Tula wished more light would filter through the canopy, a tight weave of leaves that made her path nearly dark. She’d parked her car a couple of miles away at least, and there was no turning back. She looked in every direction with every step she took until she saw light ahead, and then a cluster of Ricinus Communis, the purple variety.
Castor bean plants, several of them. That means the burrow can’t be far from here. Tula knew what she had to do. She walked into the clearing where the plants grew rampant, closed her eyes, and recited the Assassin’s Prayer as clearly as she could. Her voice filled the glade.
O lend me your hand, your deadly hand
I am in need
I barter with soul, with mind; I stand
And beg they bleed
Flummox their lungs, their heart disband
With dark oil bead
The four-inch tall killer, thusly summoned, emerged from his hole in the ground and spoke in the sun, his voice like honey.
“Who do you want dead?”
The orchestra played brassy marches on and off, while the herald trumpeters announced the arrival of the first gentleman and the vice president with corresponding fanfares. The crowd of millions waited with hopeful excitement as Secret Service agents poured through the crowd, alert to any sign of trouble.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States, Marcos E. Sotomayor!”
The well-escorted man emerged from the building to the cheers of most everyone around. He smiled and shook hands to his left and right until he reached his husband, to whom he gave a long, passionate kiss. He acknowledged no one else and walked straight to the microphone, gently pushing the chairman aside. His voice, magnified by the sound system, resonated over the cacophony.
Silence fell like a curtain over the crowd.
“I’m going to bring peace to all. I’m going to stop wars, and make sure everyone has a chance for a better life.”
He turned to his husband and gave him a nod. The first gentleman turned and fled, surrounded by his security detail. The president turned to the crowd again.
“But before I make that omelet, I’m going to have to break a few eggs.”
President Sotomayor began to grow out of his clothes, expanding quickly over those around him. No one heard the sound his shoes made when they split in several places, or his expensive suit when it ripped to shreds.
And he kept growing.
Much to Susan’s surprise, the email didn’t land in her spam folder. She stared at the subject line. Maybe it was a joke from her cousin, but Susan couldn’t understand how her cousin could have made it so that there was no sender and no time stamp. Only the puzzling line, “Male Reduction Formula. Now avail…”
Susan expanded the page so she could see the entire line. “Male Reduction Formula. Now available as requested. Only one per customer. Order now.” She watched herself bring the cursor over the line, and click it. As requested? What the hell?
The content of the email felt like a punch in the gut. The sender addressed her by name and spelled out the most bizarre business transaction possible. At the bottom of the email’s body, there was a link.
The instructions were simple: All she had to do was click on the link when she had someone in mind she wanted to shrink. She had to focus on that person alone or the “procedure” wouldn’t work. The payment transaction for the entire balance of her savings account would take place automatically.
I’ve finally lost my mind, Susan thought right before she brought to the forefront of her mind a single face, a single name. She thought of no one else, and she clicked the link.
Somewhere far, the owner of that face and that name felt his skin begin to tingle.
The man felt the satin metal of the ruler with his back. He could lean against it, and he knew it would not budge. His owner had fixed it firmly in place to show his slight height, just as she had attached a phone to a tripod and had tilted it in his direction.
“Make lots of money for me,” she said every morning before she kissed the front of his body and left for work. In the beginning, it had seemed like an insane idea. How does a two-inch tall man make any money? As it turned out, quite easily. He lifted his hands to the camera and curled every finger and thumb but the middle ones in the direction of his many viewers.
“Pay up, pigs. If you want me to take off my speedos, give me your fucking paychecks. I want five hundred dollars in the next five minutes, or you won’t see my extremely tiny, but fully functioning cock.”
The phone that weighed more than two cars to him pinged, and the notification indicated there was more money in his (hers, really) account than he expected. He sighed. He thought of her. He thought of her giant panties on him, and that’s all it took.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his speedos and lowered them slowly as he smiled at his customers.
Cecily took one last turn through every room in the empty house. Everything but what she’d donated to various charities was in storage. All that was left were walls coated with cigarette smoke residue, and memories she didn’t particularly treasure.
Except for one. It wasn’t a memory as much as it’d been a dream about talking to a little boy when she was a young child. Her high heels echoed in the empty hallway as she reached her old bedroom. He was really little, wasn’t he? A couple of inches in height, maybe.
She stood in the doorway and replayed in her mind the times she’d held him in her hand, and whispered secrets she never told anyone else. Her eyes traveled from her old closet to the double window she always kept open—just a crack—so he could get fresh air, and dropped to the floor, where they widened when she saw the tiny man that emerged from a tiny door in the baseboard.
“Are you here to take me away with you this time?” He asked as she trembled with emotion.