Timothy 01: Timothy

by Mark Tufo

  Visit Mark at marktufo.com

  Timothy by Mark Tufo

  Copyright © 2011 Mark Tufo

  http://twitter.com/#!/ZombieFallout

  Dedication: As always to my wife, my muse who more than once while proof reading this story turned to me and asked ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  To the brave men and women of the armed forces, a thank you to each and every one of you.

  Timothy

  It was a weekend day, Saturday to be specific, just like most. It was spent among twenty three screaming, crying, fighting, bratty six year olds, and did I tell you I don’t much like kids? My secondary job as Spangle the clown was something I did on the side to pay my bills. My day job, which I have been encouraged by many a parent at said side gigs to not quit, was not making my ends meet. To be honest, my ends couldn’t currently even see each other.

  Why I chose to live in an upscale apartment in downtown San Francisco I’ll never know. Wait, scratch that, I do know, it’s for the chicks. If you live in the Asbury-Haight district you have to be loaded and nothing attracts a gold digger quite like gold. As a mid-level accountant at a finance firm during the week and a kid-detesting clown on the weekends I lived on a steady diet of Ramen Top Noodles and grilled cheese, most times without the cheese. I was, and I stress was, a man living way beyond my means but it all seemed worth it when I was in bed with yet another nameless beauty who was low on self esteem and high on ecstasy.

  The day was cold and dreary even by San Francisco standards I had gone outside to get away from the claustrophobic cacophony that was spoiled children pent up indoors all hopped up on sugar and soda. Damn near lethal combination, if you ask me because I wanted to kill them. Alright not literally, at least not until a juiced-up Johnny bit me on my calf—the little fucker actually drew blood. And then his bitch mother had the audacity to yell at me when I hurled the little kid across the room.

  “What is wrong with you?” she screamed, her finger in my face.

  Just some background, I am six foot five inches tall and close to three hundred pounds. I played college football a few years back and was good enough to start, but I didn’t have allusions of going pro. I just knew the NFL would have been a stretch and I didn’t want to work that particularly hard for it. Kind of pathetic, I know; guys with five times my heart would have killed for my size. I took it for granted, I have been bigger than most for almost my entire life. Everything and I mean everything once I was seen by a coach was handed to me. My first coach gave me a bike just to join his team, and the perks got bigger and better as I started to cruise control through life. Sure with the size I possessed I had a fair number of pro scouts come and see my games; by then, though, I had moved on to my true passion, women, or more accurately, one night stands. Pursue, conquest, disposal—that was my creed, football was merely a means to that end.

  I’m not sure why I didn’t put it together that to move on to the next level would have ensured a steady supply of what I desired most, pussy. As an offensive lineman it wasn’t my job to think, maybe that’s a cop-out but I’ve never really stopped to think about it until now. Actually, was given the shitty accountant job which I was wholly unqualified for by a UCLA alum that was a season ticket holder and had appreciated the effort that I had put forth in ensuring that the Golden Bears won the BCS title that year. I could tell, Victor, my boss was beginning to regret his decision to ever hire me. He had to lay out a fair amount of cash for all of my custom built office furniture to accommodate my size, I even had an oversized calculator which for some reason still gave me inaccurate figures.

  But back to my immediate predicament.

  “You fucking goon!” The diminutive mom screamed as she kept poking her finger into my chest.

  “Listen, Lady!” I yelled at her. “You’re little fucking angel just bit me hard enough to draw blood,” I raised my calf so that she could see the crimson circle that welled up on my Golden parachute pants. “And if you keep poking me in the chest I am going to return the favor in spades!” I had scared the shit out of men nearly the same size as me, this little rotund out of shape, ball of bitch was nearly shaking in her shoes, which were almost as ugly as mine and you have to remember I was dressed as a clown. She backed up a few steps and clutched her now sobbing snot-faced kid to her chest.

  Twenty-two kids and about half that number of adults had all completely stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfold. The little red-headed number that had hired me for the job was the first to act. Like a fool, I had taken it for almost half my normal rate thinking that I might get to check out if what she wore on top matched down below or even better had nothing to compare against at all. She was close to fifteen years my senior and was married with her own little brood of brats, but that had not stopped me in the past.

  “I think that you should leave, Mr. Spangles,” she said timidly.

  “It’s just Spangles,” I fairly growled at her. “And I’m not going anywhere until I get paid.”

  I watched as she eyed the phone on the counter and then did the mental calculations of how much damage I could wrought before the police took their customary fifteen minutes to show up for an emergency. I have a temper, I know this and I used to use up all my anger on the field. Since my days of collegiate play were over I had learned differing ways to diffuse this anger, but between the kid biting me, his fat slob of a mother poking me in the chest, and the unsettling feeling that I was getting sick just all combined in me to make a caustic stew of malcontent. If Red was stupid enough to call the police, by the time they got here I don’t think there’d be many people left standing to give a statement, women and children included. Especially the children.

  Red paid me double my going rate, said she was concerned or some shit about my bite getting infected and that I should get it checked out. The fear that exuded off of her as she fished around in her purse, I’ve got to admit was exhilarating, if I didn’t think that the police might now be on their way I would have taken her right there and then. As it was I made sure to press my hard on up against her back as she escorted me to the door. Bitch damn near passed out when she felt the size of it.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” I said softly to her.

  “You need to go,” she answered me, shivering.

  I did not look back as I got into my old Ford F-350, another ‘gift’ for choosing to go to UCLA. It was starting to show signs of age, but it accommodated my size and the shitty hundred fifty dollars I made today was not going to be enough to buy a newer one. I don’t know what happened to Red after that day but I regretted not getting a go with her.

  My head was splitting by the time I was around halfway home, so much so that I didn’t pull over into my customary gas station and change, a la Superman. I did not want my neighbors to know that I moonlit as a clown, it would break the illusion that I was attempting to foster, the image of a successful business man, not many CEOs in waiting wore a bright red nose. The pressure in my sinuses was threatening to rupture through my face, the thought of stopping for an extra twenty minutes to change was incomprehensible. I needed to swallow an Oxycodone and three shots of Jack before this head fuck blossomed into a meltdown. I had once suffered a concussion from a late hit by one of the guys on our practice squad, that pain although excruciating was nothing compared to the daggers being thrust into my skull right now. The following week I had ended any hopes Pat Ryan had of making the starting team, I had clipped his knee, shattering his patella. “So sorry,” I had said as I tapped the side of his helmet and got off of his tortured form. I don’t think he heard me over his ragged screams.

  I lived on the first floor not because I liked to listen to the douche bags above me walking around at three am but because the rent
was thirty-five dollars a month cheaper. So it was easy to see the little number that was on the lawn out front peeking through my windows as I rolled up.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, even that softly it reverberated through my jawbone and pitched the pain level just that much higher, and still I didn’t learn my lesson as I asked myself what was she doing here. She knew the rules—I pick her up after a series of lies, we head back to my place for some wild anonymous sex. I then lie once more, telling her that I’ll call her and then immediately throw her number out. I used to hang on to the numbers kind of like trophies but once in a moment of weakness I had called a girl back, we had gone on an actual date. It was awkward, we had tried to have conversations, and I discovered I wasn’t nearly as smooth a liar if we both weren’t liquored up. I had ended up dropping close to 200 bucks for the night and I hadn’t even gotten laid, she said that she had wanted to get to know me better. I had told her that she’d already met my penis and it was a little late for the rest.

  My skull was splintering, I knew for sure that it was. And if I remembered correctly Marie-Barbie-Twat had a high-pitched nasally laugh. Her orgasm had sounded like a seal being clubbed to death, slowly. Almost made me lose my hard-on.

  Maybe she won’t notice me, I thought wrongly. Pretty tough to miss a three hundred pound man, especially when he’s dressed up brighter than a rainbow. At least the size twenty-seven shoes were off, pretty tough to drive with them on.

  “Timothy?” She whined as I got out of my truck.

  I covered my face with my hand hoping to block out the sun and her voice.

  “I thought you were a pilot? My girlfriend told me you were full of shit, she said you were too big to be a pilot. I can’t believe I fucked Bozo,” she nearly shrieked.

  Fucking daggers, her talking was like a samurai sword sawing through my head. With my free hand I wrapped it around her face and pushed her away, she just barely caught her balance or she would have landed on her spectacular ass, even in this amount of pain I would have still enjoyed it.

  “Asshole!” she screamed.

  I stood ramrod straight, I had broken bones before that had not inflicted this much pain.

  “What do you want?” I said as softly as I could.

  “I left my purse in your apartment you freak!” she shrieked.

  I turned to face her, “You yell like that again and I’ll peel your face off.”

  She was going to start ranting again, I had the feeling this was one of those women that thrived on drama but something in the set of my eyes must have let her know that this would become a CSI episode rather than anything on Jersey Shore.

  “I just need to get my purse,” she said in a tone that would ensure her survival.

  I put my key in the lock, I swear I could hear every tumbler as they moved into place to unlock my door, I winced as each and every notch became engaged.

  “Hurry up,” bitch said. “I don’t want to be seen out here with you.”

  I turned the knob, the latch scraping against the door frame reverberated up through my arm and into my head. What’s her name pushed past me to get in.

  “Come on in,” I growled to her swaying ass. I could still appreciate her form, I wasn’t dead, just a skull splitting headache.

  “Got it!” she yelled from my bedroom, I almost fell to my knees. I was still standing in my entry way as she came out of the room. “I thought clowns were supposed to be jolly and shit,” she said as she looked through her purse. “I could take care of that, if you want.”

  I knew what she was implying. “You just called me a freak,” I whispered.

  “That was for anybody watching, you’ve got one of the biggest cocks I’ve ever seen and I’m already here.”

  I shrugged. “Fine.” Refer back to the part where I said I wasn’t dead. I started to unbuckle my suspenders.

  “Leave them on,” she said sultrily. “I’ve always wanted to do a clown.”

  Chicks are by nature flawed beasts—who am I to deny them? She retreated back into my bedroom and I followed. I unzipped my fly to give her better access.

  “Come here, lover,” she said from my bed.

  Shit how long did it take me? She was already naked and waiting, either I had lost some time or she was just that practiced at the maneuver. I decided not to dwell on it. Of course she was a slut; if I had picked her up for a one night stand probably a dozen or so other guys had too. As blood flowed from my big head into my little one, the pain subsided somewhat in my brain, I made sure to shove as much of me into her mouth as possible to keep her from talking. The less she said, the better I felt.

  Eventually, I got on top of her supporting my weight on my forearms, her head rocked back and forth as I thrust into her, with her mouth slightly open she began to moan, at first softly, and that was a magnificent turn on. I thrust harder and faster, her body and head began to shake violently from her orgasmic convulsions, her encouragement for me to come, became shrill infestations in my ears. The pain that was being held at bay now rushed full force like stampeding bulls across the tender flesh of my temples. My forearms gave way, but still I humped her for all I was worth. The pleasure of the sexual act was the only thing that was keeping me functional from the crippling pain.

  I knew somewhere far in the distance that placing all of my bulk on her was a burden, but she would have to suffer through it until I was done. She was here for my enjoyment. At first I could feel her sag under the added pressure and then she began to fight against me. She had punctured through my outfit and flesh in more than one spot with her fingernails in a desperate bid to get out from under me. At some point she was able to move her head far enough that she was able to bite on my cheek and ear, still the pain of her defensive posturing did little to break through the cloud of misery that scraped along my mind.

  It was her shrieking that finally did it. It was like someone took the head of a needle and was slowly dragging it across my eyeball, I pulled out of her completely and raised up as she took a huge ragged breath of air. When I came out of my pain filled abyss, I crashed back down and into her, I angled my head so that my mouth was by her neck.

  ‘Eat!’ tore through my head, the message lit up across my mind like my own personal bat signal. I wasn’t even hungry, between the pain in my head and screwing a hot chick I didn’t see much chance of fitting a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in.

  ‘Hungry!’ The insistent thought cramped my belly, and was making my penis go from wood rigid to pasta soft.

  I still had cognitive thought as I tore a chunk of her throat out roughly the size of a hamburger slider, but my motor skills were rapidly slipping from my control. Her eyes were glazed with pain and shock as blood pumped through the wound. I kept thrusting my deflating penis and biting, thrusting and biting, blood soaked my face, and it pooled around her head and still I kept pumping. I came with a shudder just as her eyes fluttered closed. My vision tunneled and I crashed down on what was left of her one last time.

  ***

  It was nighttime when I finally awoke. “What the hell is going on?” I asked myself. I tried to wipe the sleep from my eyes. The pain, the blessed pain was gone. I wanted to do a dance I felt so good. I vaguely remembered the events of the day, that stupid little kid biting me and then coming home to what’s her name.

  ‘Oh shit, is she still here? I’m not taking her out, maybe she just left.’

  I could hear what sounded like a dog chewing a particularly succulent bone, but since I didn’t own a dog I would have to move on to the next explanation.

  “Am I dreaming?”

  I couldn’t move, my eyes were open and I was looking through them but I was so close to whatever was in front of them that I could not focus properly. ‘Did that bitch drug me? She’s probably robbing me while I lie here like a log.’

  “I’ll kill you bitch,” I screamed, but I don’t think my mouth was working.

  ‘Whoa that was fucking weird!’ My body moved and I didn’t do it. I screamed next,
for how long I don’t know but my throat should have been shredded by the time I was done. The brief glimpse I caught of what’s her name, before I closed my eyes was horrifying. Her face was gone, picked clean as if she had been lying in the desert exposed to all the wild animals for a week. One eye was gone and the other was bit cleanly in two. The skin around her neck had been peeled like an orange except for a few deep wounds where chunks of meat had been torn loose.

  I was puking, but I wasn’t. I could FEEL myself retching but my body was not responding. Then my traitorous body descended back down onto the prone form of the woman and pulled another meager strip of skin from her forehead. The wet smacking sounds as I chewed the flesh was nauseating, I could hear myself swallowing but no matter how hard I tried to force it from going down my gullet still it happened. My body was ravenously hungry, even as I was convulsing in disgust.

  “Am I dead? This must be hell. The bitch killed me!” I yelled. “But why would I be eating her then, that doesn’t make any sense,” I was a disembodied voice stuck in my body. I had no form, I was nowhere and I was nothing yet here I was. My body continued to rend through the carcass of Gina, yeah that was her name, Gina Talgera. Great, NOW is when I decide to put a name to the strips of beef I’m eating. This just can’t be real, now I told you I was an offensive lineman in football, not a famed position for having to think but I was going to, NO, I needed to reason this out.

  So either I’m dead and this is some form of hell, possible. I’m asleep and I’m having one hell of a believable dream, again possible. Or I’m alive and my consciousness is now trapped in a cannibalistic body, out of the three scenarios this one is the least believable. So the best I can hope for is that this dream does not drive me insane and that I wake up in a few hours and kick this crazy bitch out of my house because apparently she slipped me some sort of mickey that is having some sort of serious mind-fuck on me. Maybe I’ll slap her around a little before I let her leave just because of what she’s putting me through.