Just 25 cents

by Tym Greene   

A chubby greaser is having a rotten day. Luckily he runs across a mysterious prize dispenser that only costs a quarter to use…”

Randy ran his comb through his pompadour for the hundredth time. What a rotten trip, he groused, also for the hundredth time. The bus ticket had taken most of his dough, and the concert ticket had taken the remainder; now the bus had broken down, it was too far to walk, and he only had a few hours before the show started. That’s what I get for trying something new.

Now he was stuck in a hick greasy spoon, waiting, with eighty-five cents in his pocket. At least I can get a cup of joe, he thought, noticing the “Coffee—10 Cents” sign. He flagged down the bored waiter and tossed over his dime, then flumped back into his sulk. His suspenders—the slick-looking narrow ones he only wore to special occasions—were digging into his belly, and his similarly-fancy shoes weren’t meant for this much walking; he couldn’t sit and he couldn’t stand and he couldn’t wait but he had nothing else to do but cool his heels and suck down coffee that was little more than dark hot water.

Then he noticed the flashing lights.

Squeezed in a back corner next to the phone booth closet and foosball table was a tall machine, so brightly-colored it looked like an explosion in a paint factory. How’d I miss that? It was like nothing Randy had ever seen, except maybe in newsreels about Japan’s technological marvels. Setting down his half-empty cup, he heaved his bulk across the chair’s worn pleather upholstery and stood to take a closer look.

“Wink your Future!” the bold lettering stated emphatically. “Extraordinary Gachapon! Powerful fun perhaps extra?”

Randy was about to return to his seat and glum musings when he noticed the price listed on the coin slot: twenty-five cents. Well…I might as well. It’s not enough to get me a cab, that’s for sure. Still feeling hesitant, he glanced around the dingy diner, as though expecting everyone to be staring at him, judging him for succumbing to such a childish lure. But the cook was in the back, the waiter was staring off at nothing, and the only other customer was reading yesterday’s newspaper.

Shrugging like he didn’t care, Randy thumbed his quarter into the slot and turned the chunky silver knob. The front of the machine lit up, spelling out the words: “Something wo derful is about to happy…”, and a clunk signaled the arrival of his prize behind the out tray’s door flap. Wo derful indeed, he thought with a smirk and unkind thoughts about the quality foreign manufacturing.

But his fingers dropped down and fished out the little plastic bubble. It’s like a giant pill capsule, he thought, holding the opaque red sphere up to the light. There was a seam running around it, and definitely something inside: it rattled when he shook it. Pressing with both thumbs, he popped the bubble open, revealing a little plastic toy dog. It looked like the sled dogs he’d seen in his dad’s old National Geographic magazines. Husky…just like me, he thought with a derisive snort that bounced the gut protruding between his suspenders.

But as soon as his finger touched the cheap trinket, it dissolved like a sand castle or Alka Seltzer tablet. Even the two halves of the container faded away into nothingness. Well, that’s just my luck. Twenty-five cents and nothing to show for…hey, why does everything smell so good? He took a long sniff, and found he was able to distinguish the bacon-and-fried-egg smell of the griddle, but also the sweat of the cook, the waiter’s deodorant, the tang of well-worn pennies, the ink of the newspaper, and a host of weaker scents from pervious patrons and meals. He could also, he realized with embarrassment, smell his own arousal.

Feeling his cheeks growing warm, he skedaddled to the diner’s little bathroom, overwhelming his newly-heightened senses with the smell of sour mop water and worse. The cracked and water-spotted mirror showed the concern in his eyes, only they weren’t his eyes any more: somehow ordinary brown had become piercing ice-white blue. Staring fixedly at his own gaze, he barely noticed when his tongue flicked up to lick his nose, making the bathroom’s scents all the more potent.

And weaving through those aromas was something hot, salty, viscerally familiar. That’s me! he realized with a glance downward. He unbuttoned his jeans, letting them hang from his suspenders as he shoved down denim and cotton to reveal his erection. The head had narrowed down to a point, and a golf-ball sized swelling seemed to throb at the base where it emerged from a very canine sheath. Fuck, I’ve got a dog dick…I wonder if I…

Sucking in his breath, he bent forward, squashing his belly and tugging on his back pockets to add leverage, craning his neck and too-long tongue until tip met tip. In an explosion of flavor, Randy’s spine seemed to loosen, letting him slurp up another inch of shaft. Then, just as suddenly, he stood bolt upright, dick bobbing wet and forgotten. In his mind’s eye he saw the little pod opening, the small plastic husky staring back at him with its blue eyes, perked ears and even the suggestion of a sheath between the hind legs, saw the pixie dust effect of it dissolving, coating his hands before even the tiny specs vanished.

“And I habf two more quarterth,” he said, not realizing that his newly-canine tongue had given him somewhat of a speech impediment. Brusquely he stuffed his dick back in his boxers and re-hitched his jeans; he didn’t even bother giving his hair a habitual sweep with his comb before he dashed out of the bathroom. It wasn’t until he was standing in front of the machine that he remembered how changed his face had become: pointed snout, black nose, fangs and canine tongue, and two tall ears framing his pompadour.

But as he looked around the still mostly-deserted diner, all he got was a halfannoyed look from the other customer, grumpy that his clomping boots had interrupted the man’s reading. “You still drinkin’ that?” asked the waiter, jerking a thumb at the forgotten coffee mug.

“Y-yeth, it’th really good coffee,” he managed to blurt out, then turned back to the gachapon machine. Hands shaking like a drug fiend’s, he managed to fit another quarter into the slot without dropping it. This time, however, the ball seemed empty. He held the black plastic up to the light, but saw nothing, and heard nothing when he shook it. Feeling gypped, he popped it open.

There was nothing inside but a sound, a low rumble that seemed to grow louder until it filled the whole diner with the thunder of galloping hooves. Was that dirt he smelled, the scent of sun-dried grass and the hint of horse sweat? The sound of boisterous, almost drunken laughter seemed to weave through the hoofbeats, like a herd of men after an Elks or Rotary meeting, staggering home tipsy with more than good fellowship. Randy’s balance shifted and he nearly stumbled, giggling at his clumsiness.

Looking down past hands holding empty air instead of a plastic ball, he saw something something unexpected: a hoof.

“And therth the other one,” he muttered as his other leg lifted its terminus into view. “Two hooveth, and two more,” he added, giving his tail a swish. Then he grabbed onto the foosball table to keep from collapsing. Hooves…tail…two and two makes four. Bending double for the second time that day, he saw a complete absence of jeans.

Instead, his suspenders were clipped to a belted pouch that held his wallet and coins and comb and keys, everything that had been in his pockets. The belt kept the bottom of his white T-shirt from pulling up, and below that was nothing but jet black fur. Not fur, hide, he corrected himself, running a finger down the tightlypacked hairs and feeling the solid muscle beneath. He’d seen Fantasia, and he knew why he had four hooves and no dick below his belt.

A slight breeze from his tail corrected his misapprehension: his tackle had simply moved down the line. He could feel the heft of an oversized pair of nuts and a fat swaying sheath between his hind legs, just like a horse…or a centaur. Bending a little further allowed him a fuller view, and he almost gasped aloud: the glossy black low-hangers looked as big as his fists, but the equine shaft that drooped in front of them was mottled with red, and seemed to have a swelling at the base. He licked his nose, and sure enough the canine sense of smell was still very much in effect. So they do stack, he thought, marveling at the changes two quarters had wrought in him.

His whole body seemed to thrum with energy, fueled by both his sled dog and draft horse aspects. I bet I could run…gallop all the way to the concert now. A quick check of his wallet confirmed that the ticket was still tucked safely away. Relieved, he ran his fingers across his pompadour and, brushing his eartips in the process, he found that the slicked hair now formed a mane, running down the back of his neck, past the collar of his shirt and out the bottom where his two torsos met.

The more-than double mass would have been too much for the rickety chair, so instead he flopped onto his belly, the old linoleum cold on his balls and withdrawing cock. This put him at just about the right hight above the table, and he slurped his coffee reflexively. So, I’m a dog-headed centaur now, and no one seems to notice.

This made him wonder, and he glanced furtively around the diner. He’d noticed something odd, when he’d burst out of the bathroom, but hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. Now he realized just what had been amiss: the waiter had two heads, one yawning, the other chewing bubble gum.

But that wasn’t all. The other customer, still reading the newspaper like it was the only thing that mattered, had a dick as thick as his leg, and long enough that it was not only draped across the floor, but had coiled around the table’s pole. It also seemed to be mostly encased in thick rubber, like someone had turned an old mackintosh into a condom. Then again, if my dick were dragging behind me like a dragon’s tail, I’d want some sort of protection too. It was only by craning his neck that he saw the cook’s two extra arms, and he’d nearly looked away when he spied the monkey tail stretching out from beneath his apron strings to grab a jar of spice. The fact that he had jug ears and a flat nose only added to the man’s resemblance to the White Apes of Burroughs’ Mars.

It seemed as though he could only see their changes by virtue of his own. Which likely meant that they could see his too; their lack of reaction suggested that they’d seen it all before, and simply found the changes of a stranger to be blasé. Well, I’ve got one more quarter, so screw them. Knocking back the dregs of his coffee in defiance to its blandness and their disregard, he rose on his hooves and strode to the machine with the confident swagger of a show pony.

Randy’s draft horse hindquarters made it tricky to squeeze into the gap between phone booth and foosball table, but he managed. Fishing his last coin from his belt pouch, he held it up to the light. A befanged doppelgänger grinned back at him from the shiny surface of President Washington’s cheek before Randy plunked his last twenty-five cents into the machine.

This time the ball was blue, and sloshed ominously as he lifted it from behind the flap, as though it were filled with warm maple syrup. It did feel warm, he realized, but it also smelled faintly of blueberries. Unable to contain his expectation any longer, he popped the capsule open, splashing his shirt with purplish navy like a burst ballpoint. The tangy-sweet smell was overpowering, and—licking his nose—he realized why: a big gob of the stuff had landed square on his muzzle. Going cross-eyed he could see it, a loogie of glossy indigo that was swiftly soaking into the white fur of his face. Staring at his reflection in the somehow-unspattered glass of the old-style phone booth, he could see that the viscous fluid had somehow soaked through his shirt, leaving the fabric white once more, but the skin behind it that same rich blue.

His belt was similarly unscathed, but the black hide of his lower half was now lightening as the stain spread. Twisting around, he could see the individual hairs smoothing out, leaving his body subtly textured but smooth, like a cheap plastic toy. Or rubber, you can’t really mold fine details into rubber, he thought, stretching his fingers abstractedly. Then he noticed that they weren’t fingers any more, not as such.

Randy’s hands were now feet. Blue, rubber, flexible feet. He dropped his nose to the toes of his left hand…foot…wrist…wristfoot, he decided, and sniffed. Instead of clean skin or gym sock funk, he smelled only the fresh—if slightly artificial—scent of blueberries. The toes wriggled their way between his canine lips, filling his mouth with the taste of blueberry pie, an explosion of unexpected flavor that sent shudders bouncing across his body and made his cock spear out anew.

A wet and gloppy sound made him look down, easily bending double over his human torso’s belly, to find the cause: his cock was dripping a sort of precum, like blueberry pancake syrup, across the floor. A tentative hooftip confirmed: it was slick as the KY jelly his uncle had used on his horse farm. He felt a similar slippery sensation from behind him, suspecting correctly that he might be self-lubricating. This’ll definitely make me more popular at the bar back home, he mused, surprised at his lewd thoughts of the truck drivers and college football jocks—as well as the other greasers—who frequented the Flying Pig Lounge.

Trying hard to shake the deep-seated arousal that seemed to be flowing through his veins, he checked his watch and did a quick mental calculation. If he kept a brisk trot—and didn’t get lost—he’d be able to make it to the show. “Thankth for the joe,” he said as he clopped and slid his way back out to the street. “Thorry bout the methh!” At least it smells better in there now. Maybe if they ask nice I’ll let them bottle some of my…product…to go on their pancakes.

There was no question in his mind that he’d be back, after the concert and a quick stop at a bank for a couple more quarters. Only a few dollars’ worth, maybe ten or twenty. If he had to rob a fountain in the middle of the night, he’d get the coins. Maybe, he considered, the gears of his mind whirling as his hooves pounded him down the pavement, I’ll be able to resist opening a couple. Give them as…presents to my buddies back home. Can’t hog the fun all to myself, I’m not that big of an ass! The barking bray of his laugh echoed along with the oddly-rubbery clop of his tread as he hurried towards the venue.

If he’d taken a moment to pause, to examine the flashing lights of the Gachapon machine before darting off, he’d have seen a new message light up. “Three rowing, extra fun! Happy surprise!” A little yellow capsule slipped from the machine, bouncing off the floor. It popped open in mid-air, dissolving to reveal a single white feather that quickly turned blue before it too vanished. Rounding the corner, his destination in sight, Randy felt a sudden pressure building.

He glanced down, using his wristfoot toes to lift the shirt over his gut without breaking stride: his belly button was now longer, narrower, rather like a coin slot. Shapes sunk into the taut roundness above it, reading “25¢” in squared-off letters, as though stamped into his belly by a mold. Handing his ticket to the bouncer, he realized what this meant. I guess I don’t need to worry about getting more quarters, if I can just make my own eggs…pods.

His tail flagged and flapped, now a fan-shaped bird’s plumage molded out of solid rubber, above a slightly drippy hole that exuded the scent of blueberries and the promise of something wo derful about to happy. Randy hoped there were a few concert-goers with loose change…or he might just be coaxed into giving out a few free samples. Perhaps more than a few, given the jostling in his updated innards.

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