I am just so sick of college. I've been able to keep my grades up, but it's drained all my energy. I have no time for friends, or a boyfriend, or any sort of social life. I just wish I was done with College Already. Can Ashur help me?
You slam your textbook shut with a frustrated thud, the sound echoing in your dead-silent dorm room. Another fucking night wasted memorizing bullshit about postmodern literary theory while your roommate's out getting wasted and probably laid. Your GPA's hanging on by a thread, and for what? So you can spend your twenties bent over books while your social life withers and dies? You haven't been on a date in months, haven't gotten laid in even longer, and your right hand is starting to feel like a committed relationship.
That's when you remember that weird website your roommate showed you while blackout drunk last week â some occult bullshit about summoning genies. Desperate times, you figure. You pull up the browser, find the site, and follow the ridiculous instructions involving a cheap cigar and chanting some gibberish name.
"Ashur," you mutter, feeling like an idiot. "Ashur, I summon your ass."
Red smoke billows from your laptop screen, smelling like sulfur and regret, coalescing into a vaguely humanoid shape with eyes like burning coals.
"What the fuck do you want, mortal?" a voice echoes in your skull, making your teeth ache.
You swallow hard. "Look, man, I'm just so fucking sick of college. I've kept my grades up, but it's drained all my energy. I have no time for friends, or a boyfriend, or any sort of social life." You take a breath. "I just wish I was done with College Already. Can Ashur help me?"
The genie's grin widens, showing teeth that look like broken glass. "Oh, I can help you alright. But words are tricky little things, aren't they? 'Done with college'... that could mean so many things."
Before you can respond, your stomach churns violently. The air in your room thickens, reeking of stale beer, sweat, farts, and something else... something distinctly like cum. You double over as your intestines gurgle ominously.
"What the...?" you gasp, but the words that actually come out of your mouth are: "I just wish I was a dumb College dropout already! Can Ashur help me?"
The genie's laughter echoes in your head as your brain throbs like a bad hangover. More red smoke envelops you, and the world spins like you've chugged a bottle of cheap vodka.
Your muscles ache and burn as if you've just finished the worst workout of your life. The memories of being a smart, bookish gay man drown in a tidal wave of frat parties, beer pong, and homophobic slurs.
"Uhhhhh... what's happening?" you manage, but it comes out as "Duuuuuhhhh, my head hurts..."
The laughter in your head is not a sound. It's a physical assault, a thousand rusty nails scraping the inside of your skull. Oh, yes. Ashur can help.
The black smoke erupts, engulfing you. It seeps into your pores, up your nose, down your throat. You're choking on it. The world dissolves into a screaming vortex of red and black.
The first thing to change is your mind. It's an agonizing, violent process. Memories of late-night study sessions, of intellectual debates, of the names of artists and writers, begin to sizzle and pop like bacon grease. The complex tapestry of your identity as a gay man, your hopes, your fears, your entire sense of self, is torn to shreds.
You try to hold onto a memory of your first kiss, of the boy with the shy smile behind the library, but it dissolves, replaced by a blurry image of a girl in a crop top, her face blank. The pain is blinding, like your brain is being physically scooped out with a melon baller.
"D-duuuhhhh..." you slur, drool dripping from your suddenly slack jaw. Thoughts are becoming hard. Like, really hard. Thinking sucks.
Your body convulses. Your spine cracks, lengthening painfully, making you taller. Your shoulders broaden with a series of sickening pops, your frame expanding from lean and wiry to thick and brutish.
Your chest balloons outward, pectoral muscles swelling with an unnatural speed, stretching the skin until it feels like it might tear. A coarse forest of dark, greasy hair erupts across your new pecs, swirling around your nipples and spreading down your stomach.
Your arms are next. You watch in horror as your biceps and triceps bloat, swelling with bulky, unrefined muscle. Your hands crack and expand, your fingers thickening into meaty, clumsy sausages.
You look down at them and a thought, slow and stupid, forms: Good for grabbin' beer. And maybe ass. You let out a wet, rumbling fart that seems to go on forever. Pffffffft. The smell is atrocious, even to you, but a dim, primitive part of your new brain finds it hilarious.
Your legs ache as your thigh muscles expand, pressing against each other. Your calves bulge, and your feet stretch, tearing through your socks. You're being remade into a creature of crude physicality.
The mental regression accelerates. Your vocabulary shrinks. Complex words evaporate. "Postmodernism" becomes "that faggy art shit." "Literary theory" becomes "boring crap." Your entire worldview is being overwritten by a toxic slurry of bro-culture, locker room talk, and alt-right memes you've never even seen but now feel like eternal truths.
The thought of being with a man now triggers a wave of visceral disgust in your new, reprogrammed gut. "Faggot," the word whispers in your head, and it feels right. Natural. Your dick, which has always responded to men, begins to stir at the thought of soft curves and wet holes of a chick.
The smoke clears. You're standing in the middle of a squalid frat house backyard. The sun is beating down. You're wearing a filthy, sweat-stained muscle shirt and a backwards baseball cap. Your name feels wrong. Alex. Nah. Something simpler. Chet. Yeah. Chet. That's it. You're Chet.
You're 27, but you look and feel like you're perpetually 21, stuck in a loop of parties and hangovers. You never graduated. You dropped out after your third try at freshman comp. It was for pussies anyway. You live on campus, in the designated "alumni housing" which is just a nicer name for the room they give the townie loser who never leaves.
You grin, a wide, stupid, easy grin. Your face has relaxed into a mask of dim confidence. You feel an itch in your ass and, without a second thought, you lift a leg and let out another long, wet fart. BRAAAPPP. The guys around you cheer. You're a fucking legend.
Your mind is a wasteland. You can barely read. You think in simple, declarative sentences. Tits are good. Beer is good. Fags are bad. Chicks who don't put out are bitches. You're the pinnacle of evolution, a real man's man. The memory of the bookish gay kid is gone, or if it's still there, it's like a faded photograph you found in a pocket, something you can't quite place and don't care to.
You scan the party, your eyes, small and piggy, landing on a girl. A freshman, probably. She's got huge tits straining against a tiny pink crop top. Your pathetic, five-inch dick is instantly, painfully hard, leaking pre-cum into your already-stained boxers. It's a hair trigger now. Just the thought of pussy is enough to make you wanna blow.
You swagger over, your movements clumsy and aggressive. "Hey, baby," you manage, your voice a low, gravelly grunt. "How about you and me go somewhere and I show you why they call me the 'Human Firehose'?"
She looks disgusted, but before she can tell you to fuck off, the sheer, overwhelming sight of her cleavage in the harsh sunlight is too much. Your balls tighten. Your entire body convulses. You let out a pathetic groan as you cum hard and fast, a massive, humiliating wet spot spreading across the front of your jeans. It's over in three seconds.
The girl laughs in your face. "Oh my god, what a loser."
Your face burns with shame, but the emotion is fleeting, replaced by a surge of moronic anger. "Fucking bitch!" you yell after her. "Probably a dyke anyway!"
You stomp away from the laughing girl, your face burning with a shame that's quickly curdling into a thick, impotent rage. The wet spot on your jeans is cold and sticky against your thigh, a gross, pathetic reminder of your failure. She's a bitch. A tease. She shouldn't have been wearing that if she didn't want it.
"Fuckin' cunt," you mutter to yourself, the words feeling natural and right in your mouth. You stomp over to the keg, your movements clumsy and aggressive. The need to wash away the shame with booze is overwhelming. You shove past some skinny freshman kid who's trying to fill his cup, sending beer splashing onto his shoes.
"Watch it, nerd," you snarl, grabbing the tap. You don't even bother with a cup. You chug, your throat working, some of it spilling down your chin and onto your chest. You belch, a deep, rumbling, beer-soaked eruption that smells like rot and hops. "BUUUUURRRRRRP! Fuck yeah."
Your bro, a lanky guy named Trent with a greasy man-bun and a chinstrap beard, claps you on the back. "Whoa there, killer. Tryin' to drown yourself?"
You wipe your mouth with the back of your meaty hand. "Fuckin' bitches, man," you complain, your voice thick with self-pity. "That little slut over there, the one with the huge fuckin' cans? I was gonna rail her into next week, and she just laughed at me."
You see a group of guys playing beer pong. One of them, a skinny kid with glasses and an ironic t-shirt, makes a particularly good shot. Your new brain immediately flags him as an enemy. He's smart. He's probably one of those faggots from the debate team. You used to be on the debate team. The thought flickers for a nanosecond before being crushed under a tidal wave of new instincts.
"Bet that pencil-dick couldn't throw a real ball if his life depended on it," you grunt to Trent.
"For sure," Trent agrees loyally. "He probably goes home and jerks off to anime."
You both laugh, a loud, braying, idiotic sound. You feel a rumble in your guts again, a deep, gassy pressure building. You grin, a cruel idea forming. You casually walk over to the beer pong table, "accidentally" bumping into the nerdy kid's friend. "Whoops, my bad, bro." As you lean in, you let it rip. It's not just a fart; it's a weapon. A long, hot, silent-but-deadly eruption of pure filth. PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT. The smell is god-awful, a concentrated blast of stale beer, rotten eggs, and your own toxic innards.
The kid recoils, his face contorting in disgust. "Oh my god, what is wrong with you?"
You just grin, your face a mask of smug satisfaction. "Just markin' my territory, nerd." You and Trent are howling with laughter as the guys at the table abandon the game, fanning the air and gagging.
You're drunk. Not buzzed, not tipsy, but fully, deeply, stupidly drunk. The world is a pleasant, blurry haze. You've lost track of how many beers you've had. You're telling Trent a story that doesn't really have a point.
"And then I get out, right? And the deer's just lookin' at me, like, with these fuckin'... faggot eyes. And I'm like, 'What the fuck you lookin' at, Bambi?' And I just... I fuckin' kicked it. Right in the fuckin' head. It was awesome."
Trent nods, his eyes glazed over. "Fuckin' A, bro. Deer are gay."
You're so deep in your moronic storytelling that you don't even notice her at first. Another girl. This one's different. She's not as hot as the first one, but she's looking at you. Really looking at you. She's got dark hair and a smirk on her face. She's leaning against a tree, watching you hold court with your idiotic stories.
Your dick, which had been mercifully dormant, stirs again. It's pathetic, really. The slightest hint of female attention and your useless little pecker is at attention. You feel a surge of confidence. This is your chance. Redemption.
You stumble away from Trent, weaving through the crowd. The world tilts, but you catch yourself on the side of the house. You leer at her as you approach. "What's a pretty little thing like you doin' in a shithole like this?"
Her smirk widens. "Just enjoying the floor show. You're quite the entertainer."
You puff out your chest, which only makes you look more like a gorilla. "Yeah, well, I got a lot of... talent." You wink, a slow, clumsy gesture. "Wanna see my other talent? It's not as loud as my farts, but it's... stickier."
She laughs, a genuine, throaty laugh. It's not the laugh you wanted. It's not the laugh of a girl who's impressed. It's the laugh of someone who finds you hilarious. But your brain is too far gone to process the nuance. Laughter is good. It means she likes you.
"I'll pass on the sticky part," she says, pushing off the tree. "But I'll take another beer."
You're momentarily confused, your simple brain struggling to shift gears. "Uh... yeah. Beer. I can do beer." You lead her back to the keg, feeling like you've accomplished something monumental. You're getting her a beer. You're basically dating now.
As you fumble with the tap, she leans in close. "You know," she whispers, her voice hot in your ear, "you're exactly what they warned me about in college. A walking, talking, farting stereotype."
You freeze. The words don't compute. They're too big, too complex. "Stere... stereo... what?" you grunt, turning to face her.
She just smiles that infuriatingly knowing smile. "Nothing. Don't worry your pretty little head about it." She takes the full cup from your hand, her fingers brushing against yours. It's the most action you've had all day. Your dick twitches, ready for another disappointing performance.
But before you can embarrass yourself again, she takes a long drink of her beer, looks you dead in the eye, and says, "You know, for a guy who hates fags so much, you've got a surprisingly nice ass."
Your brain bluescreens. It's the most confusing, terrifying, and strangely compelling thing anyone has ever said to you. You just stand there, your mouth hanging open, a low, dumb "duuuuhhhhh" sound escaping your lips as she turns and walks away, leaving you alone with your throbbing head, your sticky jeans, and a keg full of cheap beer. You're Chet, the 27-year-old college dropout, the smelly, farting, homophobic, sexist idiot. And for the first time all day, you have absolutely no fucking idea what to do.
