There was a sudden burst of bright light, and Chris flinched, half-expecting to turn into a frog or something. But the light passed, and Chris found himself still sitting in the driver's seat, with nothing whatsoever different. The woman who'd been in the passenger's was gone, though.
"Nice," he muttered. "That's all I need is some psyho-bitch playing tricks on me this early in the morning." Still feeling a bit uneasy, but with a shrug, he started the Mercedes and headed home.
During the drive, Chris couldn't shake the encounter with the weirdo broad - what had she said her name was, Mary Anne? - from his head. Fortunately, the streets were fairly empty at 5:00 AM, and he made it back to his apartment complex quickly. Until he swung into the lot and almost sideswiped a neighbor.
Crap Chris thought, It's Tank! He'll tear me a new one for sure! Tank Reynolds, a thirtyish, ex-pro football player who'd retired to open a restaurant nearby, didn't much care for Chris to begin with, and this certainly wasn't going to change his mind.
Chris cringed in his seat as Tank picked himself off the grass and marched toward the car. But as he got closer, Chris started feeling strange. What's wrong with me? He wondered. I fee so - weird! Hot like! And why's he moving so slow? It looked to him like Tank was swimming through clear molasses, so slowly was he advancing. Idly, he reached up and brushed a stray hair from his face. Getting dizzy! Must be coming down with - hey! My hair's not long! What's going on here?!?
Confused, Chris glanced down - and if he hadn't been so groggy, he'd have screamed bloddy murder. His shirt was split open, and hanging from his chest were two of the most magnificent round breasts he'd ever seen. This is insane! he thought wildly. Got get oudahere! F'get abou- uh - who is that guy, anyway?
It was almost like time outside the car was standing still. Tank was a frozen statue of indignation. But Chris wasn't concentrating on that at the moment. His thoughts were all jumbled, confused. But within (from his perspective) moments, they cleared up - and reformed into a new configuration.
To Tank, none of this was apparent. He strode angrily over to the car, intending to give his piece of crap neighbor a piece of his mind. "Alright, pal, outta the car! You got some explaining to do, and we're gonna - gonna - UHLP!"
Tank almost fell backwards again as the car's occupant stepped out. It wasn't his stupid neighbor after all - instead, it was gorgeous woman! She was a knockout brunette, whos voluptuous figure threatened to burst out of her wearing a pink baby doll t-shirt and denim miniskirt any second now. She was the most beautiful girl Tank had ever seen.
"I'm sorry," she breathed in a voice that made his heart skip a beat. "Are you okay?"
"I - I - I - I'm fine," he stammered. "Fine. Don't worry about me!" He stuck out a hand, "I'm Reynolds."
She reached out and clasped his big hand with a smooth, perfectly manicured one. "Pleased to meet you, Reynolds."
"Uh, uh, that's my last name. You, uh, you can call me 'Tank'."
She smiled up at him, and Tank felt his knees go weak. "Okay, Tank. My name's Aything - Priscilla Lorraine Aything. But I just go by P.L."
"P.L.?"
"Uh-huh. I'm P.L. Aything - or 'Plaything'." She batted her long lashes up at him and licked her lips. "Your 'Plaything - if you want."
Tank gulped. "Uh - uh -"
"Do you live here?"
"Uh-huh," he nodded dumbly. "Up-up-upstairs. 2-H."
P.L. slipped her arm into his. "Well, Tank, why don't you and your plaything go upstairs and talk this over - extensively."
Still in shock, Tank again nodded dumbly, hoping that once he got up there, he'd remember to call the restaurant and tell them he wouldn't be in today.
