PART ONE
“What’s gone and what’s past help/Should be past grief.”
–William Shakespeare
The Winter’s Tale, Act III, Scene 2
It was a crisp fall day in Madison, the kind you get in the upper midwest in early September. The air was full of energy, and the world seemed somehow more real than it normally would’ve. It was a Saturday. The Badgers were playing an away game at Washington, so the campus was placid. I walked down Bascom hill toward Library Mall, drinking in the aura of my new home.
I was two weeks removed from Minnesota, and I was feeling pretty good about life. Today I planned to go down to State Street and kick around for a while, maybe grab a Gyro at the Parthenon, maybe try to sneak in and grab a beer at one of the myriad bars. I expected it would be a good day.
I walked through the mall, half-listening to the street preachers telling folks that the end of the world was near. I passed by the fountain, and I saw her.
She was beautiful–long red hair, green eyes, a flawless, athletic physique. She was short–no more than 5′2″–but somehow she seemed bigger. I was instantly aroused the way you can only be when you’re eighteen.
I passed by without talking to her. She was older than me, I could tell, and she was out of my league. But her image was burned in my brain. I didn’t know at the time, but that was the first time I ever laid eyes on Liz Anderson.
* * *
Liz was a junior. She’d been at Madison long enough to know the ropes, long enough to fall in love with the city. On days when she was a little more giddy than usual, she’d tell her friends it was her city, that she owned it.
She was healing; her friends knew it, she knew it. She was healing from that day in March when her date had taken her further than she’d wanted to go. No point pressing charges; it was her word against his, and there just wasn’t enough other evidence to support her claim. She’d vowed revenge at the time, but now she knew that there was no point in that, either; if she killed him, she’d go to jail. She could try to beat him up, but he was much bigger than her. So she worked it out as best she could, with friends and the folks at the counseling center, and as time went by the wound scabbed over. It still came out when she was a little more manic than usual, or a little more down.
She was in the library, poking around the back shelves. She was doing research on the Holocaust for her history class; a 20-page term paper loomed, and she wanted to get a start on things. She was flipping through a series of books, including one by a holocaust survivor.
The book was old and worn–the publish date was 1952–and it seemed to call out to Liz. She opened it up and flipped through the pages. The smell of must told her that this book had probably not been opened in thirty years. All the better to quote it, she thought, as she flipped.
Out of nowhere, a piece of paper dropped from the book. She bent down to retrieve it, looking at the folded piece of paper carefully. Curious, she unfolded it, the yellow parchment almost falling apart from age. It was a hand-written note, in ancient black ink. What she saw would change her forever.
Die Grundregeln des Wachsens und des Werdens kleiner
The principles of growing and shrinking? she thought, as she looked at the German text. She’d studied German for five years, had taken the AP test on it. She spoke it well enough to read the document in front of her.
It was a series of seven principles, seven incantations. Straightforward. And a simple notation: “Wenn eine Person diese Grundregeln mit malace in ihrem Herzen hervorruft, dann wird sie sicher verdorben, und ihr Verstand wird bewölkt. Diese Warnung, dann. Verwenden Sie diese Grundregeln nur für Ihre Verteidigung gegen Männer.”
Use these rules only for your defense against men, she mused. She would.
She carefully folded the paper and placed it in her breast pocket. She quietly slipped out of the library, and back to the dorms.
* * *
She couldn’t say why she thought the paper was real. It read like bad science fiction. But in her heart, she knew. They were there, the main spells of GTS, the ones you’ve practiced and used: grow, shrink, parry, age reduction, claris, morpheus, and transport. Each one detailed, with rules and information. The way shrinking makes you stronger, the way claris gives you eyes in someone else’s head.
Liz didn’t know it, but she’d stumbled upon an original copy of the secret of GTS. The copy she held was written out in Bergen-Belsen by a Catholic Priest, who happened to be a Keeper of the Secret–a part of the organization that predated the Cadre. He was so disgusted by the Nazis and the havoc they had created that he gave the secret to a woman and her family, convinced that women could not fail but run the world better than men. This betrayal of the secret–no betrayal in my mind–led to the formation of the League. And of course, we all know how that played out.
The woman had made three copies of the Principles. One found its way to the League. One has been lost to history. And one showed up in that book at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. And eventually, in the hands of Liz.
* * *
“Do you think it was coincidence?” asked Scott, sipping a Summit Maibock. “Or do you think someone planted it there for Liz?”
“I don’t know,” allowed Jake. “I’ve long since learned that there is a destiny that shapes our ends. For whatever reason, though, she found it.”
* * *
Liz studied the document well into the night, well after her roommate had gone to bed. This was it. This was the key to it. This was her revenge.
She decided to test it out. Holding the paper, she incanted the shrinking spell. Seconds later, she was two inches tall–the height she had hoped for.
She let out a whoop! and fell to the ground, laughing. After a few moments, she restored herself, and went to bed. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she’d have her requital.
* * *
Greg Vanderhague was a cocky, arrogant bastard, or so I’m told. He was a Fiji, the kind of guy who was on the football team in high school (but not the star quarterback), who is in the frat in college (but not an officer), who thinks he’s God’s gift to women (but treats them like shit). He was a bit of a pretty boy, but that was more than trumped by the depths of his stupidity. If not for his ineffable charisma, he would have been a loser.
But ah, that ineffable charisma. He could be described by a line from My Fair Lady: “Oozing charm from every pore/he oiled his way across the floor.” As such, he did get his share of women–for a while, anyhow, until they realized what a dunderhead he was. And he got his share of sex–sometimes, by putting a toe–or other body part–over the line.
He was meandering down Langon, heading for class, or maybe not–he thought maybe a brewski would be good, it being the late hour of eleven A.M. Or maybe he’d stop and see that one girl–what’s her name? Julie? She gave good head, or had last week. Yeah, maybe he’d see if she was up for a little hide the banana. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her approaching. He admired the body for half a second before he realized who it was. Oh, shit, that crazy bitch who cried rape on him. Well, yeah, technicallyshe’d said no, but come on, she wanted it. They all wanted it, really, even if they said they didn’t. He could see it in her eyes.
He started to turn when she called out to him. “Greg!” she said, smiling a winning smile.
“Uh, hi, uh–”
“Liz. Liz Anderson. You probably don’t remember me,” she said, tossing her hair.
“Uh–sure I do. Liz. Right. Um…so, how have you been?”
“Look, I know it’s a little awkward,” she said seductively, leaning in and dropping her voice a half-octave. “I know I said some things I shouldn’t before, but, well, I was scared. But you were so good…I mean, I just wanted to thank you.”
Greg’s mind was reeling. This was not an unusual development. The wheels went round until they finally stopped on “SHE–WANTS–ME.”
It’s hell being that stupid.
“Um, well, yeah, well I knew you wanted it. You were just nervous.”
“Well, duh! I mean, you’re so much man, and I’m just me. I mean, I just wanted to pay you back what I owe you,” she said, running her finger down his chest. “That’s all.”
* * *
Five minutes later, they were back at the house. They bounded up the back stairs and into Greg’s private room. He had asked her for a blowjob, and she’d assented. Well, there you go, proof in Greg’s prowess. He was stripped naked before she even removed a stitch of clothing. Liz turned to him and smiled.
“Oh Greg? Time for me to pay you back what you’re owed.”
He smiled, and leaned back, his tumescent cock ready for her lips to pleasure him.
“Shrink,” he heard, “1/24th scale.”
What a funny think for her to say, he thought, as he waited. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and started to sit up. What are you waiting for? he was going to ask. He didn’t have all day…well he did, but that was beside the point….
He didn’t say any of that. He sat up, and his mind went blank.
This was not an unusual development.
But what had happened was. He was still on his bed, but it was enormous. And that girl–she was approaching him–oh Christ, she was enormous. She was a hundred feet tall. Oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck….
“Well, Greg, I’m paying you back. You know, it’s funny. You look so pathetic down there that I almost feel sorry for you.
“Almost.” She grinned down at the tiny man, now scooting backwards away from her, a look of terror on his face.
“Where are you going? I didn’t say you could leave.” She reached down and grabbed him firmly, lifting him up into the air with a jerk.
Greg’s stomach did flips as she held him in front of her enormous face. He was still trying to figure out what had happened. I mean, she had come on to him, but now…his brain hurt. “I thought you wanted me!” he called out. He could see immediately it was the wrong thing to say, though he didn’t know why.
“Greg, you’re an idiot. And unless I stop you, you’ll do to other women what you did to me.” She grinned. She had been unsure about this last part, but now she knew it was perfect. Poetic justice. “You know, you like pussy so much, I think I’ll give you a close-up view.” She pulled her panties down a bit and put him up her skirt, enclosing him between her thighs.
Greg was staring up at the enormous twat, trying to figure out what she was going to do to him. He thought about reaching out to touch it, but he didn’t dare.
Then, suddenly, the pressure came. The thighs swung shut tightly, pushing him into the pussy, forcing the air from his lungs. He gasped as Liz crushed him slowly, his brain trying to understand what was happening. But in the end, it failed him. His last thought, incongruously, was of Coors Light beer. Or so I like to think. He was too dumb to ever realize why Liz had marked him for destruction.
She reached into her panties after five minutes of squeezing and removed Greg’s lifeless body. She laughed at it, and then shrank it away to dust size. She walked out of the house free as a bird, and lighter than air.
She thought as she walked down Langdon of how many women had gone through what she had. How many women faced rapists and sexual predators, with no hope for recourse. She could avenge them. She could give them justice. She had the power.
This city was hers. She owned it.
* * *
“So where do you come into the story?” asked Scott, as he dug into the pasta. They were on their third round–time to start eating, or it would be a very drunk night.
“Soon enough. But you’ll miss a lot of background if we just skip to my part of the story. This is all important, Scott. It’s important you know that Liz started with the best of intentions.”
Jake sipped his scotch, and said, sadly. “But it got away from her. It always does.”
