Eric Dimbleby - White Out

Hell, by the end of the month, I planned on ownin’ Frannie’s Franks outright. Kyle wouldn’t even see it coming. I’m a shark like that, ya’ hear? I had the American Dream goin’ on, inventing hot dogs and eating like a king, sleepin’ through the night with the smell of hotdogs making me have some fucked up hot-dog-related dreams.

I wondered: why should he get all the profits? I take what’s mine, case you ain’t noticed none.

It was a winnin’ sitch-ee-aye-shun . I still got to do my regular wandering-man thing, mostly roundabout Providence. I got to wander, but for the first time, I had a damn fine reason that most people could understand; I was makin’ that green stuff hand over fist, eating hot dogs all day, pocketing my own percentage like I saw fit. Kyle was paying me to gorge on them sweet dogs, and I must have eaten my weight (not even includin’ the buns) five times over. My shits smelled like dirty hot dog water, and I kept droppin’ them off at the unemployment offices on a daily routine, until security started chasin’ me away every morning. The cops got to know my face so I stopped hangin’ around that place. Not like they were gonna give me nothing anyway.

Hot dogs, I reckon, are full of fat and all kinds of bad stuff that ain’t too healthy. I ate ’em since I was a kid, probably three or four times a week, and I never got fat. That wasn’t the way things were no more though. I was fucked mostly because I was gettin’ on my years. I’m no spring chicken. I went climbing “over the hill” a couple years back and it ain’t been the same since. Like my body ain’t my own. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and I’m not sure who I am. I’m not a fatty, but I’m leanin’ in that direction.

So here I am, pushing a cart around all day, getting good exercise all the same, but I started to get fat for the first time in my whole goddamned life, which is the last thing a wanderin’ man like me needs to do. Gettin’ fat is what makes people give up on everything. I seen it on television before.

My extra pounds were hard to hide. Even though he didn’t suspect anything, he suspected my double chin. Kyle called me out, sayin’ I was eating all his profits or some crazy theory like that. Didn’t respect his workers none. Typical. “You know what you are? A capitalist pig-fucker.” I called him that to his face and he fired me right there on the spot, just like any real capitalist pig-fucker would do.

You’re screwing me. You know that? I’ve got a wife and kids to take care of, Eddie. You get that through your skull? You’re fucking fired, he said.

In case you’re wondering who Eddie is, I told Kyle that my name was Eddie. Sometimes I come up with new names (like Duke Suckwell or Rocky Ricardo), or I make ones that sound like other names I use, but just a little bit different. Keeps a wanderin’ man on his toes.

I reckon you better mind your manners , I said back at him. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d wrapped my meaty (pudgy? Were my hands getting pudgy?) hands around one of the topping tins and tossed some shredded cheddar in that fucker’s face. He glared at me like he was a big man or somethin’, like he wasn’t wearing a stupid paper hat with a crude magic marker drawing of a hot dog on it.

You have some balls on you, huh? Mr. Big Balls, tossing cheese at the boss.

He’d already fired me by then, so I didn’t give a shit what he said. I threw onions at him next and he comes barrelin’ at me, angry as a viper on a hot day, wrapping his sweaty, hot-doggy hands ‘round my throat. I only laughed, starin’ him down. I got the eyes of a bull when you try to hurt me. Hell, I did that bull face in a mirror once and I even scared the shit out of myself. If old Edgar is dropping them bull-eyes on you, best get in your car and drive home, hombre .

And what happened next… well, this is the reason why I took to wanderin’ again.

A wandering man gets himself in a heap of trouble, from time to time, which is to be expected, and then he gets his cowboy boots clippin’ and a’cloppin’ before The Man with the star on his chest comes and sticks his finger up that ass. Sometimes, a sign shows itself and, sometimes, you just know when your time is up. Sometimes it’s a mix of both and I think this was one of those times.

I took to stranglin’ him back, only a whole lot harder than he did me, more like I mean to kill him and then I see his face realizin’ that. Kyle thinks he’s gonna die and I can’t help but feel excited about that. I love when they realize that I’m not just playin’ tough. His face went all eggplant-purple and veiny. I’d been strangled plenty of times, so I could take the punishment a lot longer than he could. I had callouses the shape of man-hands all around my neck, what with people always trying to strangle my ass for one dang thing or another. Him and me were stranglin’ each other hard, getting harder every second, but he didn’t have the strength in his forearms like I did. Like I still do. I could have snapped his neck with one flex of my arms.

Instead, I asked him: You hungry?

His eyes bulged out of his head like he was a cartoon character that just saw a pretty lady struttin’ by with her skirt hiked up to her pinkish lady zone. That happens when you’re stranglin’ on somebody real hard. You kinda think that maybe—just maybe—one of them big steel anvils is gonna fall on their head. If one of ’em ever actually does, I swear I’ll stop strangling them because I’ll be laughing so hard.

You look mighty hungry. So here y’go , I said.

I shoved one of the buns into his mouth. When I put it in, he tried to bite down on my fingers, but I pulled ’em out right quick. He wasn’t too quick, ‘cause he was probably seeing all them pretty stars in his eyes, trying to stay awake. Kyle knew if he passed out that I would kill him and piss on his corpse. The bull-eyes… they tell you that once you see ’em on my face. This wasn’t peddlin’ hot dogs. No, this was some real warrior shit goin’ down.

A couple people stopped on the sidewalk, gawkin’ at the two of us, dressed up like assholes, strangling on each other and gagging on hot dog buns (well, one of us was gagging on a hot dog bun). One of the bastards in the growing crowd took a picture.

I shoved a cold hot dog in Kyle’s mouth next, and then another. He started gaggin’ like he was gonna lose it, so I put two more in. Then I started thinkin’ to myself about how many hot dogs I can fit inside before he dies. Sort of like a game, but instead of screamin’ “BINGO!” at the end, he’d fall down and die on that there street, lookin’ like a street vendin’ asshole for his trip to Jesus’ side. Although, I bet if you die with a hot dog in your mouth, you go to Satan instead. Zing.

The guy with the camera on his phone took another picture, so I turned and looked at him. I smiled. I ain’t smiled like that since I took school pictures when I was a kid. I picked the laser background. It was cool as hell.

Truth is, I shouldn’t a’been smiling and drawing all that attention on my ass, but I couldn’t help it none. I wondered if the picture taker (a blond guy in his twenties with a baseball cap on his head) would put it on that place where people put funny pictures up. I wasn’t allowed on those websites no more, mostly because they always kicked me out of the libraries for lookin’ at fake boobs online. I don’t even bother with computers anymore—never liked ’em anyhow—but maybe this fella will put me out there and I’ll be famous.

I smiled again, this time showing my teeth. I always had me some nice teeth.

I crammed one more hot dog into Kyle’s mouth but I wasn’t sure any more would fit. His eyes were bulging out so far now that he didn’t even look like the real Kyle anymore. He looked like one of those paintings they do where they make your nose super big, and your ears, and sometimes your lips. Carric-chures I think they’re called.