Under the flickering fluorescent lights, she wearily took the last
bite of her feast. Delicately, she sat the fork down beside a tarnished
silver platter, let out a deep sigh and wiped the edges of her mouth
with a satin napkin. After a dramatic pause, her two assistants helped
her to her feet and braced her as she turned to face the crowd. She
inclined her head toward the scattered silhouettes littering the
bleachers as a smattering of applause rattled in from the darkness. To
her it sounded like the last falling drops of rain that followed a
storm. As her two assistants backed away with a flourish she rocked
back and forth, slowly turning her broad back to the audience. The
floorboards of the stage creaked in quiet protest as she inched her way
toward the open door of her trailer.
It hadn't always been this way. There was a time when her
performances had been met by avid spectators gathered in eager droves.
They would herd like sheep, packed shoulder to shoulder just to steal a
closer glimpse of her. Astonished, they would gape as she sat before
them, perched upon her stool, clad in the canopy of a floral dress that
barely contained her person. In mesmerized voyeurism they would gaze as
she thrust immense meals into her eager mouth - into the seeming chasm
that waited within. Entire towns would rally around her; buying tickets
to her daily shows just to see if she'd grown visibly larger overnight;
watching furtively as she occasionally feigned an inability to continue;
cheering for her to resume the devouring ritual of her singular banquet;
applauding as she somehow found the will to force down each and every
morsel. Even her detractors attended regularly, surveying the circulars
that announced her daily menu and, with caustic regard, captiously
making certain that she didn't skip a single solitary tidbit. After the
shows a procession would file by as she signed their photographs and let
their children (who usually regarded her with innocent astonishment)
touch the outstretched monument of her turgid belly.
Now the times were different. She had become a casualty of the
modern; her former admirers were now too busy with their cellular
phones, computers, and coffee shops; their children lost to the pied
pipers of cable television and video games. True, she still had her
followers, but their legions had shriveled into a scattered handful,
usually located in the smaller towns where the grasp of progress had not
yet reached. In most parts of the country professional feasting had
become passé, and she an antique at only twenty-eight years old. For a
short while she'd been able to profit from their desertion, making her
rounds through the talk-show circuit as an uninitiated public sought to
comprehend the nature of her chosen profession. But she had quickly
tired of their insults and the puerility of their mocking concerns -
some had accused her of slothfulness, a lack of self-esteem, or even
mental illness; others had gone so far as to offer her the services of
several frenzied dietitians. Their ignorance stabbed at her like a cold
dagger but she only pitied them for their blindness. She knew the truth
of the matter; that in all the world, there was no calling more
demanding than that of an eatist. What Olympic weightlifter could bear
the hundreds of pounds that relentlessly bore down upon her, every
minute of every day? What marathon runner could take the days of
incessant discomfort and shortness of breath that were her constant
companions? Who among them had to sacrifice their bodies as she did;
stretching, bloating, distending themselves until they entered the realm
of human oddity? But she didn't delude herself with any false nobility
or illusions of martyrdom - she was an eatist because she had to be.
Eatistry was like her heartbeat; something uncontrollable and
involuntary yet necessary to keep her alive. It was something that spun
within her atoms, beneath the world of desire and ambition, outside the
imprint of a genetic code.
The door of her trailer was closed behind her as she sat down on
the edge of her bed. The twenty foot journey had been exacting as
usual, and she waited to catch her breath as she nodded to the
conservatively dressed woman who sat across the room. In every town
there were women like this one who kept her company after each show;
usually disgruntled housewives or widows with little else to do. Her
manager had thought up the idea as a promotional gag but it had
gradually become something of a requirement. The woman was there to
represent the public's interest, to make sure that the eatist didn't
cheat by purging herself. Sometimes she would toy with one of them,
pretending that she was nauseous, acting as though she were about to
toss up the vast meal she'd just consumed. Out of the corner of her eye
she would glimpse the excitement and anticipation building as she faked
a set of dry heaves. They observer would usually slide forward to the
edge of her seat, clutching eagerly at a handkerchief, purse, or the hem
of her dress, lips parted in anticipation, perched in readiness so she
could immediately run and report the event to the town council. They
didn't know that she would never give them the satisfaction, for she had
studied under one of the greatest eatists of all time - a true
grandmaster in his field.
He was the one who helped her realize her purpose. She was only
eighteen when they first met; a waifish girl wandering through a
festival in search of amusement. She happened upon his performance by
accident, or perhaps fate, and was immediately enthralled by his
prowess. She had seized the opportunity to meet him after the show and,
in short order, found herself hired as his assistant. He soon discerned
a potential that lay dormant within her and took her on as his
understudy - initiating her into a lifestyle of true eatistry. At
first, her training went slowly as he guardedly oversaw her development,
choosing the ingredients and portions of her various meals, encouraging
her to explore the elusive pleasure that came with overt indulgence.
Her natural talent soon became evident and his instruction changed
accordingly, from a nurturing teacher into a relentless taskmaster. As
she began to grow, he challenged her capacity in ever increasing
measure, causing her expand even quicker which, as a matter of course,
meant that she was required to eat even larger amounts of even more
fattening foods - a vicious, yet exultant cycle. Her smooth skin
quickly became riddled with accentuating stretch marks and pebbled with
cellulite as she swelled outward in all directions, her flesh slowly
folding over onto itself as her body struggled to store her ever
burgeoning poundage. It was a true metamorphosis; like a butterfly
emerging from its chrysalis, she ascended from a life of spindly
dissatisfaction into a world of manifest corpulence.
As she blossomed, he also instructed her in the hidden
disciplines: the meditations that allowed her to completely relax her
stomach, the herbal medicines that would allow her to keep her health,
the breathing techniques that minimized discomfort, the special
exercises that would allow her to maintain her mobility even at
incredible weights. He also taught her how to perform on stage: how to
hold her utensils, the proper positioning of her body, the choice of
props, the dramatic pauses and gestures, which foods to choose and in
what order. In three short years, she progressed from apprentice to
expert - growing into a true leviathan of a woman in the process. Then
the day came when she ambled to his tent at the edge of the fairgrounds
and found him gone. A letter and a package sat beside the tray from
which she'd been fed so many boundless meals. The letter explained that
he'd taken her on as more than his apprentice; he had been training her
to be his replacement. He apologized for being so difficult at times,
expressed his pride and admiration in her progress, wished her well and
signed the letter with a loving good-bye. She unwrapped the package
with tear-filled eyes and found inside a meticulously framed document;
an elaborate and decorative diploma that certified her status as a
master eatist. From that day forward, not a day passed where she did
not think fondly upon her former teacher, though she never saw nor heard
from him again.
So to lose face in front of any observer would be the greatest of
insults, not only to herself but also to the entire tradition which she
endeavored to carry. She gave the woman a friendly smile and told her
to help herself to the tray of milk and cookies that sat on the table
beside her. It gave her a distinct pleasure offering the woman food -
an irony that only an eatist could fully appreciate. Sliding back into
her bed, she got herself propped comfortably between her pillows and
picked up the book she'd been reading. After a few pages she began to
wander aimlessly between the words and the jumble of thoughts weighed
heavily on her eyelids. She looked over to the woman, watching her take
a mousy nibble from one of the cookies, and drifted off into a deep,
cottony sleep.
She awoke on the heels of a dream, sat up, and looked at the
clock. Her stomach had become a finely tuned instrument, more accurate
than any timepiece crafted by man, waking her just minutes before
dinner. The woman was gone, but the observers rarely stayed for long.
Every now and then she'd get a tenacious one - some even stayed
overnight - but for the most part they clung around for a few hours and
then quietly crept out. Sliding herself out of bed, she made her way to
the sink and doused her face with cold water. As she looked at herself
in the mirror, water dripping from her plump cheeks and into the crevice
of her chin, she thought about her dream.
It was a recurring image, one that visited almost every day of her
life. She saw herself sitting naked in a field of flowers; magnolias
and daffodils spreading themselves over the countryside in a living
tapestry. The sky was blue, the breeze was like a loving caress, birds
chirped overhead, the ground beneath her was warm and comforting. A
line of people formed before her in single file, stretching as far as
she could see; men, women and children of all conceivable nationalities,
each bearing a small, edible gift: a muffin, an eclair, a sandwich, a
piece of chicken, a peanut butter cup. Each was offered and each she
ate with particular appreciation and satisfaction. As the people
passed, the gifts grew successively larger; single candies became boxes,
pastries were served by the baker's dozen, turkeys were served whole and
so forth. She struggled to keep up with the rush of food as the skies
began to grow dark. Lightning flashed in the distance, the sky walked
across the land on a thousand electric tendrils, and thunder roared as
though the Earth itself had become a beast. The clouds directly above
her began to join together, racing faster and faster upon themselves
until they formed a vast whirlpool in the heavens. Then it appeared. A
huge funnel cloud, a tornado unlike any ever formed by God's breath
stretched down from the sky; miles wide at its peak it reached down
towards to her, gaining power as all its energies were concentrated and
tapered into a tail of few scant inches - a tail that forced open and
entered into her gaping mouth. She was frozen in place by an
unimaginable weight as the people began racing by her, throwing their
offerings into the whirling mass. The food came from boxes, then
buckets, then baskets, and finally from huge barrels. All of it was
shredded by the churning cloud and then plunged explosively into her.
Filled by the cycling wind and the deluge of food, her body surged
outward in a grand eruption of flesh. Her belly and breasts rolled
forward in a vast tidal wave; the flesh of her arms, legs and backside
were an avalanche emerging all around her. The mass of her chest began
to rise upward, making her feel as if she were sinking into herself,
until she was finally immersed deep within her own body. Enveloped in
darkness by her own flesh she could still feel herself growing larger,
sense her body stretching across the ground, expanding and expanding -
and then the dream ended. Though it might have sounded like a nightmare
to some, for her the entire series of events, all the food, the forces
assailing her, all the sensations were...ecstatic.
There was a knock on the door and the sound of a familiar voice.
One of her assistants entered and placed two large, paper bags on the
table beside her, asked if she needed anything else and then promptly
left. She sniffed the bags - the night's selections would be Southern
fare: ribs and fried pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, collard
greens, macaroni and cheese, creamed corn, biscuits and apple pie. As
she began to eat, she felt the certain frustration that always followed
her dream. It represented a hidden desire; to be surfeited and cloyed
beyond all expectation, to submit without reason or hesitation to the
hunger that dwelled within. It was a consummation that she wished for
devoutly. But in the annuls of history only a handful of eatists had
journeyed into that outermost region. The most extreme case history on
record had made it to just under 1,500 pounds before he was forced, by
failing health, to return to comparative normalcy. But he had been
almost forty years old and here she was, not even thirty yet. 1,500
pounds, the number resonated inside her head - almost double her present
weight (which was already a sizable burden); three quarters of a ton of
gargantuan, elephantine, glorious fat. But at that weight walking would
be nearly, if not totally, impossible. She could find herself immobile,
and then who would take care of her, and how could she perform? Even
if she decided to try, food cost money and she already gobbled up almost
every bit of her earnings. This was the pragmatism of it all. These
were the cold hard facts that kept her from realizing the worldly
expression of her hauntingly delightful dream.
Seemingly for the thousandth time, she reached into her pocket and
pulled out a small, soiled card. It had been given to her over a year
ago by a dark-haired stranger who had come to visit after one of her
shows. He had been frighteningly blunt and straightforward; he praised
her unique beauty and offered to take her away from the show, to put her
up in an apartment beside his restaurant, and to feed her everything
that her heart desired. He said that she would be treated like an
empress; that she would want for nothing. At the time, it all seemed
too good to be true and besides, she had her eatistry to think of - but
still she kept the card. She placed it carefully back into her pocket
and proceeded to finish her meal.
A few weeks later, the impresario gathered all the festival's
members together and delivered the news that they had all feared was
coming...it was over. The decline in public interest had taken the
ultimate toll and they were finally going under. Assets were
liquidated, severance pays were given and a short time later, she found
herself in a dingy hotel room, unpacking her suitcases and wondering
about her future. After a few days of sulking, she dialed the number on
the card. When she finally got the man on the phone, he didn't remember
her. She described their initial meeting and, as he recollected, there
was an immediate change in his demeanor. He became excited; stammering,
and exuberant he wanted to know exactly where she was. He offered to
buy her a plane ticket, but she explained that airlines weren't usually
equipped to handle a woman of her girth. She said that she could take a
bus, but he wouldn't hear of it. He asked for her room number and told
her that she would hear from him in the morning. With the coming of
dawn, a chauffeur loaded her possessions into the trunk of a limousine
and she was on her way.
Victor Bartelli owned a highly successful Italian restaurant just
outside of New York. It had been in his family for generations and had
a dimly lit, well-worn charm. The tables were checkered red with a
stained glass lamp over each one; the walls were mahogany and covered
with signed photographs of famous Italian actors, musicians and
athletes; the floor was gray marble tile that had been tempered by
countless passing footsteps. There was a full bar in the back, a bakery
counter in the front, and a restaurant full of customers in-between.
The day she arrived, Victor gave her a quick tour and then led her to a
large booth toward the rear of the building, across from the double
doors that led to the kitchen. Inside there was a table with a granite
top cut in the shape of a semicircle and a large, plush chair
upholstered in crimson velvet. The chair had casters which allowed her
to roll forward, fitting her into the recess of the table, which put the
entire surface with easy reach. Mere minutes after her entrance the
table and chair were being put to good use as she found herself being
served a veritable feast of veal parmesan, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo,
spaghetti and a Caesar salad smothered in rich dressing. Victor was
wasting no time in keeping his promises.
As she ate, they talked. She told him tales of her travels and he
told her stories of the many notable characters that had patronized his
restaurant over the years. When she finished a plate, he would gesture
towards the kitchen and another would take its place. As such, the
table was kept perpetually full as she went about the business of
stuffing herself. This went on for hours until, when another fresh
plate of pasta was set before her, she finally announced that she was
full. He ordered the food taken away, but insisted that she hadn't had
dessert yet. A waitress appeared with a tray that had four generous
slices of varying pies and three equally generous pieces of cake. She
said that she couldn't possibly eat another thing. He merely smiled and
retorted that she was an eatist, wasn't she? He picked up a fork,
scooped a generous bite of cream cheese, chocolate pound cake and
offered it to her. Reluctantly, she leaned forward and took it into her
mouth.
Half an hour later, the tray was empty and she was sated to the
point of exhaustion. She said that she needed to lie down and so he
helped her to her feet and lead her to a second surprise. Directly
behind the booth was a large door almost exactly the same color as the
chair she'd been sitting in. It opened into a large apartment furnished
quite elegantly with antiques. There was a large leather couch to her
left and a set of double doors to her right that led into a bedroom -
equally well furnished - with a king-sized, four poster bed in the
center of the long wall. She noted that he must have a predilection
with crimson as she admired the satin sheets. He helped her into the bed
and, as she began situating pillows to prop herself up, handed her a
small metal box connected to a gray cord. She pushed a button and the
head of the mattress silently rose behind her - an adjustable bed,
something she'd dreamed of having for years. There was a bouquet of
lilacs on the dresser beside her and she breathed in their pleasant
scent as she quickly wafted off to sleep.
Sometime later, another pleasant smell roused her back to
consciousness. When her eyes opened she saw a polished, wooden table
hovering directly above her belly. It had the same semicircle shape as
the one in the restaurant and was supported by a chrome rod that
extended to the right and then angled toward the floor. Sat before her
was a large bowl of ice cream with whipped topping and a cherry, a very
large slice of steaming hot pecan pie, a napkin, silverware, and a
single rose with a card propped against it. In elegant script was
written a single word..."Enjoy", which is exactly what she did.
Two weeks later, she stood beside that same bed as she and Victor
began what had become a morning ritual. Hidden beneath the carpet where
she was standing was a large metal plate wired to a box mounted at
eye-level on the wall. She tried to be still as the numbers on its
digital readout rolled by in slot-machine fashion. With a beep, the
display flashed 802 lbs. She'd weighed 768 the day she arrived so this
was no small accomplishment. Victor wanted to celebrate her "passage
into the eights" as he called it, with a special toast. He asked her to
stay put as he hurried into the next room. He returned holding a
pitcher of milk in one hand and in the other, a funnel. It only took a
moment for her to deduce his intentions and the thought simultaneously
disturbed and excited her; she was perturbed that he could be so
presumptuous, yet titillated by the fact that the idea had occurred to
him at all. Still, she didn't want to seem overly compliant, so she
stubbornly refused him as he explained his idea, pouting and pleading
with her to at least give it a try. After a few minutes, she snatched
the funnel from his hand in mock disgust, tilted her head back and put
it in her mouth. She grunted her readiness as he began to pour. It had
been many long years since she'd learned the skill of opening her
throat, allowing her to swallow large amounts of fluid with relative
ease - on stage she had downed many a pitcher in a single draft - but
this was different. Somebody was pouring it into her this time; it was
an external force, it was an offering, it was strange, it was familiar,
and then she closed her eyes...and felt the tornado. The drink became
like a swirling cloud, spinning its way from above and spiraling
downward into her. She fancied that she could hear it as it flowed down
her throat, and the sound was like a boiling wind, like walking
thunder. It was a natural force swirling inside her, churning, filling
her, moving with a life of its own, causing her to grow, to expand the
very essence of her being, it was...ecstatic.
After the last drop had trickled down her throat she began to
return from her reverie, and then she noticed the taste - what she had
just swallowed was not milk; it had tasted good, excellent actually, but
it wasn't milk. She asked Victor about it as she removed the funnel and
wiped her mouth. Hesitantly, he confessed that it was a special
concoction he'd put together just for her: a mixture of almond oil,
coconut milk, whole milk, cream, and icing. She chuckled and asked him
why he didn't just throw some lard in it to make it even more
fattening. He replied that in all honesty, the icing did have
shortening in it, along with butter and sugar. She paused a moment,
licked her lips, eyed him sensually and asked for another. He quickly
went into the next room and returned this time with two pitchers. She
shouldn't blame him for wishful thinking, he said. She didn't.
Instead, she took a deep breath, tilted her head back, steadied the
funnel with both hands, and waited. With a fervent, "Salute!", Victor
once again began to pour the storm into her.
After that remarkable morning, whatever modicums of restraint she
had been clinging to quickly dissolved away, eroded by the raging spirit
that dwelled within her. Every morning she partook of Victor's special
"toasts" with passionate fervor then, after a few hours rest, made her
way into the restaurant for a vast, luncheon feast. After another rest
(during which Victor invariably brought her a "snack" that would have
constituted a meal for an ordinary person) she returned for dinner, the
largest meal of the day. She was served ever increasing amounts of
various casseroles, lasagna, ravioli, macaroni and cheese, cannelloni -
cheese and pasta had quickly become the incredibly fattening staples of
her diet - and, for nutrition's sake, mounds of various vegetables
(which ironically swam in pools of butter). After another respite she
was usually served desserts in bed: various candies, cakes, pies,
pastries and ice creams of nearly infinite variety. In short, her
entire days were spent either eating or sleeping with time for little
else in-between.
From an eatist who had performed for hundreds, and then for a
scattered few, she now gave gratis performances for the patrons that
frequented Victor's restaurant. He was still her main spectator, but
out of respect for her profession she'd had him remove the walls of her
booth so that the customers could have an unobstructed view. He had
taken the cue and installed a special set of lights that illuminated her
table with special emphasis. The room always fell silent as she entered
in a billowing gown, ambled the short distance between the crimson door
and her chair, carefully took her seat with the help of the two nurses
that Victor had hired for her, and began devouring the regale that was
spread before her. Sometimes she would dig in like a starving animal,
eliciting gasps from the onlookers. Other times she would eat the
smallest bites, inexorably, slowly marching from dish to dish, holding
the crowd in a somnambulistic trance as they wondered which bite would
finally be her last; she hadn't lost her touch. Few of them had ever
gotten the chance to see an eatist at work, so word quickly got around.
Consequently, business at Victor's was booming like never before.
Reservations for most of the tables had to be made weeks in advance, and
the ones closest to the eatist were backlogged for months solid. Once
again she had her captive public: passers by, curiosity seekers, fans,
devotees, and even the disdainful (who showed up regularly just so they
could be offended by the sight of her).
One day some weeks later, she stood beside the bed, steadying
herself as she watched the electronic readout on the wall. Victor had
possessed the uncanny foresight, or perhaps it was just ambitiousness,
of having it read to four digits - a capability which was finally put to
good use. The beep sounded and the number on the wall read 1,004 lbs.
She had known that it was coming; the previous day she had weighed in at
998, and knowing that she'd been gaining about five pounds a day on
average, had tried to push her gluttonous zeal even further, but still
the numbers filled her with excitement. She had just crossed a
threshold that only a handful of eatists had ever known. She fancied
that she was living out, if only in comparative slow motion, the
expansion that filled her dreams. The true beauty of it was that the
reality actually surpassed the fantasy since she was getting to savor
every ounce and inch of her transformation.
But again, she didn't delude herself - the past 200 pounds had been
telling, and the burdens they placed upon her were becoming increasingly
difficult to bear. Her skin was being stretched to its limit - new
stretch marks had appeared, old stretch marks had turned into
striations, old striations had become furrows, and though she was kept
continually oiled to promote elasticity, this only diminished the
problem. She could no longer get herself out of bed without substantial
help from her nurses; not because she wasn't strong enough to do it
herself, but because her skin couldn't take the strain. A
disproportionate amount of her new weight had settled into her breasts,
having grown so huge that they settled on the mattress to either side of
her like fleshy sandbags. To turn over by herself she had to reel one
of them in, much like a fisherman pulling in his net, convey it across
her stomach and try to keep it under control as it lolled over and atop
its twin. It was much like trying to manage a fifty pound water balloon
while keeping it from bursting.
The mass of her belly presented similar difficulties. When she
scooted toward the edge of the mattress, it would bunch up underneath
her; then, as she pushed her feet toward the floor, it would spill
forward, a gargantuan sack of gelatin rolling off a cliff, snatched to a
savage halt as her skin was suddenly yanked to drumhead tautness. When
the nurses helped her out of bed, they had to cradle her various body
parts as they rolled off the mattress, letting the weight settle as
gently as possible, taking her hands as she pulled herself erect and
drew the soft mass of her buttocks off the bed like two massive,
pebble-filled bags. Even when she made it to her feet, the tension of
her settling weight required that she make no sudden movements, or else
the ensuing stress might injure her or, even worse, cause her to lose
her balance. Each shuffling step had to be carefully measured as it
sent undulating waves through the soft masses of fat that comprised most
of her physique. Every time she moved, it was like trying to walk
inside a washing machine - various parts of her body oscillating and
surging this way and that.
The whole experience made her think; how in God's name could anyone
make it to 1,500 pounds? It would mean adding half again to her already
onerous weight, a prospect which filled her with equal amounts of
apprehension and anticipation. Still, she stood there with the funnel
in her mouth as Victor offered a celebratory drink commemorating her
breach of the half-ton mark. He had mixed up a huge jug, so heavy that
he had to prop it on his shoulder as the milky white fluid chugged into
her. She had never tried to take so much at a single time, but wanted
to mark the occasion just as much as he did. When the flow finally
stopped she gasped for air and then let out a resonating belch. The
readout on the wall reflected the impressive weight of her latest quaff
as she basked in its unremitting afterglow. She new that it was only a
temporary gain, that her body would only retain only a small portion of
the actual weight, but that was just a detail; she knew that, soon
enough, that number would represent her true weight and then become a
distant memory.
As the pounds continued to mount, she still made a point of keeping
her daily appearances in the restaurant. It was important to her since
she was, after all, still an eatist. In fact, she was on the road to
becoming the greatest eatist of all time, and she certainly didn't want
to deny her public the opportunity to appreciate her uniqueness. But
the journey from the bedroom to her private table was becoming more
taxing by the day. To reduce the strain, she resorted to having the
nurses take her up to the door in her special wheelchair, then help her
up so that she could make an entrance under her own power. She insisted
upon this; it was a matter of pride as much as effect. She knew that
the sight of her protruding breasts emerging from the doorway, followed
by her quaking belly, trailed by her rolling chins, cheeks and
undulating arms, finally punctuated by the prominent shelf that was her
posterior, would inspire immeasurable awe. She only required the nurses
help to get her seated, and then to help her up again as she exited her
performance. Once back in the apartment, they would help her settle
into the chair then push her into the bedroom. If nothing else, the
illusion was secure - for all the public knew, she made the journey
entirely under her own power.
Day by day, pound by pound, her pride and resolve were being
increasingly tested and her illusions replaced by inescapable concerns.
There was still the indescribable pleasure that she savored, a
satisfaction gleaned only from unfettered lust - but the joy she
experienced was being purchased at an ever escalating cost. Gravity was
her constant companion, an unwelcomed guest clinging to her like a
suffocating fog. She began to feel detached from herself, as if her
body were no longer hers...it was a couch wrapped around her, a pool
that she swam in. She imagined that she was no longer just getting
fatter; she was actually becoming FAT itself, as if it were a complete
state of being. But in the end, none of these concerns really mattered
to her, for she felt that this was eatistry's purest expression; a
distillation where pain and pleasure were fused into a single
phenomenon; a distinction where doubt and certainty became one in the
same.
Daunted yet undaunted, her weight soon crested the 1,200 pound mark
and she had to make even further adjustments to her lifestyle. Her
thighs had grown larger than oil barrels and their sheer girth and
weight made it nearly impossible for her to move her feet anymore.
Victor had a special platform was made so that she could be wheeled out
into the restaurant while standing up. It had a handrail for her to
prop herself against and, as she was pushed in, she would wave to her
audience as though she were arriving on an incoming train. It wasn't as
grand an entrance as before, but it still packed a punch. But when, a
short time later, her weight reached just under 1,300 pounds, even this
became impossible; she could no longer step up onto the platform because
the strain was too immense and besides, it was quickly becoming
unbearable for her to remain standing for more than a few seconds at a
time. After that, as a simple matter of pride, she disappeared from
public view. Victor repeatedly tried to convince her to be wheeled out
to her table, saying that it wasn't anything to be ashamed of, but she
adamantly refused, confined herself to the bedroom and continued to
pursue her destiny in seclusion.
Several months later, Victor called a press conference at the
restaurant. The building was packed to capacity - standing room only -
filled with reporters, camera crews and several customers who'd fought
their way inside. After stalling sufficiently for the anticipation to
build, the nurses opened the new set of crimson double doors that led to
the apartment. The room fell into pristine silence as she slowly walked
out. The first thing to enter the room was the scarlet clad walrus of
her lower belly, fully six feet wide at the base, which seemed to be
crawling across the floor under its own power. A quick glance showed
that it was actually sitting on top of a wide platform that moved across
the floor on tank-like treads (it was only because of the weight it bore
that she was able to manage this imitation of walking). Next came two
masses that were identifiable as breasts only because of her punctuated
nipples straining against the fabric. They undulated hypnotically
across the mound of her stomach like two great, stranded pendulums. The
taut skin of her chest stretched backwards and upwards several feet
until it stopped at a roll of flesh that surrounded her neck like a
brace. It was so thick that it had set off a chain reaction: pushing
her chin prominently outward, which forced her lips into a pucker,
making her cheeks push upward, and forcing her eyes into narrowed
slits. She had her hair done in an almost geisha fashion to accentuate
her new countenance. Her upper arms were like bags of grain stacked one
on top of the other, folding obstinately onto the Virginia hams of her
forearms. Her hands emerged from the laden flesh of her wrists like
balloons with splayed, marshmallowy fingers attached. Her hips could
have doubled as tractor tires; her thighs were the trunks of redwood
trees; her calves were kegs. Finally her buttocks appeared; following
like a separate entity it extended almost a yard from the stacked rolls
of her lower back, heaving prominently up and down as she took each
short, sauntering step. Completely out of the room, she pressed a
button on the remote control in her hand, bringing her motorized
belly-mobile to a halt, and smiled flirtatiously as she steadied
herself. She stood before them in her gargantuan glory - a living
monument to all of eatistry - clad in a vast red body suit that
stretched across the realm of her body like a second skin. The
photographers flashes set the air on fire as the reporters yelled their
questions in garbled unison.
She responded to their battery of questions with appropriate grace
and charm, but wouldn't surrender the answer to the one question that
kept being repeated. She ignored or diverted every attempt to pry it
from her - watching with smooth satisfaction as their curiosity grew to
yearning, their yearning to frustration, their frustration to outright
misery. Finally, she held up a fleshy palm, signifying that the
interview was over. A button was pressed and the platform began to turn
slowly in place. She shuffled her feet, carefully sidestepping around
the rotating mass of her belly as the crowd let out a moan of
disappointment. In desperation, one of the reporters dropped to his
knees directly in front of her, clutched his hands and pleaded at the
top of his voice. Pausing, she looked down at him and pouted in
contrived pity. She then surveyed the crowd as it fell silent once
again; wide eyed and slack-jawed they returned her gaze and waited. She
nodded to Victor and resumed the process of getting herself turned
around and back into the apartment.
He pulled an envelope from his jacket, opened it carefully, pulled
out a piece of paper and began making a speech. He informed the
gathered masses that, in his hand, he held a notarized document prepared
by three physicians who had visited earlier that morning. After testing
the accuracy of the scale they kept in her bedroom, they had witnessed
as she was weighed, then documented the results. Victor cleared his
throat, paused for a moment, then added that up to this day, the
greatest recorded weight for any eatist - for any human being in fact -
had been just under three-quarters of a ton. His fiancee' (as he could
now refer to her) had not only broken that record, she had shattered
it. After intense months of unequaled eatistry, in a display of passion
and commitment heretofore unseen, brooking the many hardships and
challenges facing her as she journeyed where none had dared go before,
she had finally, fascinatingly, arrived at the unprecedented weight
of...1,872 pounds. She allowed herself a smirk of wry satisfaction as
she waddled toward the apartment, proud that Victor had followed his
script to the letter, content that the conference couldn't have gone any
better. As she passed through the doorway, she let the echoing sound of
applause cascade through every inch of her body.
For a time, doctors from all over the world came to study her,
trying to ascertain how anyone could survive at her weight, hoping to
unravel the mystery of her body's incredible resolve but, despite all
their petri dishes and test tubes, the enigma of her being remained
intact. It was a profitable venture, but after a while she tired of
their probes and sent them away.
As far as the general public was concerned, their was considerable
speculation as to whether or not she would ever make the one ton mark
especially since, after her initial press conference, her gains had
quickly slowed then ground to a halt. Though she could have put on the
necessary pounds with relative ease, she decided it would be best to
leave that noteworthy goal to some future, aspiring eatist. She had to
leave them something for them to strive for, didn't she? Instead, she
drew sublime satisfaction from the fact that her accomplishment had
single-handedly caused a national resurgence of interest in her fellow
feasters. All across the country, people were once again flocking to
the festivals, gathering in eager droves, hypnotized as the eatists gave
their performances. And perhaps, she thought, somewhere out there was a
waifish girl watching one of those eatists with particular awe, while
feeling the pull of a strange force that seemed to spin within her
atoms. She wondered if that girl would dream of tornadoes.
by The Studio
*****