~BHM, ~BBW, ~XWG, ~Lovecraftian Horror --- The stories one hears while on holiday...
(Got the itch again, and decided to try a little thought experiment - a story inspired by the works of H. P. Lovecraft, springing out of the same world as my last piece. No idea of the crossover between Lovecraft fans and Fat Admirers - but in any case, I hope you find it an entertaining tale!)
I - Arrival
In the city of Merablis, in the peninsula that lies south of XXXXXX, in the sea of XXXXXXXX XXXXXX, I stayed a while, to recover from my injury.
The ticket for my voyage had been afforded me by my good friend, T— F— N—, the witch, via her travelling companion and ‘familiar’, a gentleman calling himself H. M. It was, as he explained, an olive branch from her in consideration of our previous quarrels, that I might make the peace with her on my return.
Pacing the decks of the luxury cruiser that took me to the port of Merablis, I pondered the authenticity of T— F— N—’s offering. It was not her usual fashion to forgive, nor to forget; but this is my own failing a thousand times more often. Even if her offering had been sincere, there was no telling as to why she had given me passage to a place of which I had never heard, and had never expressed a desire to visit.
Such is the whim of such persons as T— F— N—, I reminded myself. It was her mercurial nature, not to mention the…unsavoury company she keeps, that had prompted our latest falling-out. A witch can keep many opinions and many moods, and shuffle them as she does her tarot cards.
So I did not dwell upon her motivations when my ship put into port, and I went among the people of the desert town of Merablis, where the sun bakes every creature in its skin by day and a low, black fog shrouds the streets in twilight by night.
Of the architecture of Merablis there is little to say, and tourist or resident would agree that this is the best one can say about it. The buildings are predominantly a yellow or beige stone, with the grey of office buildings cutting through at intervals. After finding my hotel, provided for free with the journey, I spent an afternoon wandering the streets aimlessly, taking care to mark my trail with a map provided by the hotel manager.
From above, the area appeared more impressive than at street-level. The curves and twists of the avenues around me, at bird’s-eye view, put me in mind of fossilised sea-shells, spiralling into themselves to a smaller degree than the eye could follow. In that sense, the city of Merablis is nobler than, say, New York or Paris, whose skylines are remarkable but whose overheads make them seem drab.
At the edge of the maps, certain stretches of the beaches were marked inaccessible to the public, for no listed reason.
I spent 12 days of my two-week sojourn to this little-known cityscape squeezing as much distraction as I could out of the tourist attractions. I took a bus to the highest point of the jagged mountains on the city’s outskirts, limped (I was still on crutches at this time) through the ragged museum of traditional clothing and ancient fishing and hunting equipment, joined a party of travellers who wished to drink by a fire in the middle of the desert and sing songs.
In all this time, a peculiarity: few of the native persons of the town had any desire to look me in the eye, or speak more than a few words. I would not have noticed, had the travel guides not claimed that Merablis and its neighbouring countryside depended in a large part upon tourist patronage to maintain their fragile economy. Nor did I notice similar treatment being afforded to other foreigners, and wondered if I had broken some form of etiquette that singled me out as an eternal outsider in their eyes. Alas, the dialect of XXXX spoken in Merablis eluded me, and my grasp of the more basic form of the language was tenuous at best, and so I could not ask.
The only son of the city to treat me as a gentleman was a gentleman by the name of Khalid bin-F——, who I met fishing on the docks early in my holiday. He spoke English like a professor at Harvard (who has grown in Tunisia, and been educated in English by third-rate teachers), and had a boisterous belly laugh, being uncommonly fat. In this degree, he also walked at a slow enough pace that he and I could keep up a conversation as we travelled the crowded streets, as (I have mentioned before), my crutches kept me from a natural stroll.
His walk was one which you may have seen in certain men who have carried a ponderous weight for many decades, where the legs are spread to accommodate the swing of the great belly. If you have not seen it, picture the stroll of Alfred Hitchcock in one of his myriad cameos, but magnified to a frame twice his size. Some may call it a ‘waddle’, but I have seen a near comical grace in it, rather like the way an alligator will lumber and stumble on the shore but glide like a cloud in water.
He was a fat man, of course, and a little ignorant of the world, but amusing enough to spend my time with nonetheless. Besides, I reasoned, who of my friends at home would ever find out?
On the thirteenth and penultimate day of my stay in Merablis, where wiry dogs sleep in the doorways stare with weeping yellow eyes at passers-by, Mr. Khalid met me outside my hotel room. He was dressed in his best white suit, and wearing a fez that sat on his large bald head at a comically jaunty angle, though it stayed as rooted on its spot as a falcon on its prey.
“Come with me to the cafe,” he said, the bottom of his goatee juddering over his double chin. He paused to dab at the sweat on his brow with a handkerchief. “We can smoke shisha, yes? - and talk a while."
This was, I had learned, a favourite pastime of his, along with drinking innumerable cups of coffee and swallowing box after box of dates until the cummerbund on one of his custom-fitted suits might threaten to burst and his handkerchief was soaked with sweat. But I had not come to enjoy his company for the humour of it, but for the general pleasure of his company, and so went with him through the cool afternoon breeze to an outside table at our cafe of choice, on the street of XXXXXXX.
There, after an hour or so of opining about the politics of neighbouring countries and puffing on the finest of shisha, Khalid removed his fez and his round, dark sunglasses, and leant his weight on the table. I leant in as well, partly in order to join in his conspiratorial nature and partly to steady the table, in case his bulk toppled it.
“Did I ever tell you the story of - this house?” he asked, indicating with his left hand, though he did not turn to look at it. The house he spoke of was directly opposite the cafe, and seemed as drab and ordinary as any other in the city of Merablis, where cactuses bloom in the alleyways where no-one treads. Nothing marked it out save for a curious, faded design on the door, which resembled a bear with its paws raised in attack. In my research, I had heard no mention of bears native to the peninsula that lies south of XXXXXX, since there are no forests there.
“You did not,” I replied, my curiosity piqued.
“Would you like to hear it? I promise it will be a good one, that you can take home with you to your friends,” he said. I had come to expect good humour out of my lone companion in the city, but till now had not seen seriousness in his expression. “It is a story worth hearing, I promise you,” he said again, and stifled a belch.
“Whether my friends would like it or not, if you tell it I’m sure I’ll be glad to hear it,” I said, knowing that I had nothing else to do.
He straightened himself on his chair, and called in the local language for a refreshment of coffee, and another plate of dates and some croissants.
"These waiters, you can't trust them. XXXXs, the lot," he said. I have my own opinions of persons from that particular country, but could not help but agree with him.
Having taken three of the former snacks and one of the latter, and brushed the crumbs from his shirt, and cracked his knuckles, and looked around to see no-one was listening, he sat back and told me the story of the house.
I reproduce it, below, in its entirety, and leave you to judge its meaning for yourself.
(Got the itch again, and decided to try a little thought experiment - a story inspired by the works of H. P. Lovecraft, springing out of the same world as my last piece. No idea of the crossover between Lovecraft fans and Fat Admirers - but in any case, I hope you find it an entertaining tale!)
The Murmurs in Merablis
by
JimBob
by
JimBob
I - Arrival
In the city of Merablis, in the peninsula that lies south of XXXXXX, in the sea of XXXXXXXX XXXXXX, I stayed a while, to recover from my injury.
The ticket for my voyage had been afforded me by my good friend, T— F— N—, the witch, via her travelling companion and ‘familiar’, a gentleman calling himself H. M. It was, as he explained, an olive branch from her in consideration of our previous quarrels, that I might make the peace with her on my return.
Pacing the decks of the luxury cruiser that took me to the port of Merablis, I pondered the authenticity of T— F— N—’s offering. It was not her usual fashion to forgive, nor to forget; but this is my own failing a thousand times more often. Even if her offering had been sincere, there was no telling as to why she had given me passage to a place of which I had never heard, and had never expressed a desire to visit.
Such is the whim of such persons as T— F— N—, I reminded myself. It was her mercurial nature, not to mention the…unsavoury company she keeps, that had prompted our latest falling-out. A witch can keep many opinions and many moods, and shuffle them as she does her tarot cards.
So I did not dwell upon her motivations when my ship put into port, and I went among the people of the desert town of Merablis, where the sun bakes every creature in its skin by day and a low, black fog shrouds the streets in twilight by night.
Of the architecture of Merablis there is little to say, and tourist or resident would agree that this is the best one can say about it. The buildings are predominantly a yellow or beige stone, with the grey of office buildings cutting through at intervals. After finding my hotel, provided for free with the journey, I spent an afternoon wandering the streets aimlessly, taking care to mark my trail with a map provided by the hotel manager.
From above, the area appeared more impressive than at street-level. The curves and twists of the avenues around me, at bird’s-eye view, put me in mind of fossilised sea-shells, spiralling into themselves to a smaller degree than the eye could follow. In that sense, the city of Merablis is nobler than, say, New York or Paris, whose skylines are remarkable but whose overheads make them seem drab.
At the edge of the maps, certain stretches of the beaches were marked inaccessible to the public, for no listed reason.
I spent 12 days of my two-week sojourn to this little-known cityscape squeezing as much distraction as I could out of the tourist attractions. I took a bus to the highest point of the jagged mountains on the city’s outskirts, limped (I was still on crutches at this time) through the ragged museum of traditional clothing and ancient fishing and hunting equipment, joined a party of travellers who wished to drink by a fire in the middle of the desert and sing songs.
In all this time, a peculiarity: few of the native persons of the town had any desire to look me in the eye, or speak more than a few words. I would not have noticed, had the travel guides not claimed that Merablis and its neighbouring countryside depended in a large part upon tourist patronage to maintain their fragile economy. Nor did I notice similar treatment being afforded to other foreigners, and wondered if I had broken some form of etiquette that singled me out as an eternal outsider in their eyes. Alas, the dialect of XXXX spoken in Merablis eluded me, and my grasp of the more basic form of the language was tenuous at best, and so I could not ask.
The only son of the city to treat me as a gentleman was a gentleman by the name of Khalid bin-F——, who I met fishing on the docks early in my holiday. He spoke English like a professor at Harvard (who has grown in Tunisia, and been educated in English by third-rate teachers), and had a boisterous belly laugh, being uncommonly fat. In this degree, he also walked at a slow enough pace that he and I could keep up a conversation as we travelled the crowded streets, as (I have mentioned before), my crutches kept me from a natural stroll.
His walk was one which you may have seen in certain men who have carried a ponderous weight for many decades, where the legs are spread to accommodate the swing of the great belly. If you have not seen it, picture the stroll of Alfred Hitchcock in one of his myriad cameos, but magnified to a frame twice his size. Some may call it a ‘waddle’, but I have seen a near comical grace in it, rather like the way an alligator will lumber and stumble on the shore but glide like a cloud in water.
He was a fat man, of course, and a little ignorant of the world, but amusing enough to spend my time with nonetheless. Besides, I reasoned, who of my friends at home would ever find out?
On the thirteenth and penultimate day of my stay in Merablis, where wiry dogs sleep in the doorways stare with weeping yellow eyes at passers-by, Mr. Khalid met me outside my hotel room. He was dressed in his best white suit, and wearing a fez that sat on his large bald head at a comically jaunty angle, though it stayed as rooted on its spot as a falcon on its prey.
“Come with me to the cafe,” he said, the bottom of his goatee juddering over his double chin. He paused to dab at the sweat on his brow with a handkerchief. “We can smoke shisha, yes? - and talk a while."
This was, I had learned, a favourite pastime of his, along with drinking innumerable cups of coffee and swallowing box after box of dates until the cummerbund on one of his custom-fitted suits might threaten to burst and his handkerchief was soaked with sweat. But I had not come to enjoy his company for the humour of it, but for the general pleasure of his company, and so went with him through the cool afternoon breeze to an outside table at our cafe of choice, on the street of XXXXXXX.
There, after an hour or so of opining about the politics of neighbouring countries and puffing on the finest of shisha, Khalid removed his fez and his round, dark sunglasses, and leant his weight on the table. I leant in as well, partly in order to join in his conspiratorial nature and partly to steady the table, in case his bulk toppled it.
“Did I ever tell you the story of - this house?” he asked, indicating with his left hand, though he did not turn to look at it. The house he spoke of was directly opposite the cafe, and seemed as drab and ordinary as any other in the city of Merablis, where cactuses bloom in the alleyways where no-one treads. Nothing marked it out save for a curious, faded design on the door, which resembled a bear with its paws raised in attack. In my research, I had heard no mention of bears native to the peninsula that lies south of XXXXXX, since there are no forests there.
“You did not,” I replied, my curiosity piqued.
“Would you like to hear it? I promise it will be a good one, that you can take home with you to your friends,” he said. I had come to expect good humour out of my lone companion in the city, but till now had not seen seriousness in his expression. “It is a story worth hearing, I promise you,” he said again, and stifled a belch.
“Whether my friends would like it or not, if you tell it I’m sure I’ll be glad to hear it,” I said, knowing that I had nothing else to do.
He straightened himself on his chair, and called in the local language for a refreshment of coffee, and another plate of dates and some croissants.
"These waiters, you can't trust them. XXXXs, the lot," he said. I have my own opinions of persons from that particular country, but could not help but agree with him.
Having taken three of the former snacks and one of the latter, and brushed the crumbs from his shirt, and cracked his knuckles, and looked around to see no-one was listening, he sat back and told me the story of the house.
I reproduce it, below, in its entirety, and leave you to judge its meaning for yourself.
