MILLENNIUM
By Scott Grildrig
31-Dec-1999
Disclaimer: There's naughty stuff in here, not too naughty, mind you, but
naughty enough. Anyone who was born prior to 1983 can read it. I'd just like to
point out, though, that anyone that young is beginning to scare me. If you
people insist on being younger each year I'm going to have to pull out the heavy
artillery and get totally weird…
There are some moments that demand recording, that cry out for a recounting of
their occurrence, begging to be written in some grand epic style, or sung in
darkened halls to commemorate the glory of what once was…
"Twas the night before the Millennium and all over the planet, people hid at
home in a fit of panic. The shotguns were held by the people with care, ready to
fire on anyone out there…"
…needless to say, this isn't one of those moments…
*
One of the wonderful things about events like the Millennium is how it brings
people together…if only in mass hysteria. Folks in future times reading about
this will wonder anew at our sanity, or lack thereof. They will scratch their
heads and say, "how could they possibly think that all those awful things were
going to happen." And, in fact, they have a bit of a point, because those folks
who store candles, water and cans of Spam in the basement are missing the
essential fact about any global crisis: no one has a clue what is about to
happen. Which is rather the point of a world-wide glitch, if folks knew exactly
what was coming down the pike, there'd be none of that rampant speculation that
really shows what we're made of, and a lot of talk shows would go right out of
business.
But what about the Millennium, you say. What possible catastrophe have we failed
to anticipate? What could possibly be worse than to wake up on January 1st, 2000
and find that nobody checked coffee for Y2K compliance, and it doesn't exist
anymore?
We'll reveal that answer in just a moment…
*
Seattle has the right idea. Rather than gather in groups of 50,000 strong to see
if the pyrotechnic engineers are going to blow up the Space Needle, it makes
much more sense to hide in the wine cellar and toast the coming Millennium with
home made bottles of Chateaux Maddog '37. I suspect that Bill Gates has a
similar scheme in mind, since he has one of the few homes on the planet that
could actually kill you if it runs into a programming glitch.
New York City, on the other paw, would celebrate the coming of the asteroid by
staging a party on the big red Xpainted on it. This is a commendable attitude.
If you're planning to snuff it with a bang, you might as well trample other
folks on the way to a front row seat. However, even though the nice folks in NYC
are mad as loons, they are not stupid. There are good ways to get whomped and
there are bad ways. It's just their bad luck that this story focuses on the
latter.
The Times Square festivities promise to be among the most gala and extravagant
in the world. The people there will celebrate the coming Millennium by partying
it as it comes to each time zone. The grand event, of course, will occur when
midnight strikes on the east coast. It's such an amazingly huge thing that the
NYC police are cordoning off a whole chunk of the city, towing cars away, and
sealing manhole covers. This will deter no one…
*
"Well, it's eleven forty-five here, and the crowd is going insane, which is
really saying something, since most of these folks came bundled in strait
jackets when they arrived."
"That's right, Dick. It looks more cramped than a Who concert down there on the
streets, and about as safe. We can see the people milling around the pole which
is holding the Waterford made Millennium Ball, its five hundred four seven
pointed stars aglow with light. The six foot wide ball weighs more than half a
ton, and will be lowered in fifteen minutes."
"Less than fifteen minutes now. Gosh, the crowd is really going nuts, you can
see them doing a wave down there."
"I can do more than see it, Dick. I can feel it."
"Hey, me too."
Mitzi appeared a block away.
"Where's the party?"
*
If this is your first experience with Mitzi, then an explanation is in order. If
this is not your first experience with Mitzi, then you may want to skip down a
bit to where the fun starts.
Mitzi's presence at a party has the same effect as a mouse at a cat show, with
one rather important difference: the mouse would have to be many hundreds of
feet tall. The mouse would also need an addiction to nice shoes and mall sales.
It would not be a cruel mouse, because Mitzi is not a cruel giantess, she
doesn't delight in destruction and chaos. However, when most buildings only come
up to your thighs, even a graceful giantess will break a few things.
Mitzi has a peculiar sort of grace, rather like a klutzy gazelle. People will
testify that she is a marvel to watch, or at least they would testify this, if
they could stop screaming long enough. But her lack of physical coordination
pales before the one thing that really makes people rush to buy new underwear.
For Mitzi is a ditz.
It's not easy to define a ditz, images do the job more effectively. Imagine
someone trying to open the window on a plane for some fresh air. Add to that a
vision of someone backing out of their garage before raising the door. Mix to
both of those notions one of a restaurant patron accidentally tucking the
tablecloth into their shirt for a bib, then getting up to go to the restroom.
Liberally stir in the sight of the Zamboni machine rolling onto the ice during a
hockey game. Now magnify all of that by about a million.
Mitzi is worse…
First and foremost, she skips happily through life, as if she did not tower over
the city like a well dressed skyscraper. She is easily distracted, which is bad
news for anything between her and the new thing drawing her attention. She gets
positively giddy when she sees the word 'sale'. She can't spell too well, which
proved an unmitigated disaster for the 227th Annual Sailors' Convention. Those
cities that have hosted her appearances not only get Federal Disaster Aid, they
usually get a large supply of wading pools, fountains and duck ponds cast in the
shape of high-heel shoe prints. People have taken numerous camcorder shots of
Mitzi in action, the voice commentary invariably takes the form of one word
repeated over and over and over.
But there can be no argument. Mitzi is a marvel to watch…
*
So the people in Times Square marveled at Mitzi, and wished they were watching
her on TV. While those people watching on TV reached for their Christmas Card
books and began whiting out all of the entries with New York addresses.
Mitzi, oblivious to the (non-physical) impact she was having was radiant in her
Millennium outfit. Picking out her attire had been a considerable challenge.
Cities up and down the east coast were littered with lavender leather skirts,
hundred foot long stiletto heels, single shoulder dresses, natty bead purses and
jumbles of semi-truck sized lipstick cases, cosmetic shells and eyeliner sticks.
Not to mention the smoking remains of places she had tried to use as dressing
rooms.
Turning her head, Mitzi admired her reflection in a nearby tower of glass and
stone. She had settled upon a red and white L'il Abner style shirt top, tied
into a big knot between her awe inspiring breasts. A black leather, miniskirt
hung from her hips, adorned with silver eyelets outlining the shape of a poodle
; the spreading skirt accentuating the lovely curve of her thighs. Her nails
were long and painted with glossy rose polish. The unfortunate manicurist was
still stuck to her left pinkie, though he wasn't in any condition to balk about
it. Mitzi's long hair was done up on a top-knot from which sprang a bouncing
ponytail. On her feet were a pair of black, knee-high go-go boots, with red
highlights (no, not what you're thinking, but keep reading). Flashing lights
flickered and danced on her body as she looked down at the Times Square party,
which was now quiet enough to hear two things: the wailing of distant sirens as
police cars and firetrucks tried in vain to keep up with Mitzi's progress
through the city, and the frantic pounding of several hundred thousand
heartbeats as people thought about prying up those manhole covers that the city
had so conveniently welded in place.
The silence exploded loudly, as Mitzi clapped her hands together with a giggle
and strode forward to join the panicking attendees. "Oh, gosh, I've never been
to a Millennium party before," she gushed. "This is so cool, I mean, these
things are supposed to be rare. Have any of you people ever been to one? I hope
they have another one soon, because this one seems to be so fun. Is there any
music? Because I love music. Do you like my boots? Is that a TV camera? Hi
there! Don't you wish you were here? Oops, sorry, little cameraman."
Meanwhile, as Mitzi bubbled over with excitement, her footfalls resulted in new
red highlights on her boots, as scores of people vanished under her soles and
heels with squishy, popping, crunching noises. The splatter was intense, as was
the panic, as several hundred thousand people suddenly remembered that they'd
left something vitally important under their beds at home -- namely, their
fragile little bodies. In one blind surge, thousands of people spun on their
heels and ran into each other. And, while the terror escalated into something
that could only be compared with the impending release of a new Oliver Stone
movie, Mitzi helped thin out the more packed bits of the crowd by playfully
trodding on them. Her body shimmying and undulating in an impromptu dance, her
breasts doing things that froze the male half of the population like a herd of
deer lined up in front of a Consolidated Freight locomotive. And with much the
same consequences.
Mitzi was blissfully unaware (as usual) of the horrific carnage going on under
her go-go boots, much less the sudden evacuations as her hips bumped and jostled
the adjacent buildings. Gore and blood sprayed the buildings in a window
washer's nightmare. The Times Square Jumbotron was showing the splattering of
tiny men and women with an rock steady clarity, that had to be seen to be
believed. It's one thing to be snuffed out under the heels of a celebrating
giantess. It's quite another thing to have to watch it happening to yourself on
TV. Fortunately, for those people who thought it couldn't get any worse, it did,
proving once again that people have pretty poor imaginations when it comes to
disasters.
"You know what would make this even better?" said Mitzi in a voice that inspired
scores to commit seppuku on their hors devour toothpicks. "Confetti!" and she
squatted down and began flinging handfuls of partygoers into the chill December
sky. Her gigantic fingers swept gaily through the frantic mobs, until the air
was filled with the shrieks of people pinwheeling up and rocketing down with
gooey splashing splats. Mitzi giggled and launched more tiny people into the
air, keen on sharing the excitement she felt at this truly once-in-a-lifetime
moment. Her right hand bumped one of the few vehicles in the Times Square area,
a gaudily painted van from a local radio station. The impact bounced the crew
inside around, and suddenly "It's the end of the world as we know it…" came
blaring from the mounted loudspeakers.
A look of pure joy spread across Mitzi's face as the music rang out. Her fingers
closed around the tiny van, and she stood up with it, lifting the tiny thing to
her right ear. Then she began to dance. Once again people found themselves
regulated to the task of becoming gooey blotches under the giantess' happy feet.
A group of mounted policemen tried to direct the crowd away from the growing
mess. Fortunately for the horses, they had more sense and bolted to freedom.
Their riders, however, were slower, and added a hint of blue to the spreading
paste filling the streets. If the crowd thought it couldn't get any more rabid
with fear, that hope vanished as the first of the buildings began to avalanche
into the street. The steady beat was doing to New York what New Yorkers kept
hoping would happen to Los Angeles, but more importantly it was cutting off
potential avenues of escape.
Meanwhile, in the van, the crew was trying to put on something more sedate, like
Moon River or Stop the World, I Want To Get Off; anything to halt the up and
down motion as Mitzi listened to her little 'radio.' In fact, an end did come to
their travails, though they didn't much like it. For the people manning the
Millennium Ball decided that the quickest way to get Mitzi gone would be to drop
the ball and end the festivities. As ideas go, it was pretty good. Unfortunately
they were deficient in their experience with giantess ditzes.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!" Mitzi's brows frowned in a pretty way, and she began shaking
the tiny van vigorously, trying to eliminate the unpleasant noise coming from
her little music machine. "Seven! Six! Oh shit, Fivefourthreetwoone, drop the
damn thing!" Suddenly the Millennium Ball lit up in its full glory, sparkling as
though a star from heaven had descended to earthly realms. The thousands of
crystalline points glittered and glistened, shattering the white lights into
myriad rainbows. Hundreds of thousands of eyes turned to watch as it slowly
began to descend the pole. Mitzi was among them, her face filled with
astonishment, her tongue slowly gliding over her upper lip as she watched the
motion of the pretty bauble. Her fingers relaxed, and the van plummeted to the
street with a rending crash, but Mitzi's full attention was on the splendid
trinket before her. The sudden silence was a balm to frazzled nerves as the
clock ticked its way to 12/31/99 12:59:59. Mitzi's hand reached down, and as the
clock turned over to 1/1/00 she slapped her credit card down on the luckless
operators of the Millennium Ball, and announced in her loudest voice: "I'll take
it!"
*
It took a while for Mitzi to complete the transaction, but she was used to that.
It's hard to get good service from people who insist on turning to ruddy grease
splotches under your billboard sized credit card. Plucking up the Millennium
Ball, she affixed it to her left earlobe, stooping down to admire herself in the
image of the Jumbotron, her pretty face bright with glee at her marvelous
discovery.
The mere fact that she was no longer dancing around was joy enough for the still
fleeing survivors. But that pleasure was cut short by words that froze every
heart for two miles around.
"Oh, I love it! Where's the other one?"
…End…
PS: I don't usually do end notes, but I didn't want to give this away at the
beginning, since she was meant to be a bit of a surprise. Mitzi is CAT's
creation, a superb artist who created many wonderful giantess drawings. Someday
he'll draw again, or at least my plan is to whine and bitch until he does…
(smirk) btw: this story was done without his knowledge or approval…so hopefully
he won't be ticked off at me…
-- Grildrig