Unfair- A Diaper Dimension Novel

Chapter 18
Chapter 18: Big Fun

Chapter Description: Find out how Littles party when the Amazons are away!

Chapter 18: Big Fun

It was dark by the time our little caravan got back to the trailer park.  Bert and I had had more than a few drinks waiting for the rest of the family to finish their shopping, and the sun had just gone down by the time we’d pulled into that last stretch of road on the way to Misty Brook.  I wasn’t blitzed, but I was definitely not good to drive.  

I was lazily hanging my head out the sidecar, enjoying the whoosh of the open air, when Cassie cut the engine.  We hadn’t even pulled past the entrance.  I looked to my wife.  “What’s up?” 

“Why aren’t the lights on?”  Cassie’s voice was low.  I looked straight ahead and blinked.  It was dark.  Too dark.  She was right.  None of the lights on the trailer park were on. It was completely dark.  

The rest of the family caravan pulled up.  “Somethin’ wrong darlin’?” Bert asked Cassie.  Cassie only had to point to the darkened lot ahead of us.  Even in the darkness I could see the expression change on Bert’s mug.  “Right.”  He dismounted from his bike and signaled for Irene to get out of the sidecar.

Mrs. Braun got out and circled round to the driver’s seat.  My brother in law gave his wife and son a peck on the head before getting on foot himself. I followed the lead and climbed out of the sidecar.

“Daddy?” Ollie asked from his safety seat.  

A very pregnant Michelle looked over to her firstborn.“It’s okay, honey,” she said.  “Daddy will be right back.

“Right,” Bert said. “This could be nothin’.  Might just be a power outage.”

Cassie didn’t agree.  “You’d think there’d be candles in the window or people going for their generators.”

“Might’ve just happened,” I offered.  “Could be setting up right now.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said.  “And I don’t see any signs of forced entry or trucks out of place.”

Michelle shuddered and crossed her arms.  “That just might mean nobody got away.” Cassie wasn’t the only one in her family who was paranoid as anything.

“Guys…”  I was immediately shushed.  I still wasn’t sober and I have a tendency to raise my voice when I’ve had a few.  “Guys,” I lowered my voice, “Amazons wouldn’t just outright raid an entire park.  They’d have to be crazy to do that.”

“Aren’t you the one who is always saying that Amazons are all crazy, Clark?”  Cassie had a point.  By social necessity and economic limitations, there were a lot of Littles out here in the boonies.  It wouldn’t take very much for an Amazon to snap and decide Misty Brook would make a better creche than a trailer park.  It would take a lot of Amazons to snap all at the same time, but it wasn’t impossible.

My father in law stopped all discussion.  “Cassie. Hush.  We’re gonna check it out.  Bruce. Clark.  You two are with me.  We’ll approach on foot.” He dug into his pocket and handed his cell phone to Irene.  “No cell phones.  Nothin’ with info they don’t already know on us.”  I handed my phone and my wallet to Cassie.  This was probably nothing; but I wouldn’t have a baby crazy giant knowing my address.

“Rings, too?” Bruce asked.  “Don’t want them to know we’re married.”  Bert nodded and started fiddling with his own ring, twisting it off his finger.

I looked at my ring and pinched it on my finger.  “We don’t know that there’s a ‘them’ in there.”  I didn’t want to lose my ring in what was probably going to be a false alarm.  Even if it was a false alarm, taking off my wedding ring felt wrong.  Cassie and I had been married so long, that the ring felt like it was a part of me; something that I didn’t notice unless I explicitly thought about it.  Taking my wedding ring off would have felt like pulling a piece of my finger off.  I could live without it, sure, but I’d feel incomplete.

Bert gave me a dose of side eye.  The old son of a gun didn’t like being challenged.  More evidence that he might have a drop or two of Amazon blood in him.  

“Clark’s right.” It was Cassie who said it.  “This might be nothing.  And knowing that we’re married might not stop them from taking us, but it won’t tell them who to look for too.”  Even in the dark I could see Cassie’s eyes arguing with her dad.  It was nice to be on the same side.

“Bert…”  Irene was getting in on it now.  “You better not take your wedding ring off.”  Oddly cavalier, considering what we were all afraid of.

Old Man Braun finally gave in.  “Alright. Alright,” he grumbled. Then he looked to me and Bruce.  “Men, come with me.  We’re gonna scout ahead.  This might be some kind of false alarm or a drill or somethin’.” He looked at his wife. “Ladies, kill the headlights, and turn back around.  Head for Cassie’s house.  If this is a false alarm, I’ll call my phone with one of the neighbors.”

Cassie hopped off the scooter cycle.  “I’m gonna text one of the neighbors on your phone,” she told me.  “If we get a response, it probably means this is a false alarm.”

“Good idea, Cassie,” Bert said.  “We don’t want ourselves getting jumped in case this somebody’s just got their dander up.”  The idea of getting jumped by Littles was laughable.  We didn’t jump Amazons, we ran from them.  Half a dozen Littles could dog pile onto an Amazon and the giant might (might) fall over in a best case of scenario.  But there’d be nothing to stop them from picking themselves back up, dusting themselves off and starting all over again; the second time with a fresh round of spankings.

Bert led us crouching through the front entrance of Misty Brook.  Nothing was on.  The front trailers had all their lights off and the blinds drawn.  It was still.  Too still.  No voices. No music or T.V. sounds.  I didn’t talk.  Neither did Bruce or Bert.

We just looked as we creeped along the main road of this trailer park ghost town.  Looking for signs of an adoption raid.  No trailers were moved. No doors ripped open.  I could just barely make out the silhouette of the handful of Amazon sized trucks parked in the back for emergency bailouts; Bert’s included. No signs of attempted escape or forced entry.  Just darkness.  A plague of stillness and emptiness.  

The only thing that I could see that looked out of place now that my eyes were adjusted to the dark, were big square boxes lining the side of the road.  They weren’t big enough to stop an Amazon intruder.  They wouldn’t even stop a Little unless they stubbed their toe and gave up..  A quarter-assed barricade at best. Something wasn’t adding up.

The click clacking of heels caused my hair to stand up on end.  “Awwww,” “Look at the cute Little babies up past their bedtime.” A voice called out.  “That doesn’t seem very mature.”  The three of us turned around. Not ten yards away were three giant figures.  Amazons in trenchcoats.  They loomed over us like nightmares.

“Run boys!”  It was Bert who gave the order.  It was Bert who gave it too late.

“Don’t run, Little babies.” Another voice called out in the darkness.  “We’re only trying to help you.  And you Littles need SO. MUCH. HELP!”  Now we were cut off on two sides.  Two more Amazons in trench coats came click clacking out.  Their voices deep and menacing like the thing from every nightmare I’d remembered since childhood; since I learned that the world was unfair.

Fear can do a lot of things.  It can paralyze you and plunge you into despair.  It can also send a person’s mind into overdrive, causing them to fixate on all the wrong things...or on all the things that are wrong about a scenario.

Trench coats?  The weather was too warm for that and Amazons didn’ wear disguises.  They didn’t need to.  Why were they wearing heels?  Regardless of size, running in heels was a pain in the ass.  Not something an Amazon would do if they were planning on chasing down and adopting some random Littles.  

 And what was up with their voices?  They were deep, but not Amazon deep, and despite the click clacking of heels, they didn’t sound terribly feminine.  Cross dressing Amazons? Their menacing tones didn’t line up either.  Amazons didn’t talk like over the top serial killers to Littles.  They were scary because of their blatant disregard for our autonomy.  This creep show was trying to be scary….

I looked to my in-laws.  Bert’s jaw was set, staring straight ahead.  Bruce, however, was trying his best to hold in laughter.  I stood up and breathed.  Hands in my pocket I looked over at the other two men beside me.  “Fuck you guys,” I said.  “You almost had me.”

Spotlights came on, and a chorus of cheers and hollering rang throughout the trailer park as Littles poured out of every nook and cranny.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Stilts.  That’s what the click clacking at been.  Stilts, not heels.  Surrounding us and laughing, were five Little men on stilts, Amazonian sized trench coats draped over their shoulders.  They were Gwiffining!

The tension fled out of my body as even Bert started slapping his knees, and howls of laughter peeled through the air.  The girls, baby Ollie in tow, walked through the gathered crowd.

A tall shadow loomed over me.  The faux Amazons were closing in.  One had a wig on, his face caked with poorly applied makeup in clownish proportions.  Another had a false beard that went down past his stomach. One wore glasses too big for their head.  In classic Little tradition, all of them had made themselves positively ridiculous parodies with Amazonian standards of maturity.

“Now young man,” one of the Gwiffins said, “I have it on good ADULT authority that you started drinking before the party!” The sleeve was bunched up and pinned back, but that didn’t stop the Gwiffin from waving a big foam finger in my face.  “Very immature!”

“VERY IMMATURE!”  The other stilt-walkers repeated.  More hoots and laughter from the assembled crowd.

I looked to Cassie, her pearly whites on full display, her face identical to her dad’s.  “Did you guys plan this?”

“Don’t look at me,” Cassie said.  “The Amazon asked you a question.” 

“What do you have to say for yourself, young man?”  The head Gwiffin repeated.  “Or should I say Little boy?”  Now that the lights were on I could see more of the setup.  People had put out coolers upon coolers along the road, trays of food were being set up into a kind of buffet line.  The buzz of speakers was filling the air as whoever was DJ took their place.  “Well?  What do you have to say?!”  The Gwiffin’s voice had become downright clownish.

I did the only thing that seemed appropriate: I opened the nearest cooler, reached in, took a hard lemonade, popped the top and said, “I guess you fuckers better catch up!”

That was all the party needed to get started.  Music kicked in, and people started raiding coolers and food trays as if there were gold coins stacked upon them.  I took a sip of the sweet booze in my hand, and draped my arm around Cassie’s shoulder. “You set this up?”

Bert answered for her.  “Been planning it for weeks.”  He slugged me in the shoulder and I didn’t even care. “Almost had ya there for a second, didn’t we?”

I opened my mouth to playfully curse Bert out, when Michelle butted in. “I’m sittin’ this one out.”  She was holding my nephew’s hand.  “Gotta get Ollie to bed.”

Bruce leaned in.  “Same here.  Gotta work tomorrow.  Was worth it just to see the look on Clark’s face.”

“ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE GONNA BE ABLE TO SLEEP?“ I was already shouting.  The hard lemonade and the volume of the music were doing a number on me.

Bert pulled me away from Cassie so he could playfully growl in my ear.  “You think I haven’t sound insulated almost every trailer in this place?  As long as all the doors and windows are shut, this’ll be a hum more than a roar.”

Goodbye hugs all around, and I finished my drink just in time for Cassie to join me with another one.  It was going to be a long night.

If you’re reading this and have never been to a Gwiffin Party, that means you’re probably not a Little.  Drinking, smoking, dancing, music, swearing, stripping.  As long as the kids are indoors and everybody consents, virtually nothing is off limits.  The sweetest sweets and greasiest meats are up for grabs, and the alcohol is either so masked you can’t taste it, or so strong that you don’t care by the time you’ve downed a sugary chaser.

Gwiffin’s stilted around, doing their best-worst Amazon impressions while wagging their fingers and threatening to spank all the naughty Littles.  Only a swig of the good stuff or a puff of the better stuff would make them leave you alone.  By the end of the night, those stilts and trenchcoats would be turned into burning effigies, while the Littles who hadn’t slinked back to their trailers danced around chanting “I didn’t do it!  I didn’t do it!  Mommy! Daddy! I didn’t do it!”.

If this sounds terribly debaucherous, it’s because it is.  If Amazons took their name and bits of culture from tales of Ancient Grease, then Littles adopted the revelries of Dionysus.  If you’re reading about this and you think it’s immature, then I’m betting you’re not a Little.

For me, and countless people like me, every day is a careful balancing act of precision and restraint.  We hide and try not to be noticed.  We don’t drink for fear of it dulling our senses.  We watch our words carefully, afraid that if we say something or DON’T say something, our independence will be taken from us.

Just before my first Gwiffin Party, my mother told me that back in the homelands and old countries where Littles still held sway, these kinds of revelries didn’t exist.  Littles over there didn’t have to live under the constant threat of adoption.  A good Gwiffin Party is a pressure release, a celebration of retained freedom, and an act of rebellion.

It’s not immature.  It’s just all the things that Amazons (and to a lesser extent, Tweeners) allow themselves to do and take for granted on a daily basis packed into one single night.  It’s as simple as that.

“Happy birthday, Clark.”  Cassie leaned into me and kissed me on the cheek. “I knew you’d like this.”

I returned her kiss and added one on the lips for good measure.  “My birthday isn’t for another week.”

Cassie upped the ante by slipping her tongue in my mouth.  “Yeah,” she said.  “That’s why this surprise worked.”  We entwined our arms and finished our drinks. 

“Better catch up,” I whispered.

“I’m going to fuck your brains out later tonight.” She whispered back.  “Go get me another drink.”

It’s difficult to describe what else goes on at a Gwiffin Party.  The concepts aren’t hard, it’s just that a Gwiffin Party where you can recall exactly what happened the morning after is a rather dull affair indeed...