MILLENNIUM By Scott Grildrig 31

27/02/2020

MILLENNIUM

By Scott Grildrig

31-Dec-1999Disclaimer: 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

MORE ABOUT MILLENNIUM By Scott Grildrig 31

Historia amp