Jerry Phelps, Man on the Town The Remote of Transformation chapter 2 by ThePanswapticon

Jerry Phelps adjusted his shirt for the fifth time in as many minutes. The night air clung to him, muggy and sour from car exhaust and the faint stench of stale beer rolling out of the club’s open door. The bass thumped so hard his sternum vibrated. He should have been inside by now, crammed against strangers, drowning his week in overpriced whiskey and sweaty grinding.

Instead, he stood behind twenty other idiots, all staring at their phones, doing the same nervous shuffle he was doing. The bouncer, a mountain of bald, tattooed flesh, didn’t so much as glance at the line. The guy had that dead-eyed look of someone who could crush a watermelon between his forearms but wouldn’t even feel the pop.

Jerry shifted again, feeling the familiar sting of inadequacy. Mid-twenties, average face, a bit shorter than most of the guys here, wearing the one button-down shirt he thought didn’t make him look like a car salesman—even though he was one.

He sighed and pulled out his phone. His thumb brushed the black plastic remote tucked in his jacket pocket. The “special delivery” he’d blown a chunk of his bonus on. A custom job from some sketchy online store with no return policy and lots of promises about “life hacks” and “reality remixes.”

It had buttons. Too many buttons. He hadn’t dared test it yet, unless you counted changing the neighbor’s yappy dog into a golden retriever for three seconds before panicking and switching it back. But standing here, sweating, inching forward one foot every ten minutes, Jerry’s brain started to hum with bad ideas.

A car rolled up, music blaring. Two women stepped out. They were exactly the type Jerry usually couldn’t make eye contact with without turning into a stammering mess. Tall. Curves in the right places. Skintight dresses that caught the streetlight like liquid.

They didn’t wait in line. Didn’t even look at the line.

The bouncer, that human fortress, smiled. Fucking smiled. He pulled the rope aside and waved them in like they were royalty.

Jerry’s jaw tightened. He heard a guy behind him mutter, “Figures.”

Figures. Yeah, figures. Figures that a perfectly normal guy like him would spend half an hour out here while the door just opened for them because… what? Tits? High heels?

His fingers toyed with the remote inside his jacket. One push could fix this. Maybe swap that meathead’s brain with a drunk toddler so Jerry could stroll right in.

Or—his pulse spiked—maybe Jerry didn’t have to be Jerry. Maybe if he looked like one of those women, he’d get waved inside, no questions. Just a quick tweak. A trial run. A night to see what it felt like to be the one everyone stared at instead of the guy everyone ignored.

The remote was warm against his palm now, like it was daring him.

A whoop came from inside the club as the bass dropped, and the line barely moved. Jerry smirked.