Understandably upset, Chad found himself in a Freaky Friday-like situation. The roles were reversed—he was now the fly, not the... umm… poop. Yeah, maybe a better simile would've worked here.
If Chad had switched bodies with a girl like in Freaky Friday, he'd lock himself in his room, shut the curtains, and spend the entire day marvelling at his new body. He'd probably stand in front of the mirror for hours, jiggling his new boobs just to see how they moved. And then, of course, he'd definitely be curious about how it'd feel to have sex with his precious waifu pillow—as a girl. Pure scientific curiosity, obviously.
… "A woman?" he thought, blinking.
He caught sight of the commotion up ahead—fans screaming, flashes popping, and a wall of paparazzi practically foaming at the mouth. His brain did a sudden flip. Wait... what if the celebrity wasn't a dude? What if it was a girl? Or maybe even a whole group of hot girls? A pop idol? A dreamy K-pop girl band? Maybe someone ultra-famous like that singer everyone was obsessed with lately. He could ask for a selfie or an autograph, or—better yet—some of their underwear. He could totally frame it. Or sniff it. Probably both.
He stared at the structure, puzzled. What kind of building was this?
Squinting against the sunlight glinting off the facade, he managed to decipher a few weathered letters etched into the stonework above the entrance. Slowly, they came into focus: "B", "A", "N", "K"—the word "Bank" emerged from the jumble.
His mind jolted, then veered into overdrive. Hold on—they seriously built a building dedicated to personal wank banks?
A spot to store hentai and nudes, with discreet booths for a quick jerk?
He scratched his head. Why did they need a whole building for such a niche thing?
A few armed cops approached Chad, their expressions tense. "Be careful," one warned, nodding toward the building. "They've got guns."
Chad peered inside, his gaze locking onto a bizarre scene: several figures in gimp masks stood in front of a cluster of women. They have guns? he thought, smirking to himself. They must have damn good eyesight to spot the women's tits from this distance. Wish I had vision like that.
He squinted, confused by the gimp masks. Chad never understood the appeal of gimp suits. They looked like a cheap knock-off of a Venom cosplay. Leather and zippers? Not his thing. He preferred seeing the person he was with, not some faceless figure. Gimp-style underwear? Hard pass. Imagine that zipper snagging on your dick when you're in a rush. No thanks.
The stand-off pulsed with tension as the cops positioned themselves outside the bank. Their boots scuffed the pavement, radios crackling faintly in the background.
One officer, a grizzled veteran with a salt-and-pepper moustache, snatched the megaphone from the hood of a squad car. He flicked it on with a staticky whine and roared,
"This is your only warning! Release all the hostages and drop that damn cookie—let's wrap this up so we can all kick back by 9 p.m. and catch Lupin the Third on TV!"
His voice boomed across the street, reverberating off the bank's glass facade.
A second cop, younger and wiry, his hand resting on his holstered Glock, stepped forward. His eyes narrowed as he grabbed the megaphone's edge, pulling it toward himself.
"You're not walking out of there with anything," he declared, his tone cold and unyielding.
"We'll open fire, and trust me, we won't think twice about dropping every last one of you inside!"
The threat hung heavy in the air, underscored by the distant wail of a siren.
The first cop, still clutching the megaphone, pivoted toward his partner. His bushy brows knitted together in confusion. He lowered the device just enough to whisper,
"Hang on a sec… Did we just offer a good deal there? Like, let the hostages go, or we'll kill EVERYBODY ourselves?"
His voice was low, but the faint echo of his words bounced off the nearby buildings, betraying his uncertainty.
The second cop, oblivious that the megaphone was still live, yanked it back and snapped,
"No, no, it's not like that. It's more: they let the hostages go, then we storm in and waste the robbers… Or, if they don't, we just light up the whole place, taking out both them and the hostages in one go."
His words blared out, amplified for all to hear—inside, the robbers and the growing crowd of onlookers behind the police tape. A few gasped. Others exchanged baffled glances.
The first cop asked, "You really think they'll go for this? It's a death-for-death situation, not much of a deal."
"Doesn't matter if they buy it or not," the second cop sneered, tightening his grip on the megaphone. "Either way, they're as good as dead. And when it's all over, we'll be the ones getting our shiny, gold-painted plastic badges from Wish.comfor 'saving the day.'"
So they're pulling a bank heist? Swapping one Dog Day Afternoon with the Autumn girl for another, Chad thought to himself.
He shook his head, unimpressed. Banks had always rubbed him the wrong way—shady, unreliable outfits, every last one. He put all his faith in PepeCoin, his trusty cryptocurrency, and never trusted government banks.
The first cop, his voice sharp and edged with impatience, gripped the megaphone tighter and barked, "We are about to shoot… stand down now!" The words crackled through the air, amplified by the device's harsh static, cutting through the murmur of the gathered crowd and the faint hum of idling police cruisers.
A quiet laugh escaped Chad. Wow, this dude's so horny to shoot his load already. Even I've got more staying power with my waifu pillow.
The first cop raised the megaphone again, his voice steady but laced with an odd cheerfulness. "Alright, here's the plan: we all count to ten together. And no, this isn't a threat… we're not bluffing. We do know how to count to ten; picked it up from Teletubbies after a few episodes. So, once we hit ten, we'll… "
The second cop cut in, scratching his head. "Keep going to twenty or something?"
"Nope," the first cop shot back, deadpan. "We'll open fire."
A few muffled voices echoed from inside the bank, bold and defiant. "We are never gonna give you up!" they shouted, as they pointed their guns at the hostages.
Straining to hear more, Chad caught only garbled words through the thick walls and chaos outside. It was tough to make out, but it almost sounded like... singing?
The cops said, "Alright, that's enough… No more counting… It's time for the boom boom bang bang!"
The what??!
The crowd—paparazzi, locals, and teens—huddled behind police tape, buzzing with tension. Cameras flashed, phones recorded, whispers flew.
The cops were armed for total annihilation.
One cop had a nuclear warhead primed, ready to launch with a flick of a switch. Another carried a laser cannon that could incinerate anything in its path. A third cop had a plasma turret on standby, sending beams hot enough to melt the ground beneath them.
A fourth cop held a railgun, capable of firing a projectile that could punch through mountains. Drones above had EMP nukes ready to drop, prepared to disable anything electrical within a mile radius.
Nearby, a fifth cop had a Banana Bomb strapped to their belt, ready to be thrown. Another held a Holy Hand Grenade, the countdown timer ticking ominously.
And the sergeant—grinning—had a Concrete Donkey standing by, waiting to crush anything in its way.
Overkill much?!
Chad couldn't care less about the chaos around him; all he cared about was getting a better look at the hostages' boobies to see if they could rival his waifu's. He slowly crept forward, edging past the police tape for a clearer view.