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Liquid lollipop besprinkles a series of salient spikes. Each sinister prong is crowned with globular candy -- but the odd, sizzling temperature manipulates molecular bonding and fuels messy putrefaction.
It's first time you've witnessed melting lollipops.
The heat is ruinous and affecting. Your hair wilts across a horribly perspiring brow, and all you feel is nausea.
"Egbert? What the fuck, man..."
Though you project his name, the latter sentiment is muttered with anxious amarulence. Losing your cool is not a state you wish to publicize. Even in what must be a forsaken fun-house. Typical communities don't subscribe to this ornamentation.
Beneath your tentative footsteps, soft, antique wood sobs. The grain is worn betwixt sugared splashes of baby-pink paint. You indulge in a few more ostentatious paces then halt, and examine the environment.
You're in what appears to be a immense, chaotic dollhouse -- rather, dollhouses. A feverish complex of childhood corruption. Stairwells lead to plateaus, which inevitably lure one forward. There are confined bedrooms, dainty kitchens, pernicious playpens, and cakes. Plenty of cakes.
John is either traumatized -- self-isolated in a hidden corner -- or playing a gruesome, dauntless trick on you.
"Yo! Anyone here?"
Stifling silence.
"No? No one wants to chill with a rad bro up in this pervert's oven!?"
You had a few too many the former evening.
Often, you'll refrain from popping brain cells like infected pimples. It's a personal policy.
But John was so suffocating; with his eyes like burning blue wonderland. He lingered close; passed a series of candy-cane shots -- you remember, the mint burned -- lapped them from your stomach, chest, mouth. Giggled when an errant snake of liquid drizzled down his lips. Moaned when you teased him, dragging your tongue along the minty rail. It was a darling effort to observe each conquered shot; and you failed.
Now you're here.
John is gone.
"How far could he have gone? Kid has to be hung-over..."
You certainly are. Caustic menthol slices your liver with wicked vitriol, and you're staggering toward another staircase steeped in partial delirium.
"Okay...okay, fuck. You gotta think, Strider."
A welcoming block of cruel, vibrant wood sits in one corner. This room is painted with alarming shades of green and yellow. You accept the toy's invitation and recline. It beholds one plastic eye; dull, and glaring. If it moves, then fuck this shit, you're out of here.
It doesn't -- but idly stares beneath your quivering legs.
Unsettling.
An enormous cake leers from atop a child's mirrored dresser. The furniture itself is propped with doll's legs, in opposition to regular, wooden stands. You're unimpressed by the macabre presentation. It's all so jarring, and unhappy; a voyeuristic nightmare. The exploitation of mournful secrets.
Despite your convictions, the cake is alluring. It shouldn't be -- you're nursing alcohol's brutal birthright. Cake, ordinarily, might seduce you to vomit.
Perky with beguiling, dreadful innocence, it haunts the room. You'll eat it. Resistance is meaningless within this realm.
It's plump and sweet in your grip. Oily, arterial spurts of blood drench your face, yet continuation is compulsory; binding. The ooze becomes a sweet blanket upon your desperate tongue.
In the haze of mystified impulse, each bodily change unfurls without defiance. Only the sinister clatter and vibration of a nearly ravished molar shatters your narcosis. You spit. It rolls in a gleeful carmine spatter on your palm. One perfect tooth. It's not yours -- but was buried in the cake's sticky bowels amid a colony of tiny bones. Human bones?
...Doll bones?
In a florid rush, you move toward the dresser -- only to be seized by your pinning weight.
The cake manipulated each formerly thin snatch of anatomy. You falter in a moment of terrified surprise.
Everything is different.
Your legs -- once reedy, yet toned -- are now laden with thick folds of fat which curve downward, in gelatinous progression, to form an embarrassing cascade. The flesh meets with spiteful knowledge, causing a distinct, haphazard gait. An impressive roll rises from your rear, creating a permanent, cushioned brace. Swollen, quivering mounds rise and dip with each panicked breath -- small breasts. You cannot justify their existence.
As you wander, in a shocked stupor, toward the ominous wardrobe, your belly sways conspicuously against a fattened lap. The pendulous motion stimulates your groin -- hidden beneath a reddened apron.
Apron?
"Oh, God, what...what..."
Your clothes have morphed into a saccharine, dollish parody. Lace drips from each scalloped hem. Faded, boyish red stripes curve round your encumbered frame, accentuating each chubby divot, and your shoes have switched to accommodating lilac suede slippers, ribboned in virginal white. Your sunglasses have vanished.
Lewd mortification clutches soft, yielding flesh, and the urge to vomit returns.
"Just do it." Your voice is mean, fearful. Keep going. Move forward.
The doll's legs are within reach. Your plump fingers brush the smooth veneer, prepared -- then you're snatched backward.
"Aw, come on. No need to bother with that!"
John's -- no, not quite -- voice summons your attention with melodious calculation. Cold arms encircle you; toying with the abominable fronds of lace.
"Where are we?"
A sweet, poisonous giggle. "Guess!"
"Some sort of dream?"
"Nope! This isn't a dream, silly. This is real! You can't file it neatly away in your subconscious." He twirls you with impossible ease.
"...You're not John." Disappointment.
"Am too!" The insistence is hissed into your ear on candied breath.
He looks like John. If, of course, your best friend happened to consist of a violent, neon spray. Ruthless marigold hair teases your cheek as he seeds a cruel kiss.
"Mwah!"
John -- or, whoever it might be -- spares an acidic grin and pinches your pillowy torso.
"Wow. You don't have any self-control, huh?"
"Suck it."
"Easy, bro! I'm just kidding." His smile remains; sweetening slightly.
You want to believe it's not John.
"Where were you?"
"Oh...just a bit lost. This place is like a maze, you know?"
"Yeah. I know."
Perhaps the forces responsible for your current style affected his as well? If it's John, he has ambled, tragically hungover and dismayed, through this toxic perdition -- likely searching for you. He cannot be faulted for minor agitation.
"Alright, I'm going to assume you're really John, and not his evil twin or something unequivocally fucking lame like that. Got it? In return, you gotta stop groping me like I'm the finest goose carcass in the Christmas lineup."
"No promises." John swipes his thumb across your breast, rousing a nipple.
"Oh, hell no. You're not allowed to bitch about my 'self-control' then do something like that."
"I wasn't complaining!"
He plucks a lollipop from the chasm of wrecked flooring, and spins it, admiring the syrupy gore.
"Actually, I was kinda thinking...you'd be better off with even less control."
The words send splintered veins of ice rocketing through your gut. Before you're able to retaliate, John forces you down, and mounts the trembling expanse of your belly. He carries malign, anomalous strength. This, in combination with your new weight, is sufficient restraint.
"What do you want?"
"I want you to lick my lollipop."
"...Charming."
He laughs -- a chilling infection -- then forces the candy between resistant lips. It explodes in your mouth; a rancid sore, fresh clot of pus. The liquid creeping down your throat is thick, and creamy. Reminiscent of bubblegum; but far less benevolent. John appears to rise on his flesh throne. In a moment, you recognize the situation.
You're growing. Terrified, red irises seek and locate the doll's legs. They seem far displaced. John pursues your gaze, and his titillated smile fades, contorting into an expression of vicious derision.
"Don't even think about it. If you try anything, I'll give you another lollipop. You'll be too big to move!"
The threat stills your mind. Without conscious observation, you feel each fattening influx.
Arms that rested comfortably by your side now ascend, draped with thick canvases of flesh. Your eyes close as the excess bubbles over each elbow; brewing deep dimples.
There's no space between your back and the floor as rolls of blubber sink downward. You're unsure which folds belong to your rear until John aids you in sitting. The soft substance spreads beneath your weight -- surreal in width. You're sitting on two massive cushions.
"I think I like this part of you the best."
John relaxes against your billowing belly. It shimmies across the floor; kissing your thighs with lovely oppression. You focus on him, ignoring the doughy sway of a secondary chin.
The doll apparel has flourished in reception. A jarring landscape of stripes hugs each bountiful curve. You attempt to stand.
"Why bother? I mean, you should still be able to walk around and stuff -- but isn't this more fun?"
He pushes you down, shaking your body afterward for debilitating emphasis.
"So...what did you do to John?"
"Nothing! I am John. Remember?"
"Whatever."
"Don't be like that!"
A playful whine tints his voice; and he presses further into you, allowing smooth flesh to droop over his assertive embrace.
"You're like a big pillow!"
"A pillow? Nah, man. What you got here is the whole fucking bed."
Your statement earns a tickled laugh. His lips meet yours a second afterward; taut, forceful tongue in succession with engaging vivacity. In that awful, liberating lapse of time, you feel them.
The sunglasses. In a neatly stitched side-pocket of your apron. You test the velocity of one arm, and gently swing it toward John to tenderly stroke his spry waist. It's enough practice to utilize. Your sunglasses are safely contained in the other puffy palm.
Beautiful, delicate china.
It cracks upon contact with the launched steel frame. Malicious satisfaction spirals through you as John glares.
"Okay, not cool, dude."
You quickly turn to glance at the doll's splintered leg. Blood froths from the wound, hissing between clenched bone. Human. The dresser spasms with deranged intensity, and your world begins to change.
Thick coils of sizzling, rotting skin writhe and peel -- revealing the walls, floors, ceiling -- as false. The ground beneath you shudders, and throbs; your weight bruises the flesh-prison; pops rubbery vessels of surging, festering blood.
John pouts.
"And here I thought we had something good going on..."
"Other than the gross sweets, scummy atmosphere, and psychotic best friend? It was awesome."
A chunk of living meat plummets to your chest and slides off -- leaving a sticky slug's trail of plasma.
The world disintegrates.
John bids you farewell with a simple sneer.
***
You're awake.
It was a dream, as expected. A tuft of silken hair rises as John -- the genuine figure -- greets you. Despite his authenticity, you become tense.
Bewilderment. "...Dave? You okay?"
"Where are we?"
"In your bedroom. Uh, are we supposed to be somewhere?" His voice betrays strawberry vodka.
"No, no...that's fine. Just...hangover."
"Oh, man. Me too." A dozy smile.
You admire the sweet tilt of his lips for a moment till nausea dominates. There's no time to provide an excuse. You're in the adjacent bathroom, rasping violently. The porcelain basin of your sink accepts each gooey, bleak spool. You imagine the vomit represents a liquified liver.
John waits; entirely lucid.
"You okay?"
"Better now." Your legs won't stop shaking.
"Is...something up? I mean, besides puking your guts out?"
"Headache."
"And?"
You groan. "I... had a nightmare."
"Aw, that blows. I'll...get some tea, and maybe you can tell me what your nightmare was about?"
The offer is tempting. Theoretically, tea will ease the turmoil in your stomach.
"Deal."
John rises, ambling toward the kitchen on weary feet. An inky sky looms beyond the window. What time is it?
You rest. Even the anemic starlight manages to vex a blossoming migraine.
"Here!"
A mug of steaming chamomile calms your overstimulated senses.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
Stunned, dizzy silence blankets the room as John drinks tea with you.
"So...the nightmare...?"
"Yeah. It was pretty shitty, I guess. No big deal."
"Come on, man. You gotta tell me a bit of it..."
You stand, clutching two empty mugs. "I was trapped in a pervy, messed up dollhouse, looking for you."
"Oh. I was there?"
"Yeah, you were there. Except you were some freak with a flamboyant shirt and candy stuck to your head."
He smiles.
"Where are you going?"
"To the kitchen to drop off the cups."
"Drop them where?"
You pause.
"In the dishwasher. It's like cup heaven. They go there to be reborn as cleaner versions of themselves."
"There is no dishwasher."
No.
You walk on prickling toes.
"There are only lollipops."
Ebony becomes marigold.
"...I don't get it."
His eyes are the same magnetic blue.
"This is real. You can't file it neatly away in your subconscious."
All you taste is candy.