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...