Full Forward
A sports fan's five minutes of fame gain him a cult following ... and a lot of weight.
Audiobook reading available here: https://drive.google.com/open?id=1kXLDb7TNt0t38KzC8JV89GkmwNjHwMEg
~3000 words, 18 min
Once he noticed it, he couldn't unnotice it. While Lou had been intently watching the game on television, they had been watching him. Gawking at his size, his rhythmic eating pace, the jiggling movements as his plump paws routinely dug deep into the oversized bowl of chips and shoveled more into his salt and crumb covered face. He was aware that he was somewhat of a celebrity, but until this moment, he hadn't fully processed the type of attention coming his way. He could see it now, the chairs of everyone were pointing at him instead of the TV. His fat arse, parked on the couch, acted as the centrepiece of the room. Their eyes lit up when he looked back at them. It was more than amazement. It was adoration.
It all started months ago, at the football game. During the break in play, the stadium camera would point towards the stands for entertainment, sometimes to make people dance, kiss or play bongos in an interaction with the screen. This segment was simpler, catching who wasn't paying enough attention to notice they were on the big screen. Lou had just returned from the concession stands, handed the flimsy cardboard tray of beers to his bear buddy Rodge while the portly tiger parked his arse on the plastic flip-down seating.
Rodge immediately noticed the big screen cut to Lou and issued a dare without thinking. "I'll shout the season if you down those dogs in a minute." Lou had already started on the first dog, and roughly half a second later, started speedily cramming and swallowing it. The screen showed a countdown timer from 0:45, along with the stripey feline unwrapping a second hot dog from his lap while chewing the remainder of the first one. There were a few chuckles in the crowd, but no real reactions until Lou dunked his hot dog bun into one of the beers and packed it down his gullet in a single gulp.
"He's a pro!" uttered a dude in the next section over. "Damn!" "Wow, he's really putting those away!" Kids in the crowd clapped off-time in encouragement. Lou was too busy on his third dog to notice the camera, but even as the timer ran down to a blinking red 0:00 with an incorrect buzzing sound effect through the speakers, they did not pan away. At this point, a fellow supporter in the row behind Lou heartily clapped him on the back. "Mate, you're on the scoreboard!"
Still working down a hotdog, Lou looked up to see his chubby cheeks, bits of bread stuck in his fur, up on the giant colour stadium scoreboard. He raised his arms, a beer in one, the final hot dog in the other, in victory, which lit up the scattered crowd into congratulatory applause. He saluted his beer to the sky and sculled it in one motion, hovering the empty cup over his head to signify his completion, then moved onto his last hot dog. Well, the last two were supposed to be Rodge's, but he had a challenge to win!
In their country, few things are celebrated like public displays of speed drinking. Policies of prime ministers and feats of sportspeople are scantly remembered, compared to beer guzzling records and rising to a crowd's challenge of "scull!" "scull!" "scull!". Those same cries echoed through the half-full stadium as more patrons returned from the toilets and bars for the second half, issuing a plea for Lou to continue stuffing his face and swilling draught.
Lou wasn't the biggest guy. Sure, he'd put on a good few kilos since moving in with housemates and working evening shifts after university. He wouldn't normally put away that much food sober, not by choice. But he had the heart of a frat boy, a larrikin, a bloke who'd be fearless in front of his mates, and wasn't a stranger to a little friendly egging on to save face. So you can imagine his motivation when the quick thinking scoreboard operator replaced a section of the scoreboard with: HOTDOGS: 3 BEERS: 1
With the fourth beer-drenched bun already finished, Lou chomped and swallowed the last frankfurt and gasped a bellyful of breath before chugging down the frothy mid-strength lager. Rodge's face beamed. The crowd cheered. The children on the ground playing kick-to-kick stopped to find out where the thirsty tiger sat in the crowd and pointed. Lou released a gutteral growl of a belch to punctuate his second beer, drawing another set of raptuous applause and hooting from the throngs of punters.
He was in heaven. He'd never before felt the sense of achievement as in that moment, on a grand stage. With more discomfort, he held the third plastic glass of beer to his mouth, sipping in a single motion, slower, but with deliberation. He was struggling but tried to give the appearance of a smooth scull. The bubbles danced in his swollen stomach, and Lou gave them plenty more. The scoreboard updated its tally and the crowd remained enamoured and engrossed to the exploits of their everyday hero.
Lou stood up and managed a bow, cupped his hand to his ear in a display of bold showmanship and painfully completed his final beer, with a minor hiccup-burp half way through that only made the inevitable viral video more enjoyable and relatable to watch. Rodge and the nearby crowd hugged, high fived and patted him on the back, eliciting further boisterous escapes of carbonation, like a baby being burped.
During the week, his football club capitalised on the viral attention of Lou's performance by inviting him down to the club for a presentation with a minor spoosor, Noddy's smallgoods. One photo op later and Lou was the proud winner of a year's supply of Noddy's hot dogs. The cross-promotion was too easily fitting, and sparked another round of new viewers to his exploits. By the time the weekend's match came along, people were already giving him well wishes on his walk from the train station to the stadium. He'd won a lot of hearts.
Despite gentle protesting, he didn't win Rodge's "four hotdogs in a minute" bet, but he didn't pay for a single beer, hot dog or pie that day. Or for a long time. Passing fans were very happy to treat Lou to a drink and a kind word, although he was nearly always expected to down it quick sticks, to live up to his earned reputation. By the second half, he could barely stand up from the effects of a dozen-plus beers and handfuls of meaty fan food. But he loved it with all of his buzzed brain, signing autographs and posing for selfies and videos of fans reacting to the growing tiger's swilling in the shot behind.
Rodge was enjoying it too, chatting with a bunch of good-natured footy fans, getting free beers and having an all-round awesome time at the game. He shared phone numbers and social media contacts, and made plans to gather at someone's place to watch the team's next interstate game on their big screen TV. Everyone seemed really amped to hang out with the now famous sculling hot dog tiger.
Lou blissfully floated through the week on a sea of free hot dogs and social media notifications. He could show off at the flash of a phone camera, assembling four-dog footlongs on giant French sticks of bread or a funny little hotdog house of cards, before dramatically and hilariously revealing his hungry fangs and chewing them to destruction.
His belly didn't float through, however. It protruded away from his body and drooped below the end of his t-shirts. His backside grew into big soft cushions, and his sides widened into smooth, curvy love handles. Every hot dog and beer added extra plumpness to his fuzzy pecs and extra chubbiness to his thickening neck and often-filled cheeks.
Rodge had teed up a visit from an ex-champion of the club, a fellow cult figure among the fans who also liked a beer, although he was more famous for pushups than hotdogs. The "Prince of Pushups" brought along signed club guernseys, shorts and gear for the guys, and happily exchanged tall tales, photos and a few beers over a BBQ. It was not only a ripping time and a great perk of minor fame for the star-struck footy fans, it also gave Lou some more appropriately fitting clothes.
Puffing up his chest with a deep breath, Lou filled out his 3XL top alongside the Prince's more well-earned broad pecs, each stretching the fabric taut between their nipples. It made for a great photo that Rodge later got framed, and the Prince let them know he'd get the club to send some more merch over if it got 1000 likes, which it easily did. If only the Prince was strong enough to do a push up with a hot dog eating Lou on his back. Unfortunately his new mass proved far too much for the Prince of Pushups, but thankfully no one on social media knew a thing about that!
By Saturday night, Lou was puffing from the trundle up the driveway to the watch party host's house. This was one of the rare times he thought about his rapid weight gain for longer than a second, but as a guest of honour, the partygoers didn't want to wait for him to ring the doorbell. His plodding, thunderous steps must have given him away! Vic, the rugged team-colour flanny wearing moose host, warmly ushered Rodge and the hefty tiger inside to comfortable couch seats in front of the big screen, and handed them red solo cups of frothies poured from a keg in the kitchen.
Lou carefully tread through the gap between the couch and the table in front of the couch, cautious that his new chunky sides and butt had a habit of grazing doorways he'd lived in for years. He did not want to knock over the plates stacked with brownies and slices, nor the overflowing bowls of chips and buttered popcorn. And of course, if the kitchen counter covered in plastic bags of cylindrical rolls didn't give it away, the smell did. There were going to be hot dogs, and likely a lot of them. It was clearly a party with him in mind, and that brought a toothy smile to his panting face.
The guests who had been milling around several of the rooms, or having a smoke out the back, all came into the loungeroom shortly after Lou had his breath back, sunk back into the couch with a butter soaked paw of popcorn. "Good to see ya, big fella!" "Glad to see you again, big guy!" "It's the dogslayer! How's our good luck charm tonight? Like our chances?" Such a homely community vibe. He was amazed to have stumbled into something like this over the course of under a month.
So it was obviously a shock that when Lou noticed it, he couldn't unnotice it. The assembled 20-odd partygoers of all shapes, species and sizes weren't just friendly and decked out to watch the game, they were here to watch him. Weeks of snacking had already left Lou with a habit of grazing on anything in front of him, which he continued as the chip bowl wasn't empty, but his mind was processing exactly how he was supposed to feel about the glimmering sets of eyes transfixed on him while he ate.
He grunted as he leaned forward to put the near-empty bowl back on the table, constrained by his belly bulk pressing up against his broad, flabby thighs. He exhaled loudly as he sank back into the plush couch, readying a back groove to match the sizeable ass groove that he'd worked into it already. He closed his eyes and thought of his new fans, here and in the stadium, the journey he'd stumbled into and what to say or do next. He'd loved being the spectacle on the big screen for a contest. Was this so different? Was it so bad to be overeating and cultivating an even larger figure?
Lou was awoken from his ponderings by a pawpad gently placed on the part of his belly that the guernsey still covered. "Not full already are ya, big tig?" The soft touch coaxed a lilting burp out of him. "Got room for more now!" He winked at the slender leopard rubbing his belly. Vic stood up and proudly proclaimed: "Release the hounds!" and platters of hot dogs and condiments were brought in and passed around. With the exception of two platters wedged in amongst the remaining snacks on the table in front of Lou, rather obviously. The quarter-time siren rang out on the football game, which Lou took as a sign to address the troops, like his footy counterparts.
"Before we get stuck in, I wanna say a big fat thank you to all of you. I know we're only just getting to know each other, but I can see how much effort you've gone to and how much everyone's enjoying themselves. It's only just hitting me how powerful my presence is," he made eye contact with everyone in the room, listening attentively, "and I couldn't be happier to share it with you!" He stood up, flexed his wobbling biceps and spilled his blubbery gut of his guernsey, which rode up to his thick, sagging moobs.
Beer cups were raised and shouts of celebration rang out through the house. Rodge wrapped an arm around Lou, "fuck yeah, good on ya mate, let's party!" Lou felt way more comfortable with the group being rowdy and unabashed in their admiration. He made a note to play it up, slapping his exposed belly to send it bouncing, and grabbing someone close, nearly face-to-face, as he would scull a beer and belch in their face. Wasn't for everyone, but it made some of them melt and either way, it sure was funny!
Later on in the evening, Vic plonked himself in the small space of the couch that Lou wasn't occupying. "Glad we got through to you buddy. We love the footy just like you do, but there's something special about you, man. It's mesmerising. It's almost hypnotic. It's X-Factor. Call it what you want. You're a cult hero and we're fanatic, it's what we do!"
He laid his moosey hoof on Lou's ample thigh and laid out some larger plans he had in mind. "I'd like to give you more opportunities on the big stage to do your thing and have your moment in the sun. It's not only awesome bonding, it's good for the club, but I think it's what we need more of in the world right now. I dunno, just seems like the right thing to do. We wanna let you train up, even find some competition to go against, as is the spirit of self-improvement. Hungry as you are, I'm sure you'll be even hungrier to put away that tenth hot dog or pint of draught if there's a young fella that reckons they can hang with you."
"I've got mates at the footy club and got the all-clear to launch a collaborative spin-off project, shall we say. With your support and your blessing, we're gonna launch The Richmond Foodball Club. Get it, like the football club?" Vic guffawed and nudged Lou, sending his moob fat crashing into his other moob and outwards, colliding and transferring energy like a desk pendulum. "Memberships available for social events like these, training gear and material for you and your fellow competitors, and some tasty prizes once the sponsors see what we're building here. It might be a PC-world out there, but in this club, there'll always be a place for human kegs and foodballs like yourself. It's fucken awesome."
Vic paused. The glow in his weathered face was clear to see. It was quite a gesture and a plan, and Lou was the centrepiece. The giant bulking traditional full-forward behemoth that people came to see, as the little blokes fed the footy on a platter in front of them. This was Lou's game now. He was the bear in the square. He hadn't planned to become a hulking flabby unit of a man, but he hadn't really planned for anything fancier than being an accountant or a small business owner anyway. He was larger than life, and life was good. Lou answered in the language that would be most appreciated: downing the rest of his beer. "Why bloody not!"
"Fantastic, it's gonna be great!" Vic was chuffed, and kept waffling his dreams excitedly. "We can do shows in pubs, in cinemas, at festivals. Do it at the footy again pre-game or during breaks. Hell, the league would love something to do in the off-season with the clubs. That'll be you out there, big guy. On the hallowed turf in front of 100,000 gobsmacked fans. Maybe go international! Footy's great, but some things are bigger than the game itself."
"Yeah," Lou remarked like the typical smartarse prevalent in footy circles, "Me."