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kasihyaIt ain’t right. Fatty Nutbutter knows the way the world works: he breaks out of prison with Jack Craven. Jack comes up with the plans, and distracts people, and Fatty Nutbutter goes in to wreak havoc, crack heads, and smother people with peanut butter. They reap the rewards, then go to a fancy restaurant before breaking back into jail and going to sleep in a cold metal bunk bed. They’re an awesome team, but that’s all they are. Despite the jokes that circle around the mess hall, Jack isn’t his. They’ve hugged once, as a way to celebrate their newfound friendship; and once, memorably, were unable to break back into prison before lockdown, and spent the night huddled together on the roof for warmth.
But that’s not the point! The point is that Fatty Nutbutter has seen Queer as Folk, so he knows the way the world works. Fatty Nutbutter is, well, fat. Fat, and greasy, and hulking. It definitely works to his advantage when he and Jack are murdering and stealing, when he needs to intimidate their victims. It doesn’t work to his advantage when he catches Jack screwing up the corner of his mouth and cracking his neck as he pores over his notebooks and plots, because he is not supposed to find that attractive. It wouldn’t be fair to Jack, who deserves someone who is thin and elegant and well-groomed, not someone whose only clothing consists of stretched, stained tank tops and shorts.
Thus, Fatty Nutbutter carefully avoids any situations which might be construed as less than heterosexual in any way. He avoids buddy-cop scenarios, which they seem to get into a lot more often than one would expect given that they’re on the opposite side of the law. He tries calling them Little John and Robin Hood, just to see how Jack reacts. Jack responds by pointing out that that doesn’t work at all: in the real stories, Little John wasn’t fat and wasn’t stupid and was sometimes a better leader than Robin Hood. Fatty accepts this as life, although it doesn’t stop him from trying to picture Jack in green leggings and a red-feathered cap. Only when he’s sure that Jack isn’t around, in case he can somehow tell what Fatty is thinking.
Fatty Nutbutter’s birthday is June 15th. He remembers because that’s the day of his first arrest. It had been his sixteenth birthday, and some of his classmates, upon learning that it was his birthday, thought that it would be hilarious to bake him an enormous cake with thick chocolate frosting, then corner him after school and not let him leave until he ate it all. He took the cake and smashed it over the ringleader’s head, and attacked. It had taken three teachers to hold him back, and he’d broken the boy’s arm. Fatty Nutbutter regrets nothing, but he does hate his birthday, and he can’t stand chocolate.
Jack Craven doesn’t know that. Fatty never talks about it, so on his first birthday after he and Jack landed in the same cell, Jack announces that, screw his plans, they’re going to go to the party store and walk around town in stupid costumes. In recognition of the date, the guards don’t even try to stop them as Jack pickpockets a passing security guard (and even Fatty recognizes that leaning back against a prisoner’s door for nearly a minute isn’t typical behavior) and lets them out into the night.
The party store is everything Fatty Nutbutter had ever hoped it would be. They get there via public transportation, and once they’ve bought their costumes with several crisp fifty-dollar bills, that’s how they travel downtown. Jack wears his Grim Reaper costume like he’s applying for the job; Fatty Nutbutter fits himself awkwardly into a priest costume, which makes Jack cackle like a hyena at odd intervals.
They get a lot of stares.
Off of the bus, Jack announces that he’s made them reservations at a very nice Italian restaurant. Fatty mumbles something that he hopes sounds pleased, then drags his heels until Jack puts out a hand in the middle of the sidewalk and asks him what the matter is.
‘It’s just … fancy restaurants, that’s more your thing,’ Fatty tries to explain.
‘You could have said as much. It’s your birthday. Where do you want to go?’ Jack’s voice is muffled underneath his skeleton mask.
It takes three tries before Fatty Nutbutter works up the courage to say, ‘Applebee’s,’ because Jack has told him his opinions on people who eat at what he calls ‘fried-food restaurants’, and it isn’t flattering.
To his credit, Jack takes it in stride. ‘You never said. Here.’ He flips open his phone and calls the restaurant, cancels on the spot. Someone nearly as big as Fatty Nutbutter shoves past him and makes him stumble; Fatty Nutbutter growls. Then Jack hangs up, and they set off in search of an Applebee’s. It doesn’t take long, in this city.
With his hood down and mask off inside the restaurant, Jack looks very out of place; too good, Fatty thinks miserably. It’s like their whole relationship: anywhere that suits Fatty isn’t good enough for Jack, and anywhere that suits Jack is too good for Fatty. The obvious disparity brings back his sixteenth birthday, and he hardly talks at all throughout dinner.
‘What do you want to do now? I haven’t gotten you a present, we can go do that,’ says Jack.
Fatty shakes his head, because there is only one thing that he really wants right now, besides maybe a hug and to lose seventy pounds or so. ‘Can we just go back to jail?’ he asks. He sounds forlorn and stupid, even to himself.
Jack sighs. ‘All right.’
But that’s not the point! The point is that Fatty Nutbutter has seen Queer as Folk, so he knows the way the world works. Fatty Nutbutter is, well, fat. Fat, and greasy, and hulking. It definitely works to his advantage when he and Jack are murdering and stealing, when he needs to intimidate their victims. It doesn’t work to his advantage when he catches Jack screwing up the corner of his mouth and cracking his neck as he pores over his notebooks and plots, because he is not supposed to find that attractive. It wouldn’t be fair to Jack, who deserves someone who is thin and elegant and well-groomed, not someone whose only clothing consists of stretched, stained tank tops and shorts.
Thus, Fatty Nutbutter carefully avoids any situations which might be construed as less than heterosexual in any way. He avoids buddy-cop scenarios, which they seem to get into a lot more often than one would expect given that they’re on the opposite side of the law. He tries calling them Little John and Robin Hood, just to see how Jack reacts. Jack responds by pointing out that that doesn’t work at all: in the real stories, Little John wasn’t fat and wasn’t stupid and was sometimes a better leader than Robin Hood. Fatty accepts this as life, although it doesn’t stop him from trying to picture Jack in green leggings and a red-feathered cap. Only when he’s sure that Jack isn’t around, in case he can somehow tell what Fatty is thinking.
Fatty Nutbutter’s birthday is June 15th. He remembers because that’s the day of his first arrest. It had been his sixteenth birthday, and some of his classmates, upon learning that it was his birthday, thought that it would be hilarious to bake him an enormous cake with thick chocolate frosting, then corner him after school and not let him leave until he ate it all. He took the cake and smashed it over the ringleader’s head, and attacked. It had taken three teachers to hold him back, and he’d broken the boy’s arm. Fatty Nutbutter regrets nothing, but he does hate his birthday, and he can’t stand chocolate.
Jack Craven doesn’t know that. Fatty never talks about it, so on his first birthday after he and Jack landed in the same cell, Jack announces that, screw his plans, they’re going to go to the party store and walk around town in stupid costumes. In recognition of the date, the guards don’t even try to stop them as Jack pickpockets a passing security guard (and even Fatty recognizes that leaning back against a prisoner’s door for nearly a minute isn’t typical behavior) and lets them out into the night.
The party store is everything Fatty Nutbutter had ever hoped it would be. They get there via public transportation, and once they’ve bought their costumes with several crisp fifty-dollar bills, that’s how they travel downtown. Jack wears his Grim Reaper costume like he’s applying for the job; Fatty Nutbutter fits himself awkwardly into a priest costume, which makes Jack cackle like a hyena at odd intervals.
They get a lot of stares.
Off of the bus, Jack announces that he’s made them reservations at a very nice Italian restaurant. Fatty mumbles something that he hopes sounds pleased, then drags his heels until Jack puts out a hand in the middle of the sidewalk and asks him what the matter is.
‘It’s just … fancy restaurants, that’s more your thing,’ Fatty tries to explain.
‘You could have said as much. It’s your birthday. Where do you want to go?’ Jack’s voice is muffled underneath his skeleton mask.
It takes three tries before Fatty Nutbutter works up the courage to say, ‘Applebee’s,’ because Jack has told him his opinions on people who eat at what he calls ‘fried-food restaurants’, and it isn’t flattering.
To his credit, Jack takes it in stride. ‘You never said. Here.’ He flips open his phone and calls the restaurant, cancels on the spot. Someone nearly as big as Fatty Nutbutter shoves past him and makes him stumble; Fatty Nutbutter growls. Then Jack hangs up, and they set off in search of an Applebee’s. It doesn’t take long, in this city.
With his hood down and mask off inside the restaurant, Jack looks very out of place; too good, Fatty thinks miserably. It’s like their whole relationship: anywhere that suits Fatty isn’t good enough for Jack, and anywhere that suits Jack is too good for Fatty. The obvious disparity brings back his sixteenth birthday, and he hardly talks at all throughout dinner.
‘What do you want to do now? I haven’t gotten you a present, we can go do that,’ says Jack.
Fatty shakes his head, because there is only one thing that he really wants right now, besides maybe a hug and to lose seventy pounds or so. ‘Can we just go back to jail?’ he asks. He sounds forlorn and stupid, even to himself.
Jack sighs. ‘All right.’
