Sorry, I'm Not Into Bestiality

Now, I've been hungover before.

Arguably more than most. I've experienced the entire spectrum of complicated euphoria that comes with drinking until you can't stand. I've witnessed things that upon reflection, no sober human being could even begin to comprehend through the kaleidoscopic of lens of Dutch courage.

There has been very little I couldn't chalk up to the consequences of my own actions while recovering from a particularly heavy night of partying.

But as the stranger in front of me demanded for me to stop, his entire appearance morphed into something monstrous.

And I can honestly say, that was a first for me.

The air grew thin as I began to shake uncontrollably, a rotten cold sweat breaking out across my skin as my tongue simultaneously turned to ash in my mouth.

His pupils had blown to an unearthly size, the whites of his eyes rapidly growing blood shot before flooding with thick, burgundy splotches, removing any trace of humanity. Dark veins of blues and purples bulged along his neck, darkening to a perturbing black as they crawled along his jawline and burst forth from his orifices, joining a tangled web beneath his skin.

His canines which had already been relatively prominent, extended even further, their sudden evolution an inescapable indicator of their deadliness. His head morphed and elongated just past the point of natural, jaw clenching and sickening cracks looming as I stood frozen in stock horror fear. Everything in my body screamed that what I was witnessing was just wrong. That if there was a God, this creature was the antithesis. I was in the presence of the ultimate predator and I was one swipe away from having my throat ripped out.

The man I'd only a few minutes earlier considered attractive, had become one of the vilest creatures I'd ever seen.

Definitely not a crackhead.

"Holy f*cking crap!"

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British ex-military meets the supernatural.