Cosmic Intervention

Sunset was approaching quickly. The winding road before Patrick would be twisting through the woods in mere moments if Apple Maps decided to be correct this trip, and knowing fully well that his car was now two-decades old, he knew that it was time to put pedal to the metal. This stupid work trip was not how Patrick wanted to spend his few days off, but the promise of “just how important this meeting was” translated for him to “do it or else.” Five years at this garbage dead-end job, and he had nothing to show for it- just far too many miles on his odometer. Though, the thought of not having income in this economy was enough for him to push through and race to the Pittsburgh office as soon as he could.

He was scheduled to arrive in approximately 3 more hours, but an accident near Scranton and standstill traffic in Harrisburg proved to be quite the retardant in his timing. So, on a desperate whim, he’d whipped off the interstate and decided to place his utmost trust in Apple to get him to Pittsburgh on the backroads through the Allegheny Mountains. Was it the smartest move in hindsight? Assuredly not, as the sun began to hide behind the black cherry trees.

“Fuck… I’m so fucked.” A single look at his gas meter showed he was running on fumes atop everything else. Before he could slam his fists on the steering wheel for the umpteenth time that day, a small sign on the side of the road covered in creeping vines spelled his luck: Farmer Grant’s Fill-Up Station, ½ mile ahead. Patrick thanked his lucky stars (which had already begun to sparkle above his sunroof), and immediately floored it toward the gas station. After a couple of minutes, he could see the red glow of a petrol sign peeking over the treetops. Pulling up to the station, his anxious relief was quickly shot down. Vines crawled up the columns to the decrepit awning, the building’s windows were cracked and dark, and one single old pickup truck sat next to a pump long abandoned. This was clearly no Dinoco or Wawa station.

As he pulled up onto the gravel lot, he jumped out of his car, making a B line straight to the counter with fingers crossed that Farmer Grant wasn’t merely a marketing mascot. Surely someone had to still work here, right? It seemed the universe was not on his side this evening, a single peer through the dusty glass showed the doors had been closed for quite some time. Luckily, taking account of his surroundings, a bit farther down the road he spied a single light gleaming through a faraway window. Farmer Grant’s Roadside Home perhaps? It was only maybe a five minute walk down the way and knowing fully well that every minute driven used up whatever wisps of gasoline floated around in his tank, he sighed and began to trudge through the thicket toward the light.

The forest was oddly silent as he pushed past thorny bushes and ferns, not even the sound of the wind in the trees rang through the stillness of dusk. There were no crickets, no birds, no coyote howls… just the sounds of his loafers squishing wet mud as he finally approached the house. It was equally as decrepit as the gas station. The roof had all but caved in, the outhouse was missing it’s side wall, and the garden beds were overgrown with weeds and brambles. Yet, even in it’s current state, the single orange-yellow glow through the dirty front window insinuated habitation, as did the young man and his dog which sat on the stoop of the old house.

“Oh thank god!” Patrick sighed in gratitude. “I thought everyone was long gone by the looks of the station back there! Is Farmer Grant in by any chance, I have my car back there and desperately need some gas.” The young man who sat on the stoop smirked, pulling out a cigarette from the pouch of his leather vest and sliding it between his lips. He was covered in head to toe with tattoos and dressed like a 2023 James Dean: open leather vest, form fitting black jeans, and a pair of beat up, muddy harness boots. Sweat dripped from his chin and down his inked chest, suggesting the young man had been sitting out there for quite some time. Frankly, his entire body glistened as if he’d gotten straight out of the shower and forgotten to towel himself off.

“He isn’t here anymore.” The young man’s voice was surprisingly deep, almost cacophonous as if he were shouting into a deep cavern. “Maybe I can help.” He struck a match against the dirty tread of his boot, lighting the cigarette before letting out a quick puff. Internally, Patrick couldn’t help but sense that something was off in this situation. This seemed a situation straight out of a David Lynch film, and watching Twin Peaks and Lost Highway enough times to quote every line, he felt the need to proceed very cautiously.

“Yeah… Maybe you can. You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s any gas back there at the station, would you? I’ve gotta be at my hotel in Pittsburgh in less than 3 hours and daylight is burning…” The young man let out a massive cloud, tossing the bird at the disheveled businessman before him.

“Don’t come up here and tell me to rush, bitch. Ask me correctly and I might be able to help.” Patrick was dumbfounded, uncomfortable, and marginally enraged. Who was this trailer trash punk to talk to him that way? Though as the sun was inching every moment toward the horizon, he had no choice but to play the kid’s game.

“I’m sorry, sir. Would you happen to have any gasoline? I would sincerely appreciate it.” The young man looked him up and down, bringing his hand to his bulge to give it a quick adjustment.

“That’s better. Come in and have a drink, I’ll get you your fuckin’ gas in a minute.” He stood up, surprising Patrick with his sheer height and stature. He certainly wasn’t going to win in a scuffle, but the kid’s brain seemed to be as sharp as a sphere.

“I… You know, the sun is setting and I don’t really know the area so I’d rather head out as soon as…” The punk whipped around and for a fraction of a second, Patrick could have sworn his eyes were completely black before they readjusted back to two scowling brown irises. This was enough of a reason for him to bolt, but taking stock of his surroundings, he was easily fifty miles from the nearest town. If he wanted out of this hillbilly hell, he had to play along. “You know what, a quick whiskey would be great. Thanks.” The punk smirked as he stomped out his cigarette, pushing open the door to the cottage and letting himself and his dog in. Patrick took a deep breath of the fresh air and followed the two into the house.

The interior was as derelict as the exterior. Holes littered the ceiling, and entire windows were missing their glass panes. The floorboards creaked as if they were just milliseconds away from crashing into the cellar below. Bottles of cheap whiskey were strewn about the open room, falling out of the cabinets which held on to the wall by the tip of their nails. There was no way in hell that this kid lived here.

“Take a seat, pops.” The punk pulled a splintered old chair out from the beneath the stained tabletop. Patrick obliged, wiping the dust from the seat before gingerly sitting down. Two glasses were slammed onto the table, before the punk took out a small flask from his vest and poured two shots into each glass. Sliding it across the table, he raised the glass at his guest and shot it down without so much as a grimace. Patrick looked down at the whiskey. It didn’t appear to have anything in it, it wasn’t bubbling as if there were a roofie slipped into it. Besides, it came from the same flask as his host had drank from. Nervously, he raised his glass and shot it back. The burning alcohol scorched the back of his throat as he willed it down, coughing painfully at the sensation.

“Ughhh. That’s some serious booze right there.” Wiping his lips and the tears rolling down his cheek, he looked back up at his host, who was staring intently at him. The punk leaned against the table, smirking as he pawed gently at his throbbing bulge. Taking the first opportunity to escape for just a moment, he allowed his first excuse to pour from his lips. “Do… do you… Uhm, where is your bathroom?”

“Down the hall. Don’t be long.” The punk pointed toward a door at the end of a short hallway, halfway open. Patrick thanked him and excused himself for just a moment, before quickly striding toward the bathroom. Pushing the door open and closing it behind him, he quickly noticed there was no window. Shit. That wasn’t going to be his out. A single bulb hung above him, flickering like a strobe light. The bathroom was filthy. Expired medications and dried bars of soap were everywhere. Picking up one of the pillbottles, he searched for the name of whomever it was prescribed to. There, in faded print was written Howard Grant- likely Farmer Grant. Though, before he could make his swift exit straight down the hall and out the front door, his muddy loafer made contact with one of the bars of soap, sending him careening backward and into the shower. The curtain bar came down upon him with a loud clang. The punk could not have missed that.

He tossed the metal bar off him, the shower curtain flying with it, revealing the old clawfoot bathtub beneath. Patrick sighed and put his hand down to push himself back to his feet, but instead of the cold touch of ceramic, something rubbery and leathery sat beneath his palms. One deep breath, in and out. He looked down and clasped his mouth. Laying in the tub discarded like dirty laundry was what looked like the human skin of an old man. Completely intact from head to toe. Patrick scrambled to his feet, clenching his jaw shut. There was no blood, no entrails, just an empty husk sitting in the bottom of the tub. This was the last straw. It was time to go. Whipping the door open he thrust himself into the hallway, only to slam directly into the hulking punk standing before him in the doorway. He fell to his bottom onto the dirty tile floor below as the punk grasped the top of the door trim, leaning into the bathroom.

“I’d say you shouldn’t have done that. But it wouldn’t have made any difference either way.” Patrick sat against the pedestal sink, more fear in his soul than he’d ever experienced before. “I’m lookin’ a lot better these days, don’t you think?” The punk flexed his biceps, followed by the distinctive creaking sound of rubber. He’d clocked it wrong before. Sure, he was dripping sweat, but the shimmering shine of his skin was not just perspiration- it looked to be made of slick latex.

“What… what the fuck are you?” Patrick stumbled over his words, every syllable becoming trapped in his throat. The punk leaned in, squatting down to eye level. This time, it was unmistakable: his eyes were completely black, swirls of abysmal liquid behind his eyelids. He smiled, and grasped Patrick by the throat.

“I’m just a visitor. A tourist. Like you.” The punk stood up from his crouched position, lifting Patrick along with him. “Haven’t seen much of this world yet, I’ve been waiting for a travel companion.” The punk drew him close to his face, licking his lips as black slime trickled down his chin. Patrick couldn’t protest before their lips met, and the punk’s slimy, rubbery tongue began to explore his mouth. He could taste the sludge now coating his tongue and teeth, filling his mind with the flavor of rubber and the texture of oil before their lips pried apart and he was tossed against the wall, collapsing onto the ground in a heap.

The punk smirked as he unbuttoned his jeans, before a grotesquely massive cock spilled out of the unzipped fly. It was easily ten inches, uncut, and pulsating. The wet wafting scent of latex and crotchsweat assailed his nose as it sat mere inches from his face. Black veins snaked down the shaft to huge drooping balls, undulating as if filled with sloshing molasses. The black sludge which salivated from the punk’s mouth dripped out of the dirty slit, dripping thick globules into a pool between Patrick’s legs. Though his brain told him to get the absolute fuck out, the taste of the black slime lingered in his mouth. Salty, rubbery, musky, slick… what little contact he had with it had made him entirely addicted. So as the punk grasped a tuft of his hair, slowly pulling him closer to the stinking cock, he gave no resistance. Rather, it was his eagerness that overtook him in that moment. The skin in the bathtub seemed lightyears away from him, the disgusting bathroom faded into black, and all he could see, feel, smell was that huge pulsating cock. So he opened his mouth with no hesitation, and allowed the rubbery dick to slip past his lips and down his throat.

He’d never taken a cock before, let alone deepthroated one. Yet, as the punk thrust over and over again into his gaping maw, it bent and twisted impossibly as it slinked past his uvula. The punk huffed and growled, aggressively face fucking Patrick, while his thick black slime leaked down the businessman’s stretchy throat. The taste of his cock was incomparable. It was salty and sweet, funky and gross yet… he could not get enough of it. As the sound of squeaks and groans grew louder in the tiny bathroom, Patrick could hear a rumbling grow from a quiet whisper to something noticeable for anyone within a half mile. He opened his eyes, looking down at the pendulous balls slapping against his chin, seeing them squirm and shake as if filled with a thousand tiny snakes. The punk pulled out of Patrick’s mouth, and firmly pushed his head to the side.

Patrick’s gaze fell back to the skin in the bathtub, before he felt a wet, slimy pressure against his earlobe. As the pressure continued to mount, feeling the punk’s disgusting cock push harder and harder, Patrick felt his eardrum give way. In a matter of seconds, he felt the punk’s cock push into his ear canal, further and further until it hit what he could only assume was his brain. The world became fuzzy and echoey, as the cock thrust in and out of his head, in and out of his brain. The pace quickened, the rumbling grew louder, and the scent of musky latex overtook his senses before the punk let out an inhuman roar. The first barrage of slime shot from the stinking balls, up the shaft and into his brain. Immediately, his thoughts began to fade away. Drool started to drip from his open mouth, and a sense of euphoria washed over his whole body. Another shot of sludge, which seemed to flow from his head across his entire body. Three shots. Four shots. Five shots. Six shots. Each wave of thick sludge was easily a gallon at least and as it began to fill his entire body, he felt himself expanding.

His feet burst from the dirty loafers, and his suit pants began to rip down the seams as his legs swelled with the squirming slime. The punk continued to moan and growl, thrusting and inundating him with his spunk as his shirt ripped to tatters under the pressure of his growing chest and torso. Patrick’s arms and hands swelled like overstuffed sausages, as if post mortem bloat had already taken over his sloshing body. The sludge had made it’s way up his throat, until one final barrage sent the black sludge shooting out of his nose, ears, mouth, and eyes. Patrick couldn’t move, couldn’t think, but was entirely aware of his surroundings. As the punk pulled his rod from his ear, a waterfall of the sludge followed out the ear canal. He sighed and crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe at the disgusting bloated body of Patrick lay on the floor bubbling and rippling beneath the skin.

The punk kicked off a boot, and let his slippery, rubbery foot press against Patrick’s gut, some of the black sludge bubbling out of each orifice. He chuckled under his breath, letting his pungent toes slip into Patrick’s mouth and stretch it impossibly wide. For the former businessman, all he could feel was the sweaty toes swimming in the primordial ooze for a couple of moments until he felt them press against something solid: his tongue. Suddenly, he could taste every ounce of the punk’s flavorful toe fresh from the stinking boot. Little by little, Patrick could feel his teeth reconstituting, his throat begin to take shape once again… the thing inside of him was finally taking shape.

“Let’s see…” The punk smirked as he pinched the top lip of Patrick’s skin and pulled upward. The sounds of stretching and creaking skin echoed in the bathroom as the top lip began to fold against his nose and slowly stretch upward until in one quick snap, it had stretched all the way to the back of his head, revealing the new being underneath. His skin was shiny, his hair was blonde and cut short with a sweaty white bandana around his forehead. Piercings were scattered across his face and ears, and his lips were plump and forced into a mischievous smirk. The hunk started to squirm out of the chrysalis which had birthed him, pulling his muscular inked body from the outstretched mouth with loud squelches and wet slurps emitting from the skin. With the last of his worn, slick combat boots slipping out of the hollow husk, he kicked the skin to the side, and stood before his new partner radiating rubbery, sweaty musk and lust.

“Good work on me, Captain. The host and I are one, and this one seems to enjoy it.” The creature flexed his biceps, and lustfully took a lick of the piquant sweat which wafted from his hairy pits. The Captain grabbed his creation, bringing their lips together for the first time. Their slithering tongues stretched deep into eachother’s throats, letting their slick bodies wash one and other in their respective pheromones.

“Now the expedition can finally begin. Our orders are to scout this place and learn what we can about these beings.” The Captain groped his subordinate’s throbbing bulge, now thick with the viscous slime, begging to turn more of this dimension’s beings into their hybridized race. “Use this well, underling. We will need all the troops we can get.” The two smirked at eachother and continued their intimate explorations into the night.

—

The Pennsylvania state police arrived mid day on Wednesday, approximately two days after receiving a missing person report for a Patrick Mahoney from Albany. The final coordinates on his phone put him near the old Farmer Grant’s Fill Up Station, where the cops had decided to rendezvous. There, to their horror, in the old shack of the late farmer were two hollowed out skins: Farmer Grant, and Patrick Mahoney. Skid marks matching Mahoney’s car were found at the gas station, where they were able to be tracked on a road headed toward Williamsport. The suspected murderers were never found. Though, their time was more than occupied by a slew of missing people in Williamsport, and the introduction of a strange new gang which had taken up residence in that area.

Residents speak of young, virile miscreants roaming the streets and backroads at night. All tattooed, all letting off the sharp stench of rubber and musk… and some reports even claiming their eyes were as empty as night. The state believes it’s the beginning of a new local cryptid, designed to scare the children to stay in at night. Though, the people of Williamsport are adamant. There are creatures from far beyond our understanding who take over the town at night. And their numbers are growing.