Babbling Brad The Remote of Transformation chapter 4 by deleted_user

The club was a sensory assault. Neon pink and electric blue lasers sliced through a thick haze of vapor and sweat, while the bass rattled Jerry’s teeth so hard he could taste his own fillings. The dance floor was a writhing, packed mass of bodies, and the energy was electric. For the first time in his life, Jerry didn't feel like an invisible spectator. He felt like a god walking among mortals.

But his divine high was short-lived. He needed a drink to celebrate, and the path to the bar was blocked by a monolithic obstacle.

Standing right at the edge of the VIP lounge, blocking the narrow walkway to the bartenders, was Brad.

Brad was the dealership’s top salesman, Jerry’s professional nemesis, and an all-around unmitigated prick. He was currently leaning against the bar in a tailored suit that cost more than Jerry’s monthly rent, loudly regaling two attractive women with a story about his latest commission. He was holding a premium vodka tonic, gesturing wildly, and completely monopolizing the bartender’s attention.

Jerry tried to squeeze past. "Excuse me, Brad."

Brad glanced down, his eyes crinkling with immediate, condescending amusement. "Oh! Jerry! Didn't see you down there, buddy. Look, girls, it's the fleet manager. Hey, man, the bar is for closers tonight, alright? Go find a vending machine or something."

The women laughed politely, and Brad turned his back, effectively cutting Jerry off from the bar altogether.

Jerry’s hand slid into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the warm plastic of the remote. His thumb traced the dials. Problem: Brad. Solution: Total ego death.

He didn't want to turn Brad into a woman—that was Big Mike’s gimmick tonight. No, Jerry wanted something that would completely strip away Brad’s corporate, slick-talking arrogance. He dialed the settings for Age/Maturity and Cognition, aiming the pocketed device right at Brad’s lower back. He tapped the button twice.

Click. Click.

Brad didn't shrink, and his clothes still fit perfectly. But a profound, localized reality shift hit his nervous system.

Brad’s sentence suddenly derailed. "...and so I told the regional manager, we need to—we need to... um..."

His posture slacked. The sharp, predatory smirk on his face melted into a vacant, slightly drooling expression. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, went wide and completely empty, staring at the flashing neon lights with a sense of profound, infant-like wonder.

"Brad?" one of the women asked, frowning as his arms began to swing limply at his sides.

"Buh," Brad said clearly. He looked down at his premium vodka tonic, his brain completely forgetting what a glass was, or how gravity worked. His fingers simply uncurled. The glass shattered on the floor, splashing liquor all over his pristine Italian leather shoes.

"Oh my god, Brad, you’re soaked!" the other woman cried, stepping back.

Brad didn't care. He was giggling now, pointing a finger at a passing strobe light. "Pretty colors," he mumbled, his voice carrying the slurred, unbothered cadence of a toddler who had stayed up past his bedtime. He reached out, trying to catch a laser beam with his hand, stumbling forward and bumping into the bar.

The bartender slammed a towel down. "Hey, buddy, you're cut off! Out of the way!"

With his sophisticated aura entirely dissolved into a puddle of blissful, thumb-sucking idiocy, the two women looked thoroughly disgusted. "Wow. What a lightweight," one muttered, turning her back on him completely.

Jerry stepped right into the vacancy Brad had left behind. He casually nudged the drooling top salesman aside, leaning against the bar with an easy smile.

"Hey," Jerry called out to the bartender, flashing a twenty-dollar bill. "Get me a whiskey neat. And get my buddy Brad here a glass of warm milk. I think he’s done for the night."

Jerry watched with immense satisfaction as a security guard grabbed the babbly, giggling Brad by the elbow and began guiding him toward the exit. The night was young, and Jerry hadn't even hit the dance floor yet.