Writer's block

He looked like a rogue genetic engineer had cloned The Village star Adrien Brody, but the process had left him bereft of earlobes and retaining massive amounts of fluid. His swollen, pudgy fingers wrung nervously under the barrage of questions.

Staring resolutely downwards as he spoke; "Any port in a storm". He glanced nervously about the writers' circle. The group leader looked imploringly at him..."Well?". He could feel the sweat meandering down his cheeks, collecting in the bulges and folds of his neck fat and cooling. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his moo moo, new sweat immediately replaced it. Summoning all his confidence and resolve he stood up straight and stammered, but the motion pulled a crease between two mounds of fat taut. This sent a splash of cold sweat raining around the group.

The other would be writers gagged and pulled disgusted faces whilst hurriedly trying to wipe his sweat off their skin and from their eyes. They would do better to dab it up, any fool knows that he thought. He made to bolt from the room but his moo moo had pulled down at the front and his elephantine feet trampled it ripping the seams at his shoulders.

The next few seconds seemed to dilate into dreadful minutes, the massively strained stitches gave, snap, snap, snap. At each snap vast expanses of pink sallow fat erupted. More horror was to follow as the whole front of his moo moo fell to the floor followed by its owner. The slopping sound as it hit the floor was sickening, as he landed on it his weight squeezed the sweat bound up in the tattered moo moo out. A tepid brackish tide lapped around the simple folding chair legs of those in the group.

The lucky ones drew their legs up and hugged them close to their chests. The unlucky slipped and skittered like new born giraffes and collapsed unconscious in the soggy puddle on the linoleum. The brodyesque man slowly raised his head, out of the window he saw a tattered Safeway bag flapping caught in a tree, he raised a flabby paw in salute.