I slung my bag over my shoulder, packed up my laptop, and got the hell out of Dodge.

"Man, I fucking hate that bitch, but she's my only shot at getting decent English credits for transfer in this insane asylum," I muttered under my breath, having suffered through another long-winded and frankly offensive rant from my British Literature professor.

Just as I managed to get far enough away from the building to drink some of my Dr. Pepper bottle in peace, however, someone decided to stand entirely too close to me, an expectant look in his eye.

I gave him a brief once-over. Rather tall, Latin skin tone, hair so blonde it had to have been dyed, and these idiotically wide brown eyes. Given the football uniform and miasma of body odor he had about him, he was probably part of our third-rate college's fourth-rate football team.

I raised an eyebrow. "Look, buddy, whatever it is you want, you're probably not getting it from me. So unless you have something serious to discuss with me, I suggest you leave me to my soda in peace, because I have a long walk home."

He shook his head, getting sweat everywhere, like a dog shaking off water. "Listen," he whispered, "I know that you're one of those giantess writers."

I blinked. "Not what I expected you'd be talking to me about, but yeah, I am. Now what does that have to do with anything?"

"Well," he said slowly, twiddling his thumbs, "I was hoping you could write a request for me."

I put my hand to the bridge of my nose, irritated. "You couldn't have just done this over the damned site? I'm busy right now."

"Well, I kinda wanted to do this in person," he said shyly. "After all, I'm a fan of yours. Have been for over a year now."

"Why thank- wait." I glared at him with a slight twinge of anger. "Over a year? Who exactly do you think I am?"

He grinned, oblivious. "You're EmmaGear, right?"

I reined in my rage-<i>not yet</i>, I told myself. "Look, let's talk about this somewhere else," I muttered. "I'm not comfortable discussing private business in a public area."

We decided to move over to an empty room- nothing was ever locked here during normal operating hours, and this part of campus had no classes scheduled for the next two hours or so.

I decided to stay my rage just a second or two longer. "Why not just let you have the full experience right now?" With that, I pulled a small item that looked considerably like a stun gun from my back pocket, and zapped the idiot before he had even a chance to question it.

His clothes kept moving while he fell vertically, conveniently leaving the inch-tall person already out of the pile of fabric that I normally would have had to move to find him. Pinching him between two fingers, I brought him to my face, enjoying the fact that he squirmed in my grip.

"Now," I said loudly, just to be able to make him flinch that much more from what would have been a wall of sound to him already, "one more time, who is it you think I am?"

"E- E- EmmaGear," he sniveled.

"Wrong!" I narrowed my eyes and gave a death glare that would have had even a normal-sized person re-thinking things. At his size, I scared the piss out of him. "Completely different person, you bug-sized fuck! My pen name is Slient-One, you got that?" I grinned evilly. "Of course," I said conversationally, "you won't make that mistake ever again."

He shook his head violently, trying to appease. It wasn't working.

"Oh, no, I'm not even giving you the chance," I said, my tone staying light and conversational, as if I were talking about the weather. "No, I'm going to end your little trip through this journey we call 'life' right here and now." I frowned slightly in thought.

"Now, how to do this . . . well, you're a fan of Emma's, so I shouldn't step on you- you'll like that. Sitting on you probably wouldn't be the most effective way to show you the way out, either. Hell, I don't think crushing you in any sense would be ideal. You're an Emma fan, and that's how she rolls, primarily." My stomach rumbled- I really should've grabbed more than a sandwich and an orange for lunch. What interested me, though, is how my little captive audience flipped out at the sound. "I've got it- I'll eat you. Something prolonged, it doesn't crush you, and it helps stave off a bit of my hunger."

Without further comment, I dropped him on my tongue, and found myself wrinkling my nose at the taste. <i>Salty. Eurgh.</i>

As I walked along, I passed him all over my mouth, hitting my cheeks, my teeth, the roof and floor of my mouth, and I got rid of the salty flavor bit by bit. By the time I was taking my usual shortcut through a neighborhood park, there was no flavor left at all.

Quickly glancing around to check if anyone was watching (and being satisfied that there wasn't), I pulled the small one from my mouth. He was bruised, beaten, and raw. He heaved and coughed, having swallowed copious amounts of my saliva in hos attempts to breathe.

"Well," I said with a grin, "not that it hasn't been fun, my little sweet, but you're out of flavor. You know what you do with a candy that's out of flavor, right?"

"You spit it out?" he asked hopefully.

"That's gum, dipshit," I deadpanned. "Well, at least I won't be driving our average IQ as a species lower by ending you. No, I'm going to swallow you. You have one last thing to say to the world. What's it gonna be?"

He gulped, and readied himself. "I'm sorry."

I blinked. "That's it? A shitty, half-baked apology? No last act of defiance, no speech at life's fragile nature, not even a bit of black humor? Man, you just never cease to show off just how much you suck."

With that, I dropped him back in my mouth, and gulped. I chugged half of my Dr. Pepper to help with how thirstyall that salt had made me, and continued with my day.

"Y'know, I need to have a talk with those other writers. There's no little fluttering at all. Either this guy didn't fight, or that's another myth of the community. Ah, well."

I put on my headphones and started up my iPod. Another day out of the way.