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5 o' clock. Off went the alarm. The sun was rising, the roosters were crowing... and it was a Monday morning.

"Awww, fuck!", said a hoarse voice. He didn't get up. Rather, he smashed his alarm clock with his fist. Not a strong, muscular fist, or a big boned fist, but a fat one. A very... very fat one.

8 o' clock came. The sun was up, as it had been for awhile. The roosters were off eating some feed or worms somewhere, probably. And it was absolutely, positively, still Monday morning. The 20 year old man got up... or tried to, anyway. It was a struggle. A few minutes passed, and after some tossing and turning, and rolling onto his side, the man had sat up. He lowered his head the little that his exaggeratedly overweight body would allow him to. A pudgy, pudgy hand wrapped the poor, young, tortured soul's face.

"God damnit. I'm always going to be a blubber ball, if I don't do something fast."

Jared Fogle got up. He didn't use a chair... at least not yet. He could still walk to the bathroom on his own, even if he was used to the creaking of the tile floor. His sweatpants were pretty tight, but it was such a struggle for him to change clothes that he just wore the same pair for weeks. He made it into the bathroom and stepped on his scale. He looked down, even though he could barely see the tips of his feet.

'576 pounds', the scale read.

He didn't know how things got so bad; he just knew that they were. He was stressed out. He had a rough family life, he didn't have much in the bank, he didn't have much in the way of friends or hobbies... he felt lost, alone, yet somehow isolated in this overly populated world of ours.

"6 billion people, and I'm a lonely, lonely fatty." Jared sighed to himself.

Jared reminisced about his high school days, trying to gather a thought or a distant memory that could remind him why he bothered to roll on his side and struggle out of bed every morning. He remembered days in which he tried to play kickball with the boys. They wouldn't have him, so he joined the girls' squad. They thought he looked like a monster, so they always told him he could go to the plate last. Yet, by the time it was his turn, another girl would step up to the plate... and he'd just sigh, and bite into a snickers bar or a big mac.

By senior year, Jared was morbidly depressed. He tried snorting cocaine. but even that didn't help him lose weight. He was sure his heart was speeding up, but it was like his heart was lost underneath his enormous girth.

Well, whatever. He made himself breakfast. 15 scrambled eggs, 25 slices of toast, a tub and a half of butter, 17 packages of bacon, 8 2-liter bottles of coca cola--there were other things, but he was eating so much that he wasn't really keeping track.

He thought about the times that he asked girls out. "Hey, we have a lot in common.", he'd begin. "You like the color red, and I like the color blue." They'd refuse him. At first, it'd be "I already have plans", but after awhile, it was, "I'm hot. You're fat. Beauty is skin deep. Get over it, Fogle."

Jared lit up a cigarette, or, a 'faggot', as he called them. That didn't help him among the people who were sensitive enough to care about him. He huffed, and his walls continued to yellow, as he sighed to himself as usual. Then he reached into his XXXXXXXXL pocket, fiddled around... and found his cell phone. His extra large cell phone, because his fingers were too fat to dial a regular old cell phone's buttons.

There was one number on his phone. One he hadn't called before. It took him a few minutes to remember how he even got the damned thing in the first place, even though it didn't happen very long ago. He remembered previous attempts at getting numbers. Scribbling some numbers down at a Dunkin Donuts, after he asked a few girls out. The paper got a little soggy, sitting underneath the 44 donuts he ordered for lunch. Later that night, when he started making calls... all he heard on the other end were soundboards of characters from Home Improvement, Seinfeld, Garfield...

"I hate Mondays." He sighed again.

"44."

"Colt. .44 Magnum."

After a minute and a half of suicidal thoughts, he actually had a moment of enlightenment. That lonely, lonely Sunday night... last night, actually. He wandered to 7-11 for a mountain dew slurpee and several boxes of mini-tacos, when he saw a guy standing near where they used to keep the payphone. It was barely lit, but he could still make out all the white in the guy's face. And that twisted fucking grin.

"Hello, my friend.", the mysterious friend greeted him.

"Who the fuck are you?", Jared responded.

"A friend. A mysterious friend. Listen, your weight problem..."

"Thanks for noticing, grandmom!"

"No, no, uh, seriously. A diet ain't gonna help you. But I know what will."

Jared paused, skepticism clouding any agreeable thoughts he might have had. Could this unknown figure really carry the answers to all of his life's problems? Whether he did or didn't, though... the nature of his thoughts changed. He began to realize that it couldn't hurt to try.

"Okay. Spill the beans.", he eventually brought himself to utter.

"Ha, a food reference. Anyway, have you ever heard that joke about having your head cut off to lose 20 pounds of ugly fat?"

"That's not funny. I'm leaving, you douchebag faced loser!"

"Well, hey... I don't really recommend cutting off your head, or anything! I, I have another plan! Here's my number, and if you're interested... call it sometime!"

The mysterious man with the twisted grin and powder white face slipped a piece of paper into Jared's extra large pocket. With those few words, he went up, and left him... and Jared was alone again. He decided he didn't wanna stick around at this point, so he went to KFC and ordered 7 buckets of fried chicken, colonel's choice.

So, it was Monday morning now. Jared lived off of government aid. He didn't have a job or anything. Knowing that depressed him even more. He felt like he was a leech on society, the way he used to leech off of his mom. That was before his mom called him a fat fucking parasite and nothing but a mouth with an anus, and kicked him out of the house. "Oh, mother. Ohhh... mother."

Jared's pudgy fingertips reached down onto his cell phone's virtual keys. He called up the mysterious man. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this. This guy better not kill me and harvest my organs." One ring became a few, and then became several... and then became a voice mail.

"Hey, this is, uh, Mr. K. I'm away from the phone right now, doing my business and stuff. Uhm, as long as I'm not asleep or anything, I'll get back to you really, really shortly. Yeah. Leave a message. Peace and bleach."

What an awkward voicemail! Regardless, Jared left a short, passive-aggressive message, in which he asked 'Mr. K' quote-unquote why he gave him his damned number in the first place if he wasn't going to pick up his frigging phone.

After two or three minutes of the daily silence he was accustomed to labeling his life, he heard the South Park theme song, which was his ringtone. He picked up the call.

"Where the fuck have you been!?", Jared shouted, spitting all over the phone.

"Dude, calm your ass DOWN! It's Monday morning! I do my best business this time of week! I put on a killing--whatever, that can wait. Listen, you know that rundown place by the railroad tracks? Meet me there, alright? Alright."

All that came from Mr. K's end after that was a click. Jared hung up the phone, agitated.

Well, whatever. Jared rarely changed his clothes, and he wasn't going to do such a great formality for some guy he'd only met once, and in a flash. He picked up his keys, state ID, and McDonald's credit card, and he made his way out the door. Funny, though... how did Mr. K know that Jared knew about the railroad tracks, and the rundown house kinda near them in the woods? Well, whatever. Jared went for his first long walk in weeks--in fact, other than food store trips, it was the first time that he left the house all Summer.

As he made it to the tracks, he noticed a spray painted image of Barbie's face, from the Mattel doll line series. "If only I was that perfect. Sometimes, I wish I was born a woman." He sighed to himself. He went into the woods, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. Squirrels, trees, all that usual stuff. The Barbie face image was burnt into his memory, though--disturbing him, even--but he went on ahead. The only things he noticed that broke his train of thought were a broken piece of plywood and a trail of it that seemed to lead off to some densely forested place he'd never been to before. He wasn't in the mood to explore, and he knew that if he did, his body would hate him. It didn't take too long before he found a lonely patch of grass, and then--there it was! The house!

It looked like no one had lived there in decades. A rusty metal toolshed neighbored it, but Jared paid it no mind. He was no longer fixated on the image, but on the potential answer to his weight problem.

"So, do I go into the house...", he thought to himself.

"Come on in!", hollered a familiar voice. It was Mr. K! Well, that solved that dilemma. The front door was already opened, so all Jared had to do was walk in. He was greeted by an empty room--no furniture, other than a tiny coffee table and two chairs. There was a lot of wood, rubble, and bricks on the floor, but that didn't seem very relevant to Jared's situation. That, and what was more alarming was that the walls were full of gaping holes, as if a gangfight had broken out in there 20 years ago.

"Ehr... Mr. K..."

"Ah, my hefty, hefty friend. I'm not one for formalities, you see. Heck, I don't even ask my patients for their names; I'm just here to help, y'know. I don't charge, I keep the questions to a minimum. ... Would you like some tea?"

Mr. K poured Jared some warm earl gray tea. Jared thanked the mysterious man. The pure whiteness of the man's skin, and his distorted grin freaked him out a little bit. Jared ultimately decided not to ask anything. He figured the man was a goth, who maybe did self harm to himself when he was in high school, or something.

"You know, though... there are worse things to be than fat. I can help you, and I will. I really, really want to help you. But... there are worse things than being fat."

"Such as?"

"Well... being dead, for one. You see, I've had a lot of patients who... let's just say, things didn't work out. I tried to help them, but... I had urges of my own, and it... it just didn't work out. Anyway, are you enjoying your tea?"

In a moment of panic, Jared tossed aside his cup. He was too obese to run without wheezing, but he tried to walk really fast. He made way for the door, but all of a sudden... he felt faint. And he fell to a knee. And then he fell... on the floor.

Mr. K towered over Jared. He waved his hand around, and he giggled.

"Sex changes... I've done many of those before. Assisted suicides... yeah. Murder... hey, I told you I wasn't perfect. But you... you have no reason to fear. I've done plenty of liposuctions before, and I've never had a freak out moment during even one of those operations! At least not yet."

Jared began to cry. He was too exhausted to run. He had clearly been drugged. His lifestyle was about to determine the style of his death... he was resigned to thinking.

"I told you, relax! You're not gonna die! I'm here to help you! You'll be asleep in a minute when the stuff I put in the tea really kicks in. Now, I'm going to get my tools from the shed, and then we'll get started. Oh... the stories you'll be able to tell, about this epic, historical weight loss of yours... I won't take any credit for it. I just need something to cut. With my tools. And by that, I mean... my knife."

Mr. K lifted the hood off his hoodie. The bulging eyes. Oh God...

"Relax. Hush little big man. Just... go to sleep"

The End.
CREEPYPASTA How (Subway's) Jared Really Lost the Weight15:32

CREEPYPASTA How (Subway's) Jared Really Lost the Weight.

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