You Are What You Eat

by Sara Kenney 11 months ago in fiction

A Story

You Are What You Eat

Have you ever had a wet dream about pork sausage links or bacon-wrapped meatloaf? If so you might be like our stud Chuck Mcdonald. He is a lovely man who's dating profile says, “Country man with salt-pepper hair. Tall, dark, handsome, and weighing in at six hundred pounds.” Chuck lives at home with his mother and together they own and run a pig farm. To be honest, you can’t tell the two animals apart. His addiction isn’t heroin or any drug like that, but grease, it was his aphrodisiac. Chuck is not a jolly Saint Nick, instead he is a bitter man just looking for his next meal, who can make anyone lose their appetite and puts a new definition to the phrase, “You are what you eat.”

Chuck’s day starts with his mother, Brie, waking him up. Every morning she checks to make sure her son is still breathing, After finding his slow, heavy breathing, Brie throws her back out trying to peel him off his mattress. While Chuck sits in the shower and lets the water roll off his rolls, his mother starts his breakfast. Since breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Chuck demands a hearty dish. The dish is a seven pound breakfast burrito. To make such a monster, Brie browns a couple of tortilla shells in butter. Once done they’re nice and toasty, she cracks twelve brown eggs and scrambles them, but doesn’t over cook them. The key is to make sure they are a little runny. Before they are cooked to perfection, three different cheeses, cheddar, American, and Swiss, are added along with extra salt and pepper. After the eggs are bubbling with cheese, Brie cooks the five pounds of hash browns and the two orange peppers to finish the burrito, then takes her time to assemble the burrito. Chuck will throw a tantrum if the shell rips.

While his mother wrapped the colossal breakfast burrito, Chuck struggled to dress himself. He wiggled into ratty carrot shade sweatpants, stained in bacon grease, and jiggled into a dirty shirt which was once white shirt, but now covered in yellow sweat stains and orange artificial cheese dust. The process was pathetic and left him breathless. Once his breathing returned to a normal slow pace, he waddled his way into the kitchen barefoot as his mother smothered the burrito with salsa and more cheddar cheese. Chuck, in no time, shovels the food into his mouth. Brie entered the splash zone while trying to put her adult son’s socks and shoes on for him since he can no longer bend over. After the big meal, Chuck fell asleep sitting up, His pale face was covered with a patchy beard and whiteheads. His legs were covered in purple blisters from a lack of blood flow and his stubby little fingers were cracked while his nails were bitten down to the nub. His stubs held on to the TV remote, drool dripped down his cheek, and his foot twitched.

Everyday, on average, has the same routine: breakfast, TV, nap, snack, lunch, nap, second lunch, video games, dinner, check the pigs, dessert, bed. The only thing that changes is the menu, with breakfast as an exception. Some of the typical foods are black pudding, pork scratchings, sweet-and-sour pork balls, and a B.L.T., minus the healthy L and T and replaced with twenty strips of B. Brie, on top of running a farm, slaves over the stove with an oven mitt in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other. She will do anything to keep her only son happy, even if it means killing him with every plate.

While Chuck dreamed of sugar plums, Brie was getting ready to prepare lunch. She went out to the farm to fed the pigs their breakfast. She brought them fruit and vegetable scraps from her meal. Brie watched Porky Pig, Miss Piggy, Babe, Hamlet, and Piglet gobble down their slop. She left them to inhale their breakfast in order to attend for her own pig’s meal. In the shed off to the side there is a huge freezer loaded with body parts, heads, feet, hearts, ribs, and pieces of chopped meat. Brie dug to the bottom to find Chuck’s favorite meal, brains.

When she was back in the kitchen, she could hear her son snoring and snorting, a sign that he was still alive. Time to prepare his first lunch. She cleaned the pig’s brain by washing it under cold water, removing as much of the thin membrane as possible. After that, the brain needs to be knead by hands and broken into small pieces. Then the brain can be dipped into flour, baking powder, egg, and seasoning. Next step is to fry it. The meat sizzled in the hot lard while the aroma tickled and teased Chuck’s nose, causing him to wake up. With his mouth watering, he sat down and waited for his lunch.

“Who am I eating today?” Chuck’s stomach yelled in hunger when Brie placed the mountain in front of him.

“Snowball.”

He jammed the fried-brains into his mouth. Smothering some of them in mayonnaise and others in ketchup, Chuck ate like this was his first meal in months. He alternated between the brains and the corn. Chuck applied more butter and salt on the corn on the cob before chomping down. He chewed with his mouth open and didn’t finish swallowing before taking another bite. Spit and food dripped down his shirt and Chuck finished the mess with wiping his face on his sleeve. With a loud burp and fart, Chuck was content and in a pre food coma.

“Honey can you please bring the pigs your cobs,” Brie started to clean up the mess. He groaned, but eventually hoisted himself up. The act of standing was painful on his joints.

He wobbled his way to the pen where the pigs waited for more food. Chuck threw one of the cobs at the pigs and chuckled as they fought each other for it. Chuck had another one and teased the pigs with it. Dangling with his stubs, he chanted, “Here fatty, fatty, fatty.” Chuck sucked on the left over butter on the cob before tossing it to the far end of the pen. The pigs ran over and Chuck turn to leave the pen, but noticed an untouched piece of onion in the pigs’ dish. He struggled to reach it, but he was able to barely pinch it. He snickered to himself before tossing the food scrap into his mouth. From the laughter and his heavy breathing, the onion was stuck in his throat. Chuck grabbed at his chins and tried to cough it up, but stumbled backwards and his foot fell into a little hole causing him to fall. The movement launched the lodged food across the pen. Chuck, struggling to catch his breath, tried to get up, but his foot was stuck in the ankle-deep hole. Between that and his body weighing him down, Chuck was a sitting duck. He called for his mother, but he was still out of breath from his near death experience. He wiggled and wiggled till Hamlet walked up to him. The pig, smelling the butter, bit at his shirt. Chuck tried to push the pig away, “Get out of here you filthy animal.” Hamlet’s snout bounced as he smelled Chuck’s hand while he tried to push the pig’s face. Hamlet took a bite out of his finger and Chuck screamed in agony as a response. The pleas and screams did not phase Hamlet who kept feeding. Chuck, covered in mayonnaise, ketchup, and seasonings, was now on the menu.

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