My heart races in my chest as I bolt upright in bed, my eyes wide with terror. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. Firstly, I’m wearing white lingerie. Now, I’m a man’s man—even if these days some folks find that to be “problematic”—and I sure as hell don’t dress like a chick even in my off time. So what the fuck is going on?
That’s when I notice the mounds protruding from my chest. I touch them. They ain’t padding. They ain’t even implants. They’re real. Real as in 100% organic, USDA Grade A boob flesh.
Oh hell.
Worse, my formerly short brown hair has been replaced with a cascade of auburn locks, which brushes my eyes and momentarily blinds me. My first thought is that it’s a wig. I tug. It hurts like hell. Like the tits, the hair is mine. All mine.
Once my feet connect with the carpet, I almost topple over. The shoes I’m wearing sure as shit ain’t the Nikes I distinctly fucking remember putting on that morning.
Except...
My gaze shoots to the window of the unfamiliar bedroom. Outside, it’s green and sunny. But when I went to bed, it was the middle of November. The trees were bare. The grass was dead. And I was the toughest motherfucker in a twenty-mile radius.
FUCK.
I whip around, then shriek. Jesus Christ, it’s a full-length mirror, and I’m looking at a complete stranger. She’s gorgeous. Fucking stunning. Shoulder-length red tresses, a body that’d give any hottie a run for her money, and her face... Her face looks kinda like mine but softer. Pretty, even.
I’m dreaming. Right? I’m stuck in crazy, psychedelic dream. Did I take acid? I don’t usually fuck with that shit, but I’ve been having a rough damn month what with the trouble in Little Italy and the cops snooping around like a bunch of nosy old ladies.
But if this is drugs, then this is the most realistic trip I’ve ever been on. I can smell the cheap hairspray and perfume in the air. I can feel my hair brushing my face. I can even feel the bra straps digging into shoulders. And even...
Even...
Down below, between my now smooth, shapely thighs, it’s what I don’t feel that scares the hell out of me. I don’t feel the hard-on I usually have when I crawl out bed. I don’t feel nothing.
No, that’s not quite right. I do feel something. I feel...
I reach down, grab what can’t possibly be there and gape in horror. I blink, shake my head, and touch it again.
Then I scream. I bellow. And that ain’t right either because the voice that comes outta my mouth ain’t my baritone. It’s a shrill squeal. 
This ain’t a dream. It ain’t a trip. I’m a woman. I’m a fucking woman in every way, shape and form! 
And since magic ain’t real, that means some fucker did this to me. Somebody who’s gonna wish they blew my brains out instead of this twisted shit because I’m gonna kill them. No, that’s too easy. I’m gonna turn ‘em inside out. I’m gonna tear ‘em limb from fucking limb, then feed ‘em to Uncle Gino’s pigs while they’re still screaming.
But first thing’s first. I have to figure out where in unholy hell I am... and how to walk in these damn heels.