Chapter 1 - police report & waking up

For three years Roland Carnes had been a regular at Murphy’s Law Irish Pub & Grill, as much a fixture of the place as the neon signs over the pool tables. After a mind-numbing day in the State Office of Vital Statistics, the big man would sit alone in an end booth, reading a thriller paperback and sipping a beer until his fried fish platter arrived. Just the sight of the greasy meal lit up his face; it was apparently the high point of his day. The book was then forgotten. Roland would dig into his dinner, first the thick golden slabs of whitefish with lots of tartar sauce and lemon, next the onion rings, and lastly the spicy hushpuppies, washing it all down with another couple of beers. When the waitress came to clear the empty plate, he’d order another. Not just another beer, but another entire meal, this time fried clams and mozzarella. He’d pick up the book and read while he waited, and repeat the entire process – only he was much slower getting the second platter down -- as if driven no longer by hunger, but simple gluttony. After perhaps three hours and six or eight beers, he’d settle up, leaving a generous tip, and slowly walk out into the night. Nothing had changed in this routine for years except the man’s weight, which had been steadily climbing.

*****

This was the account given by the bartender to the police after the big man’s mysterious disappearance. He didn’t recall anything unusual about the last night he’d seen Roland leave – no suspicious customers, nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps he had been a bit sluggish struggling to his feet, waddling out the door slower than usual – but was that really remarkable for a four-hundred-pound man who’d put away ten pounds of food and drink? Detective Tull shoved his notebook into his pocket with some disappointment and left a calling card with the bartender, but didn’t really hold out much hope. Good guy, quiet, kept to himself – that’s what they always say. This case was going nowhere fast. He knew what he’d be hearing from his cronies pretty soon. “Tull can’t find a four-hundred-pound man in a town of two thousand citizens,” they’d snicker. “Hell, my high school was bigger than that.”

Fortunately for Alyssa Morris, the bartender was gay. This is the only explanation for how he could have forgotten the dazzling blonde who had been flirting with him on the date in question. It was an occupational hazard: occasionally a lonely woman would get a buzz on and set her sights on taking him home, or at least scoring a few free drinks. Sometimes he would throw a free drink their way, as he had with Alyssa, but the bartender had a handsome young stud waiting for him at home in bed. Between that and the hectic pace of his job, he didn’t have much thought to give to Alyssa. Anyway, she hadn’t been anywhere near Roland.

However, she had seated herself right in front of the beer taps. And she certainly had been an incredible distraction to both him and the waitresses.

Breathing shallowly, Roland speared the last of the delicious fried clams with his fork and raised them to his lips. He chewed slowly and swallowed, feeling the resistance as they made their way to his stomach, which was already stuffed tight. Roland was a man who did not think being full was a sufficient reason to leave food on his plate. He spread his thick thighs a little further apart, allowing his round swollen belly to rest on the wooden bench between his legs. A little more comfortable, he returned to mindlessly gorging.

Alternating between the fried mozzarella sticks and swigs of beer, he began to feel that familiar warmth that signaled satisfaction. He stifled a burp and thought that perhaps it had an odd aftertaste. But driven to pack all the food away, he continued eating: more mozzarella, more beer, and finally the hushpuppies. With the last bite of food in his mouth, Roland found his eyelids growing heavy. He supposed it was just another side effect of his obesity – the heavier he got, the easier he tired out.

After paying, he slowly got to his feet. He felt almost dizzy, and his bloated stomach seemed a bit queasy, which was unusual. Something was wrong with that beer, he thought, tasting another bitter burp. The last thing Roland remembered was drifting down the sidewalk towards his house. After that everything went dark.


*****

He awoke with a splitting headache to a boom of thunder. Beside his hospital bed was a window looking out onto a red clay yard, overgrown with weeds, and the rusting carcasses of some old vehicles. Lining the yard on all sides was thick pine forest, partially swallowed by kudzu. A brown hare dashed across the yard and disappeared under the hulking steel skeleton of a seventies-model Chevy truck. Still in a daze, Roland watched for a few minutes as the storm rolled in: trees bending with each gust of wind, rain escalating from sprinkle to full-on downpour, flashes of lightning.

He gradually came to wonder where he was. It seemed to be an old cabin; he could smell the age of the wood. The sound of the raindrops indicated a tin roof. Other than a large table, the room was nearly empty. He traced his memories back to the sidewalk outside Murphy’s Law, walking home… then nothing. Someone had drugged him. How had he gotten here?

As Roland absentmindedly slid his hand under the fuzzy blanket to scratch his belly, something cold slithered across his midriff, causing him to throw back the covers, startled. It was a length of chain, trailing the handcuff around his wrist. Both wrists, both feet – he was cuffed and chained to the hospital bed. Furthermore, he was entirely naked, and it was this revelation that finally set him into panic mode.

“Oh, I see you’re finally awake,” a familiar voice called from the doorway.

“Alyssa – what the fuck?” he choked out.

“Now you just calm down, Rolly. You know this is what you’ve always dreamed about,” she murmured as she approached the hospital bed. “This is what we planned together, remember? I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Flashback: Online hotchatting. Roland in his bed, smears of chocolate, crumbs in the bed, cradling his overstuffed belly. An empty gallon jug of milk. “You’re making me fat, Alyssa,” he moaned.

“I know, and I’m not finished,” she had grinned evilly.