THE GLUT

The gut was still not satisfied as it spilt heavily across my lap. It groaned and yearned for food, goading my already agitated jaw, angering the ivory inside, which restlessly ground down on one another, ready to take on the tongue if nothing else came their way. Crisps, cold turkey, even a stick of rock! Who cares, just something to munch upon, suck, lick, busy my bulk, I’d snort an Oxo cube at the moment. My entire body was chattering for something to eat, fizzing to be occupied. Give me something!

Twang! The nattering of my mouth stopped, desperately falling agape, scavenging for clean air whilst battling back bile. Fuck! Somethings not right about the soup inside me, something’s gone square, my arse is flaring as it gurgles and pops, body get up! Try to lift your mass and make haste to the toilet. Arrrrgh! I’m fucking stuck fast, and on..? What is this? The bean bag or the sofa? Shit, look at me! I’m seriously bloated, I’d hazard, dangerously so. I imagine it’s mainly wind, at worst a little water retention, I seriously need to seep a little out before the air inside solidifies and chokes me. Get up man!

Wait! Pause. “Hello? Is somebody there?” I can hear a rustle. It’s coming from the third cupboard from the right. Nooo! That’s the domestic products! “What are you doing!?”
“I need to bleach my insides!”
“Could you bring me something to eat?”
“I need to nuke all this shit I’ve eaten?”
“What have you eaten!?” And without me!
“Everything Jon!” Pause. “We’ve eaten everything'”
Get up man! She’s into something I can tell. She hoards. It’s liquorice, maybe marsh mellows!
“Uu… ugh… cak! It’s awful. Gah!”
“What is?”
“Ummmmmmmmmm pwew!”
“You’d better save me some!”
“Cu plugh!” (Pause) “It burns!”
“What burns?” It’s not marsh mellows.”I can’t get up honey”
“It really burns!”
Rest. She’ll come round. She’ll share her find. Pause. “Hello!?”
“It burns!”
“Save me some?” You greedy fucker.
“Fuck you!”

The marooned glut in that instance, as he furiously wrestled from the bean bag, he hadn’t made the sofa, sprang a leak from around his clenched rectum and was projected SLAM through the adjoining doorway and BISH into the lap of his loved one. He moped for a little, weary from the stench he had emitted, then rallying realised she was already chilling and in fact dead. “Sweetie!” He whimpered, standing up with ease, as his figure had returned to its plump slender with only the environment left battling with the product of his glutinous gorging. “Oh shit, sweetie!” He smelled the bleach, thought about it, but refrained from tasting. He darted around the room, flinging open cupboard after cupboard, he needed something to console his despair. As countless empty wrappers skipped around the room, disturbed by his rage, the now slender plump glut grabbed at one and foraged deep into the corner for the few remaining crumbs. Although measly, they settled his nerve and finally, he found enough sanity to call the authorities, noting that the receiver smelled just like Shortbread.

The authorities arrived surprisingly fast, or our gorger had slept for a while, it was hard to tell. In opening the door his naked form was a surprise for all concerned, even himself. Bamboozled, he half believed he’d eaten his pants, but undeterred bulldozed on with his tidings, as the putrid air brushed passed him nearly knocking the first of the officials off their feet. After his initial plea, our man was ushered away from the scene of the crime. “I’m sorry!” He whaled, as his naked, now hollow saggy frame bleated for forgiveness. After hours of questioning and the eventual materialisation of a blanket, in fear he might become aroused at the offering of tea and biscuits, the full story was disclosed.

Apparently, the couple had set out to have a lock in, a quiet bank holiday, just the two of them, no social media, no television, just one on one quality time. The first day, as the man told it, “Was wonderful. A good foundation to a hearty cake! The wine flowed and all was merry.” The second, in his words, “More about the icing than the Sponge…” The officer noted down ‘nuts’ in his diary, quickly correcting it to ‘insane’ in fear the man’s appetite might be infectious. “Even breaking out, making a dash for spaghetti didn’t cut the mustard…” A doodle of a cat now sat next to the word ‘insane’ as the story of the final day, the day where we find him, unfolded. “It had all become over baked… It had gone pear shaped… We’d finished everything… Long polished off the cereal… We’d even taken to drinking these ridiculous cartons of juice that Celia’s friend’s daughter had left behind… It had gone sour, there was no sweet left… We even checked coat pockets”. The authorities, politely allowing the glut to continue to bend their ears finally fed him into the back of the ambulance and at the opportune moment closed the door. “I even ate corn on the cob and I hate…” The ambulance didn’t bother with the siren, she was most definitely dead and him, involuntarily foolish.

Models: @tasha_may @joshbanthorpe