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sixdead106 · 2 days ago

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Bumming A Smoke

Harold bumps into the wrong crowd. Forced to have a one on one with their boss Jonny, the world he knows seems almost alien. Though none of that stuff seems as worthwhile as the cig lolling in his mouth.

Last of the novel TF’s from that poll! Reality and mental changes are the headline, hope you enjoy this smoke heavy story of a man becoming a greased up grunt! -Occam

Harold was on the way home from a fairly uneventful afternoon with some friends. Just a quick catch up, knocking out a few mimosas and offering a middling performance at some brunchy bar trivia. The secretary reflects on what a delightful time he had as he strolls down the well-trod streets towards his home.

He thinks about unbuttoning a button or two, but that wouldn’t be very well, gotta look presentable in case he bumps into a coworker hm? He knows a few of them live nearby. Still, it was quite nice to cut back for a time with his old friends, shame he can’t do so more often.

As Harold’s distracted for some time putting his too brief good times to memory, contemplative smile on his face, he doesn’t notice as he happens upon a crew of people that seem to have spilled straight from an old genre movie. Clad in enough shiny leather to cloth a bear bar with rigid pompadours and other stylized hairdos coated in enough grease or wax to coat a few motorcycles.

Never has there been a worse time for the ever-observant businessman to zone out or lose himself to distraction. Unfortunately, for the man so used to having control of his calm and quiet life, it is at precisely this time that he bumps into who else but the ringleader of this bizarre crew.

“Woah woah woah there baby, gotta watch where yer goin yeah?” Immediately the man’s coarse hands are on his shoulders, Harold doesn’t know whether to be bothered more by the cloud of cigarette smoke pouring from the crew around him or the must-be filthy mitts now sullying his pristine jacket. He offers a courteous nod to apologize, but the man’s grip doesn’t loosen.

His performative smile twitches which only causes his assault’s grin to grow wider. As he moves his smooth hands to tap the man’s arms, he hears jeers begin to fly forth from the crew that has begun to surround the pair of them. “Gonna let a square walk all over yas?” “Lettem have it Jonny Boy!” “Get Beeeent ya asshole”

Before his hand can make contact with the man’s leather covered arm, Jonny releases Harold and steps back, arms raised in a faultless surrender. His eyes are closed peaceably but a coy smirk remains the foremost expression on his face, “Ay now ay now, we don’t mean youse any harm there chief. Let’s you and me have a little chat eh? After all, was you who stepped all into my biz after alls. Love to show youse around, break some bread.”

Harold does a double take, looking around for some hidden camera as this situation simply must be some kind of prank show or something. It has to be! He’d be laughing himself were he not surrounded by men staring at him with such scorn. It’s beyond the pale. Still, he has the stark feeling that Jonny’s words were not an ask so much as an order. Telling himself it would be impolite to flee, despite alarms beginning to blare, he acquiesces.

Harold offers a hand for this ‘Jonny Boy’ to shake, forcing a smile back on his face, “Of course uhm, sir? I certainly meant no ill will towards yourself nor your crew. If you would, please accept my humblest of apologies.” From his first word snickers begin to echo from the rowdy bunch around him, Jonny’s eyes reopen and there’s something behind his congenial expression. Something predatory.

Nevertheless, the boss takes the hand offered. Harold squirms under the rough scratch of Jonny’s callouses, his grip more than a match for the most performatively aggressive handshakes he’s endured during his time at work. He stays firm and waits for Jonny to give, which he does after some time, leaving Harold’s hand only slightly worse for wear, some ash or grease having clearly been left on his hitherto clean palm.

“Ah! Soz about that Mr?”

“Harold. Now if you don’t mind-” having now been truly inconvenienced, his patience begins to wear thin and he makes to leave. Before he even takes his first step he is assailed once more by their leader, his heavy arm now forcibly atop Harold’s shoulders, “Ah ah ah- Not quite ye Mista Harold. Youse gotta do a little more than that to make it up to us. Wha’s life without song ‘n dance?”

He begins to lead Harold through his crew, in the opposite direction of home. At one point some particularly brutish member brandishes a switchblade which the polished man flinches away from. After a moment the bovine man clicks it open to reveal a comb and guffaws at Harold’s cowardice before using it to puff up his pompadour. “Ahh Now Harry, can I call ya Harry? Can’t let ol’ Bruise getcha like that. Youse should know that by now eh? Anyways, as I was sayin…”

Only now hearing Jonny fast talk him so thoroughly does he realize just how he’s being strung along. Palming his wallet in his pocket to ensure he’s not been pickpocketed, focused on his intact billfold he’s none the wiser as his suit jacket has somehow flown from his shoulders. Instead he sighs in relief that his pocket change remains safe. Then Jonny’s words sink in, what does he mean I should know!? I don’t know any of these freaks!?

He begins listening to the boss’ words, unaware that even arguing with them to himself gives his assertions space within his head. All the while Jonny continues assailing his memories. Small suggestions that Harold knows not to be true, or are they? Quick and vacuous sentences blur into a vague humming in Harold’s ear. It’s like static. He feels it begin to fill his head like cotton, all the while Jonny’s intentions have begun to affect the polished man’s appearance. Harold is far too distracted by his ongoing suggestions and hazarded explanations to notice how the fabric of his shirt begins to shift.

Expensive linen blends give way to a working man’s cotton shirt, slightly stained under the pits and elsewhere from being worn in a life actually lived outside of an air conditioned suite. The few buttons he intended to leave open earlier pop off to expose his pale, nigh-hairless chest as he follows Jonny in perfect step. His pants lack the flair of white collar life and grow rougher.

“So I says to her- Well Harry you know what I says eh?” Harold opens eyes that had been clenched shut to hopefully ease the throbbing headache continuing to increase. Before he can correct the, by all intents, gang leader on both his name and reality, he freezes up as the world he sees before him is not one he recognizes. Beyond that, it’s not one that’s possible. His hand flies to his mouth as he sees color begin to drain from the world.

Looking down to discover his changed outfit, he rubs his eyes with a fury to try and undo whatever shock to his senses has caused this. He scarcely notices the scratch of his shirt against his chest or how his pants sit differently on his waist as his pale skin shifts grey. If he strains he can just make out the red of a stop sign, the blue of the sky, but with each passing moment the world feels more black and white.

Then he turns to stare at the man whose arm remains draped across his shoulders, head now tilted despite an expression that belies not a single drop of surprise at Harold’s shock, “Everything alright buddy?” Harold desperately tries to understand what’s going on, what happened to his vision, to his clothes. But then as he shakily takes in the calm man who must be doing this to him.

Try as he might to focus his anger and fear to demand an explanation. The cigarette bobbing in Jonny’s mouth acts as a hypnotist’s pendulum, demanding his attention. Suddenly concern fades as only one thought, one desperate need fills his mind.

Man, I could use a smoke. His mouth waters with a urge he’s never felt before, yet one more compelling than hunger or thirst. He craves the grit of smoke filling his mouth, the burn racing down his lungs. His mouth falls open in wanting as he smells the trail of smoke wafting from Jonny’s still lit cigarette.

Just before he reaches to his own pocket, not knowing what he’ll discover in these pants still continuing their impossible change- Feeling them pull upward as suspenders stretch under his larger collar, some shred of self returns and he remembers clear as day, he’s not a smoker. After a beat he finally finds the will to throw Jonny’s arm free from his shoulders, “You needta-”

He clears his throat as his voice resounds deeper, harsher. After a moment to collect himself he resumes with his usual orderly affectation, words only slightly tinged coarse, “Look. I already apologized for bumpin’ into ya- Gragh! For bumping into you. I don’t know what drug you’ve clearly laced me with but you need to fix it, and fast-”

Jonny throws a hand across his chest miming hurt. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he leans in close to Harold before opening his mouth and letting the smoke spill over the man’s face, slowly rising as he speaks “Now there Harry, how could youse say sucha thing about yer ol’ pal Jonny knowin all too well that youse an’ me don’ do nunathat stuff.”

Harold can scarcely hear the man speak as his smoke flies true, sending pangs of need coursing through the man now fighting a losing battle with a mind being rewritten. His old reality of files and reports is suddenly less real than the monochrome world before him. His mouth still hanging open, he can’t help but notice how close his lips are to Jonny’s. The stink of his smoky breath and the cheap mints he always has stashed in his jacket to poorly cover his tracks.

Harold's eyes go blank as he just stands there breathing in the smoke. Jonny takes a few more puffs, more for Harold than himself of course, shooting curls of smoke straight into his face, each one clearly shifting his mind and memories. Not only that, as they rise past his glazed eyes, they sneak through the once thinning mop of hair on his head and endeavor to puff it higher.

As each further wisp of smoke graces his hair, his blonde coif thickens and begins to rise. Feeling something shifting on his head, his hands instinctively go to style, readjust, ensure that he’s looking as fresh as ever. Under his glazed eyes his clothes change in response, everyday wear and tear making the attention given to his perfect hair all the more noticeable.

There’s no outward tell besides his smile growing wider as Jonny puts a cigarette in his mouth and lights it. Closing his eyes as he takes his first, long drag of a cigarette he feels the smoke fill his lungs sweeter than air. From then on each beat of his thrumming heart accelerates the erosion of his past self. No longer does his being labelled Harry even bother him. As if he’d go by Harold- name for a square if ever heard one. not that he blames his ma, course.

Feeling wind blow against his uncovered biceps he frowns as he takes the cigarette from his mouth. Paying no mind to the calloused hands that evermore move without the grace they once commanded, dark hairs coating them almost as heavily as grease stains. While he can’t quite understand why seeing his arms in the open air is odd, he does see firm new muscle beginning to be built under his skin.

Delighting in strength he has both never had and always wielded, Harry flexes and grunts as his biceps peak higher with every new pose and slight adjustment. He feels his sleeves grow more and more taut as his shirt struggles to expand quick enough to match his still racing growth. His chest fills the front of his shirt, threatening to expose his surely built midriff as his tuck strains.

So preoccupied is he with putting on his show of strength as his thighs bulk larger and his ass grows unmissable in his tight jeans, that he forgets about the cigarette dangling in between two stained fingers. Under Jonny’s watchful eye, he eventually rushes into a pose far too hastily and sends his cigarette straight to the ground. Bouncing off his shoes he gasps, worried that he scuffed his shoes before stamping the lit thing out.

There’s not a thought in his mind as he does so. What should he care about littering? Everyone else’s doin’ it these days anyway. His eyes narrow slightly at the idea of these days, as if he had lived any other kind of days. Gears turning slow enough as to not be moving at all the new greaser’s eyes return that thoughtless glaze as his mouth falls ajar once more.

Then he feels a single lock of hair fall out of line before Harry’s grease stained hands quickly force it back into place with a comb that quite resembles one he was threatened with not too long ago. Ah Bruiser- He can’t help but smirk as he remembers his best pal. The other muscle in Jonny’s crew. Jonny’s crew?

As if that were the missing puzzle piece he’d been looking for, Harry jolts up, almost falling over as he’s not used to his new strength. “Boss! Have uhhhh, youse seen my jacket anywheres?” Harry could never hope to understand the thoughts that must be going through his boss’ head. He stares dumbly at the boss, waiting for whatever his orders are to be.

To the observing eye Harry now lacks, Jonny is Clearly sizing him up like a piece of meat, determining then and there what part Harry’s to play in their crew. He laughs at one point, realizing the similarities in the brute before him and the office Clyde that let his crew walk all over him. Anyway, it’s easy enough to see what role the muscled up man’ll do for him.

Content, Harry nods and reaches into the back seat of a hot rod behind him and hoists up a large leather jacket. Harry smirks as the sight brings him no small amount of joy. Powerful as they may be, his meaty arms yearned to be covered by that jacket, by his jacket. His rough hands go to catch it before it’s even in the air.

Nothing matters to him more than the jacket his boss holds. The jacket soaring to him. The jacket clenched in his hands. The scent fills him with surety. Comforts him like an old blanket, like a world he’ll never return to.

It fits like a second skin, Harry wastes no time in throwing it back on his shoulders. Truly a perfect fit, as it always has been. He stretches and moans as he hears the leather squeak and groan from his movement. Finally he feels complete. Anxieties of a life now gone and a world far too complicated disappear as Harry sighs, releasing tension he didn’t even know he was carrying from his newly built shoulders.

Then his eyes open as Jonny struts over, barely able to throw an arm around his new brute. Harry smirks as nothing feels more correct than being at his boss’ right hand side. He speaks up, his slow plodding voice music to Jonny’s ears, “So uhhhh, what’re we gettin’ up to tuh-day boss?”

Jonny pats the man on the back, “Doncha worry yer pretty little head ‘bout that Harry. Gotsa few ideas kickin’ around but first- as ever, I’m thinkin our gang could use some more members.” Harry’s heart pumps in his thicker chest at the idea. That sounds perfect. Guess that’s why Jonny’s the boss man!

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