Max Smasher's Big Night

Six weeks had passed since the entire world woke up cinched in with impossibly narrow, curvy waists. That had been the latest in a series of global “adjustments,” as people were now calling them — glitches in reality that hit everyone, everywhere, at the same time. Nobody knew how or why it was happening, only that it kept happening. One moment, Max Smasher was a small-time wrestler doing leg drops in a high school gym in Nebraska, and the next he was signed to the biggest wrestling promotion on the planet. Apparently, someone had caught a clip of him right after the last glitch, flexing his arms and giggling in a mock-interview, his big pillowy red lips shimmering under the lights.

Now here he was, backstage at a major televised Monday night show, butterflies flitting around in his tight, toned belly. He checked himself in the mirror one more time: his signature purple bra glimmered beneath the feathered jacket his new costume designer had whipped up. His matching panties rode high above his hips — there was no hiding anything now. Every wrestler on the circuit wore lingerie now, ever since that glitch. Top or bottom card, man or woman, they all had big glossy lips, no body hair, frilly underthings, and voices that trilled like flirtatious songbirds.

“Five minutes, sweetheart!” sang a stagehand with a wink, poking her head through the locker room door.

Max turned, smiling nervously. “Thanks, sugar,” he replied instinctively, his voice soft and high-pitched, the syllables breathy and full of play. He hadn’t meant to sound like that, but resisting it just made you sound like you were trying way too hard. Better to lean into it — that's what the veterans said.

Around him, the other guys were doing their final stretches and touch-ups. Everyone looked like a cartoonish hybrid of warrior and showgirl, powdering their faces and adjusting their bras with the kind of casualness that once might’ve made Max question everything about the sport. But now? Now it was just the game. The bravado remained, but the vibe was different. Smack talk didn’t sound mean anymore — it sounded like two cocktail waitresses going at it after one too many cosmos.

“You ready to shake that sweet lil’ thing on live TV?” teased Rico Blaze, leaning over with a practiced wink as he reapplied his coral lipstick.

Max grinned, brushing invisible lint from his fishnet-covered thighs. “Only if you promise not to fall in love with me when I win,” he cooed back. The locker room howled with laughter — the kind that felt real, even if everyone sounded like a flirty drag queen now.

And then… it hit.

Max blinked. A wave of dizziness passed through him like a gust of wind. All around him, others stopped too, momentarily unsteady. Max grabbed the bench, waiting for the room to settle. Something had changed. Again.

He looked down.

“Uh… what the—?”

His trusty wrestling boots — laced, black, worn — were gone. In their place, he was now balancing in towering five-inch platform heels. Black patent leather, with silver buckles and chunky stripper-style soles. The kind of shoes you saw under strobe lights, not arena floodlights.

“Oh my god,” someone squealed from behind. Max turned to see Rico spinning in place like a ballerina, holding onto a locker door for balance. “Babe, are you seeing this?”

The whole room was a chorus of confused giggles and wobbling steps. It wasn’t just them. From the production staff to the makeup artists, everyone had their shoes replaced — sleek heels, stiletto pumps, platform thigh-highs. A rainbow parade of impractical footwear.

Max gingerly stood, adjusting his center of gravity. His calves instantly engaged. “Okay… okay, I can work with this,” he murmured, hands on his hips.

“You’re a natural,” said another wrestler, blowing him a kiss as she practiced a sultry strut across the locker room floor. “You’ve got those hips for it, honey.”

Max caught his reflection again. Pillowy lips, painted plum tonight. His waist curved like a pin-up, wrapped in purple feathers and satin. His voice trilled, his steps clicked, and now even his feet were part of the show. The old him — the Nebraska gym-brawler — felt miles away.

The music started. Pyro popped outside. A stagehand gestured toward the curtain.

Max Smasher took a breath, shifted his weight onto the balls of his heels, and strutted toward the ring.

“Showtime, baby.”