New Victims: The Surferdudes Become the Ghetto Thugs By kooldoggie
For Ryder and Justin, life had finally become stable as the weird persona-warping virus was now neutralized, the two dudes fully satisfied with their new ultimate Hawaiian surferdude and emo surfer bodies. But somehow the virus had been passed on, through Keoni to Skyler and Max, and the effects would become evident soon enough...
For months, both Skyler and Max had been searching for their lover Keoni, trying to track him down through several personas. The two blonde surfers, Skyler the hunkier one with a long ponytail, Max the shorter, twinkier one who looked like a very tan elf, had met up one day at the beach, and that had rekindled memories of the awesome dreadlocked dude they both had called boyfriend, though their memories were hazy as to where he had gone. Both were very much addicted to Keoni's sensuality, and they had joined forces, telling each other they could share the sexy stud if they ever could find him, and so they rode in Skyler's beatup pickup truck across the state trying to pick up his trail.
Eventually, that led the two straight where they didn't really want to go, back to the inner city ghetto, and by the time they had gotten themselves lost, near sunset when things really would get racy in the hood, the panic started to set in. "Shit," Skyler spat out in frustration, banging his tan hand against the steering wheel. "I knew this was a fuckin' mistake!" His blue eyes looked very worried as he tried to figure a way out, but they seemed to have been driving in circles for the past hour, and Max swore the hood just looked even bleaker the more they attempted to leave, even more trash-strewn, graffiti-filled, the tags of various dangerous gangs on the ravaged buildings. The only people out at this hour had hard, unfriendly eyes, and little Max shuffled his sandal-clad feet in fear as he suddenly felt a strange itching in his tight little chest. "Ahh, dude, I don't feel so good," he muttered, but Skyler just grumbled, the fear also kicking in changes for him as well. Like Keoni, Skyler hated clothes, and he wore only his low-slung faded red boardshorts, his bare feet pressing down on the gas delicately as he tried to navigate this sketchy part of town. He began massaging his thick pecs as he felt the odd sensations flowing through his body.
Max wore only a string surf tank top over his boardshorts, though he had cut the lower half of the shirt to better show off his slender smooth stomach with the tiny six-pack, and he had been massaging the abs as he felt them suddenly flex and grow a bit more solid. He slipped a delicately-shaped hand further under his shirt to massage his own pecs when he noticed Skyler had parked the car, and Max whined in panic, "Dude, what're you doing? You'll get us fuckin' killed!"
"Nah, dude, jus' trust me, k?" slurred Skyler in his surf-twanged drawl, and he actually got out of the truck, wandering on his big bare feet toward the sidewalk, sort of gazing sleepily at the darkening ghetto. Max's jaw dropped. This was insanity, but at the same time, he wanted to join Skyler on the sidewalk, thinking maybe it was safer to stick by him. Not only that, but something inside young Max was telling him he ought to appreciate this part of town more. What the fuck? The blonde surferdude didn't think about it that deeply as he got out of the car, his hairless tan legs shuffling about. He felt cold here, in only his own boardshorts and that half-shirt, but that was soon to change...
Max groaned, feeling a surge of power through his light, twinkish body. He understood now he couldn't be this slight of build in a dangerous hood like this; he needed some more intimidating muscle, and he felt the shallow abs thicken even a bit more, growing deeper, grooves beginning to appear on his exposed tummy.
Skyler turned as he heard the groan, but he was not immune to the change, as it kicked in hard, and he doubled over, falling to his knees. He trembled, a nearly naked blonde dude with a long ponytail just too foreign to be allowed to persist on these streets. The hair began retracting, the result of years of carefully treasured growth undone as it crept up his hard, sinewy brown back, the skin beginning to lighten, the hair turning darker, quickly approaching brown. His already pumped muscles were growing fiercer, much more ripped, colorful tattoos beginning to sprout across his shoulders and the thickening arms.
Max was grunting wildly now, his voice deepening, as his skeleton forced him up a couple of inches, from 5'7" to 5'9", but he was forced to put on at least 30 more pounds of jacked muscle, his slender arms ballooning, now with barbed wire tattoos across the increasingly vast expanse, while his blonde shag turned brown as well, the sides and back retracting into his head, leaving behind a shaved pattern. The hair continued to reform, narrowing until it was just a strip of brown fuzz down the center of his narrow skull, worked up a bit into spikes, with dyed red tips, forming the beginnings of a Mohawk. His earlobes opened up, flash tunnels opening up a wide hole, while other silver rings assaulted his upper ears. Max's cute, round face was reforming, too, his boyish good looks becoming much more sharply angular, a smoldering, jagged handsomeness coming into them from a hard life in the hood. Still he remained even more fiercely good-looking, but of a dangerous, bad-boy sort, no longer the appealing beach twink. Sweat was now pouring down his hard, swollen body, not too pumped, but more ripped and lithe from a combination of genetics, constant fighting and heroin use. An eagle tattoo appeared across his hard, disc-like pecs, silver rings through the nipples, as he tore away the string tank, replacing it with the fishnet black shirt he suddenly found in his hands, followed by a sleeveless denim vest. Black cuffs were now on each wrist above rougher, rangier hands, a dagger tattoo appearing on one veiny forearm, while angry Killer yanked down the stupid shorts, not caring who saw his long, uncut spike --- in fact, he was quite proud of it --- and pulled on the unwashed boxers and worn, hole-infested jeans. The sandals were long gone off his bigger, size 12 feet, a vast improvement to Max's size 9s, and he pulled on a pair of black motorcycle boots.
Yeah, that's it, Killer was looking way tough now, he thought, as rose to his 5'9", not the tallest dude in the hood by far, but he made up for it with his agility and hard, steely muscle. His once blue eyes had turned an almost cyborg steel gray, under dark, knitted brows, above chiseled, slightly scarred cheekbones in an almost ghostly white face. He knew he was still way handsome for a 20-year-old member of the "Tazers", as was his comrade Spike, still forming before him.
Spike, once Skyler, was still hunched over on the sidewalk, sweating, his body much hulkier but still ripped in all the right places, the thick chest narrowing down to his proudly tight 29" waist. His shorter, medium brown hair was still long in the front, thick bangs falling into his face, which appeared squarer and tougher, but still very much urban cute. He now had a ring in one flaring nostril, another couple in his dark eyebrows, and when he opened his eyes they were a smoldering deep brown. He rose to his towering, much paler 6'4", three inches taller than Skyler had been, showing off every hard curve in his tatted up body, the name Spike in a jagged font across his wide chest. He breathed in the dank urban air, letting its power surround him, the boardshorts torn away to reveal wicked speed-skater thighs below a thick, cut cock dangling down perhaps 8 inches soft. He stood there naked for a while, admiring himself, while Killer, tying a blue doo-rag about his Mohawk, gave the stud before him a low wolf-whistle. Everything screamed power, from Spike's thick shoulders, pumped biceps and triceps, the large hands and equally large, bare feet, a couple of sizes bigger now at 14. Spike pulled on his own boxers and baggy jeans, letting them ride below the bulge in his underwear, just as his old homie Dylan had sported, then found the black leather jacket, pulling it on but leaving it open to show off his awesomely built chest. He pulled on his own boots, then found his own "Tazers" doorag, tying that around his forehead to keep his brown bangs from getting in his deeply set dark eyes.
Killer sauntered over to his new boyfriend, reaching up to caress the carefully groomed dark stubble on his tough but cute face, and he leaned up to kiss the studly thug. After, Spike looked around the hood with sharper, more experienced eyes, and he grumbled in a harsher voice than the vanished surfer's, "Let's fuck some shit up!" as he gestured to Killer to keep his switchblade open and ready, and they sauntered deeper into the dark and dangerous hood, to face the threatening gangs waiting for them...