Porky lifted his eyes to the gridded steelbar ceiling, begging the spirits to look on and take pity. "Aw, Will, you said you weren’t going to pick on me no more. It’s not nice. You know it’s not my fault! It’s glands, and I’m saving to have it all fixed. I don’t need razors and chrome, just a little tinkering. It’s not nice to pick on me when it’s not my fault." Will’s lips twisted, considering how to phrase an apology. He gave up and settled for another shrug. Porky Pryne’s bulk went far beyond what anyone else called "fat." That the man could fit through a door was, literally, amazing. His belly overhung not just his belt, but thoroughly hid his thighs, and had recently made forays into the territory of his knees. His upper arms swelled to the breadth of a young boy’s back, tapering down to what, in proportion, seemed to be tiny infant’s hands with wriggling whiteworm fingers. To make matters worse, the man stood nearly two meters tall.