Timothy

by Mark Tufo

  “Whale, Whale, Whale. Can you blame her? Poor thing was probably praying for an apocalypse so she’d have a reason to not come home. Wouldn’t doubt if she jumped in front of a zombie to get it over with. Fuck, I wonder what she did in a previous life that warranted being saddled to you. I wonder if she was Jonah. Now that would be ironic!”

  “Get out!”

  “Make a deal, Whale. You get up and tell me to my face instead of yelling up like a giant earthworm, and I will. I promise.”

  Barry’s head dropped. I don’t think it was resignation. Not yet anyway. He just couldn’t support the watermelon-sized thing anymore. A voluminous and thunderous rush of air exploded from Whale.

  “Thar she blows! Wow whee, Whale.” I waved my hand in front of my face. “I think you could supply enough methane for a small town. I’ll let that clear out for a minute.” I stepped on the accumulated mass of skin that was on the floor so I could get around him and to the kitchen window, which I pushed open. “Much better.” I took in some deep breaths of cleaner air. Whale was groaning in pain. “How can you feel anything?” I stepped on it the whole way over to a small door that looked like it led into a pantry. Didn’t look like it would be big enough to keep Moby fed full time; maybe the big one was in the basement and this was just the meal time storage.

  I don’t know exactly what I was looking for, just something to sate my curiosity I guess. I opened the door to find that it was actually a small utility closet. Batteries, thumb tacks, and all manner of other clutter was on some shelves. Underneath were a mop, bucket, and a broom.

  “That will work.” I pulled the broom out and unscrewed the whisk part. Then I sliced the wooden handle through the air. It made a whooshing sound. Moby turned to look at me, trying to figure out what I was going to do. The fat receded from his eyes as they grew wide when I brought the handle over my head and whipped it down onto his gigantic buttocks. A welt as thick as my forearm immediately rose up.

  He cried out in pain.

  I kept smacking him until his ass had swelled to nearly double its size from my ministrations.

  He was blubbering loudly. “What are you doing?”

  “Tenderizing my meat, dumbass.” I was beginning to give my muscles a work out as I slid up to the small of his spine and then to his middle back. He was hitching terribly the further up I went, not even able to get out a coherent plea for me to stop. I stopped because my arms were starting to ache. “This is hard work. You should have maybe tried it sometime and maybe you wouldn’t be getting crucified by a person not much larger than an elf. I know, I know, it wasn’t your fault. You’re just big boned, like super-sized boned, like maybe dinosaur boned. Break’s over, the foreman is really an ass.” I sniggled at my own poor joke. Blood was flowing freely from his caned back, down through the deep channels the strikes had caused and onto the loose skin.

  I licked my lips. “Can you imagine if I had the ability to deep fry you? All that skin. Oh, it would be so crispy. The world’s largest supply of chicharrónes. Nothing like fried back fat! You know what I’m talking about.” I prodded him with my foot.

  He jumped. Well, jumped is a bit of an exaggeration, but he did twitch from the contact.

  “You ready for round two? Shit, I think I broke a nail.” I once again brought the stick up high, this time I was aiming for his head. There was a solid thunk with the first strike. Good, hard contact on his skull was absorbed by his fat, like it had been on the rest of him. I wanted to knock him out, only so I could enjoy my meal in peace without having to hear him cry for mercy and all that unnecessary noise. I struck again, a loud snapping sound indicated that I had broken the handle in two.

  I tossed the part I had left away. “Tree must have been grown in China. You get it?” I nudged him with my foot again. “Because it’s cheap.” He was wailing away. “You’re a tanker truck of laughs. Aren’t you, Moby? Fuck it, nothing to it but to do it.”

  “Wha … what are you going to do?”

  “Why talk when you can show. I was always able to grasp difficult concepts by watching somebody do something as opposed to having them try and explain it. Moby, this might be the single best thing you will see in your life, followed by the single worst thing that can happen.”

  His bottom lip was quivering, looked like a giant earthworm dancing around. I slowly peeled off all my clothing. Gotta admit, I think I looked kind of sensual doing it too. But really, whenever a woman takes off her clothes, it’s pretty hot. Doesn’t really matter how it happens. Moby actually turned away.

  “You’re bashful? What the hell, Moby, it’s not like you can be a wallflower. Sure you could be a wall but that’s a little different. Be proud, you fat fuck, you worked hard to look like that. And now it’s going to pay off for you. Well not you, but me. It’s really going to pay off for me.”

  “Why … why are you taking your clothes off?” He still was not looking up.

  “It’s gonna get messy in here, Moby, and I seriously doubt you have anything that would fit me if I ruined my clothing.”

  I kneeled down on his rolls and bit deeply into his right side, where normally you would call it a love handle. All I can say was he must be fucking Casanova with the amount of love he had to give. Moby’s screams sounded like a multitude of angels singing. Manny had turned off whatever switch it is that sends us, I mean him, in for the next infection. We could eat until our heart’s content. The deposits of greasy, oily, fat that poured out of his wounds coated me in a thick, viscous layer. I looked like I’d taken a dip at a lard factory. It ran down my face and dripped onto the floor. I don’t quite remember when he stopped screaming and went into quieter sobbing. Eventually, that stopped, though he was still warm. But hell, he was big enough to be his own sun, he’d have a lot of body heat to dispel.

  I rolled around in the spillage coming from Moby like a dog will on a particularly odorous pile of shit. It felt so good to be coated in the discharged vestiges. Scarlett and the little bubble boy parlor trick were nowhere to be found. She’d disappeared like she had on a cone of silence! I literally laughed out loud. Manny was methodically working the jaws, motoring through slabs of Moby like a leaf ant does a leaf. It was impressive, I have to admit. Things took a turn for the worse when we got about a quarter of the way through Moby and Manny needed to make some room.

  “Oh come on, Manny, didn’t your momma tell you not to shit where you eat? You’re like a fucking bear, man, you’ll go anywhere!” It was one thing to be covered in fat, blood, viscera and an organ or two, but once that’s been chewed, masticated thoroughly, swallowed, digested and pushed through the intestines and colon in an accelerated process, then anally distributed, it kind of loses its appeal.

  I decided to pull back. Manny was going to be set for hours, as would Scarlett, as she avoided the whaling grounds. I needed to figure out what to do here. I was like the less liked friend in a group of three women. Sure, the two would act super friendly when we were face to face, but the moment I had to use the restroom, they would take sniping shots at me. What is it with women anyway? One is about the total number of them you can have without problems. Outward problems, anyway, because most of them are bundles of walking self-esteem issues. Two together will work at least for a little while because the other is the only one they can talk to. Throw that third in there and stand back, because that’s when the fun begins. Two just cannot wait to team up and rip the third to pieces. And that’s the position I felt myself to be in. I needed to change this dynamic. I needed to be ruling the roost and not just as a figurehead but with an iron fist.

  I just kept running around in circles. Scarlett had a complete and utter way to thwart any move I made on her, and Manny could push me out with a flick of his wormy little hand. The sun had gone down and come back up. Manny was still contentedly chewing through Moby, my mind began to wander; an unsolvable puzzle, insomnia, and the monotony of eating a village worth of food are wont to do that.

  I was nineteen when I avoided my first DU
I. I was with some of my college football teammates at a bar called the Sideline. Almost all jocks and pussy, it was generally a nerd-free zone. The word had got out for them by owl or something to avoid this place, which was a good thing for them. Nothing like some nerd knocking when you get some booze in you. Some science geeks had come in there one night after a rough round of testing; they should have relieved their stress somewhere else.

  I’d gone up to their table and hucked up the largest wad of phlegm I could muster and neatly deposited it in one of the little douche bags’ cranberry spritzers or whatever the fuck he was drinking. I saw the anger flare up in his eyes, but unless he was smart enough to build a laser gun and shoot me with it right there, he was powerless to do anything about it.

  “Just kidding, Dexter.” I leaned in. Red flared up his neck and blushed out his face. “You look hot. You should drink this,” I said as I handed him his glass, a nice ball of congealed green and brown floating lazily on the top.

  “I’m good. You should leave,” he’d had the balls to say.

  “Oh I should, should I? But we’re having so much fun.” I scooted into the booth, pushing him up against the wall.

  “Okay, you had your fun,” one of the dweebs on the other side of the table said.

  “Shut up. I’ll get to you if I want to.” I pointed my finger, mashing his nose against his face. If I thought Dexter had turned red, holy shit, this one looked like a fire engine. I just kept my finger, which actually smelled like ass because I had not cleaned up well after my less than savory and sanitary deposit at the porcelain bank, pressed against his beak, and wiggled it back and forth. “Sorry man, I think I got a little shit on there,” I told him when I finally stopped poking him.

  He glared at me like only a powerless goober can. I bet he wanted to use a dungeons and dragons spell on me! Dork number three wisely kept quiet. He was constantly looking to the doorway, his subconscious way of signifying that he wanted to be anywhere but here.

  “Listen, we just want to have a drink to celebrate the end of our science mid-terms, and then we’ll be gone,” Dexter said.

  “And I want you to have that drink, Dexter, I do. So that’s why you should drink it up.” I slid it over to him while simultaneously wrapping my left arm around his slender shoulders, pulling him tight. “Man this is chummy. Isn’t it?” I smiled. “I’ve never had such good friends as you. We are going to have to hang out more. You could tell me some science theories, and I’ll tell you guys what it’s like to stick your dick in a pussy. Because between the three of you, I’d be surprised if you added up to second base outside the sweater, and that was probably a mistake with your auntie or something. Although I don’t know, maybe she’d had a few too many mimosas that time she’d come to visit for the holidays and she wanted one of you little pencil necks to touch her sensitive nipples. Weirder shit has happened.” I took a big swig of my beer.

  “Are you going to leave now?” Dexter asked.

  “And drink alone? Do I look like an alcoholic that sits by himself and gets stewed?” Nobody said anything.

  “I asked a question. Where’s your manners?”

  “You don’t look like an alcoholic,” Goober Two chimed in.

  “That’s what I thought, but then why are you guys treating me like that? I raise my glass to drink, and Dexter here does nothing. I garnish his drink perfectly, and he rejects it. How do you think that makes me feel? You know, in some cultures rebuking a gift can get you killed. I guess it’s just lucky we’re not in Canada.”

  Nerd two rolled his eyes at my statement. Apparently, I’d got the country wrong or maybe the whole custom. If we weren’t in a public setting, he’d be dunking for dookies in my toilet right now, and I wouldn’t let him up until he had a corn laced shit firmly planted in his mouth.

  “Chris, let’s just go,” Goober Two said to Dexter.

  “Wait, your name isn’t Dexter? Look, we’re already getting to know each other better. Let’s toast to that.”

  “I’m leaving,” Chris said, pushing up against me. He’d almost made me spill some of my beer. With my left hand wrapped around his shoulders, I gripped his left ear lobe and started yanking on it.

  “What the hell!” he said in a high pitched whine that was completely concealed by some shitty 80’s cover song coming off the jukebox. He tried to stand, but first off, the table was too close and he would have busted his knees, and secondly, if he had stood, he would have left a significant section of his ear behind.

  “Drink your little foo-foo drink and you can leave.”

  “Just leave us alone.” Goober stood. “I’m going to get a manager.”

  “My friends and I dump a couple of thousand in here every fucking week. You think he’s going to listen to three bitches that just bought eight dollars’ worth of fruity drinks? And if by some strange occurrence he did listen to your whining ass, I now know you’re sciencey guys. How long do you think it would take me to track you down and make myself feel better about what went down? And I guarantee I’d make the extra effort to find you, worth it. Cheers.” I clinked Chris slash Dexter’s glass. “Bottom’s up,” I growled around a mouthful of brew.

  Chris grabbed his glass. “Don’t,” Goober urged.

  “Do,” I told him. I watched in pleased fascination as Chris closed his eyes and brought the glass to his lips. The chunk of hairy snot drifted closer to his lips as he chugged. He was gagging, and the meaty part hadn’t gone down the hatch yet. I don’t know what he was thinking, but he was drinking with his lips nearly pressed together. They were acting as a trap as my lung cookie smacked up against them. I’m sure he got a nice surge of saltiness as it rested there. He started to cough, as he opened up wider to allow the foreign body to gain access into his mouth. Can’t imagine how gross that must have tasted and felt as it slid along his tongue and taste buds. He was panting and dry heaving as he polished off the remainder of the drink.

  “You happy now?” Goober asked me.

  “Of course I am. I’m fucking jolly. Oh hey, Chris, I figure you should know this, now that we’ve swapped spit. I just found out I have Hep-C; you’re probably going to want to get that checked out.” I clapped him on the back, hard enough that his head glanced against the table top. I scooted over and stood, lucky when I did it too, because Chris started puking all over the table and himself.

  “Look at that little guy! Can’t hold his liquor!” the running back, Lamont Bell, said as he passed by.

  “I know, right?” I walked with him back to my teammates.

  Shit, that wasn’t the story I meant to relate. I took a peek in on Manny and he was still busy, what the hell, I have time for one more. It happened that same night, maybe that’s why I digressed. After I left Dexter and his two pathetic friends, I started hitting on this little honey. Jane something, or maybe it was Joan, whore, bimbo, what the fuck do I care. She was plastered, figured she was going to be an easy score. Then, when her friends bailed on her because she wanted to stay longer and chat me up, I knew I was going to be plowing her into my bed. If I was lucky, I could dump a load into her and then stick her out in the hallway of the dorm. Odds were she wouldn’t know what room she’d come out of. I’d probably stick her in front of Lamont’s door. His girlfriend showed up every Sunday morning so they could go to church. She’d lose her shit if she saw Helen of Whore Town all splayed out by his room. That’s funny stuff right there.

  Chick could barely walk by the time the bar closed. I got a couple of funny looks from my teammates. The prima donna quarterback had the stones to tell me to not do anything that would hurt the team.

  “Mind your own fucking business—and I’m not going to hurt the team. Sure, she’s going to walk funny for a few days, but not because of anything she didn’t enjoy immensely.” I didn’t prove my point too well when I bounced her fucking head off the roof of my car. It was an accident, not my fault the bitch didn’t bend over the right way to get into the car.

  An “ung” escaped her mouth.
Then she started laughing.

  “See,” I told the pansy qb.

  “Fuck you, Tim,” he said as he climbed into his booster-bought Camaro. I didn’t have a souped-up sports car given to me. I had an older but reliable Chevy. Now that I think about it, that was about the only thing in the world I treated with any measure of respect. I cleaned and washed that car meticulously, once a week. I was just sitting down into my seat when Blow-Job Betty said she wasn’t feeling too good.

  “Oh, fuck no. There is no way you’re puking in my car. That smell takes forever to go away.” I quickly exited, opened her door up, grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the car. Her ass smacked hard on the ground.

  “Wha … what are you doing?” she asked, although it was much more slurred. Sounded more like a flooded engine trying to start, than a chick talking.

  “Are you going to puke or not?”

  “The earth is spinning.”

  “No shit, you have to go to college to figure that out? And they say football players are dumb.”

  “Righ shrool,” she managed to get out before giggling. Right after giggling came some brown bile. It dribbled onto her chin, and that led to that evening’s drinks and eventually dinner, which looked like some sort of noodle dish with broccoli.

  Then it dawned on me what she’d said. “Did you say high school?”

  She wiped some crap from her lips, nodded with extreme exaggeration, then giggled again.

  “How stupid are you? I stick my dick in you, and it’s statutory rape!” I was pissed.

  “Sex? I was thinking of maybe letting you touch my breasts. We’re not in love,” she said. She still had that incessant fucking giggling going on. “Soon maybe.”

  “Yeah, I just poured thirty dollars’ worth of booze down your throat so I could squeeze a nipple. You better start figuring your shit out soon. If hitting your honey pot wouldn’t cost me my spot on the team, we’d be banging. Your little school girl morals might protest at first, but no one wants to miss out on my man meat, I can assure you that. Find your own way home, idiot.” I went back around to the driver’s side and got in.