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.

Out and About

He looked like the Wrecked star Adrien Brody was undergoing a nightmare kafkaesque transformation into a hippo, and was nearly there. He stood, a slouched tubby figure surrounded by the detritus of his life. His floor was a sea of old pizza boxes, torn discarded moo moos and empty lilt cans. Surveying his realm he began hiking towards the front door. Cans crumpled and tore into jagged shards of aluminium, boxes resisted and collapsed instantly under his fat clammy paws. He had hoarded these items over many years like a poverty stricken kleptomaniacal Croesus. Reaching the door, gasping impotently for breath he bent forward resting, regaining strength for his final journey to the door.

With a push he opened it and made through it to the relatively flat and easily traversable corridor. He was pushed back halfway through. His blobby thighs were caught, jammed tight in the door frame. This had happened before, smiling at his cunning he made to pull back then walk sideways, crablike through the door. It didn't work. He was caught firmly between the rotting sides of the door frame. In a fit of pique he flailed his flabby sausage arms around fiercely. This shed drops of tepid brackish sweat splashing onto the cracked linoleum and ripped his moo moo at the arm pits.

"HELP!" he bellowed down the corridor, he stopped, waiting for a response, distant sirens wailed and petered to silence. The corridor was deserted, wall paper peeled revealing sallow coloured mould thriving beneath. Water persistently dripped from the light fixtures. Drip, drip, drip. He could feel the insipid mildew smell invading his pores. He would die here, he knew it.

He was red faced, breathing hard, panicking. He slumped forward into unconsciousness.

He awoke lying on the corridor linoleum. His feet scrabbled frantically, trying to gain purchase on the sodden linoleum, but couldn't. Slipping back to the floor and relaxing he realised that he had survived his ordeal. He rolled onto his back laughing manically with relief.

Then the realisation struck him, he could never return to his home. Like a modern day Ahasver he was doomed to roam the Earth homeless for the rest of his days. He sobbed inconsolably whilst methodically pulling himself arm over arm along the corridor to McDonald's.

A Trip to the Baths - Part 3

Cries heavily laden with dismay and revulsion echoed around the high-ceilinged pool area as a dread figure towered before them, dominating the changing room entrance. Adrien Brody trundled forward, bedaubed in his own fecal matter. With grim inevitability, the tear in his white Speedos gave way, and the ruined material, spattered with stools, fluttered limply like a sullied flag of surrender to the floor in his wake, leaving Brody to resolutely heave himself onwards.

The incumbent swimmers and pool attendants desperately kicked and clawed their way to the exits: wild eyed parents hurled their beloved children aside and back into the pool, berserk in their self-serving frenzy to scramble to safety; a teenage lifeguard, hitherto a mere child, became a man unto himself, wielding a metal pool pole about him with maniacal power, sweeping all before him, whilst the elderly were left to make their own wrinkled way slowly to the steps, blue of lip and tutting loudly. The desolation was absolute.

Oblivious to the apocalyptic scene, Brody searched for an appropriate entry into the water. Glowering angrily he spied the pool lift installation for the handicapped ahead of him. His beady eyes locked on to the target and he lunged forward, pouring his voluptuous curves into the lowering chair, which immediately gave way beneath his elephantine backside. He was plunged into the pool, but kicking and spluttering he broke the surface. The pool's water level had risen by several inches; a misshapen grin spread across his face: "EUREKA", he gurgled happily - Brody knew his Archimedes.

A brown slick had formed around him as the excrement blemishes relocated from the backs of his thighs. Perturbed, naked, and floating in a  pool of his own dissolved effluence, Brody pondered his situation for a several seconds. A structure at the far end of the pool caught his eye and he gasped as he realised its significance: the 10 metre diving platform. Conserving energy for the climb to the top, he continued to float on his back, allowing the natural current generated by his undignified entrance to carry him forth. The brown slick tracked him insidiously.

Steps were a problem for Brody; due to his girth he couldn't just place one leg up in front of the other, he had to move his whole body to the side first and then move forwards and upwards, much like a sumo wrestler's pre-fight ritual before entering the ring. It was exhausting. Steadily he journeyed ever upwards. He fainted at the 2nd platform, utterly spent, legs and arms spreadeagled, pathetic, wizened testicles and meager phallus limply draped sideways. Hours passed. He dreamt of an otherworldly journey, traversing an alien galaxy at impossible speed, stars and planets flashing past in bursts of colours, a Filet-O-Fish sandwich with the face of a Predator his constant companion.

Brody awoke screaming, but swiftly regained his composure, chiding himself for such an outward show of weakness. He struggled onwards, noticing a crowd gathering in the pool's viewing gallery to his left. The final few steps were conquered and at last he clambered atop the high platform. He stood, legs shoulder-width apart, arms held out wide, and bellowed his victory to the heavens like the Tyrannosaurus Rex from Jurassic Park I: the viewers in the gallery covered their ears and shied away from the Phil Spector-esque wall of sound that savagely berated them.

Brody stepped forward to the edge of the platform, his purpose now clear to all in attendance. As if a spell had been broken, chaos ran amok in the gallery as the once rapt audience sought to escape the oncoming devastation. Brody ignored them, cackling demonically in the knowledge that their actions were futile. The atmosphere was sallow faced and pregnant with dread as he stodgily plopped off the platform. He fell towards the water with stunning pace, but with a grace and form that belied his repugnant rotundity. The impact fractions of a second later was cataclysmal, and the world was engulfed in darkness....

A Trip to the Baths - Part 2

The catastrophically corpulent figure of Adrien Brody made his way into the changing rooms, clad in just a beige trench coat, now stained dark with rancid sweat from the ten metre waddle down the hallway, and a pair of mildew ridden flip flops. He also sported a brown trilby worn at a preposterously jaunty angle, with a turquoise peacock feather tucked into the band - Brody knew he was the shit. He clutched his draw-string JD Sports bag in one clammy paw and the pair of white Speedos requisitioned from reception in the other.

He wriggled out of the coat, moobs jiggling suggestively as he did so, and sighed as he let it all hang out. Behind him he heard retching en masse as other sallow faced pool goers caught sight. Brody turned around to see what all the fucking fuss was about: grown men, profoundly pregnant with dread were groaning ghoulishly, wailing and self-flagellating with their own knotted towels, transfixed in horror at the porcine figure before them that was pulsating like a perfectly set strawberry jelly as it tried to force itself into a pair of undersized Speedos.

Brody was pushing frantically, trying to manoeuvre his swathes of blubber in and around the Speedos with minimal success. One leg was through, but the other stubbornly resisted. He pushed once again with all his considerable weight, but slipped suddenly, cascading to the cold, piss-sodden changing room floor in a waterfall of morbid obesity. He flopped around weakly on the floor in a manner not dissimilar to Jabba the Hut after being strangled by Princess Leia, struggling to regain his feet.

He grabbed hold of a bench and hauled himself upwards, soiling himself loudly and messily in the process. His lungs screaming for oxygen, Brody craned his neck to inspect the damage: the Speedos were ripped and unsightly smears of faeces stained the backs of his thighs. The stench was wretched.

He shrugged in contempt at the situation, and stomped towards the pool entrance, trailing a line of his own feculence behind him. He saw a sign out of the corner of his eye: "Please shower before entering the pool". Brody flipped it the bird and carried on, as the first screams rang out...

A Nightly Occurence

Strangers squeezed around him, he was as a rock in a stream, buffeted by an unceasing flow of pedestrians. He looked like Splice star Adrien Brody had been massively bulking up for a poorly considered role in a Big Momma's House sequel. He had an eagle eye for these things, lying half eaten on a bench was a mars bar. He tried tacking this way and that in the flow, desperately trying to reach the object of his desire.

He made slow but steady progress, he had quickly abandoned common courtesy and was barging and pulling people past him, leveraging his substantial girth. He reached out his index finger and brushed the open wrapper, he couldn't quite grasp the wrapper between index and middle finger. So close. One last barge and he was there. Just as he raised his trophy to his lips a big hand grabbed his moo moo from the scruff of his neck, he choked pathetically.

Thrashing, covered in a patina of cold sweat he awoke with a start. He rolled onto his side, his sleep apnea had claimed another dreamy mars bar. His enormous neck fat deposits sometimes crushed his throat when his muscles relaxed into sleep. Sobbing pathetically he reached for the glass by his bed. Taking a sip of tepid brackish water from his glass he felt better. With a sound like a food processor blending rocks, his stomach alerted his to his malnourishment. Glancing at his watch he realised that he hadn't eaten in 29 minutes. Under a brooding sallow new moon he pulled on his moo moo and crocs and readied himself for another trip to McDonald's.

A Trip to the Baths - Part 1

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...