You have no better platform to present your argument to these southern giants than the one you stand on now: a heap of dirty dishes. Dahlia is looking out the window with a bored expression, but the eyes of the divine Mabel are fixed on you. With her attention focussed, you clear your throat and launch into a speech.
It's impassioned, bright with all the best rhetoric you can muster, allusions and analogies rattling out in a most persuasive manner. Unfortunately, your words are drowned out by the rushing of water from the tap, and the rising waters in the sink. Oblivious to your words, Mabel plunges her hands into the maelstrom.
The island you stand upon rocks as its lowest foundations are disrupted by the muscles of a goddess, and you sprawl as your floor lurches to the left. The water is getting soapy now, and humungous hands rise and dip, one hefting a piece of crockery or cutlery, the other scrabbing at it with a brush. The force being applied, just to scrape free a little dirt, is phenomonal, the destructive potential too scary to calculate!
Entranced as you are, you fail to react in time as your platform plunges beneath the waves. You are pulled under in the wake of the giant items, but you fight your way upwards, deperate to get out of this soapy, greasy pit. You breach the surface and gasp, only to hear tutting from Mabel. "Li'l man done tired to get hisself clean, Dahlia," she says. "Figure he needs a li'l dryin' off."
The woman grabs you again, again squeezing your entire body with her merest effort. She doesn't even pause long enough to look you in the eye, instead flicking her wrist and releasing you spinning through the air. End over end you tumble, slamming into a firm, soft surface. It's damp, soaked much as you are. Looking around, you recognise the pattern of the towel Dahlia was holding. Once again, the girl has caught you. Appreciatively, you turn your face upward, hoping to get your gratitude across.
You are met with indifference. The girl sighs and rolls her eyes, not even looking down as she begins to dry you. The towel enwraps you on all sides, your three-quarter inch self fully enclosed. Then the fingers get to work, invisible presences pounding and rubbing away, battering you uncaringly from every angle. The liquid is indeed squeezed from you to soak into the cloth, but your fragile form is similarly abused, your screams lost in the dark.
Unsurprisingly, you pass out, to awaken...
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