A jaded ex-cop is turned into a happy bimbo.
*****
Sam Kwok sat with her arms crossed over the back of her chair, looking out from her balcony at the street below. The night was hot and the people outside seemed to be wearing very little. She sweated gin-smelling sweat into the armpits of her button-up shirt and scratched miserably at the nicotine patch on her forearm. Down across the street the owner of the news kiosk sat as she did, backwards in his chair, except he smoked profusely and gave pleasant greetings to the people who passed by. She spat out on the pavement two floors below her, not caring if it hit someone.
Quitting was hell.
She sighed and sucked the last few drops of gin from the bottle. She was just wondering if she could pitch it far enough to wipe the broad grin off the newsagent's face when her phone rang. It was Husky. He was into corporate security contracts now, but they had shared a beat once.
'Hey, Sam. I've got a job for you.' He went straight into it; his office sounded like bedlam in the background, with phones ringing and assistants shouting orders.
'I'm already working a case,' she lied. If he was desperate then she knew she could double her rates. Maybe this month she'd drink real gin instead of the bathtub stuff.
'Let me guess, the mystery of the missing gin? I've got a good idea who's behind that one.'
'What do you want, Husky?' Sam replied bitterly. She tossed the empty gin bottle across the room. It bounced off the edge of a ratty easy chair and rolled away into the darkness of her shitbox apartment.
'Two hours ago TT Post lost a package.'
'So? Fuckers lose my packages all the time. I never did see that dildo. They 'lost it' four times...'
'Right. Well it was stolen. The package, I mean. It was a proper same-day special delivery, two man and van, except one of the couriers is on his first day, leaves the van unattended and then when he gets back the package is gone.'
'Uh huh. Inside job?'
'Maybe. TT Post have their people covering that angle.'
'What's my angle? Why don't they just recompense the sender? What was the package, Husky?
'Well that's the kicker, ain't it? They were shipping a crate of Bimbo Juice. The real deal. Not officially, of course, they didn't quote unquote know what they were transporting, but they knew, and the sender knows they know. They'd write the whole thing off, sure, and pay off both sides and keep well away from mentioning the whole affair to the police, except...'
'Except it was a special delivery and their fucking company logo is all over the goods.'
'Bingo bongo. I mean, hardly the worst scandal, you know, but with the competition turning the screw, it could cost them in the long run. So, time's a factor here, Sam. My people are on it, but I figured if anyone knows the dive bars in Bayview where some red hot Bimbo Juice might be passing hands...'
'Yeah, fuck you too, Husky.' She felt hard inside.
'Cheers, Sam. Call me if you get a lead.'
The connection rang off. Sam pocketed her phone and idly scratched her patch. The newsagent noticed her for the first time and waved, his cigarette trailing smoke from his hand. She scowled. He didn't seem to notice and kept up his big grin. It was like the fucker expected her to cave any minute and buy a pack of smokes from his kiosk. She shook her head, trying to get in the game.
It wasn't like she hoped to find anything, that crate would have been broken up and sold on, or stashed for the long game, but at least she could bill Husky for a day's work, maybe two if she pretended to follow up cold leads in the cool morning.
She bit her ragged nails as she considered the problem. Bimbo Juice was billed as a hard drug, more for its side-effects than any addictive quality. It was too rare to get hooked on, and they said one can of Bimbo Juice was enough. That's all it took to turn a typical human into a pornified bimbo slut. The effects sometimes wore off and sometimes they didn't. Sam vaguely remembered hearing there were different flavours with different outcomes.
The authorities didn't know where it was coming from, either. It was practically magic - a high-science blend of biochemistry and, supposedly, nanotech. How else could someone grow a huge pair of tits in under an hour from only a mouthful of the Juice? How else could nanobot-infused sweat seep out of pores to reshape clothing?
The newsagent greeted a small group of men on their way to a bar. He took money, gave out cigarettes and a joke. The lads laughed. They were in jeans, smart shoes, and freshly ironed short-sleeve shirts. Farther down, a couple of girls tottered on impossibly high heels, their strappy dresses revealing more than they hid.
Sam bit her nails again. She needed to blend in somehow. She sighed, went to look for a change of clothes, and nearly fell over the discarded gin bottle.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
This was the place. Sam knew it the moment she entered Malloy's Bar. It hadn't even made it on her list to check out until a tip came through. It sounded Irish, but it turned out to be a hipster joint, the sort of place where the owner had paid good money to clad the walls with broken pallet wood. One-hundred dollar lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling in birdcages gave a weak, ethereal glow. In spite of the poor lighting, Sam could see a lot of flesh on display tonight.
She was no prude, and she had been trawling bars for the best part of the night, so she had admired more than her fair share of tanned skin, tight bicep, thick lips and flat stomachs. But here. Here it was sex turned up to 11, or maybe higher. She reckoned 69.
Short girls in high heels were spilling out of what passed for clothing. Sam shook her head. Napkins would have provided more coverage. One statuesque girl looked as if she were wearing a belt for a top and a belt for a skirt; both were pulled tight, with more than a hint of nipple peeking over the top of the top-belt, and pretty much everything on display beneath the bottom-belt.
Sam inhaled. The air was hot and thick with perfume, hormones and something else. It had hit her the moment she entered. She tried to shrug it off but it lingered. Sam waded to the bar through the lush atmosphere, feeling conspicuously overdressed in her one clean shirt, jeans, fake-leather jacket and heavy boots. She wasn't the only woman wearing boots, but unlike the calf-hugging leather spike boots on display elsewhere, hers were just scuffed safety boots.
The bar was busy but she found a space. For some reason the barman came to her first, a wry smile on his face.
'A bit grey out tonight,' he said.
'What?'
'Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?' he ignored her query.
