Shocking the Culture, Pt. I

So the moment he did come to, birds tweeting, sun breaking, one can probably see how he moved with the will of a man possessed. One man one vile, self-indulgent mission.

He pulled up his computer, turned on a news podcast he liked, stirred up some breakfast and watered the garden. He read some Readers' Digest articles online. One of the subject titles was: "Imprinting and the Periods of Gestation."

Lenny, after all, was currently a teacher of Evolutionary Biology at an advanced private school; this kind of thing was his bread and butter. While he didn't exactly fashion himself a 'scientist', he was a practitioner of the sciences in spirit in nearly all realms of his life. He always tried to approach things with a certain kind of methodology. Even if that thing was pooping in a port-a-potty.

These days, he was a bit of a changed man. Not as adherent, more prone to impulses. Still crazy how, despite being only 45, he already had a strand of grey hair or three. Even science still hadn't solved balding. Even science couldn't solve dilapidated telomeres and corroded bone and the great party under a gravestone that awaited all life. There was no cure to being old. And that's sort of what Lenny felt: old. But really, he still had his entire life ahead of him.

With the Book of Reality at hand, he was vividly reminded of that;

an entire life was ahead of him.

With the background fuzz behind him, Lenny dropped the Book of Reality on his work desk, allowing it to splay open. Lenny brought up a pen.

Click.

So.

The change to Asian woman's sexuality and phenotype was a success. Because of course it was; at this point it was clear that nothing was impossible with the book. He'd be fooling himself if he said the reasoning behind those writings yesterday was derived from doubt of the book's power.

He tapped his chin with the end of the ink blotter.

Which led to a subsequent realization.

There was something eccentrically titillating about the nature of corruption to him. As such, it was at this moment, there on his comfortable eighty-dollar chair with wheels, that Lenny Quadglen Fogsworth realized he wasn't of as strong moral conviction as he originally presumed. As his head began to conjure odd, silly worlds cultivated out of the power of the book, his dick pushed against his pants, pulling and stretching, and he absently rubbed at it with his spare hand, the image of him, one hand under the desk and rhythmically rising and falling, adopting an inherently lascivious ominousness. He wanted to do it.

He wanted to see those worlds.

He wanted to sate his curiosity -- not only that. He wanted to sate it, with the world as his contorted playground.

The idea was that he was in a position where no one could see him. It was only him and himself. This feeling of transforming things, the world, people, right under their nose, and being the only one to know that he was responsible -- it's a bit egregious a sentiment, but it kind of made him feel like some non-corporeal force. A divine arbiter of the world. A godlike figurehead, which no one else can scrape.

Which was funny; there, at his desk, all Lenny felt like doing was the dumbest, goofiest nonsense possible.

Considering this was the current theme of the experiment, what else about Asian women could he change, subtract from, add to, or multiply, that directly correlated with an extant fact in this contemporary reality? Something...

"...and then my mom was like, 'Ginger! What the HELL is THAT!?'" The podcast buzzing from his computer speakers suddenly caught his ear as a circle of contained laughs took to the frequency. "And I was, like, 'Come on Mom, everybody gets inked these days! You should try it!' Then she took my car keys and we were on pretty much a cold shoulder phase for the remaining month.."

This caused Lenny to sit up. Thank you, Ginger. Thank...

"..you!" Curling a tongue across his upper lip, Lenny swiveled the pen around a finger.

Only for him to pause, just as he was about to take to scrawl.

Yesterday, he had considered whether he had gone overboard, and something told him he had.

Less in the sense of crossing some moral line. Rather, the general scope of his changes to Asian women wholesale. Maybe it was a bit 'too' general, at least for his immediate plans. Grabbing his white-out bottle, which, he hesitantly realized he still wasn't sure worked, he nevertheless got to revising his reality changing adjustments, until finally, most of the text from two nights ago was gone, or sliced off. All that remained was the following:

"East Asian-American women are known for having big asses; the first thing that people think of amid mentions of said body part or sexual actions involving it are Asian women, who supposedly have the best ass of all women."

"All East Asian-American women get up to wild stuff in bed. Wild."

He had written down the original reality changes onto his personal notebook so he could return to them, perhaps once he had had his fun with the one he was about to enact. He needed, however, enough space, enough normalcy resembling that of life before, in order to really appreciate these. His Black-Asian perception swap sundae would have to wait, for now.

In addition, this would also prove whether or not the white-out worked properly. If it didn't... oh well. It wasn't the end of the world. He would just have to exercise more caution from then on.

After mentally kicking himself for forgetting to drop by Type&Co. yesterday, he set the point to paper, and began to change reality.

This time, focusing specifically on Keiko's cut of cloth.

"In Japanese culture, it is a natural and widely accepted practice amongst women, particularly feminine, modest, and proper, socially well-adjusted ones, to give themselves tramp stamps and/or tattoos depicting sexual, provocative imagery/text and other things, particularly on a part of their body that can be seen with ease. If there is text, they are more often in English than in Japanese characters, and they will say things such as, 'BITCH', 'WHORE', 'CUMDUMP', and other similar vocabulary. Japanese women generally view these tattoos with casual self-identification, as they would with any aspect of their fashion, e.g. shoes, wristbands, make-up, etc., and don't mind showing them off."

Lenny dropped the pen and immediately circled his wrist in his hand. That was a little soreness-inducing.

Still, he didn't much care. He switched tabs on his computer.