Stuff... More stuff... Get more stuff... Good stuff...
It was dark outside, safe to leave now. He squeezed his great bulk down the hallway and out the front door, sniffing the air. A curtain of greasy hair flopped in front of his eyes and he pushed it back with an enormous fat hand, smearing a shiny yellow streak across his face from a burst pustule on his cheek.
He smiled. He was going out to find stuff.
More stuff.
All he had ever really been interested in was stuff. Things. Gadgets. Toys. Gizmos. His tiny basement apartment had always been full of it. Days and nights he had spent down there on his computer- TV on, music blaring, playing games: playing and playing and playing until he lost all track of time. He had been so happy down there, surrounded by his stuff, his shelves of DVDs, CDs, old vinyl, comics, Star Wars figures, manga figures, Star Trek collectibles, books and magazines, take-out food cartons, toy robots, keyboards and amps and screens... Nothing ever chucked away. Old computers piled in corners, mobile phones, cameras, tangled piles of cords and plugs...
Stuff. A life of stuff.
Eventually he had made holes in the walls, burrowed out of his flat, taken over the basements on either side, and when they were full, he had moved upward, floor by floor, filling the building fuller with stuff.
And now he was off out to find more stuff. It was so easy. Everything was just lying around waiting for him to come and pick it up. He held a sturdy shopping bag in each meaty hand, though he didn't think he'd need them tonight. Tonight he was looking for toys. His last toys were broken beyond repair. They'd stopped moving, stopped entertaining him with their jerky actions. Stopped making their funny noises. What use were toys if you couldn't play games with them anymore?
When they no longer worked, he simply ate them.
Collecting stuff and eating, that was all he did now. When his toys broke, he would sit on his sofa and stare at the blank screens of his TVs, waiting for the night to fall. Sometimes he would sit at his computer, tapping away at the keyboard, some deep memory stirring inside him. For hours on end. Tap, tap, tapping. Making a strange kind of music.
But now he had a purpose.
He waddled slowly down the road, taking great care with each step. There was enough light from the thin moon and distant stars to pick his way along. He didn't mind the dark. In truth he had always been nocturnal, sitting with the curtains drawn, no interest in sunlight or fresh air or other people.
