Jon closed his eyes, enveloped in a sticky, breathless panic. He could tell he was laying on his side on the bedroom carpet but had lost all physical control.
"Yeah, mama and daddy used ta always be talking shit 'bout black folks." he heard Carl saying, "Now dey sit aroun' talkin' bout all the muthafuckin' crackahs. I used ta keep my rap albums on tha DL. Now dey buy dat shit fo me. 'F all I gots ta do is get me some brown sugah ta keep 'em happy, shit, thas cool."
Meanwhile, Jon felt like he was losing his mind. His body shifted on the carpet, getting shorter, though the rest of him was puffing up, getting round and cushiony. More invasive, though, was the consciousness that was merging with his own, like smoke on a foggy day. She whispered to him to be calm, that she knew this body, that she could help him cope. And then she /was/ Jon, and he was she.
"Damn, girl, you gettin' a booty!"
Violation. She hated him, but when her mind brought up his image, she felt warmth flow through her. Then, she could move. She was sobbing.
"Get... out," she said, choking on tears.
"What tha fuck? Girl, why you trippin'?"
"God damn it Lebron, leave me alone!"
"A'ight," he said, then hesitated. "You chill da fuck out, 'dough. You mine now."
Several minutes after Carl left, closing the door, she found the courage to open her eyes. What -- or who, she thought -- was she?
