Survival Of The Fittest

“Ugh! Whadafuck?!”, bellowed the young voice, “I ain’t goin’ out like this!”

“Like what?”, the waitress asked more outta politeness than concern.

“Like some fuckin’ jerkoff with pepperoni grease on his sleeve! That’s what!”

The 16” large pizza in front of him bore all the proper signs of quality. Fresh mozzarella. Mini cup & char pepperoni with jacuzzies of orange oil beckoning to be devoured. Strips of fresh basil and a dusting of dried oregano were the biggest compliments to the sweet tomato sauce. Big Dick Buster needed no invitation to gorge himself. A floppy slice was picked up, folded and then shoved into his gullet with little care nor concern for his well-being. When he bit into the pizza, grease gushed out the other side like a pimple on prom-day and coated the white-sleeve of his dress shirt in a vibrant orange oil.

“Oh...”, she tried to hold back the grin on her face, “I thought it was something serious.”

Richard smiled a buck toothed and wide-one, his pearly whites stained in tomato sauce and with bits of cheese in between some.

“I’m in some serious need of some napkins,” he paused, “And a 6 inch meatball sub.”




The waitress giggled and went off, returning first with a handful of thin white napkins. Richard dabbed his face and rolled up his sleeves. Those grease stains? Charge it to the game and Big Dick shoulda known better than to dive in head first. The mess was part of the relieving of the stress. Dick had come of age in the age of Canon and COVID-19. Stress relief was a whole industry. For Mr. Big himself? There was no better stress relief than an extra-large with extra cheese.

The cost was the sanctity of his second hand suit sleeves. It was a cost Richard was all too willing to pay.

The first week of school had been a blur of papers and greetings and meetings. There was a changed aura around the campus and whether it was real or imagined by Richard—there was a tension in the air that could then be traced to the center of his gut. College applications and club leadership elections. Basketball practice and the end of basketball being the main focus of his life—at the same damn time. Nothing stopped for nobody. There was no break and there was no reprieve. Shit happend and life kept moving on. Dick felt like he hadn't stopped moving since high school had started.

That right there? Enough to drive a sane man berserk. It was Pre-Calc homework that had forced Dick outta his room, away from his desk and into his camry and speeding towards downtown Salem. It was that large pizza at Slice, Slice Baby that would provide him a reprieve from the restless days that came with being a John Endecott Terrier. Richard had grown up on these streets and Salem was as familiar to him as the back of his hand. Slice was nearly always packed but on weekdays in between school getting out and the dinner rush there was a small gap where the industrious and the early birds could make way and enjoy some baked zitti with the retirees before the place became overly crowded. And so it was with that goal and with that knowledge in his back pocket that Big Dick made his way to the family owned pizzeria. His luck was looking up when he came in and it was nearly empty.

His luck was looking up until that slice of pizza threw up all over his shirt.

Cost of business, charge it to the game.

Big Dick sighed, unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. He picked up another slice and shoved the whole thing in his mouth within two bites. Grease dripped onto his hands and out of his mouth and unto his chin. Pepperoni pizza if done right was always a little messy.

But making the mess was a part of relieving the stress.

Betty #(1-5) sort of just looked at her classmate with something that can be either horror or admiration.

It's not like she expected more of somebody who's nickname was "Big Dick," but there was a certain distance between expectation, imagination, and witnessing something.

Something she thought a lot about (when her busy schedule permitted) was the term that she heard a classmate say on a sunny day out at mandatory gym back in the days, something about how your eyes are bigger than your stomach. And it sort of fit- because she's heard so many people talk about eating pizza like an entire pizza, and not a slice, and maybe it's just that she was a small person and not just a Her thing (God knows how many of her problems are Her and not People problems) But it always felt... odd? (She always had a hard time describing anything other than odd, or weird, or similar, more defined terms) when she saw people eat a lot. Like, how are you not sick? How could you live with yourself like a glutton? Is her stomach too small, or are they the weird ones? Is eating an entire pizza in a single sitting a trait that is common amongst the Salem population or did she just only notice the glaringly obvious cases of people eating too much and her brain just decided to start making logical fallacies? It was something something "You think something is more common because you pay more attention to it" something something, like when nobody looks at the people sipping a Pepsi on the side when somebody is chugging down half a bottle of beer in five seconds at the center of attention.

She looked at the big pie of pizza on his table (14-18 inches, estimated) and looked at her own, sad single combo slice and then looked at him again. Meeting somebody outside of the expected situation always made her feel odd. The school (and the parties she was dragged to) is an area separate from the rest of her life, and almost everybody she encounters there are, in her mind, completely separate from the realm of actual life, where she could sink into her own personality and not be in Betty #5 mode.

Pink hair notwithstanding, Betty would like to believe she was completely invisible as she snatched a breadstick off of her brother's plate, ignoring his (playful, false) protests (Unfair. He had two slices, fries, and a milkshake. She even gave him all the slices of pepperoni on her pizza, greasy and glistening under the yellow lights.)

[+] Outfit of the day

Her entire clique had seemed to agree on everyone having their own colors, and her's was yellow. It felt like she was committing an infraction against unspoken rules when she dyed her hair Dixon's color, but it complimented her wardrobe of pastel yellows well. Betty S herself was wearing one of every friend's color, but carefully selected to make sure they were all background elements in her predominantly yellow outfit, a large butter-colored sweater swallowing her figure up.. A blue t-shirt with a cracking print of fluffy clouds (Courtesy of B.B), black leather shoes (Ty pulls off monotone like nobody else, but Betty S always struggled to put on a single black or grey element in her clothing unless she was experimenting), a red and pink pleated skirt a size too big to maintain modesty (Quinn probably didn't care as much as the rest did about the whole color coordination thing, and she was glad for that. Dixon, on the other hand, always thought of the group as a unit in as many ways as humanly possible.) Given last year's streak of cardigans, button-ups and pleated skirts (She still usually checked two out of three boxes,) She had been trying as hard as she could to avoid giving the impression of an office lady, or a private school student, with too much of an uniform-like outfit. It was an aesthetic she could appreciate (B.B always dressed like somebody from Heathers, and partially Quinn too) but she'd hate to infringe.

Dick’s blue eyes could only find the red of the pepperoni. It was a staring contest that he was determined not to lose. As he choked down the previous slice he felt a creeping tightness in his belly—Buster answered that by grasping and folding another piece of pizza and shoving it in his mouth. Fullness would not overtake him. Not ever. All he saw was the pizza. Dick was a dope on the dopamine that came with filling his gluttonous goals. Lost in the sauce and he didn't want to be found.

He lost the staring contest amidst his ecstasy. His eyes were closed and Big Dick Buster kneeled before the monstrous power of mozzarella. Richard wiped his mouth and then brought his straw to his lips sending a cascade of carbonation to wash down the carnage of carbs that had just been inflicted upon Dick’s heart.

All Richard saw and knew was the pizza…

Then he opened his eyes and saw Bets Sadberry staring him down with a look that turned Richard’s pale freckled face immediately the shade of marinara. Dick was caught cheese handed. What was the move? The biggest fear was appearing to be uncool. The quickest way to feel like you’re uncool? The giggling of a cute teenage girl. It had to be avoided and if it couldn’t be avoided? It had to be initiated. What was the move? Dick had to own it. How’d you think he got the name ‘Big Dick’ in the first place?

One wrong move and it coulda been Short Dick Buster. Believe that!

Knowing when to be laughed at and when to laugh at others were important skills. Sometimes the best bet was to just embrace the moment. Dick stared at Bets, blue eyes meeting hazel, his expression unblinking. A new staring contest and Betty Sadberry wasn’t a slice of pepperoni. Dick appeared the perfect picture of pizza eating professionalism…

And then he burped. Loudly. Without breaking eye contact.

… Was she supposed to laugh?

She held his stare, a little false giggle slipping out of her throat, more to react for the sake of reacting than anything else. As a person, she too was bound by the social contract that comes with participating in polite society, and one of the hardest parts of it was discerning whether or not she should react with something with seriousness. The lines drawn by everyone separating what should and should not be laughed at is different for everyone, and Betty has long forgotten to redraw them.

Next to her, her younger brother tugged at her sleeve, laughing at his display like he was five and not fifteen. She could remember fondly back when she won every playfight with him, pinning him down under her own body weight and feeling his little legs kicked and jabbed at her. Nowadays, he channeled that excess energy into volleyball- healthier than how she deals with her own feelings, at least.

If her parents were here, she would be lectured on her choice of “friends.” (These idiots, they don’t know anything about her social situation, why are they worrying about her interpersonal relationships instead of their own breaking relationship with each other?)

But there’s only Bernie.

So she waved, just to humor him.

Dick’s hand found itself under his chin and he twiddled his big, fat fingers right back at Bets and her brother. There was a boyish casualness to his demeanor. This was a silly situation to be caught in—Dick didn’t mind acting a little silly in turn.

A carefree smile came on his face and Richard felt a bit of a performative buzz tremble down his spine. If you had eyes upon you—weren’t you obligated to give them something to look at? If people came to you hungry—weren’t you obligated to give them a meal?

And was it truly a meal if you left it feeling anything but absolutely full?

Richard broke eye contact with Betty S and turned his focus on his pizza once more. Three slices had been powered down and the belching had caused a second wind of voraciousness to come upon him even though the first had hardly left. Dick picked up one slice and stacked it upon another and then folded the stack to create a devilish bread pocket of melted cheese, tomato and salted pork.

Then it was shoved in his mouth, Cookie Monster style. Om-nom-nom-nom-nom!

There was no graciousness. Big Dick Buster was aka’d as Grease Lightning with the way his fingers and lips glistened. Fat Boy Mode—activated! Then the waitress showed up with his meatball parm. An obscene and excessive creation. A half foot piece of italian bread sliced in half and then filled to the brim with meat and cheese and sauce. You ate with your eyes first. Dick's vision was endless. The waitress, an experienced worker in hospitality, seemed to read the table. She seemed to know she had just interrupted a race to the bottom.

“Woah, slow down big guy! It’s not a race and if it was I’m sure you’re winning!”

That simple phrase was enough to get Big Dick out of his performative zone. He wanted to respond to the waitress but between the excitement of his food arriving and the stuffing of his face—it was too much stimuli all at once. Richard tried to speak but all that came out was a grunt and a cough...

Then another. And another…and…then a desperate and quiet croak...

”H-h-urk-he-hel-help…!”

Oh my god! He was choking! Death by pizza! He never thought that it would end this way—but he had always sorta feared and hoped for it.

Betty frowned. And then she frowned again.

"Uh,"

She walked up to the boy, face filled with genuine concern (despite that voice in her head saying that he deserved it, he ate so quickly, come on, what was he thinking?) and patted him in the back.

"Anybody-"

the patting became thumps, the weight of him underneath her palm becoming almost violent out of context-

"know first aid?"

"Bernie," she ordered, "Go call for help."

The boy looked up from his game.

"What?"

"Nevermind, just-"

Another thump.

Had this girl ever seen someone have food go down the wrong pipe? Had Big Dick Buster ever properly chewed something?

Obviously not on either account.

The waitress seemed panicked—but have no fear! Betty #3 (or was she 2? Depended on the view, he supposed) was here!

“I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-,” Dick sputtered like a ’72 Mustang, “gu-gu-guh-good”

He coughed and coughed and then grabbed a fistful of napkins and quickly brought them to his face. He wasn’t goin’ out like that! No way, no how! Not gonna happen! Best keep it movin’! Nothin' to see here! Surely not a teenage boy about to be suffocated by a slice. Nope! No siree!

“Shit,” Richard gasped, “Fuck,” a hoarse and desparate whisper, “I’m okay…I’m okay…I’m okay…”

He closed his eyes and threw the bundled up and now sauce stained napkin on the table with defiance.

“Thanks,” Dick grunted through exasperation and reached for his drink, “Thought it was all over."

"Glad you're OK," she smiled.

Something something joke about having a funeral in class...

Betty forgot what joke she wanted to make.

Gotta wait 'til graduation, they're too young to die, life insurance...?

Patting Dick on the pack with one hand, she whipped her phone out in another to check for Quinn's text- Social etiquette dictates that she has to answer within the hour, and, y'know, she's all-so-reliable. Lovable in a genuine way that most people could only pray to achieve.

Punctual, on-the-mark. Rational. Mommy friend, yeah, maybe that's a word that could be used for her, too.

She looked up from her phone.

(Reminder to self: tip the waitress for pretending that nothing's happening.)

"Bern, I can see you, little thief. You have your own drink!"

“That was incredible.” A warm smile stepped out from the small crowd that had arrayed itself around the little display Richard Buster had accidentally put on for them. The smile made its way over to Bets before rotating, now facing the audience.

The smile wore the rest of her body in an unassuming fashion, indicating an otherwise solitary, casual walk had abruptly come to a halt when life had interjected with its own plans. Not that the smile seemed to mind.

“It’s good that everything turned out okay.”

((Betty Quinn: Pregame START))

Betty Quinn had arrived at Slice Slice Baby just in time to witness the events that unfolded, shocked to see Bets leap into action in the way that she had, but keeping her distance at first, knowing that an added set of hands in a chaotic situation could just as easily be a detriment to those involved as it could be a boon, more easily, in fact, if those hands were untrained.

Her words were sincere, but behind the latter statement was the suggestion that the others should take their leave. Spectators did nothing to help people that had probably just gone through a rather stressful situation.

Richard, and more importantly Bets, likely needed some space as things calmed down. If there was something important to be added, they’d likely ignore the polite suggestion that they go anyway.

The smile turned once more, smaller and more casual, when Betty Quinn properly met the face of her friend.

"Hey." She avoided names, just in case of any nosey, lingering passerbys.

What was worse than embarrassing yourself in front of one Betty? Embarrassing yourself in front of two. Or three or four depending on where they were standing next to one another. Joke so nice Dick had to make it twice! That’s simply what happened when you were slurping down Pepsi to avoid choking to death.

There was no proper transition, no plan of retreat or charismatic non-sequitur he could use to escape…

So all Dick did was sip and sip until an idea came to mind. The straw loudly caused a grand amount of percussion when the cup was emptied and Richard shook the drink with a bit of disappointment.

Not even Pepsi could save him it appeared.

“I aspire to inspire,” Dick said in reference to Betty Quinn, “Yous ladies welcome to take a seat and save me from my worser nature…”

Nice pivot, but if he didn’t take a shot or pass soon it’d be a double dribble. The worst thing to be was uncool. The uncoolest thing to be was someone who didn’t know what the hell he was doin’ or what was goin’ on. Rich could read the room. Dick knew he was the jerkoff that couldn’t handle chewing and swallowing.

“I’m just grateful she busted out the first aid as opposed to the camera mode.”

It caused Betty an insignificant amount of some inexplicable odd emotion when she realized it took several seconds to process what Dick meant. The all too sensationalized phenomenon of people taking pictures of any sort of notable disturbance in their lives was one that Betty had never really found within herself to criticize, rocks in glass houses and all.

In her case, she brought out the metaphorical popcorn and relished in the chaos from a safe distance, which is a bit different from permanently recording everything on her device, but... maybe if she didn't have a reputation to keep up, she'd be the girl recording all the fights in the hallways, without any social obligation to help either side out.

Truthfully, the taking of digital evidence in uncommon situations have most likely saved many lives and helped many more. A phone shoved in one's face is, well... it means whatever horrible thing anybody did, it was now on record. Mother always told her that, when she gets a car, she needed to take a picture of any damage after a crash for the sake of insurance and documentation. Criminals were found. Justice was (subjectively) served. A single video, a still frame of it, had the potential to cause notable change America's approach to racial politics, had it not?

Oh, and BBQ is here. Betty... no, wait, she called Black BB. BQ doesn't have the ring to it, and her own name's shortening to BS rendered her vulnerable to teasing in her wee little years.

It's not like she hadn't noticed her as much as the other girl's presence had been such an all-encompassing thing that it almost felt weird when the rest of the girls weren't with her. On any given time and location, Betty usually expected at least one of her clique to be open to communication at any time.

"Hey, Quinn!"

The smile plastered on her face was picture-perfect, she made sure of that. The beginnings of her dimples showing, a slight tilt of the head... it took a lot of practice in the mirror. That made her feel silly, just smiling at a piece of glass, but the end result was worth it.

"Are you alright with taking a seat next to Buster?"

Because honestly, she'd rather eat herself, but... an invitation was an invitation, and she has no available excuse to turn him down other than the girl right by her.

Oh, and Bernie, too. But Bernie would probably make her sit by Dick, just to be a... a dick. And then make jokes about this being some sort of date, to rub salt into the wound. Their relationship was a lot more vitriolic than either of them dared to show fully to anybody outside of the immediate family, but that's alright. Because she never expected him to be nice, so it was a lot more freeing to be as much of a nuisance to him as he was to her at times. And no matter how many times she tells him she wished that she never told mom she was fine with a younger sibling...

Well, sometimes she still wished for that. But, y'know, normal sibling things. Ha. Haha.

(maybe their entire family should go to therapy?)

“Oh of course. It’s no problem at all, so long as it’s alright with you, Richard.” Quinn gave a nod to Bets and then to Richard, moving towards the seat.

Richard Buster was an unfortunate boy, for reasons not exclusive to him nearly dying of excessive pizza consumption in front of a crowd of bewildered bystanders.

Indeed, his nickname “Big Dick” was rather crass and could be taken for either a bit of self-aggrandizement or as a joke at his own expense. Taking on a moniker like that indicated a present lack of proper self-esteem and a desire to be brought into a popular fold. It was likely a part of his high school life that he’d look back on with some discomfort and embarrassment by the time he was, say, 30 or so.

That was, unless he were to spiral into an increasingly pathetic lifestyle, in which case this pizza incident would prove a particularly ill omen.

Luckily for Richard, Quinn was well-read on such matters of the mind and understood people like him.

She gave him another polite smile as she sat down, before looking expectantly at Bets.

“Nah, I don’t mind at all—human contacts been on a premium for the last few months…”

And that was true, wasn’t it? There was some awkward shuffling of the feet in almost every innocuous interaction as of late. The whole world was cast as an eighth-grade dance and everybody struggled to do the social salsa. Dick had grown comfortable in his discomfort but that was only in the sense that he had become used to being uncomfortable. There was a sense of relief that washed over him when the Betty’s sat down.

Sure, he was a chubby, freckle-faced, ginger with marinara and pepperoni grease staining his fingers and cheeks…but he wasn’t so much of a Teenage Dirtbag that girls giggled and gawked before galloping away.

The relief was short-lived when the ring of Richard’s cellphone punctured the atmosphere and spurred Dicky into action. Three letters in generic white text flashing across his screen like lightning—Richard moved like thunder.

“Mom! What’s up!”

“Don’t Mom me Buster Brown! Your father is almost done with dinner—where are you?”

“Uh….out?”

“Out doing what?”

“…having dinner?”

Dick heard the sigh on the phone and he was pretty sure that folks may have felt his mother’s disappointment from the Harvard campus. The past year had given Richard a sense of some sort of financial independence. He had begun working part time and getting a paycheck from doing after school work at his mother and grandfather’s family practice. Dick had found that the majority of his paycheck was spent on DoorDash and going out to eat. His mother was never amused.

“Richard…”

“Yes Ma?”

“Until the day that you pay your own rent or sign your checks, never forget…”

“I know, I know…”

“You have food at home!!!”

Richard rolled his eyes and hung up the phone. He looked towards the Betty’s with a bit of a disappointed look on his face before he reached in his pocket and pulled out his money clip before putting a few bills on the table.

“I gotta go ladies, it’s been a pleasure…,” it didn’t sound cool when you had to leave a place because your Mom was bitching at you for being a fat fuck, “Uh…get something for yous guys, my treat and all that. On account of me eatin’ and running.”

Dick looked at the half-eaten pizza and the sloppy meatball sub. Richard hated to waste food—but his Mom hated to waste time. The worst thing to appear was to appear uncool…

And Momma’s Boys weren’t cool…but they were cooler than jerks who were disrespectful to their own mother.

Least that’s what Dick told himself in his mind as he replayed choking on that pizza all the way home.


[ Big Dick Buster Continued Elsewhere... ]

She debated for an eternity of thoughts trapped in a moment.

And eventually, greed won over any pretense of nobility. She was sure that the boy didn't know about her situation- she didn't talk about it much, but her companion must've known her tendencies.

It doesn't matter.

Betty put her hand over the bills, not that fast but certainly without a wait. It wasn't any

"Yeah, I get it. Goodbye, Rich!"

Immediately, as the door closed, Betty turned to the girl of the same name, still smiling. Her hand didn't pull back. Maybe she had left behind that shred of manners, but not any of her self-restraint.

"So, you want something? The pizza's, like, eight out of ten but if you mind the grease, there's always..."

She skimmed the menu,

"Aw, shucks, there's actually nothing healthy in here. But, hey... we're just here to have a good time, aren't we?"

From the back, an enthusiastic Bernie shouted out a "HECK YEAH!," not minding the half-dozen glares.

“Thank you, Richard.” Quinn gave their erstwhile host a wave as he departed, the tone of his voice when talking on the phone indicating that he was not leaving under the best of circumstances. Unfortunate, but she needn't pry.

She also noticed the speed with which Bets reached for the money and felt a pang of sympathy for her friend. Quinn of course had some inkling about what drove Bets’ actions, but unwelcome sympathy was just pity. No one liked being pitiful.

And so, Quinn did not let concern show on her face, instead letting out a light chuckle at Bernie’s little outburst. She found such enthusiasm to be charming, though it was clear that such an attitude was not shared by her fellow patrons.

“But of course. I dropped by Slice for the atmosphere, after all. I do hope you’re doing alright? After all that?” She asked the question at the end a bit quieter. She’d been more cavalier about the whole thing earlier for Richard’s benefit, but with him gone it might serve to check on Bets.

However, so as not to put too much pressure on the other girl, Quinn, turned to look over at one of the menus. “We could each get a single slice, no? Certainly wouldn’t burn through much of what Richard left.” She mused, knowing where Bets’ concern might lay.