Famer's Story Writing Debating Tournament, Imabench vs Ren!

The basic idea of this debate is that both sides must together write a story. Whoever creates the most interesting continuation/orientation/conclusion of the story wins the vote for "most convincing arguments. " The Glutton's Bane It began with a sandwich. Clearly, not just any sandwich; as a genesis, this was an extraordinary sandwich. Marty, Klaus, and Ginger sat at the table, looking over the menu when this extraordinary sandwich caught Marty's attention. However, this was not extraordinary—the sandwich bore such a name that would inevitably attract Marty like so many bees to a festively plump woman wearing a floral perfume and Charlie Brown's sweater. It was called The Glutton's Bane, and Marty knew it was for him. Indeed, his greasy skin, double chin, and unkempt hair concurred and once he looked up at his friends to announce his intrigue, they were a step ahead of him. "Let me guess," said Klaus, shedding Marty of any grandeur in his proposal. "Yes. It shall be done," replied Marty. "Another day like this. It always attracts so much attention; I'd rather just eat and leave, if you don't mind," said Ginger dismissively. She was unimpressed by these forays, despite the fact that Marty remained undefeated. "Oh, where's your fighting spirit? " said Marty, cloyingly. "No, thank you. All…" she paused to look Marty over in a way that belied even expletives and grand insults, "…this," she hissed, "has nothing to do with me," she concluded. Marty stroked his moist mustache at this. He regarded her silently, slowly poring over her seated figure halfway obscured by the table before them. "Well," he said, finally. "Well, you might as well order it anyway," said Klaus. "It's not as though Ginger could possibly sway you. " "Indeed, my fine man, you are correct. Indeed. Indeed," Marty said, lowering his voice with each restatement. "Oh, I didn't think I'd change your mind," said Ginger, "I just figured I might as well give you my pleasant sentiments. " "It's always a pleasure to have you around," replied Marty. "Oh, it is," chimed Klaus compulsorily, as he and Ginger had just begun fvcking a couple of weeks back. So, it was ordered and in turn, arrived at their table. Their conversation was strained, as Marty could hardly wait for what lay before him while Ginger and Klaus surreptitiously flirted in a way that suggested they were lonely for an extended period before finding solace in one another. Marty's mustache became far moister as he exhaled his lust through dilated nostrils. He puckered his lips in consternation as he usually and idiosyncratically does and his eyes dilated as well, so that, particularly to Ginger's distaste, his face seemed to become a collection of gaping holes; a steaming hunk of well aged and flushed Swiss cheese. Marty's breathing became heavier—this was the point at which Klaus usually shifted uncomfortably, as he could never seem to get used to it—but, it was, in fact, quite akin to breathing exercises by most athletes before a challenge. They could never understand that and anyway, Marty wasn't an athlete, not even an aesthete; Marty was instead a connoisseur, if one could be such a thing in the name of engorgement. As Marty sat, fixated on the enormous sandwich casting an atypical shadow upon the table before them, Ginger subconsciously drew closer to Klaus in relative admiration. Klaus detected this and instinctively slackened so that she did not mistake rigid for frigid. Finally, Marty's shoulders broadened as the atmosphere around the trio grew thick with spectators' gaze and then his breasts parted as he briefly loomed over the sandwich to slide eight fingers below its girth. He lifted it this way, a practiced maneuver that would have left the inexperienced in dismay as the otherwise insufferably overstuffed sandwich collapsed into a heap of defeat and incomprehensible food. Marty's shoulders actually flexed as he raised it toward his face, the sandwich heavier than he imagined at an absurd eight pounds. Grease and sauce slathered his palms and leaked between his fingers. It cascaded onto the plate and table, but no one noticed as everyone attempted to imagine how one could possibly bite a sandwich like this, impatiently waiting to see Marty defy all laws of practical dining. Lesser men held their breath in excitement, ready to vicariously experience something so awesome, they couldn't breathe if they tried. Marty held his breath as well and submerged himself with fervor and abandon. It was obscene and grotesque and reminiscent of a carnivore savoring its kill or a pornographic movie of a woman receiving cunnilingus, or some combination of the two in some exploitation of monstrous behavior. The reality that we ignore: Marty portrayed it like poetry or music. Marty's emotions became palpable as sweat beaded on his brow while his neck and waist thickened. He seemed to inflate slightly as each swallow became more labored. Halfway through the sandwich, he paused briefly to regard the cavern that he had eaten into it. Bleeding various lubricous substances, stringy flesh and halfway-masticated food detritus lined the gaping wound in the beast before him. Marty narrowed his eyes and ignored the imploring cramps of his strained gut. Taking a deep, stuttering breath, he continued spelunking among the cacophony of flavors, the embodiment of sin. He felt himself expand as food seemed to fill his stomach to capacity and back up into the esophagus. Typical gorging sensation, Marty told himself as his eyes rolled back for a moment and he forced them back down into the layers of remaining sandwich. The bulging made Klaus stare for a moment. A few more bites, but Klaus was distracting him, anxious and irritated, looking about with a furrowed brow and bouncing his knee. Ginger looked down, ostensibly at Klaus's chest. A few more bites, and suddenly, it was done and a feeling washed over him like drugs. Everything was silent and peaceful and then he was back in reality and the veins in his neck bulged. He was very sweaty and actually, his hair was wet and he demanded to himself that he had better not vomit, dammit. He was still holding his breath, in fact, for too long now and he thought he might be changing colors. Suddenly, his esophagus emptied and there was a gurgle. It was done; he successfully devoured the sandwich. There were a few wet and whitewashed moments during which everyone else held their breath, waiting to see whether this was a legitimate win. He waited, too, knowing that some damage must have been done; that there must be some sort of price that he must pay for the blasphemy that he had just committed. But, blessed be, his body took it like a champ and he was alright, albeit, rather uncomfortable. The restaurant cheered. The meal was free. The waiters brought Klaus and Ginger food they weren't going to eat.