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1. Inside the club it was like being at the bottom of the ocean, a dim, uncertain place filled with random movement and sound. Grant Blackley moved through it like some great marine predator, shoals of lesser creatures parting before him as if unconsciously realising all of this was his territory. Because it damn well was, Grant thought. He took up one of his regular positions at the top of a flight of stairs, overlooking the dance floor. At six foot five he hardly needed the extra elevation to see what was going on, but it amused him to stand there like some kind of warden, and who the hell was going to tell him no? His name might not be on the deeds, but everyone knew he was the ruler of this place, the power behind the throne. As long as he kept the customers in line and the money rolling in, Solomani would turn a blind eye to whatever else went on. No point in having power if you didn't have fun with it, hey? He enjoyed the looks on their faces when he refused them entry for not meeting the dress-code - when his own habitual choice of t-shirt, jeans and boots would never have got him into anywhere remotely classy. Also the expressions of anyone he'd caught using on the premises, when he'd "confiscated" their stuff and thrown them out. What were they going to do, go to the cops? Even if they did, Solomani had friends. Yeah, Solomani had friends, but that was all his boss had going for him, Grant thought. When it came down to it he could snap that runty bastard in two any time he wanted. Some would say that he, Grant, should officially be in charge of the place - he was the one who kept it running, after all. Well, maybe, Grant thought. Solomani could keep all the hassle and paperwork and headaches. Grant was happy where he was. The music shifted and slowed and fragments of conversation from the people around him became audible. Usual clubber shit, Grant thought, but then his ears pricked up at something he heard: "...worth millions, man, I tell you. And he just keeps it locked up in the lab..." Someone hurriedly shushed the speaker but not before Grant could zero in on him. A couple of college-boy types, looking kind of out of place here, standing together beneath and to one side of where Grant was. One of them looked considerably more hammered than the other, and it was he who'd spoken. "...don't shush me, you asshole... you got to talk to him, there's a fortune just sitting there and no-one's allowed to touch it?" "Benny, shut up." The drunk's companion, a tall-ish, sandy-haired man, glanced around him. "This isn't the time or the place. It's supposed to be secret, remember?" "Secret, schmmm... shurm... shu-secret," Benny eventually managed to say. "Guy, if it was so important they'd have put it somewhere more secure, wouldn't they?" This all sounded kinda interesting, but Grant's earpiece blipped: somebody wanted him at the entrance. Reluctantly he left Benny and Guy to their squabble - though he took care to fix both their faces in his memory - and lumbered off to the door. Ratman and Karl, two of his guys, were on duty there, currently being bawled out by some yuppie asshole in a suit. With him were a couple of assholes from kind of the same mold, and some women. Hell, now, they were something else, though... the one with the lead asshole had reddish-brown hair, fabulous green eyes, and a body that had him starting a boner just on seeing it. He grinned at her but she just scowled and looked away. "I want to see whoever's in charge," the asshole said to Ratman. "Mr Blackley's in charge of admissions," Ratman said, smirking and indicating Grant. "This? This is the manager?" The asshole stared at Grant with disbelieving contempt all over his face. Grant knew right then he was going to hurt this guy before many more moments passed. "Yeah, I'm in charge here," Grant said, scritching at his beard and grinning at the guy. "Gotta problem with that?" "The problem is, your men here won't let us into the club," the yuppie asshole said. Jesus, Grant thought, why did they want to come into a dive like this anyway? He had no illusions as to the quality of the place. Maybe this bunch was looking to get their kicks by slumming it amongst the lesser mortals. He made a show of looking the man up and down. "Yeah, well. Maybe we don't want your type in our nice night-club." "Do you know who I am?" The asshole was getting really angry now, it was funny to watch. "You're an asshole who's not getting into our club?" Grant said. He heard Ratman and Karl laughing, which was right, that had been a damn funny line. He smiled at the asshole's woman. "If you ladies want to come in, though..." The woman was still staring at him like he was a piece of shit, though, and that was starting to piss him off. Didn't they know who he was? He was Grant Blackley, damn it, shitkicker-in-chief around here, and that meant something. Incredibly, the yuppy asshole was now jabbing at Grant's broad chest with his forefinger and yelping at him. Maybe he'd already had a few drinks to build his courage up. "We have a legal right to come into this establishment -" Grant slammed both his palms against the asshole's own front, sending him reeling back a few feet. "Stuff your legal right up your fuckin" ass." The asshole turned purple and, even as his friends made to restrain him, lunged at Grant, swinging. Grant felt the man's fist bump against his jaw, and was amused more than anything. As he threw another punch Grant let it smack into the wide expanse of his palm then closed his fist around the man's, squeezed. "Aahhhh..." the yuppy asshole said, sounding more like a pussy than ever. Grant jerked his arm, forcing the man to his knees in front of him. "You bastard ape!" "That's not nice," Grant said. He could feel the bones of the man's hand grating together in his grip, and that gratified him. He drove his boot into the man's stomach and released him. The guy doubled over, retching, sobbing for air, and clutching himself all at once. He stepped back as the asshole's friends gathered around him and helped him up. "Ladies, the offer still stands," he said. "I'm going to call the police about this!" the asshole's woman said, glaring at Grant. "He started it. Can't have troublemakers in our nice club, can we, boys?" "No way. He started the whole thing," Ratman said from somewhere behind him. The asshole was mumbling incoherently now. His woman went to his side and started speaking to him comfortingly. "It's okay, George. Forget about this thug. In five years time he'll still be a thug but you'll be a partner in the firm..." She shot Grant another of her toxic, contemptuous looks The party withdrew. Shame, Grant thought, he had only just begun to enjoy himself. Something about the whole thing had annoyed him, though, was still nibbling away at the back of his mind. He turned back to Ratman and Karl. "Why didn't you wanna let them in, anyway?" Ratman shrugged. "Just because. Thought we might have more fun if we didn't." "You got that fuckin" right," Grant said. He looked after the retreating group. "Jesus, how'd a prick like that end up with such a babe?" "God knows, man." "I mean, look at the guy, he was such a pussy, whinin" like a little girl... what's wrong with the fuckin" world?" "Money, dude," Karl said. "These guys are all born with it comin" out of their asses. Some chicks dig money more than bein" a proper man." "No reason why you can't be a proper man and have money too, though," Grant said. That was what was bothering him, the total failure of that woman to recognise... well, recognise what a dude he was. That irked him. Were there many people who'd think that way? Not that he'd see down the club or in his own group of associates, not normally. But the very fact that they existed out in the wider world was an insult to his pride. He'd never worried about money before, not seriously - it was easy enough to score a few bucks here and there, if you were Grant's size and fairly cautious about who you leant on - but maybe that oughta change. He would be twenty-nine later in the year. Maybe it was time to start thinking longer-term. "Going back in. Blip me if there's any trouble," Grant said. He prowled around the edges of the dance-floor for an hour or so until one of the bar staff hustled up to him. She knew how the place worked, both officially and in reality. "Think we got a guy carrying drugs," she said. Grant nodded. "Where?" "At the back, near the bathrooms. Green shirt." He told the woman she'd get her cut of whatever he made off this and drifted over in that direction. God must be smiling down on him, because the only green-shirted guy up there was good old Benny, looking more wrecked than ever now, clearly having taken something else on top of the booze. Benny who'd been so loose-tongued about the hidden fortune in the lab... Grant waited until Guy went to the bathrooms then went up to Benny. The man goggled at him. "Need to talk. My office," Grant said, smiling thinly. His office was, of course, the alleyway out back. Benny looked around in agitation upon realising the two of them were alone there. "I - er - what's all this?" Benny said, shuffling around to face Grant. Grant unloaded one deep into the man's stomach. Usually he preferred to go for the face, but on this occasion he didn't want to leave marks. Benny toppled over and puked spectacularly. Grant waited until he was done and gasping for breath and grabbed the front of his shirt. "You come into my place and do fuckin" pills? You bring narcotics into my club?" Grant hauled him up one-handed and drew back his other fist, making it clear that this one would indeed go into Benny's face. "Oh God, oh Jesus, no, I'm sorry! Please! Please don't hurt me!" Grant affected to look unsure. "Why shouldn't I just fuck you up? Or at least call the cops, you fuckin" junkie asshole?" "Oh, God, please!" Grant liked it when they started crying, gave him a warm feeling inside. "Well, okay, but it'll cost you..." Benny started fumbling for his wallet. "I've got forty dollars..." "Jesus!" Grant threw him across the alleyway. "It'll take more than that, you cocksucker." Benny struggled to his feet. "I'll get it, I'll get it -" "Shut up. Earlier I heard you and your boyfriend talking, somethin" about a fortune, worth millions, in some lab somewhere? Not locked up too tight, either..." Benny's eyes widened. "Oh, God. Look, I - I can't tell you any more about that -" Grant nodded. "Okay, then." He balled up his fists and again and made to start swinging. "No, no, please!" "So tell me - where is it and how'd I find it?" "Lab building four on the university science campus." Benny was sobbing. "The stuff's in the chemistry lab at the back of the building, in a big metal cabinet marked ODM-13. But you don't understand -" "Chemistry?" Grant grinned. Looked like he might have unearthed himself his own drug stash. "Okay, I'm gonna let you go, but don't tell anyone about this, okay? And if anything should happen at your lab, you keep quiet - or we're gonna have another conversation where I'm less fuckin" agreeable." Fear and uncertainty were dancing in Benny's eyes. "Ah - okay." "Now fuck off," Grant said. "I'll tell your friend you had to go home unexpectedly." He didn't want this clown back in the club, shooting his mouth off. Benny nodded and set off, a run that was half a stumble. Grant went back inside and found Guy, who was obviously looking around for his companion. He looked like less of a cock than Benny, not that that was saying much. "Benny had to go," Grant said. The guy looked at him almost as if doubting Grant's word. That pissed him off and he had to fight down the urge to get physical with him. "Why didn't he tell me that himself?" "Beats me," Grant said. "Argue about it between the two of you. None of my fuckin" business, is it?" "Thanks," the guy said, still obviously unsure what had happened. He finished his drink and made to leave. Grant watched him go. Another college boy with money, he thought. There was no fuckin" justice in the world whatsoever. 2. Grant arrived back at his building early the following afternoon, having spent a couple of hours scoping out the university science campus. He had drawn a few stares due to his size and way of dressing, but everyone had been too pussy to challenge him over what he'd been doing there. He hadn't actually been able to get into the chemistry lab in building four, but he knew where it was and also that the security set-up there would pose no problems. As he entered the building his landlord shuffled out of his own room. Old Lazarenko was wrapped in a bathroom and clutching the day's paper. "Ey, ah - Blackley!" "Mister Blackley," Grant said, rounding on the old man. He shrank away momentarily. "Mr Blackley, your rent's overdue again," Lazarenko said, crumpling up the paper between his fingers. "End of the week, pops," Grant said, hiding his irritation. Here he was on the brink of something fuckin" huge and the old coot was bleating on about the same old same old. "That's just not good enough, Mr Blackley!" The old man's voice shot up, which kind of ruined the effect. Grant stuck his face into old Lazarenko's, so his beard almost scraped the man's nose. "It's gonna have to be, isn't it? I've told you, end of the week. Are we gonna have a fuckin" problem with this?" The old man paled, shook his head. "No, no -just as long as it is the end of the week..." "Didn't I just say so two times?" Grant sighed. He set off up the stairs to his apartment. Flies, fuckin" flies buzzing around him all the time... His mood did not improve when he arrived at his apartment. Brandi was clearly getting ready to go to the mall, putting on her jacket and checking her makeup in the mirror. "Where the fuck you think you're going?" "Just out, see friends." She glanced nervously at him. "I told you yesterday..." "Ratman's coming round, talk business," Grant said. "Well, baby, surely you don't need me -" "We're gonna want somethin" to eat pretty soon. You want me to have to cook my own food in front of Ratman? That the kind of pussy you think I am?" Brandi met his glower for a few seconds then looked away. "No, Grant." Her voice was tiny. "I'll text and say I can't make it. Can I borrow your phone?" He remembered she'd been on at him to buy her one, but what did she need a phone for, after all? He fished it out and handed it to her, watched while she sent the message. "Good girl." He gave her a hug then looked again at her more carefully. "Christ, what are you wearing?" Brandi looked down at her t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. "Just clothes." "You look like a guy. How many times we got to have this conversation? You know the way I like you to dress - something that shows off your legs and tits. Get changed, I bought you enough nice stuff. Ratman's comin" in ten minutes." Brandi had wriggled into a mini-skirt and low-cut bodice and was just starting the food when the doorbell went. Feeling magnanimous, Grant got the door himself. It was Ratman, as expected. "Hey, dude." They bumped fists. "Come on in." "Hey, Brandi," Ratman said as they sat down. "Hey, Ray," Brandi said. Ray was Ratman's real name, but Grant never used it. Ratman was funnier, especially with him being so skinny with a big nose and all... "Okay, so here's the score," Grant said, once they both had a beer. "Got a tip - shitload of designer drugs in one of the labs on the university campus." "Why would there be designer drugs on the campus?" Grant shrugged. "Dunno, but my source is A1. I went over there this morning and checked the place out. Tonight we both leave the club an hour early, go over there, rip it off. All the alarms are ancient, should be no trouble to someone like you..." "Wait a damn minute, Grant," Ratman said, frowning. "I did five years the last time I got caught on a B&E. They catch me doin" something like this, I'm looking at ten years inside..." "Ratman, the stuff's worth millions. Ain't that worth a risk? I'm gonna be there with you, ain't I?" Ratman looked away. "I don't want to do any more prison time, Grant. You don't know what it's like, all you ever did was a little juvey." Grant let his face harden. "You don't think you owe me a favour or two? You know what Solomani would say, he knew I was using ex-cons as door staff?" He thought Solomani probably wouldn't give a shit, but he wasn't about to tell Ratman that. "So much for fuckin" friendship. And you think I don't know you been keeping your hand in? That jewellers over by the theatre getting ripped off? The pawnshop? Always on your night off from the club, too..." "Jesus, Grant, keep your voice down," Ratman said. "You blackmailing me into doing this, Grant? That it?" "I'm just lookin" out for you, man. You'll thank me when we're both rich off the back of this thing. So - you in?" "Do I have any choice?" Grant didn't bother to answer that one, started drawing a diagram of the building. "So, anyway..." 3. "Okay, we're in. You're up," Ratman murmured, stepping back from the lab door even as Grant pushed it open and went inside. The room seemed composed of different planes of shadow, starlight filtering dimly in through the blinds. He went to the centre of the room and moved the beam of his flashlight about carefully. Ratman followed him in but stayed at the door, keeping watch. They had half an hour before the watchman did his next round. So far Ratman had had no difficulty in dealing with the building's alarm systems, and Grant was feeling confident. That feeling only intensified when his flashlight lit up a tall metallic cabinet with the magic symbols ODM-13 stamped on its front. "Found it," Grant whispered, going over and looking at the cabinet. Even to his amateur's eye it didn't look to be wired up to any alarms. But it did seem to be clamped shut, with a wheel at the top and bottom of the door needing to be unscrewed. He got to it. No alarms went off, no lights came on: this had to be destiny at work, he thought. He grinned and hauled the cabinet open. "Fuck." The grin turned to a frown. "What is it?" Ratman was still at the door. "I dunno." Inside the cabinet there were not the boxes of pills or bags of powder he'd been half expecting. Clipped inside it were two large cylinders like fire extinguishers, gaudily marked in green and orange. There was some kind of valve or screw at the top of each. "The stuff's in canisters, or something." "So grab one and let's go!" Ratman's anxiety was getting on Grant's nerves. He grabbed one of the cylinders and pulled it from its clips, but found he had seriously underestimated its weight. Even with his immense strength he needed both hands to lift it, let alone carry it at any speed. He grunted and let the end clunk to the lab floor. "Keep the fuckin" noise down, you asshole!" Ratman hissed. "Shut the fuck up. It's too heavy. I'm gonna see if I can open it up and put the stuff in something lighter..." Grant set to twisting at the screw which capped the cylinder. His hands were sweaty and the metal smooth, and he could find no purchase to begin with. Then - he bared his teeth triumphantly - the screw slowly began to turn, opening the canister, so - With a shrill hiss something sprayed out of the top of the canister directly into Grant's face. He grunted in surprise and then yelled as his eyes began to sting. Clumsily he screwed the top down again until the spray ceased, but his skin was beginning to burn now and he was feeling dizzy and his vision was blurred. "What the fuck happened?" Ratman sounded more agitated than ever. "Fucker lied to me," Grant said thickly, blinking desperately. "Fuckin" acid or something." He took a few steps, somewhat unsteadily. "You mean there's no fuckin" stuff? Oh, fantastic!" Ratman shook his head. "I'm gettin" out of here." "Wait! You gotta help me, I - Ratman, give me a fuckin" hand!" Grant forced himself to sound threatening, in control. Ratman paused at the door, clearly uncertain. "Cops grab me I won't keep quiet, I promise," Grant said. "Jesus. Come on," Ratman said, coming to help Grant. By the time they were off the campus and felt safe, Grant found his vision had cleared and his dizziness had passed. Thank God for that, he thought. He still felt vaguely nauseous in the pit of his stomach though. "Just who was your A1 source, anyway?" The scorn in Ratman's voice was like a slap in the face. Normally Grant wouldn't have stood for it. "Some fucker from the club," Grant said. "I'm gonna bust that asshole up for this." Just as soon as he felt 100% again. "Jesus, I just realised. We left that stuff all over the floor, they're gonna know we were there... you kept your gloves on?" "I'm not an idiot," Grant said. Ratman nodded. "Maybe it'll be okay then." He paused. "You feeling all right, man?" "Yeah," Grant said. "Okay, then. See you at the club," Ratman said. "See you," Grant said, and they parted. So much for God, so much for destiny, he thought. He felt angry, which was familiar enough, but he also felt humiliated and a fool, both of which were new and unpleasant. One thing he was sure of: he was going to be tracking Benny down and showing him exactly what happened to people who fucked with Grant Blackley. 4. "So, dude, any joy finding your friend who led you astray?" Ratman asked. It was a couple of nights later. The break-in at the lab had made the papers but the police - so far - had made no progress and Grant was beginning to relax and forget about the whole thing. He found he'd lost his appetite and wasn't sleeping too well, but was putting that down to the stress of what had happened. "No. Fucker's done a runner," Grant said. The two of them were on the door at the club, surveying the queue. A fairly routine night so far, no heavy action. Maybe that was just as well, the way he was feeling. In truth he hadn't even attempted to find Benny yet. Part of him - maybe most of him - just wanted to let the whole thing slide and be forgotten. Not that Ratman seemed likely to let that happen, he'd been kind of in Grant's face about it ever since. If he kept it up, Grant would mess him up. He had to show everyone who the big man was, after all. Karl emerged from the depths of the club and grinned at them. "Hey, Grant, rumour is you're getting a new car. One with a sun roof." "What the fuck you on about?" "Or maybe fitting solar panels to your apartment?" Grant stared at him. "Somethin" fuckin" wrong with you, man." Karl sniggered. "You mean you haven't noticed, dude?" He put a hand to the back of his own head, rubbed it. Grant copied the movement, found to his utter horror a bald spot on the back of his head. Christ! This was what stress could do to a guy! He was only twenty-eight, how could he be going fuckin" bald? "Fuck!" Ratman joined in with Karl's sniggering. "Hey, you know what they say, Grant - hair today, gone tomorrow..." "Fuck you." "You know there's solutions to this kind of problem? Keep calm, no need to wig out," Karl said. He rounded on Karl, who flinched, but a wave of weakness rolled over him and he found he could do nothing more. "Shut up," he eventually said, lamely. "Yeah, sure," Karl said, obviously astonished not to be dodging punches and clearly realising Grant was not himself. But the smirk on his face did not entirely disappear. Grant went to the men's room and checked the mirror. The spot was completely hairless and a little bigger than a quarter. He couldn't believe it had grown so big without him noticing, but the alternative was that it had suddenly appeared almost overnight. Was he sick, or something? * He kept the lowest profile he could manage around the club, given his position there. Every time he saw Karl and Ratman they seemed to be laughing together about something, and he could guess what it was. Why wasn't he just going over there and busting them up? He never normally backed away from a fight. But he felt so tired, it was like his appetite for life was fading or something... It was a relief to get away and go home to Brandi. * Grant woke not long before noon the next day, as usual. Brandi was still asleep next to him. She was looking sweet, and normally he would have nailed her, whether she was up for it or not, but he found he just couldn't summon the energy. He rolled over and lay there, eventually heard her wake up. "Morning," Brandi said. "Hey," Grant said. "Get me some juice or something, will you?" "'M okay." He felt her moving around in the bed, then heard her try to stifle a giggle. "What's funny? Get my juice, wilya?" "Sorry. Just - your hair..." "Yeah, yeah. I got a bald spot. Hardy fuckin" har." He closed his eyes. "Spot? Spots, more like..." Grant clambered out of bed and went to the bathroom. Jesus, the bitch was absolutely right! Just to the left of the spot he'd found the night before (which now looked a little bigger), another one had appeared, about the size of a cent. It had appeared in the night. Grant went back and stared at his pillow. It was covered in black hairs. Brandi looked from him to it and back again, clearly not understanding, clearly alarmed. Jesus, they felt the same way. Grant found himself scritching at his beard again, the same way he always did when he was thinking. Except this time a steady stream of hair was tumbling away from where his fingers were at work - he was giving himself another bald patch there, on his jawline. "What's it mean, honey?" Brandi asked. "Dunno," Grant said, suddenly deeply concerned. 5. Maybe it was alopecia, or something. He'd heard about that kind of thing. Whatever it was it showed no signs of quitting. His head hair was falling out, his beard was falling out, even his eyebrows and body hair were beginning to go. Well, he thought, desperately looking for an upside to this, bald can be badass. Except he didn't feel like much of a badass any more. Quite apart from the nervousness his hair loss was causing him, Grant found his lack of energy was persisting and getting worse. It was becoming a bit of an effort to get up and walk around, let alone do his shift at the club that night. Nevertheless, he went to work as usual. It was just his luck that this was one of the nights that Solomani chose to put in an appearance. The little orange bastard seemed to figure out straightaway that Grant had some kind of issue going on, but said nothing. Karl, Ratman and the other security guys also kept their mouths shut, but he could feel their respect and his authority ebbing away along with his strength... ...and, impossible to figure out though it was, his height. Things had seemed indefinably weird all day and night but when he returned home he figured out what it was. Usually he had to duck his head to avoid banging it on the way up the stairs, the building was built for midgets or something. But not tonight. He had a few inches clear headroom at least. In his apartment he measured himself. He'd been six five since he was eighteen. Tonight, though, he was six foot nothing. And he could see it in the way his clothes were starting to look baggy on him, now he was looking for it. He weighed himself - he'd lost fifteen pounds without even realising it. Christ, this was impossible! How could it be happening at all? Despite his panic and fear he found he was just too tired to sit up and worry about it. He pulled off his clothes, taking a bit more of his hair with them, and crawled into bed with Brandi. * Another restless night spent on the edge-of-sleep, feeling no real benefit at its end. When Grant drifted back to full wakefulness he found Brandi had already got up. As usual, he looked at his pillow: it was thinly covered with hair, but only because he didn't have a great deal left. The patches of hair left on his scalp and jaw looked like continents on a world map. And... something new. A splash of red on the pillow - had he had a nosebleed or something? He felt his lip, cheek. Nothing. Then he noticed a small white object on the sheet next to the pillow, picked it up. It was a tooth. Desperately he probed with his tongue, found almost at once a gap on the upper right hand side. It hadn't even felt loose the night before! Delicately he nudged at the others, felt queasy when they wobbled, ever so slightly, at the touch of his finger. Hair, build, teeth, this couldn't just be stress. This had to be some kind of disease, or poison... that chemical shit he'd been sprayed with... Jesus! That had to be it! That bastard Benny had set him up for this, and now... abruptly he felt deeply and urgently nauseous and hustled his way to the bathroom, quickly. He puked at length into the bowl, didn't feel much better afterwards. He was dimly aware of a faint jab of pain in his mouth while bent over and spewing, and, sure enough, discovered the pressure of vomit had been enough to dislodge his lower left canine. Now he had two new gaps in his teeth. Grant showered, noticing but not really caring that he was sluicing away the last of his body-hair. In the mirror he looked pasty, skin loose and almost chalk-white. Under his skin, his muscles were looking like sludge ladled into plastic bags. And... something was happening to his tattoos. They were breaking up, fading away. How could that be? The ink was supposed to be indelible. His guts gurgled and he had to go to the john again, badly. The stink of his own doings was almost enough to set him puking again. He pulled on his robe and stumbled into the main room. "Shit, Grant, you look sick," Brandi said. She was watching the TV. "Shut up," Grant mumbled. He peered at her - she was wearing the t-shirt and jeans again. "What did I fuckin" tell you about dressing that way?" "I wanna dress the way I wanna dress," Brandi said. "You can't make me always wear the stuff you like..." "The fuck I can't," Grant said, attempting to stand up, but abandoning it. He glowered at her but she met his gaze. Dumb fury mounted inside him. You'll pay for this when I'm better, bitch, he thought. "Get me a doctor, Brandi, I'm really ill," he eventually said. "It's probably just flu or something, honey." Brandi put her hand on his forehead. "Jeez, you feel warm!" "I need a doctor!" "You really want someone doing blood tests after all the shit you put in your system?" She seemed quite happy to ignore everything he said. "This is serious! I - I'm getting smaller," Grant said. She laughed in his face. "That's impossible, sweetie." "I checked last night. I was six foot, not six foot five." "That's just not -" "Get the fucking tape." Making it clear she was just humouring him, Brandi checked his height. Her eyebrows shot up. "See?" Grant asked. "I'm six foot." "No you're not." "Yes I fucking am!" "No, you're not six foot. You're five eleven." Another two inches gone... how could this be happening? "You believe me now?" "Something really weird's happening to you," Brandi said. "It's like you're shrivelling away or something." "Thanks. Get me to a doctor." She stood up, briskly. "Let's give it couple of days - maybe you'll feel better." "Days? You stupid bitch, don't you -" She slapped his face. She, the bitch, slapped him, Grant Blackley, in the face. "Don't speak to me like that," Brandi said, matter-of-factly. Automatically he pulled back his arm to return the compliment but another wave of dizzy nausea struck him and he let it fall. "You're enjoying this," he whispered. "Always so big and strong. Always such a fucking alpha dog," Brandi said. "Cook what I want, Brandi. Wear what I want, Brandi. Screw when and how I want, Brandi, and always your fist there if I ever said no... how does it feel now, Grant? Still feeling big and strong -" Grant fought to stop himself recoiling from the force of her quiet anger. "Brandi, honey... you're my girl -" "I'm your fucking pet, or your toy. Or I was." "When I get better -" "Maybe you'll be as a big a bully as before. We'll see," Brandi said. Suddenly she was smiling. "I'm going to the mall!" And there was no way he could stop her. * She still hadn't returned by the time he had to go to the club. Doing nothing all day had left Grant feeling marginally better and he got dressed, uncomfortably aware of how loose his clothes were on him now and how weak he felt. There had been a number more volcanic emanations from his bowels in the course of his day - it seemed like he was losing weight faster than anything else. He made it down to the club okay and took his usual position at the door. Karl and Ratman weren't even bothering to make cracks at his expense any more, but he could see knowing looks passing between them. It seemed like another quiet night, thank God. He was doubly thankful, because Solomani turned up, looking neat and slick in yet another new suit. Must be his time for going through the club accounts in detail again - along with all the other funds that got pumped through the place's finances. "Grant, a word, please?" Solomani asked. "Step up to my office." Grant could hardly refuse, followed him. He had a sick premonition of what this might be about. "You've kept this place nice and quiet, on the whole, Grant, and I appreciate that," Solomani said when they were alone. "Thanks, boss." "But... surely you realise it's obvious that you clearly have some kind of problem?" "Boss, I -" "No-one here is blind. You look sick. Quite apart from anything else, you've lost most of your hair. I have to ask: what the hell is up with you?" "I - I don't know, sir. I know I'm having a few problems right now, but I can still do my job, I promise." Solomani looked doubtfully at him. "That's a little hard to believe, Grant." "Trust me, sir." The little man took a deep breath. "Very well. You can carry on as normal - for the time being." "Thanks, boss." * The guy was some kind of jock who'd had too much to drink but was refusing to admit it, and now he was standing in the middle of the dance floor defying them to drag him off it. Normally Grant wouldn't have thought twice - on one occasion he'd taken on the entire offensive line of a college team single-handed, grinning all the while - but right now he paused while the guy roared abuse at him. Ratman was with him, and beyond Ratman was a circle of fascinated clubbers, eager to watch the cabaret. Ratman grinned. "Problem, boss?" "No problem," Grant said, looking at the jock. "Want me to step up for this one?" That impudent, sneering look was back on Ratman's face, saying: you've lost it, you're through, who the fuck are you, anyway? That was enough to send Grant onto the floor to tackle the jock. "C'mon, buddy, party's over," Grant said, hoping this wouldn't turn into an actual fight. The jock spat and swung at him, but he dodged it. With the guy off- balance he charged him, hoping to get him round the waist and knock him off his feet. But his instincts betrayed him and he realised he just didn't have enough mass any more. The jock broke his grip easily and hammered a fist into Grant's stomach. Grant doubled over and knew he was going to puke. Even at the moment the jock's other fist smashed into the side of his face and sent him to the floor, teeth spattering across it as well. He heaved, feeling his bowels go simultaneously, found he literally couldn't move beyond those functions. He was dimly aware of Ratman and the others tackling the jock as he lay there. Eventually he became aware of a presence by his side. Solomani was crouching there, shaking his head. "Grant, Grant. I don't know what your problem is, but you're no use to me at the moment. Don't bother coming back here until you get yourself straightened out." He knew that tone of voice. It was the one that made him realise that being a serious shitkicker was one thing, but being the kind of person who gave orders to serious shitkickers was something wholly different. It was not to be challenged or even really questioned. He nodded and started to clamber to his feet. 6. Finally the sandy-haired man came out of the building. Grant had been waiting under a tree all day, trying to be inconspicuous. So far as he could see it was his one hope of finding out what was happening. He'd barely slept since being fired from the club the night before, had got up first thing to go to the public library and check their medical books. His clothes fit even worse than before, making him think he'd lost at least another couple of inches in height, and his joints were starting to stiffen up and ache. The pain was almost enough to make him cry like a pussy. Almost. There was nothing in any of the medical books about a disease that made the sufferer lose their hair and teeth and physically shrink. He had to find out what had been in that canister, that had been when all this had started. And his only contact was Benny. He'd gone to the science campus and been waiting outside the building ever since. No Benny, but his friend was here. Grant moved quickly to intercept the man despite the pain in his joints. "Shcuse me..." He was finding it difficult to speak clearly with nearly all the teeth gone on one side. Those remaining were wobbling freely in their sockets now. Guy glanced at him, patted his pockets. "Sorry, no change." "No, I need your help. Where'sh Benny?" Guy stared at him. "I know you... you were at that club - the bouncer, right?" "'Shnot important. Where'sh Benny?" He shrugged. "God knows. Nobody's seen him since... well, we had a break-in in the lab a few nights ago, and as soon as he heard about it Benny disappeared. Said something about the mob coming after him..." The man looked at Grant again, as if seeing him for the first time. "Why do you want him, anyway?" Benny had known he would come. Grant's heart sank. He grabbed at the last possible thread of hope. "In your lab, that shtuff... ODM-13... what is it?" "How do you know about the organo-dimutron?" Guy was looking hard at Grant now. The tumblers were clearly clicking into place. "Oh my God, Benny told you about it, and you tried to steal it - why? What possible use...?" "Benny said it was worth millionsh - a forchune..." "To the military, or big business, yeah. Organo-dimutron is a mutagen we've discovered - so incredibly powerful and dangerous we haven't risked testing it or even announcing it exists. It affects living things on a molecular level..." The man looked more closely at him. "You've been exposed to it, haven't you? Christ - look, you have to get to a hospital straight away..." Grant grabbed the man's shirt front. "You have to help me. You. No hospitals." The man shrugged him off easily, to Grant's horror. "Don't be a fool. You have to -" His anger flared but all in that moment he realised it had no outlet. His strength had shrivelled, his power was gone... there was no reason for anyone to do what he wanted them to. Absurdly he found himself crying at the unfairness of it, that this should happen to him, Grant Blackley, of all people. What was he supposed to do now? He had no idea. "Please help me. Please, please. I'm begging you..." Grant tried to stop himself sobbing, couldn't. "You need a hospital," Guy said. "No hoshpital," Grant said. Even if he lived it was a short step from there to prison, and he couldn't face that as he now was. He'd rather die. He turned and shuffled away as quickly as his joints would let him, aware of the man staring after him, apparently uncertain of what to do. 7. "Five foot six and a half," said Brandi, rolling up the tape measure. She did not sound too concerned. It was that evening. On returning home Grant had taken a shower to try and alleviate his joint pain, but had only succeeded in completing the total loss of his head and facial hair. He looked like someone who'd been having chemo. His tattoos had completely gone as well. His clothes hung on him like an adult's on a child. Physically, he looked hideous, all his old muscle had seemingly turned into slack rolls of fat which hung off him like the folds of a robe. Any kind of serious movement had him yelping in pain - and yet he had to move, if only to get to the bathroom when one of his bouts of diarrhoea or puking struck him. He still had a couple of teeth left on one side, but none on the other. In the end he had just stripped off and crawled carefully into bed. When Brandi appeared she had looked at him with interest but not much sympathy. In the end she had measured him, more for her own curiosity than any other reason, it seemed. And now she was moving around the room, doing something complex and time-consuming when he just wanted to sleep. "Brandi, pleash," Grant mumbled. "Sorry, baby. But I really think you're going to die quite soon, and I don't want to get stuck with answering all the questions about how and why it happened," Brandi said. Grant looked up and realised she was packing her bags. "You carn go!" "You can't stop me." She smiled. "You know, I've wanted to leave for months but I know what you'd have done. You're just not as scary as you used to be, Grant. Now you're just some big baby that lies in its own shit calling for help." Part of him knew she was right. He stifled a moan. "Pleash, Brandi... I need help..." "See?" He found he was sobbing freely again. Brandi ignored him and carried on packing. "I'm not taking any of those whore clothes you bought me," she said, conversationally enough. "Maybe you can find some other dumb bitch to wear them, huh?" Try as he might, she would not stop, and as she carried her bags into the main room he found himself rolling out of bed and crawling painfully after her, sobbing from the pain and calling her name. Brandi paused at the front door and looked at him, and for a moment there was a trace of doubt on her face, as if she were seeing him just as was then, weak and needing help - but then her face hardened, and Grant could imagine the dozens of memories crowding out whatever sympathy she might have felt. She smiled tightly, muttered something under her breath, picked up her bags and shut the door firmly behind her. Grant lay there and cried himself out. * And soon enough his teeth had gone the way of his hair and he was somehow back in his bed with his body aching and cramping and spasming around him. He found he could weep again soon enough, and that he had plenty of reason to. As Brandi had said, he was not much than a toothless, hairless, squalling incontinent child. He found himself drifting in and out of consciousness even as the room pulsed and faded with light. Oddly, hunger did not seem to be a problem - his body seemed to be devouring itself - and when he dragged himself to the bathroom he drank endless water. He knew he was just postponing the inevitable, that his death could not be far away, and could not understand why it was taking so long to come. In the end he just closed his eyes and abandoned himself to whatever lay next. 8. And then Grant awoke and there was no real pain in his body, and the only complaint coming from his gut was that it had not been fed nearly enough of late. He felt a strange vibrancy, almost a hum of health and energy, throughout his limbs and torso. He felt strange, but also great. He got out of the bed, wrinkling his nose at the stink of the soiled sheets, but marvelling at how easily he could move. Either he was dead, or he had survived! Yes! He, Grant Blackley, had ridden it out. He punched the air with both hands. "I'm fuckin" back!" he said, and even as he did so he was suddenly aware of the thirty-two small hard new teeth studding his jaws. He'd grown new teeth! He put a hand to his head and felt a fuzz of new hair starting there. There was none on his face or chest, but a little in his armpits. Even better. Still naked, he started cheerfully for the fridge - then realised it was not all good news. The room was wrong. The perspective was all messed up, everything was too far away or high up... it was like a giant version of his apartment... The tape measure was where Brandi had left it. With shaking hands he measured himself. Christ. He was only five foot one. He looked down at himself and saw how small and slim he had become, as well - his arms and legs seemed athletic, rather than muscular, while his chest and stomach had virtually no muscle definition at all. Grant weighed himself on the bathroom scales. Oh, dear God. He was only 105 pounds. He hadn't weighed so little since in about twenty years. He stared at himself in the mirror and saw two things: firstly, that the new hair he was growing was not the old black, but a very light shade of brown, and that he looked like a kid. An unathletic kid. If anything, his cock and balls seemed to have dwindled even more than the rest of him. They were rather sensitive to the touch so he left them alone. The hair down there showed no signs of growing back either. He munched a bowl of cereal and pondered just what the hell he was going to do now. There was no way Solomani was going to employ a five-foot tall bouncer... and even the idea of asking him was repellent. They'd laughed at him simply for losing his hair... how would they react if they found he'd turned into a child? Grant recalled the eagerness with which they'd capitalised on his weakness. Some fucking friends he'd turned out to have. And Brandi, after all he'd done for her... Still, that didn't help him. What the hell was he going to do now? It wasn't even as if he could go out and look for a new job. After eating he tried to get dressed, but it was hopeless. He could practically fit both feet down one leg of his old jeans. He would look utterly ludicrous trying to wear that stuff out on the street... ...not that he wanted anyone to see him, of course. No way. What would they say, what would they do? He didn't want to find out. In the end, somewhat reluctantly, he just pulled on one of his old t- shirts. It hung almost to his knee and looked more like a dress than anything else - not something he was remotely happy about - but what options did he have? Grant was still thinking about this when there was a knocking at the door. He looked round in alarm, and as he did so someone spoke through the door. "C'mon, open up. We know you're in there. Police." Oh, Jesus. It occurred to him that there was no sense in delaying the inevitable and before he could talk himself out of it walked over to the door and opened it. Outside was a uniformed cop and another man in a suit. "Yeah," Grant said, expecting the bracelets to instantly appear. His voice had risen, which was another shock to his system. The guy in the suit smiled. "We're looking for Grant Blackley. Is he in?" Grant blinked at them, amazed and appalled. They... didn't... recognise him. "G-grant?" The detective glanced at the uniformed guy, gave a "kids today, huh?" kind of look. "Yeah, Grant. Big guy, six five, dark hair and beard? Lives here?" "He's out," Grant said, forcing a smile onto his face. "Mind if we look around?" the cop said, already coming into the apartment and glancing around. "Why not," Grant said, smiling nervously. The two men looked in every room, clearly disgusted by the state of the place. Grant drifted after the detective. "Why d'you want Grant, anyway?" "He's been linked to an attempted theft from the university science campus. One of the staff figures there was a link, plus a man matching his description was seen in the area the day before. His former employer gave this as his address." The detective sighed. "But like you said, seems he's out." They returned to the front door. "Look, missy, if he resurfaces, tell him to come see us, okay?" the detective said. "We're bound to catch up with him sooner or later. It's not like he's easy to miss. Come on, Roy." Grant closed the door after them, almost unable to believe it. Was he so unrecognisable now? It seemed so, and a good thing for him as well. It was like a fresh start, in so many ways... but a start in what? All his life he'd been bigger, stronger, tougher than anyone else he knew... his muscle had been his weapon of choice in any situation. Now he was without it, what was he going to do? He was sitting contemplating that when something else occurred to him that he'd missed at the time. The cop had called him "missy'... not only had he not recognised Grant as himself, he hadn't even recognised him as male. It was the way he was dressed, that was all. Grant told himself that over and over until he almost started to believe it. 9. There was enough food in the fridge for the time being, and he had no real need to go out. Also there was five hundred bucks stashed at the back of the wardrobe, which nobody else knew about... except it seemed that Brandi had been a bit more perceptive than he'd thought, and taken it with her when she'd gone. He was down to the forty bucks he'd had in his wallet when he'd been fired from the club. He'd think of something. In the meantime he sat and watched TV and tried to get used to his new physicality. It seemed that whatever the ODM-13 had done to him, it wasn't quite finished yet. When he'd woken that morning, there hadn't been much more than a fuzz of stubble on his head, but by the time he called it a night it was over an inch long and brushing the top of his ears. Not quite light brown, he accepted - more like dark blonde. The next morning it was twice as long again, reaching most of the way down to his shoulders, and lighter still at the roots. If only that was all he had to worry about, Grant thought. There was absolutely no sign of stubble on his cheeks or jaw, or anywhere else that his beard had previously grown. And on his chest, the centre of his nipples had sprouted into thick studs like pencil erasers. Each now sat in the middle of a wide disc of sensitive, wrinkly skin - wider than it had been before, he was certain. It was so difficult to be certain about things like this... but weren't his balls smaller, pulled tighter to his body by a scrotum that seemed to be furling up on itself? And while the meat of his cock seemed shorter and narrower, the skin in which it was cloaked seemed looser and fleshier, too. No, no, it couldn't be happening! It was impossible! He told himself not to cry, with little success. The thought was just too horrible to contemplate. In the end he just sat in front of the TV and gave himself over to it entirely, not thinking about himself or his own life at all. The day dragged by, a whirl of soap operas, game shows and chat shows. At the end of the afternoon he was disturbed by another knock at the door. Startled and nervous, Grant got up, as he did so realising his hair had continued to grow at an incredible rate - he could feel it brushing his shoulders now through the thin fabric of the T-shirt, still his only garment. He went over to the door and opened it. The grizzled face of his landlord peered through the gap at him. "I want to talk to Blackley." "He - Mister Blackley's gone away," Grant said. The high softness of his voice had a connotation now he really didn't like. "Well, he should've paid his back rent before he went," the old man said. "This isn't a mission building, you know, young lady." "He'll pay you when he gets back," Grant said, desperately. Lazarenko snorted. "He doesn't get to choose when to pay his rent. I want the money by the end of tomorrow or he's out on the street." "He won't be back by then -!" "Then he's out on the street anyway. You too," Lazarenko said, smiling nastily. "You can't speak to me like that, you old bastard!" The words burst out of him automatically. The old man colored. "Watch your mouth! I'm within my rights to have you both thrown out this evening." With sick horror Grant realised that the man was right, and nothing he said or did could intimidate him anymore. His power was gone and he had to remember that. He dropped his eyes. "I'm really sorry, sir. I just panicked." "Mmm, well. I just want the money, from him or you, I don't care. But by six tomorrow, or you're both out, understand?" "Yes, sir. I understand," Grant said. He closed the door. What the fuck was he going to do? He had no savings, and all his usual routes to quick money were closed to him now he was so puny and soft. He couldn't go out on the street looking the way he did now. He didn't even have any clothes. Grant padded back into the centre of the apartment, head bowed, hugging himself... but realised that something felt strange about the hug. Feeling a sick sense of the inevitable he pulled his t-shirt off over his head and looked down at himself. The flesh of his chest was beginning to swell, a small soft dome building up under each sensitive nipple. He had titties. Further down it was even worse. His small, hard balls were held tight against the flesh of his body, while the substance of his cock seemed to be withdrawing into his body - only an inch or two were really left - leaving only the loose folds of thick skin that had once surrounded it hanging loose. He prodded at his crotch and gasped despite himself. It was as sensitive as ever, and seemed to set off some kind of resonant tingling in his new titties. "I'm turning into a girl," Grant said to his reflection, which looked as horrified and feminine as he did. 10. He didn't have time to freak out about that. He needed to get money from somewhere, anywhere, or he wouldn't just be a girl but a homeless girl, with no real clothes and in a rough part of the city. That was enough to start him sweating and panicking again. His friends. His friends would help him out, wouldn't they? Sure, they'd made fun of his baldness and that kind of stuff, but they'd been buds, hadn't they? Sure they had. Grant looked around for his phone but couldn't find it anywhere. Shit. Brandi must have taken it. He'd have to go down to the club in person. Grant went into the bedroom and tried to get dressed in his old gear - the t-shirt was like a tent on him, but that was minor compared to the fact that his shorts wouldn't stay up and, once he'd finished cinching the waist and rolling up the legs, his jeans looked like clown pants. His old boots and shoes were waaay too big as well. A pair of Brandi's old shoes had got left behind and, although deeply reluctant, he tried one of them on. It was actually a pretty good fit. Oh, Christ, was he now the same size as Brandi? Going to the club in his old clothes he'd look ridiculous and attract attention to himself. Even if he could get there without major wardrobe malfunction. There was no choice, he thought. He would have to see what else Brandi had left behind when she'd gone. Oh, crap. He remembered now her parting words: she'd just left the stuff he'd bought for her, so no jeans, no t-shirts, nothing... nothing sensible. But he had no choice: it was either now, and briefly, or tomorrow night, and for the foreseeable future after that. With deep distaste he picked up a pair of lacy panties and stepped into them, figuring there was no sense in taking any chances - also that they might disguise the remains of his manhood. (Did that mean he'd rather be thought of as an actual girl than the strange inbetween-thing he currently was?) They settled about his hips quite comfortably. He didn't need a bra and so he pulled on a dark green halter-top. To finish with he found a blackskirt that finished just above mid-thigh, with about three layers of frilly ruffles on it, and put that on as well. It felt kind of odd around his comparatively narrow hips and backside, but there was no help for that. Grant looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a girl, there was no denying it. He arranged his hair over his shoulders to try and increase the impression, realised what he was doing and stopped. Just pass muster, he told himself. Thank God it was a warm night. He'd never bothered buying Brandi a coat and it was a long way to walk bare-legged and with just one of his old shirts as a makeshift jacket. For a decade he'd walked these streets with supreme confidence, but everything had changed now. Every alleyway seemed to pose a threat, every passing man a figure wrapped in terrible suspicion. Grant had never been more relieved to arrive at the club. It was very early and there was no queue, but Karl was still lounging around at the door, same as he ever did. Grant realised he'd no idea what he was going to say to him. In the end he just walked up to where the man was. "Go straight in, honey," Karl said, grinning. "Pay at the desk." "Karl - it - it's me. Grant," Grant said. Karl snorted with laughter. "What? You high, girl? This some kind of joke?" He looked around to see who might be watching to see his reaction, then stared again at Grant's altered face. "Jesus..." "I don't know how it happened. Some chemicals. But it changed me and I really need -" But Karl was already calling into the club. "Ray! Get out here now!" His friends believed him. They would help. Grant let himself relax, and then Ratman emerged from the club, dressing sharper than he had before. "Look at this," Karl said, grinning as he indicated Grant. "So what," Ratman said, glancing at him. Then he frowned and looked closer, his face slowly breaking into a huge grin as he did so. "Grant!?! That you?" He burst out laughing. Grant felt his cheeks burning. "Quiet, for fuck's sake." "This is what that chemical stuff did to you? Man, am I glad I stayed by the door! There but for the grace of God..." Ratman was still chuckling. "You get the full set, Grant?" Karl stepped forward and grabbed at one of Grant's tits. Grant slapped his hand away in shock and stepped back. "Karl!" Grant said, hating the note of feeble pleading he heard in his own voice. The two of them were openly grinning at him. "So, you want to come into the club, then?" Ratman asked. "Ratman, I need help - my landlord wants the rent, and that bitch Brandi ran off with my dough," Grant said. "I just need a loan, just for a while..." "Till you come back as a bouncer?" Karl laughed. "Ray," Ratman said. He wasn't laughing. "W-what?" Grant asked. "My name's Ray. You're the one who started the whole Ratman thing, you - you dumb bitch," Ratman said, smiling mirthlessly. "Why the fuck should we help you? What did you ever do for us?" "I - I -" But before Grant could finish the sentence Ratman had turned and walked back into the club. Karl didn't speak for a moment. "So, you coming in the club or not?" he eventually asked. "Uh - I -" "Cause Ray doesn't like it if we just let people hang around out here..." "What - what's he got to do with it?" Karl shrugged. "Ray's the boss. Solomani gave him your old job." "Oh." An interesting feeling, this numb bleakness inside, Grant thought. He looked at Karl again. "I - just need a little money, Karl..." "You know, you've turned into a pretty hot chick," Karl said, looking Grant up and down again in a way he really wasn't comfortable with. "How bad do you need the cash?" "More than anything," Grant whispered. "Come round tomorrow afternoon. You know where I live," Karl said. "I'm sure we can work something out... if you really want the money that bad." Grant felt sick again, something purely psychological this time. He backed away from Karl, turned his back, hurried towards his home, feeling his stomach turning over and over, not because he didn't know what he was going to do but really because - deep down - he did. 11. Incredibly, Grant still somehow managed to sleep that night - on some level his body was still exerting itself as his transformation approached its conclusion, and he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. But as soon as he properly awoke, the realities of his situation crashed in on him and a bleak detachment consumed his mind. He sat up, wincing at an odd twinge in his side and hips as he did so. The mass of his hair flopped down over his shoulders, reaching well down his back and tickling his - oh, Christ, his titties had blown up like balloons in the night. The sheer weight of them against his chest was almost impossible to believe. He was huge. They were like porn-star tits. With a dull sense of resignation he pulled the sheet aside and looked at his crotch. He'd still had a little stub of an actual cock left the night before, hiding amongst the folds of flesh, but it had almost totally retreated into his body now, and sat at the top end of... ah, Jesus. His cock had turned into a clit and from somewhere a cunt had opened up. He really was a girl now. Numbly he got out of bed and stood up - but even as he did so he felt a horrendous crunch somewhere in his pelvis and the muscles in his sides and waist cramped agonisingly. He swayed a little, feeling his bones and organs slide into a new arrangement... and then it was over and the pain suddenly receded. Grant clutched at himself and pattered through into the bathroom to confirm his suspicions: his waist had contracted enormously, while his hips had simultaneously widened to accommodate his new anatomy. His ass- cheeks seemed to be filling out as well, giving him a big old booty. There was really no way to tell, from looking at him, that Grant had ever been the mountain of a man he had enjoyed being so much. He was a short, pale, feeble looking chick... and Grant Blackley looked at his new self and sobbed openly for many long minutes. But there was enough of the old Grant left for him to realise his new body had a rack and an ass and legs to die for... and his face wasn't too bad, weirdly enough. The mane of long blonde hair - which seemed to have stopped growing so fast - made him look utterly different anyway. Karl had been turned on by him last night. That reaction would only be strengthened, the way he looked now. The knowledge repelled him even as he knew it was his best chance to find the money he needed to keep the apartment. Maybe he could just lead Karl on, dupe him into handing over some money... Karl was the type of guy who only ever followed his dick around anyway... in Grant's desperation it seemed to make a kind of sense, formed the rudiments of a plan. In any case, he had no choice. He ate slowly and sparingly and thought it through while watching soap operas. There seemed to be no other option. Damn it, he'd be willing to even give the guy a kiss if it meant getting some cash... Soon it was after lunch and he knew he had to go round, if he was ever going to. Grant dressed. Scanty black-lace thong. Bra of the same material - though Brandi's old bras were all a little too small to be comfortable (strange how he just accepted that: it seemed his reservoir of shame was not inexhaustible). Tight top and leather mini. He let his hair hang free and pulled on a pair of leather boots with little heels on them. Still not quite enough to guarantee over-riding Karl's natural wariness, Grant thought. He hunted around and found some old make-up Brandi had left behind. Clumsily and slowly he pulled out the brightest lipstick he could find and started applying it around his mouth. * Karl's apartment building was even shittier than Grant's, which was saying something. Grant made his way up to his friend's door and hit the buzzer, glanced around nervously as he waited. There were no pockets in his outfit so he'd stuck his keys and cash in a tiny black bag he'd bought Brandi but which she'd never used. The door opened. Karl stood there, wearing a pair of jeans and apparently nothing else. Surprise bloomed on his face