In all likelihood, I’m writing this to my captor alone. If I am, then fuck you, psycho shit. I hope you get AIDS from one of your victims and die a slow lingering death. Oh, and yeah, I bet there’s some other sicko who beat you at your own game.
If, however, someone else is reading this, pay close attention. This is my epitaph. Too big for a tombstone, of course. Not long enough for me. It’s a small chance, I realize, that someone else reads this, but it’s all I have. Literally, the only thing that I look forward to, now. If my captor is still alive somehow, hunt him down and catch him if you can. My bones and those of the others have to be around his house or yard somewhere. He never went anywhere, for God’s sake.
So, anyway, I’m going to address this to the phantom outsiders, not my dipshit jailer. Perhaps a slight slap in the face. I’m sitting in a large cage, perhaps seven feet square. Holding a bed, portable toilet, squat fridge, twenty-five inch TV, and a small table. And now, since I’m finished, loads of empty cartons and boxes. Microwave burritos. Ho-hos. Doritos, both cool ranch and regular nacho cheese flavor. Ben & Jerry’s. Peanut butter M&Ms. Oh, and of course, as you can see, several envelopes and a few pens. My kidnapper is very accommodating when it comes to food, only the best, but not so great at writing supplies. Who doesn’t keep scrap paper on hand, I ask you? But that’s the least of his peculiarities, I suppose. So ignore the return addresses of the junk mail companies and the banks and read my words. Forgive the mistakes when I hit a seam on the envelope and made a long line or smudge.
I’m writing this on my bed. My only furniture, as I’ve already noted. It doesn’t squeak like most beds, especially when I sit on them. It has no frame. Just two double bed mattresses atop each other. It has to be that way, unless he wants to spring (pun not intended, haha) for a special reinforced box spring and bed frame.
I’m fat, you see. Not plump, not chubby, but hugely fat. Medically obese. I’m 417 pounds. On a five foot nine frame. A real lardass. The kind of guy you see on the street (if I’m out, which even before was infrequently) and think, what is he thinking? It’s one thing to be a bit overweight. But this big? He has to work at it to be that big. And I do. No glands, no genetic history, really, it’s me. I eat constantly. Helpless before food. I can’t stop, even though I know all the drawbacks. That pisses me off too, while I’m at it. People who think we don’t know we’re fat. Duh. We do. We see ourselves twenty-four hours a day, right? Have to buy special clothes, see ourselves in the mirror. Like we don’t know? Anyway, so it’s my fault I’m fat. I don’t know if it started because my parents substituted food for love, or food was my first and most loyal friend, or what. Let the shrinkers figure that. I just know I’m huge, and why I’m huge.
I’ve tried all the diets, of course. Jenny Craig. NutriSystem. The Grapefruit Diet. Weight Watchers. Fat camps. The Cabbage Diet. Even the nuttiest, the eat-all-meat-and-proteins-but-no-carbohydrates regimen. None really worked, at least permanently. I’d lose some, then gain it all back, plus more. I’ve even been hypnotized. Nothing works. I remember the support groups, too. I was usually the fattest of the lot, which said something. I was so popular. Everybody in a group like that loves the fattest person. You think, well, I’m a lardass, but at least I’m smaller than him. Conversely, I hated them. Especially the thinnest ones, the ones only thirty or forty pounds overweight. What were they doing there? Hypochondriacs. They just made me feel worse. So I hated them all, the fattest ones least of all, on a sliding scale (another pun, ha). I didn’t want to. It’s not their fault. My own problem. But I’m not long for this world, so I’ll at least be honest. I did hate them.
Some use those groups as dating circles. Meet people who accept other fat people. I couldn’t. Couldn’t stand to associate with those who heard me tearfully admit my destructive cravings. Saw me at my weakest. And, unpleasant truth be told, I couldn’t respect them. This whiner didn’t want to date another whiner. Ah, that’s not even the entire truth. Here it is; I’m shallow. I’m not attracted to overweight women myself. If anything, I like slim ones. I’m a fucking hypocrite, I know. I of all people should be more sympathetic. But I’m not. Sue me. You can’t help what you’re attracted to, right?
This opinion limited my dates, obviously. Most normal sized women don’t like guys like me. So it’s mostly hookers, or the occasional curiosity or pity fucks for me. A few chubby chasers, as they’re known. The fat guys’ fantasy. The hot ones who not only tolerate, but prefer fat guys. You’ve seen them on the talk shows, probably. They’re quite precious. Women who you can leave the lights on for. Shit, they ask you to, wanting to see you in all your considerable glory. ‘Course even those don’t last long, at least for me. The three I’ve met I didn’t even like, really. One was dumb, the other two just damn boring. Except for the sex, of course. They probably didn’t like me so much, either. So we just used each other for the orgasms. Win-win situation, all around.
But I digress. I haven’t even told you of my lovely host. Why I’m here. Ironically, after telling you of my dating prospects, he’s a guy who “loves” me just the way that I am. Even encourages me to eat more. A chubby chaser par excellence. With a big catch, though. He kidnapped me, imprisoned me. And why? He wants to rape me. Why me, in particular? This freak is obsessed with raping people as many times as he can. He explained it to me once, in one of his rare speaking days. He heard that Genghis Khan and his men complained that there weren’t enough holes in women for a whole bunch to rape one at once. So they cut holes in them so more guys could get some of the action. So my guy does the same. He cuts as many holes as he can in people, rapes each one once, and keeps a count, a rape log. Tries to better his total each time. That’s why he wants me, of course. I’m larger than most, so I have more flesh. More area to slice homes for his dick. The holes have to be separate too, and never used twice. The freak is quite strict about that.
As I write, I’m staring out at the three other cages in the basement. Filled with the bodies of his other “lovers.” All dead. All rotting. All incredibly rank, too, obviously. Ever smell a rotting corpse? It’s indescribable, unforgettable. There’s an undersmell, too. He insists on coming in the wound if he can. So there’s the reek of spunk, too. The smell you smell when you come, yet overpowering, since it represents hundreds of these episodes. It looks gross, too. I’ve never been able to stomach (ha) the sight of blood and gore. All of this makes me sick, makes me nauseous, makes me not want to eat sometimes.
And ah, there’s the rub! That’s intolerable to my captor. He needs me big, as big as possible. Wants me to gain if possible. Keeps telling me the instant I consistently lose weight (he weighs me every day), the sooner it’s my turn. So I eat as much as I can, an ample amount, as you can guess, to keep his dick out of me.
That’s easier said than done. Even though I’ve been a good boy, following instructions, my time is near. Why? Because, alas, my host is hypersexual. Not once or twice a day, but nine or ten. I know your balls can produce millions of sperm and all, but they still must be extra busy, keeping him supplied. Pretty much every waking hour he’s down here, grimly pumping away. That’s another thing, too. He’s so damn serious about that. No smiles or laughs. ‘Course he never laughs ever, as far as I can tell. And I can hear him upstairs frequently, too. But anyway, I’m tired now. I’m quitting to sleep. And shit, I forgot to date my first entry, so I’ll put it here. 12/17/98. Unlike most captives I don’t need to scratch lines on my wall to keep track. Just turn on the tube.
12/18/98 It’s worse than I thought. He finished up with two corpses today. They were the first two, he said. A skinny woman and a fifteen-year-old boy. Too small, and they kept rotting too fast. He won’t fuck just bone. Mr. Picky! That reminds me of something we guys used to talk about. Whether or not a woman was “three input” or not; you know, let you have sex in her vagina, ass, and mouth. The three natural holes for sex. For most, or some, anyway. Not my boy. In our code then, the woman was a ninety-eight input woman, the boy seventy-nine. The other corpse will break 150, or so he explained. Proudly, I might add, like I’m going to be impressed. He’s been comparatively chatty today. I can get him to talk about his raping; it’s his hobby, so he likes to, just like a guy talking about his stamp collection or something. Of course, I don’t want to hear about his sick behavior, I just want to talk to another living human. It’s a dilemma, all right.
Notice I said living human voice. Voices from the TV I have out the yinyang. I watch probably fifteen hours a day. Sitcoms. Daytime talk shows. Cartoons. Even infomercials. Anything’s better than looking at the corpses, or thinking too much about my coming turns. It’s a good cable system, I have to admit. He let me have it, because he heard real obese people gain more weight when they eat in front of the TV. So lucky me! But I must eat more. It might stave him off a bit more.
12/19/98 I’m in deep shit. He’s running out of space already. I estimate two or three days tops. Then it starts. He revealed he starts with my natural holes (mouth and ass) then starts cutting. I said what if I die, even though I knew the answer. It doesn’t matter, he said, I plan to keep you alive as long as possible, it’s more fun when they’re warm, but room temperature’s O.K. too. Besides, to really fuck you completely you’d have to die eventually, he pointed out. I’m force to see his point. When you’re dead I don’t have to do this, he said (here he pointed to my portable potty, which he was dumping out) or buy you food. That was it as far as conversation. He responded to all other questions or comments with his usual silence. The first few days I challenged him, even. Called him a no good coward, sicko, fag. Nothing made him mad. Once I asked him in a casual tone if he was gay, or a pedophile. Surprisingly he responded, said none of that mattered. Holes were holes. What a philosophy, huh? Like the joke, “I’m not prejudiced. I hate everybody.” Enough of the Shakespeare, I have food to ingest and brain cells to numb.
12/20/98 I just saw Rambo on TNT and it reminded me of a point I didn’t address yet. That is, am I a wuss? Why don’t I try to kill my host, or at least break out? Answer: I can’t. We’re isolated so I can’t scream for help, he told me. Even if he’s lying, he threatened to rape me ahead of time, so that’s out. This cell is sturdy. I’ve tried to break the bars, to no avail. Besides, he’s around so many times during the day I can’t gradually wear away the bars or anything. As for fighting, are you forgetting my weight? And I’m not fat covered muscle, either, like football lineman I see on TV. I’m flabby. My host is fairly solid and rough. Rough enough, anyway. He’s not adverse to using force, obviously, and I don’t know how to fight. So I’m screwed (haha not yet. Soon).
12/21/98 Today was D-Day. Like I predicted. He ran out on the slightly overweight corpse this evening. I got the final four times. Ass. Mouth (using a contraption so I couldn’t bite down. I thought of that. Give me some credit). Two in my left foot after he bored a hole using an apple corer and a chisel (for the bones). So my ass and especially my foot hurts. I washed my foot holes out with drinking water and bound them using reams of toilet paper. They bled a lot. He’s not concerned with treating wounds, of course. I’m not that worried, either. I think one of his fuckholes will kill me long before blood poisoning or infection would. So my cherry’s broken. Me and Ned Beatty are brothers now. Ah, Deliverance. An important film, I thought. In college I thought they should’ve shown that to the boys instead of the rape talk they gave. That got the message across better. Not that I thought rape was O.K. or anything before that, but there’s something to be said for seeing a man get raped. Brought it home in a more significant way, somehow. So now I can sympathize further. It’s weird. I dreaded it something awful, and hated it when it happened, but it was somehow anti-climatic (haha again). Maybe because I knew it was coming (chortle, sorry, enough of the puns) and know so much more is due and it’ll be the death of me. Or maybe I’m in denial. Another thing for the shrinks to argue about. ‘Course I shouldn’t bitch too much. He was a sport. I asked him not to do my hands so I could write and he relented. Why does he let me write, I wonder? So he can groove on my pain later? Jerk off in memory? Must eat again. Need my strength, need the pounds. Besides, soon I’ll eat my last meal. I hear the computer clacks again. He must be a telecommuter. It explains why he’s always here all day.
12/22/98 The eating fest is done. It doesn’t matter now. I’m nearly done, I’m afraid. Thirteen times today. The fucker must have eaten oysters or something. He did my lower legs and two in my belly today. The bleeding was bad, especially the belly ones. I barely got them to stop. He gave me some matches and wood so I could cauterize the wounds. There’s congealed blood everywhere. More lovely smells, too. Charred flesh. The stench of jizz, stronger now, since it’s in me. Almost killed myself accidentally, as well. I don’t get around so good now with the leg and foot wounds. Add that to the slippery floor from my blood and I slipped. Ripped open a wound or two. I feel like a wuss when I remember all the minor headaches I took aspirin for. I now know what pain is. I’d better write a lot today. I’m torn. He actually gave me liquor. I want to drink myself away from the pain. Yet want to write my account too. I was thinking of the Stockholm Syndrome today, where the hostages grow to identify with and like their captors. Can’t say I do. Maybe there’s limits to that. Also wondered if he kidnaps another if he’d rape them for awhile, letting me be. Sometimes I think that’d be worse, prolonging my pain, sometimes I want every minute, want to survive. It makes me guilty to wish this fate on someone else. Fuck it. Walk a mile in my shoes dammit. I think I’ve earned the right to be selfish. I can’t take anymore. Bottoms up.
12/23/98 This is the day. My last. It’s now midday. Got it six times already (he’s a morning man). Can’t stanch the blood. Got it to slow to a trickle, though. I’m a human pincushion. He’s told me the next one’s gonna be my eye socket. So I guess that’ll be it, that’ll hit my brain. You might wonder about the change in writing. It’s my left hand. He fucked my right today. Pardon my writing. I’m not ambidextrous. I tried to fight him today. Pitiful. He slammed me with a karate chop or some such shit. I barely touched him. Maybe I could have got in a good shot when healthy. Although probably not. Or is that sour grapes? Too late. No time to waste on self-doubt. Have to think what’s important. Tell my family I loved them, and my friends (not enough time to name names), mystery readers. If my remains are found, please cremate them. I don’t want even my bones around, for reasons I’m sure you can guess. Ironically this whole episode is making me lose weight now, from blood loss. It reminds me of weighing time at Weight Watchers when our perky therapist would make sure we pissed even, before getting on the scale. Soon I’ll lose all my weight, to the blade and rot, and hopefully, the flame. I’ll be svelte and sexy in my urn.
I hear him coming! This is it. Here, my captor, is my take on your philosophy. Assholes are assholes. And you are definitely one. Bye.
By Paul Stansfield