The Donkeydope Pavillion

by Myron Comus

To keep up with modern times and an increasing flow of visitors to her island, Circe has created a modern theme park and menagerie, where each attraction transforms its (un)lucky visitor into the beast appropriate to his or her true nature. Entry into this extra-dimensional realm is carefully monitored by Circe herself, creating innocent-looking portals from the mortal realm to lure the receptive into its seductive expanseÉ

Freed from the constraints of contemporary legislation and law enforcement, cannabis and similar intoxicants are legal Ð and celebrated Ð at the Funhouse. That was what the ad in "High Times" (at least, the unwary marihuana afficianado thinks he remembers seeing it in High times) said. "Stick your nose in ÐThe Camel's Tent for fine imported Mongolian hashish, or sample free samples of Donkeydope brand ganja ("It's Jackass Grass!") at the Donkeydope Pavilion!" That's for me!, he thinks, walking past the ADMISSION: FREE sign and through the Funhouse's gates.

Hmm, almost nobody aroundÉhe passes by numerous intriguing pavilions, flag-flying tents, dense patches of woodland and fanciful-looking rides, each sporting its own curious title: The Sexy StableÉ Bonita's Salad BarÉ Lion Taming While-U-WaitÉ Mister Airwick's Perfume GardenÉ Saurina's 'Bog of Pleasures'É In the DoghouseÉ Oink CityÉ where the heck is this 'Donkeydope' pla Ð fffffnn? AhhhhhÉ

The pleasant, pungent aroma of burning hemp capture's the visitor's attention and leads him around a final corner to the Pavillion's entrance. As if they were waiting, its wide doors swing open at his approach, then close behind him almost as quickly; he never notices the tiny-typed, densely-worded 'ADVISORY' sign affixed to the wall behind the doorÉ

He enters the Pavilion's central chamber. It is strangely quiet, as if some solemn ritual were about to transpire. The chamber is empty, save for a small, long-legged table. On it sits a gold plate holding a plump, neatly rolled and near dirigible-sized "joint" of 'Donkeydope.' The wall behind the table is decorated with oversized 'Donekydope' logo and an enormous, billboard-sized image of Desmond Donkey, the brand's goofy, grinning mascot. In his familiar rear view (at least the visitor is sure he's seen it beforeÉ) Desmond's head twists back towards his hindquarters to light the marihuana cigarettete dangling from his mouth with the burning matchstick held in the tassel of his raised tail.

Fatefully eager to emulate Desmond, the visitor eagerly picks the "joint" up off the table Ð it is sticky to the touch and although completely intact, already ignited, as if for his convenience. He begins consuming the item without delay, and the results are equally immediate and visible: a slight lengthening of his ears and arms, and the beginnings of a coarse brown coat of fur beneath his clothing. (At this point he feels little more than a sight itchiness and the onrush of an overwhelming euphoria.)

The visitor continues his self-intoxication, unaware of its accompanying changes, like the middle fingernail of each hand rapidly growing larger and hooflike as the other digits dwindle away. The thick and gooey resins of the cannabis affix the "joint" to the visitor's now-rubbery lower lip, facilitating uninterrupted consumption in spite of his near-thumbless condition.

The visitor's increasingly cloudy perceptions do tell him that he is now standing on tiptoes ("the better to get high," the giggly thought occurs to him, as he lets loose with a braying guffaw), but fail to register that his feet have completely outgrown the shoes once containing them; only a clopping pair of hooves remain within for a few moments longer.

Amused by his precarious posture, the visitor takes a few unsteady steps forward, his ankles arcing ridiculously high off the ground, his ever-longer forearms wagging in front of him. Though they are clearly visible to his eyes, he somehow neglects to notice (or forgets to be shocked by) their excessive length, the bristly fur beginning to cover them or the heavy hooves they now end in; he only thinks "wow, this is fun" and laughs raucously. "Hawww, HAWWWW!"

His steps kick away his useless footwear; his hooves clop noisily on the hard floor, adding to his merriment. (He has long since consumed the "joint" Ð even without its magical properties the equivalent of several fields' worth of the strongest earthly cannabis Ð and several more besides; only their dried-out remnants, stuck to the lower lip of his asinine muzzle remain.) His steps are clumsy and staggering now; his center of gravity is slowly rising, like a bowling ball being hoisted from his pelvis up into his chest, which is expanding as if to make room for the weighty phantom sphere.

Still, the visitor is only aware of a slowly increasing tightness in his clothing, particularly in his shirt and the seat of his pants, where a wiggling, growing rope-like object is causing an increasingly embarrassing Ð yet pleasurable Ð tickling sensation. For a moment, the intoxicated visitor thinks he is experiencing a most extraordinary erection, followed by a sudden, humiliating fear he is in the midst of an enormous and supremely embarassing bowel movement. Finally, he realizes the sensations are merely his growing tail attempting to escape the confinement of his trousers. "Hawww-haww, Hee-HAWWW!" he laughs in relief, neglecting to wonder why his body suddenly sports a bestial appendageÉ

With a forceful, whip-like motion, the tail rips through the rear seam of the visitor's trousers to sway comfortably unencumbered in the fresh air. The top of the stretched-out and shredded pants fall down around the visitor's knees Ð which have somehow drawn up alongside his stomach Ð to reveal, in all its glory, a pair of brown-fur covered, asinine buttocks, crowned by a flapping, ropey tail, now fully grown and ending in a shiny-haired tassel.

The visitor takes one more clumsy step, his furry, foot-long ears wagging atop his head. The invisible bowling ball in his chest comes to rest between his shoulders and he feels himself flying forward onto his faceÉ Reflexively, he extends his strangely lengthened arms out as he helplessly stumbles forward. The hooves that have replaced his hands hit the ground with a loud double CLOP! and he lets out a loud, shocked "HAWWW?!" His four-legged posture seems strangely normal somehow, but his face feels all wrong Ð as long as a loaf of bread atop a neck thick as a suitcase.

From somewhere deep in his cloudy head, he hears himself think, "I've never been stoned like this before," even as a hoarse "Hee-HAAWW!" issues from his throat. "Did that come out of me?" he worries for the first time. His intoxication abating slightly, the visitor slowly Ð fearfully Ð reluctantly -- turns to look behind himself.

A full length mirror now covers the wall opposite the mural, reflecting the image of two donkeys: Desmond painted on the wall (who now seems to be smirking in triumph at his newfound companion's distress), and a live one standing in front of him in an eerily similar pose: butt-first, looking over his shoulder into the mirror. Unlike the naturally unclothed Desmond, the remnants of a shirt encircle the other donkey's neck and the tops of his forelegs, while a pair of pants dangle precariously off his ankles, pointlessly clothing the lower half of his hind legs.

Helplessly, the visitor looks into the shocked eyes in the mirror and recognizes them instantly as his own, even in the unfamiliar, comically furry face they now inhabit: whitish muzzle emerging from dark brown fur, large dark nostrils expanded in disbelief over a slack-jawed, thick-lipped open mouth and an assortment of oversized yet almost human-looking teeth -- all crowned by a pair of floppy ears wagging and angling nervously from side to side.

As he stares, the shredded pants legs resting atop his elevated ankles slip off and fall in a heap around his hooves; at the same moment he feels the fabric sliding down his legs Ð his hind legs! He stares openmouthed into the mirror, drinking in his new, asinine form; his tail stands straight up in shock, an exclamation point dancing atop his jackass ass as he brays helplessly, in full final awareness of what has happened to him. "Hee-haww! Hee-HAWW! HEEE-HAAAWWW!!!"

Far away, in her private chamber, Circe watches the images from the Donkeydope Pavilion waver and dance in the air in front of her. She always finds the time to watch in amusement as her latest visitor comes to realize his fate; it is her second favorite moment of their transformations, surpassed only when she overpowers the will of those who try to resist. Lounging unclothed (save the glittering tiara resting atop her golden-curled tresses) on an array of pillows, her delicate arm reaches out to caress the head of her most recent canine transformee, a now-boxer she has chosen to name 'Buster.' He gazes up at her adoringly, tongue lolling dumbly out of a wide-open mouth and stubby tail wagging joyfully, but she does not notice. In the softest of voices, almost to herself, she whispers, "yes my friend, this time you've truly made a jackass out of yourself -- once and for all." At the very moment she speaks, as if they were his own thoughts, the visitor hears her words resound inside his head. He opens his mouth to protest, but, as Circe giggles in delight, all that emerges is the comical braying of a jackass, cartoon-like in its sing-song cadence:

"Hee-haww! Hee-HAWW! HEEE-HAAAWWW!!!"

The Donkeydope Pavillion copyright 1998 by Myron Comus.