So I started my new career. Every day I would get up and go to Dee's to sit at a table by the window wearing a different t-shirt, and I would eat. Not quite as much as the day I'd eaten the whole menu, but I spent the best part of each day there and, well, I put away a fair bit. The local paper interviewed me about the competition, and some guys came from a couple of the competitive eating websites. Some buzz was being created already and I noticed as the weeks went by that more and more people came into the café. Sometimes Dmitri or Allie or one of my other friends would come to keep me company, but alone or in a group, rain or shine, I would stay there, and eat, and eat.
I walked into Dee's one morning in my third week there to find the manager waiting for me. He greeted me with a friendly handshake and patted my belly. After over a fortnight of constant eating, my body was starting to manifest some changes, mostly to my gut, which had grown so that it bulged tightly against the Baskin Robbins t-shirt I was wearing, and protruded over the waistband of my sweatpants – I'd decided jeans weren't worth the trouble after the first week.
This also meant I didn't have to wrestle my arse, which was also getting bigger by the day as all I did was sit on it and feel it grow, into uncomfortably tight space. As I settled into my usual chair and tucked into the plate of sausages and bacon that by now they had ready for me every day, the manager sat down across from me.
"Listen, Conrad," he said, "I'm really happy with how things are going with you, but... there's only so far this t-shirt thing will go. We need some more exposure for you, you know?"
"How do you mean?" I asked, spearing a sausage with my fork and dipping it in ketchup.
"Well, one of my contacts in the eating contest circuit gave me this." He produced a flyer from his suit jacket and slapped it down on the table in front of me. I looked at it; it advertised a...
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