Marge had been shopping all day. First Marshall Fields, then Bloomingdales,
and now Sak’s. From 6 o'clock that morning until now -- 6 o'clock in the
evening -- she’d been out and about looking, searching, berating clerks for
not carrying her size, the color she needed, or just the right evening gown.
She was going to her first writers’ conference and, being in the higher
percentage of women in the world who are out of shape, Marge had a few
considerations to keep in mind. Let’s just say she was large and in charge.
By this point, Marge was exhausted beyond belief. Slumping down into an overstuffed chair, she nodded to the half-dozen Sak’s clerks who stood at her
beck and call. With a couple of fancy-schmancy moves of her flabby arms, she
sent them scurrying in every direction, in search of the elusive gown, rhinestone nylons, fur throw, and accessories.
“I must accessorize, you know,” she said in her snippy I’m-so-rich-you-dare-not-disobey voice. “I refuse to budge until I see exactly what I requested!” A young clerk gave another clerk a sidelong glance, and both grinned mischievously -- and, of course, Marge's eagle-eye caught it. “Your heads... I mean jobs... on a platter, if you do not bring me what I want.” She smiled and examined the immaculately polished and buffed nails on her left hand. “I do know everyone who is anyone in this town, you know. I can make you or break you...” She cracked her knuckles loudly. “Just... like... that. And hurry up -- it’s late, and I’ve missed lunch. I’m famished. I could eat...” she eyed them up and down, then shrugged, “...well, let’s just say I'm starving, I wouldn't be particular right about now.”
Their eyes popped open, and the two took off like gophers caught in the garden
sprinkler. Large Marge smiled, patted her face, touched her fingers to the
corners of her mouth where the lipstick had gathered and smeared it back
across her fleshy lips. Then she wiggled her rump, smoothing out the wrinkles
in the upholstery. “Oh!” She squirmed as a spring sprung loose, then wiggled
again to tamp it back down. She frowned at two youngsters nearby. A minute before, they had been engaged in mock battle with tiny plastic swords, but now they openly stared.
"Didn't your mothers tell you it was impolite to stare?" They stood stock still, their mouths open. She looked around the store impatiently. They were small enough to fit between two slices of white bread -- what kind of mothers would leave them alone in a big store like this?
Marge started to ask just that, then changed her mind. Unattended youngsters
were not her problem. She had problems of her own. It would take those two
idiot clerks at least a half-hour before they found anything -- the incompetents. She drew another deep breath, then another, and before long her fleshy lips were puffing in and out.
Curiously, the two young boys moved closer. “Look!" Tommy whispered. "Her eyes are moving back and forth inside of her head -- I can see ‘em,” he motioned
for the other little boy to look.” My mom told me when that happens it means
the person’s dreaming.” He turned to his buddy. “Wonder what she’s dreaming
“Hungry... so hungry,” Marge mumbled. Her mouth fluttered open, and she drew
in another deep breath, sucking in the stale department store air as well as
Tommy’s arm -- clear up to the elbow, sword and all. Georgie’s eyes grew
large. Before he had a chance to scream for help, she’d sucked Tommy right
in. Still stunned, Georgie stood there, his mouth wide open, a drool puddle
forming between his Nikes. Large Marge snorted, then belched, and Georgie’s
eyes filled with tears. She was burping Tommy! As he watched, she snuggled to
the right, and her mouth opened up again. A pile of sweaters, neatly stacked
on the shelves beside her chair, flew into her mouth like thistle down.
Georgie wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never seen a lady who ate little boys
and sweaters. In fact, he’d never seen anything as big as Large Marge. He
looked around for help, but he was alone, and someone had to rescue Tommy.
Getting up his nerve, he tapped her on the arm with his sword.
“Lady,” he said quietly, his bottom lip quivering. "Let Tommy out." She
burped again, and steam funneled from her mouth. Georgie's eyes glazed over. A dragon! He tapped the dragon on her scaly arm again. “Spit Tommy out.”
Large Marge sat up, coughed, spit... and pulled out a wad of mucoused mohair.
“What the hell...” She burped again, and this time a hideous smell spewed
into the air, and Georgie’s nose scrunched up. Tommy didn’t smell good.
“Lady...” he said again, his nerve growing stronger by the minute. “You have
to spit Tommy back up. His mom’s gonna be here soon.”
Large Marge looked down at the little boy, perplexed. “What... Tommy who?”
She coughed again, then choked, holding her sides. Looking up, her eyes wild,
she pulled a length of material out of her mouth. She pulled and pulled until
a blue sweater, mangled beyond recognition, lie dripping on the floor. She
coughed again, and Georgie, finally having found his composure, ran around the
chair and patted her on the back with tiny pats like he’d seen mothers do for choking babies. While he was at it, Marge attempted to give herself the Heimlich maneuver but she was too large -- her arms couldn’t get positioned under her breasts correctly.
By now Marge was totally perplexed. She tried to explain that she didn’t eat
sweaters -- never had before -- but the look in Georgie’s eyes told her another story. “Please, Lady.” His blue eyes were serious. “You have to spit Tommy up. His mom and my mom are shopping over there,” he pointed toward the ladies’ lingerie “and she’s gonna be mad at me if I lost him.”
Large Marge looked at Georgie. Could he be telling the truth? Her stomach
rumbled ominously. Tell me I didn't swallow a little boy! She reached for her belly,
which now hung scant inches from the carpet, a good length of skin sticking out from beneath her below-the-knee tent dress. She was large, but there was definitely more of her than there had been when she’d fallen asleep!
“Good Lord,” she gasped. “I... I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to swallow Tommy.” By now she’d broken out in a cold sweat. Wasn’t there a law against eating small children? Even in Sak’s, there must be come kind of rule against it...
Georgie stepped closer, the sword held rigidly before him. “Spit her out, or
I’ll cut you to ribbons,” he growled, his eyebrows drawing together and his
mouth curling up into a tight little grin. “I will. Don’t think I won’t.”
“Oh!” Large Marge looked around, but since she’d sent all the assistants
running errands for her, they were alone. Quickly, she put her arms down on
the armrests and pushed for all she was worth -- the chair sagged, her knees
wobbled, and the floor groaned -- and managed to stand. Now her stomach did
rest on the floor. It was hideous! She glanced around, hoping no one else could see her, and she spotted the mirrors! Horror of all horrors -- surely she was in hell!
Georgie advanced on her, his sword held high. “I’m sorry, Lady, but I gots
to do what I gots to do. Tommy’s my friend.” His arm swished through the air,
and the front of Large Marge’s dress hung open -- gobs of startling white
skin leapt out of the wound in her dress, but Georgie was not deterred from
his mission. His tiny arm swished again, but Large Marge -- using one of her
quick-get-to-the-fridge-before-the-commercial’s-over moves -- was too agile
Undaunted, Georgie raised his sword again. “Close your eyes if you can’t
take it,” he said politely.
Large Marge’s eyes rolled heavenward. “Thank you for showing mercy,” she
said. “Be quick about it.” She waited for the pain, the moment of truth when
Georgie’s tiny sword would cut through layers and layers of fat until finally
he’d rescued his poor friend. But the white-hot moment of truth never came
from Georgie. It came from within. Large Marge’s eyes widened, as did
Georgie’s. Over the huge gelatinous mountain of flesh that was her belly,
their eyes met. Something was moving inside there.
Large Marge nodded then winced as Tommy attacked her from the inside again.
“Oh, please, help me spit him out,” she said frantically. “I can’t stand pain!”
She started coughing again, but the bulge struggled all the more.
“No,” said Georgie. “You’re killing him. Close your eyes, and I’ll hack
through you as fast as I can -- I promise I won’t make it hurt any more than
it has to.”
Tears rolled down Large Marge’s face, and great wracking sobs twisted up from
inside her huge frame. She plunked down in the chair, and after the room stopped shaking, Georgie carefully pulled her dress to each side of her mountainous belly, then raised his sword. Marge took one look at her overstretched skin and closed her eyes tightly. What had become of her smooth
skin? When had she become such a monster?
“Okay, Georgie,” she said, as she felt the tip of his sword slide across her
distended skin. She trembled, tears streaming down her face. A horrific moan
escaped her fleshy lips, and she twisted in the chair. “Oh, please hurry,”
she cried. “Don’t make me...” her breathing was labored, “...don’t make me
wait like this. Just do it!”
The two young sales clerks looked at one another in disgust. Large Marge was
spread out on the chair, her dress halfway up her body, exposing... way too
much of her.
“Hey, Lady, wake up.”
Large Marge snorted, coughed, choked something up, then moaned again, rolling something around in her mouth. “Oh, gosh, what’s that taste? Sweet... like
candy... tangy yet smooth, sweet yet sour..”
“Eeeeeouuuuu,” the younger clerk said. “She’s disgusting! He leaned over
her and tentatively tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Lady, we found some...”
Large Marge’s eyes popped open and she screamed “Oh, oh, what?”
“Wow,” the second clerk said, “looks like you had a dream.” He covered his mouth and chortled. “Talk about your bad dream, Dude!” He punched the other clerk in the arm. Both attempted to keep their grins from showing. They didn’t succeed.
In an amazing show of dexterity, Large Marge rose to her feet, brushed her
dress down around her ankles, and shook all over like a dog that’s been out in
the rain. Only in Marge’s case it was just due to revulsion. She was revolted
by her own size, by her demeanor, by her appearance in every way. Spasms of
hate for herself slid down her, but it was too late... wasn’t it? She touched
her belly -- no, wait! No lump that could be called ‘boy’ met her hand. She
had only dreamed she’d swallowed a little boy!
In abject misery, a tear rolled down her face. What was the difference? The
damage had already been done. She now knew she enjoyed the taste of little
boy. And if Large Marge didn’t deny herself anything, it was a craving.