Zecora's Haunted Baja Blast

by Sharkrags

Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

Inspired by the wonderful sequence as drawn by tf-sential: http://fav.me/d7ers72

The forest was darker than the inside of a crumpled paper bag full of half-eaten onion rings shoved beneath a car seat.

Three hours had passed since leaving your NEET fortress on a quest for a Mountain Dew Baja Blast from Taco Bell. Traditionally it's a fifteen minute walk from your front door, but your sense of direction had been withered after a two day Resident Evil marathon, and half a year of solid laziness.

But you're in high spirits. The promises of a tropical sugary sensation in your mouth was enough to see you through hell itself.

Despite your self-imposed exile, you're pretty sure there wasn't any plant life thicker than an azalea around the neighborhood. Then again it was summer, and plants got all uppity with their ideas of pollination and photosynthesis. Bunch of useless, chlorophyll-laced sons of bitches.

And now here you were kicking and tripping through someone's garden gone haywire. But bramble and barbed, scary flowers weren't going to stop your quest.

You remembered the last time that happened.


”Hey dude, we're gonna go skinny dipping, c'mon!”

A pack of your friends ran past you, all naked. Three of them were chicks. Two of them were hot. You said farewell to your jeans.

You ran into the woods, ran into a poison ivy thatch, and ran into the hospital the next morning, hands down your pants and begging the doctors to stop Satan's Diabolical Blowjob.


You brought your shoe down upon a lone flower with decisive might. No quarter. No mercy. Only Mountain Dew.

But this was getting dumb. You should at least see the streetlights from the highway or hear the sound of people playing bad music from their cars. There's not even a single crackhead hiding out here, waiting to spring out from behind a tree and offer a miraculous handy-j in exchange for your pocket change.

But you needed your change for pre-planned transactions. The only other thing available was the 3ds in your back pocket. You didn't think a hobo of good standing would show interest in trading for that.

Instead you only heard the annoyed chirps of birds, rustling branches, heavy snarls, and other nightly hullabaloo.

Wait. Heavy snarls? You paused and listened. Yep. Definitely something out there a-stalking you.

So there were crackheads afoot!

”Alright ya bunch of derelict miscreants,” you shouted. “There's only two fifty in my pocket and I'm not gonna use it to fuel your vices when I got my own bad behaviors to stimulate,” you pointed a finger in the air. “So you can all just piiiiisssss off!” You threw a stick overhead to show you meant business. An owl fluttered away only to be eaten by a big, nasty, horrible thing.

You took the screeches and snapping noises as a sign that they've been scared off. You didn't choose this thug life. Nothing to do but carry on, wayward son.

The forest only grew thicker and danker. There were no neon signs for third-rate imitation Mexican food eateries in sight, sound, or smell on the wind. You contemplated backtracking home and asking Mom to drive you to Taco Bell instead.

No, that wouldn''t work. She'll only want a sip of your Baja Blast. Sharing was for losers.

Little nicks and cuts criss-crossed your forearms. Mosquitoes took advantage of the mobile buffet. Swiping, smacking, and swearing is all you could do. And trip. Lots of trips. Fuck forests. Smokey the bear can eat a fat one, you're going to burn all forests and groups of trees that even think about turning deciduous.

You heard the growl of wayward crackheads once more.

”I already told you dudes, I'm not giving you my money. Not for nasty slobber jobs or cheeseburgers or nothing. Unless you guys can use your crack-sense to lead me out of here.” Hm. Fat chance. They'd probably lead you to Jack-in-the-Box instead.

You shuddered.

The druggie continued growling. “Are you okay, guy? Sounds like you're butt's about to cause a flash flood.” The forest quieted. That pleased you. As long as he did his bowely business elsewhere.

After several dozen yards you saw a light.

Praise chihuahuas, you found it! It's here, it's here!

You broke into a run.

So did the crackhead behind you.

Fuck him. The light of first world, modern food service would repel his foul essence back to the shadows.

You got closer and closer. The trees fell back.

Taco Bell! There it was! In all it's white and purple glory, there it-

That wasn't Taco Bell. It was some kind of enormous tree converted into a dirty, run down hovel-hut. "Dammit," you thought. You found a real Mexican restaurant by accident.

You huffed in grief. The crackhead still raced behind you.

Whatever. What-freaking-ever. You've come this far. They had to serve SOME decent drinks in there. You doubled down on your legs and increased speed to maximum.

The crackhead behind you howled with the terrible yearning of a 'roided Tony Montana. "Tough luck, buddy," you cried.

You barreled through the front door, channeled your momentum and breakdance-spun your legs around and slammed the door closed on that druggie's face. His eyes pierced in the shadow, red and glowing. Obviously the guy was gonna be pissed. Now he'll have to find another sucker's cock to suck for coke money, 'cus he ain't getting yours.

You stood and looked at what kind of food joint you've wandered into.

Small place. A lot of decorations on the wall. Masks. Tribal instruments. Sauces and spice bottles were everywhere. An enormous pot in the middle of the room gurgled over a very low fire. Must be a Mexican-Indian fusion place. You took a whiff. Yep. Definitely smelled like Mexican-Indian.

But nobody was around. No waiters, no hostess, no fat white guys running into the bathroom like God had abandoned their lower colons to the less than merciful forces of ethnic foods.

What shitty service.

You looked for a bell to ring. All you found was an over sized didgeridoo on a stand.

”Hey, is anyone here?” You grabbed a hold of the wind instrument. “Paying customer here!” You blew on the didgeridoo. “BRRRRVVVVVVVVVV!”

No answer.

”Hola? Yo quiero Mountain Dew!”


”Mērē pāsa paisē!”


No one came, not even to say “Hello! May I help you?” or “Shut the hell up, that thing is expensive.”

You frowned. They must've closed early and forgot to lock the front door. If that's the case, it would be prudent to leave before someone called the police on a crazy guy playing native Australian instruments in the middle of the night.

You turned around and grabbed the door handle.

The crackhead on the other side snarled.

You turned and sat on the floor, chin in hand. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas out there seemed to hold a grudge. Best to sit put for the time being. Maybe someone would call the cops and find him outside and take him away, leaving you safe to sneak home unmolested.

It was the only sensible thought you'd have all night. You pulled out your 3ds to while the time away.

Ten minutes later and you've done all you could in Animal Crossing. You put the thing back into your pocket.

You thirst had not gone away. Forest shenanigans left you more parched than anticipated. Smacking your lips, you looked around. This was a restaurant after all, there should be something to drink. Ethnic places often served higher quality sodas. They used real cain sugar y'know.

This could work out after all. You got to your feet and nosed around the eatery, looking for exotic fruit juices and fizzy drinks bottled under questionable safety standards.

There were no visible fridges. You grabbed the nearest appealing bottle and popped the cork. Taking a whiff led you to believe it's grape juice. You held another to your nose. “Dragonfruit, blech!” Another. “Strawberry banana? Please.” The yellow bottle. “Peaches? What am I, an animal?” Green bottle. “Baja Blast, absolutely sickening.” Tye-dye bottle. “Hey this looks nea-ho baby!”

The tye-dye bottle was thrown against the wall where it bubbled and ate at the wooden interior.

Your fingers danced at the green phial. The opening pressed right up to your nostril. The heady, zesty, tropical rush of lime fried the frontal portion of your brain.

Bingo. You won. You found it. This night's labors and trials were not in vain. God had rewarded the faithful.

You dug into your back pocket and slammed two dollars and fifty cents in change onto a nearby table. Quarters and dimes rolled to the floor. The bottle's opening pressed against your lips. You laughed. “Let's do the Dew!”

Do the Dew!

You tipped the bottle back.

Do the Dew!

Cool, bubbly, fruit-infused liquid heaven slid down the rim and onto your tongue.

Do the Dew!

Little angels had sex in your throat


Teeth cried out in horror and ecstacy


Thirst was quenched forever.


A victory belch rattled the restaurant. God, you needed that.

Your spine jerked like an epileptic at a Daft Punk concert. The bottle of Baja Blast flew out of your hand.


The glass smashed on the ground. Purple liquid bubbled across the swept floor.

Wait a second. Mountain Dew Baja Blast wasn't purple. You back twerked at a right angle. Mountain Dew Baja Blast didn't give you seizures either.

Your fingers oscillated like glow sticks at a Daft Punk concert. They melted into a solid black mass, which rarely happened at Daft Punk concerts.

That Mountain Dew Baja Blast was not a Mountain Dew Baja Blast.

Black and white ringlets of hair sprout across your arms.

That wasn't a Mountain Dew Baja Blast at all!

”Aw shit.”

Your muscles led a revolt. They were tired of sitting at bad angles while you played terrible video games all day. They stretched and pumped blood down vessels long-since forgotten. Oh, it hurt like a bitch. You legs hiked up. Bones cracked. Pants and shirt seemed to be disintegrating. Uh-oh.

You looked down. Your shirt was flaking away in threaded ashes. Your pants followed suit. More of the black striped and gray fur was revealed by your disappearing clothes.

A freak out followed, but not because of the fur. Oh goodness gracious no, that would be rational.

Your goddamned 3ds is going to vanish now.

Hoof-like appendages gripped at your backside, trying to dig into your pockets to rescue the precious handheld before it was lost to the warping aether. You cursed and swore.

“Shit shit shitshitshitshitshit.”


Before, your hands were useless on general principle, now they were too swollen and stiff to get into your back pockets.

Sweat dripped in rivulets down your forehead that morphed rapidly into a muzzle.

Your jeans were almost all eaten away. They split in half and fluttered to the ground. You saw the plastic sheen of the 3ds glisten once more before disappearing, never to be seen or played again.

You held a useless hoof over your head in misery. Your hair stiffened and grew. Unsteady legs buckled as your knees twisted and heels extended like TV antennae.

”I'll never do the Dew again,” you muttered. “Never again. It's Fanta and Dr. Thunder from here on out, swear to God, just cut the bibbidy-bobbidy-boo crap.” You stared down at your increased body hair just in time to see your Astroboy boxers disappear. Your churro plopped down in the midst of all the confusion.

Great. Now the police are going to find a half-naked horse guy and a crackhead.

”I hope you're happy out there!” You called to the blitzed-out bastard stalking the door. “Now we're both getting a ride in the paddy wagon!” You covered your enchilada with a hoof.

Dark grey hair dangled into your vision. Dammit. You flipped it out of the way. Between the intruding hair and extending muzzle, you couldn't see a thing.

That's when your ass and thighs swelled up like someone plugged an air hose back there. They thickened and plumped out in curvy folds just begging to be slapped in the club.

They looked kinda hot to be honest, but it'd be way better if it wasn't happening to your legs.

By now your clothes have all evaporated into some dimension you don't want to think about. You ran your hooves up and down the wiry fur of your body, thinking about what a bitch it's gonna be to keep the fuzz from clogging up your pc at home.

But the ass was fat. Too fat. Gravity grasped your mighty hips with its invisible chains and pulled your bum to the ground with a powerful quake.

”Fuck, my tailbone!” You looked back. A white and gray tail swished out underneath you. Your ears flattened to the side of your head. “This is great. This is so great that it can't possibly get any greater. We've reached maximum greatness.”

Your cock poked its head up to get your attention.

“Hey,” said the dick.

”What do you want?” you muttered.

“Wanna see a magic trick?”

You frowned as it shook like a shaky thing at the shaky place.

”N-no," you stuttered. "No. I don't want to see a magic trick. I hate magic. Forever.”

The fleshy pillar vibrated. Your balls twisted around like someone shoved a stick between them and spun, spun, spun!

“We are doing it!” your dick cackled.

You shook your head. ”No, don't do it! Don'tdoitdon'tdoit, I told myself I wasn't gonna do it! Weren't you listening?”

“We are making this happen!"

Of course it wasn't listening, your pollo frito never listened.

”Cut it out you crooked perv!”

“Are ya ready!?"

Your hooves flew down to your chorizo to try and knock some sense into it. ”No, I'm not ready at all!”

Your beef burrito slipped inwards and split your groin, melting down with the fluidity of sadistic wax. Your back hunched.

“Can ya feeeeeel it?” your genitals crowed.

You moaned like someone jerked you off and smashed your privates with a rubber hammer at the same time.

”Oh. You. Fetid. Traitorous. Dick!”

“Not anymoooore..."

”What do you mean?” Your eyes widened as you looked down and pulled the hooves away. A new, black, shiny horse pita pocket gleamed in between your legs.

“I hope your satisfied," it sung.

You sat there, spread legged in open-mouthed horror and vague arousal. Eyes darted over your body. Dammit. Stripes. Hooves. You looked at your hooves.

You're a zebra. A lady zebra. Fuck, you're gonna have a beast of an identity crisis later.

”I-I can't play videogames with this shit!” Your voice was feminine, but deep. A strange accent ran in your ears. It was from someplace foreign. And hot. You think the country's name had a Z in there somewhere.

New Zealand. You now had a New Zealander's accent.

Something in your brain itched. You scratched your head to get it out, but no dice. Your brain told you to do something. Commanded. Demanded.

Your eyes twitched in a pattern that almost spelled out “Fecal Fracas” in Morse code, because that's what this whole situation was.


An instinctual urge deep inside your compromised soul yelled. ”Wha-”


The mental boom frightened you. ”B-but why?"


”But that's gay.”


What did you say earlier? “Uh. Uh. I can't play video games with this shit...uh...anyone have a pixie stick?”

Your instincts paused in mid-thrash to contemplate what they signed up for. They receded, not appeased, but rather not willing to deal with you any more than absolutely necessary.

You exhaled long and hard.

Okay. Now you have to rhyme every time you talk or your mental operations will tear you to shreds. Lame. Lame.

The door behind you swung open. You turned around. You almost hoped it was that crackhead so you could partake in a little social outreach therapy by kicking his teeth in.

Instead a zebra that looked almost exactly like you stood in the doorway.

“What is this? A reflection I see, how's that for curiosity?” she said with the same New Zealander tone as you. That explained the didgeridoo.

“Oh dammit,” you thought, “they all rhyme.”

You stood up and tripped over and stood up again and pointed an accusing hoof.

“I just want to say, this the absolute worst Taco Bell.” Your brain tingled. “Crap,” you whispered, “fine.”

“And it really needs to burn in hell.”

That worked.

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Zecora's Haunted Baja Blast

Mature Rated Fiction

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