The Whale

Jonas thought of himself as a big man; successful, street-savvy, a soldier of the streets; a man of action and purpose; a born leader, able to bend others to his indomitable will; a man of sophistication and clout; charismatic. In actuality, he was a small man, not in size but in life; a thug, singular in his thoughts and actions, given to fits of rage and violence, striking out against anyone who dared question his motives. Unkempt and disheveled; stringy hair falling over his eyes, covering his malevolent gaze. Teeth chipped, yellowed and stained by his two-pack a day habit that comprised most of his forgetful thirty years of life

He wore his clothes as though they were still hanging off the rack at the local Goodwill; his immeasurable belly dribbled over his shredded belt with an AC-DC buckle emblazoned across it; the tattered torn muscle shirt stretched to its limits by his enormous girth. He wore his pants sagging just past his protruding, massive arse, the proverbial plumber's crack.

He began this day as he had done most others in his monotonous existence, with indifference. He ventured down the bustling city streets, stopping to jostle the street vendors and attempting to steal their wares, he was met with scowls and threats; lumbering away he spewed forth a slew of vulgarity aimed at everyone and no one.

Arriving at his destination, he ventured into the back alley of his favourite dive and parked his massive frame against the outside wall; numerous working class girls jokingly solicited him for his favours, he snarled and gestured to his crotch which provoked more laughter from the ladies of the night. It was still daylight, and the time was right for a little hustle. The usual rogue clientele were already nestled on their knees as everyone eyed the cubed dice that clattered off the brick wall.

Action briefly stopped as the participants glanced up and took notice of the fat man, a few shrugged while others lifted up their middle finger in a gesture of greeting. Jonas chuckled and hacked up a piece of spittle from his persistent smoker's cough, attempting to push his enormous carcass through the frail weaklings taking up residence in his domain. If he only knew the utter disgust and disdain they felt for him. He believed they scurried out of his way due to respect, nothing was further from the truth; the stench of the fat man preceded his every move, whiffs of foul odour waffled from the rolls of adipose that wiggled like a gelatinous bowl of jelly. It was all they could do to escape the onslaught of the nefarious smell that cascaded down from his bloated physique.

Jonas was on a mission, he needed cash, the word on the street was he was in debt five large; never the one to realise fools-gold, he had sat down at the wrong table and proceeded to lose the grand he had on him, subsequently taking a loan for another five, which he quickly gave away. He was able to persuade his benefactors to give him time to conjure up the dough, but he was rapidly running out of time.

It appeared his luck had turned, he was able to call in debts from past favours and had assembled a bank roll of two thousand; his plan was to turn it into five and therefore save his miserable existence.

The game took on a life of its own, every rat and mole who had a dime to his name, came crawling out of the festering cracks of the neighbourhood cesspool, all intent on watching the fat man quiver. Roll after roll smashed off the red brick wall, tumbling over pebbles as they came to reveal their treasure. Talk was rich with magnificent ramblings of grandiose nothingness, meant to intimidate and entertain, and he was the king of this madness.

The minutes of the day turned into hours, the sun slowly recessing from the festivities of the crowded backstreet; the fat man had turned his two grand into seven, all he needed to do was walk away, but life is funny that way, he remained. Hounded by the ongoing enticement of barter and one-upmanship, he pressed on. Louder and more intense taunts were hurled at him; a smarter man would have high-tailed long ago, but Jonas was not a sharp-witted man, his was the way of the Neanderthal, barrelling through life with his portly demeanor and pig-stained attitude of survival.

Still, for a brief moment the stars appeared to align, and he was winning, till fortune changed; his bets on the scrap heap of luck were slowly oozing away. The chattering of jeers and roars grew louder as he fell deeper into the hole of the abyss, as though the demons of hell were unleashed to witness his inevitable entry into their abode. The ship he thought had finally arrived bringing fortune, was quickly disappearing over the horizon.

Finally, having lost all his loot and with nothing left to lose, he blasted up from the seat of his enormous pants and throttled the money holder by his throat; yelling and spitting, swinging wildly as his assailants pressed their assault. He was able to wring away some of the cash as dollar bills came tumbling down carelessly to the ground, he felt a sharp pain in his flabby belly, a warm wetness that was invigorating and depleting, then another and another. He faintly heard a swoosh, then another and another. Bodies careened off him as he sped through his adversaries; he became aware of a circling light that hovered just out of his reach, is that heaven? Laying on the sidewalk, staring up at the streetlight flickering as the day turned to dusk, he rubbed his gigantic belly and placed his meaty hand into the gash that ripped open his intestines, blood oozing out as his life ebbed away.

He thought of a girl from high school, a pretty thing with perfect teeth who took great pleasure in teasing him, Jonah the big fat whale; he punched her beautiful face, breaking her teeth; he smiled at the thought, closed his eyes, sucked in one last fat breath and exhaled for the final time. No one cared.