What new vegas features do you miss the most in f4?
honestly? the writing. New Vegas had excellent writing, from the plot to the characters to just the dialogue options available to the courier. Having a voice is nice but with the limited dialogue you just can’t roleplay the same way you could in NV. Sole can only either be a bit of a dick, a totally nice guy or a smartass, while the courier can be anything from a complete moron, to an insufferable know-it-all, a smooth talker, a bit of a slut, a violent brute, a sarcastic douche, a by-the-book hero, a quiet badass and anything in between.
And while we’re on dialogue, I really miss the Skill Check dialogue system from NV. You either had the skill needed to get certain things (or just finish quests on an alternate path) or you didn’t, and it was always clear because you got a display that told you how high of a skill you needed (like “Speech [25/30]). Most importantly, if you didn’t have the needed skill, the actual dialogue would change, giving a good reason why the NPC you were talking to would react differently than if you had said the right thing. Plus some of the failed dialogue checks were some of the funniest parts of the game.
In FO4, if you pass a speech check or not is determined entirely by chance. You can have a CHA stat of 10 and still fail. Then you reload, your character says the exact same thing in the exact same context to the same character at the same time AND NOW IT WORKS FOR SOME REASON. That’s annoying busywork and kind of breaks my immersion. They had the same thing in FO3 where your chance of success in speech checks was given in percentages and I didn’t like it there either.
I also like that the courier’s backstory was kept relatively vague, so you could make up your own story for your character. FO4 gives you a pre-baked background that is pretty lukewarm for my tastes and doesn’t leave much room to make up your own character interpretation (unless you do some hard retconning/headcanon action to get around that, but even then it’s not amazing).
But other than that, New Vegas generally just didn’t take itself as seriously as FO4. FO4 has all this big focus on how miserable everyone is and how shitty life in the wasteland is. There is so much drama with families being torn apart, everyone being afraid of the Institute, the Brotherhood stomping about the place, children dying of incurable diseases…it is all so dark and serious and miserable it gets exhausting after a while.
New Vegas has dark stuff too, with drug use, slavery, prostitution, bureaucratic fuckery costing lives, war crimes, lack of medical aid, lack of food and fresh water and power, economic inequality…i could go on. So it absolutely has serious and dark issues. I mean one of the companion characters mercy killed his pregnant wife to spare her the horrors of slavery for fuck’s sake.
But you know what it also has? Ghouls flying to the moon. A gang of grannies in pink dresses beating people to death with rolling pins. Cyberdogs. A big blue grandma who looks like hulk and wears a cute flower hat. A gang of elvis impersonators. at least two (2) robots who think they’re cowboys. People cosplaying ancient romans. A dude wearing a dog for a hat. A giant plastic dinosaur with a store inside that sells tiny plastic dinosaur souvenirs. A sexbot called “FISTO” that you can hire for yourself if you wish.
What I’m trying to say is, New Vegas had a lot of serious themes (I’d argue them being even portrayed better than in FO4 but that’s a matter of opinion). But at the same time it didn’t lose it’s sense of humor. This is a world where science can make people live 200 years, create super mutants by dipping people in green goo, and radiation is basically magic. It’s not super serious all the time or tragic. Might as well have some fun with it. Fallout has a long history of dark comedy after all.
FO4 kinda lost the humor aspect and maybe it’s personal preference, but I never liked media where everything is just sad and miserable all the time because you get kinda tired of it and desensitized after a while. I don’t hate it or anything, but it can never reach the same place in my heart fnv did ;-;
god sorry for the novel i could just talk about fnv all day
Summary: You and Bucky get into an argument, about the fact that he is always away and you two have a talk about your future,
Paring: Bucky x Reader
Warnings: A good mix of fluffy and aganst. Happy ending because i am a sucker for those.
credits to the gif owners
Everybody knew that you were a stubborn person, this is one of the things that Bucky loved the most about you but it is also one of the ones that he hated the most. You don’t give up on things even when you should; you just shrug and let it go.
Your dream job since you were a teenager was to work for Tony Stark and you didn’t give up until you got it, didn’t matter how many interviews you did and how many positions you apply to. You were only happy when you were hired.
You taught yourself French over a couple of months because no one believed that you could do it and sure you couldn’t pass it as fluent but you could speak better than most of the people.
And the most important, you never gave up on, Bucky and boy, he was grateful for this.
Summary:He is the definition of high class smart ass, swimming in Dom Pierre Pérignon champagne and has never seen the shadow of poverty. She is underprivileged, lives in a messy dorm room on sale and struggles working as an assistant after being thrown out of college. But how will they collide when Luke makes Y/N pregnant after a drunkenly one night stand?
still here? I thought you were supposed to be off at 5?” The confusion was
clear on Nicole’s face when you glanced over your shoulder to see her stand in
the door frame to your office.
“I was supposed to.” You mumbled and
wanted to roll your eyes. The work in front of you was insane, the pile was
only growing bigger and you couldn’t see the finish line.
“But with Luke’s busy schedule and lack
of planning he forgot to mention that I had to make 200 invitations for an
event he has coming up soon. This means I will be staying here until the early
hours of morning before I manage to finish any of this.”
I love that ask where someone asks you what's going on with Hands that do no Harm and you say that you've hired someone to write the fic...but the person you hired was yourself lol it makes me laugh every time what a big mood
The better news is that I’ve fired the fic writer, and instead hired a comic illustrator!
The bad news is that I still hired myself.
the OTHER better news is that I’m going to spend time this week moving it from alpha to beta! Start actually breaking it down into chapters and page numbers and all that good shit. I’m hoping for something in the 200-300 page range, or below. Something like 6-10 comic book sizes.
So yeah if I get Leeway and you allow me then I could make a game for you. Granted I'm still learning the engine and it would take a long time. But yeah that would be fun, and a bitch to model but fun! Have you ever considered trying to make Glitchtale into a game yourself? Hiring a group of developers with Patreon money if you get enough of it or learning engines yourself? Hell I think most people would pay good money for that. I'm not expecting a reply. Just wanted to leave a comment.
I don’t have enough money to waste on myself (or my projects) at the moment. I’m using it all for my house and family
Do you have any advice or tips for solo animators (students, hobbyists, freelancers, etc.)? Especially when it comes to workflow and how to get things done in a timely manner when you don't have a whole team to help you animate?
Hey there! Sorry I haven’t been able to get this sooner - I’ve been very occupied in my work lately.
I totally understand where you’re coming from though. Its hard to get a lot of work done in a timely manner by yourself when you’re pretty much your own boss. I suffer from this still, and from my experience - I do have thoughts to share. I’m going to talk about both freelance work, and doing personal work. So here are my top advices on being professionally independent!
1. Set yourself a deadline, use special events as reference Set a day on when you want/need to finish a certain project. A lot of my friends use events, conventions, and exhibitions as deadline placeholders for their own work. My former mentor and teacher uses things like CTNx to showcase a 2D project he’s been working on so that he can garner thoughts, reviews, and get people interested to help fund future projects. Trust me, when its set on a special day, there’s more reason to finish the work you set yourself to.
2. Organize yourself workbook with a calender, a check list and notes Now that I think about it, I would not have been able to complete my previous shorts without setting myself a calender. You can make yourself a physical book (or an online excel) with a calender, and a checklist of things needed to finish during that day/week/month. Start crossing out the days that go by, and see if you are able to manage your goals. If you don’t make the quota, then its probably time to start thinking of ways to limit the work put into the next shots. That leads to my next point.
3. Understand your limitations, prioritize important parts In a lot of my animated work, there are shots that have high production value, and some that looked like it was clearly rushed. If your client gives you a sequence to animate, start thinking about shots that scream high quality, and then place the shots that don’t seem too important later on the list. For example, you might want to give yourself more time for a shot you feel will be highly difficult, and then less time for shots that can easily be done by you. If you’re still unsure about how to organize this, talk to your client and ask what parts of the animation do they want to have the best quality, so you can start thinking about prioritizing certain shots.
4. Do a pipeline test. Record notes and assess future problems and difficulties.
Depending on what your client asks for, you still need to do a pipeline test to see all the necessary steps you’ll be tackling in the future. Some clients will ask you to do from roughts to the final colors, or some will ask for rough animation only. The reason why pipeline tests exist is to see what future problems you’ll encounter. You should also record how long each step takes; how long it takes you to do certain footage of animation, so when you do plan your quota for the following days - you have a better idea in how to set it up.
5. Constantly check in with your client
If you’re lucky, you might get a client who is very hands on and is constantly checking up on you. This is good because its a good motivator to actually get work done! You’ll have more things work in progresses to show, and they can give feedback. It gives them a clear idea of the overall progress, so they have a better understanding on how long the work usually takes. You guys could also form some suggestions for future obstacles in the work.
6. Gather peers you trust and set up a frequent meet-up to show and share work
This mostly helps if you are doing your own personal work, but when its a project that is entirely under your control: its easy just to chill out and relax (I am highly guilty of this.) Some people can work on their own projects - and not show it to the world; whereas I constantly need to show work to my peers to keep me motivated. I’m the type of person who needs to get feedback and encouragement on continuing a project, so I’ve been showing people I really trust some things I’ve been doing on the side. This also helps keep you working on the project time to time.
7. If all still fails, hire yourself a production manager/personal producer/agent
The top advice I get when thinking about running a production is to hire a production assistant/personal producer/agent. A production assistant should be able to understand the overall process of the animation workflow, and should help you set up a schedule for it. They’ll also be able to organize meetings between your client and/or a team if you do decide to hire that extra work force - because hey; artists dealing with things like organizing conferences, time tables and budget handling is just too much. This can be highly time efficient for you, since you can just focus on the production side of things, while someone else handles the more “business” side of things.
Hi I really love the writing you two do! AU: How about Kylo Ren as a arrogant CEO trying to seduce his new secretary.
(A/N: I apologize for taking so long! I’ve had so much to do lately, I’ve barely had time to write!)
Modern AU: Kylo Ren x Reader
Plot Summary: It’s been a few years since you accepted a job to be a personal secretary for the First Order’s CEO, Kylo Ren. It paid well, it was in the city, and you were personally satisfied with the job you had accepted. Though, it does tend to be kind of strange when one of the most successful men in the corporate world is in love with his own simple, yet enchanting secretary.
The tall, dark building loomed over you as you walked to work, wearing a silk blouse and business skirt, heels softly clacking against the pavement as you strode into the building, pushing up your glasses as you hugged a small stack of files to your chest.
“Nice to see you today, Y/N.” Phasma spoke, straightening a stack of papers as you waved to her.
“You too, Phasma. Are you still coming by for our daily coffee?” You asked, stopping in front of the elevator and pressing a button, turning your head to the side at her reception.
“Of course. The coffee’s the only thing that keeps me sane in this job.” She replied as you laughed, the elevator dinging and opening as the two of you waved, before you made your travels up to Kylo’s floor.
Hi, Barbie. Is there such a thing as being too persistent about asking when and how I'm going to get paid for my writing? I'm being polite on the phone and everything, but I've called a couple of times (the timeline I was told about was off and I haven't been paid for weeks after I was told I would be) and I'm afraid of damaging the relationship with this company. Am I just being paranoid?
Hey there! Thanks for the question. I didn’t anticipate how
my nickname on here would be Barbie, but I’m unreasonably pleased about it, so
score one to me. Onto the question:
There isn’t such a thing as being too persistent when it
comes to getting paid – within reason.
If you’re messaging them every hour when the payment is only 24 hours overdo, that’s unreasonable.
If you’re messaging them every day when the payment is only
a week overdo, you’re pushing it a little bit. If you know the company and
trust them, give them a little leeway and don’t risk calling them cheats. If
your working relationship with the client is brand new, then every other day is
reasonable, but mix it up with excuses such as, “I’m afraid the site/email program has been glitchy.
Have you received my most recent message?” Or, “I just want to confirm that you’ve
received my payment request. If not, I can resend it.” This will get the
attention of any reputable client.
When they’re weeks overdo? Enter Professional Terminator
mode. The Terminator does not curse people out, it does not accuse them of
things, it does not insult. It walks in, it makes its intentions clear with no
sugar coating, and it gets what it wants.
If the company you’re working with is WEEKS overdo and isn’t
giving you any updates on when the payment will be made, any reasonable explanation
on why its delayed, and especially if they’ve cut contact altogether – they are
not a good company. Don’t worry about hurting your relationship. Get your
payment in Terminator fashion, and then run. If you can’t get payment, then put
them on a blacklist, and then run.
On that note:
Make a Blacklist.
No matter how careful, professional, or experienced you are,
if you do freelance, you will get stiffed on the bill by at least one client. Over
several years of the job, you’ll get stiffed by at least a dozen. It happens. People
But don’t ever forget it. Create a (black)list of their
name, contact information, the project done, and what they stiffed you on (be
it a payment or even a review). There may come a day when they crawl back and
you’ve forgotten either them or the incident. You then unknowingly take up
business with them again only to get stiffed a second time. Fool me once and all that.
With a blacklist, you can reference it to make sure that
doesn’t happen. As a plus, if the new offer they make sounds good, you
think they’ve improved, or there are new safeguards to protect you, you can
demand the original payment (or review) you were stiffed on before you begin
working with them. Then it all comes full circle.
One other point: As a freelancer, you’re rarely ever
paranoid. You want to make money and get clients, so that irrational voice that usually
exists is shut up by the rent being paid. If you are ‘paranoid,’ it’s your experience and skill as a professional giving you a
If you get a weird vibe about a client’s voice, the way they
compose an email, or the style of brief they give you, listen to that vibe and
go in with eyes wide open. It could be the signal you need to put extra
safeguards in place to make sure you don’t get scammed.
You are a professional, skilled and talented. That’s why
people hire you. So trust yourself as much as they trust you – you know what
you’re doing. Listen to your instincts.
A/N - This is an AU! 缘分 (yaunfen) is a Chinese word that has no direct English translation and (roughly) means “A relationship that is brought together by a force such as destiny or fate.” I’ve been excited to start this one. I crave feedback so please let me know what you think.
Two booming knocks on your front door lifted you from your sleep, three more actually woke you up. Your eyes barely opened in the warm sunlight that was pouring through your curtainless windows. You could feel your heart pounding hard in your chest as if you’d just woken from a nightmare but you knew it was the shock of the sudden noise that had you in a twist.
After peeling your face from the drool-soaked cushion of your couch, you stood and shuffled over to your door with a groggy groan rumbling through your congested chest.
Every summer, my mother (who was a school teacher) made me do book reports. I hated it then, but today I’m thankful.
I will do the same with my son, but the bonus is he gets to read something I helped write, which is how to start a business. And YES, he will do a book report on it too. He will grow up knowing how to start a business, and his old man encourages and supports him in his efforts to do so.
Don’t just strive to just play for the Bucs, own the team.
Don’t just sign a record deal, start a new label.
Don’t wait every 2 weeks for a paycheck, create multiple streams of income. BE THE CHECK.
Don’t hope and pray someone gives you a job, own the company and do the hiring yourself.
Set big goals and don’t be afraid to make them come true.
A/N: This is a
somewhat late submission for @deanwinchester-smut’s RPF Day Challenge. My
prompt was “Please except this sandwich as a gesture of solidarity.” Sorry it’s
a little bit late. I’ve been practically living at work lately.
Of course, he did it again. You had been at work for over
twelve hours, and what was your fiance’s question when you walked in the door?
“Hey babe, what’s for dinner?”
Asshole. He had
been home for at least two hours before you even got to clock out, and he was
asking you to cook dinner? That
wasn’t going to do it for you.
So, you slammed a can of soup on the counter and smiled,
gritting your teeth. He accepted the gesture, his face sinking as he watched
you snarl. Then, you retreated to your room, slamming the door.
And now, you were smashing your face into your pillow as you
sprawled out on your bed. You had been hungry, until your confrontation with
Misha. Sure, your stomach was growling, but you didn’t want to eat. You were way too upset. Not only because you had
worked extra hours that day, and he had to know you were fucking exhausted.
But, the whole thing was out of character for the man you had been with for
over three years.
Write yourself as the moon: hovering, silver-tongued, faraway and somehow still at home. Give your sadness a new hobby, comb his hair, scrub his face then tell him to go out and play in the mud. Write your mother as a garden, name what now grows in her absence. Spell your name with different letters, borrow the algorithm of joy, become an ocean, or a stop-sign, or well-done laughter. Write grief as a good lover then break his thieving heart. Conjure a potion for your loneliness while shaming each ingredient for trying to cure your kind of quiet. Drag your grief in by the tongue, become a ventriloquist for the dead. Give your fevered heart a pill then confess why you might prefer the sickness. Write your body as a vacant city. Whose name is plastered across every billboard? Write your father as a father. Do not give him a metaphor as a crutch or a compliment. Write what happened as a series of ors, unborn that unwanted returning. Write your trauma as a wedding vow then leave that ghost at the alter. Poem your blood a bedtime story. Poem your pulse tomorrow’s sun. Write what happened then write every reason it was not your fault. Write every if of your body as fact. Write your suicide note as a résumé, list every good reason love deserves to hire your hands. Poem yourself a praise-dance. Poem yourself a holy and godless church. Describe your joy as a boundless child then give that child siblings. Translate birdsong. Brag about your teeth. Your body is a country, what valuables are beneath your skin? Do you have more bridges or boarders? Your body is a living thing, what do you water it with? Your body is blood and bone, who has mistook you for a metaphor, for smoke? Conjure a ghost to keep you company. Write grief as a god, then nail his hands to a cross. What must die so that you can survive? Write every reason to end your life, then give each reason five fresh hearts. Write your heart as an object, what new invention pumps your blood? What season best sings you alive? If only once, write the future as nonfiction. Poem your pain as a gospel song. Take each scar to dinner. Decorate a casket for your grief then lower it beneath winter. Write yourself as water, as a thing that keeps the earth alive and yes, go ahead. Write yourself dead, buried and unbothered. Give your bones to the earth, then write yourself in seven resurrections, clawing your way through the dirt.
Donte Collins, “A guide to stay alive: a list of writing prompts” more here: dontecollins.com
I completed the story?? I don’t know how?? It’s probably really rushed bc I’m not used to writing action/romance stories but here’s part 2; part 3 and the epilogue will be out soon as well!
Pairing: Yuta x reader
Genre: action, angst
Word Count: 1.7k
Your gang is dead and only one person knows you’re alive. Since you know nothing but the gang world, you turn to working for those who killed your family. It doesn’t really bother you, but your identity gets found out by the wrong person on one of your… excursions.
Jim Bob Cleaver stood before the Judge, blond head bowed, looking at
the floor, hoping that he was acting humble enough. His lawyer had told
him not to smirk or even smile during his trial for receiving stolen
goods, and to try to look and act like the fair-haired football hero
that he had been when he was the big man on campus at the local high
school. None of it had worked, not even the expensive new “preppy”
clothes which his girlfriend had bought for him to wear to the trial.
The jury had found him guilty, the judge had revoked his bail, and here
he was, squeezed into a bright orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed together in
front of him.
Jim Bob’s bright blue eyes remained staring at
the floor as the Judge started speaking. “Jim Bob, our whole town has
known you all your life. You were the high school football quarterback,
homecoming king, and senior class president. You were truly destined for
big things when you graduated from high school four years ago. You had
the whole world in front of you. Instead of making something for
yourself, you chose to drop out of college. Instead of working and
supporting yourself, you chose to sponge off your girlfriend…” Jim Bob
struggled really hard to avoid smirking at this point. He thought to
himself that the Judge might call it sponging, but he would just call it
payment for services rendered. In return for keeping his girlfriend
happy in bed, she supported him, and actually gave him everything he
wanted—new car, fancy clothes, all the pot and beer and good food he
wanted, all of it.
The Judge continued, “…you chose to sponge
off your girlfriend, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted more, and formed a
criminal ring to earn more money for yourself. Even though you didn’t
steal any cars yourself, you hired others to do the dirty work while you
took a cut off the top of the selling price of every stolen car which
was resold. Because this is your first offense…”
look serious, Jim Bob told himself. This is it. He stared at the floor
and tried to focus on his bright orange jumpsuit as a way of avoiding
showing any hint of the cockiness that had always been the main feature
of his personality. Actually, Jim Bob’s view downwards was blocked by
the round orange-clad bulge of his big fat belly and the two smaller
round bulges in the tightly stretched orange cotton cloth which marked
his fat bulging man boobs.
“…I hereby sentence you to one year in
the State Prison, followed by five years probation.” The Judge stopped
speaking. Jim Bob looked up at him, and said in a voice which he hoped
sounded sincere, “Thank you, Your Honor.”
As Jim Bob was led out
of the courtroom, he turned and glanced at three people sitting right
behind the defense area. His girlfriend Polly was crying, tears running
down the cheeks of her flawlessly made up face, auburn hair glistening
in the bright courtroom lights. Her expensive silk dress showed off her
44-22-40 figure. She still looked like the high school cheerleader and
only child of the wealthiest man in town she had been when she and Jim
Bob become an item their sophomore year in high school.
Polly sat Chester, Jim Bob’s first cousin. Tears streamed down
Chester’s round cheeks. He and Jim Bob were the same age, had been
raised together, and thought of themselves as brothers. Although he now
had the build of an offensive guard-gone-to-fat, he had been the
receiver on the same football team Jim Bob had quarterbacked. Next to
Chester sat Brittany, Chester’s girl friend since high school.
Polly mouthed to Jim Bob “I love you” as the guards led him into the back room.
No one else from Jim Bob’s family was there. He was an only child, and
his father, one of the local preachers, and his mother had both passed
away from lung cancer within two years after Jim Bob’s graduation from
high school—they had always been heavy smokers.
In the Guard
Room behind the courtroom, the guard motioned to Jim Bob to take a seat.
Jim Bob eased himself down. The orange jumpsuit was so tight that Jim
Bob had to sit carefully for fear that a seam would fail. Wouldn’t do
for the big shot of the local high school to suffer the embarrassment of
bursting out of his clothes, even if it was only a jail uniform.
At that point, another guard came in, carrying a large McDonald’s bag.
Jim Bob recognized Billy Jones, one of his high school football team
mates who had been a tackle. They had been known each other in high
school but hadn’t moved in the same crowd. After high school, Billy had
gone into law enforcement and now he was proudly encased in a snug
guard’s uniform. Their paths had parted aside from the “wassup’s” they
exchanged when they ran into each other around town.
said Billy, “thought I’d bring you some lunch. You’ve got a long trip
ahead of you this afternoon, big guy.” He patted Jim Bob’s bulging
belly as he said this. Like most of their classmates, he couldn’t get
over how much Jim Bob had let himself go in the four years since high
school graduation. “Thanks, dude,” replied Jim Bob, “breakfast at the
jail this morning wasn’t much.” He opened the bag and took out the three
double quarter pounders with cheese, supersize fries, 20 piece nuggets, 3
fried apple pies, and large strawberry shake.
“This may be
your last good meal for a while, man”, said Billy .” I hear that at
State Prison, all the inmates are on tight rations.” He couldn’t help
but stare at Jim Bob as he said this. He thought to himself how Jim Bob
had changed since their football days when at 5’9”, 160, he was one of
the best quarterbacks in the state. Usually a polite guy, Billy was kind
of surprised at himself when he heard himself asking Jim Bob, “say man,
not to be nosy, but how much weight are you carrying now?”
Bob laughed and drawled, “No problem, dude. When I was arrested , they
weighed me in at 292. Think I must have dropped a few on that jail food
since then, though.”
Billy thought to himself, 292! No wonder
the other guards were talking about how they were having a hard time
finding a jumpsuit to fit Jim Bob. Jim Bob’s big round belly and big
bulging man boobs, his thick love handles, his enormous protruding round
butt, and his thick thighs stretched the thin cloth of the jumpsuit in
“Wow, friend. You really have picked up some
pounds since football.” Billy thought this was a good topic for
conversation to distract Jim Bob from his prison sentence. Jim Bob
scarfed down his lunch as they waited for the van to take Jim Bob to
prison. Jim Bob replied to his old teammate, talking while eagerly
chewing mouthfuls of food.
“Well Billy, I guess I’m a sure
enough fat boy now”, Jim Bob drawled, “…you know how it goes. After
football was finished the weekend beer and pot parties started to put
some pounds on me. At first, I thought Polly would mind it when I began
to put on a pot belly and my ass started chubbing up, but dude, it’s
like the fatter I get the more she likes it. Billy, I mean, she LOVES
The two 22-year-olds exchanged knowing glances, Jim Bob thinking
back to how hot Polly was as she worshipped his expanding body, and
Billy just thinking of how hot Polly always had been.
Jim Bob continued,
“As far as Polly is concerned, dude, all I have to do is lounge around
all day eating and relaxing while her daddy’s money just rolls in. So,
I’ve been livin’ high on the hog! I just need to make sure ‘Little Mr.
Jim Bob’ here is ready for action whenever she wants it.” He laughed as
he reached beneath the watermelon sized bulge of his fat belly and
grabbed his crotch for emphasis.
“Hey man, there’s nothing bad
about getting fat. Most of the guys on our team have really porked up
since we stopped playing football. I must have put on a good 50 lbs
myself ever since I passed the physical to become a guard and could
relax a little. And looks like your cousin Chester has been doing some
good eating, too.” Billy laughed and patted his own belly.
drawled, “Yeah, ol’ Chester’s put on about a hundred or so. He tells me
his girlfriend always bugs him about his weight, but dude, you should
see him shovel the food in when he comes over for dinner. He’s a big ol`
heifer. The only time he stops eating is when there’s no food left.”
By this time, Jim Bob had finished the McDonald’s lunch and wiped his
greasy hands on the bag. “I really appreciate this, Billy,” said Jim
Bob, and for once he actually was sincere. “Well, for old times’ sake,
dude”, said Billy, who was never not sincere, “just want you to know
that whatever happens, we’re still friends.” When Jim Bob heard this, he
felt a little guilty for all the times he thought Billy was a hopeless
square, certainly not one of the super cool in-group in their high
The van soon arrived and with some effort Jim Bob
hoisted his tightly-encased bulk into the back. He was on his way to
prison for a year.
Jim Bob handled prison OK. Always a smooth
talker and a manipulator, Jim Bob also knew when to take a low profile
and keep his mouth shut. The big shock was his first day, at the
orientation for new inmates. He was issued his prison uniform, this time
a bright red jumpsuit worn over a white T-shirt. When he went to put it
on, he found that the legs and rear end were very tight. He could only
pull the front zipper up to a couple of inches below his deep
bellybutton. The mass of his fat round belly and the wide roll of flab
around his waist blocked any effort to hoist the zipper up higher. When
he said to the trustee inmate who distributed the uniforms that he
needed a bigger size, the inmate laughed and told him not to worry, it
would fit “soon enough”.
He next was taken to the infirmary,
where another trustee weighed and measured him and the other new inmates
while they waited for the doctor to check them out. 5’9” Jim Bob was
weighed in at 290 lbs. “Boy, you’re a big one!” exclaimed the trustee, a
large black dude named Rasheed who looked like nobody gave him any back
talk. “But that fat’s gonna disappear soon.”
Jim Bob was curious. “Why?”
Jim Bob’s question was answered by the doctor, a grim-faced elderly man
who was standing in the doorway. “You prisoners are not sent here to
get fat, or in your case, fatter, on taxpayer’s money. All our prisoners
are on strict portion control. 2050 calories a day, just what is needed
to keep a sedentary young man healthy. No seconds ever. It’s a matter
of economics. If we let all you prisoners eat whatever you wanted, we’d
have to cook three times what we do now, and we’d end up with a lot of
fat boys like you, young man. And don’t even think of buying snacks.
Those privileges are strictly limited.”
At that point, another
inmate went into the physician’s examining room, the door closed, and
Rasheed started to talk again. “Yeah, friend, even if you have the money
to spend on snacks, they charge $5 for a Hershey bar at the prison
store. So, that tight uniform you have on now will be loose on you
mighty soon. You won’t believe it, but when I came here five years ago, I
weighed 380. Now look at me…I’m lucky if I’m 235. Now, friend, do me a
favor and walk over to that table and chair so I can take your blood
Jim Bob did as he was asked and Rasheed followed him. Jim
Bob noticed Rasheed checking him out with a look of amazement on his
face. Rasheed then said to Jim Bob, “Man, you are REALLY fat. You got
the biggest ass I’ve ever seen—on a white boy, that is.” Jim Bob smiled,
grabbed a thick roll of his soft bulging love handle, and turned on the charm. “Yeah,
brother, it’s all due to my girlfriend. She likes me big and fat.”
Rasheed was nostalgic as he said,”Yeah, man, that’s how my lady was
too.” He then added, “Well, when you get out of here, there’s gonna be a
lot less of you for her to love.”
Everything turned out to be
as the doctor and Rasheed had told Jim Bob. Because of prison
overcrowding, meal times were brief. The food was well prepared but
there wasn’t much of it—just enough for one serving per inmate—never any
seconds. Because of the large number of inmates, chances for a prison
job were almost zero. There was a weight room, but inmates had to take
their turn—an hour a week max for each inmate. Jim Bob was in a low
security area with other non-violent short-timers like himself. All the
inmates there kept out of trouble so they could go home as quickly as
possible. White, black, latino and Asian, in this part of the prison,
they all had only one thought—getting released on schedule. Jim Bob
turned on his charm and worked at getting along with everyone and
minding his own business. So, Jim Bob spent most of his time watching
TV, thinking of Polly, and waiting for visiting day every Sunday..
At first, Polly came every Sunday. She cried, but not enough to mess
her makeup. She filled Jim Bob in on the news. She was so lonely
without having Jim Bob and “Little Mr. Jim Bob” around. She missed
feeling Jim Bob’s weight on her while he pumped her. By the way,
Brittany, Chester’s girlfriend, had dumped him and moved to Biloxi.
Polly felt sorry for Chester, he was devastated. Etcetera, etcetera,
etcetera. If Polly hadn’t been so hot and so rich, Jim Bob would have
gotten bored with her chatter years ago.
Jim Bob noticed over
the next few weeks that Polly talked more about Chester. She felt so
sorry for Chester since he had been dumped, and a nice guy like him too.
At the same time, Jim Bob noticed the look of disappointment on Polly’s
face as she noticed how he was losing weight. Rasheed, the big trustee
who had talked with Jim Bob that first day, was right. After a month,
Jim Bob had lost 20 lbs. on the jail rations and was steadily dropping
It was about this time that Chester began to come to
visit Jim Bob with Polly. Only one visitor at a time was allowed, so
Polly ended her conversation with Jim Bob early. She left the room and
Chester came in. Jim Bob noticed right away that Chester was getting
fatter. When Jim Bob said he was sorry to hear that Brittany had dumped
him, Chester replied, “That bitch? I’m glad she’s gone. I got me a much
better situation now.” He then stopped abruptly and changed the subject
to talk sports, leaving Jim Bob with a vague feeling of uneasiness.
next weekend, only Chester came to visit. As Jim Bob watched Chester
walk into the room, he noticed that Chester seemed to have gotten even
bigger and flabbier during the previous week. His tight white polo shirt
had ridden up on his blubbery belly, revealing a three-inch-wide loaf
of soft pink new belly fat ballooning over his pants as Chester walked
forward toward Jim Bob, a big smile on his face.
“Where’s Polly?” asked Jim Bob.
said Chester, “it’s her time of the month. She started to get cramps
real bad when we were eating breakfast this morning. She said to tell
you she’ll come by real soon.”
Eating breakfast this morning? Chester getting fatter? Jim Bob felt a
wave of suspicion and anger as he abruptly asked, “Chester, are you
Chester turned white, and his jowls and chubby cheeks
started to quiver. “Ah…ah…ah…, come on, Jim Bob. We’ve been like
brothers ever since we were born. Would I do that to you?” Jim Bob’s
anger was intense but still not quite strong enough to cause him to lose
control. Anyway, he was separated from Chester by a Plexiglas
partition. Jim Bob forced himself to stay calm by repeating to himself,
“Don’t do anything to screw up your release date.” Soon, the visit with
Chester was over
The next week, Jim Bob received a letter from
Polly. She was sorry, but having him away was harder than she thought.
Her needs were too great for an absentee boyfriend who wouldn’t be
released for ten more months. Sorry, Jim Bob.
arrived for Jim Bob about a month later. Billy, his high school teammate
who was now the jail guard back in his hometown, wrote out of the blue,
saying that he and the guys on their old team felt bad for Jim Bob and
the way he was being treated by Polly and Chester. Chester had moved in
with Polly and was parading around town bragging about what a good life
he had now. The letter closed with “Just want you to know, Jim Bob,
that you have some friends back here in your home town and we look
forward to getting together with you when you’re released.” That letter
made Jim Bob feel a little better, but not much.
For the next
ten months, Jim Bob was a model prisoner. His only thought was to get
out of prison on his release date and to head home. After getting the
letter from Polly, Jim Bob moped around and lost his appetite. He went
to meals because he had to but ate only enough to keep himself going
until his release. He just didn’t have his old taste for food any
The old pre-prison Jim Bob had grown to love food, the great
feeling being nice and full gave him, and the big round belly and
ballooning fat ass which were the result of all the excess calories. The
new Jim Bob couldn’t care less. The results soon showed. Jim Bob
steadily continued to lose weight. By the time Jim Bob was released, his
jumpsuit had grown baggy on him.
Jim Bob’s release date
arrived. He stopped by the infirmary for his release physical. He was
measured at 5’9”, 170 lbs. Rasheed congratulated him on his release and
added, “friend, I still remember how ya were that huge ass white boy who
waddled in here a year ago. See, didn’t I tell ya that ya were going to
drop some pounds here? Now you look like most of the other white boys
around here—no butt at all on ya.”
Rasheed and Jim Bob both laughed, but
then Jim Bob turned grim. “Say, man, you’d lose your appetite too if
you found out your lady had dumped you and was screwing around with the
guy who had been closer than a brother to you!”
“Shit, man, now THAT is disrespect! But, man, get on with your life.
The bitch ain’t worth nothin’ now. Find someone else. Don’t ya go
getting caught at anything again and have to come back here. Good luck,
man.” Jim Bob really was sincere when he shook Rashid’s hand and wished
him good luck too. For sure I’m never gonna come back here, Jim Bob
thought. As for finding someone else, he’d have to take things as they
Jim Bob stayed with Billy the jail guard and his
family for a week until he was able to get a furnished room in the home
of an elderly widow lady. Jim Bob got a job at the local Burger King and
after a month was appointed night manager. He made an effort to avoid going
anywhere that he might run into Polly or his cousin Chester. The pain
was still too great, and besides, he didn’t have the money to go to
those fancy places now anyway.
A week later on a sunny Saturday
afternoon, Jim Bob was with Billy, some of the other members of the old
football team, and their families at a picnic at the local lake. The
day was filled with fishing, swimming, touch football, card playing,
talking, and eating—a most enjoyable country Saturday afternoon.
Bob and Billy were talking when Billy suddenly stopped and pointed over
to the parking lot. “Well, lookee who’s here.” Jim Bob recognized
Polly’s Mecedes SUV and he grew quiet, his eyes narrowing. Polly stepped
out of the driver’s seat, and after a few minutes, a large figure
emerged from the passenger side. The man had his back turned to Jim Bob,
but then as he turned and noticed Jim Bob, he started to approach Jim
Bob and Billy. It was Chester, bare-chested and wearing only a huge
pair of shorts, ready for a cooling dip in the lake.
next to the SUV as Chester slowly waddled forward. Each massive thigh
rubbing past the other caused Chester’s enormous hanging belly and
sagging, basketball-size man boobs to shift and sway from side to side.
While Billy and Jim Bob stared at this spectacle, Billy said softly,
“Jim Bob, that’s one thing I didn’t tell you when you were at prison.
From the day Chester moved in with Polly, he started piling on the
pounds. I heard he has to weigh himself at the Feed and Grain Store
Chester finally reached Jim Bob and Billy, and held out
his hand, a broad smile dimpling his round face. “Jim Bob, it’s good to
see ya. I jes` wanna let ya know that I hope we can be like brothers
again. Let’s put everything in the past, man.”
Jim Bob ignored
Chester’s outstretched hand, and Chester barely finished talking before
Jim Bob, eyes narrowed into slits in his anger, bowed his head and
suddenly rushed forward, punching at Chester, trying to knock him off
his feet. 465 lb Chester didn’t move. Jim Bob’s 170 lb body didn’t even
make him take a step backwards when Jim Bob slammed into him. Billy was
able to pull Jim Bob away before his flailing fists caused any damage to
Chester’s fat-padded body.
Chester backed up a few feet and
flexed his fat-sheathed biceps, sending ripples on his huge drooping
man boobs and the rest of the flab which draped his torso. “Look, small
stuff, I gave ya a chance. Don’t challenge me until ya put some meat on
that sorry skinny body of yours and we can go at it man to man. That
ain’t gonna happen, though, is it, little cousin? Looks the the big deal former
fat boy has turned into a twink!.” At this, he turned his back on Jim
Bob and Billy and started to waddle back to Polly, still standing by the
SUV. His wide sagging ass wobbled and jiggled in the huge pair of
shorts which covered Chester’s wide hips and bulky hindquarters. .By the time he
reached the SUV, Polly had entered the driver’s side. Jim Bob glared in
anger, Billy still holding him back, as Chester maneuvered himself into
the passenger’s side. The SUV seemed to sink about a foot and settled
under the impact of Chester’s bulk.
“You’ll get yours, Chester, I
promise, you’ll get yours.” Billy was surprised at the depth of the
anger in Jim Bob’s voice. “Nobody disrespects me like that and gets away
“C’mon now, buddy”, said Billy at this point. “Remember you’re on probation and one arrest will send you back to prison.”
Bob suddenly put on his charming smile, the smile which had gotten him
so many things all his life, and said to Billy, “yeah, you’re right.
That fat shit ain’t worth it.” That’s what he said, while in his mind he
began to think of a way to get his revenge.
Over the next
eighteen months, Jim Bob kept up his new life. The townspeople were
pleased to see how he changed after his stay in prison. He seemed more
humble, somehow, and definitely harder working. He frequently worked
overtime at Burger King and joined the local gym. He didn’t find any
special lady in his life, but like many single guys his age, he had no
problems picking up someone at a club or a beer joint on the weekends,
so “Little Mr. Jim Bob” was reasonably happy. He avoided Polly and
Chester at all costs. One sight of Polly’s Mercedes SUV, the only one in
town, and Jim Bob headed the other way.
When not working at the
Burger King, Jim Bob took his meals at any of the cafes and small
restaurants in town which served good “down home style” southern
cooking. The waitresses who served Jim Bob soon began to give him bigger
portions as he turned on the charm, smiled his perfect smile, and left
bigger tips, too, Managing a Burger King meant lots of free food and
people began to notice that Jim Bob was rapidly putting on weight again.
Only natural, too…it was expected that 24 year old guys like Jim Bob
would be putting on some pounds. It was the way things were for all
country boys, not just the ex-football jocks. The more the waitresses noticed
the roll developing around Jim Bob’s middle and the way the rest of his
handsome body was quickly porking up, the bigger his portions became.
Bob’s landlady did her share to aid Jim Bob’s growth. He was so nice to
her (he really was, this was the truly sincere side of Jim Bob that
showed itself on occasion), doing yard work and fixing things around
the rooming house, always stopping to chat and pass the time of day when
he saw her sitting by herself. His landlady began to prepare special
treats for her handsome young tenant. Jim Bob, on returning from the
late shift at Burger King, would see a note on the door of his room in
his landlady’s handwriting telling him to check the ice box for a
special treat she had made for him. It became a nightly ritual—pans of
rich corn pone, mixing bowls full of banana pudding, pecan pies—Jim
Bob would take a glass of cold milk or sweet tea, and enjoy his treat
even though he had just come from closing the Burger King where he had
finished off all the leftovers.
Jim Bob’s lifting at the gym
meant that a lot of his new weight was solid muscle, but Jim Bob was
also proud when he noticed how his fat pot belly and big fat jutting
butt were redeveloping., not to mention how thick his quads, glutes,
hips, chest, arms and shoulders were getting.
As Jim Bob rapidly
grew bigger, some of his lifting buddies at the gym started kidding him
about the “fat-over-muscle look” or “big bellied power lifter look” he
was getting, and some of the customers at his Burger King took to joking
with Jim Bob about how he was becoming a “walking advertisement” for
that great Burger King food.
Jim Bob always laughed, and hoped he
sounded sincere when he always drawled in reply, “yep, just enjoyin’ the
‘good life’, I guess” while he patted his fat round belly. The
waitresses who looked forward to his good-natured kidding with them when
he came in for his meals, and his landlady who now was kept busy
letting out his clothes and repairing split seams and popped buttons so
that Jim Bob could delay spending money on bigger sizes for a little
while, all were happy to see him seeming to enjoy life and eat well.
After all, he had paid his debt to society, right?
though, Jim Bob was still seething with anger at Chester. But, Jim Bob
never let his inner feelings show and turned on the charm whenever and
to whomever he needed to.
Jim Bob had the charm turned on full
blast the day he showed up at the office of a diet doctor in Nashville.
It had been a long drive from his home town. Jim Bob gave the
receptionist all the information needed from new patients. He told her
he was going to have to pay cash—didn’t have any medical insurance—and
signed in as “John Smith”. In a few minutes, he was shown into the
doctor’s office. The doctor checked him out—pulse and blood pressure
normal—and than asked him to strip down to his boxer shorts and got
him on the scale. It read 325 lbs. The doctor took note of the bright
red stretchmarks which covered his new patient’s wide love handles, fat
belly, and big round man boobs, how “John Smith”’s pot belly and
love handles erupted over the top of his boxers, and how the thin white
cloth of the boxers was pulled skin tight across his wide hips and
enormous round fat butt cheeks, making the fly gap wide open so “Little
Mr. Jim Bob” was visible, nestled in curly blond pubic hair.
Smith” went back to the seat next to the doctor’s desk, his flab
jiggling and quivering as he walked, and started talking. “You see,
doctor, I’ve got to do something about my weight. I’ve put on over a
hundred twenty-five pounds in the past year and a half and it seems
like I just can’t stop eating. My boss has told me that if I don’t start
to lose some weight, I’m going to be fired from my job.” “John Smith”
just oozed that old Jim Bob sincerity.
The doctor replied, “Well,
Mr. Smith, I see what you mean. We have a lot of young male patients who
started out in good shape, like you, and just have ballooned up. I can
see you have a lot of muscle, but your stretchmarks indicate how much
fat you’ve put on recently.”
“John Smith” replied, “Yeah,
doctor, I’m hungry all the time. I just can’t stick to a diet. I’m
desperate, doctor!.” His voice had just the right note of pleading in
“Mr. Smith, let’s try some appetite suppressants for now.
I’ll give you a prescription for the newest drug on the market. I’ll
call in a prescription for a month’s supply to the pharmacy right
downstairs. You should notice a decrease in your appetite right away
which should make it easier for you to stick to the diet my receptionist
will give you on your way out. Just be careful—these pills are very
powerful stimulants. If you notice any signs of your heart racing, or
if you feel faint, call me immediately. But, even though you are much
too fat for a young man your age and height, you are basically in great
shape and should tolerate the medication well.”
As Jim Bob left,
he picked up the diet sheet scheduled an appointment for a month away,
paid his bill in cash, went downstairs to the pharmacy and paid cash for
“John Smith”’s prescription.
Jim Bob had a shit-kickin’ grin
on his face as he headed out onto the interstate for the long drive back
home from Nashville. He made a stop at a McDonald’s for a nice big
lunch, tossing the diet sheet and next-appointment card the diet doctor
in Nashville had given him into the trash as he left McDonald’s. On the
drive back, he ate the fries and finished off the box of chicken nuggets
and half a dozen fried apple pies he had bought as a snack. Still
feeling a little hungry, he made a stop at a Stuckey’s and bought a
pecan log. Back in his car, he tore into the sweet treat, rubbed his
big belly, savored the taste of the pecan log, and smiled as he thought
how well the day had gone.
What luck that the diet doctor had actually
prescribed for Jim Bob the very medication he had learned about on the
internet. Boy, Jim Bob, reflected, the old “Jim Bob charm” is still
there! To think that the doctor would actually fall for that crap and
think that Jim Bob would ever want to be a skinny twink! What a jerk the
doctor was! Didn’t he realize that there were plenty of good ol’
country boys like Jim Bob who took pride in their big appetites and the
weight which padded their frames with every extra calorie?
Jim Bob got home, the prescription bottle with the thirty capsules went
into the bottom bureau drawer, under some socks, waiting for Jim Bob to
Two more months went by and Jim Bob continued his
daily routine—working, lifting, socializing with his buddies and
acquaintances around town, and eating big. He put on another twelve
pounds, more fat than muscle, but Jim Bob was pleased.
He was real happy
the day his landlady gave him back the latest pair of pants he had
asked her to let out for him. Giving him the pants, she drawled, “Land
sakes, Jim Bob, I swear you’re fallin’ away to a ton! You’re gonna havta
buy size 52 pants in a little while—I can’t let these out any further.
But ya carry the weight well, son! And I must say it does my heart good
to see the way ya enjoy your food.!” Much to her surprise and pleasure,
Jim Bob, that shit-kickin’ grin on his face, gave her a peck on the
cheek. Jim Bob grinned because he had come to truly care about the kind
old lady, and he also knew that he was at last ready to deal with
Jim Bob kept his ears open around town when he stopped
to talk with any of his old friends. While in the past he automatically
tuned out whenever Chester’s name came up, now he discretely listened
carefully to what was being said about his cousin and now mortal enemy.
Billy the jail guard and Jim Bob’s other buddies did talk about Chester
a lot. They couldn’t help but talk about their classmate who was now
living a life of ease, supported by Polly’s money. There was speculation
about what it was Polly saw in Chester, especially now that he was so
enormously fat. One of the guys who worked at the Feed and Grain Store
reported that Chester had last weighed in at 587 lbs, quite a change
from the 5’10”, 165 lb wide receiver he had been in high school. Jim
Bob’s buddies all had put on some weight themselves—shit, it was
normal, wasn’t it?—but ol’ Chester had really taken it to an extreme.
Stories spread around town about the stupendous appetite Chester had
developed, and it seemed like every week there was a new story about how
much Chester had eaten—three dozen biscuits with gravy, a dozen
helpings of cheese grits. One glance at Chester as he waddled
breathlessly from the SUV to whatever food place Polly had driven them
to confirmed the stories.
One day, Jim Bob heard that Chester and
Polly would often go on a Saturday night to a road house over in the
next county where there was good country music and great food. Some
Saturdays Chester would go alone if Polly had taken a quick trip to
Atlanta or New Orleans for a weekend of shopping. Jim Bob quietly
arranged his schedule at work so he always had Saturday nights off.
A month later, on a dark, moonless Saturday evening, Jim Bob was
sitting in his car in the road house parking lot, close to where the
familiar Mercedes SUV was parked. He was wearing dark clothes. The door
to the road house opened and a large shadow emerged and started moving
slowly toward the parking lot. This had to be Chester, thought Jim Bob,
as he quietly got out of his car and slipped behind the SUV.
Chester stood next to the driver’s side door, panting from the exertion
of waddling out to the SUV, fumbling to reach into the pocket of his
skin tight pants for the car keys, he was thinking of the great meal he
had just devoured—three double orders of fettuccine Alfredo, a loaf of
butter-soaked garlic bread, and five desserts, washed down with an
entire bottle of red wine.
He was feeling some discomfort in his chest.
Maybe this was what they call heartburn? Too bad the cashier at the
restaurant didn’t have any antacids or anything when he paid his bill.
Maybe he shouldn’t have had that last piece of apple pie topped with
cheddar cheese and a double scoop of ice cream—but it looked so-o-o
good! He thought how proud and happy Polly would have been to see how
much he was able to eat tonight. She just loved it when Chester pushed
himself to eat huge, and she always showed her love in the bedroom as
soon as they got home.
Still thinking of Polly, Chester was
massaging his immense sagging belly and trying to force a belch when a
shape rushed at him from out of the darkness and hit him like a ton of
bricks. 337 lb Jim Bob hit Chester low, knocking him off balance. The
next thing Chester knew, he was flat on his back with a hand clamped
tightly over his mouth, feeling a heavy weight sitting on his massive
stomach. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he recognized that the
weight was Jim Bob.
Chester was gasping for breath and motioned
that he wanted to speak. Jim Bob took his hand off Chester’s mouth, but
at the same time reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun which he
held to Chester’s temple. It was too dark for Chester to realize the gun
was only a toy. Chester managed to gasp, “Jim Bob, cousin, what are ya
doin’? Remember, we’ve always been closer than brothers.”
Bob replied quietly, “With a brother like you, I don’t need any enemies.
Now you’re going to get what you deserve for disrespecting me.”
Still holding the toy gun to Chester’s head, Jim Bob reached into his
jacket pocket and took out a plastic bottle of Coca Cola and the pill
bottle. Deftly uncapping the cola bottle, Jim Bob opened the pill
bottle, poured the capsules into his hand, and put them up to Chester’s
mouth. “Okay, ‘brother’, open wide and swallow”. Chester, still
breathing heavily and actually gasping for breath—the most exercise he
had gotten during the past three years was lifting his food-laden fork
to his mouth as often as possible and then lying on his back in bed
every night while Polly rode him—swallowed the capsules and then took a
gulp of the cola from the bottle Jim Bob shoved up against his fat
Jim Bob’s final words to Chester were, “Now, Chester, into
the car and relax. Just sit there for a few minutes and everything will
be just fine.” Jim Bob hoped his mock sincerity was believable to the
huge man struggling to his feet next to him, still gasping heavily from
the combined effects of his heavy meal, the bottle of wine, and the
shock at what had just happened.
Chester managed to open the car
door and back his bulk into the driver’s seat of the SUV, making the
vehicle settle under his tonnage. He sat there, still trying to catch
his breath and grasp what had just take place. Was it a dream or what?
If only Polly was there! She’d take him to get something to eat and
everything would be jes’ fine again! Chester felt his heart racing as he
grew drowsy. That was it! Maybe he jes’ needed a little nap! That would
make things better! He closed his eyes….
Jim Bob waited a few
minutes, checked around the SUV to make sure he hadn’t left anything
behind, went back to his car, got inside, and sat there quietly for
about ten minutes more. He was happy that his luck was holding. No one
had left the road house during the time he had confronted Chester.
minutes more passed and Jim Bob started his car and drove out of the
parking lot. Not a sound came from the huge man sitting in the SUV.
On his way home, Jim Bob stopped at a Denny’s and ordered a complete
fried chicken meal, with a side of a 6-egg ham omelet, a double order
of hotcakes, and a double order of cheese grits. After he finished
eating, he went to the men’s room and noted with pleasure how the bulk
of his big belly, huge round buttocks, and wide meaty hips practically
filled the stall. After relieving himself, he took the empty pill bottle
from his jacket pocket, and peeled off the label, which got flushed
down the toilet. The now-unlabeled pill bottle went into the trash. Jim
Bob belched contentedly as he got into his car and headed home. The toy
gun soon went back into the toy chest of his landlady’s young
Two days later, Jim Bob scanned the local
newspaper and noticed a story at the bottom of page one. “Local Football
Hero Found Dead”. He read further, “Chester Cleaver, 26, was found dead
early yesterday morning in his SUV parked at the parking lot of a
well-known roadhouse on Route 28. Cause of death is suspected to be a
massive heart attack. According to waitresses at the roadhouse, Mr.
Cleaver had eaten a huge meal there, as was his habit. He seemed in good
spirits as he left the establishment about 10 p.m., although he
mentioned to the cashier that he had some discomfort in his chest area.
The waitresses and cashier reported that he was breathing heavily as he
left the roadhouse. Local sports fans will remember Mr. Cleaver as the
star wide receiver on our local high school team seven years ago The
police report lists Mr. Cleaver’s death as cardiac arrest brought about
by his weight, reported to be 587 lbs, and the enormous meal he had just
consumed. No autopsy is planned.”
Chester’s funeral was held
two weeks later. Jim Bob was there and sure seemed sad. For appearances
sake, he even managed to squeeze into his good suit—his landlady had
to let out his dress pants as far as possible in the waist and rear so
he could shoehorn his big round ass into them while his belly ballooned
over the waistband–and he wore a dark tie. At the grave yard, Jim Bob
stood with his head bowed as the prayers were being said. He was staring
down at the big round bulge his pot belly made in his tight white dress
shirt (his suit jacket was so tight he couldn’t button it, leaving the
round mass of his fat pot belly proudly on display) and forcing himself
not to betray any sign of the broad smile he felt inside. The old Jim
Bob phony sincerity was there in full force.
As the prayers
continued and Jim Bob stood with his head bowed and eyes closed, he
noticed the familiar fragrance of an expensive perfume. Head still
bowed, he opened his eyes and noticed an expensive black silk dress on
the female figure which had appeared next to him. A gloved hand reached
over, and unseen by the other mourners, gave Jim Bob’s big soft fat
butt cheek a hard squeeze. Polly!
Jim Bob heard Polly softly
whisper, “I don’t know what it was that caused me to dump you, Jim Bob.
All I know is that I’ve missed you for a long time, sugar. Why don’t we
meet back at my place this evening?”
Jim Bob said nothing. He
struggled even harder to control the smile he felt inside as he
continued to pretend to pray. His stomach rumbled with hunger while
“little Mr. Jim Bob” stiffened to attention. Jim Bob was already
thinking of his future…..