Art (c) 2005 Claudio Parentela
A short, but basically, fat guy tale
Listen up!

There was this guy, who, even while still in diapers, already had reason to be over conscious of his physical self. That was because his problem was as plain as the skin stretched so tightly around his entity: namely, almighty Corpulence had severely infected his life. So much so that soon after his loathing mother had squeezed him out her doors forever, his last two friends in whose garage he was bunking seemed to have forgotten his given name. To address him, they had taken to reference of ugly things like 'son of chicken fat,' and much too frequently, 'hill of diarrhea.'

Meanwhile, he'd have been quite happy with "Porksy," or even "Blubba." He was this gaga for compromise because, of a truth, he knew there was a lot to what they said of him. From a tendency of being "too full, too much" as a baby, he had now grown beyond triple extra large sizes. Even the shadow that appeared around him during sunny days had become a quivering monster.

In spite of all this, he was still a young man in his prime and possessed an astonishing determination. So with Youth's fey rashness he decided to address his turgid balloon of a self-image. Zapped to the jelly by this explosive idea, his aroused mind began gamboling with the notion that he could turn the situation around, stuff it back on itself. "Damn it!" he swore into his very large mirror. "I'll do the daring about my image and startle those skimpy-fleshed hecklers."

So! Post-haste as he could muster, he fired off a rumor that very soon, he, Himself, would dunk a basketball into a regularly hung hoop. "Yes! The normal ten feet up," he confirmed to the big-eyed audience.

He later ascertained that the promised feat would be performed without artificial aids like springs, and in spite of the close to two hundred pounds of excess munching currently floating around his close to five and a half foot frame.

"And yes," he reassured the scoffing listeners, "I'll measure by standard twelve inch feet!"

Well, without doubt the interest quotient he generated was fantastic. Instantly a book was made, and the bets flew like bulleted death in black & white war movies. All the same, all the above were zipping against the BIG ONE'S chances. As it was, he stood alone, although enormously so.

After a while of watching the odds exceed exaggeration, he figured that maybe he had over-spoken? So He sought to extricate himself from the chaos of anticipation he had initiated. He called a press conference, only to see the mess magnify when he tried to chicken out.

Offering them their wagers back (even at two to one) was met with screaming folks baring slogans and signs: like "NOT SO FATS OH!" and "GO WITH GUSTO!" and "HA-HA-HA," etc. These maniacs, just like the less vigorous money-bags clutching the betting slips, all seemed glutted on a yearning to commit. They wanted to see Him try. Queerly, to these normally pecuniary purposed people, the game was suddenly the only thing.

Facing up to this circumstance, our stymied Over-Muchkin resorted to a gem of strategy he had picked up from his broad literary education. A tact he had learned from a fable that suggested "DIRECT ACTION provided RESULTS." So soon this system became his valiant hope and his eternal effort.

Yes, our Mucho-man seriously commenced at many leg strength developing exercises. It was as though he'd become sudden slave to Sisyphus. Night and day he toiled! Day and night he logged legwork! Oh Yea! Never before was so much done to leg muscles. Never!

And never either were leg muscles so grimly grateful!

These ones in particular had long understood the role of the Heavy One. They had supported Him, it seemed, only through thick and overweight parts. They were heartlessly sic'n'tard with the Mess o' Mass up there. They now sought the gruesome redressing. They wanted the fat son-of-a-sow inside slippery city. O yes! They did.

So while the young man worked his sinews, such was the ominous tenor of workers' chanteys these thickening thighs hummed along in muscular concert.
Thus, with great effort, some time passed...

In between, the legs and thighs and other supportive systems were ever growing stronger in unified might, prospering on the promise of their future. Their hope was bludgeon to any nay-sayings concerning the stupendous task. Until eventually, by sweat, faith, and sheer miracles, they were soon standing firm, easily supporting the big Top.

Then, when it seemed they had done their utmost, those pulsing, power-packed bands of voluntary muscles did even more. Working butts off into maximally purposeful gluteals, they persisted at garnering extra strength for dealing out their comeuppance.

Meanwhile, Time, odd mover that it is, again slid even nearer the appointed 'D,' as in dunking, day.

Then, of course, that Day arrived on its way past.

Gathered at the staging arena were the usual trendies and jet-setters, plus a few beautiful people who hang around with those of the right sort. As with such folks who were "in," they had assembled where the major happening was.

Representative of the Mecca of entertainments and delightful divertissement was this number: First, a limber fellow dances sway-backed under a low level of horizontal pole. (Lots of rhythm, much movement)

Next, a winsome lassie follows at the same. (Hers is an incredible display of multi-dimensionally creative pelvic movement)

Then the fellow takes over and proceeds to even lower levels. (Gasps from viewers, etc.)

Now, among the audience, the accompanying drumbeats prompt younger bloods to pounce at emboldened dreams. Dauntless, they peep, they peer into dark imaginings. Novice voyeurs, their un-sated grins glare glassily.

Why so?

Because the lissome lassie is at it again.

Where she is bare, her sweat is beads, a sheen alive as salt. Look now, how she spreads so wide, those thighs so firmly set, so ready and root strong. Her arms full-flung, command to embrace all fun, while she goes down in the whip-hip swaying dance of limbo.

All very exciting, undoubtedly performed by practiced professionals, and not to be attempted by the uninitiated. The sort of thing one had to be in, to do.

But this and all else were only the warm-ups. The limelight was the Fat Guy Show. The Big Action was the Big Dunk. And the eager crowd awaited.

The equipment personnel were also ready. Using special sayings among themselves, they had loudly double-checked: "One standard basketball appropriately inflated?"

"Check! Sah..."

"One regular backboard with attached hoop, and net?"

"Check! Sah..."

"One basketball court?"

"Jus' ha'f court, Sah..."

"Check it anyhow!"

"Okay, Sarah, it's All Check, then."

At this, the waiting assembly, now reassured, cheered upbeat slogans, "Word, Word! Bark-Bark! Let's turn th'motha out!" they enthused.

Meantime, beneath all this pomp and heralding, the leg muscles were being especially ready. They were vibrating from readiness-sweating and awaiting with no fretting. They were action eager as are hungry tigers before a two-foot fat spider web fence that's defending some fresh slaughtered goats garnished con sangre grande.

For the using of their former owner, these were very ready legs.

When HE asked for the ball-"Gimme the ball," he muttered-there was a remarkable glitter to his eye. Clearly a gleam of readiness.

In the audience, there was also great tension. One smoker coughed, "Rack!-Crack!-Rack!" Immediately, his beautiful mother shushed him with a word on emphysema. All to be heard afterwards was gentle, jerky breathing.

Then, at last, a barebacked Jelly-Medley waddled onto the half-court openly dribbling on the fattest belly ever. This wasn't an example of 'not-pretty but-effective' gimmickry. Evidenced by the grime of resolve drooling over his slack lips, this was plain 'not-pretty' guts.

Sentimental lookers-on, inspecting the greater phenomenon of the BIG MAN'S form, lost sight of the ball. Their minds caught up with marveling, it could've been anywhere. Yet they cared not a nit. With this Big Fellow, simply seeing him kept disbelief well fed. For there he was, in plain view, grossly holding the strict law of gravity in suspension. Just keeping it a-floating along around him.

While they gaped and ruminated, he had flubbed to the foul line without the ball appearing anywhere. Then it was in his hands! And to whom this may concern, that ball might as well have come out of his navel, or even a profound mystical experience. For that's how it seemed at that moment.

An excited titter of no small amazement escaped the less suave of the on-lookers. The TV men, however, were expertly checking out his legs.

"As they go, so does the Man." This from the color fellow.

"Never another way..." enthused the burly support commentator, while the rest of the staff 'Hmmmned' to the insight.

Right then, the maverick of the team, the rookie gabber-jobber, began blurting, "Way to go! Way to go! What a show! What a spectacle! What a fuc..."

Just in time, the mike died, and the camera panned away from him as if the kid was making a bad impression.

Meanwhile, the legs were determined to go through with it. Like true fanatics, they warmed up to their own rhetoric. They had done all the work. They had pulled themselves up, even, and then over the Hump. They had paid their dues in the excruciating coin of sweat. Their toil had been "rant-rant-rant, etc., & so forth."

Above all this seething, our Man o' More composed himself, gathered his withals, in a manner of speaking. Breathing deeply one mo' time, he was set to give it his best goddamn shot, his 'A' game. "As a man is a man, a bet is a bet. Just hope for whatever--," he muttered. Still though, he allowed a wish that he had not let his mouth set such a high reach for his ass.

The mean machines that were now masquerading as legs gathered within their sinews a mighty Force. They tanked themselves up to the utmost, even as a child might do, when he, (or the little Missy), draws full a humongously deep breath, determined on that lovely evening, to blow out the fiery sun setting on the red-rimmed horizon.

O Yea, they meant business, those legs. As goodnight meant darkness, they did.

Back at the cerebral level, the Major Portion that had so prepared Himself, was now looking for a saving miracle. In that mode, stalling some, slipping Hope extra chances, he ascertained that the hoop was still there. Yet no saviors approached.

So then, with a gulp of desperate nonchalance, he took two-handed hold of the ball. Upon which, using both eyelids, he shut the world away, and with every other muscle, lurched forward, lumbered up speed, and when he was well primed, drove for up.

It was then that the legs struck back!

They struck with the kind of awful power familiar during the good old days before 'Mega' became vogue. This was the kind of long-time power that would-without computers and buttons-make fire turn green and solid. Yeah, that righteous a power!

It was with this sort of mighty all-natural Force that the legs carried out their combined assault.

Exhausting that stupendous, lightning bolt power, the legs first bent limber at their knees, then unleashed themselves re-straightening upwards and high-powering outwards, shooting through their constraining upper tub of flesh, which suddenly became likened unto a thin-skinned tissue of squishy froths.

Thus, just so, the mighty legs propelled the wondering man's hitherto forgotten, oh-so-tired skeletal frame right through the limits of his flabby, saggy flesh and enclosing loose-folded skin. His hands, grasping of ball, came within scant millimeters of their circular target. Just then, though, his brain's cells telescoped from terror, capitulated to the vertigo of all that rapid compression. (Due in turn, to the great and abrupt change in velocity caused by the vengeful leg-lift.)

And so flitted away that short, fat life-unconscious of the glorious moment, when, skin-close to his highest achievement, he had shed himself of the mortal cloth of heavy flesh, which had so smothered his corporeal existence.

When he descended and had congealed back to a silent, fatty puddle on the half-court, rigor mortis and all the usual consequences set in.

Of course, the matter of the wagers was never resolved.

Music by Brian Hutzell
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