You stand upon a kitchen table, before a sustantial plate of hot meat. Higher up, guns and animal skulls hang from the walls, terrifying doomsday weapons and the remains of ancient monsters from your view.
Sitting around the table, looking down at you in curiosity, are George, Mabel and their family. Mabel minces some of the meat, crumbles some bread and places both before you. Looks like you're being fed like a guest here, and you can't really complain when you're facing creatures a hundred times greater than you in height.
Taking a mouthful, you find the material tough but chewable, and you offer a thumbs-up to show your appreciation.
To wash it down, Mabel places before you a massive cup, filled almost to the brim with what must be at least several gallons of reeking alcohol; yet she was forced to pinch it delicately to handle it in her fingertips.
You lift the drink hesitantly, and decide to toast your hosts, shouting a "cheers!" up to them before you take a swig. All present above laugh at this, the combined sound almost deafening in its fury. Just about managing to place the cup down without spillage, you stumble a little in your daze.
Perhaps sensing your weakness, smaller fingers seize about your lower legs, pinching tight and whisking you upside-down into the air. You tremble before the inverted, grinning faces of twin monsters, ginger-haired children of identical aspect, mops of auburn hair and dungarees rendering gender indeterminate for these middle-schoolers. For one thing, you have other things on your mind as you fear the one holding you breaking your legs with a tight pinch.
"Tyler! Durden!" George scolds, one hand dispensing slaps of tank-destroying force to each of the children while the other takes you back up in its grip, carrying you to the safety of the table in a moment. Rising, the father curls his hands into fists, rage coating his face. "You two are gonna get such a whuppin' for this..."
Oh, shit. If those kids get punished on account of you, that's not going to give them a good opinion of you in any future encounters! You shout up to George to beg for mercy, but he's not paying attention. Luckily, big, beautiful Mabel catches sight in the corner of her eye, and places a hand on her husband's shoulder.
George looks back down to you, and you point to the twins, falling to your knees. He nods, and gestures to his kids. Tyler and Durden each bring their heads down to your level, laying a hand each palm down on the table-top with a huge impact. Remembering all too well how painful the grip of those digits was, you approach the forefinger of first one, then the other, stooping to kiss the tip of each.
George calms and smiles, his meaty mitts taking hold of the relatively narrow wrists of the children and guiding them each to gently stroke your tiny head. The pad of each finger used is rough and tough, holding back enough strength to shatter your entire body, but you grin and bear it, leaving the two kids to sit back, smiling at having met such a fascinating little creature.
Then two more limbs slam down on the table's edge, and a thunderous barking issues from the mouth of the creature that has pulled itself up to look at you. As you scramble away from the cavernous mouth and all its many teeth, Mabel chides you from above. "It's just a little dawg!" she drawls, crouching down beside the beast to return it to the floor.
While she's distracted, Tyler - or maybe Durden - picks you up again. They're more gentle, and hold you right way up, but they seem to want you to meet another member of the family, a giant baby sitting in a high chair, reaching for you with pudgy hands. Those dainty fingers grip you around the middle, allowing the infant to thrust your head into its mouth.
In the gooey dark, you scream for all you're worth, and the baby expels you with a squall of its own. You are powered through the air like a human cannonball, surely doomed to breaking your neck on impact!
Instead, you land with a bounce on a soft surface, a vast canopy of black lace. The final member of the family, a teenage girl clearly going through a rebellious goth phase, has spread out her skirt to catch your falling body. You look up to see her distant, pale face, dark lips cracking open to reveal a smile.
"Aw, lookee here," George says, "li'l guy even cheered up Dahlia! Good ta see ya not lookin' so glum all the time!"
Dahlia's expression falls and she blushes at her father's words. Gaze still lowered, she brings one hand directly under you to support you through the lace, while the other, palm up, comes alongside. You take the hint and climb aboard, allowing the girl to lift you back to the table.
You step off, turning to look up at your saviour and shout a few words: "Thank you! Your quick thinking saved my life!"
You're not sure if Dahlia heard your words, but at least the baby has stopped crying. Turning back around, you can see why: Mabel has pulled down half of her top and given the little brat something to suck on. You're mesmerised by the mammoth mammery, even as you realise the less than smooth surface of it revealed to your delicate gaze.
"Well," George announces, laying his hands upon the table and drawing the eyes of all in the room, "this looks to be a very lucky find for us! This li'l fella is gonna turn our fortunes right around! Yessir, the Klitch family are going places!"
Pausing only to slice and put a piece of meat into his mouth, his next words are distorted as he chews. "Now, who's gonna take care of the li'l guy for now?"
Oh, so you're just property now, just a pet? A thing to be owned and taken care of? You're a far cry from your original plans for tiny survival, but you may come across a means of escape in the future if you behave yourself.
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