Magic Fingers

By Calamity King

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” said Keith.

My friend had stopped so suddenly, that I nearly planted my face in his back. I peered over his shoulder at the crowd that had assembled inside Fitzroy’s Tavern. The place was lousy with blue-collar types. Men in coveralls or faded workshirts. The occasional baseball cap or cowboy hat. Lank, greasy hair. Scruffy mustaches and beards. Grimy boots. In our dress shirts and sport coats, Keith and I were far and away the best-dressed guys in the room. It made me uneasy. I wondered if I should at least take off my coat.

The tavern crowd lumbered around, sluggish and dispirited. Already drunk. But oddly twitchy, too. Like they were anxious for something to happen. And no wonder, I thought. There wasn’t a single woman in the room.

“Do you want to maybe try Malkin’s Pub, instead?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Geoff. I need to think about this for a minute.” Even in the scant light of the tavern, his hair gleamed; gel had frozen his thick, blond locks into a modest pompadour. He ran a hand over his neatly-trimmed goatee. Without another word, he ambled towards the bar. And like always, I followed him.

It was 2009, and Keith and I were both graduate students. We were working towards our MBA’s. I met him when we were freshmen, right there at Fitzroy’s. We were both looking to score some pussy. To our surprise, we had better luck at it as a team. Just being around Keith with his athletic frame, movie-star good looks and unflinching confidence – somehow granted me sexual legitimacy in the eyes of the ladies. I guess they must have figured that he wouldn’t be hanging out with me if I was a loser. I was shorter than Keith, and decidedly pudgier, but my face was handsome enough; with big, gray eyes that peered out from under dark, heavy eyebrows. Also, I was quiet. I had spent years perfecting a shy smile that girls thought of as “sweet.” The mere fact of Keith’s association with me conspired to make him less imposing. To the average woman, Keith looked like he had materialized from the cover of a romance novel. They found him intimidating. I made him look like a human being.

That first night, we bagged a pair of Dutch girls. They let us take turns with them. After that, Keith and I had a regular thing. Every Friday and Saturday night, we’d hit the bars and pick up girls. We talked our respective roommates at the dorm into switching with us, so I could move in with Keith. Our junior year, we got an apartment together.

But lately, we were spending more time drinking before getting down to business. Some nights, we wouldn’t even bother with it until closing time. Maybe we were getting tired of the whole thing. We were casting our nets in shallower waters, visiting fewer and fewer bars in a typical evening. We hadn’t even been to Fitzroy’s in about two months.

Of course, that part had more to do with Fitzroy’s than it did with us. The crowd at Fitzroy’s had steadily changed. Most of the college kids drifted away from it. They were replaced by working-class townies. There were fewer women, too. The pickings were getting slim. Even the overall mood of the place had changed , or the worse. Good jobs were leaving our little college town, and the natives were furious about it. Drinking just made them angrier. They argued over everything. Politics, football, their trucks, their dogs. Fitzroy had hired a bouncer to keep everybody in line. The guy was supposedly an ex-hockey player, from a minor-league team. It would explain his teeth, anyhow.

As Keith and I sat down at the bar, I could see the bouncer at the door, admitting a few more “Joe Lunchpail” types: some scrawny, oily fucker in a barn coat; and a fat, bushy-bearded guy in overalls and a tank top. Jesus. The tavern, I now realized, was chock-full of “game killers.”

A narrow strip of orange light had spread across the floor. It now squeezed back through the closing door, and tried to get past the electric “OPEN” sign that filled the tavern’s single, puny window. A few flickering neon beer advertisements attempted to relieve the suffocating darkness. On the tables, tin lanterns with puny candles inside cast a miserly glow. I tried to identify the bartender, who was maybe fourteen or fifteen feet away. I could only make out his imposing silhouette. There was a bald head and a sprawling, walrus-like mustache that curled slightly at the ends. He was enormous, powerful wide shoulders, huge forearms, big barrel chest and a big round gut that strained the buttons on his shirt. Some new guy, apparently. Usually, Fitzroy did the honors himself. Keith motioned to the man. Then he turned to me, and sighed. “Worst Ladies’ Night ever.”

“Can’t argue with that,” said the bartender. He turned, and his face caught the blinking green light of a neon sign. I blinked, too. It was Fitzroy. But the last time I’d seen him , two months ago! ,Fitzroy had sported a full head of Black Irish curls, and no facial hair. Not to mention he had been have this size. He looked liked he doubled in weight. Beneath the massive mustache, Fitzroy smiled. I smiled back at him, in a half-hearted, sickly kind of way. It didn’t make sense. Sure, Fitzroy had always been athletic, but how could he have ballooned into this massive mustachoed dude so quickly, it was impossible! This must have been some kind of trick...there was just no way he could have gotten that big, that quickly.

All the thick hair on baffled me almost as much as his new size. I could spot stubble just above his ears. It continued in a wide band around the lower half of his head. But the top of his head was as smooth as a bowling ball. There was simply no hair growing there at all. And there was simply no way he could have lost so much hair in two months.

Keith guffawed. “Holy shit, Fitzroy! Is that you? How did you get so freakin huge?”

Fitzroy spread his arms wide. “This is me, boys!” he announced/ “The real Fitzroy.”

“Damn, man, incredible. You’re like twice the size you were last time I saw you! You’re huge now. ” I said to him. “But I have to say, you look pretty cool.” I had said it only to be polite. But as the words left my mouth, I felt like it was the truth. I couldn’t help looking at Fitzroy. “It makes you look more authoritative,” I offered. “More powerful.” Warmth blossomed on my cheeks. I couldn’t believe I was saying all this.

“Christ almighty!” Keith whooped. “Why don’t you just go ahead and suck his dick?” He slugged me in the arm, to show he was joshing with me. And truth be told, if it was any other guy who said that, I’d have gotten up in his face. Maybe punched him, even. But I never minded it when Keith talked to me that way.

“Yeah, well…!” I mumbled, and I started to laugh as well. But behind Fitzroy’s curling mustache, his mouth was set in a frown.

Keith apparently noticed this, because he immediately changed the subject. “So, how do you think the Ladies’ Night is going to work out? You posted enough fliers for it, anyhow. The campus is covered in them!”

“It’ll happen,” said Fitzroy, with a shrug. “I got the stage all set up in case we can talk some of the drunker ones into a wet T-shirt contest.” He nodded to the stage at the far end of the tavern, opposite the front door. It consisted of a wood platform, which was about 1’ high by 2’6 deep, and maybe 10’ long. The wood had been painted a dull black, like most of the rest of the bar. Years of gray scuff marks criss-crossed the surface. A set of flimsy red curtains framed the black brick wall behind the platform. Alone on the stage was a microphone stand – the extent of Fitzroy’s preparations for the evening. A pair of track lights hung in the darkness, ready to illuminate whatever sorry spectacle was about to unfold. I noticed that some of the drunks had already arranged their chairs to face the stage.

Keith took one more glance at the crowd. He shook his head. “No offense, big man, but Geoff and I are probably going to try some other joint. Maybe we’ll swing back by here, later tonight.”

Fitzroy slumped a little bit, like the air had gone out of him. “Aw, hell…! Tell ya what, boys… I got a deal I put on, for occasions just like this one. The guys get the same drink specials the ladies would’ve gotten, until the first woman shows up. That’s fair, right? You two stay here for a bit, and gear up for the rest of the evening. Then you can take a taxi to your next destination. Whaddaya say?” White smoke drifted lazily through his mustache.

Keith raised an eyebrow. “What are we talking, here–?”

“Fifty-cent pitchers.”

“You’re on, pal.” Keith slapped me on the back. “Now we’re cooking!”

More customers filed into the tavern. All of them were men. Mixed in among the working stiffs were some students whom I recognized. The college guys were all dressed in the Grunge Look ,lots of flannel and denim, worn layered or with the sleeves or legs cut off ,and it was hard to tell at first which patrons were which. As the tavern filled up, the distinctions blurred.

In a dark corner, Fitzroy prodded what seemed to be a pile of laundry. The shape moved, falling forward into the weak light. It was Chad, the listless young man who worked at the tavern, part-time. The thing I remembered most about Chad was how his acne and his scraggly red beard battled for complete ownership of his face. He nearly always wore roomy corduroy pants, hacked off just below the knees, over long-johns. I’d never seen him without his stocking cap, which was pulled low over his dull eyes. Usually, his long hair flowed out from the cap in luxurious waves, but tonight it was pulled back in a limp-looking ponytail. Chad took the apron that Fitzroy shoved at him, and put it on. It was a tight fit. Chad’s stomach had blown up like a balloon, as had the rest of him. He had never been in the best shape, but he now sported a World Championship beer-belly and two thick, powerful looking arms. Even his beard seemed to have filled out. Untrimmed, it spread over his cheeks and down his neck in a lush carpet. With a typical display of enervation, Chad shuffled into the crowd and started to take drink orders. First Fitzroy, now Chad… Both had to have gained a huge amount of weight in the last two months.

An hour passed without any intrusion by the female sex. Keith leaned in to me. His breath tickled my ear. It was warm, and smelled like baking bread. “This is pathetic,” he whispered.

I could see Chad working his way through the crowd, over to the bar. The men were all talking to him as he passed. They touched his arms, his back, his belly. I thought I saw one guy reach lower than that, but I couldn’t be sure. Chad ignored them. As he slipped behind the bar, Fitzroy corralled him. They spoke in low tones, and glanced around the tavern. I tried to eavesdrop, but I could only pick up scraps of their conversation:

“getting restless”

“showtime yet, why don’t we”

“in the audience”

“fucking begging for”

Finally, Fitzroy pushed Chad back out into the crowd. A minute later, he presented Keith and me with a fresh pitcher. “On the house,” he said, grandly. “I hope you boys aren’t gonna cut out on me just yet. My Plan B’ is about to go into effect.”

Keith smirked. “‘Plan B’? What the hell is that? No, let me guess. You’re going to strip.”

“You wish!” said Fitzroy, with a wry grin.

“No, he wishes,” said Keith, jerking his thumb at me. “I think Geoffy here has a crush on you!”

I slammed my mug down on the bar. “Jesus, Keith–!”

“As I was saying,” Fitzroy interjected, “I know this crew of roughnecks came here to see some kinda performance, so I lined up a magic act.”

“Goodbye,” said Keith, flatly. He made a show of standing up.

“Naw, naw, it ain’t like that!” protested Fitzroy. “He’s like a comedy magician, y’know, like that Amazing Jonathan guy. He does gigs all over the country. A real up-and-comer! I know him; he’s pretty cool. He has family in town, so he stops by the tavern a lot. Chad spotted him in the crowd tonight. I know he’ll do a little somethin’ for us. As a favor to me.”

“God, fine…!” Keith sat back down, his eyes glued to the free pitcher.

The crowd’s rumblings grew louder, and then died down. I turned towards the stage, which was now lit. Chad helped a tall guy onto the platform. The magician, I supposed. The man hobbled on a battered metal cane to one side of the stage, and turned to face the crowd. I think I actually flinched when I saw his face. His skin was ruddy, like he was either freshly-sunburned or extremely drunk. It was also quite smooth and shiny. It had a weird, slightly loose quality, and it wrinkled in odd places, making it seem masklike. His head was hairless ,no eyebrows, even. Round, lidless eyes bulged out from under his beetling forehead. Maybe to offset his curiously ruddy skin, he had dressed all in red. Crimson leather cowboy boots; a filthy scarlet t-shirt with the scabby remains of a fire department’s logo on the chest; jeans the color of dried blood. And he had topped it all off with a snakeskin jacket in a rich vermillion. While Chad fussed with the microphone, the magician leaned on his cane and pulled back his lips into a rigor mortis smile.

Feedback shrilled through the tavern. Chad’s big body jumped backwards. “Um,” he said. Then silence. A bead of sweat dangled from the tip of his nose. His eyes darted around, anxiously. After what felt like hours, he intoned:

“Carl Baron.”

And with that, he slinked back off of the platform.

Baron hobbled over to the microphone. “Where the hell did Fitzroy do to drive out all the ladies, huh?” he cried. His voice was high-pitched and nasal, with a buzzing tone to it that put me in mind of telephone poles and hornets’ nests. Baron rapped his cane on the platform for emphasis. The crowd broke into applause, hollering and whistling.

“I guess they’ve seen him before,” Keith said to Fitzroy.

“It ain’t the first time I’ve had to resort to this,” he admitted.

Baron’s magic act didn’t have a lot of magic in it. It was mainly stand-up comedy, and it got pretty raunchy. Occasionally, Baron would illustrate a punchline with some slight-of-hand. With his right hand tightly gripping the mic, his left hand darted around like a moth. Objects from his pocket ,a bendy-straw; a pack of gum; a fat, cellophane-wrapped cigar ,were worked into a story about some kind of three-way gone wrong. His anecdotes grew increasingly obtuse. The endings circled backwards into their beginnings. Stories nestled inside other stories, which were bookended by still other stories. Like a matryoshka doll of tit jokes. Baron talked with great speed. He seemed to speak too quickly for his own good, really, because he began to get his gender pronouns mixed up. Her cock. His snatch. After a while, he left out the female pronouns altogether. Somehow, he wound up telling a story about a man who got fucked by another man, and so on, in a carnal daisy chain. It was all gay as hell.

But the mob of blue-collar drunks and plastered college kids ate it up. Here and there in the crowd, men shouted “Big finish!” But it didn’t seem to be out of any desire for Baron to wrap things up. On the contrary, it seemed to me that they just really loved his finale.

The audience’s acclamation grew into a roar. Baron’s pink hand made a pushing-down gesture. The din subsided. The magician drew close to the microphone and whispered, “How’d you like to see my big finish?”

The room went apeshit.

In the harsh lighting, Baron practically glowed. “I invented this next trick. Nobody else does it. It’s called ‘Magic Fingers.’ First, I need a volunteer…!”

Showing remarkable vigor, several drunken souls staggered to their feet, and screamed to be chosen. Slyly, Baron pointed his cane at the crowd, sweeping it in a wide arc. “What about… you?”

The end of the cane aimed directly at me. My throat was dry. Baron jabbed the cane in the air, impatiently. “Yeah, college boy! You! The short, fat boy in the preppie coat! Get your sorry ass up here!” Muffled jeers erupted from a corner of the room.

I tried to form an objection, but all that left my throat was a soft, rasping noise.

“Aw, for fuck’s sake!” Keith moaned. “You’re such a fucking pussy sometimes…!” His hand shot into the air. “I’ll do it!” he yelled.

When Keith stepped onto the platform, his demeanor altered. I’d seen it before. Keith was confident, and he knew that he could get away with giving me a lot of shit, but he wasn’t cocky. He had an uncanny sense of how best to behave in nearly every situation. Here, he let his posture sag a bit, and his smile was amiable but not aggressive. He wanted to be seen as “just one of the guys.”

Baron snagged the cuff of Keith’s sport coat, and gave it a tug. “First, you need to take that thing off.”

“No problem,” said Keith. He flexed his broad shoulders and sloughed off the jacket.

“Because you won’t need it anymore.”

“Wait, what–?”

Baron ignored this. “Question time!” He jerked a finger at Chad, who scurried over to the platform and took Keith’s jacket. “Nothin’ too personal,” Baron added. “I just want the bare facts. What’s your name?”

“Keith Sanderson.”

“Any nicknames?”

“Nope.”

“Really…? Okay. Weight?”

“I don’t know. Maybe 185?”

“Okay, that’s good. Now”

But some pixilated soul in the audience interjected, shouting “More!”

Baron nodded, with a sly grin. “Yeah, sure! So, Keith… those beautiful blond locks of yours… that all real? Or are you one of them ‘Hair Club for Men’ types?”

“No, it’s all mine.”

Somebody else in the crowd yelled out, “More!”

Baron looked terribly impressed. “Shit, Keith! I think these dudes want to learn all about you!”

Keith shuffled his feet a bit. “Yeah, I guess so.” His smile became uncertain.

Baron looked Keith up and down. “Huh. Now, tell me, buddy… how tall are you?”

Low murmurs from the crowd. Somebody hollered, “Awright!”

“I’m right around six-foot,” said Keith.

And again, men in the crowd called out, “More! More!”

Baron bit his lip, and made a sucking sound as he considered this request. “What do you do for a living, kid?”

Keith inhaled, deeply. He knew how his answer was going to go over with this mob. “I’m, um, in college, still. I’m getting my master’s.”

Baron glared at the crowd. “One more, and then that’s it for tonight. You greedy fucks…!” He flashed an innocent smile at Keith. “Why don’t you tell us how old you are, guy?”

Someone laughed; a wet, barking sound that quickly turned into a coughing fit.

Keith didn’t reply to Baron’s query right away ,he appeared to be scanning the darkness for the laughter’s source. But after a few seconds, he stammered, “ Twenty-four. .” But even then, he wasn’t looking at the magician.

Baron snapped his fingers in Keith’s face. “Hey! Pay attention, goddamn it! Question time is over. Let’s get down to business. Spin around for me.”

Keith stared at Baron, evidently confused by the request. Baron slammed his cane on the platform. Keith jumped. “C’mon!” Baron cried. “Just turn around. I gotta make sure everything you told me is on the up-and-up.”

Haltingly, Keith rotated.

“Take your shoes off,” Baron said.

With noticeable exasperation, Keith obliged.

“Hold 'em out, so the audience can see inside ‘em.”

Keith presented his loafers to the crowd. “There,” he said, with a note of irritation in his voice. “Can I put these back on, now?”

“Yeah, you’d fucking better do it,” shot back Baron. “Otherwise, it ruins the act. Okay, now pull your shirt up so we can see your chest. Or unbutton it. Either way is good.”

“Hey, now wait a...!”

“Oh, I’m sorry; I thought you were the college boy who WASN’T a fucking pussy.”

Keith muttered something, but he did as he was told. He pulled his dress shirt out from his jeans, and rolled it up to just above his nipples. A dusting of downy blond fur snaked over his flat stomach.

“Good kid,” purred Baron. “Now check this shit out…!” His hand flapped near to Keith’s eyes, and then retreated. His index finger stabbed at the air. He seemed to be drawing a pattern.

Just then, I heard shouts coming from the front door. I turned around, to see the bouncer arguing with four people who stood outside the tavern. Even in the gloom, I could tell that they were all women. The ladies stormed off, and the bouncer shut the door. There was a hollow, clacking sound. He had locked it. A few moments later, he switched off the electric “OPEN” sign.

I gave Fitzroy a look.

“We’re at capacity,” he said. “Fire codes, ya know.”

Onstage, Keith looked wobbly. His arms hung limply at his sides, and his eyes were half-closed.

Baron waved his arms over Keith, while limping around him in a tight circle. Smirking, he said to the audience, “And now a little shibbedy-shubbedy, alakazam, hocus-pocus, what-the-fuck-ever bullshit, aaannnd…!” He jerked his arms ,cane and all ,up in the air. The hairs on my neck stood on end at the sight of it. Later, I realized this was because Baron’s legs hadn’t moved. While they remained frozen, his torso had sprung upwards, elastically. Like a jack-in-the-box. I didn’t have time to consider all this when it happened, of course. Because Baron was already slamming his cane down onto the makeshift stage, and shouting, “Bam!”

Keith shook, violently. I saw a guy get tasered, once. This was kind of like that, only Keith stayed on his feet. For several tense seconds, he didn’t move at all. Slowly, he blinked. His eyes opened wide. But his posture had changed. He stood stiffly, tensely, with his broad shoulders drawn back. He held his head high, with a slight tilt – arrogantly, or perhaps defensively. His eyes, now locked in a squint, regarded the room with suspicion. His jaw jutted outward. He looked like a man who was spoiling for a fight.

He took a step backwards, and nearly tumbled over. “Holy shit!” he gasped. “What the fuck just happened?” His voice was a dry, croaking baritone.

Baron grabbed Keith’s arm, steadying him. “Easy, ,Bull. You were just hypnotized, remember? And now I’ve brought you out of it. Let’s have a big hand for ,Bull, huh, guys?”

As the audience broke into hooting, foot-stomping applause, a taut and guarded smile crept onto Keith’s face. But it quickly vanished, and his face once more resumed an angry, defiant quality. Keith raised his hands to his face. He patted his face and his hair, and then he stroked his shirt. One hand lingered on his stomach. He grunted. “I’m trussed up tighter ‘n a Thanksgiving turkey! What was I doin’…?”

“I had you acting like you were a whole different person. You thought you were a twenty-four-year-old graduate student named Keith Sanderson.”

“Twenty-four? Try thirty-five! And Keith Sanderson…?’ Fuck. I never even heard of him.”

“Did you even go to college, ,Bull?”

“Shit, no. Couldn’t afford it, for starters.”

“So what do you do for a living?”

“I dunno. This and that. Roofin’, drywall, landscapin’. Road crews, sometimes. I been all over the U.S.A. I can’t hold onto a job for too long, on account my mouth always gets me in trouble. Well, my mouth and my dick. College–! You’re a real comedian, aren’t ya?”

“Relax, ,Bull. It was all in fun.” As Baron spoke, he waved a hand over Keith’s shirt pocket.

Keith began to look anxious. He licked his lips. “Say, do ya mind if I–? I mean, it feels like it’s been ages. Please?”

Baron nodded, indulgently. “Go ahead, ,Bull. You’ve been a good boy.”

From the audience, raucous laughter. “FUCK YOU!” Keith snarled into the darkness.

Glaring menacingly at the crowd, Keith reached into his shirt pocket, and produced the cellophane-wrapped cigar that Baron had used earlier in his act. He hastily unwrapped it, and held it in his mouth while he dug into his trousers. Miraculously, he produced a fancy silver lighter. After lighting the cigar, Keith exhaled a cloud of billowing white smoke. He relaxed, slightly. “So, what’s the deal with all this stuff you got me in? I feel like I can hardly move.”

“I had you all dolled up,” said Baron. “Like a bride on her wedding day. But just like on her wedding night, it’s time for all that shit to come off.” He placed a hand atop Keith’s head. With a quick, smooth motion, he lifted Keith’s hair up. And off. Keith was now bald. Balder than Fitzroy, even. Baron jerked his finger at Keith, and Keith dutifully spun around so everybody could see. All that remained of Keith’s hair was a narrow band of fuzz, laying low on his skull in a horseshoe pattern.

Baron tossed Keith’s hair into the crowd. It was caught by a guy at the table in front of me. I only saw it for a few seconds, before the man stuffed it into his pocket. But it didn’t look real anymore. It was all in one piece, like a skullcap. It appeared to be made out of vinyl.

I felt dizzy. Too many beers. I leaned backwards, until the bar’s brass railing pressed into my back. I liked the solidity of it. I couldn’t understand how Baron had done it. Was Keith in on the trick the whole time? Had he shaved his head, and put on a vinyl wig that looked just like his real hair? But that was just it. The wig didn’t look real at all.

Onstage, Keith clawed his expensive plaid dress shirt. A button popped off. He swore.

“Lemme me help you with that,” said Baron.

He ripped the shirt open, and the rest of the buttons spilled onto the stage. Underneath, Keith now sported some kind of truss or girdle. It was yellow with sweat stains. Baron slipped his hand behind Keith’s back, under his shirt. A moment later, the device sprang off. Immediately, Keith’s stomach bulged into a bulbous gut, as deep and as firm as a stewpot. His thin trail of blond hairs had spread over his belly in a dense, curling pelt.

It’s fake, I thought. Some kind of strap-on prosthesis. Maybe Baron had pressed a button on the back of it to make it inflate. But it sure as hell looked realistic. Besides, when would he have had time to slip the thing onto Keith in the first place? Unless Keith was already wearing it, under the truss, which was under a replica of his real stomach. Layers under layers under layers. It was crazy. And part of me couldn’t help hoping that it was real after all. Because Keith somehow looked better that way. Manlier. Hotter.

I noticed that the crowd had gotten quiet. I looked around. Groups of men had pushed their chairs together. They had their arms around one other. Some of them were moving their hands over their laps, or over their neighbor’s laps. I couldn’t see exactly what they were doing. But I could guess.

Chad had returned to the bar, and was sitting a few seats down from me. He was smoking an old-timey pipe with a long, curving stem: a “churchwarden”, although I didn’t know it back then. He had one hand stuffed down his pants. I pictured Fitzroy doing the exact same thing. But Fitzroy turned out to be behind me, leaning on the bar and staring at the stage. He caught my glance and gave me a friendly smile. “Just think,” he said. “That could have been you.”

Onstage, Baron had helped Keith out of his shirt. Keith still seemed to be having trouble keeping his balance, for some reason. Baron crumpled the shirt into a tight ball. He handed it to Keith, who unfolded it. But it was a different shirt, now. It was gray denim, with the sleeves cut off. The seams were frayed. A darker rectangle over the pocket indicated where a patch had once been. Here and there, the fabric was marred by oily stains. Keith slipped the shirt back on, but didn’t bother to button it. Contentedly, he rubbed his furry, protruding gut..

I could hear my heart pounding. My muscles had tensed up. My face felt hot. A small, dark stain materialized on my crotch. Looking at Keith was making me pop a boner. Shit.

A powerful thought struck me: what if it wasn’t just Keith who was hypnotized? What if Baron had hypnotized the entire crowd? It was crazy, but it made more sense than the idea of Baron having actual magic powers.

“Don’t worry, ,Bull,” said Baron. “I’ve almost got you back to normal.” He reached behind Keith’s ears. With a soft, tearing noise, he removed a strip of clear tape that had supposedly looped under Keith’s jaw. A beard sprouted quickly over his jaw. Thick, flowing…more hair than he thought Keith could ever grow on his face. Keith’s little beard was now a burly, unkempt mass that hung down to his chest.

Baron appraised his handiwork. “Nope. Still not quite right.”

Keith shifted his weight “No?” He looked a little hurt.

“Hold that pose,” Baron ordered. From his pockets, he extracted a glass pepper shaker and an enormous scarlet handkerchief. With his cane clamped under his arm, he shook a great deal of pepper into one hand. Suddenly, he flung the pepper into Keith’s face.

Keith snorted. He made sounds like he was about to sneeze.

As he huffed ready to sneeze, it looked like his whole body was inflating with each breath. His shoulders widened, his chest pushed out, even his already large belly rounded out further.

Baron stuffed the red cloth in Keith’s now meaty hands “use this,” he told him.

Keith raised the handkerchief to his face. He blew his nose into it, with a wet, flatulent sound. His whole frame enlarged again. His shirt gone, and his massive hairy form was one full display. He lowered the handkerchief.

I groaned. My cock strained against the cloth of my trousers. It was too much, I thought. I hadn’t even realized that I even wanted Keith ,especially not with him transformed into a huge man like that. He was enormous now. He had ballooned even bigger than Fitzroy…. He looked like he was 6’4”, maybe 6’5”... and he had to be well beyond 300 pounds. Maybe close to 400. Huge arms, huge legs, and a massive hairy ball belly.

Keith looked at the handkerchief, which was bone-dry. “Nothin’ came out,” he said to Baron, apologetically.

“That’s okay,” Baron replied. “You keep it. Do whatever you want with it.”

Keith’s heavily bearded face lit up like a kid’s on his birthday. Without hesitating, he wrapped the handkerchief around his bald head and tied it in the back, like a bandana. The cloth covered his eyebrows, making him look like a gang member. Once more, he began to sway, his enormous new body unsteady on his feet.

“Please,” he whined to Baron. “Please, can I–?” Despite his imposive size, his deference to Baron had devolved into servility.

Baron pinched Keith’s hairy cheek. “Go right ahead, big man. Show these fuckers why you’re called “,Bull.’”

Keith hopped awkwardly back, until he could lean against the brick wall. He held out one foot. Baron helped Keith out of his shoes. But it took a few seconds, because they weren’t loafers anymore. They were more like boots. Platform boots. Baron unlaced them, and slipped them off of Keith’s feet.

Keith stood once more on his unshorn feet. He had gained a good three or or four inches in height. His legs were massive but long, and slightly bowed. But his bare arms were long, and even more muscular. Then he dropped what remained of his boxers. Underneath that big hairy gut was the largest, thickest cock I’d ever seen.

The room tilted. I was hypnotized, I thought. I had to be. Nothing else made sense.

“I’m waiting for my thank-you,” added Baron. He wasn’t smiling. His jeans were unzipped, and he held Keith’s massive cock in his hand. Even his balls were gigantic. His manhood had seemed to have grown right along with the rest of him.

Keith dropped to his knees. He leaned in towards Baron. But Baron only stepped back. Keith moved forward, but Baron continued to walk backwards. He made the now huge Keith struggle across that tiny stage, on his knees. When Baron finally paused, Keith took the magician’s cock in his furry maw, and slurped on it, hungrily.

In the audience, the men were all doing similar things to one another. Clothes were coming off. Guys were pressing other guys onto the tables, knocking chairs over in the process. The bouncer shoved the barn coat guy into a wall. Lanterns smashed onto the floor, and flickered out. Darkness overtook the crowd. Scattered dots of orange danced in the gloom.

Panicked, I looked around for Fitzroy. He was still behind me, smiling benignly. “I have to get out of here,” I mumbled.

“I don’t think so,” he said. His voice was even, but firm.

Something touched my leg.

It was Chad.

He crouched on the floor, and his hands crawled up my trousers. He seized my belt buckle. I tried to push him away, but Fitzroy grabbed my arms and pulled me back, onto the bar.

I shook my head, wildly. “No–! No, fuck…! I don’t, I don’t want this–!”

“That’s just it,” Fitzroy whispered. “I think ya do. Now, Chad won’t take care of that wood you’ve sprouted, unless you want him to. I’ll let ya go, and you can leave this place, and you can spend the rest of your dull life thinkin’ about how things could have been. Just say the words.”

I felt like I was floating. Something came loose in my brain.

“Do it,” I hissed.

“Do what?” teased Fitzroy.

I screamed the next words. “Suck my cock! Suck my fucking cock!” My voice was savage, but commanding. I was energized. Fire surged through my veins, beneath my flushed crimson skin. Red, under red, under red.

Chad hurriedly undid my belt, and pulled my pants and underwear down to my ankles. He took my throbbing meat in his mouth. His tongue danced on the tip of my cock, while his teeth gently grazed the sides of it. His beard tickled my ball sack. His hands massaged my thighs, deeply, and firmly. I shuddered. Never in my life had I felt pleasure that was even a tenth as great as this.

Fitzroy released my arms. My fingers gripped the edge of the bar. I watched the top of Chad’s head as it bobbed up and down. Chad pulled his stocking cap off. Underneath, he was bald, just like Fitzroy and Keith. Chad gently took one of my hands and put it on his smooth, warm pate. I caressed it. The sensation was unbelievable.

The tavern grew darker. The neon signs crackled and died. I couldn’t see Chad anymore. The only light left was directed at the stage. Keith was still going down on Baron, but they both had somehow lost their clothes. Keith looked absolutely enormous and was completely covered in thick body hair. Baron leaned over Keith, further and further. His arms slid down Keith’s now huge, hairy back, until they nearly touched the floor. With his spine nearly bent over double, Baron rested the side of his head against Keith’s wide, fuzzy lower back and massive ass. He looked at me. His lips split into a broad smile. With a sudden motion, his tongue slid into Keith’s ass.

My head jolted backwards. I was about to climax. The next moment, Baron and Keith were gone. In their place, was a giant red serpent. The snake formed the shape of a hoop, balancing on edge, as it devoured its own tail. Slowly, hypnotically, it rotated. The stage, the curtain, the wall… the tavern was blurring at the edges. It looked cheap and small, like a shoebox diorama built by some kid. The perspective was all wrong. I couldn’t tell if the snake was huge and far away, or if it was very small and floating right in front of my nose. Maybe if I touch it, I thought. My hand stretched out…

Then I was being dragged through the half-lit tavern, past overturned chairs and rubbernecking patrons. My feet skidded through puddles of beer and cum. Cold air slapped at my face. I was on the sidewalk. Distantly, I could hear voices. Fitzroy’s and Chad’s. But I could barely make out what they were saying. Just scraps:

“right into the wall”

“idea it would get that bad, what do we”

“lost him, holy shit, what”

“no police, I can take care of”

They shoved me into a taxi.

The driver deposited me in front of my apartment. After a couple dozen tries, I managed to get my key into the lock. I fell onto my bed in a heap, and passed out.

When I woke up, it was close to three in the afternoon. I felt like shit. Keith had apparently never come back home. The answering machine held messages from his friends, who were looking for him. I shambled into the bathroom. I did a double-take when I caught my face in the mirror. Sure, I was a mess, which was to be expected. My hair was sticking up, and my eyes were red, and I needed a shave. But what stopped me in my tracks was the thick. I pressed my face close to the mirror, so I could get a better look. The ring was shaped like a snake, with crisscrossing gouges on the side, to represent scales. The snake’s tail disappeared inside its mouth. I tried to figure out how to remove it. But it turned out to be one solid piece of metal.

I stepped back and examined myself. I had to admit, I kind of liked the ring. It was the rest of me that looked stupid. I grabbed Keith’s beard trimmer. I put the blade on the shortest setting, and doggedly ran the clippers over my scalp. I regarded myself in the mirror. A pudgy, bleary-eyed thug stared back at me. “It’s a start,” said the thug.

I walked into Keith’s room and sat down on his bed. I waited there past nightfall. Exausted, I crawled under the covers, and fell asleep.

I didn’t leave the apartment much. Not for the first few weeks. Only to give a statement to the cops, and to buy things. Food, new clothes, or to go the gym. Sunglasses to hide my eyes, which were still too pretty, goddamn it.

When I felt ready, I went back to Fitzroy’s. It was early afternoon. Not many customers. I got the fucker alone in his storeroom. Fitzroy looked bigger than ever, but acted pretty cagey about the whole ordeal. He didn’t know who the magician really was. That whole story about him, having family in town? Totally bullshit. All Fitzroy knew was that Baron had the power to physically alter people. Baron had done it to Fitzroy and Chad, not to mention plenty of their customers. Fitzroy thought it was funny at first. But he had never seen Baron transform a person as completely as he did Keith. Moreover, nobody else had seen all the crazy shit that I had seen, there at the end. No big red snake. At the end of Baron’s act, the magician stepped behind the red curtain and vanished into the brick wall. Fitzroy hadn’t seen him since. Keith had last been spotted getting into the cab of a semi. Fitzroy didn’t know who the driver was.

God Fitzroy looked hot at this size. He saw that I was into his size, he seemed to flaunt it a bit around me, flexing his burly chest under his tight button up. We quickly found ourselves tavern’s crappy little bathroom. There, the enormous man got down on his hands and knees, and I plowed his hole.

When I got back to the apartment, it felt like a tomb. So I grabbed my shit, and I just walked out of there. I hit the road. The cops were never going to find Keith. How could they? Keith didn’t even exist. Not anymore. But I felt like maybe I could find him. How could a man that large disappear? I felt like I had to find him. He was all I could think about.

I never went back to school. I haven’t seen my family and friends. Fuck ‘em. They probably think I’m dead by now, anyway.

I still have the septum ring. And plenty more, besides. Not to mention the tats on my arms: red snakes, dozens of ‘em, twisted into patterns I’ve only seen in my dreams. My beard is huge, hanging down to my waist. I’ve gotten into powerlifting and put on some size too. Up about 60 pounds since that night at Fitzroys. Trying to pack on another 50 or 60

I still haven’t found Keith. I’ve searched the country for him. I’ve seen a lot of low places. I’ve done a lot of low things. But I still have hope. One day. One day, I’ll find my lost friend.

And I’ll fuck his goddamn brains out.