Bethany let out a long, frustrated sigh when she saw who was pulling up to the QuikBurger's specially made, oversized drive-through window next: it was Brock Biggs, the "biggest man in town." Brock was a business owner and real estate agent, as well as the most powerful member of the city council in the little town of Barlomie; he stood nearly fourteen feet high, making him over three times as tall as four-foot Bethany.

It was Brock who paid to have a larger drive-through apparatus added to the QuikBurger, as well as the many of the stores in town. In fact, at one time Brock stood nearly twenty feet tall -- unheard of around the area -- but he started using his considerable wealth to transform the town to accommodate his bulk. Most of the denizens of Barlomie were considered "normal height" by the rest of the world's standards or, like Bethany, a little under. Barlomie was a smaller town, and most of the people who lived and worked there either never left it, or left it and never looked back.

Bethany reluctantly greeted Brock through her headset, and cringed when she heard the smug man's voice fill her ear and rattle off a long order. "Will that be all today, sir," she asked; it was an effort to keep civil.

"Not unless you want to throw yourself on top, sugar plum," came the deep-voiced reply.

"That'll be twenty-two fifty, asshole."

Bethany cut off her earpiece before it let in too much of Brock's insufferable laughter. Hopefully he pays and then goes the fuck on his way, the young woman thought to herself.

The familiar roar of Brock's custom-made roadster sounded outside the special drive-through portal; he revved it several times, calling out to Bethany and whooping. She opened up the sliding plastic pane and glowered at him, hollering "It's not ready yet!" over all the noise he was making. Then she slammed the window shut, but she could still hear the towering man's laughter on the other side of it. He sat there in his open-topped red convertible, dressed in a suit and sunglasses, his short dark hair slicked back: literally a giant yuppie, she mused darkly.

One day, somebody's got to cut that bonehead down to size, Bethany thought, her face sour. She knew it would never happen, though. That's not the way the world worked: people like her just got smaller, and the rich only got more rich, and more powerful, and larger in size. Bethany added a familiar rider to her thoughts: fuck this world.

Len, one of the cooks at the QuikBurger, called out that Brock's order was up and Bethany turned to retrieve the heavy bag and large drink that would feed the giant man waiting outside. She passed it to him with a frown; Brock grinned back at her.

After leaning out to hand him his drink and complete the order, Bethany pulled away, eager to be rid of the sight of him, but Brock quickly reached out and grabbed her small wrist inside his big fist.

"Now wait a minute, sweet pea," Brock drawled.

Bethany's brown eyes were wide and angry as she tried to yank free of his tight fingers; she couldn't. "Let me go, you fucking creep!"

Brock clucked his tongue at her and smiled. "Come on, now. That's no way for a lady to act." Brock's fist tightened a little as Bethany continued trying to worm her way out of his grip. "Listen, why don't you hang up those rags for the day and come with me to the parade? Why, I'm sure it's all just some hullabaloo for a lot of nothing, but just think of all those people paying attention to you, with me, in this big ol' car of mine." Brock grinned wider and patted his lap, still holding onto Bethany's wrist.

"I said let me go!"

Brock licked his lips as he tugged on Bethany's arm a little more, nearly forcing her bodily through the window as her short brown hair whipped about her face; he oogled her chest, his eyes flickering between her breasts. "You know, I like 'em small, honey. I mean, that's all I can get, you know? Being so big." Brock licked his lips again, this time slowly -- from one side to the next -- and he drooled a little out of one side of his mouth. "But as I said, I like 'em like you."

Bethany had never been grabbed the way Brock was grabbing her now. She'd been mugged before, but that was at the point of a knife, and the man ran away after she handed over her purse. She'd had a boyfriend -- who was a virgin -- get pushy about sex, but she kicked him between the legs and he left her house in tears. One time, exiting a store, a cop had grabbed her arm and forced her to hand back the video game she stole. In all those instances, Bethany felt like she had some control: she could hand her wallet or the game over, and that boyfriend was a total wuss.

But Brock -- Brock had her arm in a grip that made her genuinely afraid, and pulled on her with a strength she couldn't fight. Brock was bigger than anyone who'd ever threatened Bethany before.

She didn't know what she could possibly do to stop him.

So Bethany spat at Brock.

Block closed his eyes and his head snapped back with surprise; her wet blob of spittle glued itself to his cheek and dribbled downward.

Then Brock's eyes fluttered open -- and rage clouded his features -- but Bethany felt his fingers loosen on her wrist, and she immediately yanked her arm back through the window.

"You're going to regret that, little missy," Brock said under his breath; all the humor drained from his face. "You mark my words."

Bethany looked Brock squarely in the eyes. It was hard to -- her mind was absolutely racing -- but she forced herself to do it. "Fuck you, Brock."

"That, too," the man said, and his car engine roared. He glared straight ahead and drove off in a rush, leaving Bethany standing there, rubbing her wrist.

"I hate this town," Bethany muttered as she listened to the sound of Brock's car engine fade with distance. Still, part of her was instantly proud that she'd managed to stare him down, and not curl up then and there in a ball of tears, like the other half of her wanted to all the while.

Bethany had never liked living in Barlomie, but she never had enough to go anywhere else. She dreamed of just packing up her car and driving off, but whenever she thought it through it seemed like she'd just be burning away the rest of her meager savings, and end up living a smaller life somewhere she hated just as much.

Bethany knew a few people who had left. Her thoughts drifted to her best friend growing up: Caleb, a sweet, shy boy from Thailand who happened to end up in Barlomie by way of adoption. He hated it there as much as she did, and he ran away without even finishing high school. She found a note taped to her locker the morning after he left, and all it said was: "You were my only friend. I'll always miss you. Sorry, Bethiebear."

Her face tightened at the memory. She imagined she would never forgive Caleb for not taking her with him. He never sent word after, either. She had no idea where he was, but sometimes, in moments of kindness, she liked to imagine that he was okay, and happy: somewhere better than Barlomie.

"I can't wait to leave this shithole," Bethany grumbled.

"You always say that," came a soft voice behind her.

Bethany turned to see Len's worried face; in his hand was a baseball bat, and behind him were two other cooks: Daniel and Steven. The older man looked suddenly embarrassed about the weapon he brandished and shook his head. "Well, we weren't just going to let him take you." He swallowed, and then looked ashamed. "Though I really would have liked to break his hand."

"That's okay," Bethany said quietly. Her small smile was pained. "Thanks, Len. Thanks, all of you. But that asshole's not worth losing a job over."

Daniel and Steven went back to work on the line, but Len dawdled for a moment. "You know, I had a daughter who upped and left. And really, it was because of people like big ol' Brock fuckin' Biggs. Took all I had to send her elsewhere, but she's happier, no doubt about it. You ever need my help, Bethany -- well, you just let me know.

A series of honks sounded outside from the drive-through menu with its speaker and microphone.

"Well, back to work," Len said, with a sigh.

"Back to work," Bethany agreed, sighing, too. But then she called out to him, and Len paused and looked back. "Thanks, Len; really."

Len smiled. "One way or another, it'll get better, sweetheart."

Bethany's face turned dubious.

Len just grinned. "I mean, it's gotta, right? Can't get worse than this shit."

And Bethany laughed.

###

Brock glowered as he sat in his big red convertible with his smaller girlfriend Marybelle perched on his lap.

The automobile gave every impression that it was a toy, save for its considerable size: to fit on the same roads as other vehicles, it was far more narrow than it would be otherwise, and only had space for one person of Brock's stature. There was little room left over on its seat, and even someone like Marybelle -- who was a standard five-foot-ten -- was too large to sit comfortably beside him. The car was tall, too: it had four wheels all where they should be, but they were skinny in width, like disks. Brock could pay to alter the establishments around town, but he didn't have the capital to completely remodel Barlomie's streets, and so he was forced to buy a special car. A more affluent city would have wide roads to accommodate the conveyances of the well-off -- the truly rich simply strode around like colossi.

The appearance of the car never really bothered Brock before -- he liked to stand out -- but on that day he had a bad feeling he couldn't shake, and sitting in his car bugged him for reasons he couldn't put his finger on.

"Don't you want to get a little closer to the parade, honey," Marybelle asked; she had her arms around Brock's neck and was searching his large face with her big blue eyes, but Brock wasn't looking back at her.

He was staring down the road, toward the square and its forty-foot-tall monument to the founder of Barlomie.

It was a statue of a man mounted on a horse, which was itself mounted atop a heavy stone base, which had a plaque inscribed with words Brock knew by heart: it was the tale of how Joseph Barlomie built the first structures of the town -- a general store and a motel -- by hand; how he was a man who hated the "lazy sycophants" of the world, and thought a person could only truly control their destiny through commerce; how, as the town grew, Joseph Barlomie was quick to welcome those who were ready to work hard, and quicker to drive out those who wouldn't; the final sentence read: "Joseph Barlomie was careful who he chose to call 'friend,' and suffered no fools." It was Brock's favorite part of the inscription.

"Brock?" Marybelle's eyes flickered over her boyfriend's tightly set face with worry.

He blinked and shook his head in an irritated way and glanced at her. "What?"

"We never have parades or anything like that. Doesn't it sound fun? Why don't we drive a little closer and park this thing," and Marybelle nuzzled closer, lowering her voice, "and get a little closer to all the action?"

"This thing," Brock growled, meaning his car, "costs more than everything you own, Mary Bee. "Besides, we'll be able to see whatever there is to see just fine from here."

Marybelle scooted away a little along Brock's long legs, but there wasn't much room for her to move before his bulk, and his arm curled around her a little more out of possessive reflex. She studied him again, but he ignored her; she hated when he acted in such a huffy and self-absorbed way -- typically Brock was a lot of fun, if one could overlook his smug arrogance.

Marybelle decided that if she was going to be stuck watching the parade from such a far perch, then, well, that's what she'd do. She sighed a little and stared down the street: the sidewalks were packed with friends and neighbors, all expectantly looking away from her, and toward the square. There was an excited buzz of chatter, and she could already hear what must have been the beginnings of the parade reaching her ear: a marching band, the kind she'd see back when she'd go to football games in high school -- Brock used to play, though Marybelle was more bookish then, and Brock hadn't noticed her yet -- and she listened with some small euphoric pleasure to the bombastic trumpets and drums and horns and whistles as the cacophony approached.

And that's when Marybelle noticed something that made the hairs on her neck stand on end: what appeared to be a tall woman, standing head-and-shoulders above the buildings around her.

Just as soon as Marybelle saw her, the woman was gone, stooping down toward something in the street and out of sight. She heard what sounded like happy laughter, too -- a woman's laughter -- and all at once the head was there again: a woman's head with dark brown skin and black hair. Marybelle couldn't see all of her face, only its profile, and before she got a good look at her features the woman disappeared once more on the other side of the town's five-story hotel: Barlomie's tallest building.

"Did you see that," Marybelle asked, turning toward Brock. His face was pale and his lips were stretched into a thin, tight line; it was an odd face to make, for him, and something about it scared Marybelle to see, so she quickly glanced back toward the parade.

Her breath caught, and she heard even Brock let out a surprised gasp behind her. The street was filled with the parade procession: a full marching band, gayly playing, and with flourish. Behind them stood a giant.

"Oh, little town of Barlomie!" The towering woman called out with her booming voice to no one in particular, standing there in the middle of the square in a pose: one leg was bent before the other, swan-like, and her arms were raised with palms up as if she was carrying the sun; the giant drank in the attention of the crowd, but paid them none of it in return. "It's sooo very good to be here!"

Marybelle was surprised that she could hear the woman from all the way down the street. They must have been at least half a mile away.

"Who is she," Brock growled.

Marybelle quickly retrieved her phone from her purse, punching in search terms. "I have no idea, hun. I don't see any news reports of her coming to town. I don't recognize her. Isn't that strange? I mean, someone her size, you'd think there'd be something."

"She's not that big," Brock mumbled. "I'm sure to the rest of the world, she's no one special."

Marybelle, who had never been bigger than average, giggled at the way Brock was acting, not at what he said; he caught that and glared at her, and Marybelle stopped. Brock's nearly clear green eyes slid back toward the square far down the road, and the giant woman blocking his view of the statue.

She was a portrait of perfect femininity, as if she had designed herself as surely -- or better -- than any god could: her body was top-to-bottom curves, with slender arms and legs, and full hips and breasts. The woman wore the kind of fashionable attire that Marybelle would kill to be able to try on, let alone fit into -- she'd never be able to afford a dress like that, unless Brock was paying the bill. The woman's skin tone was a beautiful chestnut brown, and Marybelle could make out her striking face, now: eyebrows that were thicker and black but looked bold instead of bushy; dark eyes, a petite nose and mouth between sweeping, elegant cheeks.

Blond, blue-eyed, tall, and trim Marybelle didn't find herself wanting to be another woman often at all, but she felt keen jealousy, looking at this giant person -- her figure suited her so well for one, but also because of her size. She was the biggest person Marybelle had ever seen; for a long time, that had been Brock.

Self conscious at how she stared, Marybelle quickly lifted her phone. "I'm still looking," she muttered softly, concentrating on its glowing display. Her connection lagged, and she saw that the device's service flickered between one bar and two. "My reception is awful this morning, anyway. I'm sorry, Brock, but I don't have even the slightest idea who she could be, and I don't think my phone's going to tell me."

"Then let's go find out," Brock said, and the engine of his red convertible roared to life.