This one was a writing challenge based upon the 5th paragraph from the end.
The house on Excavation Lane on the lower eastside of Cincinnati had appeared derelict for some time: the lawn was dead, though weeds flourished in sections; the flower bed was various dried stalks and what appeared to be a rats nest under the dehydrated fichus bush near the garage door; the paint had all but peeled and crinkled to the ground, some warping appearing around the southern face; window screens around the front were almost completely crusted in soot from the nearby highway, the foundry beyond.
The house belonged to Hiram Woldersnapple and his wife Aggy, both deceased, and had been taken over by their son Sidney after their passing. They had been a fairly popular couple, hosting Tupperware, dildo parties and spouse swapping soirées and many in their quiet suburban hood had begrudgingly returned to monogamy, stale leftovers and mail order sexual aids when they died.
Aggy was particularly popular and sold a high volume of product owing to her always crowd pleasing demonstration of burping the lid on a Tupperware salad bowl while completely engulfing a butt-plug the size of a package of Pillsbury Crescent rolls. Hiram was effective as well, selling strap-ons and French Ticklers by the gross at the local high school, the Milhous Snuffington Education Emporium, partially funded by Pizza Hut, and our thanks to them.
The events leading to their demise were sketchy: there was talk of auto-erotic asphyxiation and something called the Fart Bag but the police couldn’t describe the scene without giggling, and punching each other while snickering, “Shut up.” “No, you shut up…” so no charges were filed and the probate court awarded the house to Sidney (minus a 25% court fee, which as Sidney had no money, they took the master bedroom and bathroom as well as all the appliances and part of the driveway to cover it).
Sidney was damaged goods from the start; insecure owing to his enormous penis yet tiny brain, he could never think of anything clever enough to say to ever show it to anyone and spent his time eating and masturbating, frequently at the same time, which led to a stench, I’m sure you can imagine. He never adapted to his parents free-wheeling ways and sunk deeper into himself till he sucked all the way through and popped out the other side, which was weird but kinda cool to watch. Freaky.
He moved in when the local JayCees were having a street fair on Myra Avenue, (named after the renowned Myra Avenue Puke of Shame in the even more renowned East Hollywood, Sunset Junction area) and as everybody tended to stay indoors with their windows closed when obnoxious proselytes came around trying to drum up spirit for Jesus, nobody noticed his pathetic Oldsmobile, loaded with crap when it pulled into the garage and closed behind him.
After that, he tended to stay in. He was able to get a mortgage loan on the rest of the house and had hired some Canadians to at least fill the hole and cap the pipes where the court had taken his bed and bath but he still had no appliances. He had taken up every ludicrous credit card offer that followed his mortgage loan and soon became deeply indebted to pretty much every company offering bad credit at usurious rates. The stress of debt made him hungry, because everything made him hungry: being disinclined to cook demanded a phone as well as intern-net hook-up for all hour food delivery. And porn. Lots of porn.
Porn had taken over for dating for millions of men and women who were just too lazy and insecure to have physical relations with real people and had been caught up in the ‘masturbation is cool’ period, (coincidentally just before the internet took off) when folks like Howard Stern were hawking it like Tai Bo in the media. And looking at folks like Howard Stern, it’s probably best they whack off, cause some people eeewwwww shouldn’t be having kids.
That was Sidney, a whanker (a whacker that wanks off, or wanker that whacks off). He had been all his life. He had no real skills, no drive. Not much interested him and he wasn’t particularly interesting. Though his parents were both relatively attractive he looked kind of like a Russet potato and had aspects of the shape. He had never even fucked, a woman or man, though there was the incident with the ocelot, the less said about that the better.
He was one of millions and millions of lost souls just sitting and waiting for something to happen so they could think of who they’d Twitter about it. 3-D life, outside the door, the Sidney’s of the world inside dreaming of a higher def 3-D on their 2-D screens. Eating, ever eating. Like termites, just chewing through everything in front of them, food in one end, shit trailing behind out the other, the mouth always moving. Immer essen, always eating.
Sidney had sustained himself entirely on Pink Dot, Dominoes and the local Thai Chili house, (the duck wraps are delightful, ask for the owner Eddie Wong, let him know about this and he’ll set you up – thanks Eddie!). The neighbors had taken to thinking some teenagers were squatting inside, most had never even seen Sidney, and as nobody introduces themselves when they move into a neighborhood, nor any of the neighbors bother to extend a welcome, no one would have recognized him had they seen him.
Which they hadn’t. Till now.
Sidney had been caught up in the whole apocalypse hoo haa surrounding Rev Campings latest ridiculous beg for Armageddon, mostly cause he was bored, but the collection agencies were becoming more insistent and he secretly hoped for the end cause he was tired of dodging their calls and threats to take his garage and the rest of his driveway.
So when the mighty Mississippi flooded its banks causing major rivers to flow backward along with some serious other weather assaults, Sidney settled in with his favorite porn and a bucket of chicken wings for an end of life baptismal, so he would be at least somewhat fresh wherever he ended up. Sidney hadn’t wiped his ass in about two years.
He in his reclinance had taken on some weight. He tipped the scales, at give or take about 879 pounds. Dripping wet. Though that much water would likely add some weight. Call it 875 pounds. He was fucking huge. And he smelled awful. He couldn’t reach around himself to wash, wipe, rinse or even scratch. He had a rag on a stick for emergencies.
Food delivery took place through a large doggy door in his front door. He’d slip the money out on a wagon (I said a large doggy door, pay attention!) and the delivery entity would pile the order on the wagon (okay it was a small wagon) and Sidney would drag it back inside with snarfling noises.
Safely inside, on what he took to be the final reckoning, Sidney squeezed himself into the tub, chicken wings in hand, Dripping Catholic Cum Guzzlers on the monitor and then through the hole in the wall, he saw them. Where the Canadians had repaired the space left open by the court’s collection procedure, a large aperture had appeared. They had neglected to sheetrock the inside and instead had sheetrocked the exterior which in the frequently harsh weather conditions had come apart, exposing the wall next to the bathtub to an unobstructed view of the front yard. That’s what you get when you hire illegals, more shoddy workmanship. Fucking Canadians.
Sidney gazed out in trepidation. He knew the stories: the dead will rise from the graves, the virtuous will fly naked to heaven, leaving their clothes behind, sinners will go on living through their various hells, bananas will be called apples blah blah blah. Still, he wasn’t sure what was up with the dead eyed collective that had gathered on his dead lawnish area. He engulfed a chicken wing watching intently.
Outside, they shuffled about, their deadened eyes clarifying their want for brains. The house was locked up tight, but there was always the real concern that one would spot movement inside and cause a rush to the door, or around the back where the low windows were hard to seal. The question was, how long would they linger before moving on to more promising environs?
Sidney scooched forward in the tub, layers of fat billowing over the side, a muffin top of pure flabbish lard. A chicken wing had gotten lodged near his dangler and he reached desperately for it, trying to snag it before it bypassed his pecker and squeezed up his ass, where it would be lost for good. He looked out, grappling with his rolling piles of corpulent flesh when he realized the extent of his peril.
“Hi, I’m Chrissy with the local JayCees. Love to have you come down to our annual street fair…”
He stared dumbfounded at the perky face in his hole. Then pleased, he retrieved the missing chicken wing and blandly popped it into his mouth.
The JayCees never bothered him again.