artwork by Celery Man
Officer Bron hated Halloween.
Every year on the night of October 31st, the young cop would spend his whole evening running around and ruining everyone else’s. Confiscating alcohol from teens, breaking up huge house parties… not only was Bron not having fun, he was the reason no one else could have any fun either. He joined the force to make the world a safer place, not make people angry. On Halloween, he felt like a monster.
But that all changed when Bron got a call from some sleepy neighbors about a rowdy frat party at the Delta Sigma Gamma house. Here we go again, thought a tired and irritable Bron, who’d been the one to bust the Delta party three years in a row now. At this point, those guys probably wanted to see him dead. He couldn’t blame them.
Officer Bron pulled up to the frat house five minutes later. But much to his surprise, the windows were dark and the house was quiet. Not a single frat boy in sight.
Weird.
Bron hopped out of his cruiser and switched on his flashlight. Through the windows, he could see the inside of the house. It was empty. He marched up to the porch and gave a knock.
The door creaked open.
“Hello?” Bron called out into the dark, empty house, “anyone home? We received a noise complaint from next door.”
Silence. Bron raised his flashlight, his other hand hovering just above his taser. Something didn’t feel right. Was this some sort of prank? Had the party ended early? Doubtful.
Bron crept through every room of the house. There had obviously been a party at some point that evening, as evidenced by the tacky decorations, the mess of empty beer cans all over the floor, and a bowl of blood red punch on the kitchen counter.
Probably spiked, Bron thought. He dipped a single finger into the bowl. This is a bad idea. Checking to see if the punch was spiked served no real utility. If there were a party to bust, it had long finished, and the beer cans were grounds enough to charge the frat boys with possession.
Bron gazed at the liquid clinging to his finger, shining in the light of his torch. It was far more viscous than your average punch. If it had been spiked, it wasn’t with alcohol.
The officer gently dabbed his finger on his tongue. Just a little taste. A little taste never hurt anyone, right?
Little did Bron know just how good the punch would taste, how the liquid warmed his throat like cinnamon and pulsed like sugar through his bloodstream. It felt… magical.
Bron looked around to make sure the kitchen was in fact empty. The coast was clear; it was just him and the bowl of punch.
So he went to town, dipping his fingers, then his hands, and eventually his whole face into the bowl, drinking as much of the punch as his stomach would allow. God. It felt so good. After years and years of being the party pooper, Bron was going to have a party all on his own. He’d earned that much.
“So… delicious…” The warmth that began in his throat spread to every corner of his body. He felt held by the liquid, like it had always been a part of him, his very own blood re-entering his veins.
But along with the warmth came a feeling of discomfort. His uniform—perviously loose on his rangy body—now felt small and constricting. His muscles ached, the way they did after a long workout. The weirdest part? His teeth felt strange, particularly on the bottom row.
Fuck.
The bowl dropped to the floor. It shattered, the remaining red punch spilling over the kitchen floor like a big pool of blood. What the fuck was he doing? Who knows what illegal substances he’d just ingested? LDS? Ecstasy? Or worse…
Bron stumbled through the dark house, his discomfort turning to all out pain. Something was happening to the young officer, something he could not understand, let alone see in the all-consuming blackness. All he could do was writhe in agony as his body began to change.
It started with his chest. Bron heard the threads of fabric squeezing and straining all over his torso. He ran frantic hands over his pecs, hoping that these sounds were just hallucinations. But to his dismay, Bron felt the uniform pulling apart between each button, and underneath, solid muscle, and thick, unfamiliar hair.
Bron got caught in a doorway as both shoulders shot out in either direction. His back had almost doubled in size, allowing his frame to accommodate for the enormous amounts of muscle he was packing on. The empty house echoed with pops and cracks as the very bones in Bron’s body began to grow and adjust.
He fell to his hands and knees. There was just enough light creeping through a nearby window for Bron to see his arms transform. They quivered as new muscles snaked down through his biceps to his forearms, bringing with them the dusting of the dark hair that now covered his chest.
To Bron’s horror, the muscles continued to grow. He could do nothing but watch as his biceps inflated past the point of acceptability, subjecting him to a future of tank tops and XXL shirts. What would the sherif down at the precinct say when sweet little Bron showed back up looking like an IFBB pro?
The growth spread to his lower section, and Bron involuntarily spread his knees to make way for the incoming muscle. Bron would be the first to admit that he skipped leg day, but now you would never be able to tell. The arrival of Bron’s thighs brought with it another series of pops and stretches, as his pants fought against the insane amount of mass now occupying them. He winced as his new size 14 feet tested the strength of his size 11 boots, and an ass that required years of focus and attention threatened to make a giant hole in the back of his uniform.
“Good evening officer,” came a voice from behind him.
The room filled with light, and Bron brought his colossal forearm up to shield his eyes. Through the dense black arm hair, he could see dozens of faces now occupying the space.
But these were unlike any faces Bron had ever seen. The first thing he noticed was the skin. Everyone in the room was bright green, like the Wicked Witch of the West. Protruding up from every mouth were two, horrible white fangs. No, they were more like tusks. Why did everyone have tusks??
“Neat costumes, wouldn’t you say?” A figure stepped out in front of Bron, “though I wouldn’t call them costumes. Not exactly.”
A laugh reverberated through the crowd, and the officer instantly recognized the red varsity jacket and cocky stance of Chet Wheelhouse, the president of Delta Sigma Gamma and the most notorious party boy of the county. Bron and Chet had butted heads many times… but the Chet that stood before him now was almost unrecognizable, what with his lime green skin, mature muscular body and engorged dentures.
“What… happened to… all of…. you… to… me…?”
“Shhhh,” Chet knelt down so that he was face-to-face with Bron, “it’ll all be over soon.” His breath was hot and musky, not the breath of a 20-year-old frat guy, but of something ancient, powerful, and deeply masculine. “Soon,” Chet continued in a voice that was almost a whisper, “soon you’ll be just like us.”
“NO!” Bron screamed, “I don’t… don’t wanna…”
“Don’t wanna what? Have fun??” Chet stood up and paced the room. “C’mon man. You’ve been busting our asses for years. Don’t you wanna let lose for a change? Have some fun?”
He wasn’t wrong: Bron did want to let lose. But not like this. He opened his mouth to retort, but stopped when a sharp pain shot up from the base of his jaw.
Oh god.
Bron knew what was coming. His body tensed, every muscle bracing for the arrival of his own tusks. His jaw cracked as it jutting out an extra inch from his head, and he felt as his teeth grew at an alarming pace. Out of the corner of his eye, Bron saw two flecks of white creep up from under his cheeks
“WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME??” Bron cried, though the words were slurred and incoherent. Talking through these teeth was going to take some practice. But Bron didn’t have time to ponder the consequences of his fate, as he was already noticing his skin take on a green tint.
This was it. Bron was about to become just like all the other frat boys—all of whom had likely consumed the same blood red punch.
But his changes were not complete. As Bron entered the final stage of his transformation, he let out primal growl, forcing everyone in the room to take a step back, Chet included. He looked down between his legs, and witnessed the bulge pressed up against his skin-tight pants inflated like a water balloon.
He wanted to be scared. He wanted to be horrified that his dick was probably eleven inches and counting, that there wouldn’t be a pair of pants on earth that could conceal his embarrassing size. But more than anything, he just wanted to whip it out and pipe down every single guy in the room. This wasn’t garden variety horniness; Bron was overcome with what he could only describe as an animalistic urge to fuck.
Bron stood, now towering above every frat boy in the room. “Woah dude,” Chet said with a nervous laugh, “how much of that shit did you drink? We only took a cup each, and we—“
But Chet stopped short when he saw what Bron was doing. The officer, who now stood just under seven feet tall, unzipped his fly and freed the one eyed monster from his pants. Jaws dropped all around him, wide eyes taking in the sight of his fat, green cock.
The crowd of giggling frat boys went dead silent. Bron’s voice boomed throughout the whole house, his authority as an officer of the law meeting the sheer power of his new, orc body: “So here’s how this is gonna go: you’re all gonna get on your knees and take care of this little problem I got right here,” he pointed at the dick swinging between his legs, “and I won’t say anything to the sherif about the illegal substances you’ve been handing out. Capeesh?”
At around 3 A.M. the local police department received yet another noise complaint from the house next-door to Delta Sigma Gamma. Only this time, the complaint was not of loud, rambunctious partying, but of ecstatic moans and rhythmic thumping. “If I didn’t know any better,” said the neighbor on the call, “I’d say they were shooting a porno over there!”
She wasn’t far off. Bron spent his Halloween night fucking every member of Delta Sigma Gamma, dumping a bucket of cum inside each frat guy, and at least ten loads in poor Chet. By the time the sun rose, their transformations had faded away, and the morning patrol arrived at the house to find over a dozen frat guys, fast asleep, and covered in what was described in the police report as “bright green slime.”
What they didn’t find, however, was officer Bron. No one really knows where the young officer disappeared to that night. But they still say that if you cause enough trouble on Halloween eve, you just might be visited by a hulking orc in a raggedy old officer’s uniform, hungry for justice, cum, and a good time.
