“Here’s my story pitch: a gang of menacing, outlaw bikers gets turned into horny, diapered, cartoon anthros.”McBaer
It was a busy day of all the usuals at Barnaby’s, and Barnaby didn’t have time for shit. The bar was in the middle of the ass-end to nowhere, and the owner of the establishment, Barney himself, had settled here with the idea in mind that he wouldn’t have to deal with much. Maybe he’d get a couple of the locals shitfaced at the end of every week and there’d be one barfly that kept the lights on, but Barney mostly counted on the local towns tax exemptions and low rates to keep his business afloat. The little shit-hole that he’d decided set up in had elected a mayor that had moronic notions of growing the little podunk town beyond a pack of fuck-happy cousins that’d never traveled any further than the far side of the county. To hear him talk, he seemed to think that under his management, given a few years’ time, he’d have this place operating as “Newer Vegas.” He had benign notions of tourists from all over the world and acquiring more money than a guy knew how to spend in a lifetime. Barney was forced to listen to his spiel several times over when he’d been finalizing the paperwork for opening his establishment, and he’d since avoided the rundown little building that pathetically served as the town hall ever since. The mere prospect of listening to the inane little man ramble on like that ever again gave him a migraine.
Since the opening Barnaby’s, Barney had long given up the impression that he’d be able to run a quiet business. The small town had little going for it in the way of commerce, and he’d previously assumed that the only thing that stopped it from becoming incorporated territory was through government subsidies or the strange little mayor having some sort of nepotistic connection somewhere higher up than local government. In reality, the town stayed afloat to an unexpected flow of cash from the back roads of America. There were few attachments to main, civilized culture in such a remote location, and the government’s grip on such a place seemed tenuous at best. There was no official local law enforcement. Instead the handful of citizens relied on the rarely seen county sheriff, who often did little more than file neighborly disputes and have a few drinks at my place once a month. It soon became clear that even he knew to clear out of the town most of the time to make room for the real money.
The Snaps were an interesting group of people. They never seemed to follow any specific schedule or arrive at any particular time. The only thing that signaled their coming was the raspy sound of motorcycle engines in the distance, and by then it was already too late. They’d would’ve begun to pile into Barney’s front door like a pack of lost, aggressive gorillas by the time he was halfway prepared. The gang of bikers all wore their ragged denim or worn leather as if the nineties was to scared to ask them to leave. They similarly possessed long mops of matted hair that gave them the appearance that they’d scalped a half dozen grunge bands and wore their winnings as wigs. The smell associated with the crowd was often quite repugnant as well. The first thing Barney tended to scramble for was to open all the windows of the bar upon hearing the motors roaring down the single street running through town. Otherwise the entire establishment would be stained with the odoriferous stench of sweat, grime, and leather for hours afterwards. Barney suspected that the men rarely saw their skin put to a bar of soap, but he was far too scared to ask. Not a single one of them looked as though they lacked the ability to snap him in half using only their pinkies after all, which was on the the rampant theories as to the reasoning behind their name, “The Snaps.” It was yet unconfirmed, however, as nobody had the guts to ask.
The only one among them that seemed the slightest bit sociable was Hoss, the leader of the bunch. He was an older man. His face bore the subtle wrinkles or a well-lived life, yet his hair only grayed around the fringes, giving him the appearance of being in his late forties. Barney had a silent bet with himself that Hoss was actually closer to thirty, however, on account of assuming that life spent on the road must age a man mightily. Luckily, the smile lines were well-deserved on Hoss’ face, as he often met Barney with a congenial grin as his men filed into the bar. He’d shoot the breeze with the Barney, inquiring into his condition and how his business fared, before paying his tab in advanced. It was an understanding that Hoss was very careful to insinuate upon their first meeting that he’d pay a “reasonable,” and often earnestly generous, installment and the Snaps would drink a “fair,” and often shockingly substantial, amount of alcohol. Anything left would “go towards his tab.” He’d then pay in advance the next time, regardless of if or how much he owed from last time, and the process would repeat himself. Sometimes the payment would cover the cost. Sometimes it wouldn’t. Barney knew better than to have a problem with the method though, and he never questioned where the money came from. He only thanked his fucking lucky stars that Hoss was a good financial guesser a majority of the time.
On this particular day, Barney was serving the bunch for the third time this week. They must have been carrying out business close by. Their attendance so many times in a row over such a short period of time was unexpected but not unwelcome. Barney had been having more and more trouble paying his bills on time lately, and it actually came to the point where he was glad to see the slovenly rabble in his bar. He tried his best to maintain his best manners when serving the horde of motorcyclists, even bearing an uncharacteristic smile the entire time, when a sound emanating from just outside the entrance: the roar of yet another motorcycle engine. The rest of the bar heard it too and began to grow silent, looking over there numbers to see if anyone was missing. For Barney’s part, he had already seen and accounted for all the usual faces. As far as he knew, no one was missing, which begged the question of who had the stones to ride a motorcycle on the Snaps terf?
The answer, as strange as it would seem, came through the door with a pinkish snout and yellowed tusks. Barney could then claim the weirdest thing he’d ever seen walk through his front door was a boar on two legs. He stood to be over five feet tall, and had a face that seemed more human than porcine. It reminded one a bit of those old black and white cartoons where all the animals talked, walked, and gawked like your average joe, though it stood to be a bit uncanny to see in reality. He wore a cartoonishly tight leather vest over his bare chest revealing his enormous pot belly, ridiculously well-sculpted pectorals, and his nipples that were the size of hockey pucks. A large cigar that stuck from his stupidly smiling mouth like a snorkel tube and propped his jaw open wide enough not fit a fist inside, allowing a river of drool to ooze out of his gaping maw and pool on the floor. His black leather boots were heavily worn and caked with mud. The stench off of the suckers were so thick that Barney could practically see the stinks wafting off of them in lines of green. What was stranger, though, was the fact that the creature seemed to see no necessity in rearing pants. In shocking placement of proper trousers, he wore a thick, gigantically poofy garment expanding from his loins and covering his meaty behind, a diaper that crinkled with his every plodding step. A disturbing bulge formed from the front of the diaper, a gigantic throbbing tent that spoke volumes in masculinity despite the outlandishness of the situation.
He made about several steps in through the door before calling out in a voice comically parodic of the gruff intonation used by the bikers of the bar, “Well, there ya fellas are!”
Barney looked to the biker gang, wondering as to what the pig was squealing about, and to his bafflement, a majority looked to him with a expression of confusion that Barney could imagine he himself was wearing at the moment. There were some murmurs amongst the crowd about masks and hidden identities. It did seem possible the boar-like visage was some form of costume in actuality, a deception by way of intricate work in makeup perhaps, but to what effect? It seemed an odd joke to play on such a severe group of outlaws. Besides, something about the pig’s appearance seemed so impossibly fake that it circled about to a sort of realness. Whatever the cause for the pig’s appearance, Barney doubted any sort of deception. The bikers, however, weren’t so thoughtful about the subject. Already they were circling the boar, frowns on their faces and cracking their knuckles like a group of thugs. It was clear that the boar was in imminent danger, yet a wide, slack-jawed smile never left his face.
“What’s the hubbub, boys?” he cheerily asked. “Don’t you remember your old pal, Bruno?”
The boar lifted his fat, muscular, and generally beefy arms in a gesture of excited exclamation, a movement that also served to expose his wiry and copious bushel of armpit hairs to the entire circle of men surrounding him. Similar to the way his boots, ripe from days of riding without removal from his foot, had that bizarre, otherworldly aura of green emanating from them, so did to his pits seem to waft a color emerald in stench. The men around the boar gagged and begin the cough like the poor guys were being exposed to mustard gas. The stamped their feet and clutched their throats, some even doubling over from the foul stench. Barney, for one, was at the bar all the way across the building from the entrance, yet he still gagged from the force of the odor, though not as much as the men closer did. It was like a pit-stink he’d never been exposed to before. It had all the usual scents of a day in the locker room or a hard day’s work, but it was as if he’d done several days of hard work without a single wash. On top of that, bizarre scents like the smell of a rancid egg salad, a gasoline spill, or a posse of upset skunks orbited in and out of range of his sense of smell like a radio station on rotation with the worst golden oldies. Only when his eyed stopped watering did Barney look back up to the scene unfolding in his bar, only to see that it changed quite a bit in the couple of seconds Barney wasn’t watching.
No longer was there a throng of bikers surrounding the boar. Now they were all on his pits like a pack of bloodhounds smelling their alpha. It was as if the entire loony bunch had lost their craven minds. A group of fully-grown, hardened men all batted and pawed at each other, diving in for just a chance to have their faces pressed against the boar’s hairy armpit as if it was the pope’s ring. Once they were there they’d sniff and snort at the odoriferous underside like men possessed. Some even worshipfully licked and kissed it, making out with the thing like a bunch of horny, inexperienced teenagers trying to make out with their first girl. For those that didn’t get the luxury of adoring the pig’s pits, they soon found other sources of stench to amuse them. The aforementioned boots became a subject of rising popularity, garnering quite the crowd of bikers on their knees and forearms to similarly worship the boar’s feet. Then some flocked to the creature’s diaper, as bizarre as it was, in finding that the absorbent padding had beautifully collected the pig’s sweat and stench like a sponge full of stink.
Out of the corner of my eye Barney saw the boss of the Snaps rabble, Hoss, aggressively rise from his chair, leaving it it to clatter to the floor. The everyone in the bar jumped, having been jarred from the morbid trance that led us to stare at the bizarre spectacle. Even the bizarre boar character, Bruno, averted his attention from the clamoring bunch surrounding him to take in the imposing figure staring him down from across the bar. His friendly smile never dissipated, and the overly fond and familiar glimmer in his eyes only flared.
“Well, if it ain’t lil’ Hossie!” he cheerily exclaimed with his arms outstretched, leaving the pack of mad men surrounding him to crowd his exposed pits even further. “You sure got big in the britches while Barney was gone, huh fella?”
“I don’t have no idea what your fuckin’ game is, hog,” Hoss shouted back, red in the face and spitting his words out as if they carried a bad taste for being addressed to such an abominable creature, “but I wantcha gone and out of my bar and out of my terf! Got it?”
Barney stared at Hoss slack-jawed. He’d never seen him so mad before. I’d never seen anyone as dangerous as him in such a state of rage, but Barney was now keenly aware of what contemplation of murder looked like. Barney knew that if this “Bruno” stayed a second longer ham was going to be on the menu, so he was surprised to see that the boar didn’t budge an inch. From the cartoonish, dumb expression of contentment spread over his face like honey on toast Barney simply assumed that this animation of a creature didn’t understand the immediate peril he was in, which only caused me more panic. Part of Barney thought he was about to witness Hoss kill a this thing, which could only serve to raise the ire of the remote and lackadaisical arm of the law to his humble little bar, a call for trouble if ever there was one. Yet another, much more remote part of the fretting bartender scratched at the realization of a darker and much more strange possibility. Bruno was calm because he perfectly understood what was occurring, and he simply didn’t give a fuck.
“Poor lil’ Hossie, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal!” the bizarre boar intoned with sympathy upon the steaming biker’s words. “You always did get so fussy without yer big ol’ Daddy’s help. I’ll get to ya right as rain soon as I go an’ help these poor fellers here.”
Bruno gestured to the men below him. Barney realized that he hadn’t been watching the throng of bikers on their knees around the boar for a moment, and the scene had shifted yet again. The porcine stranger was still surrounded, but it was as if he was encircled by a clamoring crowd of shadows in a dim alleyway. Despite still being in a perfectly lit doorway, Barney perceived the bunch as one might see a black spot in someone’s vision or a blur on the windshield of his peripheral vision. The owner of the bar had possessed impeccable vision, no need for glasses or contacts, yet in bringing his perfect eyes to bear upon seeing the bikers at the boar’s feet a series of large, lively blotches and blurs replaced the men. The bartender blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes for good measure, but it seemed to do nothing. It was if only of the blurs’ own accords that they became more transparent to reveal the impossible.
Bruno was no longer surrounded by the rough and brusk bunch of bikers that he’d grown used to and fond of over their time spent in his bar throughout the years. Instead, the critter on two legs was surrounded by creatures just as strange as he was. Noses no longer invaded his pits, boots, and disturbingly yellowing crotch, but now it was an army of snorting snouts. The dumbly grinning mouths of the men now had unsightly tusks blossoming from their bottom lips and now emitted the occasional grunt or oink. Their hands were replaced with strangely anthropomorphized hooves for digits, and a pink curly tail budding out of everyone of their backsides because the boar had turned all the men to pigs.
“There ya go, my boyos!” Bruno gleefully oinked like a father returning to his children. “Went and forgot yer ol’ bossy, didntcha?”
A chorus of oinks and squeals came in reply as the porcine men surrounding Bruno all rejoiced. In a surprising turn, every boar at the intruder’s feet sung praises for their boss’ return and swearing to never forget him again. They all pawed at the central boar with renewed fervor, basking in his scent like a pack of pigs in mud. What was stranger, all of their outfits also seemed to change to be more cartoonish like Bruno’s as well. The large emblem that dominated the backs of their denim jackets and leather vests had vanished to be replaced with a strange emblem of a boar. It was clearly intended to resemble a wild creature, unkempt and unclean, and the swine seemed to be wallowing in pile of muck. An off-white garment was wrapped around the boar’s lower half in the symbol, and it wasn’t hard to guess why. All the men were no missing their pants, and in their stead was a mammoth diaper that bulged from their bottoms like beer head from a glass. As the bustling sounder all fought for coveted attention from Bruno, Barney would see the odd hog freeze in place shortly before his tail would lift for a telling moment and resume the battle with a newly attained stench.
The sight stunned and horrified Barney, leaving him frozen on the sidelines as Bruno made his way towards Hoss. The leader of the biker’s for all his bravado, found himself in a very similar state to the bartender. His face’s reddish coloration, born of his immense rage, had dissipated to a look of utter shock. His body was no longer braced and imposing, instead being locked in a candid pose of surprise. His mouth was wide in slack-jawed befuddlement. Hoss’ eyes bulged to see the boar draw closer, and in those protruding, white orbs Barney saw the slightest hint of fear. Whether Bruno saw it or not seemed to be inconsequential. He waddled forward in a calm, consistent speed, only his cumbersome and acrid-smelling diaper preventing his wide-gaited walk from being any faster, and with every crinkly step another man dropped to his knees before the striding Boar. They’d disappear in a momentary blur, and in an instant there’d be one more diapered, stink-obsessed hog following Bruno around like a needy lapdog. By the time the boar finally reached the old leader of the bikers more than half of the gang had been morphed into bizarre perversions of their former selves while Hoss watched, seemingly paralyzed.
Bruno stopped a mere foot or two from where Hoss was frozen, and it was only then that the imposing older man mumbled a befuddled, “What are you?”
Bruno kindly grinned and looked down to a particular pig at his side.
“Wan’ ‘ter remind Hossie whos here I am, Champ?” Bruno asked the happily drooling swine as he squatted beside larger boar.
Barney recognized the swine at once. The tattoos covering the pig’s forearms beyond the denim vest were far too familiar in style to mistake. It was Clyde. If the bunch of hooligans had a second in command, it was him. Barney always seemed to be right beside Hoss and rallying the men to heed the older biker. His hairy, shapely arms used to be covered in bright red x’s. Barney had asked him what they’d meant once, but the man, though smiling at the time, warned me not to ask about things that would get me in trouble. Barney was only informed that they were “meant to keep track.” Barney never found out what Clyde was counting, but it was fairly clear what “Champ” was keeping a tally of. His arms were covered in bright pink asses, each with a curly tail above the meaty rumps.
“Bruno is da baws, Hossie?” Champ stupidly chortled between grunts and punctuating the question with an oink. “Dontcha ‘member yous daddy?”
Hoss gawked at Champ, bug-eyed.
“N-Naw,” he stuttered with a half-step backwards. “That’s-”
Hoss didn’t finish. Bruno’s hand clasped over the older biker’s face, covering his mouth and grasping onto the man’s head, with the speed that lightning strikes. By the time the biker clutched onto the hog’s beefy arms in futile resistance, the pig was already forcing Hoss to his knees by directing him the head like a horse with reins. He didn’t go down easily. The old biker put up a hell of a fight, kicking and scratching the entire time. Barney had seen the gang members fight amongst themselves before and knew well enough that nothing was considered dirty and no one pulled punches. Hoss could’ve gotten out of the hold given enough time, especially considering it was a clumsy one depending on Bruno’s apparently considerable strength instead of technique, but the boar had a different idea in mind.
“Calm down now, Hossie,” Bruno cooly cooed at the struggling man. “I know what’ll settle you right down.”
Keeping Hoss in place, Bruno maneuvered to have his back facing the resistant biker, and with a jerk, forced Hoss’ face into the seat of his diaper. The gang leader’s screams were now muffled by the immense and swollen padding as Bruno bent over and began to grunt. Hoss continued to fight for a few seconds, the boar’s hand still firmly holding him in place by the back of the head. Then the shouting man’s screams seemed to dissipate, growing quieter and quieter as if the exclamations were being absorbed by the diaper he was yelling into. The struggling slowly began to wind down as well. The intense punching and kicking petered off into limp arm tugs and the boar’s legs. The shouting became loud groans, and the tugging became clasping. Soon the sound of frantic sniffing and snorting came from the browning spot in Bruno’s padding where Hoss’ face was planted. The old man now appeared to be clinging to the boar’s leg. A subtle thrusting from Hoss’ pelvis even indicated a certain degree of pleasure.
“There’s a good boy,” Bruno cooed at the man as he relinquished Hoss’ head with a pat. “How’s my lil Hossie?”
Hoss disappeared for a moment, lost behind a blur.
“I’ma super duper fuckin’ goody two-shoes, Daddy!” the old man joyously exclaimed from around Bruno’s ankles.
The man that Barney recognized as Hoss was mostly gone. In his place was “Hossie.” This boar wasn’t like the others. While they all seemed to keep their chiseled physiques after transformation, Hoss lost his exceptional muscle tone. Instead the pig was quite a porker. His belly showed an immensity of poundage, clearly suffering under the strain of a well-watered beer belly and a diet consisting of extremely heavy portions. As Hossie backed away from his new “Daddy” on all four the rotund gut practically pushed him off the ground. The brawny arms and legs were left as deteriorated flab, bulging from his limbs like putty. Also unlike the other bikers, his former outfit was only hinted at. His leather jacket, the worn old thing that was practically a synonymous symbol of the elder, had been morphed to tightly stretch over his prodigious belly and below his waist to connect between his legs in what appeared to be a biker’s infantile bodysuit, a onesie. It was impressive to see such a fat-encumbered creature move in such a tight garment, and his belly wasn’t the only bulge. Nearly as large, the very clear imprint of a massive diaper was easily visible through the leather article.
“There’s my tiny-boppin’ tot!” Bruno said with a pat to Hossie’s head. The subdued former leader squirmed in excited response at the attention, his belly swaying to and fro like a wrecking ball. The old hog was quite clearly under the boar’s thumb, and from the way Bruno now regarded Barney, he got the feeling he was about to experience a long and peculiar life on the road for the foreseeable future.