The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When he was coming home the other day, Wilson fell on his head. He was able to get home safely, but when he washed up and settled into bed he felt a strange, wet bump on the left side of his forehead. Then suddenly, he remembered his old man.

“Your problem,” his dad used to tell him during elementary school, middle school, high school, and probably college too if he still had been alive then, “is your ignorance, Billy. You don’t care enough about the things you should care about, the stuff right in front of ya. Then once it’s too late, all you could do is slap your head and go, ‘Dang it not again’. The problem, Billy, is when that’s all you ever end up doin’.”

The memory subsided, and Wilson with the bump on his head puckered his lips, wondering why it came to him. Then he shrugged and in a couple minutes, fell sound asleep under the covers. The landowner’s dog barked like a neutered pup outside, but everyone on the rent was used to it by now. The place was no luxury condo—but for Wilson, it was enough. Ok, barely enough. Ok, just all-around crummy. But at this point he was used to that kind of thing. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

Wilson sighed as the blanket he was wrapped hot dog-style in cradled him to the morning. It was a crummy, stained, polyester blanket. Some leftover he found at a discount store a decade ago with some long-forgotten pal. But in it he always slept like an over-fed baby. And that was enough.

Ok, barely enough.

Ok, it was just all-around crummy.

But what he didn’t notice, or couldn’t have, was the gradual receding of the lesion and the drying of the splotches and ooze (which covered him and the blanket and even the gotdamn carpet) overnight until not a trace of them, not one bit, remained to serve as a crummy reminder of that flashy fall nobody would have asked for.

THE NEXT DAY

He was looking at himself in the mirror, brushing his teeth with half a heart, when he saw it. Raising an eyebrow and with a closer look, it was actually what he didn’t see that surprised him.

Afterward, sitting at the table placing a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth while in his wrinkled shirt and rusty jeans, Wilson felt through every inch of his head. It really was gone. It’s gone, he thought. The bump is gone! Poof, like it wasn’t even there! No way... The dog resumed its barking outside again as Wilson felt the spoon in his mouth with his tongue, absentmindedly. Maybe I was just imagining it last night. Maybe. Who knows, maybe the fall wasn’t even that bad.

He ran his fingers through his hair and across his face in case it might have been hiding somewhere but it must have been terrible at it, because it really was nowhere to be found. Or maybe that meant it was really good. Wilson stopped the analogy there.

After tossing the bowl into the sink and grabbing his things, the 20-something-year-old half-bum left his apartment and went to work.

Morning sunlight, puttering cars; it was the same as usual in the outer ’burbs this time of day. Wilson walked carefully down the street he slipped on just the day before—it must have been one slippery banana peel that got to his shoe. He could have sworn there was nothing down there, but man did the sidewalk have an idea of her own.

8:30, Wilson read as he looked up from his wristwatch, screen cracked in the middle. The thing came like that, he assured people. I still got time, I guess... His eyes locked onto the sign across the street, which read “DONUT PLANET”. Swallowing, he knew he shouldn’t have, but found his feet disobeying him anyway and the next thing he knew he was crossing the supposedly empty street.

A stray honk caused Jennifer to blink up, only for her to look back at her book, uninterested, after she saw Wilson Sussman approaching after nearly being run over. Her fingers tapped against the counter as she leaned back in her chair. It was another boring morning in the store, with another boring batch of customers sprinkled about. And by customers, that meant three—one fit, healthy-looking couple who seemed to have just climbed off an elliptical, the young blonde-haired man dressed in a tanktop and shorts, and the young lady brunette in a tight blue tee and jogging shorts, both with headbands of matching colors (Jennifer could’ve ‘aww’—ed, but relented). Then there was another woman seated at the opposite corner, farthest from the entrance by the restrooms, dark haired and adorned in a sweater, glasses, and ordinary trousers; smart-casual sort. She looked decent in the warm rising light, in a subtle, second-impression way.

With a breezy swing the door came open and in walked Wilson. He looked around appraisingly, but mainly had his eyes on the donut menu. Let’s see... he mulled to himself, finger on his lips. Two days ago it was six chocolate rings...ok! Today will be a glazed deluxe, straight from yours truly. I know Turd’ll love this. Maybe I should help myself to a couple so he doesn’t get too much...

Decision made, he wasted no further time. “Hi Jenn,” he greeted as he walked up to the counter.

“Hey,” she offered back, hair flipping over her eyes. She went back to her book as Wilson looked at her. She was a cute Asian girl, with a slender body as smooth-skinned as his granny’s china. The part-timer had been there for nearly two years already, but was generally on-and-off. Her parents’ friend (of a friend, and so on) apparently owned the shop and they got her the gig to help fund the other half of her college lifestyle. Not that it did much, as she probably spent whatever crumbs she got on things like the little white necklace she had around her neck that very moment, which looked decently crafted and stopped just at the tip of her hint of cleavage. Blinking, Wilson silently looked away when he caught himself.

Today Jennifer had on a somewhat low-cut top that fit her rather well, with a white cardigan draped over it. She was quite pretty, not just in that exotic kind of way, but naturally—maybe only because Wilson had been a sporadic regular for as long as she’d been working there and taken in whatever perfume she was wearing in chronic quantities, but still, it was no time to ogle. He found himself doing so again, anyway. Slapping himself mentally, he returned his concentration to ordering the donuts when suddenly he felt a soft rumble in his skull. As in, physically. Almost as if someone dropped a small marble in there. Wilson furrowed his brow at the sensation, but only for a moment, then shrugged. He probably was just feeling some minor side effects of the fall to the head. A pop of penicillin and it should be history—just like the concussion. He nodded. Then one breath later, it turned into a thunderous migraine.

AARGHHA! Wilson placed his hands against his head. In a span of seconds that seemed like days, he experienced the most unusual feeling—like everything was rewinding and running forward at the same time, like being cut and carressed, feeling both pain and pleasre. In his head he was back at home looking at the mirror, at himself, and at his absent bump, then tossing his towel onto the bed and pouring out a bowl and bumping into chubby Mr. Toquito from next door and then going back down the street, the same street he always went, the same one he got...he got...he fell in...when suddenly a flash engulfed him and he looked up and—

Jennifer was looking at him as he entered the store.

Wait, something was wrong. No, not wrong. Different. But what?

Wilson looked down, then up, then circled around. Then it hit him. Wait...how am I just walking through here?! Didn’t—I was standing right there in front of the counter about to order half a dozen glazed donuts! He thought back. Wasn’t I?

Jennifer raised an eyebrow, and the other customers were glancing, too. After seeing a lost-looking Wilson they went back to their business. Jennifer once again went flipping through her book.

Meanwhile, Wilson collected himself pensively. Ok, wow, he thought. Like... uh...phahoohey, that was, uh. I think..?

He let out a chuckle, shook his head, and stepped up to the counter again, ready for some donuts. Wow, he repeated to himself anyway, that was something. My head’s still a bit more jumbled up than I thought I guess. First headaches, and then random hallucinations. Or was it hallucinations, then headaches? Maybe it was both at the same time. Maybe it’s one of those chicken or the egg things. You lay an egg, and you become a chicken. But if you’re the egg, then your momma’s a real bitch. Wait, that’s not right...

Jennifer looked up briefly at Wilson. The half-bum of a man, scruffy hair and wrinkled clothes and all, seemed lost in thought again. She let out a sigh, but it wasn’t really cross or contented, just... an emission.

Wilson took the hint (or probably just touched back down to reality, from wherever he was) and finally made an order, not before mumbling something about getting his head outta the gutter. And penicllin, whatever that meant. “Yeah, uh, hey Jenn. I’ll just take half a dozen glazed please.”

The donut girl placed her book on the chair and stood up. “Half a dozen?” She reconfirmed as she wiped her hands on a towel and reached into the case with a tong.

“Uh-huh,” Wilson nodded. She leaned slightly forward as she took out a white box from below. Then she swiftly began to put the donuts inside it. As she was doing this, Wilson’s gaze lingered on her cleavage again (or for the first time...oh forget it), peeking from her top, her smooth, delicately oriental skin basking in the morning glow. The modest but pleasurable view gave Wilson slightly cramped quarters down below. Funny, he wasn’t always so distracted. But he was too distracted to object anyway.

This time he didn’t move his eyes somewhere else. Besides, he figured, her attention was on the donuts.

Then the sound of cup against table and spilling liquid came from behind him. An exchange of words, mock disgust, and a laugh or two soon turned into a chair squeaking against floor and footsteps as a woman bounded onto the right of Wilson. “Excuse me,” she said, light brown hair swept nicely over her shoulder and revealing a pretty face, hands on the countertop, “I was wondering if you have any napkins?” Her voice was a bit pitchy but she was, quite frankly, to Wilson’s league, hot as anybody else with a nice figure, and even closer up, also in that natural way—and fit. Her skin had a slight, delectable-looking tan and her attire, as typical of that breed of gym wear, showed off her curves generously. Her legs were sturdy and trained to support 3 straight miles of sweaty running and a squat or two, and her arms were toned without being masculine. Signs of a young woman who definitely looked out for her health. Wilson swallowed as his eyes looked her over, her tight shorts and t-shirt hugging her fit lower body and abdomen like a toddler to his favorite doll that never wanted to let go. Wilson felt the cramping down below intensify as he shifted his body in the opposite direction of the young napkin-deprived patron, trying to keep it from the public eye. Thank goodness he wasn’t into the whole skinny jean thing. And why was he centering so much of his attention on the female anatomy?!

WILLIAM SUSSMAN, suddenly boomed a noncorporeal voice that nearly caused Wilson to elbow the young woman he was just ogling right by him, who now was chatting casually with Jennifer about Ramona College’s sports curriculum, ALL YOUR LIFE, YOU MADE CHOICES, AND THOSE CHOICES MADE YOU. STARTING TODAY, WILLIAM SUSSMAN, Wilson winced. Wilson, voice dude, he attempted to correct, my name’s Wilson.

—STARTING TODAY, WILLIAM, YOU WILL MAKE CHOICES, AND THOSE CHOICES WILL MAKE REALITY

And just like that the voice was gone, and Jennifer and the young jogger-type chick blabbed on ordinarily. Like a corny baritone narrator hadn’t just found an invisible intercom and used it on unsuspecting Donut Planet visitors. Like there wasn’t that strange marble sensation again.

And before Wilson could react, he suddenly understood it, somehow, what the voice was talking about. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but after trying to piece it together he just shrugged it off. For some reason, there was something different about him. He knew he was able to do something he couldn’t before, and his mind scrambled a bit at the possibility of something as straight Twilight Zone as this literally happening in real life.

It can’t be, his brain thought, and for a second he considered asking Jennifer if she had some penicillin for his headaches. But then his heart pounced on it and wrestled it into a chokehold and his dick laughed maniacally as it rolled into the ring, stormed towards mister grey matter, and violently impaled it to the rhythm of Don’t Stop Me Now. Back in reality, Wilson’s face was still reeling a bit as he looked up at Jennifer and the fellow woman talking. As if in slow-motion, he saw them wrapping up their conversation as Jennifer, (who he realized was still leaning slightly forward in front of him allowing him to drink in the view even while she chatted), who had placed the box down, grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispensary beside her and lifted her arm up over the glass to give them to Ms. Huggable Body as she smiled and reached out to take it when it was then that Wilson suddenly flipped the proverbial table in his head and smashed the ‘Override’ button. Brain filled with naughty thoughts, Wilson came up with a better idea, and like a kid in a donut store, imagined himself choosing his favorite one and swallowing it down, on the house—and not a soul protested.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Jennifer withdrew the napkins, carressed her left breast with them, then inserted them into her jeans, which after a little help with her other finger she managed to squeeze in, as they were fairly tight.

The jogger (Wilson decided to call her now) girl just smiled and nodded. “No problem. I thought you might remember.” She shrugged her shoulders, which glistened. Wilson gulped. “It comes to us last minute sometimes,” she said as she suddenly seemed to notice Wilson for the first time. Still smiling she placed a steady hand on his right shoulder and squeezed it. Jennifer, meanwhile, had stepped out from behind the station and went up to Wilson from behind, then tapped him on his other one.

“Sorry to ask you this, Wilson, but can I hump your ass?” The Asian girl looked at him with completely ingenuous eyes, as if she was asking for directions. Wilson’s pants instantly became strained as his eyes once again drunk in the view of her smooth complexion. He felt his face nodding.

“Sure,” he croaked.

Jennifer obliged, and placed both arms around him as she then lifted her left leg up and wrapped it around his. Hugging him close, she then began to gyrate her hips, rolling her vaginal regions against his very own pants-covered rear end. Wilson almost sputtered out something again, something about elaborate pranks and hidden cameras and Ashton Kutcher. But then he swallowed it back down. He was a nobody, before; there was no way this was happening because he still was. No, as crazy as it may have been, even if it was some kind of hoax, this was more excitement than he’d experienced in a whole year. This was happening now because someone aligned a fucking star in the right place for once. And he was gonna let it shine.

Jennifer’s breaths were steady but close by as she rubbed herself against him. She smelled very nice, too, Wilson thought. The need for relief grew in him as the jogger girl removed her hand from his shoulder. Then suddenly she had a funny idea. “Hey, look,” she nudged Wilson, smiling, as she put her hands under her armpits. “I’m a chicken. Baawwwk bawwk bawk baaawk!” The pretty chicken imitator who was otherwise as normally sensible as anyone else, prevously, anyway, continued the routine for a while, as the other two customers, including what looked to be her boyfriend, looked up only to see nothing unusual and returned to their business. “Ok,” she said after her last ‘bawwk’ with another sly smile as she continued, “now, I’m a pig.” She then stepped back and placed two fingers in an ‘L’ shape against her nose. “Oink, oink oink oink!” she snorted in an attempt to sound ugly, which almost worked. As she oinked, her legs were right next to each other, straight and upright. Once more, her body’s fit form was shown in all its glory—clothed, of course, but nice and tight nevertheless. Jennifer, meanwhile, began to hold more tightly on to Wilson as her other leg shifted on the floor to try to squeeze more closely against his body, her supporting leg now partially wrapped around his corresponding one.

“Alright fella,” the jogger girl announced casually when she finised the pig thing, waving her hand at the man, “now look.” Wilson did as she asked as she flipped her hair over and tucked it underneath her headband, which showed how nice her face really was. Then she placed her knees on the floor, turning to the side so her hips were facing him, while she faced away from the couunter and towards her table, where her boyfriend sat. Then she bent down with her hands on the floor. “I’m a dog, duh!” she whispered before stifling a laugh following Wilson’s confounded expression. Then she bent down even further, her face practically touching the floor, and wiggled her butt left and right, left and right. Like wagging a tail. Wilson groaned.

Suddenly, as she moved her butt, her shorts seemed to grow tighter and tighter, until it was clear (to Wilson, anyway, as no one else appeared to notice) that they really were, the already closely knit hems converging until they clung to the pore and outlined her hip bone. Then they grew shorter and shorter until they were nearly a pair of briefs. For any lucky person behind her from now to her closet, a liberal display of buttock on both sides would be invitingly before them. Wllson shuddered at the thought, and then another as his attention moved to jogger girl’s partner, eyes pulsating.

Jogger boy was sitting at his table, patiently waiting for his girlfriend to get the napkins (it was a long process, of course, these things didn’t unfurl with just a finger snap) when he decided on a whim to look up and see how his babe was doing.

As it turned out the young college woman was on her hands and knees pointing her wonderfully shaped bottom (as he knew well, though, with a sigh, still not as much as he’d liked) at some stranger whose own caboose was apparently being used by the cute Asian girl who served the donuts to them to get herself off, most likely for the napkins’ sake, which he was glad she remembered to do as it was common to forget such a practical courtesy in this day and age. Things just whizzed by like nothing now; you forget to really stop, smell the roses and all that. Not that roses smelled all that great. He preferred Old Spice.

Scratching the back of his head as he broke into a yawn, the young, physically fine-tuned man sifted through the duffel bag he’d placed on the floor and pulled out his phone, looking at the time. Clarissa’s gonna need picking up at 11:45, Jayce is still pretending to be sick, idiot, and an hour to go before classes start... He gently threw the phone back into the bag, zipping it up as his yawn returned to pry his lips. Well hope we don’t make it back too late, he thought as he stood up from his chair and picked up his coffee. Stepping towards the two girls and the other flimsy-looking guy, jogger boy then proceeded to go behind his bent-over girlfriend who had been wiggling her ass in the air but stopped when he arrived. “Hey Sammie,” he said with a quick smile as Sammie looked back and replied with, “Hey, babe! Sorry to make you wait so long.“

“Oh, it’s all good.” He then knelt down in front of her butt and, with a sigh, began to squeeze it multiple times in different areas; first the right cheek, then the left, like a doctor preparing an arm for the needle. He patted it a bit, before suddenly slapping it, not really sure what came oever him, then provided one final pat as recompense. Then, lifting up his arm and pouring his cup of coffee over it (first the right cheek, then the left), the warm, bitter drink trickling down the pair of protruding flesh like clean tributaries down a nicely tanned meadow, he asked, “How are the napkins coming along?”

“They’re,” Jennifer answered, mid-moan, though her tone still was essentially nonchalant, “they’re coming alright. No worries.” Wilson grunted, his hands now clearly attacking his pelvic center. “I’m fucking this ass,” Jennifer elaborated quickly afterward, “this hot ass, so hard right now, I mean, they’re definitely coming. Um, like, um. Yeah, it’s...they could be here in the fucking house right now for what it’s fucking worth, they’re so close to being ready.”

“Good, good,” replied Mr. Where’s-My-Napkins as he latched his lips onto his girlfriend’s ass and licked some of the warm, dripping beverage right off of it. He proceeded to lick around each buttcheek. He wasn’t even really that thirsty, but it was no good putting a good cup of coffee to waste, anyway. Might as well drink up as much he could before he forgot and left it there in the shop or something.

Nodding in approval, the young tanktop-clad man wiped his lips with a hand. Then Sammie turned to look at him and smiled knowingly. He responded briskly and reached over, planting her lips onto hers. They kissed tenderly and subsequently transitioned into french-kissing, but within restraint of course, as it was barely morning after all. No need to get nasty. But most importantly, the coffee he had collected as much as he could of in his tongue and saliva was swallowed down and enjoyed by Sammie. It was the least he could do, considering he spilled her drink earlier.

He began slapping her ass again. As he did, his slaps getting progressively harder and harder, Sammie started wiggling it again, then moving in tight circles, then outright flexing it and thrashing each cheek from one unpredictable angle to the next. “OH god,” she cried, “yes, yes, look at me, I’m, just—ugh, I’m such a hot little fit piece of fuckable meat, just kneeling here on all-fours with my ripe-ass thighs and legs and my beautiful body and arms which look great, smell great, taste great, ohhh god, my pretty—ugh—my pretty face is, like, don’t you just want to fuck it? Every eyelash, every hole, look, right here? Why isn’t there a tattoo there that says ‘Fuck me’? Hey, babe, hey, hey Ozzy baby, why don’t I have a ‘Fuck me’ tattoo on my cheek, on my face—ugh, my pretty fucking face—right here? Isn’t that...awkward? I don’t want people to get the wrong idea when they see I don’t have a ‘Fuck me’, ‘Holy shit this piece of ass’, ‘Doggystylist’, or whatever tattoo on me, I mean, I run for Ramona College and have won second place on the last race but man I am fuckable, just imagine me in bed while I’m down there running, imagine what I could do with my legs locked around your waist. Baby,” she laughed like a comic at an upcoming punchline, “you don’t even want to know!”

At that point Wilson ejaculated, showering his own pants with his funk, and from the sound of it and the way her hands clamped down on his stomach and both legs now wrapped themselves around him as she shook against him (and, actually, shook him) harder than a striker in a church bell, so too did Jennifer reach her orgasm.

As Wilson collapsed into a nearby chair by the entrance and Jennifer fell to the floor, she wiped her forehead with an able hand and took the napkins out from her pants with the other one. They looked damp and a bit squishy in quality. Jennifer, despite how weak it might have looked, pried open a smile if only for one second and outsretched her hand towards Sammie and Ozzy.

“They’re ready,” she said.

“Great,” Sammie exhaled gratefully as she plucked the soggy napkins from Jennifer’s hand. Wilson stared on in a half-daze, though his consciousness still persisted. Sammie looked at the napkins she now held which were stuffed in someone’s panties only seconds ago and brought them up to her nose, smelling them thoroughly. “Wow,” she replied after half a minute, lifting them away from her nose, “they smell great! Who knows, maybe I could save some for later, for my own projects. Thanks, um...”

“It’s Jennifer,” Jennifer completed for her.

“Sammie.” Sammie and Jennifer shook hands, which turned into helping each other up, to almost falling back down and recovering from a fit of laughs before getting on their feet. Ozzy patted Sammie’s ass a little more tangentially, and licked up a few residual coffee spots on her buttocks and legs. Sammie looked on adoringly.

“Isn’t he just the best?” she asked. Jennifer figured it was a rhetorical question.

Ozzy came back up with an ‘ahh’ and looked at Sammie, who laughed. “Hm?” Ozzy questioned as he began tickling her. “Oh? You think I’m some pet now, ’ey, babe?” Sammie swatted his arms away and they engaged in a tickle war, laughter resuming. “Hm? Just ’cause I lick my coffee of your hot ass and juicy legs, you think I’m some pet now? Some doggie that goes woof-woof?” He was laughing as Sammie retorted back with a sneak attack to his hidden tickle spot: the tummy.

“Hey I don’t know if you remember but I was the dog there for a couple seconds! Wiggling my ass like some animal,” Sammie rolled her eyes, “now that’s what I call a pet, buster!”

The trio laughed and made some more small talk before returning to their business. Sammie adjusted her briefs a little to remove a slight wedgie that formed as she sat back down at her table with Ozzy, who took a napkin and started “finally” wiping the table. He also wiped some non-existent coffee off of his girl’s chest—several times, while they conversed.

Wilson sat in a state of no small bewilderment. He looked around, nodded, pinched himself, winced, and then stared at the floor for an indscriminate amount of time before eventually looking at Jennifer who was back behind the counter reading her book. From this angle he could slighlty see a dark spot or two in her jeans as she sat one leg over the other, but it was pretty unnoticeable otherwise. The napkins seemed to have soaked in most of the... juice.

The half-bum of a man shook his head. Still hard to take in the fact that that really happened. Sure, he got that it did—that he orchestrated it, from start to finish, and if not him, then his subconscious. Or at least that’s what it seemed. It was something to think about later, if he bothered to remember.

But the point was that...well...this didn’t exactly happen everyday, and being the cautious, attentive man that he was, Wilson felt it was his duty to take some precautions just in case.

Thus, he went walking back up to the counter.

“Hey Jenn,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied with a brief smile. A smile! Though, he pieced together, he did help her out with a small, sure, but nevertheless pesky inconvenience after all. A little generic customer service gratitude was enough.

Ok, barely enough.

Ok, just all-around crummy.

Wilson shrugged. “Anyway I was wondering if you got any penicillin. I’ve been havin’ straaange headaches recently.” He laughed but stopped as Jennifer, with a cute puzzled expression, gave him a weird look. “What?” Wilson blinked at her slightly revealing cleavage.

“Penicillin?” Jennifer asked, as she leaned slightly forward again, though only just a bit. “You mean aspirin? That’s the, um, the headache medicine, you know.“

“Oh,” Wilson’s brow furrowed, but then he cleared his throat and nodded affirmatively, “uhh yes! Right! Aspirin, that’s the one. Of course I was talking about that. It’s the only medicine I think of when it comes to headaces, hahaha. That’s—yeah, anyway, did you have any?”

“Let me check.” Jennifer put her book down, then stood up, checking her pockets, then around the station, then under her top, then under her bra, then she squeezed her breasts together and cupped them tight, then finally let them go, looking back at Wilson with a shrug while he openly ogled her. “No, sorry. Oh! But I do have this,” she turned and walked over to a stray box in the corner and picked it up, then pushed it into Wilson’s hands. He took it and opened the box. It was a dozen glazed donuts. They all looked fresh, too. “You don’t wanna forget those,” Jennifer said as if it wasn’t any more obvious, “you asked for them, you know.”

Wilson closed the box and looked at her, blinking, as she went back to her book. He looked at her register, then back at her, and smiled, shaking his head. “You’re right, I guess,” he agreed, “I did ask for ’em.”

Jennifer gave another smile then returned to reading, and Wilson walked out of Donut Planet with a dozen donuts, a newfound, possibly lifechanging gift, a...damp pair of pants...and—CRAP! He was gonna be late for work!

Wilson nearly dropped his donuts as he tried to find the right positioning between the box and his arms as he looked at his wristwatch. Ah, 8:30, he sighed in relief, I still got time, I gu—wait. 8:30? Wasn’t it 8:30 like 30 minutes ago or something!? Wilson squinted and poked his watch like a 3rd-grader before an aquarium tank of dead fish, and groaned, but this time not out of immense, peculiarly arranged, lewd pasttimes.

Looks like my watch broke again, he thought to himself as he shuffled down the street in rigid motions. This is the second time I’m late for this exact reason, even though the first time wasn’t exactly my fault. Who knows how LL’s gonna flip out this time...

But for Wilson, things may not need to have been so complicated any longer. All he needed to ensure was he didn’t trip over any discreetly extended legs, badly eroded terrain, or slippery banana peels on the way, after all.