It started, as most of my best disasters do, with professional curiosity. The crate had arrived at the warehouse marked "FRANZ HARARY - DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT SUPERVISION." naturally, I opened it immediately.

There it stood. The Bimbo Box. A five-pointed star of chrome and neon pink acrylic, humming with a menacingly cheerful energy. It didn't look like a torture device; it looked like a disco ball had a baby with an MRI machine.

1. The "Fitting" I was alone in the warehouse. Nightshade was out plotting (something about weather satellites), and Hannah was at work crunching numbers. I thought, "I’ll just check the dimensions. A quick step-in, check the clamps, step out."

I stripped down to my metallic purple swimsuit—essential for proper Henchwoman aesthetics—and climbed into the star.

• The Restraints: Oh, Franz is clever. There were no manual buckles. The moment my back touched the plush velvet lining, SNAP! Magnetic cuffs seized my wrists and ankles, pulling them wide into the star points. A padded collar locked around my neck with a pneumatic hiss. I was spread-eagled, displayed, and utterly secure.

2. The Activation I looked for the release button. Instead, I saw a large, glowing panel titled "DIFFICULTY LEVEL."

It was currently set to: "MAXIMUM SPARKLE."

Before I could protest, the machine roared to life. And by "roared," I mean it started playing a techno-remix of "Girls Just Want to Have Fun."

3. The Separation (and the Fog) This is where it got weird. Usually, when you are sawn in half, it’s a blade. This machine worked on tension. The points of the star began to slide away from the center.

• My Right Arm: Slid two feet to the right.

• My Left Leg: Detached and moved down.

• My Torso: Stayed in the middle, looking ridiculous.

Thanks to Alistair’s regeneration gift, I didn't die, obviously. But the sensation! It felt like being stretched like taffy. But the worst part was the gas.

Pink jets of steam hissed from the frame. It smelled like strawberries and hairspray. I tried to think, "I need to override the hydraulic pressure valve," but what came out of my mouth was, "Ooh, pretty lights..."

4. The Predicament I realized, through the strawberry-scented haze, that the control panel was on the wall. The wall that was five feet away. The remote control? It was in my hand.

My Right Hand.

Which was currently detached from my body and locked in a glass box three feet to my right.

I tried to throw the remote to my left hand. I wiggled my right fingers. The remote dropped. It landed on the floor. Clatter.

5. The Aftermath So there I was. Dismantled. Spread out across a ten-foot span. My head was floating in the center, feeling light and fuzzy, giggling at the neon lights. My limbs were posing independently.

I spent four hours like that.

When Hannah finally came home, she found me flashing like a neon sign, humming pop tunes, and unable to remember the word for "Help."

She didn't release me immediately, of course. She just stood there, tapped her chin, and said, "You know, this is a great look for the living room. Does it have a 'Mute' button?"

The Verdict: I give the Bimbo Box 4 out of 5 stars. Excellent restraint, beautiful lighting, but the IQ recovery time is dreadful. It took me twenty minutes and a strong espresso to remember how to untie my own shoelaces.

Shall we generate an image of the moment I realized I dropped the remote?