Dudley hasn't always been pampered...here's his account of the worse point in his life.
I was lying fairly contently in my place of confinement, which I thought was quite reasonable as these things go. It would have been worse if I had been left with nothing to do but there were always plenty of strange plastic devices to keep me amused. I guess my oppressors just dumped this junk in with me to get it all out of their way but I didn't mind this aspect of my imprisonment, not one bit. It kept me occupied if nothing else, during the long lonely hours.
I had been left alone since the morning feeding but as the hands of the clock on the wall approached the dreaded hour I began to get more and more apprehensive. My oppressors would come for me soon, to inflict their daily torture on me. As it got closer and closer to that time, I huddled into the corner, in the foetal position as far away from the door as possible. I knew that this won't make it any harder for my oppressors to get at me but it was nonetheless comforting.
As the clock chimed twelve times, Oppressor Number One came for me. I was cruely yanked from my confinement, which I had come to think of as a sort of haven from the tutore that awaited me daily. Just thinking about what was in store for me sent an involantarily shiver through my body. I kicked and screamed all the while my oppressor quickly carried me to the all too familiar chair of torture. As I was roughly strapped down in the chair I realised there was no point in fighting anymore, the inevitable had begun. I went limp from exhaustion and waited, resigned to my fate.
Sure enough, the familar instrument of torture approached my mouth. I thought about squirming out of the way but I couldn't move, I had been strapped in too tightly. There was nothing for it but to allow the spoon entry to my mouth. After it had dumped its contents in my mouth, it returned to the container, scooped another heap of the ugly stuff and re-entered my mouth. It was no good fighting it, I had been subjected to this excruciating torture repeatedly for longer than I cared to remember. I knew it would go on like this until the bowl nearby was emptied. I knew better than to struggle and I knew I couldn't protest. For the only way to protest would be to cry and I could never do that. It would mean admitting defeat, I may be powerless but I would not cry.
The trouble was, crying was exactly what I wanted to do...everytime the spoon approached, newly filled with the lumpy red sauce I found it harder and harder not to break down. It got even harder everytime I felt the gruesome taste of the baked beans on my tongue and I despereatly fought the urge to just clamp my mouth down and refuse to take in any more. But I knew in my gut I could never do that because I knew from experience the consequece of disobeying.
So upon each approach of the spoon I would open my mouth and trying my best not to gag I would begin to methodically and purposefully chew. I found myself chewing only long enough to be able to swallow. I didn't want to have to taste it, to feel it's texture on my tongue any longer than I had too. The only problem with this was that the sooner I swallowed the sooner the spoon was brought to my mouth again.
I had long ago decided that the best course of action was to just endure it. To get it over with as soon as possible. I did not know my oppressors' motives, only that they obviously relished in it. Perphaps they were testing my stamina or merely just enjoyed making my life miserable - I could only speculate. I had tried to find out more before but often I would not understand terms they used and soon gave up listening, it was less fustrating that way.
Oppressor Number Two was rarely present these days but every so often he would participate too. These times were worse, for I feared his overbearing frame and the silent threats it carried just by exisiting more than even the torture chair itself. My two oppressors had been freqeuenting my nightmares even since this ordeal had begun. I knew I could never fight them, they were so much more powerful than I, I would not stand a chance against them.
The vivid memory of a news report played in my mind's eye just then. A man in Liverpool, hungry after returning home from a hard day's work had found a whole mouse in a can of own brand baked beans. Though why anyone would actually purchase cans of the disgusting stuff for themselves I really couldn't say. Apparantly he'd opened the can and started to eat straight out of it, only to come across the tail, which he pulled out to be faced with a mouse, long dead (probably drowned, trapped in the can) and dripping with the red sauce I have come to know so well and loathe so very much.
The image of the mouse covered in baked beans' sauce, stayed with me as I noticed that the frequency at which the spoon entered my mouth had decreased. I was aware that I hadn't maintained my usual rate of chewing - I always used to just eat spoonful after spoonful until it was all over. Yet I couldn't bring myself to chew and shallow the beans faster. I tried to regain speed; instead I could feel myself slow down further. I just couldn't get the image of the mouse dripping in red sauce out of my head. I mean if there was a mouse once who's to say there won't be more mice? Or something else; if something as large as a mouse went undetected something smaller could easily be in a can, undetected, perhaps a beetle, a spider...all the possibilities ran through my head and all the while I was aware of the decreasing pace at which I was chewing the beans.
I knew I was just being silly; the baked beans that were being forced on me weren't even the same brand as the Liverpudlian's beans had been and chances were that they weren't even purchased at the same named supermarket. I decided again to try and speed up, the quicker I take in the beans, the sooner my ordeal will be over but I had another thought. That bloke was lucky in a way; there was a whole mouse in the can, he was able to see it and stop eating but that mouse could have lost a bit of its ear or leg and it would have just blended in with some other lot of beans, put into another can and would be swallowed by someone who would be none the wiser.
At this thought I stopped opening my mouth, I stopped grinding with my teeth, I stopped swallowing, I just couldn't bring myself to do it anymore. Then I did the very thing that I had promised myself that I would never do, for I knew the consequence all to well and loathed it but I did it anyway just because I felt that I loathed this even more and knew that even tough I was still very hungry, I would never eat another pile of baked beans for as long as I lived. I let out a wail, I screamed at the top of my lungs, I cried myself silly and it felt good. But all the while I was aware that the moment would pass and I would have to suffer the consequence and sure enough, it was forced into my month and I had no choice but to be quiet.
"What's wrong, duddykins? Your little tummy wummy can't be all full already - you hardly ate anything", I heard Oppressor Number One say, in the squeaky voice she always used when addressing me. I vaguely remembered that she had been talking before but I was to preoccupied with crying to take any notice. She had put down the spoon, inserted the dummy in my mouth and had picked me up. She was taking me towards the living room, where Oppressor Number Two was louging, reading the morning papers.
"Vernon, he just suddenly refused too eat!"
"Maybe he's not hungry anymore?" Oppressor Number Two suggested.
"But he was only on his sixth spoon when he just refused to eat anymore, I just don't understand it! He loves his beans, he always just took each spoonful after spoonful until it was all gone!".
Oppressor Number One turned to me, "You love your baked beans, don't you little dudders?" she cooed, that creepy smile was back on her face.
I wasn't sure if she expected an answer or whether it was a rhetorical question but nevertheless she removed the hated dummy from my mouth and I felt compelled to smile.
"There, see? he loves his beans", she assured Oppressor Number Two. I sighed; misunderstood yet again.
"Maybe he's just fed up with it, Pertunia, you have been giving him baked beans alot these days..." said Oppressor Number Two.
"Yes that's probably it...I know I'll try giving him some of that 'Farley's Rusk' baby biscuit. I've been meaning to prepare more food for him but I just haven't had the time, remind me to do it while he's taking his evening nap". Oppressor Number Two replied with an acquiescing nod before turning back to his paper.
"Your getting fed up with the same old food, aren't you?" Oppressor Number One was saying while she carried me back to the kitchen.
I was dumbfounded. All I had to do was cry and they would stop giving me that horrendous stuff? My eating the beans had lead them to believe that I actually liked baked beans? I would sooner drink the Soya Milk stuff they used to make me drink! I felt as if a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders, I started to cry again - just out of sheer joy and relief.
"You must be really hungry, huh?", I heard Oppressor Number One say as she handed me a rusk.
This time I didn't care how misunderstood I was; my baked beans ordeal was over!
And that is how Dudley came to learn that if he wails loud enough, he'll always get his way...
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