Fat Man

He spotted him immediately.

The jogging bottoms splashed with white paint, not a lot but enough for the doy decorator or the half arsed handyman. The white t-shirt with the gravy stain. The dirty fingernails, the nicotine-stained finger. The spittle collecting in the corner of the mouth and the slippers. That was a nice touch, indoor shoes outside.

It’s the details, everything means something. The underwear would be white, turned grey with holes. You wouldn’t see it, but it’s there. The hairy arse crack when he stretched or bent down. The too loud groan when he did so.

The constant chatter to no one and everyone. The annoyed, harassed tone.

It all adds up.

And here he was, standing at the front of a long queue in this stifling petrol station.

There’s a slight smell of sulfur, mini farts. Yes, he’s letting one seep out every few minutes.

He has a partner somewhere, Jimmy can sense it. He has a quick look around and there they are, it’s obvious to him straight away. A woman, late 50s, early 60s, but looks older. Probably smells of stale cigarettes. Talks but looks right through you, probably coughs without covering her mouth. She’s talking to a customer, but she’s clearly saying something that is annoying them…

He turns his attention back to the queue killer.

This routine is kind of stale; he’s seen it before, but it does have flashes of inspiration. The guy sniffs a lot. Not big sniffs, almost micro, not enough for you to notice normally, but if you are tuned in, they’re enough to drive you insane.

This kind of act is honed to perfection, though. From the moment Jimmy had walked into the building, he could hear the guy with his negative whine. It was vocal but almost like an annoying song. It had a frequency to it that just grated. Jimmy had watched him quietly and then thought that he’d better get to the front of the queue quickly. This place was starting to fill up. Then the fat man burped. Wet and trumpet-like like it had reverberated off the glass that made up the whole of the front of the building.

Jimmy made his way to the tills

He was too late.

“How the fuck did that happen?” he thought.

The fat man had beaten him to it.

And here they both were now, but the queue and built up. Maybe 10 people behind Jimmy. No other tills are working, and the self-help till is broken. The fat man knew what he was doing.

The shop assistant was running the man's items through the scanner. “How the hell did he accumulate so much stuff?” Jimmy wondered, almost impressed.

The guy waited until the scanning was finished.

“Bag”, he said quietly.

“Pardon?” the assistant replied.

“Bag?

A moment passed, and the assistant sussed out what was happening and gave the man a bag.

“Bags are 10p”

The man mumbled, shook his head and started to pack. Slowly.

He dropped items. Bent to pick them up, which gave him the opportunity to give everyone a good look at his hairy arse crack.

That’s when Jimmy heard the first tut. At the back of the queue, he guessed from the volume.

Jimmy knew this act, had seen similar before. There were variants, but essentially the same.

The fat man was a demon. Low-level, bottom-feeder demon who fed on anger and frustration.

People would be raging when they left here, some would be mildly annoyed, some would be furious. Late and flustered, they would go through their days ruining other people's. From petty arguments with loved ones to snidey jibes at co-workers to assault of family members and in some cases, possibly random acts of violence in the street. It all came to the same thing. Disruption, chaos and malevolence.