mine only

Your wish is my command.

Broadway Bares: Stripopoly (2010)

Chadwick "The Chain" Miller lived for the snap of elastic. He was six-foot-two of pure, unadulterated jock ego, and his favorite target was Arthur, a kid who carried a briefcase and actually understood how the Wi-Fi worked.

"Hey, Artie!" Chad barked, cornering him near the chemistry lab. "I think your drawers need a relocation service."

Chad reached out, grabbed the waistband of Arthur’s plaid boxers, and gave a violent, upward yank. But instead of a cry of pain, a strange, low hum vibrated through the air.

The First Snap: The Complexion

As Chad pulled, a searing heat traveled from Arthur’s waistband into Chad’s own skin. Suddenly, Chad’s forehead began to itch uncontrollably. In the reflection of a nearby trophy case, dozens of angry, red pimples began to erupt across his chin and forehead like a rapidly growing constellation. His skin went from "golden tan" to "oil-slicked disaster" in three seconds flat.

"What did you do to me?" Chad hissed, his voice cracking an octave higher.

"I didn't do anything," Arthur said calmly, adjusting his glasses. "But physics—and maybe a little ancient geometry—has a way of balancing the scales."

The Second Snap: The Coiffure

Infuriated, Chad went for a second yank, lifting Arthur nearly off the floor. Twang! The air smelled like ozone and old library books. Chad’s thick, gelled pompadour began to recede and reshape itself with a mind of its own. His hair flattened at the top, buzzed short on the sides, and settled into a stiff, perfectly level micro flattop. It was the kind of haircut that screamed "I calculate the trajectory of model rockets for fun."

Chad reached up, feeling the prickly, flat landing pad on his head. "My hair! My beautiful flow!"

The Final Transformation

Desperate to regain his dominance, Chad lunged for one final, soul-crushing wedgie. He pulled with everything he had.

A flash of violet light filled the hallway. Chad’s letterman jacket shrivelled and morphed into a short-sleeved button-down with a plastic pocket protector. His contact lenses blurred, and a pair of heavy, horn-rimmed glasses with a taped bridge materialized on his face, magnifying his eyes to the size of dinner plates.

Even his muscle mass seemed to migrate from his biceps directly into a bulging backpack full of oversized calculus textbooks.

The bully formerly known as Chad stood there, blinking behind his thick lenses. He tried to let out a menacing growl, but all that came out was a high-pitched snort. He reached for his waistband, which was now pulled up high—well above his belly button.

"Everything alright?" Arthur asked, picking up his briefcase.

The boy checked his new ID card, which had magically appeared in his shirt pocket. The name 'Chadwick' had vanished, replaced by a name that felt much more appropriate for someone who spent his Friday nights organizing stamp collections.

I cornered Arthur outside the chemistry lab, still certain the hallway belonged to me.

My first yank froze in my hands as oil spread across my face and red pimples broke through my skin.

The second pull hit back hard, and my hair locked into a perfectly level micro flattop.

My final yank tore the jock out of me: my jacket vanished, my trousers climbed past my navel, and Milton Pringle stared out through taped horn rimmed glasses.