Paul was about ready to head home from work, putting the finishing touches on his work and shutting down his computer, already dreading the commute home–but dreading having to see Nate even more. Something…was wrong with him. It had been going on for a couple of weeks now, but every time he’d tried and talk about it with him, Nate had avoided the conversation like the plague. It had been little things at first–mostly these…violent dreams, where he’d be thrashing and squealing and no matter how hard Paul shook him he wouldn’t wake up. Then things had gotten stranger–Nate usually kept a pristine house, but lately he hadn’t seemed to be keeping anything clean, and the way his body was looking, he’d been spending a lot of that time binge eating.
It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal, he supposed, but the change had happened so quickly…and Paul didn’t know how to deal with it. This weekend…he’d have to talk about it with him, he just didn’t have any other option. They’d work through it, whatever it was–he was sure of it. With his things packed up he got up from his chair and checked his phone, where he saw a strange notification from an app he didn’t recognize, and which he was certain he hadn’t ever downloaded, called Arctos. He tried to dismiss the message telling him he’d been selected to receive a complimentary audio album from their collection, but instead of swiping away, it took him to a download screen, which he couldn’t stop.
Was it some virus? He tried to click away, frustrated, but it only let him get out of the screen after it had finished downloading whatever it was onto his phone. Was it a fucking virus or something? It didn’t seem to have messed with anything else on his phone, but he’d have to get it checked out this weekend as well, to make sure it wasn’t something malicious. Trying to focus on his bigger problem with Nate, he rode the elevator down and got to his luxury sedan out in the parking lot, and started the engine. Without thinking much of it, he hooked up his bluetooth from his phone to the car, ready to play some of his music, but as soon as it was connected some strange country song started blaring out of the speakers instead of his usual classic rock. Checking his phone, he discovered that whatever strange album that program had downloaded had been set to autoplay, and he couldn’t make it stop, no matter what he did–even turning down the car volume wouldn’t work for some reason. Frustrated, he simply resigned himself to the problem–he’d get it figured out this weekend, but if this was the worst the virus did, he might as well count himself lucky–and now that he’d listened to it for a couple of minutes, the music wasn’t bothering him nearly as much as he’d have expected it to. To his own surprise, he belted out the chorus of the first song without even realizing he’d learned it by heart:
Ya don’t want no city livin’.
Got ya wishin’ for a simpl’r time
Well ya’ll be a big, old country bear
If ya just listen tah mah rhyme!
Ya got a beard down tah yer gut
And mullets never went outta style.
Relax ya big, old country bear
And crank that volume dial!
Paul didn’t notice, as he kept humming along to the catchy tune, that he was starting to change in the driver seat of the car. He’d always taken great care to make sure his appearance was professional–he knew that appearances mattered in business, and he wasn’t about to let a beard or a paunch get in the way of a promotion. Yet he slumped a bit in his seat now, adjusted the crotch of his pants as his cock picked up a few more inches, heaved a sigh, and his gut pushed out against his tight shirt, a couple of buttons popping as it grew. He scratched his face, unfazed by the beard growing out from his cheeks and chin, rapidly rowing longer than a foot–his meticulously styled hair growing greasy and long, hanging around his head in tangled locks with streaks of grey, the top shaved short–but not short enough to disguise his now receding hairline. Unaware of the changes, and curious about the album now that he’d gotten through the first song, he turned up the stereo and kept listening:
Wearin’ yer waders ‘n yer overalls
Smokin’ a ‘gar in yer rusty truck
Nothin’ but a dumbfuck redneck,
ain’t it just yer fuckin’ luck!
Ya Never wash yer clothes
‘N ya never take a shower
The worse ya stink the dumber ya think
But a real man ain’t a fuckin’ flower!
Paul guffawed at that line–because…because he was a real fucking man, and he sure as hell didn’t smell like those prissy bitches in the city. No–he didn’t want to live like that anymore–why worry about climbing the corporate ladder, when he could just work on the farm all day–simple shit, without having to worry about complex shit like accounts, or computers or whatever. He leaned forward and gave the ass of his overalls a scratch, digging into his crack a bit with a grunt around the cigar he was smoking, and then sat back with a sigh, hearing the old seat of his pickup groan under his weight, smelling the grungy musk welling up around him and making his cock stir Sure was his luck! No better fucking life than this one he had right now as a dirty fucking farmer bear, right? This was a great album–how in the world had he never heard of it before? He kept listening, humming along and singing when he got the choruses of the song’s down. As he was pulling onto the subdivision where he lived with Nate, the last track of the album came on, called “Hogfucker” and this one made his breath catch in his lungs:
Those curly tails and big wide rumps
get ya rarin’ fer a nasty fuck
Can’t help climbin’ in the filthy sty
just a plowin’ in the mud and muck!
Who’s a proud hogfucker?
Yer a proud hogfucker!
Manure and slop sure turn yer crank,
The oinkin’ snortin’ ‘n squealin’.
Ruttin’ away in the disgustin’ filth
Yeah! Ain’t no better fuckin’ feelin’!
Fuck, why in the hell was his cock so hard all of a sudden? He thought the song was metaphorical for a moment, but pretty soon…he was sure it was talking about pigs. Real fucking pigs, and how…how fucking sexy they were. Hell, why should he try and deny it anyway? It was true–he’d fucked a few pigs in his life–it was always better than fucking a dude or a bitch in his opinion.
“Who’s a proud hogfucker?” The song asked again.
“I’s a proud hogfucker!” Paul shouted back with a chorus of redneck voices on the track, hauling his cock free of his overalls and stroking himself roughly, thinking of the last time he’d been with a proper hog–too fucking long ago in his opinion. He needed to get back out on the farm, into the country, where he’d feel more at home anyway–but he…he had to do something here first. The song ended–too soon for Paul to finish his load–and the heavyset redneck got out of his truck with a grumble and tromped up the steps of his house, feeling out of breath and out of sorts, but he was sure he’d feel better once he was back on the farm, where he belonged.