CD PowerPlay 6/TheCompleteAdventureCollection1995/CDPP6.ISO/share/nomad/nomad.doc

Text File | 1994-03-26 | 12.8 KB | 253 lines

Liza's Last Meal
by Phlegm Games
PO BOX 1575
Hailey, ID 83333

Like a beached whale, the fat woman jiggled along the
seashore. The cellulite on her thighs resembled cottage
cheese and the loose fat under her arms swayed with all the
force of a wrecking ball. Her polka dot swim suit stretched
to it's outer most limits, each black dot silently screaming
for mercy, tightly pressed against skin so white and pasty
you could brush your teeth with it.
    I sat on my towel, and cringed as she walked towards
me. With a thump, she sat down, as I tried to ignore her
presence. Her cheeks puffed out with the elasticity of a
well worn pair of briefs as she chewed noisily on a Ding
Dong and two Twinkies.
    "Honey, we ran out of Pepsi... I think we'd better go
home now." People gasped as they realized that the overfed
beast was my wife.
    Even though I was enjoying the midday sun, and the
constant rap of waves hitting beach, I conceded to her plea
for Pepsi. Gathering up our beach stuff, I decided her death
was near.

    My decision wasn't a spurt of the moment thing at all.
In fact, I'd stayed up many nights (because of the nasal
grunting in bed next to me) plotting her murder. I'd lived
with the woman for three of the longest years of my life and
felt I deserved some monetary reimbursement for the endless
nagging, nightly snoring, and compulsive eating I'd endured.
    I met the porcine whale by means of her well to do
father, who also happened to be my boss at the time, and
owner of a chain of stores called Clothing for the
Horizontally Endowed.
    I was working in the shoe department, when her dad came
up to me wearing some new triple wide hiking boots.
    "My, you look thin in those shoes," I said to him, as
was common procedure.
    "Yeah, yeah, cut the crap," the brusque man replied.
"My daughter saw you over here, and thought you looked cute,
whatever the hell that means. Anyways, here's two hundred
bucks, why don't you take her out."
And that's how it started.
      I was planning on divorcing Liza after a brief marriage
and obtaining some of the family's extensive wealth. But I
think her father  bribed the divorce judge, and so I was to
get nothing (except freedom) if the divorce proceeded.
Needless to say, I cancelled the divorce, and continued the
marriage, with her life insurance policy lingering in the
back of my mind.

    When we got home from the beach, I told Liza that I'd
make her a wonderful dinner, some fettucine perhaps, with
lots of cheese. She quickly licked her lips at the idea.
    After preparing a mouth watering meal, I ran downstairs
to the basement. Out of an old wooden chest, I grabbed some
weed killer and engine lubricant. Smiling, I dumped two cups
of herbicide, and all of the lubricant into the pasta.
    In three slurping motions, she inhaled the greasy meal.
Immediately following the last gulp of pasta, a deep
rumbling sounded in the bottom of her stomach. It was just
barely loud enough to hear, but considering that it was
covered by layer upon layer of noise dampening fat, the
noise was a powerful thing indeed. Ever so slowly, the
rumbling traveled up into her throat, creeping, crawling,
the noise growing louder and louder, until finally it
emptied her body.
    It was the absolute grandfather of belches, the king of
burps. It sent a flow air that blew the trees outside, and
created such a deep sonic boom that the house tremored.
    Uncannily, she didn't show any surprise by the fact
that she had  made her mark on every Richter scale in the
western United States. She nonchalantly picked the last
piece of noodle from her teeth, her facial expression as
bland as ever.
    Two hours later, I lay next to her in bed, waiting,
hoping for that moment, when she'd wheeze her final breath.
Trying not to let myself fall asleep, I diligently listened
to every obnoxious snore, hoping it would be the last.
    When I did fall asleep, though, I found myself standing
in the dining room. In my right hand was a shiny butchers
knife. Sitting in front of me, in her huge custom-made chair
was Liza, her back facing me. She made slurping and gurgling
noises, as she chomped on something. I looked over her
shoulder to see what it was that she was so noisily gnawing
at, and was horrified to see blood trickling down her jaw,
as she ate a gnarled human arm! Instinctively I looked down
at my left arm, to see nothing but a bloody, sinewy stump
protruding from my shoulder.
    A chaotic expression on my face, I pulled the knife
over my head, and stabbed at her back, fast and hard. The
knife punched deep into her flesh. When I released the
dagger, instead of the conventional blood, Pepsi spurted
from the wound, gushing like a fire hydrant.
    "Ouch! Honey... honey, a bee just stung me."
    "Shut up!" I screamed, and stabbed her again and again,
all over her body. Meanwhile she complained to me about the
obnoxious bees. I stabbed hysterically, discouraged by each
futile attempt. Pepsi sprayed out of each and every hole,
forming a pool at my feet. I kept stabbing, ignoring the
cola, which was quickly growing around me.
    Soon, I was drowning in Pepsi, the house was filled
with the soft drink. I breathed it in, choked, my lungs
filled with the liquid. Then, of course I woke up, my love
dumpling next to me.
    "How was your sleep, darling?" I asked her, with sour
breath.
    "The best I've had in months, that dinner last night
really hit the spot." Her voice was squeaky and high
pitched, yet somewhat masculine.
    "How'd you like some waffles for breakfast?"
    "Oh, that sounds wonderful."
    "I'll have to run to the store, to get some flour...
and stuff. I'll be back in a sec." I put on some jeans and a
tee shirt and ran to the car. Driving to the Golden Rule
drug-store in Liza's Porsche, I realized that the car would
soon be mine, as would the house, the pool, and my secret
lover, the Swedish maid.
    This bitch is gonna' need more than mere weed killer
and engine lubricant, I thought, as I looked down at various
paint thinners and cleaning products. From out of nowhere, a
Golden Rule employee walked up to me, wearing a canvas
yellow vest, the name "Bert" embroidered on the front.
    "Doin' a little work around the house today, sir?"
asked the older  man with a shiny bald spot and bushy
eyebrows.
    "Yeah, I need some really harsh and powerful cleaning
stuff. I've also got some, uh,  roaches living in my house,
really, really big ones."
    The man pointed out an assortment of extremely deadly
cleaning products, which I took eagerly. He then handed me a
clear sandwich bag with some white powder in it. "This stuff
is the most effective roachkilling product in the world.
It's not legal in the U.S., or any other civilized country
for that matter, but heck, it'll kill every big, ugly roach
you have." The man winked at me, the kind of wink my
grandfather used to give me when I was a kid. "Just put a
pinch of this stuff on your kitchen floor before you go to
bed, and when you wake, they'll all be in roachy heaven."
Before I had time to say thanks, the man was gone.
    I went around the store and picked up a few more
products that amply warned to keep out of children's reach.

    "What's this?" questioned the check out lady. Her hair
was a kind of greenish-blonde, with black roots. She was
holding up the sandwich bag, containing roachkiller.
    "Some roach poison," I said. "Bert gave it to me."
    "Oh," she said, though it sounded more like "ew." Like
she smelled human excrement, or something. "Well I guess
it's on us then, sir."
    "Thanks," I said, and headed back home.

    When I arrived home, Liza was sitting on the couch
watching a soap opera and eating chocolate ice cream out of
the container. I ran to the kitchen and enthusiastically
mixed together the batter for waffles. Then I opened up the
grocery bag of toxic chemicals and into the batter  poured a
can of turpentine. The clear liquid floated around by
itself, not caring to amalgamate with the eggs, water and
pancake mix. I went on to add a packet of laxatives, that
just fell to the bottom of the bowl and some bluish-gray
carpet cleaner, giving it that new car kind of smell. Next,
I emptied a dozen horse tranquilizers into the solution. The
large pellets produced tiny bubbles as they dissolved, and a
small bottle of mint flavored wart remover added a
refreshing smell to the mixture. Finally, with the hands of
a sorcerer I emptied the bag of white powder into the
potion.  At the arrival of the final ingredient,  the brew
changed to a glossy black color.
    The concoction sizzled and smoked as it cooked in the
waffle iron. Delicately, I peeled each sticky cake off the
iron and dropped it onto Liza's gargantuan Elvis
commemerative plate. The waffles looked perfectly delicious.
    "Breakfast is ready," I shouted. Liza stampeded into
the dining room and started eating before she even sat down.
    She crammed each waffle down her throat like a hurried
taxidermist, maple syrup rolling down her plump cheeks.
Happily, she swallowed the final cake, and laid back in her
seat, as satisfied as a newly crowned Sumo champion. Seeing
that a few crumbs were still on the plate, she stuck out her
enormous tongue, and licked the platter clean.

    For three minutes I watched, as nothing happened. Save
for a few belches, she just sat there licking her lips and
patting her stomach.  Then suddenly, I noticed that she was
getting fatter, right there before my eyes. Like a balloon
being filled with helium, her glutinous figure expanded. At
first, she was startled, screaming at the top of her lungs
for help, watching as her own body filled up with... air?
The bigger she grew the more scared she became, the more
quiet, mutely hysterical, probably to choked by blubber to
utter a sound. Her custom made chair cracked and shattered
as she swelled. Her clothes ripped open, shooting buttons
across the dining room.
    In less than a minute, she had doubled in size. Her
skin was overstretched at places, and tearing apart. I
watched stunned yet happy, as her eyes bulged out of her
head, and she gasped for air. I laughed out loud, realizing
that she looked just like the Good Year blimp.
    I had once told a friend, that if Liza was to get any
fatter, she'd probably burst. And that's just what happened,
when, as if pricked by a needle, she popped. The explosion
created a subtle release of air, and chunks of flesh flew
everywhere. I groaned, as bloody clods of fat shot in every
direction, splattering against walls and furniture, covering
my entire body. The stench of bile and human waste
aromatized the air. Creamy gelatinous globules slid down the
furniture and walls, leaving a trail of slime.

    I put away all the poisons, and dialed 911. "Hello," I
said, removing Liza's epiglottis from my hair. "My wife just
kinda' spontaneously exploded." My voice was a little shaky
and scared, but I had a grin the size of Rhode Island.
    "Huh?"
    "You know," I said. "She blew up."
    "I don't have time for this." Dial tone.
    I pressed the redial button. The same operator
answered. "Seriously lady, I mean I'm sure it's hard to
believe, but my wife blew up."
    "Okay, say your wife really did, how'd you say...
spontaneously explode. What am I supposed to do about it?"
    Good question, I thought, what can she really do. The
ambulance has no reason to come, she's obviously dead. The
last thing I want is the police involved, they don't really
need to be a part of this either.     "Hmm," I said."You should
know what to do, I mean somebody just died, there must be
some procedure for that."
    "Well, you could probably call up Alpo dog food. I'm
sure they'd take her away for you." She chuckled and hung up
again.

    Anyhow, I ended up calling the morgue. They came to the
house, discovered that Liza was more like puke than a
salvageable body and immediately called the police reporting
that an autopsy was needed. Because the body was so mangled,
the police just reported it as a freak incident, implausible
yet possible. A few investigator types visited, some tabloid
columnists, etc. Except for the questioning and interviews,
everything went pretty smoothly.
    Liza left everything she owned to yours truly. I got
the two million in life insurance, the red Porsche, and the
Mansion. I married the Swedish maid, (weighing in at 118
pounds) and since then, life has really improved.
    When I phoned Liza's parents, I told them she'd been
hit by a train. I explained that she was drunk at the time
and probably didn't even know what hit her. They wanted the
body sent to them, so they could have a proper burial. I can
only imagine the expression on her dad's face when he got
that box of human puree in the mail.