Slightly more NSFW Version here:

Drug Mules: Men to Dairy Cow [TG/Animal]

El Amo stood atop the gleaming steps of Clínica Sanadora, the cream of his tailored linen suit nearly indistinguishable from the gleaming white marble of the building.

"It is my great honor," he announced, "to open this hospital for the future of all Colombians!"

The crowd erupted in cheers, fluttering yellow-blue-red flags in his honor. Children waved streamers. Women swooned as he descended into the throng, kissing the cheeks of his adoring crowd while cartel snipers watched from the plaza's rooftops. To more applause, El Amo withdrew inside the clinic.

True to his word, Clínica Sanadora was the finest medical facility in Colombia, boasting every medical marvel that the US would sell him. It had made an excellent pretense for securing the import licenses on the surgical grafting equipment without tipping off his enemies in the TFPD anti-narcotics division.

But there was no secrecy among the townsfolk. Outside the grafting wing waiting a winding queue of eager, impoverished farmhands who snapped into admiring salutes as he passed inside. Inside, the antiseptic smell shifted to something more resembling an abattoir. One of the surgeons under his employ saw him and tried to politely steer him away, as if the drug lord wasn't already inured to the sight of skinned flesh. "Show me the process," El Amo insisted.

The surgeon nodded and led him past the long rows of recruits in their various stages of alteration.

"The mule skin was too thin," the surgeon explained. "The DNA checks at the border were starting to detect our men. But bovine hide is much thicker - a foot or more of grafted flesh in some places. The customs officers will need far longer needles to find any trace of human tissue, and they would not waste their time performing such invasive checks for some meer cow. You could run any test and find nothing," the surgeon claimed proudly. "We use hormones to swell their mammary tissue until it is large enough to be transplanted lower and formed into udders."

At the end of the wing were those at the final stage of surgery. What resembled a milking apparatus stood beside the sterile surgical implements. He watched as the suction cups were affixed to the pink teats of the ex-men, and the udders began to fill with glorious liquified cocaine before his eyes.

"No more implants, senior!" exclaimed the surgeon. "No more messy insertion and removal. It is a great advancement. Now, when they arrive in America, the product can simply be milked out of them. It is quicker and requires no specialized equipment. Then they are returned to us with empty udders for refilling!"

The lowing of cattle sounded sweet, like the ringing of a cash register in his ears. As the drug lord admired the sight, one of the mules stepped forward, bowing his head in supplication. The man was almost ecstatic to start working, grateful for the medical treatment promised to his daughter in exchange for his service.

El Amo smiled benevolently and shook the shapeless lump of cartilage that was the man's hoof-hand. He looked down. There was warm milk on his loafers. The mule gasped, fumbling apologetically with his hanging, leaking udders. El Amo gestured to two of his guards, who snatched the man up and dragged him away.