Desktop Diaries: Chapter One
Pulling up outside the house, something seemed off right away. Mark had been to his fair share of parties through the years, for business and pleasure, but he’d never delivered to one this…dead? The street was so quiet you could hear a pin drop: no cars pulled up outside, no partygoers drunkenly dancing on the pavement, no strobes, no EDM – just complete silence. But yeah, this was definitely the address. Maybe this guy’s friends were the quiet type? Cosy Saturday in sort of situation?
But as he picked up the bags even that explanation seemed dubious – one, two…nine pizzas? That’s like twenty people, he should be able to see at least one through the window. He fumbled around for the receipt again to make sure there wasn’t a mistake, but no: nine meat lovers pizzas to be delivered to this address, extra pepperoni. He paused – nine of the same kind of pizza…oh, this was a fake order wasn’t it? Mark cursed quietly to himself: he’d never been duped on the phone before, but the guy sounded so genuine! Almost too genuine, like...like it was something he’d rehearsed over and over again…ah.
Quickly glancing over his shoulders, he hoisted both bags and hurried toward the front door: either this was a prank or he was about to be the inciting incident in a teen slasher, and one way or the other this was not an experience he desperately wanted to prolong. Keeping a watchful eye out for cloaked figures in Scream masks or, heaven forfend, vloggers, he knocked sharply and assumed a defensive stance, prepared for his life to flash before his eyes one way or the other.
Instead, as the door swung open, all he saw was a flash of belly before it was swiftly concealed by a hand tugging down a hopelessly overburdened T-shirt. Mark almost stumbled, caught off guard by the juxtaposition, before he glanced up swiftly to see who the hand, the shirt and the stomach belonged to.
The man in front of him was strikingly tall, at least a head over Mark, with piercing green eyes and a mane of auburn hair that framed his face with a thick beard. His muscular arms were well-suited to his strong frame, and Mark could easily imagine him carved into some Ancient Greek frieze or pediment commemorating tales of his heroism. In another life maybe. Truth be told, none of those things were the first thing that struck Mark about him. That honour went to his colossal belly, and if this guy could have been a Greek god, that thing would definitely be a mythical beast unto itself. It bowed out in front of him, like a beach ball in shape and tautness, peering out treacherously over his straining waistband. His pecs, soft and round, perched comfortably on the shelf of his stomach, kept in place by the best efforts of his shirt. In fact, Mark wondered, maybe he wasn't just athletic 'in another life' at all: his clothes were evidently a workout ensemble, suited to compliment a defined frame, now on the verge of total collapse. His shirt stubbornly refused to conceal the expanse of his belly, forced into temporary compliance by repeated downward tugs, and the combined forced of his waist, thighs, globular rear and, um...endowment, pushed the gym shorts to the brink of explosion. Mark stared in awe at this behemoth, marvelling at every fascinating contradiciton of his form.
Stared, indeed, for a beat too long. As much as Mark had hoped to lead with some witty or charming remark, he caught himself just silently making eye contact with this guy, mouth slightly agape, cheeks marginally redder with each passing, eternal second. The man raised an eyebrow as Mark desperately searched for something to say: something clever, something to diffuse the tension, honestly anything at all at this point, before he panickingly settled on
'Woah...'
The man furrowed his brow as Mark did his best retracting turtle impression, silently cursing his uniform's lack of collar, before asking,
'Hey...um...you good?'
'YES sorry...uh, so sorry, I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding on our part. Someone ordered some pizzas to your address, y'know, neighbourhood kids being little sh-'
The man's puzzled look had quickly turned to excitement as he interjected,
'Oh no, yeah, those are mine. We spoke on the phone.'
Mark tilted his head.
'You ordered these pizzas?'
'Yes.'
'...You ordered nine meatlovers extra pepperoni pizzas?'
'...Yes.'
'...for like some friends? Or a party or like...a gala?'
'No...just for me. If that's OK with you, Mr Pizza Delivery Man,' he winked, stretching his arms and allowing his shirt to ride up and over his belly up to his pecs.
Mark composed himself, taking in the full breadth of the man in front of him.
'Yeah, no, that checks out. I mean, uh, that's cool. That'll be $179.91, optional gratuity. Cash or card?'
The man smiled, looking Mark up and down as Mark desperately struggled to keep his eyes on the guy's face, fighting the temptation to look down at his enormous gut.
'Why don't you come in? I'm never able to finish this much by myself in one sitting, and I could use a chat. How's that for gratuity?'
Mark doubted the first claim, but he was eager to see where the second went. He checked his watch: 11:00 - he was officially off the clock. He allowed himself a second to take in the man's bulging torso as he went back to meet his eyes, feeling his knees quiver as he did so, before he flashed a smile:
'Yeah, that sounds great. I'm starving.'
The man chuckled, a deep, sonorous sound:
'Hi starving, my name's Alex. Come on in.'
Mark rubbed his neck, the blush spreading to cover his whole face:
'With pleasure.'
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