One of the problems with being drunk is that one does not control her strength. And apparently my change in size has come with an extra dose of it. I think about that as I’m falling forward, seemingly in slow motion.
The problem started a few seconds ago, right at the moment I stopped behind the crowd. I knew I had to do something to them, but I could suddenly think of nothing original. After all my teasing, I had to do something quick, so in front of the lack of ideas I decided to go for a classic. I raised my foot, let it hover on top of packed enough section of the crowd and got ready for the kill. The idea to stomp rather than step came in the last instant. I thought it would reinforce my message, sort of tell the crowd “Here I am”. It turns out the message was a little too strong.
My foot easily crushed a dozen or so souls and then sank in the tarmac, as I’m already used to. And then it kept sinking. I’m really stoned, so I really can’t tell how much force I put in the stomp, but the moment my foot leg as deep as its ankle and kept going I knew that it was too much.
My clumsiness, or however you want to call what just happened has really sent a message. I must have caused a moderate intensity earthquake in the area immediately around me, judging from the hundreds of people I’ve sent off their feet and the couple dozen cars that are now resting on their roofs rather than their wheels. It has also sent my leg into the ground all the way to mid shin, and has fucked the surface around me enough to make me completely lose my balance.
And here I am, falling forward as if I had suddenly stepped on the edge of a tight long dress. I shoot my arms outwards and try to cushion the impact with my hands. A couple of cars and an undefined number of unlucky bastards are instantly flattened as my palms sink in the asphalt and then slide forward, digging parallel trenches and finishing countless more vehicles and people. The rest of my body hits the ground hard an instant later. Hundreds of people end under different parts of it. I seem to be able to focus only on the ones that end up crushed under my oversized tits, which have dropped on them like twin atomic bombs.
If my stomp had caused an earthquake, the countless tons of my body have created a massive replica. Most of those that had been affected by the original shake are now stains under several parts of my anatomy, so I get a really close up view of hundreds more being thrown around right under my cute nose.
Dust raises. I stay silent for a second and see dozens of tiny unlucky people looking at me with their butts on the ground. I feel so much like a klutz! I remain silent for another second. Then I take into the consequences of my clumsiness and I start giggling.
“OOOOPSY” I say aloud and in a really terrible impersonation of a little girl
I keep giggling and see that the expressions of some of the people in front of me are oscillating from terror to something close to indignation. Without warning I slam my right fist on a group of them. Ok, I did not get the group that I was targeting. It’s not as if the crowd will ever realize about it, of course, but I finally officially acknowledge to myself that I’m too drunk. I start giggling again.
People are starting to stand up and do what I’m already used to: scream and run.
I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that I’m not going to be able to strive for precision for a while, so I will need to stay in “maximum effect” mode. That should not be a problem, as I quickly prove to myself and to the crowd by slamming my fist in the midst of it three additional times in quick succession. I was not aiming, so I could not miss. This did not prevent me from having an impact, if the reaction of the crowd is a good measurement at all.
Those that are not crushed are back in their feet and trying to get away from me as fast as they can. I giggle again.
I still feel like the funniest person in the world, so I keep on teasing them, not caring that I’m dragging the words a little too much.
“HEY! WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM ME? I USED TO ATTRACT PEOPLE, NOT SEND THEM AWAY!” I protest. Then I giggle once more and add: “OH RIGHT, I GUESS YOU DON’T LIKE ME CRUSHING YOU!”
I sound excited, as if I had made a big discovery. And then I slam my fist in the crowd once more for good measure.
“WELL, I’M SORRY!” I exclaim. “BUT IT IS JUST TOO MUCH FUN!” I add excited. I slam my fist in a different section of the crowd, crushing about half a dozen more people before I say: “IT’S EVEN ADDICTIVE! LIKE POPPING BUBBLEWRAP!”
And my fist lands on them like a meteor once more.
It’s not as if I’m thinking too clearly, so there’s no way I can form a too elaborate thought. But I know I feel good. And I know it has to do with what I’m doing. No matter what you might think, I’m not a sadist. My pleasure does not come from the fact that I’m making the tinies suffer (or killing them, for what matters). It comes from how utterly powerful my actions make me feel.
Using people like disposable toys makes me feel superior in so many ways that I cannot keep myself from doing it over and over again. It’s the ultimate consequence of my status. For a brief instant, maybe driven by my drunkenness, I realize about how different this all must look from the perspective of the helpless population.
“I GUESS IT MUST SUCK TO BE YOU” I add, changing my tone to one of mocking pity. “I MEAN, BEING SO PUNY MUST BE REALLY FUCKED UP, RIGHT?”
Then I let out a loud chuckle.
“I’M SO GLAD THAT I’M NOT YOU!” I say. “BEING ME IS THE BEST THING EVER!”
I reach out with my arm again. The crowd is expecting the worst, but this time my hand does not close in a fist but opens like a claw. I scoop down and bring my hand up with a pile of wiggling bodies trapped in the cage formed by my fingers. I’m far from coordinated, so I cannot prevent one of the bodies to drop through an opening and fall from what feels like a negligible distance to me but looks quite harder on the tiny woman. I forget about her and bring the hand in front of my smiling face.
Opening my hand, I see half a dozen bodies lying in different positions in my palm. None of them is larger than my pinkie finger. The sight is so exhilarating that I just cannot prevent a new giggle.
“IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE THAT I WAS LIKE THIS JUST THIS MORNING” I say to them, but mostly to myself.
A couple of the diminutive bodies turn and I see their owners looking at me with a combination of amazement and fear. I wink at them. Then I get bored and just toss them carelessly to the side.
The crowd has made it barely out of arms reach, so I decide it is time to get back on my feet. It’s, of course, easier said than done, but after stumbling a little I finally manage to stand up again.
The city looks way more interesting than the highway, so I just start walking, ignoring the countless cars and people that end up at the bottom of my footprints. A dozen or so steps into my trek my path crosses with that of an overpass.
It’s pretty crowded, with jammed traffic and dozens of people piling into the aisles between cars. It reaches barely above my ankle. It would have been easy enough to step over it… if I had any trust on my balance, which I don’t right at this moment.
Luckily for me, my condition gives me plenty of ways to deal with this inconvenience and the easiest one is just to walk through it, feeling the concrete break with ease at my shins, sending countless vehicles and souls to the highway below.
The shiny reflection of the highway’s streetlights catches my attention and makes me stop. I don’t know what makes shiny things so attractive, but they are, even for someone like me that can have anything I wish for.
The world turns a little in my head as I crouch and reach out, grabbing the 18 wheeler gently in my hand. My sudden movement as I stand up makes me even dizzier, but I close my eyes and manage to get focus once more. I’m looking at the scaled down model of the semi as my fingers touch the cold metal of the cylindrical container it carries. Then, I look forward to the crowd.
“HEY, SOMEONE LEFT THEIR TOY BEHIND!” I say playfully
And then I just bring the 18-wheeler over my head and toss it girlishly at the spot where the crowd was thickest. The explosion that ensues is so massive that it even surprises me. I did not check but it turns out that the metallic container had been full of gas.
“OH FUCK!” I say, and this time I’m not forcing my words. Dozens must have died instantly at impact. Hundreds more are either burning or trapped by the fire.
Then I catch myself giggling again at the unexpected consequences of my careless action. I feel as if anything I do has the potential to end up in a massacre.
“SOMEONE SHOULD REALLY PUT THAT FIRE OUT” I say, mocking the pretty unsuccessful attempts of the people to escape the flames. “THERE’S NEVER A FIREFIGHTER AROUND WHEN YOU NEED ONE”
After a few seconds watching the fire wreak havoc among the people in the crowd I say:
“OK, IF YOU INSIST”
Then, without warning, I bring my hands to my hips and start blowing in the direction of the fire. I don’t stoop or crouch to try to get closer. I’m in no shape for that. So, I just try to channel the coldest air I can muster through my sultry lips and more or less aim in the direction of the fire.
I give myself a mental thumbs up as the flames are put out way faster than an army of firefighters could have managed. The unfortunate side effect (for the crowd, that is) is that it’s hard enough to get precise when you are trying to blow at something from a height equivalent to a high-rise’s rooftop, and my current state is not actually helping. So, by the time I cut my breath the flames are out but so is a section of the highway and its surroundings, which suddenly reminds of a Christmas postcard even if we are in the peak of summer. A couple hundred ice statues decorate the picture.
“OH MY! I HOPE THAT YOU DON’T THINK THAT I’M A COLD GIRL!” I say just before I start giggling again.