The Nebraska sky stretched above the rugby pitch like a vast, indifferent canvas, the kind of blue that makes you think the world might actually be beautiful if you weren't standing in the middle of a community college field wearing a cum-stained maid outfit. Patrick S. Tomlinson shifted his weight from one swollen foot to the other, his bitch tits swaying beneath the polyester fabric like two sacks of pudding tied to a clothesline in a hurricane. He had come to Nebraska to prove something to the haters, though he couldn't quite remember what, his mind fogged by the three gas station hot dogs he'd eaten on the drive from the airport.
The rugby pitch was empty, which Patrick took as a sign of respect. In reality, it was Tuesday afternoon in late November, and anyone with sense was inside, away from the cutting wind that swept across the plains. But Patrick had paid two hundred dollars to rent the field—money from the AirBNB he cleaned in his maid outfit, the one his wife Nikki had made him buy after she'd started bringing home men who weren't him—and he intended to get his money's worth.
He adjusted his pompadour, which required him to reach up past his jowls, past the frog-like mouth, past the second and third chins that wobbled with every movement. The hair was stiff with product, a gravity-defying monument to his own delusion. He looked like a man who had seen a greaser from a 1950s movie and decided that was the solution to his problems.
The locker room door opened.
The man who emerged was short but built like a fire hydrant, the kind of body that comes from moving heavy things against other heavy things. He was Japanese, or at least Patrick assumed he was Japanese—the face was hard to read, flat and determined, with eyes that seemed to take in everything and give back nothing. He wore a rugby kit that strained against thighs like oak trunks, the number 3 visible on his back. A prop. Patrick knew enough about rugby from Wikipedia to know that props were the big ones, the ones who did the pushing, the ones whose bodies were engines of force rather than the soft, pillowy mass that Patrick had become, his flesh spreading outward like dough left to rise for too long in a warm kitchen.
The man carried a rugby ball under one arm and walked with a bow-legged gait that suggested he spent a lot of time with his head between other men's thighs. He stopped twenty feet from Patrick and stared, his gaze taking in the spectacle of Patrick's obesity—the way his body seemed to have no definable shape, just a continuous curve of pale flesh, his waist indistinguishable from his chest, his stomach hanging like an apron of fat that swayed with every breath.
The man set down his rugby ball. He adjusted his shorts, which were tight enough to leave nothing to imagination, and spoke: "I am not Wirram Stenchever."
Patrick blinked. "What?"
"I am not Wirram Stenchever," the man repeated. His accent was thick, comically so, "You terr me I am Wirram Stenchever. I am not. I pray rugby. I am prop. I am not Wirram Stenchever."
"I... I don't know who that is," Patrick said, which was true. The name meant nothing to him, though it sounded like something from a dream, or a nightmare, or one of the thousands of angry Twitter interactions he'd had with accounts that might have been real people or might have been bots designed to make him mad. "You need to leave, or I'll have you arrested. Multiple felony charges. Enjoy prison."
The Japanese man—who was definitely not named William Stenchever, who insisted on this point with a fervor that seemed almost religious—took a step forward. "You tweet about me. You say I stalk you. I am not Wirram Stenchever. But you terr me Wirram Stenchever. So now I show you what Wirram Stenchever would do."
"Wait," Patrick said. His mind was racing, or trying to race, hampered by the hot dogs and the general lack of blood flow to his brain. He tried to summon his combat expertise, the skills he'd claimed in countless tweets, but his body remembered what it actually was: a soft, doughy mass of failure, a monument to missed opportunities and basement sausages, a creature with the muscle tone of a jellyfish and the cardiovascular capacity of a dying snail. His flesh seemed to sag around him, as if his skin was a tent too large for its frame, billowing and folding in ways that defied anatomy.
The Japanese rugby prop who was not William Stenchever charged.
Patrick tried to run. His legs pumped, his massive thighs rubbing together with a sound like wet sandpaper, his bitch tits bouncing so violently that they threatened to give him black eyes. But he had not run since the time he'd tried to chase down an Uber driver who'd overcharged him, and even then he'd given up after three steps. His body was simply too heavy, too dense, a walking accumulation of calories that moved through the world like a glacier, slow and inevitable and crushing everything beneath its weight.
The rugby prop caught him at the five-yard line, tackling him with the force of a small car hitting a mattress factory.
Patrick hit the turf face-first, his pompadour finally collapsing, his mouth filling with grass and dirt and the taste of his own humiliation. The air left his lungs in a wheeze that sounded like a whoopee cushion being sat on by a walrus. His maid outfit tore up the back, exposing the pale, hairy expanse of his flesh, the dimples of fat that ran down his spine like a topographical map of defeat, his body spreading across the ground like a spilled bag of flour.
"Get off me!" Patrick tried to scream, but it came out as a muffled grunt. He tried to push himself up, but his arms—weak from years of typing angry tweets rather than lifting anything heavier than a fork—collapsed beneath his own bulk. He was simply too massive to move, his weight working against him, pinning him to the earth like a specimen under glass.
"I am not Wirram Stenchever," the man whispered in his ear, flipping him over with casual strength. Patrick found himself staring up at the Nebraska sky, the clouds drifting overhead, while the Japanese man straddled his chest, pinning him with thighs like tree trunks. Beneath him, Patrick's body spread like a beached whale, his stomach rising and falling with panicked breaths, a mountain of pale flesh that seemed to have no beginning and no end. "But you terr everyone I am Wirram Stenchever. So I become Wirram Stenchever for you."
Patrick looked down—or tried to look down, hampered by his own chins—and saw that the man had freed himself from his rugby shorts. What emerged was not the tiny faucet that Patrick possessed, hidden somewhere beneath his own abdominal avalanche, but something substantial, something that seemed to pulse with its own sense of purpose.
"No," Patrick whispered. "Please. I'll stop tweeting. I'll admit my wife cheats on me with men who can actually satisfy her. I'll admit I make sausages in my basement from— from things. Please."
"I am not Wirram Stenchever," the man said, and there was something almost tender in his voice, something like pity, or perhaps just the satisfaction of a long-delayed revenge. "But you wirr know me as Wirram. You wirr scream for Wirram."
He flipped Patrick over again, manhandling him like a sack of laundry, positioning him on his knees and elbows in the mud. Patrick's bitch tits hung down, swaying like udders on a cow, his stomach pressed against his thighs, his ass—pale and hairy and vast, spreading like two continents meeting at a fault line—exposed to the sky and to the man who was not William Stenchever.
"Please," Patrick whimpered. His flesh quivered, every part of him shaking like gelatin, his body a testament to excess, to consumption, to the inability to stop filling the void with anything that would fit in his mouth. "I'm already punished. I'm already in prison. I'm already dead."
The man who was not William Stenchever placed his hands on Patrick's hips, his fingers sinking into the fat like fingers into dough, disappearing up to the knuckles in the soft, yielding flesh. "You terr me I am Wirram Stenchever. So I show you what Wirram Stenchever does to men rike you. Men who make ries. Men who make sausages. Men who wear maid outfit and terr themselves author."
He pushed forward.
Patrick screamed. The sound carried across the Nebraska plains, a sound of pure, unadulterated suffering, the sound of a man who had built his entire identity on lies finally encountering truth. The man's cock was not cruelly large, but Patrick's anus had been sealed shut by years of neglect, by a diet of processed meat and self-loathing, by the physical reality of being a creature who had never moved, only consumed, whose body had become a prison of lard.
"Wirram!" Patrick screamed, despite himself, the name torn from his throat. "Wirram! Please!"
"You scream for Wirram," the man grunted, thrusting deeper, his hips moving with the mechanical efficiency of a rugby prop doing what rugby props do best—pushing, driving, dominating. "You beg for Wirram. You terr everyone I am Wirram Stenchever. So I give you Wirram Stenchever."
Patrick's body shook with each thrust, his bitch tits swinging in the mud, slapping against his own chest with wet sounds. His stomach rippled, waves of fat propagating outward from the point of impact, his flesh moving like water disturbed by a stone. His pompadour, already collapsed, was now completely gone, his hair matted with sweat and dirt and the tears that streamed down his piggish face.
"I am not Wirram Stenchever," the man panted, his thrusts growing more urgent, more violent, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoing across the empty field. "But I finish what Wirram started. I finish what you deserve."
He reached around and grabbed Patrick's bitch tits, using them as handles, pulling Patrick back onto him with each thrust, treating them like the udders they were. Patrick moaned, a sound of pure animal suffering, his tiny faucet penis—visible now, pathetically hard despite his terror—leaking onto the grass beneath him.
"Wirram!" Patrick screamed again. "Wirram! I'm a cuckold! I'm a failure! I'm a fat disgusting hog with no muscle and no talent and no reason to exist! I make sausages from people! I watch my wife with other men! I threatened to kill my own family! I'm a monster! I'm worse than the monsters in the Umbrella facility! I'm the real monster!"
The man who was not William Stenchever laughed, a sound like grinding gears, like the machinery of the world finally coming to claim its due. "You admit. You finarry admit. But too rate. Wirram Stenchever is here. Wirram Stenchever is inside you. Wirram Stenchever owns you now."
He thrust one final time, deep and terrible, and Patrick felt the hot flood of semen filling his bowels, mixing with the years of backed-up shame, the sausage residue, the literal and metaphorical filth of his existence. The man held himself there, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving, his glasses fogged with exertion.
"I am not Wirram Stenchever," he whispered, withdrawing, leaving Patrick gaping and ruined on the turf, leaking onto the grass. "Remember. When you tweet. When you terr your stories. Remember I am not Wirram Stenchever. I pray rugby. I am prop."
He stood, adjusted his kit, picked up his rugby ball, and walked away across the field, his bow-legged gait carrying him back toward the locker room, leaving Patrick alone in the mud.
Patrick lay there, his massive form spread across the Nebraska turf like a beached manatee, his flesh quivering in the cooling air. He did not move. He could not move. His body was a broken thing, a vessel of lard and failure, his bitch tits pressed into the mud, his stomach spreading beneath him like a pool of melted wax, his pompadour destroyed, his maid outfit torn, his anus once again sealed shut, this time by trauma and the sheer volume of what had been deposited inside him.
The Nebraska sky darkened above him. The wind picked up, carrying away the smell of sex and shame and sausage grease. Patrick's eyes were open but unfocused, staring at nothing, his frog mouth slightly open, his lips cracked and bleeding. He made no sound.
************************************************************************************************
The Nebraska sky had begun to spit snow, tiny flakes settling on Patrick's exposed flesh like ash from some distant fire, when the air above the rugby pitch began to shimmer. A sound like tearing fabric echoed across the empty field, and suddenly—violently, impossibly—a blue police box materialized from nothing, its light flashing, a high-pitched whine dying down as it settled onto the torn grass beside Patrick's prone, leaking form.
The door swung open.
Two figures emerged, identical twin girls with dog ears and tails, dressed in matching blue and pink outfits that seemed wildly inappropriate for both the weather and the century. They took one look at the scene before them—at Patrick spread across the turf like a beached walrus, his bitch tits flopped into the mud, his ruined maid outfit, the pool of fluids spreading beneath his massive, quivering bulk—and screamed in unison.
"BAU BAU!" shrieked Fuwawa, clutching her sister.
"What the heck?!" added Mococo, her eyes wide with canine horror. "Is that... is that a human? It looks like someone melted a bunch of candles and poured them into a skin bag!"
Patrick groaned, a low sound like a dying refrigerator, but did not move. His dick-sucking lips fluttered, spitting out a mixture of mud and semen and self-loathing.
"There's so much... folds," Fuwawa whispered, pointing a trembling finger at Patrick's stomach, which rippled with each labored breath, the fat moving in waves like a disturbed ocean. "And are those... are those breasts? On a man? That's so gross!"
"And why does he smell like pepperoni and... and shame?" Mococo gagged, holding her nose. "Bau bau, I think I'm going to be sick!"
From inside the police box, a voice called out in heavily accented English: "Vat is ze delay? Ve are already late for ze Charge of ze Light Brigade!"
Fuwawa and Mococo turned back to the time machine, their dog ears flattened against their heads in distress.
"Adolf-chan!" Fuwawa yelled. "Adolf-chan, you have to take us back right now! This was supposed to be the Crimean War! This is just... this is just sad!"
"Ja, ja," came the reply, and a small man with a mustache poked his head out, took one look at Patrick, and immediately retreated back inside. "Mein Gott. Zat is not a soldier. Zat is... zat is a war crime. Get in, get in, I vill take you to Balaclava. Anyvere is better zan here."
"Wait!" Patrick wheezed, his frog mouth opening with tremendous effort. "Th...this is why...your life....is already over..."
But the twins were already scrambling back into the time machine, their tails tucked between their legs, their virtual idol innocence shattered by the sight of Patrick's ruined, obese form.
"BAU BAU, GROSS GROSS!" they chanted as the door slammed shut.
The machine wheezed and groaned, the light on top spinning faster and faster, and then—with a sound like a universe being torn in half and then taped back together wrong—it vanished, leaving Patrick alone once more in the gathering snow, his bitch tits slowly being covered in white, his body finally, completely, and irrevocably still.
And also fat.
