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About the Author: T.T. Trestle lives a stone’s throw from Parliament Hill in Ottawa, Canada (assuming you have the strength of ten men and an exceptionally aerodynamic stone). His stories have appeared in various anthologies, magazines, podcasts and film festivals. He has received a couple of Honorable Mentions in the Year's Best Fantasy & Horror and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He has never solved a Rubik’s Cube.

On July 7, I woke up with a tremendous set of breasts. Although there was a woman in my bed, these boobs were attached to my chest not hers. Three problems occurred to me as I stared down at their curving roundness. One really big problem and a couple of pretty bad ones.

Problem #1: I'm a man.

That was the biggie. So big that, when I first saw the breasts, I cried out—a weird, awful noise somewhere between a choke and a howl—and sat up in bed. I'm what you would call a man of few words and, before this morning, a man of no weird noises. So the choking cry thing was almost as shocking as the boobs.

Problem #2: I work as the Loans-in-Default Manager for an outfit called Tide U Over Loans Inc.

The fancy job title and the legit-sounding name of my employer are both complete bull. I work for a loan shark called Eddy Runager. If Runager could breathe underwater there'd be no telling him apart from the man-eater from Jaws. I'm a different kind of animal than my boss. I'm the sort of big ape people call a legbreaker. It's also why they've been calling me Tom "Kong" Carter since I was sixteen. I don't mind being called Kong but I hate that legbreaker crap. I've never broken anybody's stem in my life. Besides, I've never had to break a leg. That's one of the only perks of being seven feet tall and built like Frankenstein's monster. Once they see me coming, the deadbeats either pay up in full or run away. Except for the Rollins brothers, who drew down on me with their famous matching Colt Pythons. I hung them up on coat hooks with their shiny, diamond-studded shooters shoved in their mouths. But I left the Rollins boys' legs alone. Pretty hard to make a living if you can't walk.

I squeezed the two breasts protruding from my chest. They felt just like what they looked like, smooth and firm and bouncy all at the same time. Another of those choking cries came out of me. I needed to get rid of these things but quick or else I was going to start making those weird noises all the time and never stop.

Problem #3: The woman in bed with me woke up when I made the weird noise for the second time.

Her name was Belinda Starr-Apple and she was the current headliner at Scamps, one of Runager's peeler joints. She rolled over and caught an eyeful of double Ds. She gawked up at my chest, her cherry red lipstick-smeared mouth squeezed into a little O. I really wished I had worn a shirt to bed. I figured I only had three choices now that the tit was out of the bag and none of them was what you would call a doable option.

Option #1: The old-fashioned way.

That's what Runager calls offing someone. "You know what we should do, Tomboy, we should shut up—insert some poor sap's name who had ogled Runager's dingbat wife—the old-fashioned way." But I sure as hell wasn't going to off the lovely and talented Miz Starr-Apple because she woke up in the wrong bed.

Option #2: Pay her off.

This was less bad only because it didn't involve any grievous bodily harm. It was just as bad in its own way because I was pretty much broke again since I had decided to go all in with a pair of jacks and pair of eights, which wasn't even good enough to be a dead man's hand. There was no way I could scrape together enough dough to keep her quiet. All the money I had in the world probably came to about a week's work at Scamps for her.

Option #3: Scare her into keeping her mouth shut.

She whistled. "Boy, those are really nice bazongas." She slipped a hand out of the covers, reached up and started squeezing one of them. Her long red fingernails tickled like crazy and sent shivers running up and down my spine. "I must've been blasted out of my mind not to notice these last night."

So much for Option #3. How was I supposed to put any kind of scare into her when she was busy feeling me up?

"Good thing you don't have a hairy chest. These puppies'd look horrible covered in man fur. How long have you …" Her bronzed forehead scrunched up in confusion.


"You know what? They feel real. I can tell fake ones a mile away because most of the girls on the circuit have them."

"No. Can't be."

She smooshed them up and down. She flattened her hand and rubbed the other one like she was wiping mist off a steamy mirror, sending more shivers down my spine.

"Stop that."

This story appears in our FEB 2022 Issue
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