The Last Urn (Patreon)

- Hey, I think I found it. It’s tiny.

You turn towards Mark’s voice and quickly move in his direction. Years of research, travels and digs, and a finally you are only steps away from your prize. For this, Indiana Jones-esque cave exploration you didn’t bring any crew. In fact, it’s more like a treasure hunt than any scientific archaeology. Indiana Jones-esque. You are not a complete moron to walk into unexplored caves alone in search for ancient artifacts though, so you brought trusty old Mark. A friend of convenience and circumstance from the small school where you grew up. A bit thick, a bit rural, but tough, handy and knows how to keep his mouth shut.

- Coming! Don’t touch it.
- Too late. I’m touching it all right. Shouldn’t there be a trap or something.

I round the bend of the cave and see a minuscule clay pot in his hand, illuminated by the LED lamps on his helmet. Before I have time to say anything else he opens the lid.

- Noooo

The entire room fills with the shimmer of Marks body, like the reflection of a sunset lapping the cave walls.

- What the hell?
- Fuck! I really hope that doesn’t count. OK, listen carefully. Everything you say for the next few moments will come true.
- So if I say I want a 10 inch cock then…. Oh, shit!

Even with those lose fitting caving pants you could see the change.

- Stop swearing!
- I want to be just like Tucker, but even more jacked.

You watch as Mark in the blink of an eye transforms into something resembling his insufferable drinking buddy Tucker. You don’t know if Tucker actively tries to conform to as many of the stereotypes as possible, or if he obliviously was a racist piece of shit on his own.

- Stop talking Mark, before something really bad happens. I’ve made a list you can read from.
- Shut up, fucking faggot!

You felt it hit you, like a wave of hot air. You have no doubt what just happened, since instead of being deeply concerned about what Mark was doing to himself, you now want nothing more than to touch him, lick him, suck him, fuck him. But what’s worse is you can see the shimmer in his body is fading quickly. You want to tell him to at least put everything back as it was, but you can’t say anything. Your body wont even try to talk.

- I’m so fucking tired my tax dollars paying you go around the world just to look at foreigners. Just be one yourself and be done with it.

This time the change knocks you over. The change itself was pretty much instant, but it took some flailing attempts to get your bearings in your new body. It doesn’t make any ethnological or even racial sense, your body. Like some dolt just mashed together Aztec, Inca and African racial stereotypes into one. Way more muscled than historically accurate for any of the warriors, and frankly kind of obscene even for today. And the clothes are laughable tatters. All the ancient cultures were skilled craftsmen.

- Timotla tonaltzintli lotsinoa!

Your eyes widens in horror as you realize that your last attempt to talk sense to Mark, or Tucker or whoever he is now, comes out as whatever language is native to this body racist Frankenstein imagined together.

- Ximocahua!

Tucker looks at you with superiority mixed with disdain.

- I done so much for you. You should look happy!

You have no idea what dumb shit he is saying as the last gasps of shimmer dies out from his body, but you can’t help to smile about it. He really fucked this one up. Fucked you up. Well, you are not leaving these caves without everyone being properly fucked.
With a smile.

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