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BONUS - Captain Price Character Poll bonus sketch
🕑 Added 2024-05-30 13:00:11 +0000 UTCPrice limped his way through the crowd of tourists, the Florida sun beating down and baking his broad shoulders. His walk slowed as he reached the bustling ocean-side shack, a well-known crab basket and brewery. They specialized in serving the thriving military community, as well as the never-ending stream of sun burnt and boisterous tourists. Price stepped inside, the cool shade and revolving fans giving him some much-yearned relief. The old wooden walls were filled with memorabilia from decades of service members, visitors, and owners getting debaucherously wasted. Squeezing through clusters of patrons and rushing waiters, he limped his way to his rightful spot at the bar.
Settling a tab for a group of rowdy patrons, the bartender freed himself and walked over to Price. “Can I get you something?” The man said knowingly. “I’ll take a port ale.” Price said. They knew each other but were careful not to belay that information, Ollie stepped away to grab him his drink, and Price scoped the joint, looking for any particularly rowdy guests. Ollie stepped back with Price’s drink, and Price happily sucked down the foam from the top. It flooded his lip fuzz, he licked it off and hummed. Enjoying the calm before the hunt.
Several minutes passed, and the room’s buzz never wavered, groups of men and women chattering and guffawing, TVs playing sports and news, shaken drinks being poured, and food orders being called out. It was a cacophony of Southern leisure. Price had been here nearly every day for the last five years. Wounded in battle, and honorably discharged, he found his life was meaningless without working for the special ops. So he came down to the Florida Keys, to run away into the sun, yet be as close to his old life as possible. He fell into drinking. Drinking and EATING. Oh how he loved to eat, at first he would get hammered and binge himself to sleep, wallowing in his self-pity. Until he realized he had a knack for packing away more than should be humanly possible. He’d wake up after black-out nights of drinking, with an empty fridge and a mound of bricks in his belly. It didn’t take long to realize he could use this to his advantage and climb out of this rut.
Ollie, after a gauntlet of customer requests, made his way to Price once again. “I got two fellows who think you’re lying bub.” Price’s eyebrows raise, following the script exactly as they had executed many times before. A scrubby fellow, his shirtless skin pink and burnt, and a scrawny bloke in a tie-dye tank and fishing cap walked up to Price.
“That bartender right there says you’re a bit of a competitive eater, is that right Mr Walrus?” The man in the cap said, with a drunken snicker. Price stroked his chin, looking him up and down. “I am... who’s asking?”
“We are, we’re feeling lucky, the man behind the counter says you’ll take on any bet. Is that right?” The oafish one said eagerly. “We got 500 dollars that says you can’t stomach our stash.” The lanky man obstinately continued.
Price peaked back at the bartender with a smirk. “Alright, I’ll match you. If I lose you take it all, If I win, I keep the winnings and you pay for my drinks. How’s that sound?”
The men snickered at each other, drunken hubris at its finest. “It’s on, we’ll fetch your meal now big man.” The capped man said before they skipped out of the bar like children.
15 minutes passed before they hauled back in two duffel bags and plopped them on the counter. “Bon-appetite fucker!” the pink man said before unzipping the first duffel revealing about fifteen military-issued MREs. Price picked one up, these were just like the ones he had eaten in his years of service, little bricks of packaged foods, ready to eat for an individual in the line of duty. Nasty little fuckers, holding one gave him a twinge of nostalgia though.
“Got these from a friend, they were about to throw them out, but we thought there could be a better use for them bwahah!” The piggish man snorted. “Our wager is, you gotta eat all 30 of these things, you can back out now if you want.” The other man taunted.
“Not a chance... this is child’s play. Start the timer, Ollie. I’ve got till midnight.” Price shifted in his chair. Ollie nodded and started his watch before returning to the adoring customers.
The two men filled the duty of peeling the contents of the MRE’s away, and preparing them for Price’s consumption. Thick crackers and chunky cheese spread. Ready-made stews in bags. The crude assimilation of a cobbler pie in tin cans. Each MRE was a little different. The two men chuckled and jeered at Price as they prepared each round of his dinner. The price paid them no mind. A man of fierce resolve, he dug in without delay. The first batch of entrées consisted of a creamy spinach noodle dish. He scarfed it down in several bites, it was mildly warm, the MRE having a small thermo-chemical packet for heating the meal. It had a terrible mouth feel and was a bit pasty, but overall tasty. Price filled his face with the side dish next, a small peanut butter sandwich made of stale crackers and gritty peanut butter. It clogged his mouth readily, so he washed it down with the “fruit juice” packet. Before he could finish, the next MRE was placed in front of him.
Four packets down, and Price refused to slow. Seven packets and the effects were starting to show on his fit figure. His meaty belly bowed outwards, and the tight green shirt started riding up. His furry tum was slowly being revealed. Almost two hours in, they were on Ten MREs, and Price had sucked them all down without pause. Occasionally, taking a swig of his beer to get those particularly unfavorable entrée flavors out of his mouth. A crowd was starting to form around the men, as the patrons began to realize this was a free show of the ages.
It was nearly three hours before Price hit his fourteenth packet. The men were sweating bullets, they had seemingly not realized how much work it would be to prepare thirty MREs. So Ollie had jumped in to help with the MRE Prep, most of the patrons were no longer absorbed in their beer, and more interested in the competition after all.
As Price shoveled another mediocre pasta dish down his gullet, he paused. The crowd quieted down, the three men studied Price’s face for some crack in his resolve. The immediate part of the building was nearly completely quiet. Only chatter from the rooms surrounding the bar drifted in the background.
Suddenly, Price erupted with a Belch. HUUUUUOORRRRP All the beer and food packed inside him came with air and carbonation that yearned to escape. He wiped his mustache clean and returned to eating as if nothing had happened. The crowd exploded in cheering and the two better’s leaned back in abject horror and frustration.
The second duffel bag was emptied onto the counter shortly thereafter. The sun was setting through the open door frame. Price chugged, scarfed, and belched like a fine-tuned eating machine. He was in his element. He felt his waistline ache, the dense lump of food sitting in his stomach was reaching his bellybutton. But none of it hurt, he felt bottomless, like he could shove the earth inside his midsection and still need more. His furry belly sagged into his lap, and his tiny blue shorts gripped his bubble but for dear life.
Nearing twenty MREs, the three preppers were getting sloppy. Their peanut butter sandwiches were only partially smeared, the entrées were barely warmed, and the drink packets were barely shaken. None of this deterred Price, everything went down like it was scheduled. The only change in his demeanor was that his bites were interrupted by unflattering burps more often.
The sun had fully set, and the crowd behind Price had refreshed. The live performance showed up and drew many onlookers away. Only 2 hours before midnight, and Price was approaching twenty-five MREs packed neatly in his gut where they belonged. His shirt was riding his belly like a water slide, and his shallow belly button showed to the world he had to adjust his posture to allow his stomach clearance in front of the bar. the stool he sat on was smooshed, and he could feel the waistline on his shorts crying for mercy. Trapped beneath a hairy boulder of muscle and fat.
Ollie left the two men to handle the final leg of this race, his shift was over after all. The men were biting their fingernails, throwing the MREs together in a panic as they nearly instantly disappeared into Price’s belly.
“Cmon’ man! You can’t be human, how is this possible!” The doughy man pleaded. “You gotta be cheating, no man can fit this much in his gut, I mean, look at you, you’re about to explode down there!?” The scrawny man moaned.
The price paid them no mind, continuing the rampage. At this point, the crowd had almost entirely left. Losing interest in the competition as the day was coming to a close. The pile of packages was forming a pyramid, some littered off behind the bar.
Only two left, Price’s belly was routinely letting out groans and grumbles. His face occasionally winced and his breath was short and sporadic. The immense mountain of food was impeding his diaphragm. Yet paradoxically, he didn’t slow. Thousands of calories, twenty-eight entrées, taken like a champ. The men prepared the last meal. Their heads hung low with the certainty of their defeat. Price placed the first of the last entrées between his lips and chewed. His eye on the clock, still 11:45, he had time to savor this one.
An awkward mixture of canned veggies, tomato paste, cheese whiz, and warm potato mush, formed what could only be described as a shepherd's pie. The veggies were raw yet mushy, and the tomato paste was salty. It was fantastic for Price. He’d put his waistline on the table nearly once a week for the past three years, but he’d never had a bet bring him so close to his line of duty. Truthfully, it was an honor to help these fellows dispose of these deliciously disgusting packages of love.
Finally, he set his fork down, sat up straight, and twisted around. He was done. His stomach hung out in front of him, he was gravid and bloated beyond belief. Even he was a bit surprised, he’d outdone himself without realizing it. He crumpled the last package in his hand and smacked his free hand on the counter before letting out one more victorious belch.
“HuRRrP There! Thirty MRE’s gone, now PAY UP! hOORRRP” His big squishy dense laying on his thighs, a trophy of his victory.
The men moaned and complained, grabbing their package of money and counting out everything they owed. They handed out the winnings to Price before closing out the tab with the new bartender. The moon peaked out across the ocean, and the humid cool air drifted across Price’s pronounced midriff.
He arched his back, adjusted his center of gravity, and stood. Without warning, the button of his slutty little shorts popped and glanced at the thigh of the oafish man. They were truly and unfathomably speechless at the sight of a man who looked like he lived in a gym and could pack so much into his formerly average belly.
Price started to waddle away, waving to the bartender for another successful night of driving their popularity. He counted his new wad of cash with a smirk on his face. “Much appreciated boys, this should feed me for a couple of days.” Price chirped. He left into the night full and sated, his stomach groaning and sloshing with each step.
