“Hey, Fuckmeat!” the voice called out, and Ralph stopped short in the mall and turned around, startled, to find a loose cluster of young hooligans in a small alley between stores leering at his chubby body stuffed into his mall cop uniform.

“What the fuck did you just call me?” Ralph said, stalking over to them, angry. He was, and always had been, a hothead about his size, and he wasn’t about to let a bunch of punks get away with a bunch of fat jokes.

“I called you Fuckmeat,” the ringleader said, stepping forward as Ralph can closer, and as the guard came close, he found himself looking into the young man’s eyes, and they were so captivating, he couldn’t quite look away for a few moments. He slowed down and came to a stop a foot in front of the thug, the two of them just staring at each other for a few moments before the guard jostled himself and managed to look away.

“What…what the fuck was that?”

“What was what, Fuckmeat?”

“Don’t…don’t call me that. My name’s not Fuckmeat.”

“Sure it is, you don’t have another name anyway, do you? Go on–tell me your name, and if it’s not Fuckmeat, we’ll leave you alone.”

“My name is…” the guard said, but his head was coming up empty. He knew he was supposed to have a name, something his parents had given him, but his eyes widened as the thug made contact with his eyes again, and the answer rolled off his tongue, “Fuckmeat. My name’s Fuckmeat.”

“Sure is,” the young man said, not allowing the guard to break his gaze this time, drilling in deeper, watching the tent form in the front of the older, fat man’s pants as his eyes turned glassy, his thoughts turning to how much he wanted to be fucked, how he wanted to be used, how he was just a worthless dump, a sack of meat for other men to use, and he followed the gang out of the mall, never to return.