Supersize Spam

'It was the lad that found him.'
'And it definitely looked like he'd tried to hang himself.'
'Yes Gov. Apart from the fact that there was no rope. His neck was bruised and he was laying at the bottom of the stairs underneath the banister.'
'Anything else?'
'He was in his dressing gown and he had some bloody strange stuff on under that.'
'Poor bastard. Poor sick bastard. I suppose I'll have to go and talk to him when he comes round.'
'Rather you than me Gov.'

He had been in some stupid predicaments in his life but this was the worst.There could be no explaining this away. There was no way out that he could see. He had waited for it to pass, instead it had got worse and worse. The whole situation was completely nightmarish.
He eased his legs apart to try to relieve the tension in his thighs and the insistent throbbing pain in his testicles. This worked for a split second and then his foot slipped on the edge of the bath and he fell hard against the toilet cistern. The thing, which had once been part of him, thumped against the bathroom door and momentarily became wedged behind the brass towel hooks. He groaned and pushed again with his legs. The aching resumed.
Well yes, he had to accept full responsibility for what he had done. This cthonic horror was of his own making. Still, life had hardly helped. After the pain, the bouts of sickening pain, came the shame; after the shame, the self-pity.
Work? What a fucking joke. Twelve years suffering in that hellish place; all for nothing. His colleagues were surely the most boring people ever to walk the face of the Earth. They'd happily discuss Big Brother for days, but met anything like an new idea with silence nothing short of hostility.
His line manager was either a reincarnation of Attila the Hun or an escaped psychopath who had successfully hidden himself for a decade in the halls of local government. Nothing passed before his beady eyes that he did not pass comment on, and he never, but never, let go an opportunity to inflict pain or embarrassment.
In fact the whole place stank of corruption, petty and not so petty. The building had the air of an ever-lasting dog-fight and all around him, everyday, people desperately tried to validate their pathetic little lives by scrambling ever upwards on the corpses of their fellows.
Whatever the term "local government" might mean, he hoped to God that it was not that bureaucratic whorehouse. It crushed daily the people who worked for it, and squashed flat the pale shades of human beings who came, like the terrified supplicants before an altar of some hideous death cult, seeking answers, only answers.
Some people found solace at home. They had hobbies, or they had super deluxe sheds, or they had loving wives or husbands. He didn't have a hobby other than the fucking internet and, since Tasha left with that fucking software engineer, he certainly didn't have a loving partner. There was Barbara. But Barbara was completely fucking mad. In fact this situation was made for Barbara, except that she was the last person he wanted to see. First, the whole city would know before the end of the week, and second, her solutions would probably be a great deal worse, and doubtless even more painful, than the problem itself.
He couldn't even say "I did it for you darling." The thought of being between the sheets with that randomly writhing, biting fuck-up made him feel sick; faint; even more faint than he already felt. The fact that he had gone from Tasha to Barbara blew away any idea that he might have "a type". His sex life had always been a sick joke.
He laughed. It was that sick and funny. Laughter made him see spinning lights. He guessed that there couldn't be much blood reaching his brain now. Most of it was pumping hard around the bathroom.
So what everyday consolation did he seek? Where did he hide when finally he could slam his front door on the world? The internet; that endless sea of shit that some people still insist on calling the information super-highway.
Week after week he ignored the state of the house. He had hardly spoken to Gary since the boy's Mum left. The spam increased in direct proportion to the length of his late night sessions on the web. He had thrown himself enthusiastically into the fantasy worlds on offer.
He had happily strung along dozens of spammers who had poured out to him, and to thousands of others no doubt, stories of legacies or of inaccessible fortunes. He had created persona after persona for himself and chased down every lead to find the virtual crock of gold at the end of the cyber-rainbow. Of course he had never had the requisite gullibility, or bottle perhaps, to send off his real details to some con-artist from Cote d'Ivoire. He had tired of imaginary African millions.
For a night or two he had even sworn off reading spam. After that the guaranteed business loans had caught his eye and then the cheap fake rolexes. He had even tried to buy some rolexes. The box that arrived six weeks later, stamped as if it had been three times around the world, was full of pieces that might once have been watches. It made a nice noise when he shook it.
Leaving the rolex debacle behind him he finally found his true passion. The thought had crossed his mind that he could try to terrify Barbara as much as she terrified him; doubling the size of his Old Man seemed as good an idea as any. How he had laughed at that thought, laughed until he cried. He would never buy any of the treatments or devices of course. No, he would be content to imagine Barbara's eyes wide with fear; he would chuckle and read the next unbelievable claim. He became a connoisseur of the genre.

'Dad? Dad are you in there?' He was pulled from his reverie through his shame, into his pain and then back to harsh, albeit more than a little weird, reality.
'Yes' he managed, although the effort nearly made him pass out.
'Dad. It's just that you've been in there all day. Dad? Were you in there all last night?'
'Don't be ridiculous Gary.' He had discovered that if he put his head into the cool damp space between the toilet and the wall he felt less faint; some blood at least came back towards his brain.
'What's going on Dad? You sound funny. Where are you in there? Ummm are you stuck?'
'Look Gary, you need to go out. I think there's a twenty in my wallet; take it and go will you? I'll be fine.'
Gary didn't wait around to argue. He tutted loudly and left. His Dad had let him down again.

Alone with the pain again. Free to descend through the dark layers of despair and humiliation and back, all the way back to self-pity. Self-pity, he found, is cosy. It smells of piss.
He'd been drunk that night. Why had he done that? Drunk, stupid and depressed. If only he'd been broke as well. He started to order the products; he bought the promises; the devices and the creams. He subscribed in full to the delusions of the desperate.
He'd never even been worried about his size. Perhaps it was that "you could always do with another inch" thing that had percolated through what remained of his mind. Whatever it was, he had quite clearly lost his way big time that night.
When the packages started to arrive he stashed them away. Why, oh why hadn't he thrown them away? Lack of time maybe; lack of will more like. Self-hatred smelled of piss as well.
It was only during his next binge that he opened any of them; the next time he was all alone and desperate to do anything that would take his mind off, well just take his mind off.
Rub-on; strap-on; swallow; pump; insert and wrap around, he had bought the lot. A vast collection of junk dedicated to the saddest most secret source of male insecurity. As he was vigorously rubbing some stinking unguent on himself he realised that of all the things in his life, the one in his hand was one of the more satisfactory. Still, he didn't stop.
On he went. He swallowed the pills, he attached the devices; he pumped like mad. He worked up quite a sweat. He felt like he was taking part in an extreme sport. He laughed hysterically; he felt like the world's first extreme spammer, no that was wrong, spamee. He kept laughing until the swelling began
The first surge was not altogether unpleasant. Against all of his expectations, something in this bizarre arsenal of unnatural enhancers was taking effect. The second surge wasn't as nice; it was thickening and lengthening at the same time.

He pushed his head upwards until he could just about see his deathly white reflexion in the bathroom mirror. He just wanted to make sure that it was really him in this fix. 'Why did I carry on?' he shouted at the fearful face and that was too much for him. He fainted away.
Unconsciousness was brief bliss. No worries; no eldritch beast attached to him at the pelvis. Too soon though, he was back in the bathroom, his head on the floor, painfully wedged now. Momentarily he imagined the Fire Brigade coming to rescue him. That wasn't funny.
The tight swollen tip of his gigantic knob flopped then, with thunderous noise and excruciating pain into the bath. Would this never end?
But wait, he thought. It's changed. That was definitely a flop; not a swelling or an involuntary thrust. It was a flop. He slid his head along the floor and escaped from the toilet corner. He dared to look at the thing. It was as long as ever; the magic spell, well, one of the magic spells at least, had achieved more than reason could support. Nevertheless, it had gone soft, not what you might call flaccid, but certainly flexible.
He didn't feel faint anymore, but actually that made things worse. He had been delirious for hours, but now he had all of his faculties available to consider what he had done; to reflect on how his life had come to him hiding in the bathroom for twelve hours with the world's largest cock and the hardest erection in the history of hard-ons. He couldn't cry; as much as he wanted to he couldn't cry. He did laugh however, at the thought that of the two knobs in the bathroom he wasn't sure which one was the bigger, him or the monster.
After that he sat on the toilet and looked long and hard at what he had made. It wasn't getting any shorter and, what was more, it was getting cold.
'It's more than the gigantic dick' he said calmly enough. He tried to stand up, swayed and supported himself, half-crouching, on the bath edge. From the bath the thing seemed to regard him with suspicion.
'What's the fucking point?' he shouted, raging again. The knob made no reply. The cold was biting now, but the thing was undiminished. 'I can't go through life with a ten foot dick coiled in my trousers like so much rope.' That was what gave him the idea.