2025—the year humankind most drastically changed, for the worst. Day in, day out, I hunker down in this cave—with my skinny wife, Beth, obediently and faithfully by my side. There’s not a whole lot to do inside here these days—except to have sexual relations with one another, knit, and, when the nostalgia overtakes us so severely that we just can’t stand ignoring it any longer, discussion of The Good Old Days. The days before these oversized monsters had taken over and eaten most of us.
“That’s right,” I remember telling Beth one day inside the cave, right after we’d made love. “We sure took things for granted then. Hell, if we’d only known.” Indeed. And who was it that was to blame for this entire ordeal, this ungodly disaster? You see, we’d spent so many hours of our day obsessing over nuclear war, and wars with other nations, when we should have been worrying about the other evil threatening our society, too.
These monster-enabling establishments are now known as The Monster Breeders—now-defunct business chains like McDonald’s, Domino’s Pizza, and In-and-Out Burger. They created these fat human monsters who are now roaming around outside, and devouring our family and friends. After the fatties had consumed all the non-fatties in Texas, the fatties all across the nation followed suit—mercilessly and greedily feasting upon any non-fatty.
One night, inside the cave, Beth had asked me: “What’s that sound?” Immediately, I shushed her. And then, I blew the votive candles out, lest a fatty see where we were hiding. Gently, discreetly I walked toward the front of the cave and glimpsed out. As I peeked out I beheld the image of an older gentleman—fifty five years old, perhaps; a non-fatty. The non-fatty had looked very gaunt, and he was desperately screaming for some help.
“Please,” he pleaded, by screaming at the air, at nobody and nothing in particular. “I’m all alone, and starving. The fatties have eaten my family—my wife Julianne, and my son, Bobby. Now, I have nothing, nobody. I have not consumed a real meal in thirty days, and I fear that I will die soon, if I do not eat. Already, I am becoming more and more woozy, and lightheaded. Please,” he shouted once more: “Anybody”? Beth looked up at me, wide-eyed. “Oh, George,” she was completely heartbroken. “Let’s help this poor fellow.” I thought it over for a few seconds. We did not have a whole lot to subsist on—mostly scant droppings, from the fatties. However, their refuse was very nutritional, and fulfilling.
I agreed with Beth to help the poor, wandering soul. But before I could shout out to him from the cave, Beth and I heard a loud, rumbling sound, which had felt like an earthquake, and sounding like some prehistoric lizard, walking on its own hind legs. “We can do nothing more for this man,” I whispered to Beth gravely. Beth protested, but ultimately, she decided I’d made the right decision. “Well,” said she, “It was still a horrible thing to happen.”
We looked out of the cave and the old man was still yelling helplessly, beseechingly. “Please, somebody—I’m an old man. All I want is some food. If you’re living in one of these caves, please, just provide me one meal. I promise I will not give your location away to the fatties. Not even under extreme torture. I swear to God Almighty. Please, somebody?” the old man resumed. Not eating for a month must have made the poor soul oblivious—for it didn’t even seem to register to him that two huge salivating fatties were standing right behind him. One was a man, with short blonde hair, six foot tall. Four hundred and fifty pounds I swear to you. The other was a humongous woman, larger than even the man. She had hair curlers on her head and she was wearing a large T-shirt, which had the words “Hometown Buffet” written on it.
The male fatty stuck the poor non-fatty’s body, feet-first, inside his mouth. The woman did the exact same thing, except she placed the poor man’s head in her trap. By now, the man had most certainly known something was amiss, for his body had started shaking wildly. It was obviously a romantic gesture between both fatties. They peered into one another’s eyes and then they commenced munching on the unfortunate goner viciously, simultaneously. Within seconds, the man was nothing but bones. The female fatty removed him from her mouth and then began to pick her teeth with the skeletal remains. The obese man burped a hearty belch. Seconds later, they were gone; as quickly as they had snuck up on the now-deceased bastard….
“Oh my God,” Beth exclaimed, tears streaking down her cheek. “I can’t believe it. I simply cannot believe it. Oh, George. Couldn’t we have done something?”
I gazed up at Beth somberly, and I shook my head. “No, and in hindsight, it probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway,” I explained to my beloved wife, pointing at our stored food. We had even less droppings than I’d originally estimated. Hell, there wasn’t even enough there to keep us fed for the night. Suddenly, Beth broke down, crying hysterically. It was terrible enough that that old man had to die in such a horrific fashion but, from the looks of it, we too would eventually be accompanying him in the hereafter. And starvation wasn’t a very fun way to go, either.
Suddenly, we heard a loud noise outside—like a garbage truck dumping a million tons of mud onto the ground. Then, there was an ensuing whoopee-cushion type sound, followed by a relieved, monstrous groan. Beth looked at me optimistically. And I looked back at her, hopeful. We’d understood: We would live on, thank God. But we weren’t proud of it—the lengths we’d have to go, just to stay alive.
Cannibalism is not an act any decent human being should ever be proud of engaging in.
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Jack Bristow is a writer residing in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Currently, he is working on his magnum opus — a non-fiction book, which vividly details his numerous love affairs with extraterrestrial beings. Follow him, @RealJackBristow
