"One cheese slice," you tell the clerk, a young giantess. Your eyes are not on the employee. Instead, you see only the pie steaming seductively beneath the glass counter. The girl cuts the desired wedge from it and slides it onto a paper plate; leaving a grease smear in its wake. "How many tinies?" She asks her hungry customer automatically once she reaches the register. "Oh, give me three shakes, I've got a lot of shopping to do today, and I'll need the energy." The clerk gives a few uncaring flips of the shaker sending men the size of pepper flakes falling down on the melty cheese where they stick as surely as ants on a wet surface. Above, you are already eyeing their pitiful struggles hungrily.
I paid for my lunch and found a table in the food court of Giantesses. I sat across and watched a woman finishing a cup of yogurt. One man, bigger than my tinies, but not by much, attempted to ward off the spoon as the woman pokes, prods, and finally scoops him up with it. I heard his screams as he met his mashing demise within her mouth. I can't hear those of her other victims, though they probably number in the hundreds and are no doubt horrified by their impending doom.
These tinies are way too small to be heard and that isn't their purpose anyway. They exist only to be eaten; still, Giantess Amy has a big heart and so before you eat; your hand hovers over the pizza, truly the hand of a Goddess to the tiny men and women below. You intend to pardon one of these puny morsels from their fate, for the moment, but whom?
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