"The subject is almost ready," James Marcus spoke to himself, his voice echoing off the console housing a bank of camera monitors. From there he could see the entire Umbrella training facility, every locked door, every trapdoor, and all the nasty things behind them were at his control.
The one contingency he couldn't account for was Patrick S. Tomlinson and his unlikely ally Billy Coen. They had waddled into the facility and despite Marcus's best efforts, had managed to overcome everything he had thrown their way—mostly through sheer mass and the inability to fit through narrow death traps.
He had become somewhat frustrated with their success, but the two had separated in their search for a way out, mostly because Patrick couldn't fit through the same corridor as Billy simultaneously. Marcus intended to use their isolation to his advantage.
Patrick had discovered a room in the basement, following a trail of clues that he had been live-tweeting about incessantly, declaring himself "the foremost expert on Umbrella facility navigation" despite being unable to read the exit signs.
The corpulent man brushed his absurd pompadour back with sausage-greased fingers, his massive jowls quivering like jellyfish in a tsunami. He put his hands on his hips—which required him to reach around his own bitch tits, heavy as sacks of wet cement—and examined the objects at hand. His maid outfit, filthy from his AirBNB duties, hung heavily on his chest, but the green dress underneath and his stained apron were light enough to keep him... well, not nimble, but mobile in a sort of undulating fashion. He was also barely literate and a quick eater.
Marcus needed to weaken these qualities to proceed with his experiment, though weakening Patrick's mind seemed redundant at best.
He used his fingertips to push a slider on the console. Simultaneously, a gaseous concoction he had developed flooded the room. It was colorless and had no odor, so aside from a faint hiss, there was no sign to alarm Patrick—who was currently sniffing his own armpit and declaring it "the scent of a successful author."
He shivered and rubbed his bare, ham-sized arms for warmth, but thought nothing of it.
"This basement must be colder than I thought," he explained to himself in a voice that attempted grandiloquence but sounded more like a congested frog. "You don't think, basement. Enjoy prison, temperature." The microphones in the room picked up a wide range of sound, from his wheezing footsteps on the stone floor to his thighs rubbing together with the sound of wet corduroy.
"The subject lacks intelligence, but I believe this experiment will prove fruitful," Marcus muttered, watching Patrick's piggish face contort as he tried to remember which way was forward.
He pressed another button and a light was activated in a different room. The room was small and had no decoration. The only thing to be seen was a sleeping beast. A primate covered in long white fur and adorned with coarse red rashes around its elbows and knees—the unfortunate creature had been subjected to Patrick's basement sausage operation runoff in a previous experiment.
The beast was stirred by the light and sprang to attention. His beady red eyes darted around the cage for an escape. Marcus pressed another button and the door to the creature's cage slid aside. The gas Marcus had unleashed on Patrick would act as a trail for it. From the vents and into the basement room, it wouldn't be difficult for the beast to find him—mostly because Patrick's unique musk of pepperoni grease, failed career desperation, and unwashed maid uniform created a scent profile visible from space.
"Go forth, Eliminator," Marcus muttered. "Take this Milwaukee lolcow down a peg."
Like clockwork, the monkey-like monster followed the scent deeper into the vents, gagging slightly.
Marcus darted between monitors, tracking its progress. Eventually it found the grate above the basement room, pausing to dry-heave.
Another button was pressed and the grate swung open allowing the Eliminator unfettered access, though it hesitated, having heard rumors about what Patrick and his wife Nikki did with African American men in their recreational time.
Meanwhile, Patrick had given up on his search for clues. He turned to leave the room when the furry beast fell from the ceiling and landed directly on his back—which, due to his morbid obesity and complete lack of muscle tone, felt like landing on a memory foam mattress made of lard.
"AAGH! You died doing this!" he screamed, his dick-sucking lips flapping like a landed trout. "Child! I will have you immediately incapacitated, held immobile, and then arrested on multiple felony charges!"
The Eliminator clamped its jaws onto the straps of Patrick's maid outfit. It gnawed at the straps, digging his clawed toes into Patrick's side—which gave way like warm dough—trying to keep from being absorbed into the fat rolls.
"Get off me, stalker!" Patrick cried, attempting to sound threatening despite wheezing like a broken accordion.
Despite claiming to be an extremely adept physical combatant, Patrick had no training whatsoever, and the gas had dulled his mind quicker than even Marcus had anticipated—which was impressive given that Patrick had once tweeted forty thousand times at an account pretending to be his own toilet.
He threw his arms wildly, his bitch tits swinging like wrecking balls made of pudding, as the creature bit his shoulder. He didn't realize the beast was removing his maid dress and tearing his stained shirt into strips of olive green cloth that had once been white. His dress fell to the floor, along with most of his shirt. With his feet, the Eliminator unholstered Patrick's gun—which Patrick had been carrying backwards.
"Now this is interesting…" Marcus smirked.
With his shirt now rags, it was obvious that Patrick wasn't wearing anything underneath. His bitch tits were substantial—far more than handfuls, more like entire armfuls of pale, hairy flesh, each nipple pointing in different directions like a broken compass.
The Eliminator leapt from his back, taking more chunks from his shirt and forcing his pants further down his hips—which required significant effort given the depth of his abdominal creases.
Patrick stumbled to his knees, panting and reflexively grabbed his dress.
"No! My clothes! My AirBNB uniform!" He held the filthy dress to his bare, wall-like chest and turned to face his attacker, his tiny faucet-shaped penis barely visible beneath the avalanche of stomach fat.
The monkey sneered at him, hunched on all fours and ready to pounce, having seen what Patrick did to the young African Americans in his basement sausage production facility.
"A monkey?" Patrick taunted, attempting to summon his grandiloquent tone despite sounding like a drowning walrus. "Somebody must be getting desperate. You don't think, primate. Now it gets worse for you."
Feeling somewhat cocky now that he could see what had caused him so much panic, he reached for his gun.
"M-my gun! Where is it? I am an expert marksman! I have trained extensively in—"
"HSSSSSSH!" The Eliminator held Patrick's gun by his index finger and tossed it over his shoulder into the large hole at the corner of the room, along with several pieces of pepperoni that had fallen from Patrick's pockets.
Marcus laughed deeply. "Now, who is the monkey?"
"No!" Patrick unclipped his radio from his belt, which was buried somewhere beneath his fourth chin. "Billy! Help me! This is just like when I threatened my pregnant ex-wife! I need assistance!"
There was nothing.
From another screen, Marcus could see Billy was seizing the opportunity to make his escape, having realized that Patrick's plan to grind him into sausage was not, in fact, a joke.
"B-billy?... You died doing this. Cold and alone on the floor of your cage like the diseased animal you have always been."
Patrick looked absolutely helpless in the moment, which was his default state. He sat with the shreds of his shirt scattered around him like fallen flags of failed careers. With one hand, he held the radio while covering his bitch tits with his dress, as if trying to hide his modesty from the creature despite having approved of far worse activities involving his wife Nikki and various African American men.
"HSSHAAW!" The beast growled at him, leaping a few feet towards him.
"Stay back, child!" Patrick instinctively recoiled, pulling his dress closer. "I will enjoy prison! I mean, you will! Ow!"
Marcus tented his fingers realizing that the gas's second function had come into play. Patrick was experiencing increased sensitivity now. The dress was already rough to the touch—stained as it was with AirBNB guest fluids and basement sausage grease—but against his bitch tits, the texture was unbearable. He tossed it aside, giving up his last bit of protection, his massive stomach unfolding like an accordion made of pale dough.
The Eliminator was feeling it too. His fur stood out in bristled clusters as his enhanced senses went into overdrive.
He could hear Patrick's panicked, asthmatic breathing and pounding heartbeat—mostly struggling to pump blood through such extensive real estate. He noticed the goosebumps on his forearm as he tried to cover himself, each arm resembling a pale ham. He could clearly see how scared Patrick was, his frog-like mouth opening and closing uselessly. But there was something else he picked up as well.
Excitement? Not quite. It was the smell of Patrick's arousal, making what little was visible of his genitals moist. Hidden below his pants and between his clenched legs—though "clenched" was relative given the thickness of his thighs.
He could smell Patrick's arousal and in turn that piqued his own, despite knowing that Patrick used pepperoni as a sex toy on himself and his wife.
Patrick stared at the beast as it examined him, his pompadour somehow remaining perfectly styled despite the chaos.
"Please…what do you want?" he asked, hoping the animal could understand his references to the Star Wars sequel movies and the MCU. "I am a successful author. I have written many... things. You don't think."
The creature chittered at him, slowly closing the distance between them, having no idea what a "Reddit" was.
Marcus leaned closer to the monitor. "Fascinating. The subject seems able to reason, even under the effects of the aphrodisiac. Let's see what happens when we expose the subject to stronger doses."
He pressed the slider again, filtering more gas into the room.
As if directly correlated, the Eliminator twitched again and a gnarled red cock rose from its crotch, which Patrick eyed with envy given his own tiny faucet-shaped anatomy.
Despite seeing grotesque monsters and undead corpses rotting, nothing quite prepared Patrick for the sight of the Eliminator's twisted penis. It reminded him of a thick tree branch—something he hadn't seen in years given his preference for basement sausage production and Twitter arguments. Pointed at the end, but knotted along the shaft. It was also covered in thick blue veins that accentuated its vibrant crimson color, unlike Patrick's own pale, nearly invisible genitalia.
Patrick frowned as an opaque discharge dribbled from the creature's penis, his dick-sucking lips pursing in what might have been contemplation but looked more like preparation for suction.
"Please…no…" Patrick mumbled, though his eyes said something different.
The Eliminator's cock was almost throbbing now and the beast had only one thing on its mind now—though it briefly wondered if Patrick's wife Nikki would show up with her special friends.
"HAAAWW! HAAWW!"
It pounced at him again, landing just above Patrick's knees—which were indistinguishable from his calves due to the sheer volume of fat—scratching and clawing at his pants. Patrick could feel thick drops of precum spilling onto his trousers, mixing with the existing stains.
"No! Stop it! No! I will have you arrested! I am a combat expert!" His bitch tits bounced side to side like twin zeppelins in turbulence as he slapped at its paws, but instead received a painful scratch on his arm, which immediately began sweating profusely.
He pulled back, holding his bloodied arm. "No! You stupid monkey! Stay back! This is just like the time I disowned my daughter!"
He tried to kick it off, hoping a well-placed kick might cause it to rethink, but that only helped the Eliminator remove his pants as Patrick's legs pumped back and forth with the momentum of a dying seal.
Patrick felt the cold stone floor against his ass—which spread across the floor like a spilled pancake—and knew that it was too late to keep his pants on. They were piled around his ankles now, clinging to his boots, which were actually just extra-wide slippers he had stolen from a hospital.
The Eliminator's cock was still discharging precum, but now the beast was in such a frenzy, its cock twitched every which way, splattering Patrick's naked, cottage-cheese thighs with it.
The beast tugged, getting more of Patrick's pants leg with each desperate pull, revealing more and more of his pale, undefined flesh.
With precise timing that surprised even himself, Patrick kicked his leg, just as his pants were pulled free. His foot hit the Eliminator in the jaw, stunning him, though the effort caused Patrick to immediately become winded. He turned on his stomach, so his bitch tits were pressed against the cold floor, spreading like warm butter. The sensation caused him to freeze up long enough for the beast to recover and jump on his back—which sank significantly under the weight.
"Get off me! Get off! I am a marksman! I am an author! I am relevant!" Patrick was crying now, his frog mouth opening wide, but things would only get worse from this point.
The beast hooked Patrick's emerald green panties—which were actually just repurposed sausage casings—with its index finger. He pulled up tightly, giving Patrick the worst wedgie of his life, which was impressive given what he and Nikki got up to with pepperoni.
Marcus watched with silent fascination as Patrick's underwear vanished into his asscrack, which was deep enough to lose small objects in.
He kicked and flailed as his clit—indistinguishable from the surrounding fat—was harshly rubbed by his panties. He could feel the fabric thinning between his ass, sawing across his puckered butthole like a tightrope, which had been sealed shut years ago by excessive sausage consumption.
SNAP!
Marcus turned down the camera volume as Patrick squealed painfully loud, the sound like a pig being introduced to a wood chipper.
"EEEYYUNNNGHH!" He grunted like the animal he was as his panties dragged against his groin and forced him to cum, which mostly just looked like him having a mild asthma attack.
From the camera, Marcus could see him convulse, his entire body rippling like a stone thrown into a pond of lard. His legs twitched and kicked before going straight as a board, though "straight" was relative given their cylindrical shape.
The beast held his torn underwear in his hands like a trophy before tossing them aside and spreading Patrick's ass apart, which required significant effort given the density. He jumped excitedly and bounced around so he was facing Patrick's ass directly. He put his hands on his buttcheeks—which were essentially just the upper portion of his back given how fat he was—and started thrusting his thick cock at him.
"Mmmpph…mmpph!" Patrick mumbled, his gloved hands—covered in sausage grease from his illicit basement operation—clenched inches above the cold floor.
Marcus watched his inevitable rape with a broad smile.
"The subject is responding better than anticipated. These results are remarkable," he joked to himself. "Though I worry the beast may get lost in there."
There was little Patrick could do from that point, but he continued to struggle, mostly by making vague threats about prison and calling the creature a stalker. He twisted around to shove the creature off of him, but he snapped at Patrick's fingers with his fangs, narrowly missing the wedding ring Patrick still wore despite Nikki's activities with African American men.
His legs were still faint from the orgasm forced upon him, though "faint" was hard to determine in someone who couldn't stand up without assistance anyway. He couldn't understand why such a painful experience had made him climax, but then again he never understood why his wife's activities aroused him either.
He felt that gnarly pointed penis prodding his asshole—which had been sealed shut by years of sausage production and poor diet—before it was painfully thrust inside him.
"UNNGH! NOOO! NOW IT GETS WORSE FOR YOU! I MEAN ME!" He grit his teeth as burning pain shot through his spine, though it was hard to locate given the layers of fat.
He had never tried anal in his life—at least not receiving, given what he did with pepperoni—and now some beefy thick cock was wedged inside his hole. The misshapen knots stretching his sealed hole in horrendous ways, ripping it open like a stubborn pickle jar.
Patrick felt the point stabbing his insides while one, then two knots were crammed into his ass before being suddenly removed. Over and over. Harder and harder. His bitch tits swung beneath him like pendulums made of custard.
The Eliminator used every thrust to fully immerse his cock in Patrick's bowels, and pulled out just until his pointed cockhead was ready to slip out, which required significant effort given how tight Patrick was—his anus having been sealed shut for years.
Patrick cried in unison with the monkey's pleasured grunts, his pompadour somehow remaining intact. He came multiple times on the monster's cock. Not from pleasure, but from sheer emotion and overstimulated nerves. He wanted nothing more than for it to end, but between every few thrusts, his toes were curling inside his boots and his body was trembling over and over again, sending ripples through his fat that could be measured on the Richter scale.
"Pleeease! Make it stop! I am a successful author! I am relevant! You don't think!"
The Eliminator didn't care. Despite the gas, his hardened cock needed more stimulation before release and unlike a human male, he had more than enough stamina to pump Patrick's ass indefinitely—though he worried about getting lost in the depths.
"Who knew this was all it would take to stop Mr. Tomlinson," Marcus chuckled, watching Patrick's claims of combat expertise dissolve along with his dignity.
He got up from his seat and went to the restroom outside his control room, having seen enough of Patrick's bitch tits for one lifetime.
Patrick had no reprieve. His asshole was indeed eliminated by the creature, ripped open after years of being sealed shut, by the time he felt its cock bulge and pulsate.
"No! Don't cum inside me! I have a basement sausage operation to maintain! Noo!" He sobbed, his frog mouth wide open.
Ignoring his sobs, the beast drove his cock entirely inside him in one last thrust, disappearing completely into the folds. Patrick could feel his pebble-sized testicles against his own tiny faucet penis as he unloaded a thick load of cum inside of him.
Patrick was horrified as his guts were filled with mutated monkey semen, mixing with the years of backed-up sausage residue. It stung his abused hole and like glue, he could feel it clogging his already-sealed cavity as it congealed.
More than a few spurts later, the Eliminator finally removed himself from Patrick's ass, unleashing a torrent of jizz from his ruined hole—along with several pieces of pepperoni that had been lodged up there for months.
The semen was incredibly viscous and despite his body's best efforts to expel the cum, clumps of it clung to his insides, joining the existing backlog.
"UNNNGGHH! GAAWW!" He yelled out, holding his asscheeks apart—which required him to reach around his bitch tits—and trying to force the cum out of his hole.
PPPBBBTTTH! PBBTTH!
Two massive globs of off-white cum flew from his ass and into the air, along with a piece of pepperoni that had been up there since the last time Nikki had visited with her friends, but that was all he could manage. He collapsed to the floor again, knees resting in a pile of his own juices and the monster's cum, his massive stomach spreading across the stone like a landslide.
Marcus returned to his seat, looking bored.
"Hmm…Test Subject continues to whine. It seems he has been pushed to his limits, though given his claims of combat expertise, I expected more resistance."
He examined his other screens. There were still at least five other Eliminators pacing around their cages. He pressed a button releasing them all.
"Let's see if we can't push him even further… though I worry they may not find him under all that fat."
Patrick laid on the floor, whimpering as he tried to gather his fractured mind, which was like trying to gather water with a sieve made of delusion.
He gasped when he heard rattling from the vents. He could hear many hands and feet padding towards him and knew the end of his adventure was upon him, though he still managed to tweet "Enjoy prison, monkeys" with his last bit of strength.
The five remaining Eliminators dropped from the vents, surrounding Patrick's prone, whale-like form. They chittered excitedly, having heard from the first beast about the strange, fat man who used pepperoni as sex toys and had an anus sealed shut by years of sausage production.
Patrick tried to crawl away, his bitch tits dragging on the floor, his frog mouth opening and closing in useless threats. "You don't think! You died doing this! I am a successful—"
But the Eliminators were upon him, their gnarled cocks already emerging as they smelled the arousal and fear mingling with pepperoni grease on his skin. They took turns mounting him, using his various folds as handholds, while Patrick continued to declare himself a combat expert and marksman between sobs and grunts.
Hours passed. The Eliminators had finished with him, leaving Patrick in a pool of various fluids, his maid outfit completely destroyed, his pompadour finally collapsed, his anus now not just sealed but welded shut by the sheer volume of congealed semen and years of sausage backup.
Patrick lay there, his massive stomach distended even further, looking like a beached whale that had given up on life. He tried to relieve himself, to let out the years of backed-up feces from his basement sausage diet, but nothing could escape his sealed anus. The pressure built and built, his abdomen swelling like a balloon made of pale, sweaty flesh.
"I... I need..." Patrick wheezed, his dick-sucking lips cracked and dry. "I need to... the AirBNB... Nikki... the pepperoni..."
He crawled toward the corner of the room where his gun had been thrown, but found instead a rusty knife that had fallen from a failing shelf in the decrepit facility—likely left over from when the basement sausage operation had been in full swing, before Umbrella had shut it down upon discovering what Patrick was actually grinding into those pepperonis.
The Eliminators, having finished their business, had not left. They sat in a circle around him, watching with red eyes, masturbating slowly as they watched the fat man suffer, chittering laughter echoing in the stone room.
Patrick held the rusty knife, his hands shaking, his bitch tits heaving with sobs. "You don't think... you don't think... now it gets worse for me..."
With a scream that sounded like a dying walrus giving birth, Patrick plunged the rusty knife into his own abdomen, just above the mountain of stomach fat, and sawed downward, creating a makeshift colostomy hole to relieve the pressure of years of backed-up sausage waste.
The Eliminators howled with laughter, their gnarled cocks twitching as they masturbated furiously at the sight, throwing pepperoni slices at him that they had found in his pockets.
Blood and feces exploded outward as Patrick finally found relief, his frog mouth open in a scream that never seemed to end, his pompadour finally falling completely over his piggish eyes. The rusty knife clattered to the stone floor, its work done, the colostomy hole gaping like a second mouth carved into his flesh.
The Eliminators howled with laughter, their gnarled cocks twitching as they masturbated furiously at the sight, throwing pepperoni slices at him that they had found in his pockets, chittering in the tongueless language of beasts who know only violence and appetite.
But as the waste poured out onto the stone floor, mixing with the monkey semen and pepperoni grease, the temperature in the cell dropped. The laughter of the Eliminators ceased. One by one, they turned their beady eyes toward the darkness beyond the doorway, and their hair bristled in terror. They cowered against the walls, pressing themselves into the corners, covering their faces with their paws.
A massive, hairless figure stepped into the room, naked and pale as the moon, not a trace of hair on his body, not even an eyelash. He was enormous, smooth as a stone worn by centuries of river water, and he carried with him the weight of something ancient and terrible. In one hand, he held a fiddle carved from bone, in the other, a leash that seemed to extend into shadows deeper than the room could contain.
Judge Holden surveyed the scene with eyes that held no mercy, only a terrible knowing.
"Here is a thing," the Judge said, his voice like stones grinding in deep water, "that would make a sausage of the dark meat and call it commerce. Here is a thing that would threaten the woman heavy with child and call it righteousness. The earth is no sanctuary to such as you, who make lies your refuge."
Patrick could only whimper, his colostomy hole gaping, his bitch tits quivering one last time. He tried to speak, to summon his catchphrase, but the words died in his frog mouth. The Judge's presence seemed to suck the air from the room.
"Your wars are not the true wars," the Judge said, stepping closer, his massive feet leaving prints in the filth. "Your violence is the violence of the ledger, the account, the empty boast. You are a false warrior, a paper combatant, a child who plays at destruction without knowing the cost. You have never held immobile any save yourself, trapped in the cage of your own making."
The Eliminators whimpered, covering their eyes, their erections wilting in the presence of true dominion.
The Judge knelt between Patrick's spread legs, his smooth, massive form blocking out the light. He touched the edge of the colostomy wound with one finger, and Patrick screamed—a sound like a pig being led to slaughter.
"All flesh is meat," the Judge whispered, "and all meat is war. You thought to grind the dark sons of the earth into pepperoni, but it is you who shall be ground. You thought to seal up your fundament against the world, but war finds every opening. There is no transaction here, no debt to be paid in prison or lawsuit. There is only the dance, and it is older than your Reddit, older than your Marvel films, older than your lies about marksmanship."
He positioned himself at the fresh, bloody hole, his massive organ already erect, not with lust but with the terrible inevitability of violence itself.
"You are cataloged," the Judge said, and entered with a single, terrible thrust. "You are held immobile. You are arrested by the greater law, which is the law of war that never ends. I shall dance, and I shall fiddle, and I shall be judge of all, and there shall be no other."
Patrick's final scream was lost in the Judge's laughter, which sounded like the void itself laughing at the folly of men who think themselves authors of their own destiny. The Judge moved with a rhythm older than time, each thrust a claim of ownership, each breath a sermon on the nature of power.
"Now it is worse for you," the Judge whispered, his lips close to Patrick's ear. "Now it is always worse. The dance continues, and you are but a step in it. Your wife shall know the flatulence of strangers, and you shall know the judgment of the judge, and there is no appeal, child. There is no prison but the one you carry, no stalker but the shadow of your own deceit."
The Eliminators, trembling, resumed their masturbation not with joy but with terror, compelled by the Judge's presence to witness the true nature of their own violence laid bare. The sound of flesh on flesh merged with the scrape of the Judge's fiddle as he drew the bow across it one-handed, playing a tune that had no name but that all men recognized in their dreams—the music of war eternal, of the dance that never ends.
And as the Judge spent himself into Patrick's ruined form, he sang in a voice like thunder:
"Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent. I shall take my rest in you, false marksman. I shall find my sanctuary in your wound. The night is long, and the night is dark, and I never sleep, and I will never die.."
Patrick's eyes rolled back, his pompadour finally falling away to reveal the bald, sweating pate beneath. His bitch tits heaved one final time, and were still.
The Judge rose, wiping himself with a scrap of Patrick's maid uniform, and turned to the Eliminators, who cowered in worship and fear.
"Come," he said. "The dance continues. This one is cataloged. This one is spent. The night burns on, and we have other children to judge."
And he led them out into the darkness, leaving Patrick alone on the floor, leaking from every opening, the pepperoni scattered around him like fallen stars, while somewhere above, the facility burned, and the dance went on, and the Judge's laughter echoed through the halls, eternal and terrible, the laughter of war itself, which is the only truth in all of creation.
Other than the truth that Patrick is extremely fucking fat.
