In the thick of it

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story chronicling a young fatty's encounter with the underworld.

Submitted: October 29, 2015

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Submitted: October 29, 2015




Roland Ebose was having a nightmare of a night.

Well, truth be told, he’d been having a nightmare of a day, too. Matter of fact, he’d been having a nightmare of a week- a month, even… Dare he say… nightmare of a year?

We, for one, quite frankly don’t give a shit what this five foot three, two-hundred and fifty pound, heap of American consumerism at its most despicable, sack of lard dares and doesn’t dare to say. We’re here to tell the truth. And sometimes, the truth hurts.

He (IT would be more suitable, really) had, in fact, been having a nightmare of a year. In fact, he wasn’t sure he could remember the last time he had legitimately reflected on an annum’s occurrences with so much as a sliver of satisfaction. Now that he considered it, he didn’t think he’d ever emerged from the onslaught of disappointment his coming-of-consciousness had subjected him to. It occurred to him that his happiest times were as a pre-fetal splurge of ejaculatory glory rocketing from the depth of his father’s meatus and into the cradle of maternity that was to be his (unwelcoming) home for the next 10 months.

10 months. By god, he thought- ironically, given the situation he currently found himself in-, I even sucked at being born.

At least back then there was nothing for him to miserably fail at living up to. Nothing but the naturally occurring- albeit, in his case, waaaay fucking overdone- process of fetal growth. Granted, when you’re halfway through the birth process and already weigh six pounds, you’re less of a fetus and more of an excessively aggravating slab of defecation waiting to be released. And the way his face looked? He might as well have been born through the asshole. Thinking of his time spent in the biological slammer, he longed for those days with an intensity he tended to reserve exclusively for the annual re-release of the McRib. Sure, it reeked of cebum marinated marine life in there. But, compared to the shitfest he’d been forcefully immersed in by Destiny (that most celestial of dickheads) for the past 17 years, he’d gladly take the fish (and wash it down with more fish).

Although, he had been the town’s official Galactica high-score record holder for the past 3 years. And this? This was a feat he avidly divulged to anybody that would listen. A feat that became infinitely less impressive given the fact that it was 2023, and the only people who hung out at the local arcade- in all its semen encrusted glory- were the pedophiles who had been arrested there in the 90’s, released in the 2020’s, and (due to their institutionalization), knew nothing other than the good ol’ days (molestation ridden as their days had been).

His life had been like a never-ending compilation of fail videos, except, devoid of comedic appeal (contrary to his perpetually lard asphyxiated penis- the “Vanisher” they called it at school), and doubled up (much like his ever expanding tits) on depression.

A depression that had overtaken him with frightening temerity. Much like his digestive system did with the pounds of lard he infused it with on a daily basis.

A depression that had driven him to distress and desperation.

And, as the old adage ever-lastingly reminds us, desperate times call for desperate measures. And the latter, he had most definitely taken.

This was evidenced by the fact that he was currently standing in a shoddily arranged pentagram composed of inverted crosses (made of cheerios and beads- the only materials he could afford). He hadn’t considered the drawbacks of a ritual on a budget. Which was why he had been forced to forgo the idea of acquiring a neatly severed cat paw off of the ‘Black Market’ (whatever the fuck that was), and attempt to coerce his own cat into letting him manually sever its paw.

The decrepit old feline was on the brink of extinction, had never been loved enough to be named, and had survived by means engulfed in a shroud of mystery since its birth. Nobody fed it. Nobody loved it. Nobody needed it. ‘A most disposable paw if there ever was one,’ thought Roland, as he took the blade to the aforementioned. Which was why the feline’s display of fuel n’ feist took him by surprise. It fought (rotting) tooth- the only one left in the contents of its deteriorating jaw- and nail against its ill-intentioned adversary, and emerged from Roland’s malevolence unscathed. Although, from nature’s accord, it did not.

This was why Roland beamed with appreciation while he stood in the center of that Great Value® pentagram clutching a filthy, yellowy, rotting shell of a feline’s former paw nail. Scantily clad in his father’s darkest, most macabre XXXL, cheeto napkin shirt, he shakily recited the Latin invocations he’d gotten off of Google. They sounded more like the noises he would make during his soon-to-come heart attack.

But Lucifer wouldn’t care. He would understand that he’d been on a budget, had had complications with the cat, and was trying his very best to speak a language that was more dead than his sex life- his life life.

Besides, a soul was a soul, no matter what kind of flabby, greasy, morbidly obese vessel it came in. And the Gracious One would take it, and in exchange, he would give Roland everything he had ever yearned for.

Everything that Life had ensured to be unobtainable to him. This, essentially, was everything. In the darkness, he could almost taste the daguerreotype of acquisition on his lips. Or maybe it was just leftover cheetos.

The silence was deafening.

And then, in the center of that flea market reject of a pentagram, there appeared a light. A light that burned profusely with the velvety brightness of a million souls condemned to damnation.

The first light, Roland thought, his life had ever had.


When at last the dust settled, again the room slipped into stillness. Again, the silence was deafening. Roland’s heart palpitated in its barely functioning vessel. Dangerously close to cardiac arrest rates, he thought. But, then again, when wasn’t it?

Quivering with the intensity of a poodle in full-fledged orgasm, he opened his mouth to introduce himself to the Gracious One. An exercise in futility, seeing as the implacable jiggling of his rotund barrel of a stomach had taken the initiative in that department from the first second of Lucifer’s arrival. Nonetheless, he proceeded.

“My lord?”


An unnecessarily loud clearance of the Dorito scented larynx, and again he spoke.

“My lord?”

This time, the response was instantaneous. And unexpectedly impertinent.

“Look, kid. Ronald, Donald, whatever your fuckin’ name is, can you relax for a second? And turn on the lights, for fuck’s sake. It looks like you’re having a fuckin’ ritual in here.”

R-O-L-A-N-D stood, petrified to his position. Partly because of his physical limitations, partly out of terror induced stupefiance. Again, a wave of unmistakably carrying a booze n' chips aroma hit him square in the face.

“For Satan’s sake, the kid’s too fuckin’ lazy to walk ten feet and turn on the damn light. No wonder you look like the goddamn poster boy for pro-bulimia activism.” And with that, the lights turned on.

Under the now unbearably bright beam of his garage light, Roland felt more perplexed than ever. He was laying eyes- luckily for this underworld dweller, not stomach- on the outcome of his ritual. An outcome, however, that he hadn’t expected.

Standing approximately twenty-five feet in front of him was Lucifer, in all his damnation entailing glory. His demeanor, however, seemed more inclined towards “overweight” and “angrily expectant of food” rather than “damnation” and “glory.”

Roland was taken aback by the Dark Lord’s bewildering choice of an earthly vessel, but nonetheless appreciative of his prompt appearance. “Probably to be inconspicuous,” he thought.

“My lord, I apologize for any distress I may have caused you. I come to you in dire necessity, and prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to reap the rewards of your everlasting power.”

The demon considered this, and responded. “Satan all mighty, are you some kind of cocksucker? Quit the ‘Lord’ talk, alright? My friends call me Donny. But, I’d never be friends with the likes of your fatass, so just call me boss, alright? Lest you get distracted by a particle of fried chicken and forget who’s in charge here, lardass.”

Roland’s emotions tinged with the touch of verbal abuse he’d been a recipient of for the entirety of his food chasing life. No worries, thought he, can’t expect to summon the Dark Lord and not get a little hurt. Better to get down business as quick as possible.

“I apologize, my- Baphomet. I am prepared to make the most sacred of deals with you- should your divine sacrament allow it, of course.”

There was a pause from his malevolence procuring counterpart, before he chortled an unusually laughter riddled response. “Baphomet?! You think I'm?!

A bout of booming laughter, and he continued his retort. “Oh, you stupid fat fuck. I swear to Lucifer that your brain’s even smaller than your dick.”

Roland stood on the verge of tears, more perplexed than ever.

When the demon saw that Roland was not grasping the actuality of the situation, he spoke unto him in the deportment a parent might use with a child who’s just experienced his first wound.

“Look, kid. I hate to be the one to burst your bubble. But, since we’re both already here, we might as well get it out of the way.”

Roland’s ocular levee managed to cling on to life.

Donny the Demon continued his elaboration.

“I’m not Baphomet. I’m not Baphomet’s kid, nephew, or grandson. I mean, I guess you could call me an occasional mistress, but that goes for fuckin’ everyone down there takin’ that three-headed dick. It’s mandatory, alright? I ain’t no kinda faggot. I’m just a dude who sold his soul for a couple millions back in the day, and didn’t realize the shitstorm he’d signed up for.”

It was then that Roland’s ocular levee succumbed to the pressure of his emotions.

Upon seeing him weep, Donny the Demon felt a sudden urge to simultaneously console and ridicule him. He decided that, for now, the former would be the most beneficial option. Tears instilled doubt. And doubt is most definitely a deal-breaker. If he was to succeed in arranging the transfer of his soul into this fat fuck's body, he would have to kiss some ass. ‘From dick-takin’ to ass-kissin’,’ he thought. But, with the promise of another shot at life staring tentatively at him in the form of this barrel of lard, he bit his tongue.

“Kid, calm down. Just because the man himself didn’t show up doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.” It did. “Besides, this week he’s busy at a conference with a bunch of priests trynna get their hands on a little boy shipment.”

Roland was unmoved by the demon’s sorry excuse of an…. apology?  Commiseration? Whatever it was, it wasn’t working. Nevertheless, he was still interested in escaping the realm of his shit life. Through tear-stricken eyes and snot strewn nostrils, he exemplified his exasperation with the world in a profanity laced barrage of demon-targeted inquiries.

“So then why the fuck are you here? To make fun of me? To ridicule me? To make me feel like the piece of shit that everybody else already made sure I knew I was? What’s the goddamn point of you fucking being here?”

Donny resisted the urge to unleash the fury of his hand on the unexpectedly bold invoker. A good thing for the latter, too, seeing as the fully charged blast of the former’s right-hand would have been enough to kill him. Years of mistressing at Satan’s disposal had had their physical entailments (that’s a masturbation reference).

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” He wasn’t. “It’s been a long week and ninety percent of the people summoning me ask to win the goddamn lottery.  And they all wanna fuck somebody famous, too. On a side-note, does anybody have any originality anymore? I mean, these people are making the same requests I made all the way back in 84’. Anyways, kid, relax. I can get you what you need. I can get you what you want. Maybe I don’t have the privilege of bestowment that the boss has, but we can definitely arrange something. So just talk to me, okay? And wipe the goddamn boogers off your chins. I know I’m not Satan or anything, but a little presentability never hurt anybody.”

For a second, the unlikely duo of acquaintances held each other’s gaze, neither party willing to betray any clue that might shed light as to their motives. It was our blubber possessing protagonist that broke the silence. Unknowingly at first, betrayed once more by the cacophonous rumble of his perpetually insatiable appetite.

“All I want is a not-so-shitty life. All I want is a chance to enjoy what I have left. I read the Satanic bible- I’m aware that I can’t make any wild demands, and I’m aware that the more extravagant the request, the more is needed to be put forth on behalf of the recipient. Now, look: We both know I have nothing other than my soul to offer. But I also know that no matter what kind of vessel the soul is embodied by-“

Here, Donny interjected with a noticeably apparent exasperation of Roland’s ‘ball-busting’  linguistic mannerisms.

“Can you stop talkin’ like a goddamned fucking article? I swear to Satan we can get through this whole process a lot quicker if you just stop talkin’ like the damned pompous cunt you’ve been talkin’ to me like.”

“Through this whole process? So… does that mean…”

“Yeah, kid, it does fucking mean. I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t mean. You think a pudgy little ball of lard like me would be wasting his time in this gooch-scented shithole you call a part of your home if it didn’t mean?”

Roland struggled to maintain his heart beat under the rate his doctor had warned him would be enough to bring his heart to its 3rd encounter with a cardiac arrest. He regretted squandering those first two heart attacks on the McRib, and considered how much more worthy a situation this would have been.

“So… how…”

“You know how. You better know how. I’m supposed to believe a Roseanne lookin’ gastritis mongerer like you hasn’t sat down and watched a couple movies about Lucifer? I bring the paper out, prick your blood, hope that it’s not too lard laced or chunky, dip the pen I’m hiding under my breast in your vein goop, sign your shitty name, and get your top three shitty wishes. That chunk check is an addendum reserved for the heavier of our signees, by the way. Make of that information what you will.”

Roland was ecstatic beyond belief.

In a flurry of movement that gave the impression of tremendous efforts being made (but was truly just a couple paces whose effect was exacerbated by our tub shaped characters’ physique), Roland found himself face-to-face with the manifestation of that most dreamt of all moments.

He scarcely took the time to read anything other than the surprisingly simple contract heading: “Terms of formal infernal bodily acquisition.” Well, simplistic was not quite the word- seeing as Roland’s reading level (finding itself in a sort of arrested development that had never quite succeeded in reaching past the 3rd grade) was not fully capable of understanding any word other than “of.” But all that ceased to matter. All his shortcoming, failures, ridicules, disappointments would soon melt away and give way to the incarnation of himself that he had always prayed Lucifer would provide him. An incarnation devoid of any mundane human flaws, and rid of any of the tedious and insignificant anxieties spurred on by the lack of self-confidence that he had been so unjustly condemned to.

An incarnation, however, that he failed to realize would never be his.

Two rooms away, in the depths of his deluxe sized California King bed, Bobby Ebose heard his son cry out from the garage. Sensing that his son had stumbled upon his now empty collection of moon cakes, he hurriedly finished off the evidence in three magnificent gulps.

Donny the Demon savored the first breath of fresh, earthly air that he had had the pleasure of experiencing in more than four decades.



Roland’s death had been nothing other than expected. Even if he had not opted for the faster way out, his heart would have stopped sometime in the next six months. Mourned only by the morgue worker who was tasked with clothing and fixing his grossly unattended body (and even grosser corpse) with the obligatory “He’s in a better place now,” Bobby Ebose nonetheless held a wake and funeral.

He was the only one in attendance.

The priest didn’t show up, and there was no casket big enough for the body. Upon considering cremation, he was deterred by the enormous cost of it- due to his son’s size.

In the throes of despair, he let his deceased son rest a couple of more days in the morgue- while he figured out what to do. Or at least that’s what he told the Manny the morgue man.

In reality, he went home to consider his depression, and the still lit trail of shit bits that his sorry life had been. His wife had died giving birth to Roland, but he never held that against him. The way he saw it, she had sacrificed herself for something that was more important than either of them. And, in keeping with that perception of his newborn son, he vowed in his deceased wife’s name to shower her last gift to him with anything and everything its tender little heart desired. As for what his own heart desired, he let his appetite take charge. It was not until his son’s first heart attack at a locally record-breaking 15 years of age that he realized he had let his appetite exert too heavy a hand in his parenting. But by then, the world was bleaker than either of their futures. And in the solace of that deep-fried haven, they both learned to lean on their similarly insatiable appetites to get through the day-to-day.

He arrived at his home in a stupor that was equal parts attributable to depression and low blood sugar. His face contorted in a tearful grimace that never quite got the ocular lubrication of actual tears (his extra sweat glands perspired too much to leave anything to the eyes), he gazed at the remnants of his son’s legacy: A 10 piece stack of Moon cakes.

They were done in minutes.

And as was his life.

Less than a week after Roland Ebose’s death, Bobby Ebose’s made its appearance in an avalanche of cholesterol induced heart palpitations that were deemed by the townspeople as “what was coming.”

The reality of hopeful mortality:

Donny couldn’t believe he was back here so quickly. He hadn’t even been able to ride out the entirety of the time that his contract granted him- the situation had been that unbearable. He thought he would be able to enjoy himself. “I was a fat happy fuck for forty years, how hard could this be?” And, granted, he had been a fat, happy fuck for forty years. What he hadn’t been, however, was a morbidly obese, talentless, prospect barren, intelligence devoid piece of cunt the likes of whose existence he thought inconceivable until meeting Roland.

It had been bad enough to make him take Roland’s own life again. He tried a noose- but none would hold. So he had been forced to shoot Roland’s skull five times. That had done the trick.

And here he was again.

He contemplated this, and many other things as he got in the bent-over position he had dreaded since first considering his return to the underworld.

Spreading his feet shoulder-width apart and clenching his jaw for the first of the penetrations, he remembered the smoothing agent they were provided.

“Can one of you fuckers pass the spit bottle?”

Less than five feet to his right, Roland Ebose responded: “Sure thing, Donny.”

© Copyright 2019 Aureliano Leal. All rights reserved.

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