The living room in Derry was the epitome of mundane—a sagging beige couch, a chipped coffee table littered with tea mugs, and a telly that hadn’t worked since the last World Cup. But tonight, something was off. A low, unsettling hum vibrated through the house, the kind that made your teeth itch and your spine crawl. Outside the window, an eerie neon-green glow spilled through the curtains, painting the room in an otherworldly sheen. The men inside, however, lounged about in blissful ignorance, oblivious to the storm of absurdity about to descend.
Gerry, a once mild-mannered dad of forty-something, slumped on the couch, his beer gut straining against a sensible sweater. His usual grumbling about bills and the neighbor’s yapping dog had faded into silence. As the green light intensified, his eyes glazed over, a vacant, drooling grin spreading across his face. He didn’t notice. Neither did Joe, the grumpy old grandfather, perched in his ancient armchair, his newspaper slipping from gnarled hands. His body twitched under the glow, wrinkles smoothing out unnaturally, as if time itself was rewinding his decrepit frame.
Pastor Rob, a wiry man in a clerical collar, stood mid-sermon about the wages of sin, a cup of tepid tea in hand. His meek voice trailed off, his posture snapping straight as a wicked smirk curled on his lips. “Well, bless my soul,” he muttered, though the words carried a strange, hungry edge. On the floor, sprawled with a dog-eared comic book, was James, the awkward young lad of the house. His lanky frame seemed oblivious at first, until a subtle shift began—hips widening, waist cinching, and a neon-pink thong suddenly peeking out from the waistband of his jeans.
The green light pulsed stronger, a rhythmic throb that seemed to rewrite reality itself. Gerry’s skin took on an artificial orange tan, his sweater morphing into a tight, stained tank top, an American flag speedo clinging to his newly sculpted thighs. His jaw slackened, and when he spoke, his voice slurred into a thick, “Like, totally, bro!” drawl. “Yo, dudes, freedom’s, like, the ultimate vibe, ya know?” he mumbled, a beer can materializing in his hand from nowhere.
Joe’s transformation accelerated, his ancient frame rejuvenating into a young, dumb tech bro. His cardigan vanished, replaced by a disheveled, cum-and-beer-stained grey suit, the zipper undone to reveal a gaudy money-print speedo underneath. His cross-eyed stare fixed on nothing in particular as he slurred, “Gonna disrupt the bedroom industry, fam. NFTs for nudes, bruh.” He let out a wet, idiotic chuckle, drool pooling on his chin.
Pastor Rob’s clerical collar tightened, morphing into a cum-stained tight top, a tiny speedo with a cross emblazoned on the front hugging his suddenly muscular frame. Shades materialized over his eyes, and a brash, booming laugh erupted from his chest. “Forget salvation, boys—I’m the top pastor of pounding now!” he declared, flexing biceps that hadn’t existed five minutes ago.
James’s comic book fell away as his face contorted, makeup appearing as if painted by an invisible hand—glossy pink lips, heavy eyeliner, the works. His voice pitched into a high, whiny British bimbo tone, punctuated by uncontrollable giggles. “Oh em gee, innit, I’m gonna be, like, a proper gay porn star!” he squealed, prancing to his feet, his newly rounded backside bouncing in the thong as he twirled.
The room was a cacophony of idiocy as their memories rewrote in real-time. Gerry, now believing himself to be a brain-dead American governor, barked nonsense about “freedom, bro” while chugging his beer, foam dripping onto his tank top. “We gotta, like, build a wall… or a keg stand, dudes!” he roared, scratching at his speedo with zero shame.
Joe, the tech bro, leered openly at James, his supposed “stepson,” with a dumb, drooling smile. “Yo, lil’ bro, let’s collab on some content. I got the crypto, you got the… assets,” he slurred, winking with one eye while the other stared at the ceiling.
Pastor Rob tossed aside an imaginary Bible, his voice booming over the chaos. “No more sermons, lads—time to break in the new flock!” He slapped James on the backside with a meaty hand, eliciting a high-pitched squeal from the femboy. “Oi, Pastor, you’re proper naughty, innit!” James giggled, batting fake lashes as he wiggled against Rob’s grip.
Gerry and Joe cheered with brainless enthusiasm, already forgetting their old lives as a dad and a grandfather. “Hell yeah, bro, pound that flock!” Gerry hollered, raising his beer can in a sloppy toast. Joe nodded, spilling beer down his stained suit. “Disrupt that ass, Pastor! Innovate!” he mumbled, barely coherent.
The green light began to fade, its eerie hum receding into silence, leaving the living room in utter chaos. Beer cans littered the floor, questionable stains marked the couch, and the air reeked of cheap cologne and desperation. The four men—or whatever they were now—settled into their absurd new reality, clueless to the government rays that had rewritten their world. Pastor Rob lounged on the armchair, one hand on James’s hip, the other clutching a beer. “This is the gospel now, boys. Sin’s the new savior,” he growled, smirking behind his shades.
James perched on the coffee table, legs crossed dramatically, twirling a strand of hair. “Reckon I’ll be viral by mornin’, yeah? Me fat arse is pure content, innit!” he chirped, blowing a kiss to no one in particular.
Gerry flexed in the corner, muttering about “freedom gains, bro,” while Joe scrolled an invisible phone, mumbling about “blockchain booty.” The ordinary living room in Derry was gone, replaced by a den of debauchery, its inhabitants none the wiser to the neon-green machinations that had turned their lives into a ridiculous, raunchy parody.
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