Finder's fee

Danny Andern is dead. He was once the fat cat COO of a Wall Street investment firm. He was also an incorrigible, reckless, fraud. He made millions at the expense of the Western world - all of which he fecklessly squandered on the pleasures of life: , , women. When the feds finally crippled his business, he had little friends - and even less wealth - to protect him. After pissing away his remaining assets on cheap thrills, Danny found himself living in a van down by the river. Too fat to turn tricks, and too stubborn for a real job, he fed his vices by executing a series of unsuccessful petty schemes.

Unfortunately for Danny, his final scheme involved 20kg of primo Columbian cocaine, far too many free samples, and angry cartel. With a quick flash his vision went dark and he felt himself barreling down upper Park Ave.

You wake to the distant wail of sirens. Surprisingly, you feel fine - considering you were just shot. You open your eyes to see people huddling around you. A man in a suit offers you his hand.

"Are you alright, miss?" He asks.

You reach for his hand and immediately notice that something is off: your hand is too slender. He pulls you up and realize your arms are also too slender. Locks of hair tumble into view. You brush them aside and slowly look down: there are two plump mounds hanging from your chest.

"Miss, I said, are you alright?"

You cup your breasts lightly.

"Miss?"

You realize he's speaking to you.

"I'm fine." You reply in an unexpectedly feminine voice. You cover your mouth. "I'm, uh, sorry. I have to go."

Unaccustomed to the weight of your new breasts, you stumble forward as you turn to leave.

"Miss, wait!" Another man yells after you.

You ignore them, straighten your back, and march down Park Ave.