3
…She didn’t get much further before stopping. She stood in front of “A modest, brick-walled building offering affordable, but luxurious living for the modern individual”-Henry & Henry Real Estate Co. Lease Brochure. It was a medium sized building; neither too short nor too tall. Quaint, wood-railed patios lined its front and a sprawling, leafy rash of Ivy covered one corner, the ropy roots slowly undermining the brick and mortar it methodically cracked their way into. Pigeons and other birds that had made nests in it took flight as her thunderous steps brought her nearer, and the ill-omen that was her shadow fell over their homes. But it was not the ivy or birds that had snared her attention. Her huge, indigo eyes were cast intently on something on the roof and her tongue passed briefly over her rosy lips.
It was a large external water reservoir, about the size of a thermos to her. Her thirst, bred by the heat and nursed to monstrous proportions by her own size, urged her towards it. Slight drops of condensation peppered its skin and dripped down the sides. To her it looked not unlike a refreshing can of soda. The building was not quite as tall as her, coming up to about chin level, but the reservoir was in the middle of the roof so she had to would have to stretch to grasp it. She stood next to the building and got on her cute, once petite, tippy-toes. This lessened the distribution of her weight on the already agonized ground and with now-familiar crackling noises, she sunk a couple feet into the broken side-walk and road. Unperturbed, she leaned in.
This placed the modest building directly in the path of her immodest bosom. Her massive breasts jiggled tauntingly before mercilessly pressing against the rustic, carefully-varnished wooden balconies of the upper-most stories. They resisted for a moment, her tank-top covered boob-flesh puffing slightly through the rails. But, the stalwart rigidity of the wood was no match against the soft, but unfathomable crushing power of her tits. A pained groan and sharp crack sounded from the balconies as they split and splintered against her. Her monstrous, sweat-glistened assets spread along the bricks, windows and patio-doors once guarded so vigilantly by the now-absent balconies. Radiating, Spider-web cracks announced her right nipple’s arrival as it pressed against the glass of a sliding patio door. Her left poked through and derailed the screendoor of the neighboring apartment. The resident who was just now waking up and hadn’t heard the news; had a killer hangover and stared dumbfounded at the scene of destruction inhabiting his living room. His screen-door, bent and warped was impaled on her nipple. And the tip of her breast had pushed in and was resting on the dilaped remains of his coffee table; an apartment warming present from his mom. He scratched his addled, throbbing head, decided he must still be dreaming and stumbled back to his puke-stained bed and passed out, again.
She felt her boobs press into, and break something and looked down to see she had accidentally smashed some of the balconies. Oh well. It tickled a little and she pressed harder. Her right nipple finally shattered the glass it rest against, and her breast took advantage of the extra space; pouring its soft, warm self into that residence. It overturned an entertainment center and plasma tv and buried them contentedly beneath itself. They, too were shattered when next she breathed. She reached for the tantalizing water tank once more. Her great, imploring fingers; stretching and spreading like a desperate spider, were still falling a bit short of being able to grasp the blasted thing. With a slight huff and knowing smile, she brought the rest of her body flat against the building.
Her toned belly and hips bullyingly pressed their way through the next highest balconies, ruined splinters and potted-plants fell through the air like bombs. Finally her musky, short-covered groin and long legs crashed through. Somone’s plastic patio chairs folded and compacted against her left thigh and a brutalized umbrella poked rudely, but mostly unnoticed into her crotch. After momentarily enjoying the gentle warmth of the sun-baked bricks on the exposed bits of her skin, she reached once more for the elusive canister of water and this time her long, slender fingers wrapped expertly around it.
Despite the relentless sun it was still miraculously cool on her fingers. Wrinkling her brow in concentration she began to twist. It let out a miserable, metallic whine and the posts supporting it snapped cleanly from it where they had been welded decades before. She let out a giggle of delight and violently tore it from the pipes connected to it. She let her feet down and her breasts, tummy and pelvis went rubbing down the face of the building, giving the conscious inhabitants one last peep-show, and stepped back from the injured building. Her heel landed on a speeding car and obliterated it completely. But she didn’t even notice.
She clasped the metallic cylinder in both hands. She pressed it briefly between her breasts, sighing at its cooling touch. Then she pinched and twisted off the coned cover and flicked it off not caring where it landed. She carefully brought it, again grasping it in both hands, to her face. She felt the precious water sloshing inside, shifting the weight. Eagerly she pressed it to her parched lips and tipped it, taking a big drink. To her thirsty mouth it was pure liquid heaven. She swished the cold water over her dry tongue and around her stainless teeth and then swallowed with a deep gulp. Her swan-neck tipped gracefully upward and visibly bulged as it made its way down and chilled the rest of her body. She began to guzzle greedily. The sound of her slurping echoed down the streets adjacent to her. She tipped the tank at a progressively steeper angle over her cavernous mouth as she gluttonously drained its reserves. The water that was once meant to provide for dozens of residents now began to fill the belly of one giant young woman. She had no concern for refinement or finesse as she slurped. Wasted rivulets cascaded out the delicate corners of her mouth and streamed ticklingly down her chin, neck and breasts. When pouring became impossible, she ran her tongue over the insides, lapping up any lingering drops hoping to avoid consumption.
When she was satisfied the canister was completely drained, she clamped her hands over its sides and pushed, crumpling it like a can of Natty Ice. The hollow metal caved-in easily and she bent it once more, rolling it in to a rough ball. This time she aimed. Her target was a tall, beautifully designed building with a reflective facade; a marvel of our times. She playfully adopted a baseball stance, trodding on a lamp-post and bike-rack. Then squinting at her mark, she imagined she could hear the crowd whooping in the stands, and that trademark baseball song. “dunn-dunn-dunn-dunn...dunn-dun-da-li-da-daaa…” Or was that hockey? Whatever. She wound up, feeling confident. Her giant arm whooshed in a great circle in the air. She slowly uncurled her fingers, let her shiny, metal ball loose…and missed.
Frank just wouldn’t shut up. John reaaally had to get back to work. So, he imagined did Frank. But here he was, still running his mouth bitching about his wife. He had been doing so for the last twenty minutes. John had run into him at the water-cooler. Or rather, he went to get a Dixie-cone of water, which he desperately needed, when Frank had spotted him from his cubicle and approached pretending to need a Dixie-cone full of water. “Hey pal!,” Mustachioed, Sun-burned, Squinty-eyed, thick glasses, nerdy Frank had shouted; clapping John stingingly on the arm as he did so, “How are things?!?”. Trying his best not to frown, John had answered. “They’re good, man. How are things with you?” This had been his mistake. “Wellll…,” Frank started; melodramatically stretching well. Never a good sign; and so here he was, trapped at the watercooler with his “pal” Frank. “She does nothing but bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.” “Well, atleast you have that in common”, thought John. “You know what I mean, pal? And she’s always throwing me curveballs..,” Frank’s nasally voice continued, becoming almost a drone…
John was pretty sure dying at the hand of that giant girl from the “news” hoax would be more tolerable than this….Suddenly there was a horrendous crash. Frank jumped, his toupee popping off his head and landing back on his head crooked. John knew that hair looked fake. Cripes. Wasn’t Frank like 28? He ended the thought, and whipped his head toward the noise and saw a giant, crinkled metal ball rolling through the office, steam-rolling cubicles and people. It was headed at break-neck speed right toward them…
Flashes of Indiana Jones flickered through John’s head. He downed his Dixie-cone of water, which he was in desperate need of, and failed epically in his attempt to flee the giant ball. He turned to run, but before he could even get started it had rolled over him and flattened him like Play-D’oh. Well, atleast he was done having to listen to Frank. This was John’s final thought. He died content.
Frank dropped his dixe-cone full of water; which he had, until this point been pretending he needed. He stood staring at the metal-ball as it crushed his co-workers, even “Hot Cindy,”(who had reluctantly dropped the restraining order against him at their boss’ request). He blubbered uselessly and did not even attempt to escape his fate. He did note, shortly before being crushed, that a few of the victims the ball crushed actually stuck to it. What did it remind him of? It flattened John and the water-cooler. Wait, that was it! It was like a gorier, M-rated, “Beautiful Katamari!,” he shouted in triumph. This was to be Frank’s final thought and words. The gore-spattered ball rolled him over, wholly unimpressed with his pop-culture knowledge. If Frank had been afforded enough time for another thought, it would have been “I love my wife…”
The misshapen ball flew in a weird, whirling sideways arch and crashed through the facade of the building next to her target, leaving a sizeable hole. She frowned poutingly. Damn. Oh well. Sports weren’t really her thing. That building was a great catcher though. MVP material, really. She felt something amiss on her persons, and looked suddenly to her breasts. They were covered in debris and splinters, and then she saw it. There was a tiny, pitiable screen door hanging off her semi-erect left nipple. She broke out into a guffaw, and braced her tummy. Her breasts juked and jiggled madly, dislodgeing most of the rubble from her chest, including the screen door and a lone potted marigold that had become embedded somehow in her cleavage. After regaining her composure she brushed the remaining debris off of her shirt. Man, she wished she had her camera for that one. That woulda been a great facebook picture. Yeah, that’s a screendoor on my nipple. Like it and comment away, grinning emoticon. But, now that her thirst was slaked for the moment, her attention turned back to the doomed city surrounding her….