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Matthew Copes
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Fat Trucker, Hot Wife

Matthew Copes


 

4:30 AM.

Obese middle-aged trucker Rod Drake is watching his wife Yavette sleep. Light from the liquor store on the corner is poking through the threadbare curtains of their rundown rancher. It’s illuminating her firm tits and smooth ass. She’s mumbling softly like she’s dreaming, but the pattering rain is obscuring her words. Rod’s tugging his dead dick and crying.   

He can’t remember the last time he had an erection. The last time they touched intimately. In the beginning Yavette was insatiable, the sex hot and frequent.

Rod weighed 162 pounds on their wedding day. Now 12 years later he’s 308. Yavette never gained an ounce or lost her girlish glow. Still has skin like a teenager. Sexy too, and she knows it. Things would be so much better if she was fat like him.

Rod waddles into the bathroom, splashes water on his face. He’s out of breath so he sits and pisses. Tries to shit but can’t.

Back in bed dozes off. Two hours later Yavette’s shaking him.

“You’re gonna be late for your load.”

Every Wednesday for the last four years Rod’s had a dedicated round-trip run from Peoria to Kansas City. Frozen chicken out, fresh beef back. He rolls out at 10 AM and is always home the following day just after lunch. But this week he won’t be heading to KC because he gave the load to his trucker pal Danny who needs the extra cash. He doesn’t tell Yavette.

That evening at 5:00 Rod’s in Danny’s Lumina parked down the street from the office of Block & Hughes Certified Public Accountants where Yavette is the receptionist. Rod knows the slick bean counters spend half their time fantasizing about fucking her. Maybe one of them is. Maybe they all are.

At 5:22 Yavette walks outside, lights a cig and retrieves the phone from her coat pocket. Then she’s talking to someone, flicking her hair, and smiling like only she can. Rod knows.

Twenty minutes later she pulls into the parking lot of the Chili’s, seven exits up the interstate. Rod’s 50 yards behind. It’s nearly dark and the rain is turning to snow.

When she steps from the car, she’s wearing a stylish trench coat that’s cinched in the middle and stops just above her knees. The collar’s raised and it’s buttoned all the way up to her chin. Maybe there’s nothing underneath. She clip-clops her way to the front door and disappears inside. Rod lights a Winston and waits. A dark BMW 5-Series pulls in moments later and he instinctively knows it’s the guy. Her lover. When the driver gets out he’s tall, dark, and young. Wealthy. Successful. Dressed to kill. Everything Rod’s not.

They’re inside for nearly two hours. When they emerge Yavette pulls out a Virginia Slim and model guy lights it. He’s a foot taller and probably ten years younger than she is. He bends, kisses her neck. Yavette grins, slides her arm through his and they walk toward her car. She makes sure the doors are locked before they slip into The Ultimate Driving Machine. When they pull out Rod notices the vanity plates. ACE CPA. He considers following but just sits and smokes another Winston imagining the things they’ll do later. Suave Beamer guy goes down on her. She comes like a porn star, inhales his prick, and….

Inside Rod takes a table by the bar, orders a Smokehouse Burger with extra mayo, a Dr. Pepper, double order of spicy fries with a tub of gravy on the side.

Later, on the way to the Mid-State Travel Plaza he stops at Burger King for a super-sized Whopper value meal. When he crawls into the sleeper the old Peterbuilt’s suspension chirps and creaks. He fires up the trusty Cummins. Not so much for heat but because its methodical thumping helps him fall asleep. He pops four Tylenol PMs, washes them down with Sprite.

The next morning he’s waiting in the liquor store parking lot for Yavette to leave for work, but she never does. Then it hits him. She never came home. He waits another half hour to be safe. Calls their home phone three times and lets it ring and ring but nobody answers.

When he walks in, she isn’t there. He’s got 12 hours to do what he needs to do. Spends the morning hitting hardware and grocery stores until he has everything he needs.

That night Yavette gets home at 7:00.

When they pass in the hall she manages, “Hey.”

He nods, disappears down the basement stairs. Three hours later he’s finished. Sits at the workbench chain smoking Winstons and finishing off the last of the Bud Light longnecks. Before heading upstairs, he makes sure the food’s stacked properly and that the labels are all facing the same direction. Spam, cocktail wieners, deviled ham. Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese and Oreos. Bags of store brand kettle chips and knock-off Fritos. Krispy Kreme Donuts, generic pudding. Cases of soft drinks stacked as high as a man.

In the kitchen he pours two fingers of Wild Turkey into a glass, adds a few splashes of Pepsi and two ground-up sleeping pills. Sloshes it around to mix everything together.

Upstairs in the bedroom Yavette’s in old sweats and a Corona tank top reading a Sidney Sheldon novel.

“Made you a nightcap,” he says.

He hands her the glass, disappears into the bathroom for a shower.

When Yavette wakes six hours later she’s sitting in an armchair in the basement. It’s freezing and her hands and feet are bound. The light is dim but she’s staring at mounds of junk food. Enough to stock a mini-mart.

From the shadow to her left a familiar voice says, “You’re going to eat it all.”

She struggles against the restraints, but it’s useless.

At 8:00 Rod calls Block & Hughes Certified Public Accountants. The phone rings forever before it’s finally picked up. It’s the owner Rick Block. Rod’s met him a few times, mostly at company Christmas parties. He tells Rick that Yavette’s mother in Oregon is on her death bed and that she took the first flight out to be with her. That it’ll probably be at least a week before she’s back. Maybe longer. Rick’s not happy. Says they’ll need to hire a temp.

Before hanging up Rod asks, “Where’s the Christmas party this year?”

The first day Yavette refuses to eat anything.

Tells Rod she’d rather die of starvation, and that he can go fuck his fat self. After that things change. Hunger’s a motherfucker. Even for vain health freaks like Yavette Spam and chips aren’t so bad when the old gut’s empty. Rod keeps meticulous record of everything she consumes. It’s nearly 30,000 calories the first week, and she’s expending almost no energy. She alternates between raucous episodes of diarrhea and constipation that lasts for days. Rod figured there’d be digestive issues, so along with the food he bought wet wipes, rubber gloves, and rolls of plastic shopping bags. There’s a hole in the seat of the old Adirondack chair, and underneath is a double-lined waste basket. Yavette’s naked so whenever she needs to shit, she just lets loose, and cleanup is easy.

The first week she gains seven pounds. The next 11. She was only 100 to start with so they’re big jumps. Now to kick things up a notch Rod’s making her shakes packed with protein powder from GNC and black-market sedatives from his buddy at the truck dealership in the city.

It’s Monday evening the following week and the doorbell rings. Rod considers ignoring it, but decides it’d be unwise. Yavette’s asleep, but he stuffs a rag into her mouth just in case.

Upstairs it’s BMW guy. His eyes are puffy and there’s a white strip on his finger where a wedding band used to be.

Rod says, “Help you?”

He says his name’s Brian Hughes and that he works with Yavette. They shake hands. Rod says it’s a pleasure to meet him, imagines his young cock in Yavette’s gaping mouth. Brian says everyone at the office is worried about her. They want to know when she’ll be back.

“Maybe a few days. Maybe longer,” he says.  

There’s a muffled bang from inside that startles them both. Brian looks past him into the hallway.

“What was that?” he asks.

“The dog in the basement,” he answers, but he’s not sure Brian buys it.

As Brian’s walking back to his car Rod asks, “When’s the Christmas party?”

Back in the basement the chair’s flopped over backwards and Yavette’s unconscious.

5:30 PM, December 23rd.

Rod descends the stairs into the basement. Yavette’s asleep. Two fat rolls bulge from her abdomen, she’s got more than one chin, and the shit can’s stinking something awful. Rod nudges her shoulder until she stirs. He’s wearing khaki Dockers and a navy blazer from Sears.

“How do I look?” he asks.

He gets strange looks when he walks into the karaoke bar an hour later. Yavette’s friends and coworkers ask if she’s okay and when she’ll be back. He tells them he just talked to her, and that her mother’s still hanging on. They’re not sure how long she’ll last, but Yavette’s an only child and there's no one else who can care for her. She’ll need to stay to the bitter end. He says Yavette asked him to stop by the Christmas party so he could tell them she was thinking about them.

He heads to the bar, slugs a few shots of Wild Turkey followed by a boatload of draft beer. Then there’s dancing, but that’s where things get hazy. He vaguely remembers being out on the dance floor. The room is spinning and people are wearing Santa hats and reindeer antlers. The music is loud. Springsteen’s Merry Christmas Baby. Fucking awful. There’s an attractive young blond. He squeezes her ass. Then Brian Hughes and another young buck fling him through the front door. He lands on his hip and rolls into an oily puddle.

When he wakes, he’s parked on a side street next to an old phone booth. The car’s still running and he’s covered in vomit. On the way home he nearly shits himself. Before showering and spending the day in bed he loosens Yavette’s wrist restraints just enough to give her limited use of her arms. On the old coffee table in front of the chair he spreads out the day’s ration of processed slop. Tells Yavette he had a rough night and that she’s on her own. He lights a smoke and turns to go.

“Why?” she mumbles.

“You’re killing our marriage.”

Rod’s head is throbbing when he wakes at dinnertime. His mouth’s dry and nasty and his bladder is about to burst. After he relieves himself and freshens up he goes downstairs. Yavette’s comatose and he can’t rouse her. He unties her, hoists her over his shoulder, makes his way to the digital scale in the corner and climbs on. He’s worried that together they’ll exceed its maximum capacity, but after a tense moment it flashes a red 449. Then he takes Yavette back to her chair and ties her back up. When he weighs himself he’s 309, which means Yavette’s 140. Obese by her standards.

In the kitchen he calls his dispatcher, tells him he’s still got the flu something fierce, but that he’ll probably be ready for a load in a day or two.

By 7:30 Rod’s hangover hasn’t relented, but he motivates himself to go out because he’s craving pizza and birch beer.

Back at the house he’s preparing his feast on the kitchen counter when he hears something behind him. When he turns there’s a dark mass rushing toward him like a runaway train. He sees stars, then nothing at all.

Before he opens his eyes, he knows he’s in the basement because of the distinct smells assaulting his nostrils. Equal parts fabric softener, Spam, Yavette’s excrement. He’s strapped to a chair and his arms and legs are bound. He parts his eyelids just enough to see the stacks of food against the wall. Then there’s a familiar voice from the shadow to his left.

“You’re going to eat all of it.” It’s Yavette.

Then there’s another voice. Brian Hughes.

“Hope you’re hungry, fat boy.”

For 90 minutes they force feed Rod from the stockpile. He eats with relish, and when it’s obvious he can’t swallow another bite Brian and Yavette walk upstairs hand in hand.

They share a Cobb salad, shower, and fuck. Then take a nap.

When they return to the basement that afternoon Rod’s dead. His face is crisscrossed with pink capillaries and his skin’s the color of ash. A half-eaten Vienna sausage protrudes slightly from the corner of his mouth.  

They spend hours cleaning and stuffing everything that could be used as evidence into heavy-duty plastic trash bags, which they load into Yavette’s Mustang in the garage.  

Brian was smart enough to park his car down the road in the lot of an abandoned car wash, so nobody knows he’s been in the house for the last 24 hours. He ducks down when they pull out, and he doesn’t sit up until they’re miles away. They drive into the country, douse the bags with lighter fluid and set them aflame behind an abandoned pumping station by a muddy creek.  

On the way back they devise a plan to cover their tracks.

That evening at 6:30 when Mrs. Wilhelm is watering her flowers next door, Yavette opens the garage door and storms out onto the driveway. When she’s sure she’s been seen she turns back towards the house.

“Fuck you Rod,” she screams, “I’ve had it!”

Brian’s standing at the door out of sight. He cups his hand over his mouth. Yells back, “Me too. Fuck off!”

“Trouble dear?” Mrs. Wilhelm asks.

“Yeah, Rod won’t stop eating!” Yavette barks.

Minutes later she’s speeding toward Chili’s in her Mustang.

An hour later Brian slips out the back unseen.

The following morning in their swank hotel room Yavette blows Brian, tells him she loves him, and makes two cups of instant coffee.

When she gets home she eats a light breakfast, showers, and calls 911.

“My husband is dead in the basement,” she sniffles. “I think he’s eaten himself to death.”


Matthew Copes is an American who's lived abroad since 2014. For the last three years he’s been a freelance writer for a number of trucking, moving and storage, and travel and tourism websites. It pays the bills, but his true passion is dark, noir crime fiction. 

 

In 2020 he had a piece published with The Flash Fiction Offensive, and a nonfiction work published on Culture Exchange Blog. 

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