Poncho, My Friend

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One

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A friend is, as it were, a second self.

????????????????????????????????????????????Cicero

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Poncho is a fat boy. Hes always been a fatty. Ever since grade school, when I first met him. I will never forget that time he came up to me, at the desk, and said, Hi! Im Poncho! Nice to meet you!

And then he extended that chubby hand of his. It was like blocking out the sun. My vision reduced to nothing, what with his fat hand obscuring the rays of light reaching my retina. In an instant, I thought, Fat Fuck!

I was 14 years old. So was Poncho. The desk that eventually crumbled under his weight might have been a lot older.

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Poncho has short, dark, curly hair. During our early days in school, he would soak it in almond oil and try furiously to straighten out those tight, twirly strands. But they would just coil back. I dont think he ever managed another hairdo. Even today, it reminds me of a bush nest. On the first day of junior college, I remember, the bum had been growing it, trying to achieve that shoulder length, trying to be cool. He waltzes into the foyer sporting a premature goatee, fake Ray-Bans and this ridiculous hair. Still a fatty. He looked like Joe Belushi. With a wig. I thought the only thing missing was a T-shirt that said, Look at me. Im a real chick magnet. Not.

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If the eyes are windows to the soul, then Ponchos are bay windows. Large, wide and glassy. They are essentially brown, with flakes of auburn around the rims. It isnt hard to notice them, especially when he makes the face. Yeah, the face. A really stupid thing he does with his eyes and his little nose. That small, crinkly nose. Some of the girls find it cute. I think, if ET and a warthog were to have an offspring, that would be it. That, meaning Poncho.

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He has the puffiest arms. And legs. His belly is rotund, and his booby chest has the weirdest kind of hair distribution Ive ever seen. Its as if some crazy arsonist went on some mucked up fire trapping session over his body hair. If that description even makes any sense, that is. Yeah, its really that strange. And his belly button reminds me of the Pit of Doom. Only deadlier. And full of lint.

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Poncho has a microscopic penis and a single testicle. And yes, he used to change in the boys locker room sans towel. Always. A kid named Jeffrey had gone up to him one day and said, Wear a towel, lardhead. Your jewels are on display, and its grossing us out! Poncho smiled defiantly and replied, Hmph! You dont have to look now, do ya?

The next thing I remember was Jeffreys foot in Ponchos groin.

Fortunately for Poncho, he had just one ball. And Jeffreys foot skewed a little to the opposite side. Lucky bastard, that Poncho.

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Poncho is my friend. Today is his twenty third birthday. And Im having him over for dinner.

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Two

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It takes a long time to grow an old friend.

?????????????????????????????????????? John Leonard

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During the years that I got to know him, Poncho turned out to be not only a great friend, but a wonderful person. That he has a big heart, there is no doubt. A very large heart. I can almost imagine the goodness being pumped through his fat-laden arteries and clogged veins. I wonder at times if he ever intends on losing weight, getting fit. All he does is eat. Eat and eat. He says junk food is his weakness. I believe its not the food thats his weakness, but the lack of will to conform. The strength to change.

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Poncho has me in debt. All the times he saved my ass during term examinations, those days when I borrowed half his monthly allowance just so that I could take Rita or whats-her-name to the movies. The times he would lie to my dad, that day I got busted on campus for smoking pot, or that evening the guard caught me breaking into the Deans office. He is always there. My right hand man. Poncho, my Man Friday.

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I look back at the days when we used to fight. Over sports. Over girls. Over beer tabs. It always brings a smile to my face.

The day I totaled his car, the same day I remember him crying by the hospital bed praying for my recovery. Even in my sedated state I could hear him speak. How he begged God, or some supreme power to deliver me back to him. To our friendship.

And then how, two months following the accident, he kicked me in the nuts for wrecking his ride.

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Poncho says he wants to become a surgeon. A bariatric surgeon. I find that ironical. The humour in seeing one fatso cut open another always seems to crack me up. Human nature, they say, has a way with things. Paradoxical, or maybe, just plain strange.

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Its almost time. He should be here any minute now. I better prepare the table. And get the cutlery. Happy Birthday, dearest Poncho!

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Three

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True friends stab you in the front.

????????????????????????????? Oscar Wilde

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Here we are. Im sitting across the table watching him, but Poncho does not seem to be liking his meal. Hes not even touched his food. I guess thats probably because hes dead. I might have snapped his neck. His pudgy neck.

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Im staring at his body. Ive arranged him neatly on the table, stripped down to the nude, so that I can absorb all of him. His essence. It all comes back to me, the hair, the eyes, his pendulous abdomen, his tiny genitalia......his refusal to conform.......the weakness to change.

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His arms dont look that plump anymore. Thats probably because once the meat simmers in the saucepan, and the oils and spices marinate within, it shrinks to half its size. I take a taste. Delicious!

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While the meat cooks, I prepare for the main course. Im staring over his large abdomen, contemplating, pondering, deciding. My next incision. I mark it out, it has got to be precise. The steak knife in my hand has been sharpened. As it goes in, slicing through the softness, I glance to my right. The full-length mirror reflects a scene that makes me chuckle. I see myself. A boy in his twenties, weighing over 90 kilos, holding a steak knife, gutting his friend. I think, A fatso cutting open a fatso.

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And I laugh.

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Tonights special, ladies and gents, is a creole liver served with hot rice! And it tastes absolutely delicious, if I do say so myself. I think I shall enjoy it with a fine chardonnay.

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Cannibal, n?A gastronome of the old school who preserves the simple tastes and adheres to the natural diet of the pre-pork period.

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The End


(20 November, 2011)


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2 comments

Vikas Kakk..

04 Feb 2014
.., wrote:
good one

grow talle..

26 Jun 2014
grow talle.., wrote: Hi colleagues, how is everything, and what you desire to say on the topic of this piece of writing, in my view its really awesome designed for me.

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