Dead pool for Fatty - I got sick of waiting for someone else to make this

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Optavia Sales Rep dijo:
If I may...
It's worst in the summer. That's when it happened, so Ricky's not surprised. Sometimes the humidity makes it unbearable, and he's dreaded to come home from work more than once. He keeps asking Eric to get a job, something part time, just so they both can get a reprieve from this place. Eric had just given him a flat stare and said "I can't." He'd mumbled something after but Ricky had been more focused on quietly stabbing at the last crowns of broccoli on his plate.

Becky's sister has called twice this month. Asking if they know anything, God, anything, that would help the doctors. He doesn't. Maybe Eric does, but he won't say.

There's always a fan on somewhere. Always. Whether it's the small vent fan for the bathroom, or the ceiling fan, or the one in their bedroom that Ricky purposely turns off before bed. They've tried shutting them off, moving them, unplugging them, flipping all the breakers except for the one that controls the kitchen. Nothing stops the fans.

He doesn't go into the room when he can help it. The stench lingers even in the frostiest January weather. The stain is dark with mildew, the boards always shiny with dampness.

He comes home late one evening. Eric didn't answer when he'd called the house, probably in the shower. So Ricky had stopped at the store to grab something to cook on the grill. Get them away from the stench by eating outside. He had only taken an extra twenty minutes. It shouldn't have made a difference.

He walked into the house only to see Eric sitting on the floor, two spoonfuls into his third food scented candle. They spend the rest of the night in the ER while Eric blubbers "I couldn't help it. I couldn't help it. I couldn't help it."

By August Becky's family is at their wits end. They're just blue collar folk used to blue collar illnesses. They've taken Becky as far north as Chicago, as far south as Atlanta. They've reached out to a group of Scientist at UCLA. They'll leave in ten days. When Ricky and Eric go to embrace Becky, they barely connect hands around her girth.

Now Eric wants to go with him to work everyday. Some months when they're really busy, he can swing it with his boss. He leaves Eric in the care of the office ladies twice his age. There's always envelopes that need licking and papers that need stapling. Eric is just glad to the company, then distraction. But the work day is only so long, and they need to go home to Chubs and Trixie eventually.

Tonight is stickier than ever. The fans, the smell, the odd creaks that send the dogs scrambling into bed with them. Ricky watched the ceiling. The night outside this home was dark, but the nights inside are sometimes darker.
Give me the puzzle/trash can reactions that I crave.
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You wrote a 482 word fanfiction about two morbidly obese brain-dead lesbians and their equally insufferable and flamboyantly homosexual roommates.
 
Her body is finally beginning to break down right now. This is the beginning of the end. But... for some reason, assholes seem to last the longest no matter how grave their circumstances, so I’m not going to guess on her death, but I will say we are going to be treated to some hospital mukbangs soon.

(I know that’s a rambling run-on sentence, but I’m too lazy to rewrite it).
 
Six months before the endless borefest pre-filmed shite is finally exhausted and Necky has to move on to My Dead Gorlfren stories as Rickie arranges for pachyderm removal and rebuilds the wall in the background as she's mimbling on.

Edit for fergots: is she still oozing cheese from where she sprung a leak in her navel? Cos if so, someone - Rickie, it's always Rickie when work is involved - needs to get the puncture kit out quick before there's an alsplosion.
 
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SAVE TWINKIE! dijo:
Why would the swelling get infected though isn't it just basically water
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I don't know the specifics, Twinks, but fluid hanging around anywhere in the body is generally a bad idea, so I'm told.

I don't think this is a PL (will delete if so) cos not intimate or identifying, but I have a bloody great bursa on my elbow that needs draining simply because the fluid (the machine oil for our joints) is apparently an infection risk if it hangs around. We heard somewhere about AL's legs leaking and that's probably lymph, so any fluid retained in a body that is stretched to the limit, both figuratively and liduhrally, and which is constantly covered in small open wounds that don't heal must be a serious infection risk.

A bursa is only local fluid to suck out tho. Her "swelleeeen" is systemic. They'd have to plug her into an industrial vacuum and suck for 'Murica.

I'd pay a king's ransom to see under those Kevlar leggeeens. Wonder if she's got a James K "owuurgh mah layyyurgs!" sichooayshun going on, complete with mushrooms....


Fuuurk. I can't stand her and couldn't whatever her size, but what a horrendous state to be in.
 
If it was just a battle between Amberlynn and how much food she can eat before her heart gives out like Chance, it will probably be a few more years yet. However, I'm betting AL will have some sort of undiagnosed disease, like all those rumors of diabetes.
 
Election night on 2020.

Stuffed with Halloween candy, she'll flail her doughy arms in outrage as the Donald wins a second presidency. She'll hoark in pained outrage like a harpooned elephant seal and fall out of her rascal scooter, just as her blood sugar and her overtaxed heart-rate spikes. She'll wish the surgeon cut off her feet to keep her diabetes in check, but she won't be able to get up from under the pile of fallen plates and nail polish bottles and her fat, filthy ass will roll down her Sisyphean slope of her weight loss and weight gain cycle into Hell.

Bibi will be called in to clean up her body, but there will be no way to get the stink of her evacuated bowels out of the baseboard beneath the carpet.
 
Christmas Day next year. Something tells me she's gonna die from a heart attack mid-Christmas gorging.
 
Given the dark rings around her eyes and her dead eyed stare, I think she is already dead. Her body just may need to catch up.

My guess is somewhen within the next five years. I believe when she hits thirty, it's going to go really downhill. Maybe earlier when she gets completely bed bound and an infection kicks in.

At least that was the case with Chance Carmichael. From the first resilient skin infection to his multi organ failure death it was not even a year. And he was Amberlynn's age when he died.
 
August 2021, but she'll have been hospitalized since late May
 
The true question here is if Becky is going to immediately call an ambulance as soon as she notices Amber isn't breathing, or if she's going to drag her corpse around hoping her love will bring the beast back to life à la Swiss Army Man.
 
Call me a cunt, I just hope it has a direct correlation to her filthy and disgusting lifestyle so she basically FINALLY feels some kind of consequence for her actions.

Infection, heart attack, choking to death on her own fat in her sleep...I dont care as long as her wonky wall-eyes get to bug out of her fat, buttery moonface one last time as the finality of her last painful seconds on earth dawn on her and that YES - her life is ending right now and its her fault, boo boo.
 
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