At 6’7”, Derrick Turner was a towering figure of chiseled features and striking charm, the kind of man who turned heads wherever he went. Women would stare, their eyes tracing his broad shoulders and long legs, whispering to each other about his rugged jawline and piercing gaze. But the admiration always stopped short of commitment. Derrick was poor, unskilled, and, to put it bluntly, he smelled horrible—a mix of sweat and neglect that no amount of cheap cologne could mask. Women flocked to him for fleeting hookups, drawn by his looks, but when it came to marriage or anything serious, they vanished. “No job, no prospects, no future,” they’d say, noses wrinkled, before moving on.

One rainy evening, as Derrick slumped on a worn-out couch in his cramped apartment, his buddy Jake tossed him a lifeline. “Heard about Tall Man Village,” Jake said, cracking open a beer. “Weird place, man. They got this clerk there—shady guy, but he makes deals. Word is, you trade two inches of your height for a billion dollars. Cash, no strings. You’d still be tall, and rich as hell. Women’d be all over you.”

Derrick’s ears perked up. A billion dollars? He could buy a mansion, a decent suit, some soap—finally fix his life. At 6’7”, he figured 6’5” wouldn’t hurt. Still tall, still handsome, but now loaded. The next morning, he borrowed Jake’s beat-up truck and drove to Tall Man Village, a foggy, eerie hamlet nestled in a forest, where the air felt thick with secrets.

At the center stood a rickety office, and inside, a clerk—pale, wiry, and grinning too wide—sat behind a desk piled with papers. “Welcome, Derrick,” the clerk rasped, somehow knowing his name. “Two inches of height for one billion dollars. Sign here.” He slid a contract across, the text dense and tiny. Derrick, dazzled by the promise of wealth, barely skimmed it. He signed with a flourish, dreaming of luxury cars and women who’d stay past dawn.

The clerk’s grin widened as he typed the new height into an ancient, glowing computer. “Done,” he said, and a jolt ran through Derrick’s body. His knees buckled, the room spun, and when he stood, the world felt wrong—too big, too high. He stumbled to a mirror. Staring back was a 5’6” man, still handsome, but no longer the towering god he’d been. “Wait!” he yelled, spinning to the clerk. “You said two inches! I should be 6’5”!”

The clerk cackled, tapping the contract. “Typo, my friend. Says 5’6” right here. And look—fine print: no refunds, no reversals. Enjoy your billion dollars!” A suitcase of cash appeared at Derrick’s feet, but his heart sank. Destroyed, he drove home, the money a cold comfort.

Now a billionaire, Derrick bought a mansion, designer clothes, and the finest colognes, but women wouldn’t even glance his way. His height, once his golden ticket, was gone. One evening, desperate for connection, he approached a woman at a bar. “Wanna grab dinner?” he asked, voice shaky. She laughed, then flagged a cop. “He’s soliciting me!” she cried. Before Derrick could blink, he was in cuffs, arrested, accused of patronizing a prostitute. The charges didn’t stick, but the humiliation did.

Sadness swallowed him. Depression clung like damp rot. He’d traded his pride for wealth, and now he had neither love nor respect. Nights blurred into weeks, then months, as he hid in his mansion, staring at piles of cash he couldn’t enjoy.

One day, sitting by his infinity pool, a thought struck. He was a billionaire. He didn’t need approval. He could travel, build, create—live on his terms. Slowly, he began to fund charities, start businesses, and explore the world. Women still passed him by, but the sting faded. Derrick, now 5’6” and rich beyond dreams, found peace—not in others, but in himself. And for the first time, he smiled, the weight of his height finally lifted.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5732487&forum_id=2)#48980509)