Chubcheckers

Lunch at The King’s Whistle had become sacred ritual for Arthur and Norman—an unspoken covenant neither dared challenge. Every other Wednesday at precisely twelve thirty, the two septuagenarians settled into the corner of the wood-paneled dining room, where sunlight slanted through stained-glass windows and warmed the worn leather banquettes. For more than ten years, Arthur always ordered the steak and ale pie, its crust flaky and rich, and Norman insisted on fish and chips, the golden fish still crackling beneath a cloud of salt. Over mugs of bitter ale and steaming cups of tea, they traded barbs with the ease of old friends: affectionate, ritualistic, comforting. This Wednesday, though, the familiar crackle of the fireplace and the low murmur of other patrons did nothing to steady Arthur’s nerves when Norman set down his fork halfway through a spoonful of mushy peas and announced, in a tone far too jaunty for the subject, “I’ve started an OnlyFans account.” Arthur lifted his spectacl...

The first thing Reg felt was cold moss against his back. Then the ache in his thighs—thick, powerful legs that had carried him through decades of raves and boardrooms alike, now stiff from exertion. Then the weight on his chest—his own broad, barrel-like torso, still strong but softened by years of rich meals and too many pints. His skin was flushed, his thick fingers twitching slightly as if still chasing the rhythm of the night before. The trees above swayed in the thin morning light, branches blurring into gold-green halos, as though the forest itself hadn’t yet sobered. The bass was still there, just barely—a low, primal throb carried across the air in waves, as if the earth itself were remembering the night better than he could. He blinked. His mouth was dry, his teeth slightly sore from clenching—a habit he’d never shaken, whether from stress or suppressed desire. Dried mud flaked from his arm as he lifted it, shielding his eyes. A few feet away, a string of LED lights blinked fr...

Professor Herbert Periwinkle had never meant to set foot in The Crooked Antler. Its name alone evoked raucous laughter and sticky floors—the exact opposite of his quiet lecture halls and the soothing scent of old tomes. But when the rain began in earnest, he found himself clutching his drenched trench coat and slipping inside, seeking refuge from the storm. The air was thick with the smell of sour beer and something vaguely like a sweaty gym bag, lit by a handful of flickering bulbs that seemed ready to burn out. He hesitated at the threshold, ready to turn back, when a familiar silhouette in the gloom caught his eye. Bobby Hamilton. The Hammer. The university’s golden-voiced quarterback, all chiseled jaw and broad shoulders, adored by cheering crowds and envied by students—and, discreetly, by some faculty. Yet here he sat, alone against a faux-brick wall in the corner, half-lit by a buzzing neon beer sign. His varsity jacket hung open; his massive frame sagged inward. He cradled a hal...