Mark woke with a groan, his head pounding like he’d gone ten rounds with a bottle of cheap tequila. But it wasn’t just the hangover haze that had him disoriented. There was a weight on his chest—heavy, oppressive, like someone had parked a damn semi-truck on him while he slept. He tried to shift, to roll over, but his body responded with a sluggish, unfamiliar heft. What the hell?
He blinked, squinting against the morning light filtering through outdated lace curtains that looked like they’d been salvaged from a Victorian garage sale. The room was a cluttered explosion of floral patterns—bedspread, wallpaper, even the throw pillows looked like they’d been attacked by a deranged botanist. This wasn’t his room. This wasn’t even his *apartment*.
With a grunt, he heaved himself out of the creaky bed, the ancient springs protesting under a weight that felt... wrong. Way too heavy. His center of gravity was all off, and he nearly face-planted into a dresser as he stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of a vanity mirror that had seen better days.
He froze. Staring back at him wasn’t his own scruffy, twenty-something face. No, it was Aunt Marla—round cheeks, triple chin, and a pair of breasts so massive they could double as flotation devices in a shipwreck. “Holy shit,” he wheezed, his voice coming out higher, softer, and distinctly... not his.
His hands—Marla’s hands—shot up, grabbing at the unfamiliar flesh. Soft, doughy skin spilled over his fingers as he poked and prodded, muttering, “This isn’t happening. This is some twisted, messed-up nightmare. Wake up, Mark. Wake the hell up.” But the reflection didn’t change. Those were Marla’s watery blue eyes staring back at him, wide with the same panic he felt clawing at his gut.
A sharp knock at the door jolted him out of his freakout. “Marla, get your lazy ass outta bed!” came a commanding bark from the other side. “I ain’t got all day to wait for you to roll outta that pigsty you call a bedroom. We got gossip to spill!”
Mark’s heart rate spiked. Darlene. Of course, it had to be Darlene, Marla’s best friend and the human equivalent of a drill sergeant with a perm. He cleared his throat, trying to channel his aunt’s gravelly tone. “Uh, just a sec!” What came out was a high-pitched squeak, like a parrot being strangled mid-squawk. He winced. So much for subtlety.
The door burst open before he could even think of a plan B. Darlene stormed in, all five-foot-nothing of her radiating the energy of a woman who’d once wrestled a bear and won. Her sharp eyes raked over him, narrowing as she crossed her arms over her leopard-print blouse. “Well, damn, Marla. You look like you got hit by a truck full of donuts. What’s with you? Sleep in a dumpster last night?”
Mark fumbled for words, still gripping the edge of the vanity for balance. “I, uh, I’m just... not feelin’ great. Rough night.” His voice cracked again, and he mentally cursed himself.
Darlene raised a penciled-in eyebrow, her red lips twisting into a smirk. “Rough night, huh? What, you sneak off to bingo and lose your shirt again? Or did you finally get lucky with that creepy cashier at the Piggly Wiggly? Spill it, woman. I ain’t got time for your cryptic bullshit.”
“I—bingo? No, no, nothing like that,” Mark stammered, his mind racing. How the hell was he supposed to know what Marla did last night? He didn’t even know how he’d ended up in her body! “Just... tired. Real tired.”
Darlene snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Tired my ass. You’re actin’ weirder than a cat in a bathtub. Get yourself together, Marla. We’re late for our diner date, and I ain’t showin’ up solo again ‘cause you can’t drag yourself outta bed.” She grabbed a garish floral muumuu from a nearby chair and slapped it into Mark’s hands with the force of a linebacker. “Put this on and don’t embarrass me in public again. Last time you waltzed in wearin’ that ratty bathrobe, I nearly died of shame.”
Mark stared at the muumuu, a hideous clash of pink hibiscus and neon green leaves, and felt a fresh wave of dread. He was still processing the fact that he had boobs bigger than his head, and now he had to figure out how to dress this body? He turned away from Darlene, fumbling with the fabric, and accidentally knocked over a stack of romance novels perched precariously on the nightstand. One flopped open, revealing a steamy passage about a “rugged cowboy” and a “feisty maiden” that made Mark’s borrowed cheeks burn despite the absurdity of the situation.
Darlene caught the flush and let out a cackle that could wake the dead. “Oh, hell, Marla! Still gettin’ all hot and bothered over those trashy books, huh? Girl, you need a real man to handle all that baggage you’re carryin’—and I ain’t just talkin’ ‘bout your emotional crap.” She winked, gesturing crudely at Mark’s—or rather, Marla’s—chest.
Mark choked on a weak laugh, trying to deflect. “Ha, yeah, real funny, Darlene. I’m, uh, good. Totally good. No need for... cowboys or whatever.” He tugged the muumuu over his head, nearly getting lost in the yards of fabric, and prayed for the ground to swallow him whole.
Darlene’s gaze sharpened, pinning him in place like a bug under a magnifying glass. “Cut the crap, Marla. What’s really goin’ on with you? You’re jumpier than a frog in a fryin’ pan. Spit it out before I drag it outta you.”
Desperate to avoid more scrutiny, Mark blurted, “I’m just feelin’ under the weather, okay? Might be comin’ down with somethin’.” It was a pathetic excuse, and he knew it.
Darlene rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t pop out of her head. “Under the weather, my foot. You’re a drama queen who’d fake a coma for attention. I ain’t buyin’ it. Now move your wide load—we’re late, and I ain’t missin’ my hash browns ‘cause you’re playin’ sick.” She grabbed Mark’s arm with a grip of steel and yanked him toward the door.
Mark stumbled after her, the muumuu swishing awkwardly around his unfamiliar curves. As they passed a hallway mirror, he caught another glimpse of himself—Marla’s face, Marla’s body, Marla’s everything. The reality sank in deeper, a cold weight in his gut. How the hell had this happened? And more importantly, how was he going to survive a day in this body, let alone a diner date with Darlene, who could sniff out a lie faster than a bloodhound?
As they stepped out into the suburban morning, Mark felt a flicker of curiosity amidst the panic. If he was stuck like this, he’d damn well figure out why—and maybe, just maybe, find a way back to himself. But for now, all he could do was waddle after Darlene, her voice already booming about some scandal at the local hair salon, while he prayed he didn’t trip over his own two feet... or boobs.
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