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05:11 pm - Death of a Couch Potato

I should have known They'd find me eventually.



Clearly They had realized I was around here somewhere. It's getting harder and harder to find the last remaining caches of edible food - breaking into 7-11s for Twinkies, mostly, and those turbo-dogs that can be microwaved. All the fast-food joints have been torn down, or converted into serving to Their tastes. *shudder* I miss a good old-fashioned hamburger. What They call a "burger" is beyond horrifying.



They are mostly active during the day, so I move about at night. Well before the sun comes up, I'm holed back up in my basement, quietly watching DVDs of The Simpsons behind my double-barred door. There's nothing on TV anymore except Their "educational" material. It all blurs together after a while, bland and humorless, numbers and words and facts without life. What good is filling your brain at the cost of your soul?



It was just a matter of time before They decided to do something about me.



They're already used to being up at the first grey light - the ones that jog at least. But I'd noticed the last couple of weeks that there were occasional groups of Them, out even earlier and not so much jogging as just… patrolling… in that awkward-looking double-time that keeps circulation up even if you're not in full aerobic cardio burn. Sweeping the neighborhood with flashlights. In their Nikes. Listening to their Pods.



I stepped up my own scavenging activities to prepare for a relocation. I've had to move before. I used to live with my girlfriend, but They got to her and I had to escape before she brought Them to come get me as well. Last I saw of her, she was wearing pink sweats, her hair pulled back with a band, drinking f'ing wheatgrass juice. The healthy sheen of sweat on her skin made me want to vomit. How can anyone live like that?



I'd rather die than find out, if I have the choice.



But it's not to be: As I'm stuffing the last of my Cheetos - maybe the last Cheetos anywhere - into the rucksack, I hear an ominous shuffling all around upstairs, the sound that only the high-grip rubber soles of quality cross-trainers can make. They're at the top of the stairs, so I dash for the little storm window, tear down the board, pull it open. But it's up high, hard for me to climb to, and harder for me to squeeze through.



They burst into the basement behind me, howling. "Grab his fat ass!" Their well-manicured nails clutch at my feet. I kick Them away and pull the rest of the way through the window, up into the yard. I can hear more just over the fence, out front, so I rush to the back of the yard where the loose boards are. I can get through that space pretty quickly still. It's big enough. I made it big enough for just this reason.



But when I reach the street, as the sun breaks over the hills, I see that They're everywhere.



I run and run and run as hard and as fast as I can, but there is no way: They do a 5K every morning like clockwork and I'm huffing and puffing after a hundred yards. They fall on me and lift me easily up over Their heads with arms that can do pushups for an hour straight. I struggle as best I can, but a minute They have plunked me down in front of a particularly lean and healthy looking woman dressed like a coach.



"I can sssssssmell the cholesssssssterol in your blood," she hisses. Then, with a wave to my captors: "Take him to eat sssssssomething healthy. Then... get him ssssome exerccccccisssssse." I scream all the way to the FoodShack at the corner, where they pin me down in a counter seat and hold my mouth open to force a "burger" in: No bread. Lettuce instead. No beef, just soy. I gag at first. "Stop fighting," a voice whispers in my ear. I begin to sob.



But then there's a swallow and something terrible happens in my body and the next bite goes down easier.



I can't see through my weeping. The burger is followed by a fruit smoothie with extra vitamins. They are clutching at my feet; my trusty old combat boots are replaced by a nice new pair of running shoes. No, god no, anything but this. Please let me have just one last cup of coffee. Where are they taking me? We're in a building, Their hands set me down somewhere, in a seat of some kind - a chair to be tortured in. God no, anything but this: it's a recumbent exercise bike.



My legs begin pumping at the pedals, slowly at first but then harder and more insistently, refusing to obey as I beg them to stop.



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For consideration: why yes I am still working out regularly why do you ask