Time to kick ass (Patreon)

I stared at my damn reflection in the filthy motel mirror, a look of utter disbelief etched on my face. The mug staring back at me wasn't the rugged detective I knew; it was some chick I'd picked up at a sleazy bar the night before. My usual cool and collected demeanor was replaced by the sultry gaze of this mysterious broad, and my usual stoic expression was now draped in a cascade of long hair that definitely wasn't mine.

Couldn't ignore the weight of these new boobs or the weird sensation of curves that didn't belong to me. The events from the night played out like a messed-up adult film, but this wasn't some raunchy fantasy – it was my messed-up reality. 

The aftermath of our wild romp still clung to the grungy motel room – a room I sure as hell didn't remember booking. We stumbled in together, but the details were all a fog. A smooch, some intimate moment, then blackout. When I peeled my eyes open, I was Monica Stefania, a stripper from a joint owned by that infamous scumbag "Big Hands," my arch-nemesis in the criminal underworld.

Couldn't deny the damn truth glaring back at me from the mirror. This wasn't a freakin' hallucination or a bad acid trip. My body was gone, and now I was trapped in the life of a chick with a past I didn't give a rat's ass about. Makeup smeared across my face, and the woman in the mirror copied my every damn move, a cruel reminder of the twisted hand fate had dealt me.

Knew all too well about "Big Hands" – the bastard was a real piece of work. His bar was a front for all sorts of shady crap, and the way he treated the girls working for him was downright obscene. Now, I was one of them, and the gravity of the situation hit me like a swift kick in the nuts.

In the grimy underbelly of crime, I pondered my next move. Convincing anyone of this gender-bending, life-screwing tale would be a colossal pain in the ass. Who the hell would believe a badass detective had been tossed into the body of a stripper? Nobody, that's who.

But I wasn't one to back down. A surge of determination coursed through me like cheap tequila. I might be Monica Stefania now, but I'd be damned if I let "Big Hands" and his crew run me into the frickin' ground. The challenges ahead were as tough as a two-dollar steak, and the road back to my own damn skin was paved with uncertainty. As I braced myself for the trials ahead, I silently vowed to unravel this screwed-up plot and emerge from this femme fatale nightmare with my detective instincts still intact. It was time to kick ass, take names, and reclaim my identity, no matter the odds stacked against me.