Tangy clementine-colored chicken and chunks of creamy blue cheese dribble down Fat Mike’s chin as he sinks deeper and deeper into the permanently deflated plaid loveseat. Yeah, not too much love going down on this seat anymore, the only cheeks left touching on this veteran of afterschool “studying” are Fat Mike’s two orbital moons, progressively tearing through their denim Wrangler atmosphere. Three sets of game controllers litter the rugged post-apocalyptic living-room terrain amongst scratched Madden discs and ravaged Chinese take-out menus, all bathing in a generous coating of Doritos cheese and honey roasted peanut salt. The fuzzy tube TV illuminates Fat Mike’s portly silhouette against the pink cat and flower vase wallpaper and closed shutters - a Buddha amidst disarray. “Get lean, ripped abs in as little as four weeks!” blurts a juiced Mr. Clean impersonator.

Snort.

Diet Coke stains evaporate from a wheatgrass green wife-beater in the daylight slipping through a bent shutter of the Call of Duty bunker. Fat Mike’s cheeks simulate point blank grenade explosions at every breath, though they produce miniscule tremor compared to the nuclear warfare taking place in his intestines. Across the border from Armageddon, a godlike force erects and settles a blubbery mountain cultivated through years of Colts Superbowls, Celtics Championships and hundreds of second World Wars won and lost. Pulp knuckles twitch in sync to a dreamscape battle: up, down, crouch, sprint, juke right, fire, fire, fire, fire. All other bodily instincts have long been surrendered or traded for first round draft picks and weapon upgrades.

Snort.

A dank breeze eases its way through Fat Mike’s wisp of frail hazel hair more fluidly than it had through the cobweb infested stairwell, intensifying as it creeps deeper into his battle-tainted cranium. A gargantuan tornado erupts smack in the middle of the Battle of Berlin, distracting Sergeant Michael momentarily from the hailstorm of gunfire directed his way. “Game Over!” interrupts a booming voice megaphoned from the heavens as all the surrounding environment begins to buzz in a cocktail of near-perfectly simulated gore and mud. His pulp extremities jolt, transporting Fat Mike briefly into reality.

Snort.

A blanket of despair instantaneously envelopes his salty snout; he had lost again to those god-damn Nazis. Big boy doesn’t back down that easily though, no way. “Time for some pay back,” Fat Mike contemplates scanning the room with his beady little eyes. There, between minefields of Butterfinger wrappers and pistachio shells, over the moldy mountain of Crave Cases, on the shore of hundreds of liters of Mountain Dew, lies the Excalibur which has become a living, breathing piece of him; the weapon he has used to slay myriads of Afghan terrorists, the extension to his arm that has dealt so many game winning touchdowns and thrown countless last second three-point shots. Thor leans towards Mjöllnir, his face already a ripe tomato red. Just a few inches more to that neon glowing ring and Green Lantern will regain his powers. Fat Mike, however, comes blundering down stomach-first onto his mother’s dusty carpet, landing a good arm’s length from the X-box controller. He remains there completely motionless, right arm fully outstretched.


Snort.