Ethically Sourced 

He denies the Holy Trinity. He eats just to stretch his skin. His fingers gleam with yellow gunk. McWarrior! Soldier of the Real! In a previous life he was a smallpox virion. Alas, now he is but a shell of that former glory. 

Now The Fat Cummer is free. He has served his last day as Particle Emitter and Tensile Subject. He shakes himself like a dog, folds of loose skin flapping in the wind. The truth is, he is no longer overweight. They have used it all up in their Games. It is time to amend this situation, he thinks. He crawls away from the Central Playpen, sniffing rapidly at the asphalt. He has caught a scent! He knows not whether it is an odour of Gluttony or of Lust, so presently both his gut and his Apparatus vibrate in anticipation. 

The Wizard sits bent over a phone within a local coffee house. Here, the staff are fired if they are not convincingly rude enough to the customers. The Wizard is content, curating content upon his Twitter account. He has crafted many sigils, and he is sending them out en masse, to women. If they are intrigued, he will entice them to his abode with a 10%-off coupon for his recently released, MS-Paint time travel adventure. He calls this a ‘visual novel’, for it was plagiarised from an anime, the only anime he has ever watched. And he offers yet more tantalising ‘treats for his sweets’: he has written a thousand blog articles, and a certain special someone may be allowed to bypass his paywall…just once. In exchange for certain remunerations, of course. 

However, he finds his concentration broken by a rumbling in the distance, as of a minor earthquake. The sound is coming closer, centring in upon the coffee house. In mere moments, a writhing mass of pale, sweaty flesh hurtles through the glass windows. The flayed-off fur and skin of a small dog rests upon the ample, glistening bosom of the Cumming Fat, the rest having been absorbed into his present bulk. The rapturous journey of feeding and ‘seeding’ towards the coffee shop has caused the Cummer to fill out nicely; he is now the size of a small car. 

The Wizard jumps to attention. He unsheathes a ceremonial dagger and leaps before the barista he has been ‘side-eyeing’ this past hour. “I will defend your honour, m’lady!” he cries out to her. “Loathsome fiend of demoniacal dominion! Spare the life of my Princess, and taketh mine instead!”. 

The latter man’s fleshy face remains expressionless. With difficulty, he pivots his pink, slug-like exterior back towards the door, and hobbles out as if he has changed his mind. Ecstatic at his chivalric victory, the Wizard presents a 10%-off coupon to the barista, and asks for her hand in marriage. Neither sees the loose tendrils of sweat-soaked skin, slithering behind them and curling round like climber vines. Once they feel his skin upon theirs, they are already bound by knots of meat. Then, like a carnivorous plant, the Cummer promptly lassoes them into his Pelvic Stomach. 

The Artiste has been watching the unfolding horrors from a corner of the coffee shop, with an expression of mild curiosity; it was as if he were looking for something to ease his boredom. He had recently been contracted by The Apparatus to produce a play entitled ‘49 Girlfriends of the Gikoan’. He refused to speak to them without payment for opening his mouth. He refused to listen to their words without payment for unsealing the ears he had sewn shut. Once this was sorted, however, he took in their request and set to work running them through the assorted fees he would charge for this labour – that is to say, the labour in deliberating upon whether or not to accept their job. 

The Cummer is apparently uninterested in swallowing up the Artiste, instead opting to sit upon his own folds, like a mother hen made out of a pinkish hand organ. He is vibrating less than usual, and his

skin-hidden eyebrows appear to be furled. He begins to rhythmically toss his stomach around, as if juggling a mass of slime, while muffled screaming is heard from within. Visible, dark fumes begin to emanate from underneath him. The Artiste is outraged. From his backpack he pulls out a gas mask and a notepad, and spends the next half of an hour furiously scrawling a scathing essay upon the Impiety of Flatulence. 

The shop is now full up with a kind of black smog. The smog is so thick and toxic that the gas mask has begun to fail. The Artiste marches over to where the Cummer was last situated, holding up the Moral Essay and gesturing for payment. When he is given no response, he screams his protest aloud, proclaiming that many would die just to read his words, and that an artist must always be paid for his work. At this point, he is struggling to speak without coughing. Attempting to latch onto the veritable thief of intellectual property, he flails his arms out, and falls straight through a human-sized lump of soft, semi-liquid faeces. As he suffocates, he thinks of the children he could have had; if only they could receive royalties in his stead. 

Meanwhile, the Apparatus has been watching these notable events; in fact, they have orchestrated everything in its entirety. A device implanted within The Cummer’s neck is detonated, and his bulldog-like face is blasted into the sky like the cork of a wine bottle. The neighbourhood, warned in advance, have come with buckets to catch the ensuing rain of cholesterol-rich blood. Butchers shaped like body-builders step out of black vans, armed with machetes and chainsaws. The Feast Day has begun.