They sat within the small room, the television blaring gunfire in the middle of the fourth action movie they had been watching. All around them, wrappers, boxes and packages of eaten foodstuffs littered the ground. Two large men were splayed out above a sagging, old couch. One attempted to pull his grease-stained shirt over the protrusion of his gut.
“Hey Tommy,” he practically belched the word, “You wanna order another pizza?”
The second, an even larger man with a round face and tiny glasses, shifted his girth within the furniture. It squeaked loudly in protest.
“Sure man,” came his response, “Hand me the phone, will ya?”
A bit of half-hearted rummaging commenced, followed by a smallish, white device being placed within his sausage-like fingers.
“I'm really glad you decided to come out, Tommy,” the other man bellowed with a rotten smile, “Old friends need to catch up sometimes, ya know?”
He clicked the phone on.
“Yeah, yeah,” he replied simply with a chuckle that rippled his massive stomach.
He went to click the buttons for the local pizza shop. Instead, something squished within his hand. He looked with confusion to see that the phone had disappeared, replaced with an oozing slice of cake. Tommy laughed a second time.
“Come on man,” he said while showing him his stained fingers, “Stop messing with me.”
The other man merely stared in confusion. Tommy watched him for a few moments. Something caught his attention. He gazed at the television screen, the images of muscled gunfighters now replaced with a twirling picture of a fresh pizza. He watched as it seemed to swirl outward, right in midair. He reached out to grab for a slice, but immediately retracted his hand with a surprised yelp.
“Dude, what's wrong?”
His friend's voice was distant and ignored. He inspected his once outstretched arm. Pepperoni and other toppings now bristled through the hairs of his arms. He pulled at the strange protrusions, resulting in a hunk of cheese and grease to pull away from his arm. He cried out as a mixture of sauce and blood poured from his skin. He looked to his other arm to see the brownish tinge of cake had overtaken the entire limb. Chocolate and frosting dripped from his elbow. He tried to move. Two cake fingers broke away and fell to the floor.
“Tommy, look at me!”
His wild eyes looked up to his friend. His eyes were a mess of various colored candies. He held onto him with two solid masses of potato chips that seemed to crack at the slightest of movements. The walls around them began to ripple. Tommy dared not look at them.
His friend slapped lightly at his face, seeming to cut into his cheek as easily as butter. In fact, as he pulled away, Tommy watched a large piece of his face slide from him and splash to the floor in a heap of jiggling mess. He clamped his eyes shut, the aromas of the mixture of foods around him making him want to vomit.
“Hey. Hey!”
He reopened his eyes. His friend was plopped in front of him, his fat face decorated with genuine concern. He quickly inspected his arms, met only with normal appendages. He felt at his whole face, a sweeping relief washing over him like nothing he had ever felt.
“What the hell just happened?” his friend asked him, “You want all loopy and started smacking yourself.”
A layer of sweat had built upon Tommy's forehead. He wiped at it as he allowed his ragged breath to slow. He merely shrugged, the room falling silent.
“You're probably just hungry,” his friend tried to rationalize, “Let me get on that pizza for you.”
“No,” he replied simply, “No more pizza. No more anything.”
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