Chapter Text
Zuka walked into the ever familiar bar, head held low, and took the same seat at the same bar stool as he did every weekend. The bartender looked at him kindly, and remarked, “The usual, then?” Zuka raised his head a bit, nodded, and they walked over to grab a greyish-blue can, sliding it in front of him with a little zest. He cracked the can open, he had to ask them not to open it for him before, and took a tentative sip. Same as always.
It was only when he acknowledged this monotony, that he felt a twinge of excitement. Why did he do this same routine every week? He was an adult. He’s surely lived long enough to do what he pleases. He placed his can down rather strongly, and called the bartender over. “Give me something strong. Surprise me.”
The bartender nodded, a small smirk in their face, and disappeared into the backroom, taking out a large witch’s cauldron. They began to pour ingredients one by one, reciting them out as they prepared something devilish. “Eye of space, and eye of crow, hair of spider and giant toad!” Zuka watched in anticipation, eyes widening in shock as they threw in like actually just a toad. Ok.
To finish off their concoction, they poured an entire bottle of vodka, and the mixture turned a diabolical orange. The violently radiant hue reminded him of his signature Blackrockian Sludge. Zuka looked back up to his bartender, confusion clear in his eyes, asking “How many times have you served this before?” The bartender smiled with deviancy, “I haven’t!” They took a glass from under the bar, and scooped a bit up, placing the glass in front of Zuka, putting their arms on their hips proudly.
Zuka eyed the beverage, watching it bubble lightly. He shook it a bit. It moved like tar in the glass. He shrugged, placed it to his lips and drank. It was a strange taste, very artificial, but he couldn’t deny it was alright. As soon as he placed his drink down, he felt a jolt to his brain. The camera panned directly through his little inphernal earhole and zoomed into his brain, all of his neurons immediately firing off. This was no regular alcohol. Zuka had just drank Djungleskog’s Asshole.
He immediately sprang up, climbing atop the bar and blazing past the bartender. He scuttled his way into the backroom, 2 guards stood at the way between him and the Big Alcohol Room. His mind racing with Alcoholic Need, he sprung his way atop the walls and firmly mounted himself onto the ceiling. He tip-toe’d and tip-finger’d his way over the guards, losing his unstable grip at the very end and crushing them with his rather portly form. Fatass.
Monitoring the damage, he decided he didn’t care, actually, and burst his way into the Big Alcohol Room (BAR), and his eyes widening like a child on Christmas morning. Barrels upon barrels of drinks, bottles for months. He surveyed his plunder with wonder, jaw agape. He would soon put his massive maw to use, grabbing the largest barrel, about the size of him, and suplexing it above himself with one arm, guzzling it all at once. But he did not stop there. He couldn’t.
The man scurried across the large room, consuming any liquid he could find. Glasses, bottles, barrels, butts, none were safe from B. Zuka's wrath. He grabbed fervently at every bottle and canister in the room, and he eventually found nothing left. He rose to his feet slowly, his mind racing. What had he just done? He looked down to his hands, covered in glass shards, and began to ponder the last hours of his life.
Zuka decided he did not care, and would find a place to take refuge. He crashed through the wall of the B.A.R., leaving a large, Zuka-shaped hole in his wake. The old man’s bones were growing weary, and he placed himself on a bench nearby the bar. As he sat, he adjusted his tush to find a more comfortable position, but to no avail. As Zuka squirmed about himself, he came to a rather unfortunate conclusion. Despite his larger stature, his ass was simply too bony to ever sit comfortably. “This will not do!” Zuka exclaimed, pointing an index phinger to the air decidedly.
But then arose the question, how exactly could he solve this problem? He knew he must act quickly, as his sober self would probably shrug a little, and then go back to watching TV. It was then a thought crossed his mind. Not one he liked, but he decided it would be his best decision. He stood up from his seat, and began the trek to the edge of the crossroads, for he knew exactly where he had to go.
Within his drunken stupor, he made quick work of the travel, crashing through various inphernals, cars, and street lamps. It was when he finally reached the long highway to Blackrock that he finally halted his beeline. He shakily climbed the ladder down to the large ocean docks, until he jumped off and fell flat on his face. He brushed himself off, only to be met with Darkheart’s familiar gaze. At least he thought. You can’t really tell when they’re looking at you.
“Well, well. What brings you to our fishing hole?” Darkheart stated calmly. Zuka continued to eye Darkheart, trying to get a proper read on the mysterious inphernal’s intention. He realized it was to no avail, and steadied himself, putting his hands on his hips in like a kind of gay way but still very adamant. “I need a favour.”
Darkheart’s smile grew at this, leaning down a bit to get a proper look at Zuka. “And what could you possibly need so bad that you’d come to us of all people?” Darkheart questioned, poking a finger to Zuka’s chest playfully. Zuka did not falter, used to their demeanor, and began. “My ass is small. I need you to fix this.”
Darkheart stood up a bit more, seemingly disappointed. “That’s it? You want a BBL?” Zuka nodded a bit, and the deity gave a half-hearted sigh, “We suppose we can do this.” Darkheart put both hands to their face, hesitating, and then opened their hands, exclaiming “Peek-a-boo!”
“Huh” Zuka questioned, before turning around and finding himself in a large underground laboratory of some sort. While his back was turned, he was struck behind the head hard passing out. His vision began to blur, hanging onto consciousness. “What the… What the hell was that for??!” He exclaimed, coughing. Darkheart chuckled a little, and shrugged. “It’s convenient, we thought.” Zuka just stared at Darkheart on the ground for a bit, and then let his consciousness naturally give way. Whatever man.
Zuka opened his eyes slowly, finding himself staring at a bright fluorescent light. He squinted and darted his eyes around, seeing Darkheart smiling at him behind a glass panel. They gave a friendly wave, and Zuka attempted to wave back, finding himself completely strapped down. Darkheart pressed a button out of Zuka’s vision, and the large concrete slab he was haphazardly roped to began to rotate a perfect 180 degrees. There was a small area in the slab where Zuka’s lame little ass laid lamely.
Darkheart chuckled a bit to themself, flipping a switch, pressing some buttons, and then throwing away their fidget cube with a sigh, and pulled down a large lever, a large ray whirring to life out of Zuka’s vision. The old man eyed the concrete floor, trying to discern which way it was moving. The floor began to flash a violent green. What? Concrete doesn’t change colours, he thought. Electricity fizzled behind him, sparks flying onto his ass, and he yelped in pain. Darkheart giggled a bit. They forgot it did that.
They pushed one final button, and the machine crackled, a large beam connecting itself to Zuka’s ass, the room erupting in a large green explosion. Darkheart watched, jaw widening, and began to cackle devilishly. Their laughter was cut off as the glass shattered, splintering into their face painfully. Darkheart fell to the floor, sputtering, and crawled up to get a good look at their creation. It began to wind down, the green light fading, turning the room completely dark, just like their heart.
Zuka awoke, rising to his feet, rubbing the back of his head and grimacing. What on earth had happened? He found himself at the door to his apartment, shrugging and deciding he would get himself comfortable before anything else. He began the trek to his room, walking up the many stairs, and he winced in pain. He opened the door to his living room, seeing Rocket in the corner of his vision, leaning over the stove, with his hand up to his chin. The boy turned around, waving to his father. “Hey dad! You were out late! What happened, you seem roughed up.” The boy walked up to his father at the doorway, and looked down. Rocket hesitated, looked back up to his father, and quietly pushed his way beside him and walked out of the building. What was his deal?
Zuka walked to his master bedroom, and headed into his bathroom to observe the damages from the previous night, his head throbbing. And his ass too. He stared at himself in the mirror, a very obvious scrape along his face, there was a little blood but it seemed to have stopped a while ago. His horns were mostly untouched, so he assumed he had just taken a hard fall. His arms were also scraped, with small cuts along their underside, like shattered glass had fallen on him. Returning his gaze to the mirror, he felt something else was off about him, but he just couldn’t quite say what. He squinted at himself, and raised his hand to go scratch his ass.
Oh my goodness. Zuka’s ass had damn near quintupled in size. He hurried to his walk-in closet, rushing to get a better look at his new form in his full-size mirror. His apartment is like really nice by the way that Blackrock money PAID. His ass was… amazing. The lower half of his body looked like that of someone 30 years younger than him, who also actually cared about their appearance, and also exercised, and also had a large ass. It was almost comical in its size. His ass was big. He had to have received some sort of cosmetic surgery in his drunken state. He pondered this for a bit, before widening his eyes, and the camera zoomed into his eyes, fading into white, and the moments of the previous night flashed through his mind really fast.
What the fuck.
Zuka’s thoughts were broken by a knock at his door, rather hard. Rocket never bothered to knock, so he knew this was rather important. He was still in last nights now tattered clothes, he was visibly injured. He hurried over to the sink washing his face the best he could. The knocking at the door began again, this time louder and harder. They were impatient. He didn’t have much time. He darted his hands around the cabinets, searching for something to cover his face, finding a concealer from his earlier years. He began to apply it with his fingers, surveying himself in the mirror. He looked like a clown. The knocking started again, the sound resounded in his ears, wincing, and he began to walk to the door. This had to do. The knocking continued with every step of his, and he halted at the door, steadying himself the best he could, and gently opening the door.