Say Hello 2 Heaven

It was supposed to be tonight. Carson’s sharp falcon eyes monitored the crowd for activity as he scowled internally.

The Way Out was step one on the road to stardom, but the audience was always ruthless. The CGA Band had been on the music scene for a while now, but their big break was supposed to be tonight. Weed smoke and cheap red LEDs set the mood. Yes the air was palpable that night. Sweet, thick, cold, disinterested wisps of cherry-coloured funk. Sweet bullshit nothings appraised in a chorus of fish-dead eyes. Worse than boos. At least with boos they hate it enough to care.

Of course, those fish-dead eyes in the seats and the pit at the front were all trained on an intruder. No, the band’s longtime technical bassist Carson Mayhew wasn’t the issue and nor was the drummer Greg Alfinson. No, it was that yodeling little chinchilla with the guitar in the front, the vocalist Aspen Allen.

Everyone in the bar could see how poorly he fit the mood. His goofy little straw hat with the three crochet flowers. Those bubbly chinchilla ears popping out the sides. You could tell he’d never even sniffed a minor chord in his life. A brutal mismatch for the other two solidly alternative rock musicians. His voice demanded austere, acoustic chords and the other two’s metallic riffs demanded a real belter. Together they demanded sleep. Carson looked away from the crowd, back to Greg as they played. The raccoon eyed him, then eyed their vocalist, then looked back at him.

Of course he wants me to handle this. What a fuckin’ team player. Carson grimaced as the first half of the set wound down. Aspen skipped across the stage like a spring breeze towards Carson. His arms flowed between Carson’s in a warm embrace. “You were great out there.” he said, nuzzling into Carson’s cheek. Carson winced internally. Yeah. About that.

“Freebird!” The gravelly voice rang out across the bar. Carson turned his mind off of the set towards the approaching polar bear.

“Eyyy!” Carson planted his arms around Toog’s middle as the tired greeting slipped out. “I thought you were gonna be on shift today!”

Toog chuckled grimly. “Yeah, they managed to resuscitate the boss after that speedball. I got to walk over. How’s it going?”

“Great!” Aspen beamed. Carson’s slight cringe was a bit less charitable to the performance. Toog grew a knowing smile and turned to the bassist’s boyfriend.

“I gotta talk to Carson about something. Could you go get us four glasses?” Toog gave Aspen a pat on the shoulder, the massive paw shaking his entire form. Aspen smiled.

“Sure thing. See you in a minute babe.” Aspen went in for a kiss that Carson unthinkingly reciprocated. He ran his fluffy tail along Carson’s stomach as he turned away. Then Carson watched that hat disappear into the crowd. “Let’s walk and talk.” Toog motioned.

Carson and Greg followed Toog back to a small four-seater table by the stage. Toog’s ponderous body plopped down in the chair before he looked back at Carson and pried. “So it isn’t working out between you two?”

“No, we're fine. It’s just I…” Carson began. “Oh who the fuck am I kidding the music sucks! We’re not gonna be able to show our faces here without a serious second half.”

Toog shrugged and peered off into the distance. “There is one way to really get the crowd going if you’re not a chicken.” A muffed BOOM punctuated the sentence, followed by a couple of whoops. Carson balked at the prospect.

“What, me!?” Carson bleated. Toog shook his head. “No. Him.”

“Him? I can’t pop my boyfriend for a random gig!”

“Sure you can. You’re an artist. A punk! In order to rise above you gotta let those other aspirations drift aside.” Toog goaded.

“We could break it gently to him and do the rest of the set without him! Two man bands make it all the time!”

“With a first half like that?” Toog prodded.

Carson shook his head and gaped a bit. He turned to Greg. “C’mon help me out here. Really? Just getting rid of him like that?”

Greg looks up at him tired and mopes out a frustrated response. “I think you should do it.” “What?! Dude he’s your friend!” Aspen nearly yelled back.

“I can’t live with myself if we lose out here.” Greg grunted. “I’m not gonna let a relationship get in the way of my Naming, and I know you won’t either. Toog’s right, it’s the only way to save the set.”

Carson slumped. He fiddled with the strings of the bass hanging around his neck. He felt a burning lance inside of his heart, splitting it in two pieces. A spider scratching at the base of his mind. He ripped out a pen and took a good, long draw, the potent mixture of nicotine and THC working like a masseuse to dull the excesses of his sentimentality.

“Can someone else at least do it?”

Toog laughed and countered in that voice of gravel. “And let another man pop your boyfriend? Forget about the set, the audience might come for you next for being such a loser.”

Carson began to fidget in place. He let out a whine of indecision before Toog leaned down to eye level with the falcon, only a few inches away from his beak.

“Come now, you know how bloodthirsty these people are. It’ll get significantly harder to be soft from now on. He’s not cut out for it. If you don’t do it I don’t know if you are either.”

Toog changed his tone from concerned to comforting. “If anything, you’re doing a favor to him by being his boyfriend and doing the deed.” Greg nodded in agreement, pinning Carson between the two rhetorically.

He sighed hard as Toog slipped him a 4-pack of pills. “Just one should be enough. Then, wail on those instruments and watch him go~.”

Carson grabbed the pills. Seconds later he heard a tray of glasses clink on their table and a pair of warm chinchilla arms around his torso. He felt the heat of Aspen breathing on his back, even through the jacket and shirt. “I’m baack~” he said coyly. Carson nodded. “Yeah.”

Toog turned to Aspen. “By the way, where did you get that hat?”

Aspen giggled. “Actually, it’s from…” As he began to explain, Toog’s eyes drifted from the conversation, across Carson’s mentally exhausted face, then to the beers. Like a robot, Carson walked over, popped one of the pills out of its packaging, and watched as it slowly dissolved and sank to the bottom of the glass. Then he grabbed the beer and another, and walked over to Aspen. He offered the poisoned drink to his boyfriend hoping he wouldn’t be interested so he’d have an excuse to ditch the plan. Of course he felt the other man’s hand wrap around the glass just above his. As the remaining drinks filtered through the group, Toog raised his. “To CGA band?”

“To CGA band!” Everyone said, Carson speaking the weakest. A set of clinks headlined the toast. Carson barely took a gulp. Aspen drank half of his. He moved to stifle a burp with his hand. “Excuse me.” He giggled.

Toog motioned to them all. “Alright you’re starting up again in two so get ready.” Aspen beamed pleasantly. “Nice to see you again, Toog.”

“You too.” Toog said back with a toothy grin. Carson didn’t say anything.

As the three began to sort their instruments back out, Aspen began to feel an uncomfortable pressure in his midsection as the latent noise in the bar activated the pill’s expansive effects. Carson could not help but watch as Aspen’s form subtly bloomed, ass perkier and midsection sporting a new potbelly. He winced a bit. Carson couldn’t help but ask.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Aspen shook his head. “I think the beer isn’t agreeing with me tonight. I’m feeling kinda gassy.”

The caring part of his brain rocketed out of his mouth. “If you’re uncomfortable we can call it a night!”

Aspen shook his head. “I know how much this night means to you and Greg. I’ll tough it out.” He said with a warm smile.

A choking sob burbled up Carson’s throat but he managed to push it back down and simply nodded, a neutral expression on his face.

“We can get Tums on the way home.” He spoke through his beak.

Aspen put on his guitar strap. “Run By Me first right?” He asked, taping the lapel mic to himself for the dual voice parts.

“Actually I have something different planned.” He said deadpan as he walked over the mic. Speaking directly to the crowd he continued.

“We’re gonna cut the set short tonight folks, but we’ve got something special planned for the closer tonight.” Aspen could feel the vibration from Carson’s announcement in his core as he swelled a bit more. He looked up at his boyfriend with confused, concerned eyes.

Then Carson turned to Greg. The raccoon timed out a slower, heavier drumbeat with his sticks.

(The story gets explicit and mean from this point forward.)

That confusion turned to shock as a loud, chugging bass rake caused his belly to immediately shoot out to the size of a large beach ball, ass rising behind him. His guitar clattered to the ground. His hands shot to his belly. The audience’s eyes shot to him. There were a couple of whoops as the malicious drumbeats continued to fill him out.

Carson paused his playing for a moment. All those eyes on his boyfriend. All those eyes on him. Yeah. That’s why I came out here in the first place. He put on a tough looking face and began to bounce over the harsh drums with the bass, switching with great skill between quieter, crowd intriguing riffs and hard-handed roars of metal sound. Aspen could only stare down in horror as his body began to expand in time to the volume of his bandmates’ playing. Occasionally quieter or louder, occasionally slower or faster, but always relentless, the front of his cheaply made CGA band shirt had popped open by the fourth measure.

Finally putting 2 and 2 together, Aspen turned back to his bandmates. Greg only shrugged, not even stumbling in his playing. Carson wouldn’t look at him, instead focusing on the cheers of the crowd.

“Carson!” Aspen screamed.

Carson continued rolling along, reveling in the energy, that mean face still glued on as a long, melodic section began on pummeling metal drums. Aspen was suddenly distracted by a new sensation as his ass was beginning to find the limits of his faded jean shorts. Discomforting grunts complimented keening bass playing as the seams cried and the crowd laughed. He tried to reach over his swollen midsection and was eventually able to grab onto the jeans. However, they were so thoroughly taut that no budging would get them off.

Carson’s bass playing heightened in pitch and plummeted in volume as the air necessary to rip the jeans off became tantalizingly close. The discomfort was beginning to turn to pain. Panicking, Aspen tried to dart for the front door. Knowing that couldn’t happen, Carson ended the solo by holding his bass guitar to one of the stage speakers.

The speaker vibrated the strings which fed the speaker as an ear piercing shriek of feedback caused those jean shorts to finally burst off with a SNAP and a shocked grunt. Lurching forward uncomfortably, he fell off of his feet directly onto his ponderous front. The heinous, garbling wail rapidly filled Aspen out, arms and legs beginning to push out to the sides as the curve of his back began to meet the curve of his front. He was trapped on stage.

Carson’s subconscious mind scaled back the speed of his fingers as Greg immediately understood it was time to launch into the drum solo. Still refusing to look him in the eye, Carson walked around behind the poor chinchilla. Carson grabbed onto the tail, eliciting a gasp of shock. Carson watched his boyfriend’s dick twitch a bit at the harsh contact. He’s enjoying this. Let it happen. Carson tried to tip Aspen backwards so the crowd could get an upright front view of the victim. Finding his legs jutting out too far from his body for him to roll yet, Carson reached his hand up to Greg and signaled by twirling his finger in the air a couple times. Greg kicked up into a furious double time segment, thrashing Aspen’s already incredibly taxed body slowly out into a sphere.

The crowd could see a pair of pleading, rationalizing, shocked eyes framed by a slightly puffy chinchilla face and a newly circular front cross-section. The biggest chunk were officially moshing in front of the stage at this point, relieved their favorite band finally let loose. Some just stared on and cheered. Others stared with their hands in their pants.

At this point, those dainty little chinchilla hands and feet were sunk in enough that Carson again grabbed the tail. He yanked and Aspen yelped as he felt himself roll backwards, face setting behind his body and mostly erect cock rising.

The combination of sensations was confusing. He’d experimented with inflation before, but never in public, and never unwillingly. The rate at which he filled out was certainly beyond comfortable at this point, even though ekes of pleasure worked their way out of his round frame. He felt those eyes, staring at him, staring at his naked body, staring at his penis. He felt a bit of precum burble out, a combination of pressure and pleasure beginning to do its work. Then he felt something he’d never pushed it far enough to feel.

A twinge of pain. A different kind of pain. The type of pain he imagined people felt as their hides began to itch and visibly redden. He let out a soft groan.

The crowd cheered. They could see his emerald eyes boggle and rationalize as they disappeared under the dome of his inflating body. Carson walked around to the front of his boyfriend, still not looking him in the eyes, and knelt, beginning to play in the new space opened up when he rolled Aspen backwards. Then, he switched to one-handed for a while, the audience letting out a holler as he waved to the crowd with a clawed hand.

That malicious taloned hand worked out of the air, down the front of a squealing balloon boy, finally landing a single claw on the tip of his dick. Another twitch. He hooked his pointer along the back and his thumb around the front. As he slid the pad of his thumb around and down the shaft, the secondary lapel mic taped to what once was his neck began softly reporting gasps and moans over his swell. Greg toned it back with the drumming as Carson focused on both of his instruments.

Aspen was blushing redder than his midsection was at this point. He could still look the crowd in the eyes as this incredibly intimate moment was blasted to the entire world. He could see camera flashes. He whined through the ragged breaths. He yelled Carson’s name again. Carson decided to pick up the pace, his precum-soaked fingers robbing Aspen of the chance to do anything but gasp.

The feverish working of fingers over flesh began to be too much for Aspen. The pressure had augmented Carson’s performance into a knockout blow. Aspen suddenly gurgled and his whole body vibrated. A rope of cum shot at velocity onto the stage. A second, calmer, drifted down his length onto Carson’s fingers. The crowd was over the moon.

Carson lifted up his pointer and dragged it across his tongue. Then he wiped the rest of it off on his pants as Aspen came to terms with his own orgasm all the way up there, breathing heavily.

The first creak of the night was heard. Carson couldn’t tell who started the chant, but it was the only thing the crowd was yelling by the time he heard it.

“POP HIM! POP HIM! POP HIM!”

Aspen began to whimper as the crowd demanded an end to his performance. He looked down at their faces, twisted to demonic forms by the dim red-pink light. They wouldn’t show him mercy. He peered down to Carson again. Too swollen to see his whole boyfriend, he could see feathers of trepidation on the back of his neck. He could hear Carson ponder as his bass playing became drawlier, wankier. He was clearly stuck on something. The fact that he had to think about it was not a good sign. Aspen could already feel himself running out of room.

He could see Carson stand up, and walk forward to the mic. His beak parted.

“Alright. You can’t deny a crowd with energy like this.”

The crowd was at this point cheering loud enough to shake the over-occupancy establishment. The people nearby began to gather to watch this swan song. Carson queued them off with a menacing, chugging bass riff, matching the vibration of the crowd. He watched as Aspen’s body shifted from pink to red as the air ran out of places to fill. More menacing creaks began to play out of Aspen’s raw form. His hands and feet were at this point sunken in, occasionally wiggling fruitlessly.

The chinchilla began to vibrate unwillingly as the air had pulled him taut enough to register resonance from the music. This of course did nothing to relieve the itching or those pangs of overexertion, but Greg sure didn’t care, and Carson’s mind was in a different realm. He inhaled the energy of the crowd and breathed fire back out into his bass as Aspen’s frame matched his intensity with stretch marks. He was killing the performance. He was a god!

Carson heard a sob from the aux mic.

His head shot up to Aspen’s face. Aspen’s eyes were framed in specks of red light. The tears diffused the light of the bar, enhancing his eyeshadow, matting in his fur. Enhancing the painful, tired, grief-filled eyes like two rich plains of sorrow. They shared that stare for a moment in eternity before Aspen’s head finally sunk too deep into his body to be seen. Carson looked down at those wicked stretch marks ripping painfully across his boyfriend. That determined face faltered, like Carson suppressed vomit. He looked down at his fretboard and flashed four fingers to Greg twice. Greg shifted into a mounting tension-ratcheting pattern as Carson began to play it out.

Eight more measures. Hang in there babe.

He raked those deadly claws across his four strings like a madman as he played up into the swelling finale, barely even making chords. Barely even making music anymore. Aspen’s body refused to give out so easily though, as his hands and foot-paws began to take on air, claws forcibly sliding out of their sheaths. Six measures. Aspen felt air begin to leak up the back of his throat, stale and warm from the exertion of his body. Unfortunately, at this point his puffy little cheeks had sealed shut. Four measures. He was a ticking time bomb. Carson wailed harder. This has to stop. There were sounds like groaning leather. It has to be at some point. Carson could see the stretch marks struggling to meet on Aspen’s center. I have to let him go. He could swear he heard a hissing noise, perhaps a small leak on his soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s frame. Two measures.

Carson screamed a frustrated yell aloud, overestimating his own capacity for cruelty. Without even thinking, he grabbed the bass off his torso by the neck, lined up like a baseball swinger, and the fretboard of the bass impacted Aspen right in the center of the stomach.

WHUD

The triple action of the sudden impact, warped fragments of bass guitar, and the sudden loud slap of the bass worked immediately. Carson could hear the first half of an exasperated yell from his boyfriend-

BOOOOOMPH

Carson felt his body lurch backwards and his head impact the stage surface, knocking him out for a few seconds. A small plop on his chest roused him from his temporary slumber. A crochet flower sitting in-between scraps of gray-colored hide. He groggily picked it up and looked at it between two talons.

“Dude holy shit, that’s gonna have to be the best set of the night!” Greg excitedly pulled Carson to his feet. Carson barely registered the comment through the ringing of his ears. As Greg dragged him back to the table and sat him down, Toog pushed Carson’s beer back over to him. He robotically grabbed and sipped it. Flat. The bubbles had been shaken out by the set. He set it back down.

People began to come over to the pair of rockstars. Pats on the back, compliments, more beers. He accepted a fresh one as he met the crowd.

“You two are going to the fuckin’ stars!” A raven beamed. Without him. Carson thought. “I better be after a tumble like that.” Was what came out.

“You really showed that square bitch what for!” Another one. His name was Aspen, and he was my boyfriend. His brain jumped to the truth but his mouth jumped to please. “Yeah I could tell the crowd was dying for it. I try to stay in-tune with it, y’know?”

“Dude you look like you might have a concussion. You OK?”

OK? I just murdered my boyfriend for fame!

“Yeah I might have to take it easy for a couple of days though.”

This continued for a minute and a half as Carson regaled the crowd as Greg and Toog started to pack up everyone’s equipment. A janitor with a surface broom began to sweep around the two, not even acknowledging the disheveled hat on top of the pile. The next act would be on in 5 minutes.

Carson’s senses were rapidly readjusted by the cold fall night air as he stepped out onto the packed sidewalk alone. His confident, guitarist charisma eroded into a neutral expression. He walked like a machine to his car, fished for his keys, and quietly backed out of the parking lot and drove like a night-watchman through the city streets. He saw drunk friend groups waddling around, couples in various stages of intoxicated squeezing and pleasing each other on the roads. A wall of TVs displaying his most recent exploit.

He pulled quietly into the parking garage and weaved through buildings, brutal concrete judges.

“Yo I just saw that guy on TV! He’s gonna be big soon!”

Carson looked up and glanced around. He couldn’t identify exactly where the clearly drunk voice came from. Not even bothering to check, he kept walking until the apartment door clicked and the lights came on. He glanced around at the empty, dirty apartment, snorting out wafts of cigarette smoke coming through the vent from the apartment above. They darted across his TV and sound system, his desk, his couch. A tie-dye shirt was draped over the back of the couch. He sat down next to it and took a long draw from his pen once more. As he placed it in his pocket, his fingers grazed over the three remaining pills. His heart skipped a beat.

Carson got up and walked to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and got out the shittiest can he could find, grabbed a clean-looking glass from the sink, and walked back to his spot on the couch. He looked over to the tie-dye shirt one more time and pulled the three pills out of his pocket. It took a bit of stirring to dissolve them all in the one can, but by the time it was done he couldn’t tell the difference.

After drinking the whole thing, Carson felt no difference. He waited for a good two minutes, just staring down at his gray t-shirt.

“C’mon!” He grunted in frustration. He immediately followed it up with a wince as his belly shot out a good couple inches. Much stronger than just one. He thought.

He grabbed a remote from the coffee table and fiddled with his shitty smart TV until he pulled up the Palace Garden Boxer EP by Crashbox. His finger leaned hard on the volume button until it hit max. The neighbors could come yell at his scraps.

Eh, the scene isn't all it’s cracked up to be anyways. He thought.