Bill ‘Big Buck’ Buchanan was struggling to fit into his shirt in the master bedroom of his Highland Park home. An executive with Dallas-based processed food giant Vexicon Foods, he was to pick up an achievement award for 30 years’ service with the company later that night at Cooper Hotel Conference Center & Spa. A no expense-spared event, just for him.
Standing in front of his bedroom mirror, naked from the waist down and wearing his Stetson, he called out for his wife, Wendy.
‘Winnie? Winnie? What’s happened with this here shirt? Button’s ’bout to pop an’ take an eye out!’
Wendy came in, almost akimbo so as to not brush her just painted fingernails and just shaved legs off nothing.
‘Bill won’t you quit hollering? There are plenty shirts in that wardrobe of yours, just look.’
‘But this here’s mah lucky one. Been wearing it for years!’
‘Well it don’t fit so good no more now Bill. Put your pants on anyhow, might look good then. Now, how do I look?’
Bill ignored Wendy’s question. Still, under her instruction, he took his Wrangler jeans and wedged his legs into them. They fit only because his bulging waist and thighs forced them to expand over time. His Stetson, black boots and black tasselled shirt, just about fitting, completed the look.
Trudging down the Brazilian mahogany stairs he had a taste for meat on his tongue. Gabriela would be leaving soon, but he knew he could get one last sandwich out of her.
‘Gabby? Gabby!’ he hollered.
No reply. At the bottom of the stairs he tipped his hat to the marble statue of his great-great grandfather. He took in the expanse of the kitchen, no Gabriela in sight.
‘Gabby? Gabby? Where are ya?’
After some shuffling from beyond the utensil room, Gabriela appeared.
‘Gabby, there ya are. Where the hell ya been?’
‘Sorry Mr. Bill, the toilet. Very messy, very blocked.’
‘Ya well, you get that in a well-fed house don’t ya? I’m thinkin’ I need some meat. You got the makings of a sandwich?’
Bill panned out on the sitting room chaise and swallowed the sandwich. Barbeque sauce squirted out onto his shirt, but he licked it up. “Black’ll blend” he said to himself.
Wendy finally arrived in a new outfit to find Bill asleep. She shook the tip of his boot and he woke with a baby-like gargle. He filled two glasses of Jack Daniels and they toasted to his success and the night ahead. “Deserved for years of service” they said. He tipped his hat to his great-great grandfather again on the way out.
Falling into the limo waiting outside, the JD splashed out on the white leather seat. Bill lay his little handkerchief under his big ass and let Wendy fix herself. He complained about the damn shirt on the way to the event too, but Wendy put it down to the damn heat.
Halfway to the hotel, Bill decided he needed the cool, crisp, refreshing taste of one of Vexicon’s best-selling energy drinks, ‘Buzz’, to cool down. Its 160mg of caffeine per can would also see Bill through the night. Shining like a cross above a church on the corner of Preston and Forest was a 7-Eleven. Bill hauled himself out of the limo and took in some deep breathes. Outside, a sleeping beggar emerged from his cocoon and held the door for Bill, but got nothing more than a grunt in return. Inside, the attractively packaged snacks, biscuits, candies and slushies drew a drool to Bill’s lip. Quick wipe on his bursting sleeve and onto the illuminous fridges.
He picked out two bottles of Buzz, cheery cola and arctic ice, and placed them on the counter.
‘Just these sir?’ asked the cashier.
‘Uh-huh.’
The cost came to $4.26 but Bill only gave the man $3.
‘I practically own the company boy. I’ll be sure to take the rest out of mah next cheque.’
Back in the limo, Bill chased down JD with the exciting, electrifying taste of Buzz’s arctic ice. Wendy gave out to him for belching, but Bill blamed it on the damn tightness of the damn shirt.
Outside, the hotel was a glittering beacon of success. Its spiralling sky lights told every outsider of how special the event was. “Must be someone very important” they would say. Red carpet lay licking the ladies and gentlemen as they made their way in. Each attendee was given a glass of champagne and a luxurious welcome pack. Just a little something from the company. Bill and Wendy pulled up and were helped out of the limo by the driver. The porter came over to offer his services too but Bill and Wendy ignored both. No thanks, no tip.
Inside, Bill was given a rousing reception. Long retired executives and senior members had made the effort to attend as well as current colleagues, all top-tier members of the company of course. Country covers rang out as the band began to play. Bill shook the hands of people whose names he had never learned, stood for quick photos with people he had forgotten even existed, and directed those he believed below him to do this and do that, snappy now. Pictures of Bill through the years were blown up into large scale murals and draped from the ceiling. These, of course, were photos of him in his slimmer prime. Champagne glasses clicked as the fountain was deconstructed, and the appetisers were gobbled up quicker than vulnerable competitors. Bill’s old boss, Doug Rowland was even there, all 98 years of him.
‘Doug you old bastard how are ya? They let you out of the grave for a few hours huh?’
Doug didn’t take too kindly to Bill’s comment, either because it was such an insult or just the fact that he never liked him anyhow.
‘Bill?’
‘What is it Dougy? Careful now don’t those teeth fall out.’
‘Bill, congratulations on your 30 years. I never thought you’d make it.’
‘Hell I know, you told me that ‘nough times!’ Bill turned and grabbed two champagnes from a passing waitress. ‘Life is good though Dougy, real good. And guess what? I’m still here makin’ money, and I’ll still be after you bite the bullet.’
Doug was never one to overreact. Instead, he knew how to play with Bill’s pain points.
‘Don’t be so cocky Bill, I known boys half your size that’a kicked the bucket.’
‘Don’t you be worryin’ ‘bout mah health now Dougy, I’m fine an’ fit. Nothing to complain about in this ol’ big boy.’
‘That so? Well, you know what they say, keeping a fat man happy is easy when his mouth’s too full to complain.’
“Fat” always boiled Bill’s blood, a little too easily at times.
‘That’s a good one Doug, now why don’t you run along to whatever old bat brought you here.’
Bill turned and walked away, leaving Doug to spit out one final, unheard insult; ‘fat bastard.’
Bill threw back another glass of champagne and caught the last of the sliders laid out. He jammed them down his throat and burped in the face of the waitress. Panning his gaze around the foyer at all the wealth on show, Bill felt elated.
“If I wasn’t so God damn rich” he thought, “I’d probably be jealous.”
Stan Williams, another associate at Vexicon Foods, and his wife Debra spotted Bill chuckling to himself and decided to give him their congratulations.
‘Howdy Bill, mighty fine way to celebrate 30 years!’
‘Ain’t it? Ain’t I the most popular boy in town?’ he replied with a laugh and nudge at Stan’s wife Debra’s shoulder.
‘And the wealthiest!’ said Debra, ‘look at all these friends!’
‘Oh hell, don’t mind them. They’re only here ‘cus of money. I either made it for them or took it from them!’
‘Oh Bill, you big ol’ barrel of laughs!’
‘This here barrel’s full of JD, champagne and good food tonight Deb; I’m running out of space for laughs, uh-huh.’
Stan couldn’t help but circumnavigate Bill’s belly with his eyes. It took him seconds, literally, to take it all in. He could see the dark sweat patches under the armpits and the stickily, shining barbeque sauce stain toward the collar. Bill’s swelling belly seemed to grow as Stan focused harder. “The buttons, they’re gonna pop, they’re gonna pop!” he thought.
‘Stan! Stan! You staring at mah gut?’’
‘Uh, no Bill, sorry. Got lost in thought for a second is all.’
‘You think I’m too fat huh? ‘Bout to burst out of this here shirt huh? That it? That it Stan?’
‘No Bill, no. I was just thinkin’…thinkin’ ‘bout how great it is you’re finally getting your award. ‘Bout time.’
‘Huh, you’re a stinkin’ liar Stan, a stinkin’ liar.’
Bill farted and moved off. Debra gasped and held the precious air until she had made it out to the garden.
In the toilet Bill did his business and left it full and unflushed. Rising off his throne he felt some faintness. At the sink he threw water in his face and stared at his pale self until he steadied out. Taking a $100 bill from a roll of cash, Bill wiped his forehead. “Mon Bill, ‘member who you are.” Two of Vexicon’s senior accountants came tumbling out of the stalls and chased two blondes apiece out the door. “Them boys got more beans than brains” Bill thought.
Back in the foyer the bell tolled for dinner. Wendy scurried through the flow of people on her heels to Bill who was now leaning against a newel with a drink in his hand.
‘Alright Bill, now’s time for dinner. Let’s get you seated.’
Bill spoke with the other high-fliers of Vexicon Foods at the long table on stage. They discussed shares and investments, big wins and bad losses. He told them about the Florida home he had bought from the sale of his Nevada ranch. They discussed the charity established by the company and how blind and foolish people were to donate. They had each taken a bite from the cake sympathy baked, and they were all fine and fat after it.
After the dinner, during which Bill ate every last bite of five courses and two desserts ─ Wendy’s watching her figure ─ it was time for the big moment. Vexicon Foods’ CEO Tim Johnson took to the podium to present the award.
‘Evening ya’ll. Mighty fine night to celebrate a greedy, sorry, I mean great man!’
That got a laugh from most. Bill grunted.
‘Now now, I’m only joking with ole Bill.’
Wendy noticed the stream of sweat clogging the wrinkles of Bill’s forehead below his Stenson. It ran off at both ends down his bloated red cheeks, going as far as his shirt before he could dab it. She passed him her napkin, he dabbed, and dually rang it out on the carpet.
‘Would ya’ll believe, Bill’s been with the company 30 years to the day. Now how ‘bout that?’
Popping up and down like moles, the audience cheered and clapped as Bill gave them a little wave, white napkin in hand.
‘Say Bill, you still got that old portrait of yourself in a bed of money at home?’
The audience roared with laughter; green hearts pounding for the love of money.
‘No Tim, gave it to charity last week!’
Another eruption of laughter from the audience in the name of greed. Their steak blood stained teeth sunk into the wealth they all knew too well. Their wallets and purses exploded in notes like uncontrollable cash machines. Bill threw his head back and haw-hawed like he’d never haw-hawed before.
‘Alright alright, that’s enough from me. Ya’ll better give this man the biggest round of applause ya’ll got. Now, come on, raise a glass for the man of the moment, Bill ‘Big Buck’ Buchanan!’
Bill got a standing ovation as he rose. With each step the stage creaked as he shifted his weight towards the podium. The air was thin now, the heat unbearable.
Tim Johnson shook his hand when he reached the mic and handed him a giant crystal award that was cut to the shape of Bill, during slimmer days of course. It was marvellous, magnificent.
All 38 stone of Bill ‘Big Buck’ Buchanan stood before the crowd, soaked to the bone and wheezing.
‘Evening ya’ll. How are ya?’
Again, the audience wooed and clapped along like the sheep they were.
‘Well, I gotta say I’m mighty proud of this here award.’
The middle button of his shirt, the one right in front of his protruding belly-button, popped and flew across the stage. He didn’t notice.
‘I don’t wanna keep ya’ll long, so I guess I ought to thank a few people.’
All before Bill fuzzed and a rush came over him. His skin, easily seen from the front row tables, seemed to turn a light, sickish green. Some audience members began to whisper, others continued to cheer ol’ Bill on.
Bill burped into the microphone and licked his salty lips.
‘Now, before I go on thankin’ ya’ll, I gotta thank one man first.’
Bill pulled a thick wad of cash from his wallet and licked his thumb. He whipped out a €100 and held it in the air.
‘Ol’ Benjamin! Come on, give ol’ Benjamin a cheer!’
The audience began to jump around like hyenas, but Bill didn’t see them. Instead, he was making his heavy way toward the wooden stage floor with spews of spit squirting from his mouth. Chandeliers and crockery shook when he hit the floor, and Wendy cried out the shrillest shriek you did ever hear in Dallas.
Bill’s massive green walrus-like body lay like an island on the floor. Tim Johnson came running over to see if ol’ Bill was still breathing; Wendy was already bawling tears that were lost in the sweat pools. Tossed beside the podium, Bill’s award lay discarded and broken, the head having popped off in the fall.
Doug Rowland, resigned to a seat by the exit door, laughed until his teeth fell out.
Medical machines beeped all round while the wires held him hung like a fly in a cobweb. Wendy sat close with his one hand in her two, praying over and over. She felt a tug before Bill spit out a grunt, something soaked in whiskey. His eyes started fluttering as if to clear the flies.
‘Bill! Bill! Wake up! I’m right here! It’s me Winnie! Come back to me now! Come back now ya hear!’
Bill’s eyes began to eek open. Cloudy pupils cleared as he started to see the world again. Looking left and right he seemed almost disappointed to still be alive.
‘Oh Bill, you came back! I knew you would!’
Still his attention wouldn’t focus on Wendy. Still he seemed horrified to be alive.
‘Bill, look at me! Remember me? Your darling wife, Wendy.’
He muttered something in a frail voice. The first words of a resurrected man.
‘What’s that Bill? You trying to say something?’
‘W…’
‘What’s that darlin’? Go on now.’
‘W…’
‘Wendy? You tryin’ to say Wendy Bill? I’m right here. Go on now, spit it out.’
‘W….where’s my award?’
-end-
all words are mine. if you enjoyed the story, let me know.
Gene Murphy Writer 
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