A DAY WITH MITZI   Scott Grildrig 15

A DAY WITH MITZI   Scott Grildrig 15

A DAY WITH MITZI

Scott Grildrig

15-Sep-1994

Based on a character created by CATSCANS

This is the brief story about a rather unusual woman, her name is Mitzi, and she

is, by most standards drop-dead gorgeous; something more than a few people have

actually gone and done in her presence. But I'm getting ahead of myself. She is,

avowedly, a city girl, and likes nothing more than to while away a sunny

afternoon looking for the latest fashions at bargain basement prices. She has a

delightful passion for loose blouses, miniskirts, and high-heeled shoes. She is

fully equipped, physically and mentally for the life of a cheerleader, and not

much else. It is said that she can detect a going-out-of-business sale from over

five miles away. In every way (and ignoring a certain mitigating circumstance)

she fits the mold of what this society deems 'a nice girl'. However, she does

have one outstanding characteristic that sets her head-and-shoulders above other

ladies of her ilk:

Mitzi is a giantess.

Now, this is not an easy thing to relate to those who have never seen her, and a

just description of her impact on an innocent city is best examined by a sample

of her daily life. After reading this story most people will agree, this is one

of those cases where a second-hand account is the better part of valor. With

this in mind, this story tracks, for a few hours, the movements of Mitzi.

Hardhats are recommended, but not required.

Every story needs a beginning, so...

We're standing here on the corner of 7th and 18th in a bustling twentieth

century metropolis. To your right, forward and back run streets thick with cars,

bordered by sidewalks thick with pedestrians. Overhead loom the skyscrapers,

vying with the clouds for elbow room, and both casting long shadows over the

chaotic hustle and bustle beneath them. It's nine-thirty on a fine monday

morning; about time for the department stores to be opening. Listen. She's right

on time. If you look to your left, you can see Mitzi, attired in polka-dot

blouse, belt, mini-skirt, wearing red patent leather pumps and sporting a cute

little bow in her hair. She is gamboling down the street.

There's no need to look up the word 'gambol', just picture for a moment a child

in a toy-store playfully skipping from isle to isle and you'll have the sense of

the word. The difference being that when a five hundred foot tall woman decides

to gambol about, it's rather like inviting an earthquake to dinner: it's big,

impressive and often messy.

Mind you, Mitzi is not a vengeful giantess.

Dear me, no; she never has visions of cruel havok wrecked at the whim of some

carnal entertainment, never loses her temper, never vents vengeful passions as

an excuse for personal pleasure. In fact, most folks insist that she is far

worse than any of these rather nasty scenerios: for Mitzi is a 'ditz'; and mind

you, a colossal 'ditz'. There's no need to look that word up either, just

imagine a fly banging its brains out on the remaining inch of a rolled down car

window, and you'll get the idea. Mitzi's mental workings make most bimbo's look

very, very good in the intelligence department.

The single insurmountable problem is that a real ditz is hard to reason with,

it's like trying to teach Hegelian Philosophy to a head of cabbage. Ditz's tend

to be easily distracted by mundane items, such as sales, fashion trends and

dirt. A fifty story tall ditz such as Mitzi presents such a staggering crisis,

that most level-headed people would rather cede to her her own state (or

planet), were such a thing possible.

Mitzi never means to demolish things, but it's a fact that most modern

non-insane cities (which rules out at least one east coast burg) favor the

loving application of an atomic bomb for urban renewal over a brief visit from

Mitzi; ten to one. Of course, all of this is lost upon our lovely lady as she

skips down the busy streets, oblivious to the panicky screaming of people and

the wild honking of car horns. The people are not trying to get her attention,

far from it, they are expressing a healthly outburst of genuine terror at the

sight of a gigantic Mitzi bearing down on them like an avalanche. Unaware of her

effect on the populace, Mitzi moves from building to building, seeking the

telltale signs of a shopping opportunity. And all the while her red patent

leather pumps (with twenty foot tall heels, regular $95.99 slashed to $35.00)

crush flat anything unlucky enough to be in her path.

It's worth repeating that Mitzi is not deliberately stepping on all those little

people. She's distracted by her search, and is not paying attention to her

movements. Even that transit bus disappearing under her right foot goes

unnoticed, although it's plain that everybody down here is going absolutely

berserk with panic, trying to get away from this huge wayward female. Mad flight

is definately the wisest course, because when Mitzi steps upon a taxi or a bus,

it gets pressed flatter than a penny (and retains about the same value) whereas

even the most robust man leaves a barely discernable grease splotch. It's also

worth noting that things could be worse: Mitzi could be doing all of this for

fun. Of course, that's scant consolation to that group of people over there that

she's just trod upon. Mitzi may not notice, but everybody down here can hear

every gruesome POP! and CRUNCH! of another man or woman being turned to puree

under Mitzi's gargantuan feet.

Today, Mitzi is looking for cosmetics.

There's no good explaination for Mitzi's size, although one of the more popular

speculations postulates that the universe could not cram so much ditziness into

a smaller package. In the same way, it's not important dwelling on where she

gets her clothes, her money or her food. These things are dealt with in a manner

sufficient to keep Mitzi on her eternal quest for the perfect white-tag sale. If

you can take your eyes off the carnage down here and look up, you might notice

the confused look on her face. Despite what you're thinking, it's not a

permanent feature. Normally Mitzi radiates happiness, sometimes embarassment,

especially after stepping on a busload of nuns, or putting her elbow through the

side of a building. Confusion on her pretty face, however, is a bad thing; bad

for everybody down here that is, because it means that Mitzi is going to ask for

assistence.

You will note that as she hunkers down to find someone to help her, she is not

overly-cautious about where she is settling, or on what. Certainly, a lovelier

creature never spread herself out over such an expanse of city blocks. Her

miniskirt rides up her awesome thighs, giving an unparalleled view to those

trapped between her knees. While further up her giantess-sized breasts sway

softly within the loose confines of her blouse. Yet this lady is the cheesecake

version of Godzilla (the first movie). By my count she's crushed a QuikMart, a

video store, a few non-descript structures, probably two dozen cars and a

hideous number of people; and all this just getting on to her hands and knees.

But that's nothing. Please note as she attempts to 'gain the attention' of a

fleeing passerby with a casual tap on the shoulder. One (squish), two

(splat)....three (ker-runch), ouch, I'll bet that hurt...four (pulp) and five

(pop). When the tip of one's finger is the size of a mini-van, it's terribly

hard to 'casually' tap anything. It'll take her a little while to figure out

that she's squishing each of her potential good samaritians under her finger.

Just imagine: you're running for your very life, when this ditz of a giantess

picks you out of the crowd, says 'EXCUSE ME', and squishes you like a bug. I

mean, politeness in such a big lady is commendable, still, some folks find it

galling being snuffed out of existence by a whimsical poke from a super-colossal

bimbo.

You will observe, though, that no one stops to chide her for her

thoughtlessness, everyone is much too busy trying to beat the four minute mile.

Unfortunately for them, Mitzi's record is a fifteen second mile. I remember

another time she was hunting for makeup, she had just successfully obtained (ie:

not rendered unto grease) the services of a man the size of her little

finger-nail. She was asking him about any local fashion sales when a small red

car screamed passed. Its european clamshell construction caught her eye, and she

asked her little man about the vehicle. He screamed back (she could barely hear

him) that it was a new compact car. Unfortunately for everyone concerned Mitzi

completely misunderstood him. Visions of a mascara car (maybe midnight blue) or

a lipgloss car (preferably flavored) went winging through the echoing chambers

of her brain. The little man achieved an instant and ignominious grease-dom

between her clapping palms as she rose up and went after the miniature

automobile. It was a short, but spectacular chase, as Mitzi tried to leap over a

line of buildings with only moderate success. Her outstretched hands speared

right though a building across the street, and a number of people had as their

last sight on earth, the swiftly approaching swell of her massive breasts before

she slammed into the structure and buried it under her weight. Rising out of the

debris, like some goddess from the Mall, she brushed away the dust, and in two

quick strides caught up to the speeding car. Reaching down with her right hand

she plucked up the vehicle like it was a scuttling beetle. Alas, her attempts to

pry open her prize met with failure. Instead of a sample from a new line of

cosmetics, she found herself holding the wadded up remains of a sports car, with

the former owner oozing out of the folds.

This coordination thing is a real problem for Mitzi.

If you'll note, she has spotted her sale. It's several blocks distant, but

that's no problem for a five hundred foot tall lady. Indeed, Mitzi is one of the

few women in the world who can walk carefree through the meanest sections of a

city. Which is just as well for her, because if she were a more conventional

size, she'd be obvious pickings. What is a problem, though, is that upon

checking her purse she has discovered that she's short on cash, and that means a

visit to the bank.

But first...

Mitzi likes to preen before doing her banking.

For a woman of her stature this might be expected to pose a considerable

problem, but in matters of style and fashion Mitzi is endowed with more than a

little creativity. Of the various skyscrapers surrounding her, several are of

the mirrored variety common to the 60's and 70's. The polished surface is not

perfectly even, but she deals with it. Amazingly enough, those windows are

packed with men and women watching Mitzi with the same sort of fascination of

fishermen watching an incoming tsunami. People have a funny set of priorities

when it comes to natural disastors. Sure enough, our loveable ditz has put her

right elbow through the side of the building behind her, sending more confused

souls winging upward to Valhalla. At least she has the decency to look guilty

for once, though, I'm sure the survivors could do without her brushing at the

ruined fascade with her ungentle hands. Oh well, back to preening; she really is

gorgeous, her eyes are the most innocent shade of blue. She doesn't have a comb,

so she uses her fingers to tame her thick mane of hair. A casual adjustment of

those awe inspiring breasts, and our lady is ready to do some banking.

Gee, and you thought you worked hard.

Mitzi does not have an account.

Mitzi does not generally pay for the things she gets while shopping.

However, for Mitzi, there are patterns to the way that one does things: and one

goes banking before shopping. All of this explains why she is searching among

the tightly packed buildings for any financial institute at all. This kind of

questing is particularly bad for the city, since Mitzi thinks nothing of

carelessly pushing a non-candidate building out of her way. It's times like this

that Mitzi makes Godzilla look like a pantywaist. The big lizard is not known to

push a thirty story building over onto a crowd of shrieking people, just to

discover that the little building next to it is a MacDonalds instead of a Chase

Lincoln. Nor is Godzilla likely to then step on the MacDonalds, as she does on

her way to the next block where she thinks she's spotted a Manufacterers-Hanover.

Surprise, surprise; it is a Manufacterers-Hanover.

It is, of course, hardly safe from Mitzi. Getting back onto her knees (you can

just tell from her expression that she thinks they make these places too small)

she tries to get the attention of a bank teller. This technique of attention

getting bears a striking resemblence to that method she uses on screaming

pedestrians, and it enjoys much the same success. Mitzi taps upon the side of

the building, heedless of the hundreds of people scurrying away from her at warp

eight. Undetered by the prompt non-apperance of a teller, Mitzi rethinks her

efforts. Peering into a line of windows, she spots the usual crowd staring back

at her, standing paralyzed like a herd of deer frozen by car headlights.

Unfortunately for her miniature admirers Mitzi resumes her usual attention

getting technique, but taps a little too vigerously, and sends her finger, and

most of her hand crashing in through the front of the building. With a startled

gasp Mitzi pulls back, causing further damage. No, she's not concerned about the

victims of her latest gaff; she's checking to see if she's chipped a nail.

Ponder that for a moment.

While Mitzi digs into her purse for a nailfile, the shattered fascade of the

Manufacterers-Hanover bank slids off its girders like a glacier shucking an

iceburg. A haggard group of survivors extricating themselves from the rubble is

rewarded for their travails when Mitzi's lipstick lands on them like a tank

truck, followed almost instantly by half the contents of her purse. Ignorant of

her little faux-pas, she rumages through her belongings until she locates an

emery board. Then, sitting back, and thus consigning a number of people to an

rather intimate and terminal discourse with her derriere, she proceeds to repair

the minor damage to her glossies. This done, Mitzi gathers her belongings back

into her purse, along with a few reluctant guests, and sets out for some serious

shopping.

If you thought the city was having a bad day, bide a moment.

With her banking complete, the business of finding stuff to buy takes precedence

over everything else. A minute spent away from a store is a minute not spent

shopping. This explains why Mitzi *runs*.

Seeing Mitzi approaching in all her gigantic splendor has been known to awaken

religious feelings in some people (i.e., oh my god, if you get me out of this

I'll join the priesthood; and so on). On the other hand, seeing Mitzi run has

inspired people to pick less dramatic ways to end their lives; like driving

their cars into the sides of buildings, or leaping from the rooftops. The

buildings (those which don't simply fall over) dance as if auditioning for a

John Travolta movie. Cars and buses skitter across the roads, rather like those

old vibrating surface football games they used to sell. People unable to find

anything stable to cling to, bounce around like jai-hai balls, if they're lucky.

Anything stupid enough to find itself in Mitzi's path gets stomped on hard by

several million pounds of prancing giantess; truly, a once in a lifetime

experience. On more than one occasion, Mitzi has broken through the ground into

subway tunnels, and the resulting destruction from her tumbling onto a row of

buildings defies casual description.

Back to the chase.

The giddy sensation of discovering some poor benighted department store proudly

(if unwisely) displaying a banner indicating: %30 off all tag items, final days;

often reduces Mitzi to a kind of trembling, pre-shopping orgasm. It's rare that

the building doesn't suffer some kind of damage, generally the big lady just

peels the roof off. This instance is no different, unless you include her

skidding stop in the midst of the parking lot. Her patent leather pumps send

cars (parked or not, occupied or not) flying in every direction, save those that

decorate the bottoms of the colossal shoe prints that she leaves in the tarmac.

The shrieking mobs go unnoticed as she drops to her knees, carelessly squashing

scores of people under her long shapely legs. Eagerly, Mitzi reaches out,

thrusts her fingers under the rooftop of the building, and with a single

prodigious heave rips it free from its walls and casually tosses it aside.

Leaning forward, her breasts resting on the outer wall, she peruses through the

long rows of dresses, blouses, skirts and whatnot; knocking whole rows of

shelving over, lifting entire racks of clothing at a time. Some people suspect

that if Mitzi ever got horny, this is the kind of mayhem that could be expected.

People wildly dive for cover, those who move too slowly are smeared by her

grabbing fingers.

When it's all over, Mitzi's purse is stuffed with merchandise.

She drops a credit card, only slightly smaller than a baseball infield on top of

a retail clerk who foolishly catches her eye; Mitzi waits a moment, then

retieves the bit of plastic, thinking the transaction done, and never noticing

the splattered piece of gore she leaves behind. Standing up, she wanders off,

engaged in admiring her recent purchases, and as usual, heedless of the tracks

of little homes, garages, and miniature rows of trees getting crunched flat

under her high-heeled shoes. Her reverie is, however, all too brief, and soon

she is dashing across the city again, plowing through buildings with girlish

impunity, hunting down another store.

Needless to say, all of this shopping has detremental effects on the local

economy, not to mention the city and it's citizens. It has been noted that Mitzi

and lightning never strike the same place twice, refering to that old joke about

a place never being that same after being so visited. Still, one woman's fun is

an entire society's nightmare. And it really could be worse...she could have a

twin sister...

Enough.

It's time to leave Mitzi, standing tall above the curling, billowing clouds of

smoke from another leveled community; the smashed detris of countless crushed

buildings piled up around her red patent leather pumps. Her purse is overflowing

with discounted items. However, she's not completely satisfied. She has one

pretty finger lightly clenched between her teeth. She's not sure how, but she's

positive that there won't be anymore sales in this city. In fact, she has a

nagging suspicion that she may be the cause of this bit of a mess. You can tell

from her eyes that she's had this problem before. If she was thinking about it

any harder, smoke would be wafting upwards from one more source.

Mitzi's attention span comes to her rescue.

With a careless shrug, (the world is filled with cities) she dismisses the whole

thing from her vacuous mind. And, wandering west towards the setting sun, begins

her journey towards the next unsuspecting metropolis. She'll have to hurry, the

stores will be opening in a few hours...

...End...

A DAY WITH MITZI   Scott Grildrig 15

MORE ABOUT A DAY WITH MITZI   Scott Grildrig 15