Note: The author personally has nothing against body modification or breast augmentation. He is in fact, a fan of them.
We had always been the jovial sort, Alex and I. If it came at the expense of another, so be it. That was how it was.
It was this mindset in which we were mired when we came up with the Discomboobulator. And this was where our disparate specialties came together as pure genius.
I have two degrees from MIT, electro-mechanical engineering, and Latin. If you want to build a robot that can curse your friends with long-forgotten eloquence and still keep a smile on their face, I am your guy. Alex has a degree in something, I forget what, but his real skill was for getting shit done. And presently, we needed to get shit done, if we were to meet our self-imposed deadline of the near future.
In the off chance you don’t read the L.A. Times, we met that deadline, with ferocity.
It was a long Saturday, three weeks ago, that we had turned into a drinking frenzy. Al being a Russki and myself a Mick, we had come to an impasse by means of a charged discourse over who had the more fucked up genetics, with regards to one’s disposition toward the hooch. This of course means nothing more than that we had to figure out what the hell to drink that day. Alex demanded vodka, while I espoused the virtues of Ireland’s own Guinness stout. Alex reminded me that the swill Guinness we get here in the states is naught but bat’s piss with pig turd for coloring.
Finally, we came to a disgusting, yet potent agreement that we lovingly called Godka; eight ounces Guinness, one shot of vodka. Much mirth ensued, followed by a lengthy theological discussion over potential copyright infringements of our creation with the Catholic church. But then something else came about. In our semi-enlightened, or semi-deluded, state, we decided what most good drunks realize at some point in their trip: there was a war to be waged.
Any relatively observant denizen of southern California can agree there is a new specie in town, one commonly seen leaving the offices of Beverly Hills plastic surgeons; an almost alien breed, unrecognizable from its homo sapiens progenitors. Jim Morrison's L.A. woman has devolved into the reptilian Roswell Grey of Close Encounters. The tightly-drawn face, the disappearing nose whose cartilage has been pulled into non-existence, leaving only a minimal pair of nostrils, the formerly-ubiquitous jowls of old age replaced by collagen injected lips and Botox cheekbones. These are the attributes of the supplanter of woman-kind.
However, one accoutrement Spielberg didn’t foresee in his legion of aliens at Devil’s Tower was boobs. Normal, naturally hanging breasts have been replaced with globes of pointed perfection. "But perfection is the realm of nature, not of man," Alex reminded me most eloquently when he held he glass of Godka up for a toast.
“D’ye see, Seamus?” he said. “Utter bullshit!” He paused, then clinked glasses and drank our swill.
“Aye, Sasha, aye,” I replied, and we decided on a war.
I stumbled to the enormous whiteboard hanging on Alex's wall and went to work. By daybreak we had an idea. Now we needed parts, and boobs.
As usual, Alex’s friends in low places came through. Through the exchange of illicit substances and various empty promises, he procured four sets of saline breast implants, big ones too. The other requisites were a bit more difficult.
The design I had drawn up was simple enough. It was based on the military’s non-lethal weapons division’s idea of a good time. In case you haven’t heard of the brown sound or the gut buster, it goes something like the following. A mechanical amplification horn with a small chamber attached. Within the chamber an explosion is detonated - petrol, gas, kerosene, etc. The explosion chamber is tuned such that a specific frequency is generated from the explosion and amplified via the amplification horn. Anyone standing in front of the resonator for quite a distance is struck with the immediate need for a bathroom. Great for parties and general civil unrest.
My idea was just as simple, except the frequency I needed to amplify was much higher. It occurred to me that mere sound waves hitting a mass of silicone would produce fun and varied effects. And knowing the resonant frequency of silicone, all I needed was a way to get the wave strong enough to be effective at a distance.
This is where the Schmidt Horn came into play. I know what you are thinking, and so were we. Where in hell are we going to get a Schmidt Horn?
I don’t call Alex The Master of Getting All Shit Necessary for no good reason. One of his friends from UCLA, a brilliant Chinee by the name of Yolan Chu, was working with an aerospace company who shall remain nameless, lest they discover where their Schmidt Horn went off to. Yolan was also instrumental is procuring the matching oscillator circuit that interfaced with the Horn. Thank you, Yolan, if that is your real name - which it is not.
Getting the printed circuit board drawn and etched in a week, though. Therein lay a challenge. It surpassed anything I had done in any of my MIT labs, and that was twelve years ago besides. Alex might have been able to pull it off, but he shook so bad before six beers, and fumbled so badly afterwards, we had to call in the pro.
Vinh Nguyen. A tiny Vietnamese man, with tiny Vietnamese fingers; he was one of the best. But only those in certain circles knew it. He was the guy you went to when you didn’t want your shit traced to anywhere. And, he would do almost anything for a few grams of smack. He was our man.
We stuck him in the basement with a pocketful of ICs, a schematic, all the etching supplies, and two hundred dollars worth of the kill brown waxy. Just under twenty-four hours later, he was sitting in the living room, chasing the dragon, while Alex and I plotted our first strategic engagement.
We spent the next day fine-tuning the Discomboobulator using the eight sacs of silicon breasts.
On the proof-of-concept test the amplifier circuit was tuned too high and the device spread silicon all over the back yard. Not only had the silicone become extremely unstable, it had done so with great force. The molecules had become over-excited and had blown the boob apart. Not good. We didn’t want to kill anyone, war or no.
The next test proved more fruitful. The silicone hardened into an almost rock-like substance: a decent effect to be sure. After three tries, we had it perfected. If a woman, or man, so enhanced was hit with this device, whatever shape their breast sac was in at the time, it would remain thus forever.
We hit the rest of our test breasts with the beam while they were held in various shapes by rocks and pieces of wood. When we were done, we had two ashtrays and a pair of beer cozies.
Time to muster the troops. All we had to do was convert Alex’s Scooby Doo-style van into a mobile weapons platform. Sounds cool huh? It totally fucking rocked. The interior of the van was devoid of anything except cigarette butts and old porno mags. So we bashed out the rear window and installed a rotating wooden platform that allowed the Discomboobulator to swivel into position within seconds, then easily stow away.
Power-up on the circuit was about fifteen seconds, and we had to be within forty feet of a target to be effective. This meant targets had to be plentiful, and that meant hanging out in The Valley.
Anyone living in the San Fernando Valley knew that the most silicone per square mile could be found at the West Valley Mall, home to Macy's, Nordstrom's, all that upscale shit. We hopped in the van and made our course. Alex being drunk, naturally, I had to drive.
To make the device as undetectable as possible, we covered the Schmidt Horn with used twelve packs of… Schmidt Beer, of course! The charge and discharge triggers were wired into the control panel of the van. I chose buttons that were never used: the CD eject and the heater switch. Alex sat in a lawn chair in the back, his only job was to aim the goddamn cannon and say FIRE.
The parking lot at the mall was rather full, so we drove about for awhile until a choice slot opened up. We parked so that we faced the maximum amount of SUVs. Did I mention that Vinh was in the back as well, still smoking horse?
Yeah, well, he made things interesting. A primer-coated van with a missing rear window was weird enough in that parking lot. Add a drunk Russki poking his head out every few seconds, scouting for silicone, and the random outbursts of a Vietnamese dude tripping on heroin, flashing back to war-era village bombings and what not. Mall security left us alone, though. The ersatz three piece suit I was wearing might have helped.
And so we waited, Alex drank, Vinh smoked his brains out. Then, we had our mark.
Typical valley MILF. Two kids, gold package Escalade, two HUGE boobs pointing to high heaven. Alex was so excited he almost puked. Vinh yelled something about his village and the game was afoot. I tensed up immediately, being the only one not intoxicated. I pressed the heater button and primed the circuit. Then once again, and it started charging. There was a almost imperceptible whine as the oscillator spun up.
Then the engine warning light lit up. What the fuck?! I thought. Then I remember I wired that to happen when the device was ready to fire. Alex watched and moved the horn slowly into position. The ball bearings under the platform squeaked unmercifully. I guess Alex hadn’t sprayed them with WD40 as I asked him. I watched the MILF in the side mirror. She hadn’t noticed the squeak.
She opened her SUV and started loading kids in. Al followed her with the Horn and waited. Then, a stroke of luck. Her Gucci purse fell from her arm. She turned toward our van and leaned over to pick it up, exposing more of her massive melons.
Alex eyes widened as he whispered over my shoulder. “Dude,” he paused. “Fiiireee.” I bit my lip and pressed the CD eject button. The high pitched whine stopped. The device had fired.
I watched the side mirror as the target stood up. She stopped halfway with a puzzled expression on her face. She put her hands to her chest and squeezed. Her chest didn’t give. Her jaw dropped and panic struck. She threw her purse into the front seat of the SUV and felt her boobs again. Beneath the skin tight workout top she was wearing odd shapes had formed. Her breasts had become cylindrical and were pointing straight forward, the nipples hanging ridiculously at the bottom. The strain on her skin, as it tried to support the unnatural shapes, was evident beneath her top. She pushed the cylinders together, they barely moved. Her face had turned red. Then I heard the wheezing.
I turned from the mirror and stared straight ahead. What the fuck, I thought. Did she have silicone lungs? Why was she wheezing? I slowly looked into the rear of the van and found Alex attempting to stand in the back of the van. His hands were over his mouth. He was the wheezer. Tears were streaming down his face as he suppressed the laugh of ages.
"Dude," he choked out. "What… the… fuck!"
Then Vinh screamed out something about carpet bombing and napalm so I put the van into drive and got the fuck out of there.
That night we celebrated with Godka. Vinh sat with us, chasing more dragons. I was mildly pleased he was a smoker and not a shooter. The sight of needles going into veins always unnerved me.
“Hot damn,” Alex said. “Aye,” I replied. Alex gave me that look that Spock was always giving Kirk, the one eyebrow raised.
“Success, captain?” he asked, mimicking Nimoy's voice.
“Dude, fucking!” I replied. ”Total fucking success.”
“How far?” he hiccoughed. “I mean… how many can we hit at once?”
“Damn you,” I yelled. I chugged my Godka went to the whiteboard and started figuring it out. Within an hour I had calculated the power output relative to the Schmidt Horn's dispersion pattern.
“How close?” I asked Alex.
“Let’s say… three MILFs in a Wusterhoff formation.”
I sketched the formation out on the board. For the hell of it, I refactored for five MILFs, then ten. “Well,” I said. “With some minor mods, we could stay within forty feet, same as today. Probably get a dozen.”
“Excellent, my brother,” he said. “A toast!”
Alex wrote a synopsis of the day’s events and posted it anonymously to our favorite anti-social websites. He also drunkenly happened to mention our next target, which I didn't think of as being a real problem at first. But when we pulled into the Gelsons Market in Encino the next day, all bets were off. The parking lot was full. Not of MILFs, however. In every other car we spotted the tell-tale signs of nerd-dom. The Star Wars action figures glued to dashboards, Linux bumper stickers, Transformer emblems on windows, etc. There were even thirteen-year-old nerds with binoculars parked in GMC Gremlins across the street. We turned the van around and came home.
I chastised Alex over Godka. “Remember,” I said to him. “Humility, above all else!”
“Aye, Seamus,” he replied. He stood and bowed to me. "My sincerest apologies."
The next caper was the one that made the newspaper. I had gotten the recharge rate of the oscillation circuit down to three seconds. I had overlooked an obvious factor in the initial design, which was brought to my attention by Vinh. While I was poring over the design schematic, he mumbled something about a B-29 Superfortress attack on his village and that made me think of the tanking circuit I had built from memory. Don't ask my why.
But this was a twelve-year-old memory. The newer components were much faster and could take much more heat. So, I replaced a few parts on the PC board and was done. Three seconds from discharge to recharge. It was time for the ultimate test: Rodeo Drive.
We left Vinh at home this time. He had run out of smack and his withdrawals were becoming more than a distraction.
Rodeo Drive was full of the usual trophy wives with more money than brains, but in no way more money than boobs. We cruised slowly. During the circuit redesign, I had rigged the charging circuit and the firing mechanism into one two-state switch. Three seconds between presses and we could solidify the entirety of Rodeo Drive in about two minutes. On we drove.
Earlier that day, Alex had modified the platform to allow discharge of the Discomboobulator through the side window, which was also smashed out. One less window in his van, but what the hell, it never rains in Los Angeles anyway. We pulled along the Drive, watching for MILF central. Who were we kidding, they were everywhere.
Alex took the final swig of Godka from his flask and set the platform. No whispering this time. “FIRE MOTHERFUCKER!”, he screamed. I jammed my finger onto the trigger and let it fly. Alex swung around in back of the van like Han Solo in the Falcon.
Side window: three MILFs down! Rear window: a crosswalk overflowing! One, two, four, ten! Cries erupted as cell phones and Coach purses clattered to the ground.
Bizarre misshapen bodies lay behind us, hands clasped to a hundred thousand-dollar chests. We rolled on.
Alex screamed as he swung the Schmidt Horn to and fro, my finger became tired from jamming the trigger down. Finally, we ran out of real estate and I turned the van toward home. I looked in the rear view mirror.
This time Alex was not laughing. He merely sat against the back door of the van and stared straight ahead. Something had gotten to him and forced him to solitude. Probably the chaos, I thought. Maybe the power.
When we got home, I became a bit paranoid as the news of the day's insanity was on all the stations. We had not swapped license plates to I figured anything was possible. Our attack was silent, yea, and covert, but we were the only low-value vehicle on the Drive, so who do YOU think are going to point fingers at? It was my decision to dismantle the platform, for now.
Alex crawled into the back and started unbolting the Horn from the wooden shelf on which it was mounted. I went to work unwiring the triggering mechanism from the main circuit. A green light on the board went dim as the device discharged for the final time. Then, I heard a gasp from the back of the van.
I looked up at Alex. He was holding the horn, and it was aiming straight at his crotch.
“Al, what’s wrong?” I asked. He was whimpering.
“Jim,” he said again. “My sack, man.”
“What about it?” I asked, turning back to my work.
I heard him sit the device on the floor of the van and then a zipper open. Alex had pulled his jeans down, no underwear; he is a commando kind of guy.
His ball sack was hanging strangely low, his testicles elongated.
I dropped my screwdriver. “What the FUCK, man!” I said. He put his balls in the palm of his hand and squeezed them.
“Fucking rocks,” he said. “Rocks, Jim! I never had a big sack. Oh God.
It took me a few seconds to find my voice. I was stunned past speech. “Dude?! Implants?” It could be the only answer to this nightmare sequence I was experiencing.
“I always wanted big balls. Mine were so small. Oh God, so so small.” Alex started moaning. I looked at the twisted form in his hand and crawled out of the van. He cried louder.
I went into the house and made some Godka.
Be yourself and maybe someone else if you have it in you.
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