Brody alighted at his bus stop, the vehicle’s hydraulic lowering mechanism screeching in pain as he levered his globular body through the doors and out onto the street. He paused for a second, breathing heavily, his intended destination before him – the swimming baths.
Brody loved the baths; the water could support his grotesque weight, and he could go for his morning piss without the normal incumbency of having to hold up the voluminous sheets of excess flesh in order to expose his shrivelled genitals.
He shuffled sassily into the baths, and stuffed a forearm the size and thickness of a ham hock inside his draw-string JD Sports bag to pay the entry fee. Realisation struck – a rampant tsunami of anger swept through him – he’d forgotten his Speedos.
A black miasma of rage descended, terrible for all to see as he hurled his JD Sports bag to the floor in disgust. Brody charged like a bull hippopotamus towards the reception desk, foaming at the mouth and with bingo wings flapping, the sound and magnitude of his heavy steps akin to a numberless herd of wildebeests mindlessly stampeding through a Zambian gorge with reckless abandon.
The feckless receptionist seemed to visibly shrink as Brody advanced, the fires of hell itself burning in his eyes. Reaching the desk, he slammed his tubby arms down and howled to no one in particular: “SPEEDOS”. She proffered a pair. Brody studied them suspiciously before accepting them, and sauntered down the corridor into the changing room. Behind him, the sallow faced receptionist crumpled to the floor, hysterically sobbing and mumbling incoherently, pregnant with dread at the abomination that was about to occur...
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