Dealing With Their Shit The Remote of Transformation chapter 6 by ThePanswapticon

Jerry sipped the free gin and tonic some guy had just bought “her,” and almost spat it out watching the couple’s argument climb into nuclear range. The girl’s voice could cut glass—sharp, nasal, every word like a slap in the boyfriend’s face.

“You’re killing the mood. We’re supposed to be having fun, Dylan!” She stabbed a manicured finger into his chest, nearly tipping off her barstool. “But no, Mr. Big Shot can’t just dance or take a shot like a normal person, he’s too busy being a boring ass.”

Dylan’s jaw clenched, polo collar tugged like he needed more space for all that ego. “Oh give me a break, Steph. I bring you here, pay for everything, and you’re already whining."

Steph shot to her feet, crop top flashing rhinestones like they were battle armor. “You’re an asshole. You have no idea what it’s like being a woman—heels cutting your feet, everyone staring at your tits. You couldn’t handle one day in my--”

“Maybe I don’t wanna handle it. Maybe I wish somebody else had to deal with your crying, your moaning, your shit for once!”

Jerry lowered his glass.

Oh. Oh, this was good.

He stifled a laugh behind his drink, scanning for a quiet corner of the club. His hand slipped down to the remote pressed against his thigh, thumb finding the dial like muscle memory. A wicked idea lit up in his head. Not a swap this time. Something fresher. Crueler.

She wants him to know what it’s like to be a woman? Done.
He wants someone else to deal with her crap? Done and done.

Jerry flicked the settings with a sly grin. Oh, this is going to be priceless.

He tapped the EXECUTE button.

A pale flash of light from the remote blinked through the strobe, and then—

WHUMP.

Dylan’s polo stretched, warped, then ripped as a new hourglass figure pushed out, breasts swelling under fabric until buttons popped and scattered like popcorn. His biceps shrank, hair spilling longer over suddenly bare shoulders. His face softened, jawline melting into high cheekbones and pillowy lips. He stumbled backward in brand-new strappy heels, gasping in a voice three octaves higher.

“Holy—holy shit! What the hell is happening to me?!”

Meanwhile, Steph’s sharp retort caught in her throat—because she wasn’t standing anymore. She was on the bar table, tiny legs kicking in brand-new pastel leggings. Her rhinestone top was now doll-sized. Her hands, barely the size of chicken nuggets, clawed at her hair ribbon.

“Dylan!” Her voice was still sharp and bitchy, but now piped out in a squeaky cartoon register. “Dylan, what the hell did you do to me?!”

The new woman—Dylan—looked down at her chest in pure horror, cupping breasts that filled her hands like overripe fruit. “What I did?!” she squealed. “What about this?!”

The bartender just… stared, dropping a lime slice.

Steph wriggled like an angry toddler, face bright red. “Don’t you dare drop me! Do you know how humiliating this is?! I can’t even reach my goddamn drink!”

“You think you’ve got problems?” Dylan shrieked, voice trembling as she wobbled on her heels. “I have tits. And I’m—oh my god—my junk is gone.”

“Yeah, cry me a river. I can’t even walk now!” Steph waved her stubby arms, kicking at empty air. “Pick me up, Dylan, or I swear I’ll scream this whole place down.”

“You weigh, like, five pounds!” Dylan scooped her up, fumbling like she was holding radioactive waste. Steph squirmed in his arms like an angry baby bird.

“Careful with my head, you moron! Do you know how fragile this neck is now?”

“You’re—why do you sound like the world’s angriest Cabbage Patch doll?”

Steph buried her face in Dylan’s new cleavage and screamed into it. “This is all your fault!”

“MY fault? You wished for this!” Dylan shouted back, adjusting her now-bursting bra strap with one hand while balancing Steph with the other. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

They stumbled toward the exit—Dylan tottering on alien heels, Steph flailing tiny fists and shouting insults that would’ve gotten a grown woman thrown out. The bouncer stared as they passed. Dylan didn’t even argue, just stormed out into the night, muttering about bras, babysitters, and finding a priest.

Jerry watched them disappear, smirking as he took another sip of gin.

“Oh yeah,” he muttered, “this remote is my new Friday night hobby.”