THE VENUS OF AUGMENTATION
Every savvy businessman had to cut corners somewhere. That was just the way the postmodern economy worked.
So Dr. Manson Sozaboy began dumping his medical waste illegally. What harm could it cause, after all? And those greedy sanctioned haulers charged an arm and a leg (if you'll pardon the pun).
Manson specialized in one simple procedure: breast reduction. The only waste he generated was a little innocent gland-threaded fat.
It seemed a shame, really. All these well-endowed babes coming into his office to get de-boobed while elsewhere their less zaftig sisters were opting for the exact opposite procedure. Too bad, the doctor often thought, that some kind of simple swap couldn't be arranged.
One night Manson chucked his latest batch of waste into a local swamp. A swamp favored by all the other cost-cutters in town, such as several advanced bioengineering firms.
In the darkness, rogue organic and exotic inorganic components churned and recombined.
By dawn, Breast Thing was born.
A thousand lush hues of pink and caramel, Breast Thing resembled one of those ancient fertility goddess statues: a faceless humanoid form draped with a hundred tits of all shapes and sizes, some with lactating nipples.
Clambering out of the swamp, Breast Thing shambled instinctively toward the home of her father.
The police found Dr. Manson Sozaboy drowned in his bed, a look blending terror and ecstasy on his face. The forensics guy just shook his head and said, "I'll be damned if I can figure out where the hell any sick bastard gets enough colostrum to drown someone."
Breast Thing runs a titty bar in New Orleans now. But all she does is hang in the back office and count the take.