard, he pulled out a fresh pinch and
added it to his already bulging lip. He had to squeeze to get his
mouth to close, but the nicotine rush felt so damn good.
Ricky, meanwhile, felt his body convulsing. First, with a slight
sucking sound, all his hair retreated into his head, leaving a
gleaming black dome in its place. As he reached up to feel his now
bald scalp, he felt his face brushed with pit hair. Ricky did a
double-take and saw that his pits were full of kinky, bushy hair. He
tried putting his arm down and realized that he could still see the
pit hair even when his arm was against his chest. He also noticed a
strong smell wafting out from under his arm. He sniffed his pit and
smelled a massive amount of B.O. It smelled like he had been
exercising hard and hadn't bothered to shower in 2-3 days. He smiled
and licked his plump lips, realizing that only 10 minutes ago, this
smell would have repulsed him. Now he had the strongest desire to
suck on the long, unruly hair streaming out of his pits.
Before he had a chance to do so, though, he felt his body shake again.
His muscles were expanding. As he looked in the mirror, he saw that
he didn't have the toned muscles of a bodybuilder, but rather the
rough, uncut muscles of a laborer--someone who had spent his life
lifting heavy boxes and pieces of equipment.
Tattoos began tracing their way down his arms and up his back.
Although the black ink was barely visible against his ebony skin, he
could make out pictures of guys 69ing on each enormous pec. Each arm
was a riot of tribal swirls from the shoulder to the wrist. "At least
Ah can still cover them tatts up to work," he thought before noticing
that his knuckles were also tattoed. His left hand spelled "SKIN" and
his right hand spelled "THUG" in clear letters.
Angrily, he turned to Simon to ask him why he'd made that change when
a new thought struck him. Of course, his knuckles spelled "SKIN
THUG." That's what he was. He realized that he was a skinhead thug--
not a racist one--that would be too bizarre. But he knew that he'd
always been fascinated by the skinhead look and had decided to become
one.
As he thought this, a wifebeater appeared on his chest, only barely
covering the images of guys fucking each other, but leaving the tribal
work on his arms in full view. Bleached jeans formed on his legs, and
a pair of loose braces hung from the loops on the jeans. He felt his
feet and calves constrict slightly as a pair of shiny, polished 20-
hole Dr. Martens encased them.
He bent down to caress them, reveling in the feel of the leather, when
he noticed that something on his face was hitting the boots. Looking
at the mirror again, he saw a thick, 6" goatee hanging off his chin.
There was no moustache, and the hair beneath his lips seemed to flow
on forever. "Kinda like mah pits," he thought, chuckling. He also
saw that his ears had been pierced multiple times, and a large septum
ring hung from his nose, taking the place of where a moustache would
have been.
He turned to Simon. "Dang, dawg, tha' be it?" He saw his friend spit
into his can again and felt a sudden urge to do the same. He then
realized that he'd been mumbling a bit and his mouth was full.
Turning to his right, he spit, smiling at the stream of brown juice
that went from his mouth to the brass spittoon that had appeared.
"Ah'm a dippin' skinhead?" he asked.
Simon nodded. "Yessuh, suh, ya are. Ah c'dn't be th' only dipper
aroun' hyar, so Ah made yo' one too. Yo' also smoke cigars--th' mo'
trimenjus an' blacker, th' better. Jest like yo'."
"Mofo, yo' accent be stronger now."
Simon nodded. "Yessuh. Ah reckon it's some af'ereffecks of th'
change. Didn't yo' notice thet Ah was naked befo'e an' now I've got
boots, jeans, a shirt, an' a cowpoke hat?"
Ricky looked at Simon and saw that he was right. Where his friend had
been naked before, he now had on a pair of camouflage boots that when
halfway up his calves. Wrangler jeans so tight that Ricky could see
every crease in Simon's cock were tucked into the top of the jeans,
his beer gut spilling over the top of the jeans just a bit. A belt
buckle the size of Ricky's now-larger hand held up the jeans, and a
plaid shirt was tucked into the top of them. On his head, he sported
a black cowboy hat.
"Git yo' big ass up and turn yo'self around," Ricky commanded. Simon
complied, and Ricky saw a worn can ring in his friend's back pocket.
He looked at his own backside in the mirror and saw a similar ring in
his own bleached jeans. "Yo, what we be doing now?"
"Howsabout we hoof it out an' show our new-fangled selves to th'
world?" Simon replied.
"That be a good idea, mofo!" Ricky said, lighting up the 14" cigar he
found behind his ear, without taking out his dip.
They strutted out the front door, ready to meet the world as their new
selves. Simon brought along the Chronivac to see what they could do
with it as they walked.