The Paunch of Brody

The alarm clock resonated around the empty room.  Brody roared, attempting to switch off the alarm, but instead knocking several kebab trays onto the bare floorboards of his room.  A loud creak erupted as he shifted his enormous bulk towards the edge of the bed, flopping from it like a blubbery sea lion falling gracelessly from an iceberg.

The walls of the bedroom appeared sallow in the dim light, stained with jam from a drunken fight with a jar of Lidl Value strawberry preserve.  The strong smell of grease and cigarette smoke permeated throughout his hovel.  He looked into the mirror on his wall, a paunchy bulbous Adrien Brody staring back at him, dead eyes sunken deep into his over-inflated head.  He never usually got out of bed before midday on a Wednesday, but today was a special day.  Giro day.

He slid on his claret chinos, stained with burger sauce.  The gimp down the compo office last time said they'd have to stop his giro if he persisted in turning up without trousers.  He made an attempt to fasten the top button, but many a day had passed since he could successfully cram his paunch into this garment.  He gave up, wheezing heavily with the effort, and decided to fashion a makeshift belt out of some rope he'd found in the bins behind his flat whilst trying to find the pizza crusts he'd mistakenly thrown out a few days previously.

He unbolted the front door of his council flat, and stepped out into the graffiti strewn, piss streaked stairwell...