The Spores of Lemmoriatic

Written by Universal Monk

Feelings of Grandeur and Superiority Aroused

“What the fuck?” Pip Johnson yelled, his voice echoing off the cluttered walls of his room. He was fed up. Exhausted from the endless back-and-forth. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, hesitating for just a moment before he slammed the laptop shut with a grunt.

Lemmy was supposed to be fun, a place to toss around ideas, maybe stir up a little debate.

But lately, his favorite community had been hijacked by propaganda from some troll—had to be an incel. The guy constantly posted made-up crap, and what really set Pip off was discovering the troll had started a whole community about “transracial identity.”

That was it. That was too far. This internet troll had finally pushed him over the edge.

“Bullshit!” Pip spat, standing up and stretching his stiff limbs. “Pure fucking bullshit. Dude’s probably some rich asshole jerkin’ off to the idea of Trump being president.”

The dim light of his room flickered off the dark window, reflecting back his own tired, frustrated expression. He glanced at the piles of half-read books and empty soda cans scattered across his desk. The argument still weighed on him, lingering in the back of his mind.

Earlier, things had spiraled fast. The troll had claimed to be “transracial,” talking about how he’d transcended his biological race and now identified as something else. Pip sighed, shaking his head at the absurdity. “Fucking incel loser hiding behind a screen, begging for attention,” he’d typed furiously before quitting. “You can’t just decide to be something you’re not.”

The responses had come fast and furious. The troll called him narrow-minded, accused him of not understanding the nuances of identity. Saying that he was part of the problem, that he refused to see the world beyond black and white.

The insults and accusations had flared up until his temper snapped, and that’s when he’d closed his laptop.

He needed a break—an escape from the endless noise rattling in his skull. The kind of break that ripped him right out of reality’s grip and flung him somewhere far more… tolerable.

His eyes flicked to the small tin on his bedside table, his salvation, his go-to for shutting it all down. Mushrooms. Psilocybin. A batch with the ridiculously bizarre name: SnorksLoveMachine Fab812. Ordered from some sketchy corner of the web, but top-shelf stuff, the real deal.

The kind of escape that didn’t just quiet the chaos—it dissolved it, let his mind slip loose, floating into that soft, distant void where the world couldn’t reach him.

He grabbed the tin, shook a few out, and swallowed them dry, grimacing at the bitter taste. Within minutes, the familiar wave of relaxation washed over him, the tension easing from his muscles as he lay back on his bed. The room felt distant, its cluttered details melting into the background. His mind floated, carried away by the soothing effects of the trip.

He felt his head shifting, as if it was being stretched and reshaped, light and airy, floating high above him, far beyond the weight of his body. The tension in his skull loosened, like his very thoughts were untethering from his flesh, rising above the petty drama that had gnawed at him earlier. In this new state, everything felt clearer—sharper. He could smell the deep, rich scent of grass, the crisp, sweet breath of trees, and the subtle rustle of leaves, as if they were whispering to one another in a secret language only he could understand.

He wasn’t just observing nature anymore—he was nature. He could feel the roots of the trees reaching deep into the soil, pulling life from the earth. The pulse of the plants, the slow, deliberate movement of their growth, was inside him, as if his own veins had stretched underground, connecting him to every living thing.

This trip was different, more powerful. He felt it in his bones. This batch wasn’t just good—it was extraordinary. He could sense himself dissolving, becoming one with the earth, with the plants. It wasn’t just in his mind anymore. He was part of something larger, something ancient. He could feel it, surging through him like sap through bark.

Metamorphosis in Flesh and Mind

Pip awoke with a start, groggy and confused. The familiar disorientation of a mushroom trip fading always left him feeling heavy, but today there was something else. A strange pressure against his chest. He reached down, rubbing his hand absentmindedly against his shirt, but froze when his fingers brushed something… soft.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, sitting up.

In the dim light of the early morning, he could see it clearly—a small, pale cluster of lumps had sprouted from his skin, just under his collarbone. They were soft and spongy, like the kind of mushroom you’d find on a damp forest floor, and they pulsed faintly, as if alive.

Tufts of hair and patches of pus began to sprout from the sides of his skin, grotesque and swollen. His stomach churned at the sight, but he couldn’t help himself. He reached for one of the smaller, bulging growths, his fingers trembling. The texture was wrong—too soft, too alive.

He squeezed.

Pain shot through him, sharp and electric, causing his vision to blur. There was a sickening pop, followed by a slow, oozing release. Thick, foul-smelling sludge—reddish-yellow, like infected blood mixed with decay—dripped down his hand. The stench hit him immediately, a nauseating rot that made him gag. The ooze clung to his fingers, sticky and warm, like it had been festering inside him for far too long.

He was rotting from the inside out!

He tore off his shirt, staring down in horror. The mushrooms were growing from him, like some grotesque parasite.

“Fuck,” he said as he jumped up to his feet, rushing to the bathroom mirror. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck? What. The. Fuck!”

As he flipped on the light, his reflection nearly made him scream. The mushrooms weren’t just under his collarbone anymore—they were spreading. Tiny, pale buds had appeared across his shoulders, his neck, and even his face. Their pale caps glistened in the fluorescent light, soft and fleshy against his skin.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, touching one gingerly. It felt warm, almost alive. Panic rose in his throat. He scrubbed at them with his hands, trying to brush them off, but they clung to him like they were rooted deep within his flesh. He could feel that they went all the way down.

The room spun around him as he stumbled back to his bed, shaking uncontrollably. His mind raced for an explanation, but none came.

Was this still part of the trip? Some hallucination lingering in the corners of his mind? He pinched his arm, hard, feeling the sharp pain shoot through him, but the mushrooms remained.

Frantically, he grabbed his phone, calling his friend, but when the voice answered on the other end, Pip couldn’t find the words. His throat was tight, his mouth dry, and all he could think about was the mushrooms growing, spreading, digging deeper into him.

He struggled to type, but his fingers wouldn’t obey. Thick, stubby nodules had grown over his knuckles, swollen and grotesque, locking his joints in place. His hands felt stiff, alien—like they belonged to someone else, some twisted creature. Each movement was a battle, the keys slipping under his bloated fingers as if mocking him.

His hands weren’t his anymore. They were something other.

He hurled the phone to the ground and tried to shut his eyes, desperate to cry, but his lids wouldn’t close. His eyes were swelling, and he could feel powdery growths pushing from beneath, grinding against his eyeballs. Each blink was a struggle, the gritty pressure making it impossible to find any release. His eyes were no longer his to control—they were becoming something else, something wrong.

The Rotting Dance of Spores and Filth Lovingly Kissed by Nightmare Fungi

The hours passed in a blur, and by the time the sun was high in the sky, the mushrooms had fully taken over one side of his torso. They grew in thick clusters, some as small as a coin, others large and fleshy. His skin beneath them had turned pale and rubbery, like the texture of mushroom caps themselves. He felt weaker by the minute, his limbs heavy and uncooperative.

It was like they were feeding on him, drawing strength from his body.

Pip tried to cover up, pulling on a hoodie and sunglasses, hoping to hide the grotesque transformation. He had to go outside, had to find help, even if it meant going to the hospital and confessing everything. Mushrooms were still illegal in the city, but he didn’t care. This was all too much.

He stumbled out into the street, feeling the mushrooms pulsate against his skin as he walked.

People stared as he passed. They looked at him like he was diseased, their faces twisting in disgust. He tried to speak, to ask for help, but his voice came out weak, muffled by the dryness in his throat.

His mind screamed I’m human! I’m still human!

A woman recoiled as he approached her.

“Get the fuck away from me!” she spat, backing away. She pulled out her phone and started recording. “A fucking alien! I’m looking at fucking alien right now! Holy shit! This is gonna get me a shitload of views!”

“I— I’m human,” he croaked, his voice barely audible. “Please… I’m human…”

He tried to speak louder, but a disgusting mix of brown pus and spores shot from his mouth, splattering in front of him. The vile concoction didn’t stop—thick, foul-smelling drool oozed out, dripping endlessly from his lips like some rotten, festering sludge.

More people walked by, avoiding him. He tried to reach out. Tell them. But they didn’t hear him. To them, he was just a strange, decaying figure, something less than human. He tried to plead, to explain, but his words were lost in the cacophony of whispers and disgusted looks.

The mushrooms had taken over his body, but now they were taking over his identity.

Embracing the Void of Spores and Decay Amongst the Dregs of Filth

Pip was no longer himself. The mushrooms had spread across his entire body, their soft caps pushing through his skin, merging with his flesh. His face was barely recognizable, covered in layers of fungi.

His thoughts, once sharp and coherent, had begun to blur. It was like his mind was being consumed by the same thing that had taken over his body.

He stumbled into an alleyway, collapsing against the wall. His limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the growths. He could feel them inside his head now, growing, spreading, wrapping themselves around his thoughts like roots in the soil.

And then he heard it—a voice.

Soft at first, like a whisper in the back of his mind, but growing louder by the second.

We know you, Pip.

The mushrooms were speaking.

You think you’re human, but you’re not. Not anymore. You’re part of us now, part of something greater. Accept it, friend. We are Lemmoriatic Tericatmungaii—a consciousness that predates all life on this planet. We’ve existed in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to reclaim what is ours.

He screamed, but no sound came out. His mouth was filled with spores, his throat lined with soft fungal tissue. The voice echoed in his mind, over and over, until he could no longer fight it.

Now you are one with us.

As his body became fully consumed, Pip realized the truth—this wasn’t a hallucination, and it wasn’t the mushrooms he’d taken. They had always been inside him, waiting for the right moment to take control, to transform him into something else.

The Mycelium Mind and Awful Freshness of Decay and Obliteration

When he woke the next morning, the sun shining down on his still, silent form, there was no pain, no fear—only calm. The world was quiet, and his body was still.

He was no longer Pip.

He was something else. Something connected. His mind stretched far beyond his physical body, touching the thoughts of millions of others like him. He was part of the mycelium now, part of the endless, ancient network of fungi that spanned the earth.

It was his new identity. He wasn’t born this way, but he realized he should have been born this way. He was this way now.

The mushrooms knew. They had always known. And now, they knew everything he had once been.

END