Fatty

Alan F Scott was fat. Really fat. Not fat as in 'walk to the shops
instead of drive and you'll soon work it off'. Alan was more the 'That
lad needs a miracle to get rid of that lot' type of fat.
He'd tried on numerous occasions to diet, none of which being
successful in the slightest. Although he thought he'd cracked it on one
of his dieting sprees by lasting a full tow hours and 6 minutes without
food, only to discover that he had unconsciously, in a sort of
hypnotized haze, walked into a not so healthy cake shop and ordered
three chocolate ?clairs and a jam donut and had already devoured half
of his goodies before he realised what was happening.
So here he was, a desperate mans last resort to beat the bulge. He had
decided to take part in an aerobics class at the local leisure centre.
It had been his mother's idea for him to do this. He had never dreamed
of doing any exercise in public before. He was afraid that everyone
would laugh and point and jeer at him.
On several occasions he had woken from a nightmare drenched in a pool
of sweat. It was the same dream every time. There were about 25 or 30
people, Alan among them, all wearing only shorts and tshirts. The dream
starts off okay. Music starts, am instructor appears and they all begin
a gruelling aerobic workout. Then a sudden silence, everyone stops dead
in their' tracks, everyone except Alan. They all turn. A tall,
impossibly thin woman points at him, throws back her head as if
whiplashed, and begins to scream laughter, an awful glass shattering
laugh. From somewhere in the middle of the group, a voice:
'Fatty. Fatty. Fatty.'
And then the rest join in with the same piercing chant:
'Fatty. Fatty. Fatty.'
Alan wants to stop. He wants to stop more than anything in the world,
but he can't. His feet keep on moving, but worst of all his fat keeps
on moving. Up, down, up, down, pulling him into the ground and the
chanting never ends. And that crazy bitch keeps on laughing and
pointing and he screams himself awake:
'Stop, stop, stop.'

The leisure centre stood 100 yards ahead. This was going to take a lot
of courage. Courage that Alan F Scott did not think that he could
arouse. Yet he knew that he had to do it or suffer the consequences of
his so called friends spiteful wrath. He'd had enough of being picked
on. It was time for things to change.
He read the sign which was haphazardly taped to the glass on the inside
of the door.

BEGGINERS AEROBIC WORKOUTS
MONDAY - FRIDAY, 7PM - 9PM

He'd have to hurry, the time being 6:55pm, if he wanted to make the
start of the class.
Something didn't seem quite right to Alan as he went to the kiosk,
exact change in hand, to pay for the session. Firstly he noticed that
it was completely surrounded by iron bars, which were at least one inch
in diameter. And he could see on the floor, next to the attendant, what
looked like a monster eating flame thrower, the kind of thing you might
see in one of those over the top science fiction films where some
hideously deformed creature gets burned to a cinder by a hulky, muscle
bound hero.
Cautiously he gave Ethel, as her name badge indicated, a hand full of
coins and waited for a receipt. As she counted the money, once every
few seconds she would glance up at Alan's face, unconvincingly trying
to appear as if to be looking out of the window behind him. Then, once
she had counted the money and given Alan his receipt she said
something, which struck him as really odd.
'You don't look like the rest of your lot!' She said in a frightened,
questioning voice.
Alan was rather baffled by this remark and didn't know what to say, so
he just said 'Oh.' And walked off confused.
Then he suddenly became scared and nervous. Maybe the rest of the class
were really fit and healthy and tonight would go on just as his dreams
had indicated. That certainly would account for Ethel's strange remark.
Although, how would you explain the cell like kiosk and the flame
thrower? Maybe just a precaution against hooligans and packs of wild
youths. Regardless of all this weirdness Alan marched on down the
corridor following the changing rooms sign. Another thing bothered Alan
as he headed toward the changing rooms: why was there an overpowering
stench of rotting corpses flowing through his nostrils? Maybe he should
turn around and try a different, less weird leisure centre some other
time. But no, he was determined not to put off his task any longer, and
his journey to thinness continued.

The caretaker's office door was thrust open and out stepped Arthur
Johnson, cigarette in mouth, cardboard sign under arm. He had been
given strict instructions by his boss to have the sign taped to the
front of the main entrance by at least 6pm, 'And not a minute later.'
He'd been warned.
So he was an hour late. So what. No harm done, after all it was only a
pesky little sign. Surely they wouldn't sack him just because he lost
track of time and forgot to do one little unimportant job. So he
hurried along, secured the sign up and rushed back to his office. Once
back inside he made sure the door was securely locked, double checking
at least three times, before he got back to business. Once he was sure
that he wouldn't be interrupted he re-opened his battered old copy of
'Big Boobs' magazine, yanked down his trousers and underpants and
resumed the task of servicing his erect old organ.

Alan had found the changing rooms. The terrible smell was even worse in
there. There was movement near the end locker and a squelchy dragging
sound. This was the only sign of life he witnessed since Ethel, the
imprisoned, flame throwing kiosk attendant.
'Hello, is anybody there?' He winged, taking a bulky, fat laden step
forward. Then another sound. A sort of vomiting screamed gargle. Sweat
was now flowing like a waterfall off of Alan's forehead as he reached
the end of the row of lockers and turned.
Someone, or rather something, crawled and grabbed at his feet, pulling
him down. He landed on his cushion of fat ass, trying to scream but not
quite managing. Another rotting hand attacked his throat, grabbing a
surplus of fat before connecting with life threatening force. This time
he could see it's owners face. It was a bloody, flesh dripping, maggot
infested abortion from hell. One eye hung from it's socket by a cotton
thin tendril of flesh, yet still it seemed to fix it's ugly gaze upon
him. There was more, maybe 30 or 40, of this vile death heading his
way. Leaking like living sputum from the shower compartments. . From
lockers. Even through the gleaming white tiles of the ceiling.
The last thing that circulated in Alan's mind before death encompassed
it's sweet mercy upon him was the (now not so) strange thing which
Ethel had said to him: 'You don't look like the rest of your
lot.'
'I should bloody well hope not.' He screamed to his new dead friends,
and laughed himself into death.

If there was one thing that Arthur hated about his job it was having to
clear up after those 'bloody health freaks'. He didn't know what they
had been up to tonight, but the changing rooms seemed to be covered,
wall to wall, floor to ceiling, with snot. Bloody snot. Maybe they all
had a bad case of Flu and couldn't help but to cough up phlegm all over
the place. Who cares anyway? He just wished they could have done it
someplace else.
And if that wasn't enough, somebody had left one of those fake
skeletons they use to tech doctors how to become doctors with by the
end locker.
'They make them look too real these days.' He muttered to himself as he
swept the bones into a rubbish bag.

As Arthur left the building, pocketing his 'Big Boobs' so he could lock
the door, he noticed the sign he had placed there earlier.
'They're holding bloody fancy dress parties now are they?' He mumbled
as he read and took down the sign.
It read -

SPECIAL EXERCISE CLASS
TONIGHT
ZOMBIES ONLY

What was left of Alan F Scott was burned to a fine powder the next day
in the centre's incinerator. At least he didn't have to worry about
being fat anymore.