Fat Man Walking
11 February 2002
Let's get one thing straight before we go anywhere - I am not fat. Don't get me wrong - I'm not one of those people who's obsessed with their size, 'you calling me fat?', all that crap - I just don't want you to get the wrong picture of me in your head. I don't want you to have this image of a fat guy sat on a chair with a gun to his head, flab spilling out over where his hands are tied tight behind his back. It's kind of like that, only diet. Just let the vision in your head lose a few stone and you've got it. I should sell the before-and-after pictures to Slimfast. Hmmmm? Oh yes, the gun. You may think that's more important than my obesity or otherwise - well, you're entitled to your opinion. We live and die by our priorities, after all. Maybe I should spend less time convincing you I'm not technically over the average weight for a guy of my age and height (twenty-five, a shade under six foot, and twelve and a half stone, if you must know), and more time making sure this Guy Ritchie reject doesn't pull the trigger (the metal of which, I might add, is currently reacting with the sweat from his index finger, producing an odour which reminds me of the taste of flat Coke) and bring this whole story to an abrupt and rather unsatisfying end. Well, as I said, that's your opinion. What you don't know is, I could fill a book with telling you how I got to be here now, and maybe me getting shot in the head would bring things nicely to a close. Possible a little too Fight Club, but not necessarily. I just think it's important to get it clear from the start that I'm not some Johnny Vegas-esque figure, that when people call me Fat Reg you don't start picturing me all wrong every time. It's the integrity of your vision I'm worried about. Be fucking grateful. I think you get the picture. So, the big question - how did things get so far out of whack? How did I go from respectable-if-unnoticed to tied-up-with-a-gun-at-my-temple in such a short space of time? In short, what the fuck happened? The seeds were probably there all the time, to tell you the truth: little incidents, that individually wouldn't register but collectively pointed to some degree of self-destructiveness. I could go through my youth, through my school days, picking up on minor events and analysing their role in the structure of my life, pointing out each change of direction and the knock-on effect that leads me here now. Don't worry, I won't; I can sense your impatience that I even mentioned the possibility. I will get to the point soon. I just wanted you to know that this stuff has been there the whole time, somewhere. Just keep in mind that it doesn't really all begin the way, for the sake of narrative purity, that I'm going to say it does. One more thing before this all kicks off: despite my cool exterior, I am actually quite scared. I know throughout this whole thing I'm going to give a strong impression of not caring about things that happen to me, but right now the uncertainty is shitting me right up. I'm the narrator, I wield ultimate power up to this point, up to right now I am immortal; each word I write is confirmation that I made it this far, so I can be pretty blasˇ about other situations I may have got myself into. But right now, I'm not so sure. I don't know whether I'm going to get out of this; what this guy's intentions are; whether the gun's even loaded, for Christ's sake. The sort of things any half-decent narrator really should have checked out. I could die here, quite easily, and that one thought terrifies me. Just thought you should know. It all began on April 7th last year...
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