The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

100
Boyle could not see the chair under his massive bulk
- it looked as though Bob had sprouted, like some
monstrous cancerous mushroom, from the tiled floor
overnight.
Boyle flexed his muscles, tightened his washboard
abs; he had to admit he felt good in the midst of
these fat fucks. The juxtaposition was ridiculous; he
was a harpoon in a sea of whales.
‘Think I’ll go for a run after,’ mused Boyle.
‘Running? You ever hear of that? You’ve probably
seen it on the telly.’ Bob stared at him, his frightened
eyes lost in the pasty expanse of his face. ‘Then later,
sex. Ditto.’
Bob turned away, picking at some errant morsels
on his jumper, licking his sausage fingers with his
hideous pink duvet of a tongue.
‘Hey, I’m talking to you, Blobby.’ Boyle
kicked out at the tree root of his leg. ‘You ignoring
me? I’m only telling you some home truths, y’know.
I’m only trying to help, it’s my job see.’
Bob emitted a pathetic mewl, a high pitched
drone whose frequency aggravated the prickle in
Boyle’s crease to a dancing frenzy. Boyle pushed his
face down into Bob’s, unleashing his anger in an attempt
to ease his suffering.
‘You think by growing a beard no one will notice
your collection of chins, Fat Boy? I bet your blood
cells are like dinghies, ringed by a halo of grease, I bet
your liver’s like a torpedoed gunship, I bet your -’
Bob was crying, and when Bob cried his colon
tended to applaud; the stench rose in a stinging cloud
comparable to sulphur and napalm.