The explosion was thunder-sized. Lazarus had tried to contain it, for he was not an inconsiderate person. He was the kind of person who is much influenced by what people might think of him. He showed that in the way he dressed and the words he chose. Under no circumstances would he behave otherwise. He had to hold on for as long as it took.
He had been pacing around the meeting room, looking for a suitable place to detonate. The load was threatening to exit. It had a mind of its own. Hard to tell, he debated with himself, whether a sound released uncontrolled would synchronize with the ambient raucousness of the crowd or stand out on its merit.
If he wasn’t so large, he thought maybe he could contain this urge, a mere physiological event worsened by the weight of external fat. He wondered to what extent his 330-pound dead weight contributed to his predicament. He made a fist with his left hand and punched his abdomen. It neither moved nor emitted any sound, as if it were a bag of dense red mud. Brain freeze fat, he scolded himself.
As he maneuvered his way through the crowd, he wondered if the bathroom was the best place to let go. Not when shameless middle-aged men, throwing caution to the wind, competed on who could let out the loudest flatus.
His mind went back, searching someone to blame. His appetite had quadrupled over the year. He’d seldom had such an organized gut bubble in the past and wished he could burp it out from his mouth.
Lazarus had been among the first in the meeting to go for food. Scooping pounds of mashed potatoes, rice, chicken Okinawa Flat Belly Tonic and pasta, he had built a molehill on his plate which he complemented with a large cup of soda poured from a pitcher. The drink had come to the brim of the glass, spilling a little over the side. He bent over, slurping the excess fluid through pursed lips.
Returning to his seat, and with an ability that belied a man of his size, he rapidly ate each food item and drank fast. He quickly picked up the green hand towel on the table, refolded it into three layers and wiped it back and forth around his mouth.
Thereafter, a massive percolating flatus made him stand up. He could feel its wave surging on the distal gut sphincter. There is no good place in public to let out a flatus this big. Outside, the snow was beginning to change into rain. He took a couple of steps. Initially clumsy, his front load bumped into a stranger. The man looked at him quizzically. He offered apologies and veered to the right.
There was no good place to let out this flatus. He was sure it would be as loud as thunder. Inside his belly, he felt the crackling work of its firepower.
What a massive guy he had become over the years, he mused. A pear-shaped frame had completely replaced the flat muscle of just a year ago. Why did all this fat decide to settle on his hips and lower trunk? It does have a mind of its own, he decided, moving his hand over herniated tummy fat bursting through a slit between two lower buttons.
Brainless fat, he fumed! If only he could muster the guts to say no to people asking him to eat. Why would anyone want to feed a guy as massive as him, he wondered? He had enough calories in his fat depot to burn for a month without eating. With everybody throwing food at him, he would never shake off this fat. He would love to, but he could not.
He had carried this latest gut load for so long now but could no longer manage to resist its force, in the same way that a hen can no longer contain the expulsion of the egg within her.