Long Story #6: Spooky Tales for Twisted Tykes (IV. PDV & V. A New Factory) You

IV. PDV and You (Content Tags: Virology and infection, braindrain, diapers, messing, light scat implications, no typical narrative) The 'Poo-Tard Devolution Virus', or 'PDV', is something that affects every victim in slightly different ways, but there are a few consistent elements that always pop: intellectual degradation of varying degrees, physical alteration in some way, and most notably, being given a scatological obsession with diaper-bound feces. It only is able to impact males under the age of forty, it would appear, and as far as can be seen, there are very few, specific ways of contracting it. In fact, contracting it is such a seemingly difficult task, that sufferers of it are typically given no sympathy, no quarter, for the contemptible state they end up in. For one, it seems to only be spread from those who are already infected, or more rarely, from those who are asymptomatic carriers. While the virus is a chronic infection that the body has no way of clearing, and no known cure exists, it isn't so common that most people have to concern themselves about it. The infection rate in any given community is less than a percent of a percent, though with theories of mutation being inevitable, that might not hold long. The method of infection is fairly novel, and unlike most biological hazards, it seems as though a certain psychological aspect might be intertwined as well. This could potentially be earth-shattering in both the fields of epidemiology and biology overall: if a virus has the capability of becoming active or inactive based on the psyche of the potential host, then that would indicate a level of sophistication that is simply unheard of. Other theories discount this idea, with strange genetic markers and hormonal factors being seen as more plausible in the victims. PDV from a preexisting carrier is contracted in one of the following ways: 1. Someone is intentionally wafting the infected fumes into their nasal cavities. (Intentional 'huffing' or 'snuffling' of the smell of the dirty diaper.) 2. Someone is engaging in a mutual 'diaper-play' with the infected. (This might be cohabitation in the same small area, while both in dirtied diapers, or for the more sexually mature, this could include 'diaper-humping' or 'grinding'.) 3. Someone is putting on a secondhand soiled diaper from the infected. (Prolonged exposure raises infection chances exponentially.) 4. More rarely, someone is simply touching or 'kneading' the soiled diaper while it is still warm from usage. While the diaper itself typically acts as a barrier to the virus, this isn't always the case. (The more 'fresh' the mess, which is to say, the more warm, the higher the viral payload by cubic inch.) There is also known infection via ingestion of the viral contents, but there is debate on whether or not this method of infection is only limited to intentional ingestion. What is known, from the limited case studies, is that this typically brings forth the most physically devastating form of the virus and it is the most contagious. As can be seen by these parameters, it would appear that the only way to contract the virus, is through intentional, deviant behavior. It is for this reason that associates of the newly infected are rarely sympathetic to the plight of the victim; it is also why there is so little respect given on a societal level, with most people harboring the belief that the malady has been earned by the one suffering from it. Similarly, these parameters for infection have made it so that very little is done to quarantine the victims. There have been a few noteworthy subjects that have been quarantined, as their infection rates seem to be unrealistically high from a statistical standpoint, but these subjects make up a near-zero percentage of the infected population. For these subjects, the scientists involved require the highest level of biohazard protocol, and the 'caretakers' are primarily those who are already infected, but who are either immune or have symptoms that don't preclude them from some level of societal contribution. These special subjects aren't well-known by the public at large, and for good reason: knowing that there exists a possibility for the infection to spread to an 'undeserving' host, would cause a mass panic, even if the chance is extraordinarily low. This information isn't kept secret by any governing agencies, but there is little interest from the public in educating themselves on these edge cases, and possibly a certain willful ignorance, as to not result in anxiety. For one of these notorious subjects, who the researchers have dubbed 'Stinky Britches', the fumes from his soiled diaper are potent enough to cause infection within moments of smelling them. This is regardless of predilection or intention, and is the reason for such heavy biohazard protection. Dozens of victims fell to his unique strain before quarantine protocols could be engaged, and peculiarly enough, the olfactory vector appeared to be in densities that were up to a hundred times more powerful than typical carriers. Another quarantined subject has been dubbed 'Pendulum', because through some alternative evolution of the virus, he has been given a rhythmic maneuver that allows him to effectively hypnotize onlookers with the sway of his soiled diaper. By gently swinging the payload back and forth, he is able to create a hypnotic effect that draws others in to stick their nose against the pendulous bulge in the diaper. Hosts such as this are particularly interesting, because they are living proof about how uniquely the virus is able to evolve and change. There is a question on how much autonomy the infection claims; do the subjects endure enough neurological degradation to become inadvertently super-spreaders, or does the virus itself program in methods to ensure propagation? More research is needed to determine such an answer. There is no theorized cure to be synthesized, regardless of the millions of dollars into research that have been spent, and while there are teams working toward a vaccine, the results thus far have been disappointing. The public interest in either is minimal, due to the preexisting prejudices against most victims. The fear within the scientific community is that PDV won't remain relegated to a class of host that are psychologically predisposed for infection; if given enough time to evolve, then it is hypothesized it will only be a matter of time before the pool of possible hosts starts to grow past the small number it is currently at. There have been legislative pushes to increase funding, but congressional hearings have been benched, as senators and members of the house are bought off by the donations of lobbyists from various industries that profit off of the disease's existence. Diaper manufacturers are the primary culprits in this blockage, as they stand to lose immense levels of financial growth; sufferers of PDV are lifelong customers who use far larger quantities of the product than the average consumer, leading to bloating of stocks. Conspiracy theorists on the web have put forth arguments that these companies themselves have worked toward increasing the propagation of the virus, as to steadily increase the width of their customer base, but there isn't any solid evidence of this sort of industrial malfeasance. Ultimately, the short history and indefinite future of PDV in the human population is concerning; the biological and cultural impact aren't taken seriously enough now, but given time, there could be genuine threats to the future of the species. Only time will tell of the consequences, and only then will it be seen if enough concern was put forward toward this enigmatic infection. V. A New Factory (Content Tags: Karmic justice, brain destruction, nature’s wrath, light bondage, mind control, messing, makeshift diapers, bad end) "Nah, I'm telling you man...It'll be a perfect place for it. I bet we can get the land for cheap, and as a bonus, we can recoup some of our costs by selling off the lumber." "I don't know...Isn't that all 'sacred land' or whatever? Sounds like it could be a political shitstorm to bulldoze it; the media will jump up our ass about it for sure." "Whatever, let the tree-humpers get mad. They can't stop progress, Mick; they can't stop profit. If we can get a couple hundred of these acres, get it connected to the highway, then we'll have a perfect spot to build the next giga-factory. Who fucking cares if we knock down a couple shrubs to do it? I think people will be happier to have an influx of new job opportunities in the bumfuck boonies." Reed flicked the ash from the tip of his cigarette, and he squinted his eyes as the voice on the other end started to come through garbled and broken. "Ah, shit...We'll definitely have to get another tower built out here, the reception is garbage. Look, I'll call you back later; I'm going to go a little deeper and do a land survey of my own." The man tapped end on the call, and then stuffed the phone back into the pocket of his slacks. Taking one more puff, he dropped the cigarette butt and ground his heel against the ember to stamp it out; the last thing he needed was a forest fire to prematurely mess this place up. Reed Oakley was a business man, with a business plan, and he was going to take this useless forest off to business land; he worked high up in a manufacturing company, and his task for the year was finding an appropriate parcel of land to start construction of their next massive facility. He'd been a crucial part of the planning committee, where he'd insisted that they think bigger than just another factory; he had argued that they should pick someplace rural, to mitigate land costs, and when challenged on the logistics of getting talent to move out to the sticks, he'd shared his vision of what could uncharitably be called a company town. Get more land than they needed, build the factory, and then build infrastructure in the surrounding space to create an apparatus conducive to the environment that top talent would be comfortable lodging in. When it came to picking states with the least intrusive taxing policies or regulations, they weren't going to want to use many of the yokel locals. Though he would certainly convince the people of the nearby town differently. As a spokesperson of the company might say, to keep things moving, this would be considered a big 'opportunity' for Shitsville, USA. Sure, his company would raze the land and pollute the waters, but tens of jobs would be created for a few lucky men here, and hell, a few widgets would cost a tiny bit less for being locally sourced. Those inbred morons would lap it up, especially if he wrapped it up in some jingoistic flag of keeping things 'American-made', or if he greased a palm or two to get some vocal support from the local government. Grifting these sorts of people was almost too easy, so he'd probably be able to get a big subsidy from the state itself to start construction! This factory would pay for itself. Reed would spend the next hour on a journey deeper into the woods, with perhaps too much arrogance in regards to his own safety. He'd asked about wildlife beforehand, and while he'd been assured there wouldn't be any bears or big cats, some kook had spun him a yarn about watching the 'trees' for danger. Yokels, the lot of them. Superstitious and completely uneducated. After having traveled a certain depth, he did find that his GPS was becoming less helpful in showing a path. He figured he could still find his way back to the roads well enough, but getting deeper into the woods would-- SPLASH! "God damn it!" Walking near the water, he'd swatted idly at a mosquito on his neck, and he'd managed to fumble the fucking thing. The standalone GPS, which was a hell of a lot more reliable than his phone, was quickly sinking to the depths of the river. With the speed of the current, there was no point in going in after it. Fuck. Reed should have turned around right there, but he needed a respite; he was exhausted from his trek out here, and the last thing he needed was to be tired while trying to retrace his footsteps. A little further past the river, he saw a grove of trees that were obscured by brush. The man stomped over the bushes and looked up in awe at the majesty of the strange trees; they looked unfamiliar to anything he'd seen in a book. Was it an undiscovered species? That might complicate things, so he sure hoped not. They were tall, but much shorter than most of the surrounding pines; they were a cloud of intricate branches, and they had a cloyingly sweet scent wafting from the orange fruits growing from them. The smell was intoxicating, it was alluring, and Reed found himself stepping closer without understanding why. He put his palm on the bark of one, "Sorry, old gal. You and your buddies are gonna have to go, that's just business. Hope you make more some good planks and juice." As if providence, one of the fruits suddenly snapped off a branch, and it toppled onto the ground beside him. Feeling hungrier than he thought he was, he plucked it off the ground and wiped it off with his shirt. He knew he shouldn't eat unfamiliar fruit from an unfamiliar tree, but his tummy was grumbling, and the fruit looked so delicious... It probably wasn't toxic, right? He took a big bite and the juice dribbled down his chin. The pulp was incredibly sweet, and it didn't taste like any fruit that he'd ever had before; it had the kick of citrus, but it was smooth and refreshing like the milk of a coconut. Ravenously, he tore into the skin of it with his teeth, gobbling and gulping until it was all gone. Reed yearned for more. At least one more for now, and a few to take with him. Putting his bag down, the man tried to scale the branches of the tree, using whatever footholds his toes could fit. Just as he had reached out to grab another, something wrapped around his ankle, and then around his wrist. Vines, but they moved like snakes, with a will of their own. The man began to thrash, but that just made them cling more tightly; more of the verdant ropes dropped down from the foliage, and they began to tear away at his clothing like a beast looking for flesh to strip off bone. He tried to scream, but his mouth was stuffed full of fruit, and that made his muscles loose their tension. His clothes would lay in tatters at the base of the tree, but be wouldn't be nude for long; taking the immense leaves of the surrounding foliage, the vines would construct a makeshift diaper around his waist, as if trying to protect his modesty. The fight in him would continue to rise and die, with more of the fruit being used to pacify him, while he hung suspended from the vines like he was a fruit himself. Eventually the call of nature would come, and whatever he had been fed, had created pandemonium in his bowels. His control was too limited, his sphincter too slackened, so he let out a gassy rumble, and soft, mushy stool began to plop freely into the leafy diaper. Its warmth was oddly calming, and the droppings kept coming out, until the diaper was packed completely full of his smelly offering. A vine came and loosened the diaper off his waist, to replace it with a new one. Still dazed, Reed watched as the loaded one was lowered toward the ground and dropped at the base of the tree. It was...Manure, to fertilize the soil for the roots. The tree was using him like a machine; he was a cog in an assembly line, with the goal being to nurture the life of the plant. The fruit had been bait. The business man had been co-opted to be used as a shit factory for the forest, as if turnabout was fair play. His last thoughts, before a vine wormed its way into his ear, to steal the rest of his humanity away from him, was how human nature was really no more civilized than the forests that they had escaped. His phone would die, buried in a mound of shitty diapers, but Reed would live in perpetuity, kept physically pristine by the plants he'd been keen on killing. No one would find him out here, especially as the vines retreated with their new prize, higher into the blackness of the leafage above.