Marla, that insufferable bitch, wallowing in her own depressed misery presents a Valium smile. "Darling, our child will be beauuuu…"as her drug induced empathy slid to the floor like a deflated balloon. With eyes closed, Marla's disjointed frame unconsciously found comfort on the black and white checkered tile floor.
With Marla catatonic, I took inventory of my fat. The 1963 Fridgadaire clanked and gasped wheezing like and old car. Each shelf packed to gills with human fat, just waiting for the pasty white socialites of Madison Avenue. The thought of rich women lathering their bodies with their own fat asses makes me smile. Smiling like an Herbal Essence commercial, so proud of their exotic soap handmade in the country of who gives a shit. Marla's mother had passed on in a bizarre incident on a trip to the clinic. During one of her many excursions to the liposuction clinic was involved in a car accident while searching for a shooter of whiskey in her purse. Model citizen. Marla had been supplying me with human fat by implementing a steady diet of high quality American cuisine, McDonalds. She ate, gained wait, and sucked it out like over and over again. Her skin permanently stretched like and inner tube that's been inflated too many times. It would hang off her bones, gradually filling up like a vacuum bag. Vacuum, deflate, inflate, and repeat. Now with Marla's mother unavailable, I need a new supplier. I stared at Marla's contorted body, gave her a nudge with my foot. "Are you dead?" Marla rolled her head on the floor to face me and mumbled something unintelligible to prove death had not come to take her. She greeted death like a friendly neighbor coming to visit, always encouraging it to stay. It never did. "Get up, I need your help?" I pulled the ragdoll off the floor, her heels left black scuff marks on the floor. I lifted Marla over my should like a fresh kill and headed toward the bathroom to bring my trophy back to life. Her dress draped her shoulders like a hanger, her body barely able to fill it out. It dropped to the floor with a gentle tug exposing her pasty, now pregnant boyish body. Bruises from 'God knows what' decorate her skin like purple polka dots. I was rough, but not that rough. I turned on the water and let it run for second while Marla began to regain consciousness. I propped her up like a snow shovel in the curtain-less shower. "3, 2, 1" I counted in my head. "Motherfucker!" Marla yelped with her new found sobriety. "You could have at least turned the hot water on, you dick."
"Hot water is a convenience of modern man, we do not need it. Toughen up." I instructed.
"Asshole!" she screamed with conviction.
"I need more fat", where can I get more? Your mother has um, run dry; we need….um…more income." Marla's mother instructed that Lipotyte (the liposuction clinic), save the vacuumed fat as a memento of her achievement as the person to have gained to the most weight on Earth, or so she claimed. She died at 210lbs. If she had died an hour later, the coroner would have recorded 140. Every six months Mrs. Singer would enter the Lipotyte a swollen marshmallow and leave like a punctured beach ball. In hand she would leave with a large plastic bag with some odd biohazard label on it that wobbled like a water balloon. My supplier was dead while that bag wobbled in my Fridgadaire. Mrs. Singer was a career alcoholic so sometimes my soap would smell like Jack Daniels. I would call it my line of "Distilled Soaps", sounds fancy. It was particularly popular amongst young people who want everything to smell like a bar.
"How the hell should I know? You insensitive prick." Marla replied while holding herself up on the lime green tile wall of the shower. "My mother was lucky, I'm sure it was painless. Do you know where my pills are?" She envied people who were dying; she thought people paid more attention to them. Her excessive ingestion of downers; simulating death: fake. She reaches for her stomach, feeling for the pea inside of her. Tyler's seed would come to life within that cadaver. Poor child would be better off dividing its cells in a lab. "Tyler, what do you think we should call it?" It was like naming a dog. I thought about the Valium and Xanex in the cabinet.
"How 'bout Val if it's a girl or Xander if it's a boy?" I suggested sarcastically.
"I like Xander. It's unique and memorable." My joke flew over her head like a Frisbee.
I had an idea. Without warning I left Marla to her shower to check the fridge again. "151 Spruce St…." the label on the bag read. Marla made her way down the hall toward the kitchen. "You must have gotten those manners from your mother huh?" Water dripped from the tips of her stringy wet hair and off her blue-ish white skin, plopping on the floor.
"I think I'm going to rob the clinic. You're mother wasn't the only fat ass who visited that place. I bet there is more bag of fat there than I could ever need. Instead of milking one cow, I could milk them all. Here." I threw a dish towel at Marla as I began to formulate my plan.