FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Parappa stared down at the tome, words of ancient and accursed power scrawled roughly upon the blackened vellum. It had taken a lot of searching to find this book, and even longer to learn to read it. The language used was only spoken by a single cabal, all burned alive centuries ago for their unholy rituals. Still, though bravery and hardship, he'd finally managed to get a hold of it, and the unspeakable magic contained within.

The pages were unknowably ancient, almost crumbling to dust beneath his touch, and he was forced to use incredible care as he read on. The spells and rituals described sent a chill down his spine, describing atrocities and monstrosities, mind-melting waves of eldritch power originating beyond the stars, such horrific knowledge burning holes through his very soul.

But still, he continued. He had to. If Parappa ever wanted to win Sunny Funny's heart, he'd need a spell of such untold power that even Joe Chin couldn't stand in his way. Maybe he could summon a demon, or roll the sky up like a scroll... It had to be impressive, not this boring soul-stealing crap. He wanted adoring fans, not mindless zombies obeying his every whim!

At times, he felt like giving up. He was a good rapper, wasn't he? If he just spent a little while honing his skills, he could earn Sunny's love, begin his career, and work his way to the top. But then again, that was hard work. There were thousands of others doing the exact same thing with differing levels of success.

The last thing he wanted was to be stuck as a local musician, only to be cast aside when the next mediocre rapper came along with trendier beats. No, he needed a little help from beyond. As he turned the page, grimacing as the ancient page crinkled beneath his light grip, his eyes lit up. He'd found just the one.

The page was headed with the name Siffer, Prince of Decadence and Power. The picture and description had been smeared in what Parappa hoped was just colorful ink, but the summoning ritual was reasonably intact. It wasn't too hard; a few beeswax candles, a circle made of salt... And six boxes of Reese's Pieces, for some reason. Even if the ritual failed, at least he'd have a treat.

An hour of preparation later, the white dog raised his hands up and waved them back and forth, in accordance with the prescribed gestures, before beginning the chant.

"Wzrost wagi! Masy cia?a jestem! T?uszczu t?uszczowego!"

It may have sounded like something out of a bad fantasy novel, but the dead language he was belting out sent a chill down Parappa's spine.

"Pociera brzuch i ssa? koguta!"

The candles began to flicker, puffing out one by one. Parappa's breath hitched in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut just as the last candle snuffed itself out. Slowly, his eyes peeled open. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as he realized he could see, despite the candles being out. He didn't have to look up to know that the light was out.

The ritual circle began to glow with an infernal red light. The floor began to tremble, a low, mournful rumble rising up through the earth. The candles fell over, the salt circle shifting and shaking, but never breaking. The air itself began to move, a freezing gust of wind sweeping through the room, though there were no windows.

Sweat began to pour down his forehead, but he steeled himself. Through chattering teeth, Parappa belted out the last few lines of the ritual.

"W?ch mój ty?ek! Jedz, dopóki nie wybuchn?!"

"Dokarmia?! Dokarmia?! Przybranie na wadze! Przybranie na wadze!"

The wind picked up, tugging on Parappa's clothing and threatening to knock him over. He held firm, determined to see it through, but as the gust turned into a howling gale, the red glow deepening and darkening to a hot, hellish shade, it was all too much. Just for a moment, Parappa let his tense legs relax, only for his knees to buckle, finally succumbing to the wind, and fell over.

In the second before his head slammed against the floor, he thought he saw a strangely feline face staring from the darkness.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Pain shot through Parappa's head as he awoke. Placing a hand on his forehead, he cracked open his eyes and took a moment to gather his bearings. He was in a chair, a soft, squishy leather armchair, sitting in the corner of a dressing room. There was a vanity mirror against one wall, a rack of clothing running along the other... Had to be a dressing room, he figured, but why was he there? He wracked his brain, but he couldn't quite remember.

Well, he wasn't about to figure it out by sitting there. Parappa's hands slid to the arms of the chair, and heaved, only to feel a surprising amount of resistance as he dragged himself to his feet. Empty packages and fast food wrappers clattered to the ground, which Parappa hadn't even realized were on top of him. In fact, the floor of the room was seemingly carpeted in old litter. His foot bumped into something, and he looked down to see what it was. His eyes went wide.

Parappa stared down at himself in shock. He was fat! His belly bulged out like a spare tire around his waist, his moobs barely contained within a heavily stained blue muscle shirt. From all appearances, he looked like a fat slob, not an aspiring young rapper who took care of himself! He shut his eyes and pinched a roll of fat between his fingers, as if he could somehow wake up from this dream. When he opened them, however, nothing had changed.

"W-what the hell?" He stammered, taking a step back before slipping. He staggered back, waving his arms for balance, but it was no use; He was completely unused to his new size, and every heavy footfall served only to send tremors through the floor and his own weak leg muscles. Suddenly, however, the floor ran out, and his lower legs impacted with the edge of the bed.

He yelped as he fell back into the chair, the springs creaking in protest. Parappa wheezed, gazing down at his unexpectedly obese body. He was fat; Or was he? He wasn't fat, was he? He wracked his memory; The last thing he recalled was... Well, he wasn't entirely sure. But he certainly wasn't fat for it! He shook his head. He had to be losing his mind!

Parappa began to breathe, quickly and heavily. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything that could help explain the situation. Well, the floor, covered ankle-deep in old junk food wrappers was one hint. But he didn't remember eating any of that! Pressure rose in his throat, and Parappa was worried he was about to vomit from fear... But instead, he opened his mouth, and a long, low belch passed through his plump lips. The taste of hamburger grease hung in his mouth; So there was evidence, after all, though the revelation gave him no comfort.

Parappa was seconds away from hyperventilating when he heard footsteps coming from outside the room. His eyes snapped over to the door, just in time for the handle to turn slightly, then click and stop. Whoever was there jiggled the locked handle for a second, before pounding on the door with their fist, causing a tremor which made a nearby stack of fast food wrappers fall down.

"You're on, kid!" A muffled male voice shouted from the opposite side, "Get out there and make 'em jump!"

Parappa gulped, moving shakily to his feet. So he was at a concert of some sort, and he was the main star. Amnesia or no, he wasn't going to leave his fans waiting. Like... Whoever it was said, he was going to make them jump! At least, he hoped they would, because at his size, there was no way he could.

Kicking trash to one side or the other, he made a path to the door. Every movement was uncomfortable; His thighs rubbing together with every step, his arms squishing into his sides... He let out a groan as he reached the door, wiping the sweat from his forehead. It was no more than five feet, yet his entire body was drenched in sweat from the exertion. The light breeze from the ceiling fan did little to cool the unwelcome heat in his body, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He undid the latch on the door and stepped out into a barren hallway, illuminated by humming florescent lights. Looking both ways, there wasn't a lot to take in. A couple doors, one marked 'Janitor', the other marked 'Stage', a couple potted plants, and his own door, marked with a big gold star with his name emblazoned on it. Parappa stared at it for a moment, a smile spreading from chunky cheek to chunky cheek. He'd always wanted something like that.

But he could stand around admiring it for long. In the distance, just above the hum of the lights, he could hear a low growl. No, he thought to himself, a roar. That would be the audience, he guessed. He had no idea what to expect. How famous was he? Would this be a big show, or just a smaller gig? He shook his head. Whatever the crowd was like, they'd all paid to come see him. He owed it to them, and to himself, to put on the best show he possibly could, given the circumstances. Taking one last, long look at his dressing room star, he turned, and opened the door marked 'Stage'.

Beyond, a short, dark hallway led to a narrow flight of stairs. It was only four or five, but it was enough to make Parappa's fat-choked heart sink. Given the difficulty of simply walking, climbing stairs would prove to be another matter. Parappa wheezed as he climbed the first step, the sides of his belly pressing against the railings. He could hear the audience roaring outside, muffled but still loud through the walls. Equal parts fear and anticipation coursed through his veins.

"I've got to," He huffed, wiping the sweat from his forehead, "I've got to believe!"

In a few seconds, he was up the stairs. The hallway continued on for another few feet, before reaching a large, steel door with a push-handle. His belly pressed against the door before he could raise his hands. The click was drowned out as the door opened, flooding the stairwell with the noise of hundreds of screaming fans. Parappa staggered, throwing up an arm to block the blinding spotlights as he stepped on stage. In front of him, a multicolored sea rippled and undulated, fists thrusting and arms waving in the air like waves.

The smell alone was incredible, causing Parappa's nose to wrinkle. He had heard the phrase 'the great unwashed', but he'd never experienced it for himself. Glancing around, he noticed one of the aides from before standing in the corner of the stage, hidden away behind a curtain. He flashed a thumbs up, and Parappa couldn't help but notice he was wearing a nose plug and ear protectors. The stench and thrumming noise from the crowd made him extremely jealous, but there was no time to ask for anything. The show had to go on.

Squinting, he could just make out the microphone at the edge of the stage, light glinting off the metallic grill. Gritting his teeth, he tried to tune out the chaos around him, and stumbled over and grabbed the mic.

"Hello!" He wheezed, breathing heavily into the mic. Static popped over the loudspeakers, but not as loud as the audience, as a renewed roar washed over them.

Parappa looked out at the crowd, all the countless people who had come to see him perform. He wanted to rap... But at the same time, he didn't want to disappoint them. His hands began to shake, his teeth chattering, as cold sweat began to drip down his forehead. All of a sudden, he heard a familiar voice calling from the back of his head.

"Don't think about it, just do it!"

The familiar words sent a strange feeling down Parappa's spine. It was like a shot of adrenaline, mixed with a curious sense of... Purpose. He knew exactly what to do, and began moving without thinking. His mouth turned up into a smile, and he let out a triumphant shout into the microphone, which the audience returned in kind.

A beat began pulsing from the speakers, and Parappa knew what to do. The beat was unfamiliar, but it stirred something in his mind. His head bounced with each pulse of the bass, shifting his hefty weight from side to side in a vague approximation of a dance. Taking a deep breath, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, and began to sing.

"It's every day, bro, with that clogged up toilet flow!"

"Five mil on burgers in six months, never done before!" The crowd roared louder with each verse, and Parappa realized they were singing along, as if they already knew the song. Strange, but he was just happy not to be heckled.

"Passed the eating competition, man, Burger King is n-next," He stammered out the last word, as a twinge of pressure began to build inside his gut.

'No, not now!' He thought to himself, clenching his butt cheeks as tightly as he could. The show was going so well, too!

"W-when I-I-I'm sucking all these dicks, I got the brand new forklift," A small puff of gas slipped out between his cheeks. If anyone heard it, they didn't react. Everybody in the audience seemed too excited to care. Shifting his legs, he tried to keep the fart inside as he continued with the song.

"And I met the feed trough too-" It was too late. A low, grumbling blast forced its way out, competing with the audience's own BO in terms of smell, followed by a series of higher pitched ones that could be heard above the music.

"A-and I'm c-coming with the c-c-crew," Parappa stammered, as a new urge overtook him. He just couldn't help himself. Disgust churned in his stomach as he took the microphone and held it over his ass, amplifying the staccato bursts over the loudspeakers.

'This is it,' He thought to himself, 'This is the end of my fucking career.'

Parappa struggled to move his arm, but it refused to budge, as if he had no control over it. Heat flooded his face, taking on a deep red tint, as visions of a future as a cashier flashed through his head. Yet, contrary to his expectation, the crowd was still going nuts. If anything, they screamed louder with every fart that ripped out of his boulder-sized ass.

All he could see was the front row, illuminated by the floodlights, while the back was hidden in shadow. Wide smiles spread across their faces, they all seemed to be enjoying themselves greatly, even as a wet, sputtering fart blasted out over the speakers. That wasn't the only strange thing he noticed - The longer he stared, the more he realized - Every member of the audience was fat!

He wasn't sure how he didn't notice it before. Everyone he could see, in the first few rows at least, was at least chubby, with bellies hanging over their waists. More of them were bigger - Downright fat, in fact. All those arms waving in the air sported pairs of sagging bingo wings, connected with flabby torsos which jiggled as they danced with the beat of the 'music'.

Parappa began to wonder just what in the hell he'd signed up for, when all of a sudden, a hamburger splattered across the stage in front of him. Someone in the audience must've tossed it, but he couldn't figure out who - Any one of the hundreds of people within throwing range could've done it. His eyes cast down again at the burger - The top bun lay a foot away from the bottom bun, which itself had landed face-down with the patty, leaving a smear of ketchup on the stage.

His stomach made itself known with a growl. Hunger? For this? Parappa tried to hold himself back, but the thought of wasting a perfectly good burger churned his stomach even more than the idea of eating one off the stage. Grabbing both buns, he scooped it up and took a bite. Parappa hummed; Not bad. The cheese and onion had remained surprisingly intact from the impact. Leaning in close to the microphone, he chomped as loudly and sloppily as he could, sending the audience into an uproar.

The blob of a rapper couldn't help but feel his heart warming - Though, it may have something to do with the amount of grease circulating in his blood stream. He was finally famous, with an adoring crowd. Maybe not how he anticipated it, but he was a consummate performer. What the crowd wanted, he was determined to give. If messy eating drove them crazy...

Opening his mouth, Parappa let out a deep belch, rumbling over the amplifiers and shaking teeth across the stadium. The crowd roared in adoration, another burger and a bag of cookies flying onto the stage. A smile spread across his face; They really, truly loved him. He was able to grab the burger easily enough, chomping and slopping into the microphone to the adulant roaring of the audience, but the cookies were a little further away.

His mouth watered just looking at them, his favorite brand of cream cookies. But at the same time, he knew he'd have to move. Just standing, he could feel his tree trunk thighs press against one another, with a slick coating of sweat giving him premonitions of chub rub and misery. He doubted anybody had paid to watch him waddle and huff - Though, with the content of the concert so far, he really didn't know. He felt a bubble forming in his gut, and quickly snagged the mic from the stand to broadcast it to the crowd, when an idea hit him.

The front row screamed louder than ever as he turned around, tugging his waistband down with one hand, while holding the microphone with the other. A shiver rolled down his spine as the cold metal tip touched the warm, sweaty flesh of his crack, but he persevered, sliding the full length of the mic between his cheeks. The building fart finally released, sending a wet, splattering blast of gas across the airwaves. The crowd couldn't stop shrieking, but Parappa knew he could do one better. He'd have to.

Stifling a yelp, Parappa slid the microphone as far as he could between his cheeks, until he could feel the bulb poking against the sensitive surface of his anus. An exploratory shove sent shivers down his spine, but his pucker stood firm. Instead, he waited a moment for gas to build up, holding until the fart finally stretched his hole open enough to shove the tip in.

The staccato blasts of gas were replaced almost instantly, as a wet gurgling took over the speakers. Parappa smiled; With that taken care of, he began waddling slowly toward the cookies, pausing every step to listen as the speakers broadcast the sloshing of his stomach's contents. Bending over to grab the bag, he felt a fart bubble push against the bulb of the mic. A slight hiss was audible over the speakers as it slowly worked its way out around the blockage, but it wasn't enough. Parappa grunted, flexing his anus. The fart blasted out, sending the microphone clattering to the stage some feet away.

"Alright!" Parappa shouted, but nobody could hear him over the constant roar of the audience. The gluttonous dog smiled, waddling over to the microphone and cracking open the bag. They couldn't smell the delicious chocolate scent wafting out, but they could hear Parappa's moan as he caught it. A packet of chips landed on the stage just feet away, followed by a cascade of other snacks and treats.

Parappa licked his lips, bringing the first cookie to his mouth. It was going to be a long night. He couldn't wait.

---===---===---

Hours later, in another realm of reality, one that looked suspiciously like an office at a major record label, a morbidly obese cat was taking off his shoes. He tossed Parappa's contract onto his desk, hung up his food-stained jacket, and collapsed in his chair.

Grabbing a cigar from the tray in front of him, he snapped his fingers, and the tip instantly burst into flames. A pair of horns sprouted behind his pointy feline ears, the hair falling from his tail to reveal a forked tip. The demon Siffer picked up his newest contract and laughed, fiery ashes dropping from his cigar. Another day, another soul surrendered to greed and gluttony.

Yanking open a filing cabinet with a jagged claw, he thumbed through the folders - Rock, rainbows, rape - He smiled, opening the next folder down, and stuffed the contract in. The rap scene would never be the same.