by Porphyro
INTERVIEW ONE - SUSPECT: THE FAT MAN
Whatever room you find yourself in, shrink it to about shoulder-width, please. Make it impossible for you to outstretch your arms. And you might as well bring the top down to the tip of your head. I don’t want a tall ceiling, no. I don’t want a window either or very much room for your legs at all. I am the architect of your imagination, so I beg you to listen. I want you to construct it just right. Misery between four walls. That’s the blueprint. Think you can build it? ‘Sure!’ you say. ‘I’ll just envision a closet and be done with it.’ But no, you doofus. You little-eared moron. If I wanted a closet, I would have mentioned a closet. ‘You just did,’ you say. But I only mentioned a closet so you wouldn’t dare conceive of one. Instead, I want you to think of a teeny-tiny detention room. Two chairs crammed inside, all snug and such. Yeah? A dim light above--doesn’t have to flicker, doesn’t have to swing. But if you’re not so lazy, at least make it buzz. Have it smell of mold inside. The wallpaper’s more like sandpaper and…got it? Good.
The Detective selected this particular room for a very specific reason. Ah but let him explain it himself.
THE DETECTIVE. I selected this specific room for a very particular reason.
FAT MAN. I can hardly breathe!
THE DETECTIVE. Yes.
FAT MAN. …that’s the reason?
THE DETECTIVE. That’s correct.
FAT MAN. But why…?! Are you trying to kill me?
THE DETECTIVE. Not quite. I’m trying to embarrass you.
FAT MAN. No, no! You’re trying to burst my heart! I’ve never sweated this much in my entire life!
THE DETECTIVE. That’s obvious.
FAT MAN. You pig!
THE DETECTIVE. Me?
FAT MAN. Me, indeed!
THE DETECTIVE. HA!
FAT MAN. WAIT! Not me! You!
THE DETECTIVE. You?
FAT MAN. Yes.
THE DETECTIVE. HA!
(Well, this is getting us nowhere. I’ll be quick with it, then. There’s been reports of a ‘midnight spirit’ going around the village mutilating bodies. The ‘spirit’ takes toes and noses and hairs and even nipples and genitals. It has been known to take a voice or two as well.
The villagers are all convinced it is the vengeful ghost of a mischievous fox that once lived in the forest nearby.
After several terrible mis-happenings (boys being stolen, girls being bugged (that is, girls being turned into worms)), the villagers had enough of it and sent their very strongest men to kill it. Long story short, they killed it. And, long story short, they dragged the body all the way back to the village. And long story short, the villagers cheered and the seamsters among them skinned the fox decorated their champions with the carcass of their foe--handsome hats and fluffy boots, mostly. One of the men, however, requested a little tail for his daughter. And that tail was made and the girl was a happy little bouncy girl. Well, anyway, after all of this, it makes sense that the villagers suspected the fox’s revenge.
The Detective, on the other hand, didn’t believe any of this nonsense. In fact, he never believed in any of the nonsense in any of his cases. As a result, he had a long, strong record of solving various impossible crimes. And so, even though he was born in the metropolis far, far away from the village, he was specifically recruited to puzzle out a living, breathing perpetrator. ‘Fox spirit,’ just wouldn’t cut it.
The Detective was convinced that body mutilation was the key to solving the crime. The ‘mischievous spirit’ hadn’t killed anyone yet. It had merely invaded the sanctity of the private body. How odd. How significant, too.
Here, we must pretend the Detective is speaking to us. ‘Let me ask,’ he says. ‘Who suffers most from this condition? I am not speaking of severity, but of frequency. Who suffers most on a day-to-day basis? Is it not the binge-eater? The one who lacks control of their appetite? The obese man, the fat man? He wants to be thin, he wants to be healthy. But he can’t possibly bring himself to stop eating. There is something inside of him that constantly rapes his inner image. It stuffs meats and beefs into the inner image’s unwilling mouth, and stretches out its tiny, anorexic bowels into immense, never-ending tunnels of fat and grease.’
‘No one understands how very much the binger suffers. “Just stop eating!” they say. But it’s not him that eats. Don’t you understand? There’s two inside of him. It’s that other one that gorges itself, bread after bread, cake after cake. And it feels absolutely disgusting to that first one, the one who’s not in control, but the one who dreams of being fit. That first one can actually feel the fat growing on the sides of his stomach as the second one scarfs.
‘Well these crimes are the binge-eater’s way of expressing himself. He steals into his victims’ homes and maims their bodies and more or less says, “See?! Do you see how awful it is not to have control of one’s body?!”’
Well, perhaps the Detective isn’t quite as wordy as all of that. But all of those thoughts are certainly in his head as he talks to the Fat Man.)
FAT MAN. Enough of this! I want to get out! I’ve globules of sweat the size of planets. This dark little room is outer space--
THE DETECTIVE. And all of infinity can’t contain you.
FAT MAN. Fuck you! I want to get out!
THE DETECTIVE. You won’t get out until I say you can get out.
FAT MAN. You abuse me without cause!
THE DETECTIVE. The terrorized villagers beg to disagree.
FAT MAN. You have no evidence it was me!
THE DETECTIVE. Not yet I don’t.
FAT MAN. But eventually you will?
THE DETECTIVE. Yes.
FAT MAN. Yeah?
THE DETECTIVE. That’s correct.
FAT MAN. You’re gonna get it out of me?
THE DETECTIVE. Precisely.
FAT MAN. Ah, you cops!
THE DETECTIVE. What about us?
FAT MAN. None of you are from around these parts. And look how well we do without ya! City boy. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.
THE DETECTIVE. I’m dealing with a case of six stolen nipples.
FAT MAN. More than six stolen nipples.
THE DETECTIVE. More than six stolen nipples?
FAT MAN. Whatcha writin’?
THE DETECTIVE. That’s none of your concern.
FAT MAN. I can read upside down, you know. I see it right there. ‘The…possi…bility…of…a…seven…nipple…case.’ BAHAHAHA! More than seven nipples, cop boy.
THE DETECTIVE. …eight nipples?
FAT MAN. Eighteen, more like it.
THE DETECTIVE. Eight…teen?!
FAT MAN. In one night, perhaps. All in all? Probably a hundred.
THE DETECTIVE. ONE-HUNDRED STOLEN NIPPLES?!
FAT MAN. Now do I have your attention?
THE DETECTIVE. But where do you keep all of them? In little bags?
FAT MAN. It isn’t me, cop boy.
THE DETECTIVE. It is you.
FAT MAN. It isn’t!
THE DETECTIVE. It has to be you.
FAT MAN. To make your job easy? Then sure. It’s me.
THE DETECTIVE. It has to be you.
FAT MAN. But it isn’t.
THE DETECTIVE. What makes you think there are one-hundred stolen nipples?
FAT MAN. People talk among themselves. But not to cops. Six stolen nipples…. That’s what you city scum call an epidemic? An emergency? A spree?
Suddenly, the Detective shifts tactics. Whereas before, he could have almost been described as ‘reticent,’ now he’s all talk and sweeping arms and loud emotion.
He explains his theory carefully to the Fat Man. He connects the dots for him and makes him see he’s the culprit.
THE DETECTIVE. So don’t you see? Well?! Don’t you?
FAT MAN. I…!
THE DETECTIVE. Come on now! You might as well admit you love this is happening.
The Fat Man feels strangely understood.<
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FAT MAN. Yes! I did it!
THE DETECTIVE. I knew it!
Even though he didn’t, the Fat Man screams:
FAT MAN. I did it!
Because if he could have, he most certainly would have.
But it was painfully obvious he didn’t. As the Detective listened to the Fat Man’s confession, it became more and more clear just how impossible it would have been for the Fat Man to do everything. What? Had he suddenly grown a nimble foot? If not, how had he been able to break into so many houses? How had he been able to sneak up on so many people? What drugs did he have that put them into such a deep, deep slumber? Because they must have felt something, all of the victims. Having your nipple sliced--
And that got the Detective thinking.
The Detective impulsively lifted up the Fat Man’s shirt. And to his horror, he saw the Fat Man was missing both nipples. They hadn’t been removed so much as they had been banished from existence. It was as if they had never existed at all.
THE DETECTIVE. …it couldn’t have been you.
FAT MAN. But it must have been!
But it wasn’t.
From here, I was going to give you the transcript to interview two and interview three. Interview two was going to deal with Little Girl Sue. It was going to expound on the ‘mischievous’ aspects of the fox’s crimes. The Detective was going to focus on the nimbleness of the girl. Eventually, he would have proved to Little Girl Sue that she loathed adults. That authority, for her, meant repression. And she would have confessed to the crime as well. But the Detective would have listened in despair and realized she didn’t have the strength to hang dozens of men from tall trees. Because, yes, the crimes had gotten worse. They were homicides now and of a much stranger severity.
The third interview was going to deal with the local Hammer’s Man. It would have followed the same exact format, except it would have substituted fat and mischief for strength and brutality. There would have been a confession, etc., etc. So on and so on.
Eventually, the Detective would have started to suspect himself.
But there’s no need to get into any of that. We know what we’re doing, you and I. You and I are terrorizing these poor people. And all for the sake of curing our boredom. Who’s the fox? It could be you. It’s more likely it’s me. But if it should be anyone, it ought to be the both of us.