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Eat My Shorts

A curtain circled them. The tang of burning dust caught in the back Stephen's throat. He chewed his fingernails.

"'Ope yer not 'avin any second thoughts now, boys," contestant Four chuckled.

"Of course not," said One.

"Good luck everybody," said Two.

Stephen remained quiet.

A cheerful voice echoed around them, amplified by speakers throughout the studio, "Good afternoon ladies and gentle-mares," it paused for for a tsunami of applause, "I hope you're ready to Eat My Shorts!" The crowd woo'ed and awoo'ed, and for once Stephen was glad for the curtain. After a couple of beats the rabble hushed. The host gave a phoney laugh, "Now, now. I know you at home must be _chomping at the bit_to see what's in store for today, but first-"

A jubilant roll of timpani and snare battered around the room, aimed at the fabric now protecting Stephen from the stage.

"-let's meet our _paw_fully lucky contestants."

With the shrill grind of metal-on-metal, the curtain swung open, letting in the full force of studio lighting. Stephen braced his eyes with his wrists, the bracelet they had given him making it awkward to try and block it out. He pulled his lips into a half-smile and narrowed his eyes through the glare. As always, the contestants were centre-stage, he noted. Actually being on stage, however, made his knees feel weak and his throat clog with phlegm.

There were at least four-hundred people seated in a semi-circle in front of him, eyeing him up: judging him, excited for him, mocking him. Throw in at least twenty stage hands or assistants or runners or producers - and that was only those he could see - and the prospect of participating in this show seemed like a poor prank he had played on himself. Not to mention the average of two million viewers enjoying his expense from home, or the potential thousands of millions of people lurking around online for the next big viral moment.

"Thank you for joining us today," the host aimed at Stephen and the others, facing the entirely opposite direction towards one of eight cameras, "Now let's learn more about our fine specimen." An array of coloured lighting angled down on them, one colour for each contestant: red, blue, green and yellow. "Contestant One, please step forward."

The rightmost contestant walked up to the only structure on the stage: four pedestals with large red buzzers atop them. His head was curled with hazel hair, the olive undertones of his skin surviving surprisingly well under the lights: glowing, in fact. There was a calmness to his steps and a steel in the chestnut of his eyes that earned him applause from the crowd.

"Contestant One's name is Robert," the host said as Robert's name panel lit up. "Robert is a 26 year-old graphic design graduate whose interests include freelance drawing, Japanese cartoons and running around fields all day. Whoops, scratch that last one, folks." The audience lapped up the sub-par comedic material.

"Contestant Two, make your way forward," said the host. Next in line, an auburn-haired guy with paler skin moved onwards. His eyes were a refractive blue, melting like snow under the intensity of the lights. Stephen felt sorry for him. He was sweating profusely - they all were, to be fair - more-so than any of the others. He kept trying to tug at the bracelet on his arm to loosen it.

"A 27 year-old computer science graduate with some real hands-on experience," the host wiggled his eyebrows, "Contestant Two enjoys role-playing games with his buddies, long walks on his own and curling up on the sofa to watch his favourite shows. Andrew, say hello." Wiping the sweat from his brow, Andrew gave a small wave.

Sensing what was coming next, Stephen flattened his shirt and adjusted his belt buckle. He was wearing the most smart-casual outfit he could think of: a red-black chequered flannel shirt with the top two buttons undone, tucked into neat-fitting jeans and accompanied by brown leather derby shoes.

"Magic number Three," the host called, "Come join us." Stephen advanced as confidently as he could manage, holding onto the pedestal with both arms. Now that he was up beside Robert and Andrew, he noticed he was a couple of inches taller than them, and maybe a bit thinner. His hair was short and brown, with an annoying tendency to curl under his ears.

"Having spent a number of years working in a college cafeteria, 25 year-old Stephen longs to pursue a _stable_education," the host said. There was more to it than that, but Stephen just smiled as best he could. "With an esoteric passion for video-games and a knack for artistry, Stephen hopes that this will be a chance to discover greener pastures." Stephen received his ration of applause from the crowd, nodding appreciatively, if not nervously.

"Knock, knock at the door, number Four." The fourth contestant ran up to the pedestal, arms raised, cheering and clapping along with the crowd. He looked older than the rest of them, heavily-built, with dirty-blonde hair sprouting messily from his head. The sleeves of his discoloured white shirt were rolled up, revealing hairy arms, and blue dungaree straps wrapped around his shoulders. He wore a pair of black boots, the laces so matted with dirt that Stephen wondered if he even knew he was appearing on television.

"A true family man," the host said, "Good old Ronald here is hoping to support his family back at the homestead." The crowd d'aww-ed. "Having lived the country life for his entire existence - that's 56 years, folks - Ronald hopes to support his eldest grand-child in studying veterinary science." Finally settled at his pedestal, Ronald whistled at the crowd, giving them his best tobacco smile.

"Y'all are too much," Ronald said into the rabble.

With all four contestants in place, the lights centred on the host. A snazzy tune jingled, and he did a rehearsed twirl. Stephen knew who he was; he had done his research, weighing the pro's and con's of competing. The host was a 30-something Hollywood type with a veneered smile and abs for days. He carried with him the energy of a professional who could only be raking in a six-figure salary. Either that, or he had a few screws loose. He wore a pair of bright orange shorts.

"And, as always," the host paused for effect, "I'm your host for this evening: Chester MacArby!" Stephen's ears were starting to hurt from the constant cheering; he was not looking forward to the tinnitus that would ensue - if he won, of course, which he planned to.

"Thank you, thank you," said Chester, switching to a different camera, "Now without further adieu, let's explain the rules for those of you tuning in for the first time. Each of our mighty fine contestants here have been fitted with a state-of-the-art bracelet, each of which connecting seamlessly into their bloodstreams. For each incorrect answer or round lost, our contestants will receive a healthy dosage of our patented Transformula, making them regret their hasty decisions. Remember folks: there can only be one winner, and tonight's prize is a lifetime of debt-free college education, wiping away any outstanding problems with the beep of a buzzer."

Cheering again. Stephen looked down at the bracelet on his right wrist, his first chance to do so away from the cover of curtains. It was heavier than he imagined, with a small digital display pointing outwards. The band itself was silver in colour, with a small black attachment on the side to adjust its diameter. Its underside pierced directly into his arm, numbed entirely by whatever cream they had applied back-stage.

"For our first round, contestants will answer carefully selected questions in turn, gaining five points for each correct answer," Chester informed the audience. As he finished his explanation, the backdrop of the stage rotated, revealing a wall-sized scoreboard. An intense drone reverberated through the room and the lights dimmed. "Contestants, are you ready to Eat My Shorts?"

Another drone and round of applause came Stephen's way. He palmed his thumbs slowly. He had practised for this.

When Chester spoke again, his pace slowed, with an emphasis on the pronunciation of every syllable. "Robert, which animal can achieve the greater maximum running speed: ostriches or horses?"

"Ostriches," Robert answered.

There was a small pause, before an electronic _DING_shot out to the crowd. Robert's line of the scoreboard updated to "5."

"Andrew, a cow can sleep standing up, but it can only dream laying down: true or false?"

Chester asked.

"False? I think?" Andrew said, looking to Robert and Stephen for any hints.

WAH-WAHH. A bass-filled buzzer sounded and a huge pair of shorts appeared on the scoreboard. Andrew fiddled incessantly with his bracelet, Stephen saw, a patch of skin from eyebrow to cheekbone flaking away from his face. A fine layer of grey hairs appeared from the patch, and although Andrew tried to hide it, Stephen witnessed their two leftmost fingers shorten and contort, becoming crooked and flaky before the grey hair grew there too.

Focus, Stephen told himself.

"Stephen, keeping a goldfish in a dark room causes it to grow pale: true or false?" Chester said.

"True," Stephen said, stepping on one of his feet to ground himself.

DING. Stephen sighed. That was too close.

"Ronald, which fish is more poisonous: the puffer fish, or the stone fish?"

"'Hwell bein' a fishin' man m'self, I'd be tempted ta say the mighty puffer, but my old grand-papy, rest his soul, were a darn sight smarter than I were, and he'd say stone fish," Ronald said, switching from solemn back to care free as he spoke about his grandfather.

"So your final answer is stone fish?" Chester asked.

"Yup."

DING.

The questions passed around and along, the central theme being nature and wildlife. Stephen knew how the main rounds would go, and no other incorrect answers had been given twelve questions deep. There would be four questions for each of them in this one, with a small penalty given for errors. The mistake that most players made was underestimating the _cumulative_effect of incorrect answers.

"False," Stephen answered to his final question.

WAH-WAHH.

He slapped himself in the face. Fuck, he mentally cursed. He knew the big pair of animated shorts would be dancing up on the screen, belittling him for his stupid answer.

"Oh dear, Stephen," Chester said, "I'm afraid that answer was _wildly_inaccurate."

Stephen shrugged, trying to play it cool for the crowd. His left arm began to tingle, pins-and-needles dotting from wrist to elbow. He rubbed it down, de-gloving a layer of white skin to unveil thick brown hair below. He gulped, mentally scanning himself for any other changes, bending his wrist to check if he still had control. It bent... but would not bend back. Nor could he straighten his index finger, which curved into his palm in a surprisingly painless manner. His arm and finger throbbed, sinew painting over where joints had previously been. The feeling flickered to his shoulder before smouldering steadily. He felt like a candle, warping as the bracelet consumed his wick.

"Well done everyone - well, most of you," Chester laughed, "Now lets see those scores after round one." The scoreboard shimmered.

Robert - 25

Ronald - 25

Andrew - 20

Stephen - 20

"Robert and Ronald are running away with the show... by five points, that is. Now that may not seem like a lot, folks, but when we take into account our last place penalty," Andrew and Stephen's names flashed on the screen, "I think they'll find it to be an un-_fur-_gettable mistake.

Stephen and Andrew turned to one another, secretly hoping that it would only affect the other. Of course, they were wrong. A static sensation rose along the entirety of Stephen's upper half, making the hairs of his body stand on end. He watched as the small patch of grey hair on Andrew's face glided around like scissors through wrapping paper, tatters of skin falling to the pedestal as his mouth narrowed and nose protruded. A hot flush crept down Stephen's back, the nape of his neck demanding to be scratched as his hair developed a coarse extension down his spine. Both men watched, mouth agape - as agape as Andrew's shrunken mouth could be, at least - as their bodies fluttered into a fervid nightmare.

Stephen's earlobes had stretched an inch; he was sure of it. It was either that or the heat from all the lights making them warm and itchy. He looked back at the scoreboard, half disappointed in himself, half glad his arm had not gotten any worse.

All eyes were on Chester again, "Before we proceed to the quick-fire round, it's time for a bonus chance. No points are on the line here, so don't worry, but our contestants get to answer in order of descending score." He pointed over to the pedestals without breaking eye-contact with the camera, "Robert, whadda ya say, bro? Will you play, or pass?"

"Play."

"What a confident gentleman, that's what we like to see here," Chester said. "What is the average heart rate, per minute, of a whale?"

Robert was expressionless for a long fifteen seconds, "Thirty beats per minute."

WAH-WAHH.

He banged the pedestal with his hand. "Was I at least close?" he asked. "Wait, I thought this was a no-points round?"

Stephen looked past Andrew to see what Robert meant. The dark curls of hair on Robert's head spiralled around his neck, displacing the olive skin that once held so stoically beneath the studio lights into a shaggy black collar with a white centre. He groaned, composure rattled, as fresh white claws teased out from between each knuckle, both of his thumbs stuck in a cramp-like position as his bodily shape re-absorbed them into his wrists. Stephen could see two pieces of enamel poking onto his lower lip, presumably an enhancement of his canine teeth. "This is so cheap," Robert whined, his body quivering at the command of the bracelet, before his nostrils widened and blackened, developing the moist scale-like texture of an animals snout.

Chester cleared his throat. "Ronald," he said, "would you like to play or pass?"

"Play, thank ya. You boys are so slow, getting," he teased, "Th' answer is nine."

DING DING DING.

The synthesised glissando of a harp rung loudly. "Congratulations, Ronald," Chester said, "You've just won yourself a high-tech collaborative laser light wand, bound to bring hours of entertainment."

A laser pointer, Stephen grumbled to himself. Similar anguish was painted on Robert's face, although it was hard to take him serious looking like the character of a children's colouring book. At least the _real_scores were mostly even, he thought.

"Well yippy-dap-derpy-doo! This'll do nicely for our youngins," Ronald said.

"Don't celebrate too soon, now, because it's time for the quick-fire round," Chester said as enormous glowing font dazzled across the screen. "See those big red buttons?" he mimicked pressing them, "all you have to do, for a whopping _ten_points each, is buzz in as soon as you think you know the answer. Be careful, though, because a wrong answer will _lose_you five points. Ruh roh!"

The usual fanfare played. Stephen inspected the extent of damage to his left arm. As long as he still had one good arm, he would be alright, he thought.

"Question one: to the nearest month, what is the longest recorded lifespan of a slug?"

Stephen knew this one. It was a dumb and pointless fact but he had looked up the best ways to prepare for the show. Memorising vast numbers of useless facts was the optimal strategy. _What was it again? Sixteen months?_that sounded right in his head.

RUFF RUFF. Robert buzzed in before Stephen could raise his hand, a wacky animal cry for a buzz-tone making the audience chortle. "Sixteen months," he said.

WAH-WAHH.

"Unlucky Robert, that's incorrect. It seems like your bark is better than your bite, if you know what I mean," Chester nodded to the crowd. A pair of CG shorts on fire danced around the screen. Stephen was glad for his tardiness.

_QUACK._Ronald buzzed this time, "Eighteen."

DING.

"Correct." The scoreboard updated with its flair.

Robert sighed under his breath, a growl escaping his lips. The collar of fur around his neck seeped upwards onto his face, uneven at first, before solidly forming around the bridge of his canine nose. One of his eyes rolled back, changing from hazel to a chocolate colour, his iris enlarging to take up most of its space. He cried, a repeated high-pitched wail, as his mouth and nose collapsed into one. He slammed his head onto the pedestal, facing the audience. Stephen saw the silhouette of Robert's entire chin and face droop into a furry, whiskered mess. His eyes were clasped shut, his hands, fully clawed, tearing at his shirt. A stubby pink mass protruded from the back of it, just above his waistband, less endowed with the thick coat of black and white fur than his new muzzle.

"Question number two: how many eyelids does each each eye of a cat have?"

_MOO._Andrew buzzed within the second, "Two eyelids, I believe," he said through his smaller mouth.

Chester smiled at Andrew. Andrew smiled at Chester. For a moment Stephen thought there was never going to be a sound.

WAH-WAHH.

_COCKADOODLEDOO._Stephen pressed the button straight away, "Cats have three, but you can only see the third when they're sick."

DING.

"That's absolutely correct," Chester said, as Stephen's name climbed up the scoreboard, "As for you, Andrew, it looks like you got the _tail_end of that question." Everyone off-stage giggled.

Andrew was not laughing. He was horrified. Every finger and toe on his body clacked aloud, snapping themselves into nubby, rounded pads. He flicked off his shoes, hiding the torn tips of his socks behind the pedestal. Ginger body hair faded and thickened, the greying of his skin making Stephen worry for his life. Andrew fell to his knees, which smoothed and bent, before a matt of grey-white fur burst through his ankles. He rolled to his side, two sharp dew claws working through his soles, before curving to join the rest. The tightness of his cargo pants was uncomfortable to watch, bulging violently at the thigh and buttocks. In a panic, he pulled on his belt, claws getting stuck in the leather. One hole, then another: finally, it unclipped, allowing the grey-furred beast to kick off his trousers. He lay on the floor, panting, the crack of his ass on show to Stephen accompanied by a soft, swishing tail. The fur had claimed his feet and legs, reaching all the way to his abdomen.

Andrew turned, pulling up his white briefs as best as he could. The tightness around his new lower section left little to the imagination. "Sorry," he whispered to Stephen, scrambling to his feet and scratching the floor. His lips were black now, and his face fully whiskered.

Chester pressed a finger to the earpiece on his head. He raised his hand, "Alright you guys, here's the dealio. At this rate, I'm not sure we're going to get a third round, so you know what? It's time for another bonus chance. The name of the game is: Bray For Your Life." An _ooh_swept through the audience, followed by a hush. "The rules are easy. I will name an animal. Your job, as our fine contestants, is to mimic what you think its cry is. For example, if I say cow, you say moo. This is a no points round; you are competing for a chance to no longer be _saddled_by five thousand dollars of debt, present or future. Also, participation is compulsory. Ready?" The studio lights dimmed.

Chester waited, taking a minute to read what was presumably a one word note on his flashcard. "What sound does a pangolin make?"

First to try was Andrew, desperation renewed from his recent changes. He made a chewing sound, like a rabbit nibbling a carrot, or a hamster feasting on vegetables. As soon as one of them started, they all joined in, refusing to lose any more of themselves. Robert made guinea pig oo's, soon switching to gentle hyena calls. He kept opening his maw and curling his tongue, making Stephen think that he was having some difficulties with his new anatomy. Stephen knew bits and bobs about pangolins, but this particular fact eluded him. He went with a chitter, like a squirrel, switching between it and low grumbling. Ronald puffed and hissed like an angry cat.

"Stop!" Chester called. Stephen was not hopeful. "The person with the most accurate impression of a pangolin," he checked his flashcard again, for some reason, "was Ronald."

Stephen, Andrew and Robert all sighed, looking exasperatedly at Ronald. Ronald just kept smiling, telling the audience, "My baby's baby 's goin' ta college!"

"They sure are, Ronald," Chester chimed in, "because a pangolin sounds most like a cat, prone to hissing or huffing as a cat would. As for the rest of you, me-ouch, that's gotta sting."

Not my arms. Not my arms. Not my arms, Stephen chanted to himself. It was no use begging his body; the chemical took what the chemical wanted, and this time it cemented the fingers of both of his hands together with a skin-like paste, lowering their mobility and dissolving his bone structure until they solidified into a dense mass. He could feel his hips widen, nerves abuzz with new connections. The small of his knees, his elbows and his shoulders forgot their previous form, taking on a stiffer, blockier shape. His skeleton throbbed in resistance, but the strongest bones in his body were moulded and subdued as if they were blown like glass.

"Now lets take a look at our scoreboard," Chester declared, cheerful as ever. Stephen forced his neck to angle upwards, looking past the thicker brow below his forehead.

Ronald - 35

Stephen - 30

Robert - 20

Andrew - 15

"Ronald has taken the lead, but it seems Robert and Andrew are trailing the pack," Chester commented. "Now that round two is concluded, it's time for our last place penalties. Since it's round two, that means our two lowest placed contestants will receive the penalty." Chester looked over Robert and Andrew, scoffing at their deformities, "Sorry, not-sorry, fellas."

Their names flashed up on the scoreboard, an emoji with X's for eyes rotating beside it. They leaned against their pedestal for support, but the bracelets had already taken effect. Robert dropped to the floor, laying out flat. His one morphed eye became two, mirroring itself on the other side of his face, bringing with it white fur between his eyes and along the top of his snout. His back, previously topped by long, wavy fur, grew hackles that stood on edge. From claw-to-elbow his arms had narrowed, sliding free from the sleeves of his t-shirt. He convulsed on the ground, shaking violently, before standing back on his front paws, shirtless.

The pink of his tongue peeked out from his muzzle. He turned to the crowd and tilted his head. There was no place on his upper body free of fur, his chest puffing out happily as he attempted to trot around the stage. His rear and legs wiggled free, his tail wagging openly in the air as he shed his pants. Those legs were meant for running, Stephen thought, and the heavy red penis dangling between them... that was meant for something else.

Robert was gone. The only hint that the border collie in front of Stephen was once the man named Robert was the small silver bracelet under its paw, which caught the light as it explored the stage. At least it's not me, Stephen sighed.

He watched the dog, which followed the cue of stage-hands to run back and forth for treats. It walked up to the front row of the crowd, two healthy nuts swinging in full view. Then it turned, and growled.

Stephen was startled at first, angling his pedestal between him and the dog. Ronald was whooping. Everyone was cheering, except Andrew. That was when Stephen realized he had been so distracted by Robert that he had forgotten all about Andrew.

Curled atop pedestal number two was a puffy mess of grey fur. One of its legs dangled over the edge, lazily stretching out. On the floor beneath it lay a wrecked shirt and a familiar pair of briefs. The cat's tail swished irritably: too much noise. Too much dog. For a moment it made eye contact and opened the fuzzy triangle of its mouth, and Stephen thought it was going to talk to him, but it just sneezed.

Unbeknownst to the grey tabby, the dog crept up behind it. The cat spread its legs, bending over to groom its crotch, giving the girth of its barbed appendage a mouthy greeting. It suckled greedily on itself.

The collie lunged. The cat purred. A catchy jingle blasted into the crowd.

Chester McArby stepped into the carnage, distracting everyone by beaming into the camera, "I know this is what you've been waiting for, folks, even if our fine contestants almost didn't make it. Round three is the point stealer round, so there's still everything to play for." A graphic of a pair of shorts being torn in half blurred across the screen. "Unfortunately I do have to declare our valiant contenders Robert and Andrew as disqualified, given that they legally no longer exist." The crowd aww-ed. "On a more positive note: any and all outstanding debts they had are now gone," Chester added, earning a woo. "So. Ronald and Stephen. Same rules as last round, except a correct answer lets you _swipe_twenty points from your opponent. On the flip-side, one wrong answer and-"

WAH-WAHH.

"- back to zero for you."

He might not have had two functioning arms - hell, he might not have been able to even walk across the room, but Stephen knew he had a fighting chance. He tried to clear his throat, the amalgam of human-beast vocal chords wheezing roughly. The key was to bide his time, he reminded himself. Don't buzz in if you don't know the answer. That's the only way.

He gave a crooked nod towards Chester, his back engorged in size to a grotesque degree. It was a battle of two sides: himself and Ronald, man and beast. He smacked the bracelet off of the pendulum to hype himself up, his crab-like stance likely looking pathetic to anyone else. The tabby cat rolled around his ankles, sniffing Andrew's briefs. The collie resigned itself to sniffing the tabby cat's butt-hole.

"Stephen. Ronald. Let's begin," said Chester, the lights spinning around before settling on a sinister red. "Your first - and hopefully not your _last -_question is this: how many eyes does an average butterfly have?"

Butterflies, butterflies, butterflies. Butterflies. Butter. Flies. 12,000? 10,000? None? Too risky,_Stephen told himself, clinging to the pedestal for balance. An ambient _whoosh_rolled around the room, in the producers' attempts to raise tension._Let him answer first. Let him take the risk. Let it go to the next question. No guesses. Not worth it. As if to illustrate his thoughts, the tabby cat leaped back onto its pedestal, clawing around, the collie playing chase with its tail. One more wrong answer and he could be bouncing around as a mindless drone, just like them.

_Let Ronald fucking McDonald with 12 million kids turn into a turtle or something instead. Had he even changed at all, yet?_Stephen did not think so. _Dumb luck. I'm not being beaten by some hill-billy._Stephen turned to face the man, so off-put by his boisterous attitude and distracted by his own situation that he had failed to pay him much attention.

COBBLE COBBLE COBBLE.

The silence broke. Stephen's gut dropped. He looked at Ronald. Ronald looked at the cat. He looked at Chester. Chester looked at the cat. Stephen looked at the cat. "Oh," he said.

Sprawled across pedestals two and three was the blue-eyed grey tabby, smiling gleefully as it caught the tiny red dot scuttling around in front of Stephen. Stephen looked back at Ronald. Ronald held up the laser pointer. Stephen turned to Chester, "L-look that wasn't me, that was an accident, okay? It's super obvious he was using that stupid laser pointer from the first bonus round-"

"-bonus chance," Chester corrected.

"Whatever," Stephen insisted, "The pointer from the bonus round to cheat." He looked Ronald up and down, accidentally pulling one of his own shoes off by the heel in frustration. He kicked the other one off in double-frustration. The collie immediately chewed it. "That buzz doesn't count, alright? Alright?"

Chester pressed a finger to his ear, listening to the voices in his invisible headset. He nodded sympathetically. "Stephen," he said, a six-figure salary calmness to his voice, "Do you know how many eyes the average butterfly has?"

"What? No! I'm _not_answering that. It should be obvious to everyone here that this was just a misunderstanding."

WAH-WAHH.

Stephen raised his crippled arms as defensively as he could, "You can't do that! I didn't answer. It doesn't count." Ronald doubled over, grasping his sides for relief as he almost split in half with laughter. The crowd followed suit, and a cheesy graphic of a pair of shorts soiling themselves spun around on the scoreboard.

"He's cheating," Stephen cried as he turned to the crowd, "He's cheating; can't you see? He's just a stupid farmer. He hasn't even got one wrong. He hasn't... he hasn't-" he turned angrily to Ronald, gasping through his hoarse larynx as he spotted something even more infuriating, "-he hasn't got a bracelet."

Stephen lurched forwards, his head arching low to match the crunch of his shoulder blades. A numbness formed at the tips of his toes, the ball and heel of his feet sizzling like a pan on full heat. One tear was all it took and he could see each toe meld into the next, one by one, pinky to big toe, like a twisted tumbling of dominoes. The border between both toenail and toe, and toe gap and foot, deviated until his phalangeal joints formed a plate of keratin: hooves.

The phlegm in his throat was building, his ribcage expanding. His carefully chosen smart-casual shirt lost one button at a time, just as Stephen felt his deltoid muscles tugging his neck upwards like putty. Each new millimetre of length brought with it a burning sensation that seared the very innards of his chest, his heart hammering loudly in the growing length of his ears.

As if his body was a Non-Newtonian fluid, the chemicals in his body cut oh-so-slowly through the tip of his nose, separating his septum, burrowing through his oesophagus and vertebrae, bringing with it the urgent heat of entropy as it slithered down his tail-bone and back out his rump again. His newly formed tail fizzed like a soda battling a ghost pepper, each sensation vying to dominate his consciousness.

He salivated and moaned as his tongue outpaced his jaw, lolling out of his mouth and dragging along the floor. Every tooth in his mouth, from molar to incisor, exploded into their larger, more uniform size, taking with it another chunk of Stephen's sanity as collateral. It was as though someone had pumped his entire body full of popping candy and launched him into a vat of acid, stirring the mixture with a compound of infinite mutation.

This... Wasn't supposed to happen, he thought, Why me? Why me, why... m-m-

"-Eeigh aunn." The red and black chequered shirt he once owned dropped below him. He thought he felt tears bubbling on his eyelashes, but those were just his growing eyelids, as his eyes pushed away from one another like two magnets of the same pole. For a moment he looked up to the crowd, who seemed so much higher up than before, until his belt gripped around his thighs and tripped him.

Why me... Why me... Why... Why am I wearing pants? he thought.

Whinnying frustratedly from his longer, less agile lips, he flexed the full size of his rear-end, sending the buckle into the midst of the crowd, much to their pleasure. His legs felt stronger now; they felt right. It was as if centuries of human-reared progeny and natural selection had afforded him the most plump and proper ass he could have ever wished for.

He shook his neck from side to side, surprised to feel the tough fuzz of a mane catching a breeze. It felt refreshing. He did it again.

Wait, what was he thinking? He needed to get help. He tried to call out to a stage-hand, but all that came was the phlegm, except it was not phlegm, it was a horrendously rough bray. He tried again and again, braying and braying, as brown fur fizzled down his happy-trail. There was no time to lament the loss of his belly-button. No time to try and break free from the bracelet. No time to-

-Stephen froze. Standing in the centre of the stage, in front of four-hundred people, in front of two-million viewers, in front of thousands of millions of potential online clicks: his jeans, tight and well-made, ripped, taking with it the fine fabric of his underwear. The fiery sensation of fur was no longer at his happy trail. No. It ran its undeniable, irreversible course through the tufts of his pubic hair, lengthening the fluff and heightening its coarseness until it matched the coat sealing around his body.

"Wowzer! Looks like we're gonna have to censor that one, folks," Chester guffawed. The crowd howled.

He brayed, shamefully and naked, as the base of his penis darkened. Overwhelmed by stimuli, his erect member doubled in girth, like the splitting of a cell, before duplicating again. His prostate and seminal vesicles swelled five-fold, a pitiful half-breed of human-donkey DNA gushing to the floor. Stephen tried to bend his head to look, but it was no good: he was too far gone. The seven inches of cock he once cherished yanked itself from his very loins, every wave of growth bringing with it the jolt of transformation.

He could not see it, but he could undoubtedly feel the weight of his bollocks pulling him down. His once pink, delicate balls churned, their exterior becoming brown and leathery as his testicles engorged to a heady size. With it came the firm doughnut of his hole, rising out from beneath his skin like an erection of its own, before twitching reflexively at its new state of being.

Stephen's vision blurred. He fought to preserve the final piece of human left in him. Beyond the swollen base of his cock, his glans was soaked. The wetness of arousal fought the change inside him, but as his eyes grew heavy, he realized it was futile. He brayed, louder and more desperately than before. It was as if a magician gripped his rod and with each inch they pulled, another inch Stephen grew. The phenomenon of stroking and growing and rubbing and extending continued for at least thirteen extra inches, until the very cock-head Stephen fought to save inflated into a dripping, drooling donkey cock.

HEE-HAWWWWW!

A human stepped over to him, placing their hand on his neck. He recoiled away, splashing a hoof in his puddle of seed. They stroked him, making kissing sounds. The human palmed orange food into his mouth. He chomped it messily. He followed the hand, his length spring-boarding to-and-fro beneath his body.

The human stopped. It palmed more orange food. His tail twitched, impatient for more.

Dog and cat tried to eat it, but he latched his teeth to the orange in front of other human's leg. He tore it away, taking other stuff too. He chuffed contentedly, finally at peace, as the last drops from his sack emptied below.

Chester MacArby danced on the spot. He patted Ronald on the back. A border collie, a grey tabby, and a donkey chewed at his clothing.

The catchy jingle of the show played again. Chester looked directly at a camera, his veneers gleaming in the spotlight. His voice was loud: definitive, final, "EAT! MY! SHORTS!"