Dippin' New Life (musc mc tf)
by kdumd
Continued from Smokin' New Life
Part 1
DeShaun didn't quite know what to do. In front of his eyes, in the middle of the tingy old tobacco shop, his best friend and roommate had changed from a Greek god to a massively muscled, dip-spittin' Texan, complete with drawl. He'd obviously watched other guys change, and even encouraged it, by way of the mystical cigars, but now the game had changed. If the brotherhood was to expand, it would be because of this mysterious white dip.
"Now," the old man said, seemingly unaffected by what had just transpired, "the same goes with this as with the cigars. Every time you use it, you'll change. So unless you want to take a chance on becoming someone new, I'd go buy some regular dip if I were you."
"Yes sir," Nick said, the southern accent coming through stronger than before. Addressing DeShaun, the cowboy motioned for the door. "Let's git goin'," he said. DeShaun followed, mind racing with questions.
The boys took the case of magic dip with them. The cigars would be gone by week's end, so after that, the dip was all they'd have left. But since there were still so many guys on campus that could stand to benefit from the magic, it'd have to do.
"Y'all fixin' to try it?" Nick said, indicating the tin of magic dip.
"Naw man," DeShaun said, "I'm good like this. I ain't no cowboy, man."
Nick laughed, spitting another gob of whitish juice from his mouth. There must have been some aftereffects of the initial change, because his stubble was thicker and darker than it had been before.
The boys returned to their room, and Nick wasted no time immersing himself in his new lifestyle. He spent hours downloading country music and put in an order for a Texas flag from an online store. Later that night, they took the case of magic dip to the house and told the rest of their friends what had happened.
Since the legend of the cigar house was quickly growing around campus and it was a weekend night, a group of unchanged guys stumbled there in a drunken stupor. Nick offered them plain, non-magical cigars, and waited for the right moment to break out the dip.
"Hey y'all," he said to the three erstwhile party crashers. "Try this. It'll buzz you up right quick."
The three looked at each other uneasily. The biggest one, Carl, looked as if he had played high school football, probably on the offensive line. He had plenty of muscle, but it was obscured by layers of fat. Vito was a slim, youngish Italian boy with conservatively cut black hair. Chris looked to be the quiet one of the group, very tall and lanky, with rampant acne that no doubt contributed to a history of social isolation.
"Well," Carl said, stepping forward, "I guess it's worth a shot. Is it supposed to be white, though?"
"Quit," Nick laughed. "Trust me."
Carl sighed heavily. He had dipped once or twice before, having grown up in a rural farming town where dip and chew were quite common. He grabbed a medium sized pinch between his thumb and forefinger, used his other hand to hold his lower lip open and inserted the dip in the front of his mouth.
Nick smiled and nodded. He knew what was coming, and he was excited.
Just like clockwork, Carl's body froze. His skin darkened to a shade resembling Hispanic, but redder and more distinctive--Native American. All of the fat on his body melted away, revealing the hidden musculature which was quickly inflating. His pecs ballooned and his arms became twin pillars of strength, visible veins creating a framework of vascularity bodybuilders worked years to achieve. His abs emerged, first two, then four and finally eight nuggets of solid muscle. Legs followed, becoming trunks of muscle complete with diamond-shaped calves and ham-sized thighs.
When it was over, the transformed Carl shook his head. "Sheyoot," he said, spitting on the floor. "Dad gum it, I'm all swole up." Same accent Nick inherited. It seemed the dip definitely had a predisposition for turning guys into Southern beefcakes.
Vito and Chris were stunned. They looked at each other and down at their unimpressive bodies, then quickly made an unspoken pact. Each reached into the tin of dip Nick still held in an outstretched arm and shoved a pile of tobacco into their lips.
On cue, they began to change. Vito retained his complexion and Italian facial features, but his hair became a short buzz cut. His muscles, too, quickly inflated him to amateur bodybuilder proportions, biceps and forearms bulging with raw power.
Chris's changes were more radical than either of the other dip-induced transformations had been. His hair disappeared, leaving a gleaming bald white head. Light-colored facial hair grew in sparsely in a goatee-like pattern, giving him the appearance of a teenager not yet finished with puberty, afraid to shave what little peachfuzz he'd earned over the years. His body, though, was all man. His traps flared out and became comically large, while the rolls at the base of his neck and the protruding gut beneath his abs locked him in as a longtime roid head.
When both of the boys were done changing, Vito looked himself and Chris over and spit a monster-sized globule of chaw spit onto the ground. "Surenough ah'mo like this. Shoot."
Nick spit his own chaw onto the ground. "Ain't dat some shit."
Part 2
Weeks passed since the discovery of the mystical dip by the cigar-transformed Nick and DeShaun. As the cigars had before, dipping quickly became the new fashinonable vice across the college campus. It was clear that the boys with the magic tobacco had the school firmly in its grasp.
And now it was time to expand.
Not content with transforming a guy or two at a time, the brothers decided it was time to wage a large scale campaign. They had figured out part of what made the stuff work. It quickly reached deep into a person's psyche and located a deep seated desire--something or someone the person had always secretly wanted to be. It then locked in on those attributes and ran with them.
What did that mean? That Billy, once a skinny white nerd, had always longed to be a black gangsta on some level. And that Nick, once a cigar-transformed jock, had a thing for cowboys.
The dip, though, added its own unique flair. In addition to making a person into what they had always wanted to be, it also added a certain...Southern charm, if you will.
It was with that in mind that the boys targeted fraternity houses, male dorms and athletic team facilities--anywhere there were large concentrations of guys. The first phase of the plan had been completed. One representative from each target location had been transformed by the dip, and their new mission was to introduce it to the larger population.
On the day phase two was to begin, DeShaun sat in his bed, cigar clenched between his jaws, gaze fixed on the unmarked tins on magic dip sitting on his desk, ready for distribution. He pondered. Being a thug was amazing, and certainly better than what he was before, but was he ready for a change?
Extinguishing the black and mild on his windowsill, he decided it was. With a couple of uncertain, heavy steps, he opened one of the tins, grabbed a hunk of snow white tobacco between his ebony fingers, and pinched it into the gum behind his plump lower lip.
He waited a few seconds for the rush to hit him, and then he felt his body froze. His already ample musculature inflated slightly more, giving him the look of a serious competitive bodybuilder. His dark skin lightened almost instantaneously to a standard Caucasian white, as brown hair sprouted from his previously bald scalp. His thick lips and nose receded to more traditionally white features, as another curious set of changes took place.
His tattoos, once decidedly urban and "ghetto" in nature, began to reform and change. Soon there was a Confederate flag, a nude, big-breasted blonde laying across the bed of a pickup truck, and a large, colorful dragon design that sprawled across his chiseled back.
The brown hair stopped growing at a short buzz, as greasy facial hair grew in an irregular pattern across his face. He stood frozen as three of his teeth hit the floor, and the remainder went from a sparking white to an almost repulsive yellow. Thick armpit and pubic hair sprouted, which would almost certainly take some getting used to.
When it was over, DeShaun shook his head and spit a gob of brown goo onto the floor. "Gul dang it," he said in a heavily accented tongue, "I'm a fuckin' ridnick."
The scary part was he liked it. The dip had done exactly what they figured it would.
Phase two was going to be a blast.
Part 3
DeShaun, formerly a towering black thug and now an overmuscled redneck who would go by Sean, was on his third lipper of the day when his cell phone rang. It was nick.
"Howdy," he said, aware of how stereotypical it sounded. Nick was calling into signal that the plans for phase two were complete. It was go time.
Sean smiled, spitting brown juice into a soda bottle he had managed to fill in just a few hours. He grabbed his backpack, full of tins of the magic dip, and left his room.
He was responsible for the residence halls. A group of the brothers, some converted to dip but many still results of the now-extinct mystical cigars, would hold impromptu parties outside the areas they were targeting. While the unsuspecting masses were enjoying the festivities, a smaller group of the guys would go leave the magic dip in the common areas, along with a none-too-cryptic message:
"From the bros: Welcome."
Sean methodically made his way through the dozen or so sets of dorms, suites and apartments on campus, leaving a tin or two of the dip in lounges, lobbies and wherever large groups of clueless fad-followers congregated. Having the whole campus population catch on to the dip trend was crucial. Now, instead of seeing a totally out of place, unmarked can of bizarre white tobacco, they'd see a free sample and would, in theory, eagerly snatch it up.
He completed his deliveries in little time, spitting all the way, and made his way back to the large grassy mall in the center of campus, which is where the brothers would be able to see the fruits of their handiwork. On the underside of the mysterious message was a simple set of instructions: "Try it, then meet us on the mall."
The guys waited for what seemed like ages, smoking and dipping and anxiously awaiting the arrivals of their soon-to-be brothers.
Just after midnight, Nick and Sean spotted movement from beyond the mall. "Yall," Nick shouted between spits, "They're comin'."
And they came.
By the dozens, well-muscled and devastatingly handsome men of all races and sizes made their way to the meeting point. Many of them had taken typical downhome southern features, with a fair amount of newly minted baseball and hockey players thrown in for good measure. They all looked like they belonged on a calendar somewhere: giant, heaving pecs, pulsating biceps of various sizes, and giant mounds of legs rolling powerfully through the dark night. And all of them had one thing in common: a bulging mass protruding from their lower lips.
Nick and Sean could barely contain their excitement. Many of the new recruits had once been girls, they could only theorize, since they had "experimented" on a handful prior to the full-scale operation, and all of them had become guys.
They were all smiling, spitting and talking wildly in their deep-ingrained accents, which ranged from pronounced southern drawls to thick New York to a smattering of Canadian. They locked hands, arms and embraces with the original brothers who had bestowed on them the gift of these new lives. None of them were unhappy, more than a few were extremely confused, but all of them were thankful.
A thought occurred to Nick as he spit out what seemed like a gallon of sludge. If all of the females had become males, what were they supposed to do for sex?
"Shit," he said, with a wicked curiosity he was dying to explore.
Part 4
Teddy may have been a dork, but he wasn't dumb. He noticed something really odd taking place at his college, a little at a time at first, but all of a sudden it had spread like a virus. Guys were changing. This particular night, his roommate went down to their dorm's lounge to study calculus only to disappear for hours. Hours later, as Teddy lay in bed, wide awake in the dead of night and deep in confused contemplation, he heard the lock to his door turn, but Petey, his roommate, didn't walk in.
No. Teddy expected to see good old Petey, lanky and blemished just like he himself was. This was why they got along so well. They bonded over their chronic physical inadequacy.
Instead, the guy that turned the key in the lock and entered the room could barely fit through the door. He had shoulders so wide he could barely fit through the frame, a head shaved bald and glistening with sweat and something occupying a lot of space in his lower lip.
"Yo, T-bag, you up?" the stranger said quietly. The only reason Teddy knew that Teddy had become whatever this was is that Petey was the only person--ever--who called him T-bag.
Teddy didn't answer. The hulking figure closed the door behind him before unceremoniously spitting onto the floor. Teddy was disgusted. There was no way this could be Petey.
But then the jock from hell sat down at Petey's computer, entered username and password without hesitation and began typing and clicking like he'd owned it forever. Now, Teddy was REALLY confused.
The next day, when Petey (or whoever had slept in Petey's bed) was out of the room, Teddy noticed something odd sitting on the desk. It was a small, round container about the size of the bottom of an old school Coke bottle. It looked to be made up of two pieces, but the unusual thing was the design of the container. Though not nearly the correct shape or size, the container looked like a baseball, white with red stitches running all around it.
Teddy picked it up. It was light, but it felt like there was something inside. He declined to open it, though, because he was extremely respectful of his roommate's privacy. But when he turned it over, he saw what looked like an address.
His curiosity piqued, Teddy scribbled down the address and took off. It was downtown, a good deal away from the campus, but he didn't care. He had to get to the bottom of this. On his way, he passed what seemed like dozens of massive, handsome men, none of whom seemed to belong there. All of them were, by most standards, gorgeous and all had the same odd-looking bump in their lips that "Petey" had the previous night.
When Teddy finally arrived at the address he had written down, he opened a heavy wooden door to enter what looked like an antique store. He walked all around the place, and was about to leave when his eyes locked on a shelf in the corner: Petey's container. Not only that one, but several others of an identical size and shape but with different designs printed on them.
He walked to the desk and asked the employee, an older man, what they were. "Well, son," the shopkeep said, "the best way to describe it is to let you see for yourself. Which one strikes your fancy the most?"
Teddy turned to face them. Aside from the baseball-themed one Petey had left in their room, he found containers which looked to be covered in tanned suede, camouflage colors, pastel shades and something almost wet-looking.
"Um, I guess that one," Teddy said, pointing at the camo.
"Well," the old man said impatiently, "bring it over."
Teddy picked it up nervously, and with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, he carried the lightweight container to the old man's counter.
"Now," the shopkeep said as he pierced a thin membrane of paper--or was it cloth?--around the perimeter of the container, "just stand still, and trust me." Teddy couldn't believe it, but he did trust the man.
He watched as the elderly shopkeep reached inside the container and emerged seconds later with pinched fingers full of camouflage colored fibers. "Just stand still, now," the shopkeep said again. The man reached for Teddy's lower lip with one hand and shoved the fibrous material into his lip with the other.
Before Teddy could react with revulsion, disgust or any one of the dozens of negative emotions he was feeling, he froze. Something in that fiber had a hold of him.
He stood motionless in the dimly lit shop as everything began to change. He could feel his shoulder and biceps muscles begin to grow--no, inflate. They went from non-existant to massive in a matter of seconds. Muscles on his torso he'd never seen began to manfest themselves, and his chest exploded with size and definition. His legs, too, began to expand, change and grow along with his body.
Probably not coincidentally, he was facing a mirror at the time the shopkeep put the mysterious substance in his mouth. Unable to move his eyes, he watched in the mirror as all of these changes unfolded. He saw his musculature explode, nearly quadruple his old size. He saw his nondescript brown eyes change to an olive green, his cheekbones jut out and his jaw sqaure in a hypermasculine manner. He felt the hair on the sides and back of his head disappear, and watched as what remained on the top shortened to just a quarter of an inch.
Teddy was still frozen as his plain t-shirt and khaki pants became a camouflage jacket and pants, and his busted sneakers a pair of shiny black boots. He felt the cold of metal as a set of dog tags materialized around his next, and felt a combination of itching and tingling as an impressive array of miltary tattoos manifested across his gigantic body.
Terrified and confused, Teddy felt these anxious emotions slip away as his mind was instantly blanked, the memories and knowledge accumulated in his previous life replaced with the life and experience of a soldier. Atop his giant head, which had just received a mystical high and tight haircut, a black beret appeared, one side draping over half of Teddy's face.
And then, just as quickly as it began, it was over Teddy, the outcast college nerd, had quickly become a hulking drill sergeant in the United States Army.
When it was over, the old man said coolly, "So, what do you think?"
The newly transformed soldier spit on the floor. He was disoriented for a second but then regarded the old man with respect. "Thank you, sir!" Sgt. Theo Hagen saluted the shopkeep, who returned the gesture.
Sgt. Hagen walked out of the store, newly created memories and thoughts still pouring into his mind. He stood on the street, inhaling deeply through an oft-broken nose, released a massive gob of dip spit onto the asphalt, and walked with authority down the street.
He was due at base soon.
To be continued?