Diabetes – Paranoia #1191

Posted on April 12, 2011


They are at the door again, the Body Guard says.

The Gingerbread Man sees their fingers wiggling beneath the door frame.

My god, the Gingerbread Man says. Don’t they have mothers? Why didn’t their mothers teach them not to do this! Why didn’t they teach them to be patient and let me live my brief life.

They have mothers, the Body Guard says. The Body Guard brushes a hand against the Gingerbread Man’s shoulder, which is awkward but tolerable given that he is the Body Guard.  They have mothers and fathers, says the Body Guard, and senators and saints, but what they want is gingerbread in their bellies.

The Gingerbread Man says, well I don’t care! I want time to think about life. I’ve been alive for two hours. That’s not even enough time to contemplate the aesthetics of this room. Why do you people build everything in the shape of boxes anyhow?

Boxes are easy to move and throw away, says the Body Guard. Like trash, and folding chairs, and baked goods.  The Body Guard’s stomach grumbles.

What was that, says the Gingerbread Man.

Nothing, says the Bodyguard. I skipped lunch. Say, says the Body Guard. Well, no. I couldn’t.

What, says the Gingerbread Man. What are you trying to say?

Well, do you think I could have a toe? I’ve been doing a great job, the Body Guard says. I could use a snack. They’re going to eat you anyway.

No, the Gingerbread Man says. You may not have a toe.

The Body Guard’s face grows dark. They are going to devour you, he says. They are going to rip your arms off and dunk them in milk. They are going to eat around your belly button and suck out your candy eyeballs.

Shut up, the Gingerbread Man says. Shut your fat face!

The Body Guard wraps thick fingers around the Gingerbread Man’s throat. Stop that, the Gingerbread Man cries. Stop it now!

They struggle to the floor.  The Body Guard puts the Gingerbread Man in a headlock. As the Gingerbread Man begins to lose consciousness, before he even really knows what it is to be conscious, he sees those wiggling fingers beneath the door. What disappointed fingers they will be, he thinks, to find nothing left after this fat ass eats every last limb.

The Body Guard ignores the advice of numerous doctors and eats every crumb. Delicious, he says. Weeks later he loses a foot to type II diabetes.