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Hangover is a state of the soul as much as of the body, though in case of the specifically vorish hangover, it's mostly about the body. Sometimes several bodies. A mass of night-long processed meat, bones and other organic tissue - sometimes clothes - clogging your stomach and intestines, slowly traveling towards the laborious exit like so much wasted potential.

Gyro Feather could tell immediately after waking up that today would be one of those days where there just wasn't enough toilet paper in the world to wipe out the sins of his ass. To make matters worse, he also appeared to have a normal hangover. Neither of which he could really remember earning.

Still, the evidence was incontestable as soon as the purple peacock opened his bloodshot eyes. He was resting on his back on his bed, seemingly paralyzed by the weight of his own gut. The faint imprint of hollow eyesockets stared at him beyond his tensed, ballooned feathers. His first thought: That's going to hurt coming out. His second thought: Hopefully it wasn't anyone I knew too well... again.

The peacock blinked when the room got suddenly invaded by a blade of light past a slit in the drawn curtains, probably because the clouds had shifted. So, it was already midday. He prodded the shadowed spot on his belly with a claw and felt the skull glorp and glurp as it sank in. So, whoever it was, they had been inside for quite a while.

He fumbled for the glass of water he often kept on the bed table to wash the dried hairs and fur from his tongue, and groaned when he accidentally toppled it. As if waking up itself, his belly gurgled loudly, causing a minor shockwave pass on his rear which his toned buttocks were just barely able to contain. The morning was not going to be pretty.

But had the evening prior been, at least? All that Gyro could remember was that he'd been in this Halloween party, most likely enjoying himself as usual. Thinking didn't come easy to a brain still intoxicated by too many shots of Tequila, but he made the abductive inference that he must've invited a couple people over for an afterparty. That's what he usually did to make a great night last longer. He could swear he hadn't intended to eat anyone... or at least place a reasonable bet on it. So it must've been the fault of the Change.

A second rush in his rectum broke the peacock's reminiscence and forced him to scramble towards the toilet. The chilly porcelain felt like the rim of an oasis pond as he groggily landed his rump on it and let nature run - or rather, flood - its course.

Whoever his mystery guest was or were, they didn't make the farewells easy. The first log was thick and dense with proteins and lack of fibers, not unexpected for these surprise Change meals. His alter ego really should eat more greens and fruit. That was the least he could do since it wasn't his asshole that had to do the dirty work after, or to wrestle a loaf of hard shit into the ground. This one probably had a femur stuck in the middle since the bugger just wouldn't snap in half no matter how his cheeks clenched. The peacock actually moaned when, with a rancid fart, he finally dumped the first load into the sewers. And that was just first of many.

Having now time in his hands and nothing else to do than wait out for his bowels to clear up, Gyro's mind trailed backwards the miscellaneous reels of memory, trying to piece together approximately the right order in which they fit yesternight's narrative, with his imagination filling out the missing bits. If he could do that, maybe he wouldn't have to prod too deeply into his leavings to discover the truth.

***

There had been four of them, all drunk to their toes, who had staggered into Gyro's home sometime in the moonlit hours. One of them had been a kobold girl, a nerdy (or possibly hippie?) type wearing an oversized hoodie and glasses, a flower stuck to her braided, brown hair. She'd been the one to turn on the music.

"Your house is so cool, Gyro," she said, the small body waving in the rhythm of the disco. "And big! We could've brought the whole nightclub over!"

"We could've," replied Gyro. "But I'm more careful than that about whom I let in. You guys are special. You're my best friends."

"You've only known us for four rounds of shots!" laughed someone with a sly, high voice. Gyro had trouble recollecting his features: had they been rotten somehow? No, he must've been wearing a mask or make-up, like a zombie or something.

"Few earn the first round from me," hiccupped the peacock. "And you're about to win the sixth!" he announced, gliding (or collapsing) towards the kitchens.

"That's a cool bird, that Gyro," mused the kobold. "The coolest. I hope he lets us stay overnight!"

"Why don't you go ask him, sweetheart?"

"I... Yeah, a good idea!"

It was around this juncture that the crucial turn must've taken place, reasoned Gyro. They had settled in naturally, the music was on, he'd be getting snacks and booze from the kitchen... And then what?

Whatever the exact nature of the circumstances, it must've involved the mirror. He'd gotten it on the cheap some months ago on the back of the seller's strange notion it was cursed or something. But what a fine piece of glass it was! The frame was pure silver, or as pure as made no difference, the oval shape showcasing a superb workmanship. The patterns were tribal or runic, perhaps animistic and certainly beautiful. Those who knew Gyro would bet their teeth on the knowledge that his vanity could not resist purchasing a thing like that to look at himself. And so he had.

As the mirror was large enough to reflect his entire body, he'd been having difficulty finding the right place for it, especially since he'd always forget himself in admiration whenever he walked past it. So it had ended up in the corner of the kitchen, innocently waiting for his inebriated self as he stepped inside. Perhaps his top feathers had been off, or his arms unpruned, and he'd caught himself in the reflection right as the moon cast its light upon it past the window. He could remember a sharp pain in his spine, like it was suddenly too big for his back, but in a moment his muscles would accommodate, his shoulders broadened and wings extended like they belonged to a whole different bird. Just thinking about it gave an extra boost to the loaf of shit Gyro was pushing as he shuddered.

In hindsight, that kobold girl really could've picked a better time to bump into the kitchen.

"Gyro! Gyro, hey, listen, what about if me and the others crash for the night? That way we could party - Uhh, hey, you alright, Gyro?"

Gyro Feather snapped his head around. The kobold took a step back.

"Why, of course you can spend the night," rumbled Gyro. He also took a step, gently closing the kitchen door behind her. He looked her over with novel enthusiasm, something about which made the girl squirm. "There's plenty of room around here for you, after all..."

"G-glad to hear," whispered the kobold. "Hope you don't mind me asking, but did you, uhm, grow in size just now...?"

Gyro looked down at himself. He was different. He felt different. But most importantly, he liked it.

"Been going to the gym lately," he croaked. One massive wing leaned on the frame, further blocking the kobold's exit, the muscles flexing. "Nice that you could tell."

"Not exactly what I meant..." she mumbled. Suddenly the kobold was very much aware how small she was compared to him. "Uhh, anyway, did you have any snacks back here?"

"Sure I do," he replied. "You, for one."

"U-uhh wh-what?"

Gyro kneeled in front of the kobold, yet still his head topped hers. The curved beak opened to reveal a dank, deep dive into the peacock's pulsing gullet. The stench of alcohol wafting out got mixed with some minty mouthwash and the acrid bile of stomach acids to create a truly unique cocktail for the kobold to inhale.

"You heard me. By becoming a party snack, you'll get to spend the night with me. That's what you wanted, right?"

"D-d-did I...?" stuttered the girl.

"Sure you did," answered Gyro, guiding her head closer by the neck. She resisted at first, but when it seemed to do no good, she sort went with it and let her forehead brush past the beak and meet his palate. The smell got really compelling now, became a tangible force that clogged her nostrils with the savage touch of something truly primal. A faint blush appeared on the gray cheeks, and the lenses of her eyeglasses steamed and turned misty.

"M-m-maybe we should think about this m -" were her last words before the peacock closed his beak and tilted his neck backwards, plunging the kobold at once shoulders deep inside. Standing up, he wolfed her down with a couple modest swigs like a seagull nomming a salmon, hoodie and all, slurping the wriggling legs in without a stop in between.

"Ah, the perfect snack," he said, patting his barely bulging tummy. "Now, where did I put those drinks...?"

The kobold's trip down the peacock was smooth and frictionless, for though her hoodie wasn't the most edible material, she was small and the gullet was strong. The glasses glued onto her face, hindering her vision, though it was so dark she couldn't really see anything anyway. The steady thumping of his heart fell behind pace to the race within her chest, yet for all that she wasn't really terrified, merely... stimulated.

Once she pushed through the sphincter, things got really slimy. It was like being dropped into a sac half-full of stinky swampwater. Her hairdo was pretty much a wreck already from the trek down, but now no force on earth could clean it, let alone salvage her dear hoodie. The walls pushed her around seemingly arbitrarily, not quite giving her enough room to stretch out. To top the disgust, the bottom of the stomach was lined with the sandwiches they'd been eating back in the pub. The bread had turned into mushy, pale mass that clung to her scales and hair when she dived into it headfirst; some of it even got into her mouth, forcing her to taste already chewed food. Fuck, she could still make out the spiced olives and anchovies from underneath the yucky coating, which somehow made it worse.

"I did have a lot of those sandwiches," thought Gyro out aloud, still firmly seated on the toilet. "She's the one who ordered a trayful of them, too, if I recall right."

After he returned to the living room with a bucketful of cold beverages, the remaining two guests were glad, drunk or both enough that none of them bothered to ask where the kobold had left, or why Gyro had decided to put on the "killer costume". In the wild dance that followed, no one paid any attention to the odd swinging and jiggling of his belly. Within, the kobold girl sloshed and splashed along with the peacock's moves, becoming more and more entangled in the acidic bile. She'd scream every now and then, but the layers of peacock and the loud music drowned out every attempt to make herself heard.

"Ughh, I can hear you now alright," grunts Gyro, expelling a hard, troublesome lump with a mighty fart. As he turns over to look, he sees a kobold skull, somewhat cracked yet still whole, staring at him from the top of the shit pile. The braincase is filled with brown waste, the jawbone is gone, but he can almost see a faint streak of blush on those cheekbones. "What a filthy gutslut she was..."

How had the rest of the night transpired? And who exactly had been there with him? Picking his brain, Gyro could remember the face of one tomcat, the one with a high voice, as he had taken off the mask to smoke. He had a steel gray fur with white spots over the eyes, a short, sly-looking face and a habit of -

Wait. Smoke. In his house? Oh, that must've set his alter ego off bad.

Indeed, the cat had barely gotten his cigar lit when he was astonished to be picked up from behind, turned upside down, then shoved head first the same way the kobold had taken. Poking inside his cheek with a tongue in the present, Gyro was pretty certain that the taste of flint stuck to his tongue belonged to the cat's vest. No wonder my gut feel's like a laundry machine that ate a sock too many...

The cat went so quickly he didn't manage to put in much resistance, but the remaining guest must've reacted accordingly as Gyro couldn't see him anywhere once the feline's legs kicked out of sight. He could tell it was a dog he was after as he'd put his collar on the coat rack upon entry.

"Come here, doggie," he cooed, patting his wriggling gut with his wings. "There's still space left in the guest room! A cozy corner for you to curl in!"

The tomcat was right then discovering that this truth was greatly exaggerated, unless you could call diving into a mess of half-digested kobold girl "cozy". He was a lean, skinny type, but he did put up a fight once dumped fully into the stomach. Not that Gyro minded in his transformed state.

"It's all good to take in strays..." moaned Gyro on his toilet seat, struggling with a particularly thick log wrapped in and reinforced by the ruins of a cotton vest. "...so long as you're not the one who has to let them out in the morning..."

"There's a good boy," he said, burping out some hairs upon spotting a golden-furred tail peeking out from under his bed. The mut must've been either too scared or too drunk to think clearly. "Come now, let's get you tucked in for the night," he said, grabbing the tail.

The last guest turned out to be a retriever, a real golden boy with a white silk shirt and an athletic body. Maybe a soccer player? Gyro had sucked him in feet first, just so he could watch those toned buttocks get dragged across the carpet and hear him whining like a pup all the way down. Afterwards, the bloated peacock continued to rave through the night, helping the contents of his gut get churned with his wicked dance moves, until he must've collapsed in the bed sometime in the late morning.

"I hope you had your fun," soliloquized the hangover Gyro. "You're not the one who's intestine is clogged with fur... Gosh, why did it have to be a golden retriever, of all the species..."

The constitution of the shite had indeed taken a remarkable turn, the backdoor buns practically shining in the sunlight that filtered in through the slit window. The dog must've been swimming in a hair conditioner of some kind, for the fur was still gilded, every log like a toupee swum in the sewers and smelling accordingly. By this time Gyro had flushed half a dozen times, but the retriever's passing almost put the nail on the coffin of his plumbing system. Had it overflooded that morning, he swore, he would've smashed the mirror first thing no matter how good it made his feathers look.

"Ugh, finally," he moaned when the last spurts evacuated his bowels. The canine bones had been most endurable, and made most of the pile that he had fished out to dry on the empty laundry basket. Maybe he could arrange some kind of a Halloween constellation out of them later tonight and set it up in his yard.

Waddling to the kitchen for some breakfast, maybe orange juice, toast and a lot of coffee, Gyro happened to see the mirror that was the root of his rough rise. The silver surface stood calm and innocent as ever, and had no effect when he saw himself staring back from the nonexistent other side. Well, he did note the extra layers he'd developed around his waist and buttocks. It would take a lot of hiking and flying to burn all those calories.

"You just thank your luck that I look this good," he said, leaving the mirror for another moonlit night.