Ad Nauseam - By C. W. LaSart Page 0,78

In fact, it was a full moon when the riot happened, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

“So we were used to gross things. Nutcases crapping on the floor, and then finger painting with it. Or jumping on their beds, playing with themselves like monkeys at the zoo, but it was nothing compared to Frankie. Not that Frankie could’ve played with himself . Even if he could’ve reached for it, there was no way he could find it. I know because we went looking for it one day while we were cleaning him. Damn thing was so buried in the pad of fat covering his groin it looks more like a belly button than a pecker.

“We were used to the crazy stuff and as used to the gross stuff as we could be, but nothing we had dealt with could’ve prepared us for Frankie.

“This was a long time ago before prisoners had much in the way of rights, and we were overpopulated and under-staffed. There weren’t enough nurses to go around, so much of the day- to-day care fell to us guards. We were the ones who got stuck with making sure they got clean and didn’t allow their wounds to fester. It wasn’t such a big deal with most of them, a crazy man can take a shower and wash his own ass if you watch and remind him.

“But Frankie couldn’t do anything for himself. Every few days we had to bathe him, a chore that took up to two hours and two guards. One of us would have to lift each fold of heavy flesh, while the other scrubbed out the cheesy accumulations of sweat that had collected and doused the area with baby powder to prevent chafing. If I live to a hundred, I don’t think I will ever forget that smell. One time a bit of food got lost in all that fat and by the time we found it, maggots were teaming in the dark moistness. It was awful, but we did it just the same.

“Then there was the problem of the toilet. He couldn’t walk, so he couldn’t use one. That didn’t bother Frankie one bit, though. He just did his business where he lay, not even trying to help us when we rolled him from side to side to change the bedding and wipe his huge ass. Sometimes he would hold it, waiting until one of us held up the massive apron of flesh that hung between his legs, and whizzing on the guard who was unlucky enough to have to wipe inside his folds. Whizzed right in my face one time and oh, how that big bastard laughed. Now, I’m not a violent man, but I sure could’ve killed him that day.

“Anyway, Frankie’s legs were so fat, he had to keep them spread all the time, and he had these big, purple patches of growths on the calves. The skin there was as rough and pebbled as an old cobblestone path, splitting open and weeping a thick yellow fluid that constantly had to be wiped away. I know it pained him, but I couldn’t bring myself to care too much. Not after he pissed in my face, anyway.

“Twice a day we would wipe the slime off, wash the crusty edges of the growths, and smear a thick salve over the entire area. Was kind of like rubbing Vaseline on a gator. Just touching his legs made my stomach churn. I came to hate Frankie like I’ve never hated anyone in my life. When the other inmates misbehaved, we shot them up with drugs or put them in solitary. But there wasn’t much we could do to Frankie. We had to take care of him.

“The guards weren’t the only ones who hated him. He wasn’t there a day before the other inmates wanted him dead. It wasn’t his disgusting nature that offended them. It was the noise. We had our fair share of wailers there, and the nights were few and far between when you couldn’t hear the echo of someone sobbing himself to sleep or calling for his mother.

“But once again, Frankie was different. From the time he was secured in his cell that first day, he bellowed. Morning, noon and night it went on. I’m starving! Feed me! Good God, I’m wasting away! Where’s my food? And so on. You could hear it no matter where you went, the cell block, the showers, even in the kitchen. The men we kept weren’t