The Donut Diaries (18 page)

The venue was the administration block, where I’d signed in on my first day at Camp Fatso. We were met at the door by a couple of Lardies: hard-faced blimps, smartly dressed in tuxedos and bow-ties, who’d rather crack your head than a smile.

‘What’s the vole doing here?’ said one, shoving Renfrew in the chest.

‘He’s my second.’

‘Your what?’

‘You know, like in a duel – the guy who helps the main guy.’

A grunt and we were in. The bouncers led us past the reception desk, through the room beyond it, out another door, and down a stairway. One of the blimps opened a final double door, and suddenly I was confronted with a space full of light and noise. There were seats banked up around a central area, in which I stood. It was the size of a boxing ring. This probably isn’t the time to bring this up, but why do they call it a boxing ring when it’s square? Anyway, this space actually
was
round. Or rather, it was an oval. It all
reminded
me of the Colosseum, where gladiators and animals fought in Rome. And that was pretty well what this place was about too.

The seats were full. Goons and Lardies, and other people I didn’t recognize. Receding chins and braying laughs. Badwig was there, and Boss Skinner, with Gustav on his lap. The loathsome Hercule Paine, looking more like Jabba the Hutt than ever, gave a little tinkling wave with his fingertips.

But pride of place was reserved for the gaunt, sneering figure of Doc Morlock. She was wearing a black gown with a high collar, and looked like a science fiction version of Queen Elizabeth I, crossed with an evil Roman emperor, crossed with a cat’s bottom. She was on a sort of throne, and was surrounded by a bodyguard of Lardies.

There was no sign of Mr Fricker, but I didn’t have the time or the headspace to work out why. I gave Renfrew a little nod, and he shrank back beyond the inner doorway.

Waiting for me in the ring was Demetrius the Destroyer. He was wearing a wrestler’s leotard, in a very stretchy fabric – obviously this was his donut-eating costume. And there, piled up before us, on platters, were the donuts.

Fifty each.

The joy! No, this was beyond joy. It was cosmic. It was the greatest love story in history. It was the coming together of two things that have been searching for each other for all eternity: Dermot Milligan and a platter of fifty donuts.

And I was pleased to see that they were of the plain kind, with just a dusting of icing sugar. There was also a glass of water for each of us, which was considerate.

And vital, for my plan.

Demetrius pointed one massive stubby finger first at me, and then at his mouth. I think he was saying that once he’d eaten the donuts, then he’d eat me. Frankly, I thought he was bluffing, but you never knew with the Lardies.

A trumpet fanfare played, and then Doc Morlock stood.

‘I’d like to welcome you all,’ she began graciously, ‘members of Camp Fatso, family, friends and supporters, to our end-of-camp celebration. We will begin with the traditional donut-eating contest. The rules, for those of you who have not been here before, are simple. The first of these two noble warriors to consume fifty donuts will be declared the champion. Vomiting, fainting, or death from overeating will result in
the
disqualification of the competitor. Needless to say, the donuts have been prepared using my own virtually fat-free, low-calorie donut mix, which includes ground mung beans and go-go berries, available at all good supermarkets as part of my Dr Morlock range of healthy eating produce.’

Hang on,
healthy
donuts? That was wrong, so wrong. And yet they still looked like donuts, real donuts. Perhaps they’d be OK.

Doc Morlock peered down at me and my mountainous opponent. ‘Are you ready?’

The Destroyer and I faced her, and spoke the ancient and noble words:

‘We who are about to eat salute you.’

Then Doc Morlock held up a silk scarf. Silence descended. She let the scarf drop. And so began the mightiest donut-eating challenge of
my
life. Heck, of any life.

Hercule Paine had told me that it had to look like a close-run thing, and I knew at once that matching Demetrius the Destroyer was going to be tricky. I could tell straight away that he was a canny donut eater.

An amateur would have gone off at full speed, cramming the round portions of heaven into his mouth faster than his chops could chew. Result: a serious choking situation. And even if you could get it all down, there was a chance of filling up too quickly. No, the secret of the donut marathon was taking it nice and steady. And that’s what Demetrius was doing.

His hand moved slowly but surely, backwards and forwards from the donut platter; three bites and each donut was history, and the process would begin again. No rush, no hurry, just
world-class
donut eating.

However, you have to remember that I had been on a starvation diet for nearly two weeks. So, even though I knew that I should copy the Destroyer’s style, I just couldn’t. Like a rank beginner, I stuffed the first one straight into my mouth. I didn’t even bother to bite: the whole thing went in. In all the pomp and pageantry of the occasion I’d forgotten that these were supposedly healthy donuts. So it was a bit of a shock when it was actually in my mouth and, rather than the meltingly lovely sugary explosion of mouth-bliss, I got a bland ball of stodge, with a faint aftertaste of bean. But it was still the best thing I’d eaten in a long time. And, when all’s said and done, a donut is a donut is a donut, and I was put on this good earth to eat them.

Soon I had got through ten. Demetrius was
on
eight. I glanced up and caught the eye of Hercule Paine. He looked a little worried. He’d invested the entire Lardy fortune on this match, and if he lost the bet, then his empire would be wiped out.

I winked. I was letting him know that he and his money were safe. He nodded back. He could probably see what I was doing – building up an early lead to keep things exciting, before falling back later on.

And now I was beginning to get the donut sweats. Fifteen. Sixteen. I paused for breath. The Destroyer, for the first time, began to look a little worried, and upped his pace.

Soon my pile was half finished. I lay back on the floor for a rest. I had the beginnings of an ache in my belly that I knew must eventually emerge as a monstrous burp. As I rested, so
Demetrius
sped on. He had gone past me now, into the thirties. Some of the crowd began to jeer – most of them had put their money on me, and they were getting angry.

‘Come on, you fat oaf,’ someone shouted. Another threw a shoe at me. But my experience of Peruvian shoe-throwing meant that I was able to catch it and toss it back. It was just the spur I needed. I was up again and eating.

Demetrius was looking ill by now. He’d reached forty donuts, and it was his turn to slump back for a break. He emitted a great belch like the mating call of a mastodon in an ancient swamp.

And now I’d got my second wind. I passed his tally at forty-two. But now I felt that there was simply no room left inside me. Every
square
millimetre was already taken up with donut.

The crowd were growing frantic. They were on their feet. I couldn’t pick out individual voices any more: it was just a wall of noise.

OK, it was time for me to get some air out of my system. I burped – not the great vulgar bellowing of the Destroyer, just a normal one, lasting about three seconds. But it was enough. I was back in the game.

Seven to eat. The Destroyer was down to his last three. But he had gone a very strange colour. Something in between green and purple. Grurple, perhaps.

Six left.

Five.

Four.

Three.

We were neck and neck now. The Destroyer was back at the platter. His hand was shaking. His face was crusted with icing sugar and donut crumbs.

Together we ate – donut to donut.

Two left.

Weird lights were flashing in my eyes. Was this the dreaded donut narcosis I’d heard about – a bit like the bends that deep-sea divers suffer from, but caused, not by bubbles of nitrogen in the bloodstream, but by donut molecules furring up the brain arteries?

We were both on our final donut.

The Destroyer sized it up. Moved it towards his mouth, but he was still chewing the remains of the previous three. He staggered and swayed, each stumble greeted with a groan or sigh from the crowd. He belched again, and was clearly on
the
verge of a major digestive incident.

It was now, with Demetrius swaying before the platter, that I took out the little packet that J-Man had given me. It was one of the sachets of salt occasionally smuggled in to give the gruel some flavour. Salt was banned, so they were rare and valuable. I carefully ripped it open and deliberately stumbled forward to the table. As subtly as I could, I poured the grains into Demetrius’s glass of water. No one seemed to notice or care what I was doing – they were too mesmerized by the Destroyer’s attempt to get the last donut into his mouth.

He did it. But the claggy mass would not go down. It was then that he reached for his glass of water. He gulped it down in one.

In an instant his face went through a series of violent changes. Happiness, confusion, horror.

Ever gulped salty water? If you have, you know what happens. And it was happening now to the Destroyer.

SPLEEUUUUUUUUURGGGGGGGGH HHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

The puke spume flew in a high arc, covering Hercule and Boss Skinner and Doc Morlock and many of the other dignitaries. Foul-smelling donut soup was everywhere, in hair and eyes, noses and mouths. Oh yes, the Destroyer sure knew how to vomit. And as everyone knows, it never rains but it pours when it comes to puking. Others in the crowd joined in. One lady puked silently into her handbag. Doc Morlock, her mouth full of vomit, snatched off Badwig’s bad wig, and spewed into it. Even Gustav, the horrid sausage dog, joined in, puking violently on Boss Skinner’s lap.

The stadium was awash.

It was a vomit bath.

A pukathon.

It was awesome.

And now it was my time of glory. With one elegant and practised movement, I crammed my last donut into my mouth, chewed, swallowed.

I heard a strangled, ‘Nooooooo!’ from Hercule Paine, so piercing it cut through the general uproar.

I had won.

He had lost.

Boss Skinner wiped puke from his eyes and grabbed a paintball gun from below his chair. He aimed it at my chest and pulled the trigger. The barrel, however, was blocked with vomit, and it blew up in his face, adding an attractive top coat of red to the puke.

Paine was weeping. Doc Morlock had a look of pure murder on her evil face. ‘Get him!’ she screamed. ‘And bring me my badgers!’

Vomit-covered Lardies and goons moved
towards
me, but I was already running.

The endgame was here.

I burst out through the double doors of the puke-pit. Renfrew was poised and ready. He slammed them shut behind me, and then tied the handles together using his belt.

‘Won’t hold them long,’ he said as the doors bent under the force of a hefty Lardy shoulder-barge.