It was thirty feet in your scale from the road surface to the top of the pavement sidewalk, so to say that the feet of the drunk are big is an understatement. Massive combat boots stride closer, untied shoelaces trailing in their wake. Climbing atop your vehicle - not difficult since it's been so thoroughly crushed - you stare upwards and note well-muscled, bare legs extending upwards into off-cut denim shorts. There's no time to look closer before those boots smash down either side of the car, and the giant bellows above you in a thunderous, female voice.
"What is that? Sure doesn't look like any cigarette pack I've ever seen before..." The boots creak as the feet within them force them to bend at the toe, legs collapsing as the giant lowers herself to inspect your wreck. The lighting's not too good here, and she's drunk enough to probably not be seeing things clearly, so as her gigantic fingers pick at the edge of your metal pancake, short-bitten fingernails peeling it up, it doesn't look like she's spotted you.
In moments, she'll have lifted your car into the air for a closer look. She's not paying close attention, so while you'd be closer to her eyes at journey's end, there's no guarantee you won't fall off long before that point, toppling a huge distance to the ground, probably to get underfoot again. The other choice would be to abandon this futile venture and try those shoelaces - you could tag along with her, and wait until she's sobered up a little before trying to contact her, although that would invite the risk of being lost along the way, while you acclimatise to your new size and strength.
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