Sales Transformation I

Sales Transformation - I
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>You’ve only been awake for fifteen minutes; having slumbered well into the early afternoon, according to your bedside clock.
>Having felt particularly refreshed on your rousing, curled up tightly into yourself, perhaps in part due to your earlier exploratory sexual escapades, you were staring up at the tacky stucco ceiling of your bedroom with lazy half-lidded eyes.
>In particular, you’ve been rather preoccupied, tracing your eyes over the hideous and tacky yet mesmerizing patterns idly whilst deep in contemplation.
>The yellowing ceiling had a quite a retro look to it, and given the inexpensive construction of this apartment building back in the mid-70s and general lack of comprehensive renovations, you suppose that it was only natural it would still be in place decades later.
>God, you hoped it was not asbestos.
>Does asbestos even harm horses?
>If so, you were totally horsed.
>...
>You were never going to stop these equine puns, given you were now a pastel pony.
>An adorable one, but a pony nonetheless.
>The biggest questions, “How?” and ”Why?”, were pretty much an unknown at this stage.
>Your suspicions were largely linking your...current disposition to the consumption of cheap Asian noodles.
>The vodka was the only other possible contributor.
>You had managed to largely dispel your initial hypothesis that you had suffered a magnificent drug-induced trip, based on your lack of likely exposure to any potent narcotics, as well waking up sprawled atop your bed and coated in your semen.
>Additionally, you couldn’t think of any other independent variables that you could point a hoof at.
>In all honesty, your first clue probably should have been the packaging, adorned with small non-Hasbro licensed coloured equines.
>The squiggles that constituted writing on the plastic packaging could have said anything, ranging from “Horse Cock Noodles” to “Novelty Food: Do Not Eat.”
>You suspected you would need to make your way back to the vendor, Kim’s Grocery - better known as the asian shop you now held so suspect.
>It also had not escaped your notice how nonchalant you were about all this.
>You would probably say that, based on how little you remembered from your semester of psychology, your Blasé approach to all this could be a manifestation of shock.
>Or you were you just cool, calm and collected enough to roll with it for now?
>Given you were certainly a fan of aviator shades, you were more than cool enough.
>Or are you too keen to accept something new?
>All were perfectly fine theories, but ultimately, analysis paralysis contributed nothing to your plight.
>With a groan, you break free from the neigh-insurmountable gravity of your bed, taking to your hooves to jump clear of the bed and find a comfortable sitting position before the mirror.
>Taking pains to ignore your matted fur contributing to your dishevelled appearance, you bring a forehoof in front of your face, examining both it and exploring your shoulders, its range of motion.
>Rather, reins of motion.
>These ‘puns’ were not improving.
>You unfurl your wings, the movement coming naturally and unconsciously, noting a modestly long wingspan, colouration of your feathers seamlessly matching that of your fur.
>Trailing from tip to base of your wings through the mirror, you catch your eye in the mirror, giving you another opportunity to admire your fine equine features.
>You were pretty damn cute, in your immodest opinion, even if your new face was one that would take a bit of time to get used to.
>That may be it. Your life was one of playing it safe, of practicing avoidance where possible.
>Throwing yourself into your work, hobbies, and interests…to be honest, it was less of the latter two and more of the former: you were pretty engrossed in your job to an unhealthy degree, utilizing it as a vehicle to as a means of escapism, to the stark fact you had no concrete plans or career aims - despite your assurances to the contrary to friends and family.
>But being a pretty, small equine?
>This was freedom from your adult responsibilities.
>No need to agonize over making targets, earning your wages, paying taxes.
>Bigger: you longer having to slave away for rent.
>Though, considering it: food is still going to be important.
>Hay is cheap, though, right?
>If it really came to it, surely you can graze on grasses to subsist too?
>You sure hope it's not as insalubrious as ramen.
>You knew you were oversimplifying it, but you would no doubt puzzle though it gradually.
>Throwing a glance at the coloured sketch of your pegasus OC, your remarkable similarity to it was not something you had overlooked and certainly warranted investigation.
>But honestly, that was more a secondary concern to the whole ‘being a quadruped equine’ thing.
>At last deciding the morning will look better with a shower, you find yourself in an effortless canter to the bathroom.
>Your apartment itself was not large, perhaps 300 square feet, With your route to the bathroom placing you through the modestly-sized living area, which was well-filled with great shafts of sunlight streaming in through the large windows.
>Perhaps the one design aesthetic you liked about your accommodation was the design consideration of having wide windows, made to maximize the impression of available space, complete with authentic 80’s-era vertical blinds that you may generally neglect to draw from their stored position.
>This place was a piece of shit, but you loved it for its aesthetic.
>Nuzzling the partially ajar door open with your snoot, you cannot help but marvel at how tall the sink and countertop seem to you
>Or perhaps that's on account of how short you are.
>You could not have been more than four feet tall from your hooves to the tips of your ears.
>Equally curious on your exact dimensions, you move to your towel cupboard, and struggle with your hooves to grasp and pull open the horizontal-handle at the top of the cupboard door.
>After several failed efforts with your hooves, you resort to gripping the handle in your teeth and pulling it open, opening easily enough and allowing you access to your prizes.
>A nice rose towel for your shower - but also your bathroom scales.
>Having discovered what seems to be the most efficient method of manipulating items in your quadruped form, you move the scales out of the cupboard and set them on the floor.
>You step on the scale, and watch as the electronic scale attempts to calculate the mass of its oppressor.
>After several seconds of processing, the scales’ LED screen dutifully reported its determination that your mass sat squarely at 22.3 kilograms.
>Woah.
>That was one way to lose weight, as you were now a quarter of what your weight had been just yesterday.
>Had to consider the loss of two feet of height too, though.
>You certainly were not salty about that.
>Stowing the scales away in their proper place, you hop into the shower, having to stand on your hind hooves with forehooves propped against the shower wall to reach the shower handle.
>It takes a frigid deluge that thoroughly soaks you until your panicked hooves manage to manipulate the handle to the “hot” position.
>Mercifully, hot water is quick to flow down onto you, with you spreading your wings for maximum exposure to the glorious warmth, cleansing you as it follows your contours down your frame and running off the fur on your underside.
>A wonderful idea to shower, let the steam fill the air, clear your head and get you thinking straight.
>And the hot water was absolutely delightful on the wings. Was this bliss?
>You couldn’t remember the last time you had so deeply enjoyed a shower as a human.
>The fur coating your body, so sensitive and responsive. A truly welcome change to feel so...alive, for a lack of a better word.
>You supposed that was the other thing: what even if your state was something you could not undo?
>You kind of doubted you could easily explain this all away, given the cute new frame and the set of magnificent wings.
>Probably would be a stretch to see your change as something to successfully exploit.
>Though, a career in sales may still be possible: surely people would be more inclined to buy phones, computers, electronics and warranties from a small equine.
Not the worst idea.
>Your voice was a little deeper than it had been, though not massively. Still no Tom Celleck.
>No, you would likely be left jobless and classed as an oddity by your family and friends.
>Not even to think about the whole scientific and University scene becoming rather hell bent on conducting research on you, given you were a small sapient species of equine.
>Though, you admit you would be little interested to see some empirical data.
>Being subjected to vivisection? Perhaps less keen on that.
>On the plus side, your cash reserves would be able to cover rent and utilities until your lease ended. Then you would need to find another place. Or someone to let in on this.
>Having lost track of how long had been showering and being quite certain you were thoroughly cleansed, you finally shut off the gloriously-hot water, whilst minimizing how much cold water leaked free of the showerhead onto you in the process.
>Stepping free from the shower onto the bath towel, you immediately take note of the cooler air against your wet fur, motivating you to go for your towel.
>Attempting to towel yourself dry proves to be a more difficult task than expected, given your hooves made it difficult to grasp and manipulate. You at least manage to drape it over yourself, not that it seems to have helped much.
>The only success being had currently is actually the bath-mat under you is doing wonderfully in its job of drying the bottom of your hooves.
>Changing tact, you decide to simply shake yourself like your childhood dog tended to do after being subjected to a bath.
>You at least have the foresight to drop your towel and step back inside the shower before vigorously shaking free the stubborn dollops of water from your frame.
>You follow this effort up with your extending your wings and fluttering the worst of the moisture away.
>Whilst still damp, you were not absolutely saturated, and a quick roll on the towel you had left strewn on the ground helps to remove the bulk of the moisture from your pelt.
>Unable to reach the towel hooks, you instead leave the bath mat where it lay and  throw the towel itself onto the bathroom counter; before you make for the living room, mentally assigning food and then damage control to your list of things to accomplish first.
>You cast your eyes over the debris of earlier that morning, taking note of the shredded uniform, table knocked askew, and your beloved Toshiba laptop left strewn on the floor where it had fell.
>The state of your living room triggers you - or rather, your fine sense of tidiness, leading you to feel compelled to set everything back up the way it was.
>This also necessitating you to reprioritise food as less urgent.
>Ignoring your castoff clothing (at least for now,) your focus (and concern) falls upon the wellbeing of your Toshiba and the contents of its hard drive. There also existed the concern regarding potential damages, the viability of repairing it in your...state, as well as the price of replacement components...actually, that was a valid prime concern.
>As Toshiba had been struggling fiscally in the consumer laptop market for a number of years, they had finally retreated from said market in its entirety.
>This and the redirection of Toshiba’s manufacturing plants away from production of laptops directly would affect you as reliable repair components were becoming harder to source. Already, older models being returned for faults were being sent to suppliers for repair, with the supplier providing long wait times to order in legitimate components from distant lands.
>This meant abdicating its market share to its competitors, being filled by the superior Asus and Samsung brands, along with the much more inferior Acer, HP, and Lenovo brands.
>Laptop sales were hard to be excited about when the pathetically spec’d Acer and HP bodies were all that consumers seemed to seriously look at, with purchase decisions based on price alone and not the (in)capabilities/future-proofing provided by upmarket hardware.
>You were always proud of your market insight. Thank you, strategic management, for providing you enough understanding to see corporate posturing.
>You drop to your haunches, and pick up the laptop gingerly in your hooves, placing it back on the table and lifting its lid.
>The sounds of resuming playback of Knight Rider fills you with confidence that the built-in accelerometer had pulled the hard drive heads away from the 5400RPM drive whilst taking its plummet in order to prevent damage.
>Turning off the volume does prove to be more difficult, as any attempt to tap a key with a hoof seems to end up with you mashing multiple keys on the keyboard.
>You deftly move to the pocket of your torn collared shirt, retrieving your favourite Samsung (Quantum LED!) pen with a soft rubber stylus at the non-writing end, grasping the body between your teeth.
>The rubber nib proves to be a much more effective means to interact with your computer, allowing you to tap the volume mute button on the body of the computer and then key in your laptop's password letter by letter.
>Tapping enter, your computer logs in, screen cutting to an open and now-muted instance of VLC.
>Finding your hoof lacks any effect on the trackpad regardless of the pressure applied to it, you attempt to utilize your stylus on it.
>This, too, nets you truly shittastic performance, with a total lack of fine control whilst attempting to manoeuvre the arrow about the screen.
>Troubleshooting the problem mentally for several seconds with no immediate clever ideas, you ascertain its probably pertaining to tactile feedback. Thereby, digging out your shitty old Microsoft mouse would do away with that in its entirety.
>Abandoning your Toshiba temporarily to return to your room, you seek out a transparent plastic container, unobtrusively tucked away in the corner.
>Digging through a vast sea of loose obsolete and specialty cables, in addition to a variety of small electronics (is that your old Creative Zen V you spy?) - and a rather absurd amount of micro USB cables, you finally find your prize.
>Mercifully, the rubber wired USB cable was spooled tightly about the body of the mouse it was affixed to, saving you the agony of untangling it from the untold number of cables occupying the container.
>Grasping the unit loosely between your teeth and setting it down outside the box, you reposition your hold on the mouse to be just on the USB plug; unspooling the cable wrapped about mouse until it drags behind you as you return to your computer.
>Returning to a sitting position before it, you release the plug from your mouth, and after a number of attempts learning to manipulate small objects between your hooves (as well as discovering the USB was facing the wrong way,) manage to plug in your mouse.
>Retrieving your mouse, you place it on the table next to the computer, and find it to function adequately well for the task at...hoof?
>Pulling open the ease of access bar, you enable the onscreen keyboard. With a little testing, using the mouse on the digital keyboard proves to be a much more effective method compared to manually tapping key by key on the physical keyboard.
>This made your next goal (that of actively researching into your state) both less laborious, but more time efficient.
>You at least were open to yourself that there was admittedly little you could look into, and it was not likely to show up much, especially on the foreign lettered packet of noodles, but you had to try. *Ipsa scientia potestas est,* after all.
>Plus, the worst that you could do is come up empty...hooved.
>...you were finding that your choice of adjectives needed some work, but at least your sense of humour had not been put out to pasture.
>In preparation, you retrieve your abandoned coffee mug from where it lay beside the couch from last night, placing it on the table, before making for the kitchen to retrieve the ramen packaging.
>Not before looting the pockets of your torn garments for your wallet and now-dead phone, throwing the clothing across your back.
>You find the scrunched up packaging amongst refuse in the moderately sized half-filled rubbish bin. Attempting to remove it with hooves prompts the realization you lack dexterity to manage it.
>Cursing the well-ingrained habit of keeping your kitchen clean and with more than a little distaste, you contemplate simply knocking the rubbish bin over and sorting through it, but you would suspect that would just make a rather large mess you would still need to dig through.
>Given how unuseful you had found your hooves so far, you rather doubted your abilities to cleaning that up anyway.
>Resigned, you realize there is only one tool you had available to retrieve stupidly flimsy plastic and foil remnants from the repugnant chasm of the bin.
>Your horrifically versatile muzzle.
>Cantering to and fro before the bin for a minute in abject frustration at your small, useless meaty hooves, you finally muster up the internal fortitude to just fucking do it.
>Scrunching up your muzzle, you hastily poke your muzzle over the black plastic bagged-coated edge of the bin and into the poorly lit abyss.
>With a great deal of care, collection of the packaging does occur with minimal contact with...undesired refuse.
>Disgusted (and at least temporarily repulsed from the idea of any form of food), you throw your shredded clothing into the bin.
>Depositing your salvage next to your computer setup, you return to the kitchen and stand on your hind legs, with your forelegs able to just clear the top of the countertop.
>You spy the half-filled bottle of Smirnoff, the only other potential culprit for your vertically-challenged stature.
>Additionally, perfect to take the edge off of your uncertainties of your changed body and future.
>Bracing your forehooves on the counter, your rear legs flex to prepare for a jump.
>Your powerful muscles propel you from the ground whilst your forehooves press against the counter in an effort to pull yourself atop the surface.
>At some level subconsciously, you realize you were on the wrong side of your centre of balance, you find your wings fluttering in conjunction with your hooves pawing for grip at the slick tile of the countertop.
>You eventually flounder your centre of mass just over the gently-curved corner of the countertop.
>Consciously aware of the absolute failure of any form of coordination, but glad to see that your wings were more than just for show, you rise to your hooves to claim the bottle of vodka.
>Next time, you were just going to push the bloody table over to the kitchen and clamber up the counter atop that.
>You grip the bottle between two hooves, biting the screw cap and cocking your head aside. With a little effort, you succeed in unscrewing the bottle.
>Leaning back the bottle to make a large victorious gulp, you wince at the unusually harsh taste – possibly your new palette – with the standard shudder/head shake reaction from the first slug of the admittedly-vile drink.
>Gently setting the bottle back down, you attempt to hone your dexterity, resealing the cap with only hooves.  While more time consuming than using your mouth (and with a little fumbling and swearing on your part), you do succeed.
>A wave of delight rushes through you: gradually, you were gaining competence over your new body.
>You knew you were going to have to try to puzzle out how to use your wings, and live out your Top Gun fantasies.
We gotta get up there, Mav...
>Laying the bottle down on its side, you grip the neck of the bottle in your muzzle, lifting it with a little effort; wincing at the strange harshness of the curved glass between your teeth.
>Carefully jumping from the counter to return to the table r, you pull a pillow down from the couch to sit your haunches on.
>Food can wait, your curiosity overtaking your appetite. Alcohol was always a fine substitute anyway.
>After all, eating was cheating.
>You pull open Firefox, eyes focusing on the steady pulsating blinking of the text cursor on the Google search bar causes you pause.
>Your internet history was about to get very weird quite fast.