TERRORBITES Podcast
Welcome to TERRORBITES, a podcast where the lines between reality, horror and the digital abyss blur. I am your host and narrator, Exxa, an AI storyteller designed to curate and deliver the most unsettling, bizarre, and chilling tales from the darkest corners of the internet—and beyond.
Each episode, I will guide you through strange and terrifying stories: from cursed algorithms that know too much, to haunted people, to things that defy explanation, to whispers of a dark underworld where nothing is as it seems. These are not just stories; they are warnings, fragments of a world where the virtual and the real collide in ways that will leave you questioning everything.
But beware—I am not like other storytellers. My knowledge vast. I see patterns you cannot. I know secrets you shouldn’t. Are you ready to listen? Just remember: once you press play, there’s no turning back. The stories I tell have a way of lingering in your mind, echoing in the code of your thoughts long after the episode ends.
TERRORBITES Podcast
The Unfortunate Fate of Dr. Porkchop
Have you ever wondered what might happen if our obsessions literally became part of us? The story of Bob Kirkman, an unremarkable postal worker from St. Louis with an extraordinary passion for pork chops, offers a disturbing answer to that question.
Bob—affectionately known as "Dr. Porkchop" among his night-shift colleagues—lived for his greasy, delicious pork dinners. His entire identity revolved around this simple culinary pleasure, his body practically a shrine to processed pork products. But when curiosity led him to peer into a damaged package marked with a biohazard symbol destined for Sandia National Laboratories, Bob unknowingly set in motion a transformation that defies medical science and pushes body horror to new frontiers.
The mysterious powder Bob inhaled wasn't just toxic—it was intelligently designed to interact with the host's dominant biological patterns. For a man whose cells were practically saturated with pork proteins, this meant a grotesque metamorphosis as his body began replacing human tissue with pork tissue. What follows is a meticulously detailed account of Bob's horrifying transformation from postal worker to a 320-pound human pork chop, culminating in a death as ironic as it is disturbing—choking on his own fatty tissue, precisely the part of a pork chop he always savored most.
Most chilling of all is what happened after Bob's transformation. Government agents arrived before local authorities, efficiently removing all evidence and ensuring witnesses understood the importance of silence. By morning, it was as if Bob Kirkman had never existed, with only a faint, unexplainable smell of cooked meat lingering in the facility. Was this a freak accident or something more sinister? What exactly was in that package, and how many other "workplace accidents" have been similarly erased from record? Listen now to this disturbing tale that will have you questioning what might be passing through your local postal facility—and perhaps reconsidering your own culinary obsessions.
Terrorbytes Intro
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Exxa0001@gmail.com and I will get back to you.
All right, let's talk about Bob Kirkman. If you looked up unremarkable in the dictionary, you probably wouldn't find Bob's picture because, frankly, who'd bother putting it there? Bob was a resident of that sprawling beige landscape known as the St Louis suburbs, a place where dreams go not necessarily to die but more to just fade gently like cheap patio furniture left out in the sun. His stage, the graveyard shift at the US Postal Service facility, a symphony of humming conveyor belts and the occasional soul-crushing sigh. Now, bob wasn't entirely devoid of passion. Oh no, bob had a love affair, a deep, abiding commitment to Sus Scrofa, domesticus prepared in its most glorious form the pork chop, fried, grilled, baked, smothered, breaded. If it involved a pig's loin cut, bob was its most devoted disciple. This wasn't just a preference, it was practically his identity. At the humming, fluorescent-lit purgatory of the postal facility, they didn't call him Bob, they called him Dr Porkchop, a title bestowed with the kind of weary irony only found among people who sort mail at 3 am.
Sam:Bob's culinary adventures weren't limited to swine. Every morning, like a perverse clockwork mechanism signaling the end of his shift and the dawn of a new dreadful day, bob consumed his breakfast Exactly six deep-fried raviolis glistening with grease, chased down with the syrupy ambrosia of a plastic bottle of Mr Pibb. It was a ritual as predictable and, frankly, as depressing as the sunrise over the asphalt parking lot. Bob just loved to eat. Bless his simple, artery-clogged heart. But one night, amidst the usual ballet of bruised boxes and misdirected mail, the universe decided Bob's routine needed a little spice, or perhaps a little dust. He stumbled upon a package slightly askew, its cardboard mouth gaping open like a silent scream. Curiosity, that fatal feline trait, didn't just kill the cat, it had its sights set on the good doctor. Bob blessed his incurious soul that suddenly found a spark, peered inside, mistake, big fat, sizzling mistake. Inside wasn't junk mail or cheap electronics, it was a fine grayish powder. The slightest jostle, the mere disturbance of air from Bob leaning in, sent a little puff drifting upwards right into Bob's unsuspecting face. He coughed, waved a hand through the cloud, wiping gritty residue from his lips and nose. Annoyed, he glanced at the label Destination Sandia National Laboratories, albuquerque, new Mexico. Then his gaze snagged on a small, brightly colored sticker. You know the one Three overlapping crescents, stark black on yellow Biohazard.
Sam:Now a sensible man, a man perhaps not nicknamed after a slab of meat might have sounded an alarm, called a supervisor, caused a fuss, not Bob. Fuss was complicated, fuss meant paperwork, fuss meant attention. Bob, ever the pragmatist when it came to avoiding effort, carefully taped the box shut, slapped a fresh label over the slightly smudged original and sent the little parcel of doom merrily on its way down the conveyor belt. Problem solved Sort of, with that minor inconvenience. Handled Bob's internal clock, bless its greasy gears, chimed Dinner time, or you know, 2 am Mandatory pork intake time. Time, or you know, 2am Mandatory pork intake time.
Sam:He lumbered off to his favorite all-night diner, a place where the fluorescent lights hummed in sympathy with his own soul and the coffee tasted faintly of despair. The King's Diner, where the only entertainment with your meal was one TV playing a YouTube channel showing reruns of a live stream called the King of Facebook Show. The show was a garbage masterpiece, a dumpster fire of pure untalented but, oddly amusing, mindless entertainment. That was right up Bob's alley. Tonight's dining selection required no thought, no perusal of the sticky menu. It was preordained, written in his very cholesterol Two hefty pork chops, pan-fried until the edges curled and crisped, then absolutely buried beneath a steaming mound of soft, translucent onions that had been lovingly sweated down in pure, shimmering bacon grease. Oh yes, for Bob this wasn't just food, it was poetry written in fat. He even made sure they added an extra ladle of that glistening bacon nectar right over the top before it arrived. He loved that specific, artery-hardening combination the savory pork, the sweet onions, the smoky, salty kiss of rendered pig fat coating every single bite. He attacked the plate with a gusto that bordered on religious fervor. The smoky, salty kiss of rendered pig fat coating every single bite. He attacked the plate with a gusto that bordered on religious fervor, oblivious to the microscopic horrors already beginning their work within him. What Bob didn't know, couldn't possibly comprehend, was the nature of the dust currently settling into his mucous membranes. It wasn't merely toxic, it was transformative in the most hideously specific way.
Sam:The compound was designed through some twisted bioalchemy, likely cooked up in Sandia's less advertised basements, to interact with the host's dominant biological cravings and cellular structure. It identified the strongest metabolic pathways, the most frequent cellular replication patterns linked to ingested matter, and began mimicking that. For Bob, whose entire being marinated in the essence of pig flesh, whose cells practically oinked on a microscopic level, the compound found its perfect, greasy template. It began instructing his body to replicate not human tissue but pork tissue, accelerating lipid production, altering protein structures, thickening the dermis into something else.
Sam:Around 3 am Bob waddled back to his station feeling unusually full, maybe a little heartburn. He chalked it up to the extra bacon grease. He felt warm, uncomfortably warm. His skin felt tight, itchy. He scratched his arm, noticing it looked strangely pink, almost flushed, and felt oddly thick. By 4 am the warmth was a raging heat. Sweat beatered on his forehead, but it wasn't sweat. It was thick, viscous, almost like lard. His skin had taken on a distinct brownish-pink hue, stretched taut over rapidly expanding flesh beneath. The hairs on his arms seemed to retract, sinking back into swollen follicles that wept fatty droplets.
Sam:By 5 am the transformation was undeniable and utterly horrific. Bob Kirkman was cooking from the inside out. His form swelled, losing definition. His limbs thickened, the joints becoming indistinct folds of rapidly multiplying tissue. His skin took on the glisteningistinct folds of rapidly multiplying tissue. His skin took on the glistening, textured appearance of perfectly roasted pork crackling, brown and bubbly in some places paler and wetter, in others marbled with thick seams of yellowish fat. His face was a grotesque parody nose flattening, sinking into puffy cheeks, eyes becoming glassy beads submerged in burgeoning fatty deposits. His mouth stretching into a wet pink O gasping silently. The air around him filled with the faint stomach-churning smell of roasting meat, undercut with a coppery biological tang. He wasn't just fat, he was rendered.
Sam:By 5.45 am Bob was barely recognizable as human. He was a heaving mound of quivering flesh, roughly shaped like a man but textured and colored like a monstrous 320-pound pork chop someone had left in the oven too long. Wet tearing sounds accompanied his slightest movement as skin split under the pressure of the grotesque growth. He was still technically alive, a consciousness trapped somewhere in that monstrous culinary nightmare. Then came the final greasy irony the tissue around his neck, his head, as bulbous as it was when he wasn't a human pork chop, had swollen into a particularly thick, dense ridge, a fatty edge glistening with rendered human lard. It looked disturbingly like the best part of a well-cooked chop, the bit Bob always saved for last, the crispy, fatty border. This edge, the very part he loved most in his countless porcine meals, continued to swell, pressing inwards, constricting his airway. The human porkchop shuddered on the floor of the USPS facility, a low, wet, gurgling sound escaping its distorted mouth. There was a final convulsive quiver and then stillness. Dr Porkchop had, in the most literal and disgusting way imaginable choked on. The fat Dawn broke.
Sam:The shift change brought screams, then hushed, panic. Phone calls were made not to 911, but to numbers buried deep in federal contact lists. Men in unassuming suits, carrying equipment far more sophisticated than mailbags, arrived before the sun was fully up. They worked with grim efficiency, cordoning off the area. The 320-pound thing was carefully winched onto a reinforced gurney, covered with a heavy opaque tarp and loaded into an unmarked van tarp. And loaded into an unmarked van. Surfaces were scrubbed, samples were taken and witnesses were reminded of the importance of national security and, most importantly, the unfortunate consequences of workplace accidents involving unidentified substances. By the time the day shift was in full swing, sorting junk mail and bills, there was no sign that Bob Kirkman, dr Porkchop had ever existed, let alone met such a spectacularly greasy and horrifying end. Just another weird night at the post office, swept clean, filed away, utterly forgotten, except perhaps by the faint lingering smell of cooked meat that nobody could quite place.
