The End of Mankind

Writer's Cramp prompt: One day while shopping you noticed that you are being followed; not by another human, animal or even an alien, but by an item... Write a story, from the perspective of the object in question and make sure you tell why it is following you or someone like you.

Note: I chose the follower to be a robot. Alas, I didn't show that the man realized he was being followed. Failure, failure, Will Robinson. This item did not place.

NOTE 2:

In reviews of this piece, I've been criticized for being prejudiced against those on the corpulent side, for mocking them and chastising their abusive consumption. In real life, I make a special attempt to befriend those trying to fight the battle of Health vs. Fat/Sugar Deliciousness -- like in my weekly Weight Watcher's Meeting, where I cheer the loudest for their (and my) successes.

Likewise, I don't have anything against bald men (or women).That was the android talking, probably because androids don't have any hair at all, so this one may have had some jealousy issues.

Anyway, this was only meant as a cautionary tale. I sincerely believe that if humanity doesn't realize the danger of Blubberizing, this tale may become futuristically true.

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The End of Mankind

The guy I’m tailing has the most irritating bald spot. His sloppy jeans, hanging down far enough that I can see the top of ragged jockey shorts, are bothersome enough. One shoe lace, undone and dragging in the dirt of the sidewalk, requires only the mildest annoying tweak of my metal forehead, but that bald spot, uneven and salted with smackings of slimy, gray, frazzled hairs, makes my jaws grind.

Look, don’t get me wrong; I’m not prejudiced. The H.A.F.M, which stands for The Historical Analysis of the Fall of Mankind, sends me after lots of bald men. I’ve followed both hairless and bushy ones. The only consistency of it is that of the countless bodies I'm sent to follow, every one of them wears pillows of blubber that jut down and out over stretched and strained belts.

Women, too, I study. Skinny ones that look like collections of joints and bones are rare now days. Young, heallthy ones have almost disappeared. Anyway, it’s the fat ones I'm sent after.

Some of the women I trail have obesity oozing out of their sides like spare lockers of hanging meat. That causes me to slip gears. I want to stop them and tell them how wrong it is that they abuse themselves so, but I do not. That's not my job. I am only supposed to watch and to record.

The man I've been following for the past week seems to me the saddest of all the remaining humans. His gyrating flabs of lard have built up cascading obstructions that force the occasional passersby to step off the narrow sidewalk and walk in the street.

I suppose this particular specimen cannot help the nose-like beak which reminds me of a large, dripping, dill pickle. Nor should he be blamed for his cratered face in Swiss cheese colors. But none of that irritates me as much as his bald spot. I've been watching it for hours. It sits there on the back of his head, bobbing as he shuffles along, reminding me exceedingly of the rear end of a baboon..

Inside me the gears groan. Atomic motors pulverize the minute quantities of my gritty deposits, broken off by such extreme aggravation. My insides feel like a grinding, rusting washing machine. Yet I remain silent. The suspect must have no knowledge that I follow.

His blobbular body waddles into a doughnut shop. I pause and pretend to polish my outer gray coat. Then because I wear a bag with U.S. Mail stamped on it, I sort envelopes and flyers, acting as if I'm studying the addresses.

The shop window has reflective plating so gorgers can eat without being watched. Yet, my eyes have no difficulty looking in. The man, Subject 45934623339, is stuffing glazed fat-sugars into his cavernous mouth. His corpulent body takes up two chairs, yet there is still the sag of body overflow.

This is the third stop on the man’s way home from work today. He has already inhaled a candy bar, a bag of chips, and a liter of coke down his podgy gullet. At the second stop, he gobbled ice cream -- two scoops with chocolate chips, fudge, nuts, and extra whipped cream.

I record it all and attempt to calm my inner circuits, repeating my mantra, “It is not your place to lecture or forewarn. You are merely to document the evidence of human body mutilation.”

Baboon head comes out of the doughnut shop, and I follow him home. He’s brought several more of the sweet grease items, carried in a bag which he hugs so closely, it must be that he has fears of being robbed. My x-rays eyes note and record the additional calories inside the bag.

Unobtrusively, I bring up the rear, trying not to look at his bald spot. Halfway down the block, the man suddenly trips over his dragging shoestring. His bag is propelled forward; the contents array themselves across the sidewalk. The man looks like he might cry.

Instead he strokes his pock-marked face, rubs his vast belly, and scratches his bald spot. Then he leaves the doughnuts and bag lying on the ground and continues on his way home. I delete five doughnuts from his intake column.

Since there are no more food establishments on the way home, the man does not stop again. He enters his residence and pulls down the shades. The contents of his kitchen have already been noted and analyzed, but still I must remain throughout the night. The pizza man is often called during twilight hours.

Twenty-four surveillance is my program. It requires little thought processing, and while I wait, I write about the fall of mankind. When I return to the station for my charge, I shall have finished several more chapters. I will download them and make a hard copy. Subject 45934623339 is my final study, so my book for the H.A.F.M is almost complete. It is a good thing. My system can no longer bear this agony of watching people destroy themselves. My parts are melting from the abundance of stomach acid.

But you see, someone must record all this. Someday there might be those who are interested. They will want to understand how mankind did not go out with a bang but a swallow, an engorgement, and a burp.

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