Greedy Guts: A Cautionary Tale

'Fat Boy' is given the eating challenge of his life...

              “My boy’s wun it four outta five years runnin’ an’ my boy’s gunna win it again,” Fat Mama said proudly crossing her flabby arms across her large breasts. “There’s not no-one who’s gunna beat him, not no way! Fat Daddy and I’s had ‘im in trainin’ all year and he ain’t gunna get beat.”

            The local reporter for the Tribune swallowed down her distaste and tapped her pencil on her pad. “Tell me as one mother to another…are you not at all concerned about your son’s health?”

            “He’s gunna be a big boy, my Fat Boy, just like his fat Daddy.”

            The woman winced slightly. “But surely there must be some debate over the amount of damage he could be doing to his heart, the strain it must be under must be terrific…”

            “Wat don’t kill yer makes yer stronger Ms Newslady,” she replied.

            “Well that maybe true in some cases, but there are some who would say that this is tantamount to child abuse.”

            Fat Mama grinned broadly, her wet mouth underlined by a trio of lipless smiles. “An’ then those people will be eatin’ their words when my Fat Boy comes home with that there Eatin’ Trophy and a cheque for $5000!”

            “You’re a disgrace.”

            And that was all there was to say about that…

 

                        *         *         *

 

            “You ready Fat Boy?” Fat Daddy said from his slouched position on the threadbare couch.

            “Yessir,” Fat Boy wheezed buttoning up his shirt. His piggy eyes were mere piggy dark holes in a red and blotchy landscape.

            “We gotta recapture that Trophy son.”

            “Yessir Fat Daddy,” Fat Boy heaved.

            Fat Daddy lumbered across the room and snatched a photograph from the wall. “Remember her?”

            “Yessir,” Fat Boy grunted. “It’s Fat Sally.”

            “I don’t care what her name is. You will not lose to her again, you hear?”

            Fat Boy nodded.

            “What happened last year was an embarrassment. No boy of mine is gunna get beat by no girl.”

            “She could eat a lotta pie, Fat Daddy.” Fat Boy said, staring at the photo. “A helluva lotta pie.”

            “She fluked it. She fluked that last contest. You can stick way more in that belly of yours than she can.”

            “She’s an eatin’ machine for sure,” Fat Boy said, “I don’t even think she waits to chew.”

            “Damnit!” Fat Daddy slapped a podgy hand across the side of Fay Boy’s fat head. “I di’n’t say to be admiring her boy. This is the enemy, this Porkerpig! Don’t be thinkin’ of nuthin’ but chewin’ and swallowin’, d’yer hear?”

            “Yessir.” Fat Boy’s ear rang with the blow. “She’s the enemy.”

            Fat Daddy screwed the photograph up and let it fall to the floor at his feet.

            “Tha’s right! Now let’s go git that pie.”

 

*         *         *

 

            The culmination and highlight of the 10th National Glutton-Bowl was the Great Pie Eating contest. Fat Boy had, predictably, breezed and wheezed his way through the preliminaries, blowing away the competition. 

His parents kept a watchful eye on the other competitors, particularly the current reigning ‘Chompian’. Fat Sally.

“Damnit,” Fat Daddy murmured, clicking the stopwatch. “That Piglet Porker Fatty Pig Pig was seventeen seconds quicker in qualifying.”

“Hush now, Fat Daddy, she wuz blowin’ hard like a whale in a can durin’ the semis. Fat Boy had hardly broken a sweat… he’s pacin’ hisself.”

“He better be.” Fat Daddy bunched his sausage-fingers into a podgy fist until the knuckles turned white.

 

*         *         *

 

“Fat Boy, Fat Boy! Fox Network can we get a quick word?” Fox Newsman Rory Callaghan said, jabbing a microphone under his nose.

“Uhh yeh sure,” Fat Boy shrugged, backing off slightly.

“So you’ve found yourself in the Final again for the fifth time and what a Final it’s shaping up to be! Yourself, current reigning Chompian ‘Fat’ Sally Jacobsen, current World Number One Joey ‘Jaws’ Chestnut and former Glutton-Bowl Chompian and World Record Holder Takeru ‘Tsunami’ Kobayashi… Tell me how do you feel right now?”

“A little sick to be honest,” Fat Boy mumbled.

“Is that nerves or all that grub?”

Fat Boy shrugged and shuffled his feet slightly. “A little of both, I guess. Eatin’ 52 boiled eggs in 12 minutes would make anyone feel a little under the weather I s’pose.”

“For sure!” Callaghan piped. “Tremendous stuff! So can you tell me about your training regime? It differs greatly from other competitive gurgitators doesn’t it?”

“I guess…”

“And how is that?”

“Uhh… I eat… a lot.”

“You sure do! How much are you weighing in at, at the moment?”

“’Bout 530 pounds or so.”

“Woo! And unlike Kobayashi, Chestnut and other competitors, you don’t work out at all do you?”

“Uhh nossir, Fat Daddy says the time people waste of getting’ fit is time wasted on eatin’.” He shuffled his feet and leaned heavily on his walking sticks.

“Stirring stuff indeed!” Callaghan turned to the camera and grinned toothily. “And now across to Marty Crossley who is standing by with former World Chompian Takeru Kobayashi!”

“Two, three and we’re out.” The guy working the camera said.

Callaghan’s saccarine smile dropped and his eyes clouded. He turned back to Fat Boy. “How you feeling kiddo?”

Fat Boy exhaled and rubbed a hand across his enormous belly. “Not great, I’ve been eatin’ a lot of bad meat lately.”

“Jesus kid, you could get really sick.”

“We can’t afford much so Fat Daddy brings it home from Morrie’s Meat Yard where he works at; we got bags of the stuff out the back. Says the bad gas helps to expanded my stomach.”

Callaghan swore softly. “That can’t be right son, you gotta start thinking about your health.”

Fat Boy laid a chubby mitt on the newsman’s shoulder. “That’s what Uncle Morrie says. Either way, one thing’s fer sho, you don’t wanna stood down wind some days…”

 

*         *         *

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen! The International Federation of Competitive Eating proudly presents the Grand Finale of Glutton Bowl 10!”

The crowd roared its appreciation.

The four finalists took their seats at the long table. Fat Sally stared across at Fat Boy, her expression unreadable. He stared back and began to sweat.

“Ladies and Gentleman, the Final for the ‘Coveted Mustard Yellow Belt’ will consist of one 12 minute round in which the gurgitators will attempt to consume as much English Steak and Ale Pie as humanly possible!”

The crowd roared again.

The compare drew breath, bent inwards slightly and then as he straightened hollored, “Leeeettsssss get readyyyyy to CHOOOOW DOOOWN!!”

The competitors tore into the pies in front of them.

Fat Boy wolfed down the first pie and made a grab for the second. Greasy and stringy, clumps of stewed steak stuck to his teeth as he made inroads into the second pie. Three quarters of the way through he chanced a glance to his left to see Fat Sally reaching for her third plate.

“C’mon Fat Boy, cram that food in that pie-hole!” Fat Daddy bellowed.

Fat Boy reached for the third pie and folded it in half biting deeply into it, ale-gravy running in thick rivulets down his chin.

He reached for his fourth.

Joey Chestnut was well into his third pie, Kobayashi hot on his heels. Fat Sally was about a quarter of a pie in front.

Sweat trickled into his eyes and his belly gurgled in protest.

He reached for his fifth pie.

Fat Sally lurched into the lead almost dislocating her jaw as she demolished her fifth, grabbing frenziedly for her sixth.

Fat Boy choked, grunted and pounded his chest with a chubby fist forcing the bolus of pie down his raw oesophagus.

“Damnit boy don’t expire now, you got her on the run!” Fat Mama cried.

Shaking his head, he blinked through the tears and sweat. His stomach started to ache abominably. He shot a fearful glance at Fat Sally whose sixth pie had all but vanished.

Chestnut and Kobayashi were at least a pie and a half behind.

Fat Boy clapped a hand to his belly and groaned.

“Eat eat eat EAT!” Fat Daddy roared.

Fat Sally slapped her sixth plate to the side, a new world record with 3 minutes remaining.

Fat Boy reeled in his chair, dropping his piece of pie and grunting. He lurched to his feet and coughed.

His stomach gurgled and churned.

“Don’t be a…” Fat Daddy stopped.

The crowd began to retreat.

Fat Boy’s face began to purple, the veins in his neck rising and broadening. He clutched at his gut and choked again. He screwed up his piggy eyes and leaned heavily on the table, it groaned under his weight.

“Somebody get the Paramedics quick!”

“Christ… what’s wrong with his stomach?”

“Is he swelling?”

“Is he going to die right there?”

“Awesome!”

There came a horrid, ripping, tearing sound. This was followed by a deep-seated groaning, growl, like clogged pipes being purged with drain cleaner. Fat Boy shuddered and his piggy eyes rolled in their fleshy sacs.

The other competitors stopped eating and started moving away.

Fat Daddy and Fat Mama gripped each others arms, the horror of losing $5000 in prize money all too much to bear.

“Is… he… going… to… explo-”

 

And then it happened. Fat Boy burst. The resulting explosion akin to dropping a giant balloon full of offal and poop from a 50 storey building. The first five rows of onlookers were covered.

The crowd (those not covered in s**t) scattered. Screams and projectile vomiting filled the air and in the midst, two fat people clung to each other, their mouths (unfortunately) agap.

 

Of Fat Boy, there was no sign...

 

*         *         *

 

            Fat Sally Jacobsen, carried the Trophy in one hand and slouched towards the Bus Station. She sat on the bench in the warmth of the sunshine and fingered the edges of the cheque for $5000.

            “It seems ironic,” she said, “to spend the winnings of an eating contest on places at a Health Farm.”

            The boy beside her picked a chunk of bad meat out of his hair and flicked it away.

“You gotta start thinkin’ bout yer health at some point, Sal.”

She nodded. “I guess.” She cast a sideways glance. “Say… I never really got the chance to ask… what’s your real name?”

Fat Boy grinned and slipped an arm halfway round her waist.

“Call me Brian,” he said.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Believe it or not... http://www.ifoce.com/news.php?action=detail&sn=1

Reviews

[Laney]

I loved this! Not sure everyone would appreciate it, but I got it! There are writing errors and punctuation problems...but which writer doesn't have those. Go back over it and clean it up a little and it will be fine. I like that you have fun in your writing.

[Carla (trying to make e..]

that was disturbing at the least.
but was a great read.
must have been really hard to write in their accents...so great job there!!
see ya..