Bo’s entire life had been leading up to this one day. He had given up everything for it: a strong social life, possible girlfriends, any hope of ever living past 30 years of age, but he had pulled through. Bo was about to enter a hot dog eating contest, hosted at the county fair. The chubby little soldier had eaten as many hot dogs as he could per day in six minutes for the past three months, training to destroy his heart and expand his thighs in the process. Bo’s father, a construction manager named Bill who also had quite an appetite of his own, supported his son after every stuffing session, shouting words of encouragement as his boy regurgitated his food in purge after agonizing purge. He was also a man who was tremendously obese, further inspiring his son’s girth.
“There you go, sport!” He would yell. “Give it to those Beanie Weenies!” Bo gave it to those processed pieces of pig and grease all right, he gave it to them so much that the day before the big contest, the hot dogs gave something back.
“Why is it red?” moaned Bo as he lay on the floor of his bathroom, desperately trying to stand in a pool of regurgitated stomach acid. Yes, the hot dogs had given Bo food poisoning, rendering him to the fetal position in a most untimely fashion. Bill sat in his armchair, listening to the sounds of his son’s body trying to remove something it could not find and realized what he had to do. Rolling onto his feet Bill looked down at his stained polo shirt and bloated beer gut and then back to the bathroom door.
“Bo! Tell your mother I’m going to do for you what you can’t do for yourself.” Bill cried.
“Vomit chunks of corn which I haven’t had in days onto the ground?” Bo yelled from his position on the bathroom floor.  Bill did not hear this as he waddled to his pickup truck and drove down the road to the county fair. The proud father knew that what he was doing could very well be the end of him, as his physician had not only told him that his liver and arteries were about to give in, but that he had only months to live. With tears in his eyes Bill told himself that what he was doing had to be done to demonstrate his devotion to his only son. He would sacrifice himself for Bo’s sake.
Sometime later Bo and his mother appeared at the fair, just as the hot dog eating competition was starting. Bo was just well enough to watch his dad devour bun after greased soaked bun. The announcer began the countdown.
“Pigs and cows, please get ready to devour in three, two, one, GO!” On “GO” every single tub of lard on the pathetic excuse for a stage began shoving hotdogs down his greedy throat, every one of their many chins wiggling with gluttony. Bo looked up at his father’s furious eating and saw what he wanted to be, what he would have been if he had simply not gotten food poisoning.
His mother screamed. “Your pop’s winning Bo, look!”
Bo could not look as he had fallen to the ground chundering uncontrollably yet again. It was true however. Bill was pushing more hot dogs down his throat than any of the other contestants, and grunting with effort each time. Suddenly Bill gave a lurch in his chair. Everyone around the contest stopped and looked. Bill’s eyes bulged out of their sockets and he clutched at his chest and stomach. Bill’s arteries had failed, his heart struggling to pump blood through his corroded veins. His liver and given out from the beers that he had been drinking in between hot dogs. Bo saw this as he struggled to his feet, covered in his own stomach matter.
“Dad?” Bo mumbled as he waddle up to the stage as fast as he could. As he took in the scene before him, Bo’s instincts kicked in. Remembering the lessons he had been taught four years ago in his health class, Bo rushed behind his dad and immediately wrapped his arms around him.
“Don’t worry Dad, just stay calm, you’ll be okay!” Bo heaved and pulled his arms inward as hard as he could, administering a poorly executed Heimlich maneuver. The lad could barely get his arms around his father’s bulging belly. Crunch. Bill’s ribs fractured and pressed against his lungs, as well as pushing against his spleen and kidneys. Bill rolled to the floor, barely able to breath and unable to speak.
“Oh, horseradishes! This should help dad!” Bo kneeled down next to his father and began pumping on his chest. Crunch. Pop. SQUISH. Bill’s ribs broke and came pressing down, stabbing through his lungs and vital organs, pouring out what was left of his liver into the insides of his body. Bill’s eyes bulged out more and his heart began to falter in its desperate attempt to keep its host alive. Bo looked down at his father and knew he had only one chance left. All around him the crowd was screaming in terror as they watched what they perceived to be a chubby teenage boy brutally murdering his already dying father.
Bo jumped to his feet and heaved his father onto his back.
“It’s okay Dad, we’re almost there!” He said as he dragged him toward the dunk tank, just opposite the stage. Tipping his father over the edge of the tank, Bo managed to flip his dad and throw him into the pool of water, completely submerging him. This caused scores of gallons of water to explode out of the tank and onto the various onlookers. God only knows what thoughts of panic and sheer rage were going through Bill’s mind as he experienced his insides and lungs fill up with water. Bo returned moments later with a battery he had procured from the Tilt-a-Whirl and turned to the crowd, with the notion that he could perhaps defibrillate his father’s heart. “CLEAR!” He yelled before tossing the battery inside the pool of water with his dad. As the electricity shut down Bill’s brain and rendered his bodily functions useless, Bo began to cry as he realized his dad was not going to make it. The crowd was silent. Bo’s mother put her hand on her son’s shoulder. It was a dark day for Bo’s family. He had missed his contest, his father was floating in a tub of water with blood slowly coming from his facial orifices, and he only had about 14 more years to live with his level of cholesterol.
“I’m sorry Bo. He just wanted to make you happy.” Said his mother. Bo nodded tears in his eyes. He looked at his mother.
“I’m sorry mom. I shouldn’t have let him go. It’s all my fault.” Bo said, crying.
“It’s not, sweetie. Don’t you worry.” Bo hugged his mother and they started to leave.
“You’re just going to leave his body here?” someone in the crowd yelled. Bo threw up.