A Desperate Day

He hefted his blubbery body off the bed; in the dingy light he looked familiar. He looked like a sex doll of The Pianist star Adrian Brody, but one that had been monstrously overinflated by an enthusiastic new owner.

He wiggled into his favourite moo moo, the movement sent waves of fat gently lapping on the shores of his podgy swollen ankles. The xxxxxl garment groaned agonisingly as he rose to his feet, a stitch gave, a spurt of sallow fat pinged through the rip like a deep sea submarine springing a leak. He'd need xxxxxxl next time.

There was a sickly sweet smell in his room, he picked his way gingerly through a landscape littered with dirty clothes and discarded pizza boxes. The carpet felt gritty underfoot.

He was feeling desperate, his blood sugar was low, it had been thirty minutes since his last breakfast. Growling ferociously like a cornered wolf his stomach urged him on. He smashed his podgy arms against the front door and tottered flabbily to his next meal.