@Background Pony #5405
Thanks! I don’t usually go back to these older imported posts but browsing my local collection just inspired me suddenly.

@Background Pony #CCB5
love the blend of mundane horror and dark comedy/drama derived from cornball pinkie pie schtick in this one, top-tier writing as usual and a perfect fit for the image lol

Content: TG/TF, bimboification

The woman on the daylight side of the door was active duty detective Lian Singh. “I brought you a care package,” she said, holding a plastic bag with a pharmacy logo on it. “I tried to pick stuff that’d be easiest to use first,” she said frankly.
“Thanks, Li.” The woman on the unlit side of the door was detective Dennis Pawlak, officially on disability and secretly under watch in the Witness Protection Program safehouse apartment.
“Need help with anything?” detective Singh offered without flinching.
“No thanks, I bet there’s youtube videos for everything these days. Thanks again, Li,” the pink-colored collection of curves and curls replied with a sigh. All her sighs were heavy, for physiological reasons as well as psychological ones. She started to close the door, but her unofficial caretaker’s hand stopped it halfway.
“Listen, partner, we’re not giving up on you, okay? You need anything, you want anything, you have any questions-”
“I’ll be okay, Li. Thanks. I mean it, I know you guys have my back in this. I really do appreciate it,” Dennis said through the gap.
“Any word from Martha?” Li asked.
“You’d be the first to hear it,” Dennis said glumly, then attempted a weak an ineffectual smile. “Anyway, don’t you have a soccer match to get to?”
“Yeah,” Lian replied. She knew that bringing up her kids’ sports activities was her partner’s way of dismissing her. “Take care, partner. We’ll beat this thing. I haven’t let anyone take your chair because I know you’ll be upset if it’s not waiting for you back at the precinct.”
“Thanks, bye Li,” Dennis said finally as he closed the door and latched the locks. He tread with heavy footfalls to the small living area and dropped to his knees in front of the ancient television, provisioned before the days of HD and never upgraded due to budgetary reasons. Safe houses aren’t supposed to be vacation homes, what would the taxpayers say? had been the refrain from higher up. For the past three weeks it had been his primary source of distraction, other than the old and crumbling issues of Reader’s Digest.
Dennis clicked on the tube set and by the light of its flickering screen he rummaged through the pharmacy bag her partner had brought. Sanitary napkins, deodorizing wipes, and store-branded braided tampons. It was a reminder of the number of days that had passed since the incident, and that they still hadn’t found a treatment. On the receipt in the bag was a brief note written in Singh’s laudable print handwriting: DON’T FLUSH. Dennis glanced at the total and was mildly upset her partner was laying out this extra money for his sake, and it reminded him how much her wife spent on similar products. A recurring charge for biology that she hadn’t had to worry about until recently.
“Being a chick sure ain’t cheap,” she sighed in a voice that sounded almost like someone had been pumping helium into the apartment. She set the bag aside and looked around the floor. Today’s lunch, delivered by a proxy officer each day to avoid giving away any information about Pawlak’s whereabouts, was now just an empty take-out box full of wrappers and plastic utensils. She needed to throw them away before they caused a roach problem, but even with nothing to do all day it seemed like a chore. Everything did, really. Besides, what was the point in trying to keep the place tidy? It wasn’t her home. Eventually they’d have to kick her out, even if they couldn’t find a cure. When the future was looming so bleak, why bother keeping tidy?

“Another wave of mass transformations has been reported again today, the first one this week. Once again, all the victims are known or believed to be users of the street drug called The Giggles, which authorities say is almost always tainted with unlicensed nanobots. The highly addictive drug, which causes impaired judgment and feelings of giddiness among other symptoms, has been linked with an organized crime network known as The Conversion Bureau. Authorities still have not deciphered the encrypted remote signals that cause the spontaneous but synchronous transformations, nor have they uncovered a pattern to identify which Giggles users are selected for each wave-”

Dennis clicked the remote to put on an old western TV show instead. She knew all about The Giggles, in fact he knew more than the news let on. She didn’t need to be reminded why he was stuck in this apartment, becoming increasingly estranged from her wife of six years, and now faced with the impending necessity of first-hand practice using period products. She hated to admit it, but the truth was she was looking forward to the next set of fits. The same ones that had freaked Martha out. At least when the fits took her, she didn’t have to dwell on her situation. All because someone squealed and let the Conversion Bureau in on their bust, giving them time to set an ambush.

Five darts had pierced his skin where the plate carrier didn’t cover, two in his left shoulder and one in each leg. That had been more than enough. The next day, presumably after the nanobots had spread and he was in the hospital under observation, the remote signal had come. The doctors knew what was happening to him, but they kept infuriatingly quiet as Dennis’s body was reshaped and rebuilt from within. The churning in his stomach, the aching of his muscles, the feeling like his bones were red-hot iron rods being pounded by a blacksmith into new shapes, the painful swelling, and the horrifying sensation of his manhood turning itself inside-out beneath the hospital gown. The blotches looked like a rash at first, but before his eyes they rapidly joined together and became a uniform pink color. His scalp itched, and so did a spot on his back, just above his ass. The pulling and tugging of his muscles as his ears shifted position and spread out, the crunching as his teeth were forced into new orientations when his mouth simultaneously shrank and extended into a slight muzzle.
But worst of all was the laughing. He couldn’t stop, and it shook his body until he was bruised and sore while the medical staff watched and adjusted his restraints to keep him pulling out the IV line or injuring a nurse with his convulsions. And he guffawed the entire time, uncontrollable peels of laughter that gradually rose in pitch until he sounded like a madwoman instead of a madman. The look on Martha’s face was one of abject horror, but he knew the look on his was a mask of elated joy. The joy that took over his brain as the transformation and first “fit” progressed. He knew it was wrong to be happy about any of this, but he couldn’t stop the manic euphoria induced by the drug even as it took a wrecking ball to his life in that hospital bed. Then it left him with two actual wrecking balls, heavy lumps of flesh that wiggled and rippled on his chest as they pushed up and pressed down, resisting the epileptic contractions of his lungs through force of gravity. All he could do was laugh as his old life was taken from him.

“Whoever came up with shit is a real piece of work,” Dennis said to herself in the safehouse as she relived the moment she’d lost it all. She looked down from the screen and all she saw was tit. Two big honkers crammed into a shirt that had never signed up for this, and where the neckline stretched out she saw bright pink cleavage. They were heavy, they were often sore, they were murder on her back, and they were just plain stupid. Dennis had always been a leg man himself, proudly arguing to his peers that anything more than a handful up top was wasted, so this wasn’t even some kind of ironic cosmic justice on her part. And her figure down south wasn’t even her favorite shape; they were way too thick and squishy, where she preferred women’s legs to be slender and sleek. He’d once joked to a junior officer that if the drug had left the world full of giddy Kathy Irelands he might even be onboard with it, which earned him a quizzical “Who?” that reminded him how much these Gen Y’ers had missed out on.
And it really bugged her that she could only think in male pronouns for the past tense.

“And what if your Ma and I needed that rifle when you weren’t here, son?” the stern-voiced rancher scolded on the flickering screen.
“Gosh, Pa! I was just tryin’ have some fun!” his delinquent son pleaded as he turned over the Winchester.
“Heh,” Dennis chuckled. Fun. “Heheh.”
“Son this is the last time I’m tellin’ ya: A gun ain’t fun-”
“Heheheeee…” Dennis laughed. Fun. It wasn’t really funny, though.
“-it’s a tool fer killin’! And ain’t no God-fearing son of mine is gonna live under the delusion that killin’ is fun!”
“Hahahaha!” Dennis bust out laughing, like she was watching a sitcom instead of a drama. Fun! “Hehehe, oopsa-daisy! I’m getting a giggle fit!” she said to herself, the tone of her voice and her choice of words not quite aligned with her trepidation. It was close to dinner delivery time, and she was going to be knees-deep in a fit when her fellow officers showed up at her door. “That’d be silly!” she giggled despite herself.
Dennis tried to stand up, but she was experiencing the dizziness that accompanied fits in the early stages and toppled backwards onto the couch. She landed with a heavy thud that caused her chest to bounce. “Hehehe, galloping girlies!” she joked, rapidly losing her sense of shame to the artificial elevation of her mood. She shook her chest from side to side and laughed as they wobbled against each other. “I’m- I’m all a titter!” she joked, inspiring herself to let loose an explosive guffaw that shook the rest of her body just along with her boobs. “Gotta get ahold of myself!” she announced before deliberately slapping a hand on each side of her bosom. “Woob-woob-woob!” she mouthed while squishing them together playfully and sniggering through her nose. “Woob-woob-woob, time to watch the boob tube!” she giggled while continuing to bounce herself with both hands.
“We gotta get to the outpost before the Comanche do!” the stern rancher declared as he stepped into the stirrups and mounted his horse. “Hyah!” he cried, putting spurs to flanks and holding on as his powerful mare shot forward like a lightning bolt of muscle and beastly fury.
“Yeee-haw!” Dennis cheered, bouncing her plump rear on the couch as if in a saddle. “Ride her, cowboy! Why can’t we all just get along, little doggie? Yeehaw!” Every sentence was punctuated with a constant stream of giggles and laughs, and she was fully under the fit now. “You know, isn’t a long little doggie a weener dog?” she said to nobody, and providing her own raucous audience reaction. “When is some cowboy gonna get me a long little doggie? Yeehaw!” she laughed, putting her hands on top of her curly-maned head and swaying as she bounced in order to swing her over-sized breasts in a circular wave.

Officer Hendrix knocked on the safehouse door with a styrofoam takeout box in his other hand. This was his first rotation on food runs for the detective and he wanted to get it over with so he could go home and sext his girlfriend. He’d never met detective Pawlak before but the way the whole department spoke about him in slightly hushed tones told him that whatever happened on that sting operation was a real tragedy. He expected to be greeted by a grizzled vet of the force, maybe walking with a crutch or something, possibly bandaged over half is face to heal some disfigurement.

What he didn’t expect was a frizzy-haired, bubblegum-colored bimbo with big floppy ears to answer the door, look him up and down, and grab him by the necktie before he could even say ‘Here’s your grub, detective.’ She cackled madly while pulling him into the cramped living room and over to the sofa.
“Hot dog!” she cried merrily in a high, nasal voice that he could already tell he was going to hate. “We have a weener!”
“Um, actually it’s a Reuben,” Hendrix said, offering the takeout box as he looked around at the messy safehouse apartment’s littered floor and tried to listen over the loud old cowboy show on the TV. “Where’s detective Pawlak?”
“In the flesh!” the weird bimbo cheered, striking a pose that stuck all her assets out at exaggerated angles, not that they needed any help. “Speaking of which, I think you brought my footlong, silly!” she giggled flirtatiously.
“Nooo…? Like I said, it’s a Reuben.” Hendrix replied, trying to evaluate all this information and failing to organize it into a sensible framework.
“Aww, really?” the bimbo asked, closing the gap between them and reaching out to grip his belt. “Because I thought you were gonna get me a long little doggie!”
“I-” he blurted out before she suddenly shifted her weight and flung him onto the couch, dropping the dinner delivery in the process. In a flash she was straddling his legs and had his buckle undone, giggling like an idiot.“Where’s the detective?” he asked again, grabbing her wrists and shaking her.
“Like I said, you’re meeting detective Pawlak in the flesh! Or at least, you’re about be!” she chortled and wrestled her arms free, continuing her assault on the zipper of his uniform slacks. “Now hurry up, I’m a damsel in need of dis-dress and the only thing I like more than a man in uniform is a man out of one!”
Hendrix looked at the weird chick’s pink face, biting its lip to stifle her laughter and boring into him with hungry eyes. He looked down at some incredibly hefty knockers that wiggled enticingly just inches from his chest, two jumbo-sized nipples high-beaming the stressed fabric of her ill-fitting top. He felt the shifting of her well-padded seat on his thighs, and his ‘long little doggie’ pulling against the material of his slacks.
“Giddy-up,” he said with a grin. The sexting session with Linda could wait.