Catfish (Patreon)

     The buzzing of your phone barely gets your attention because you’re much too busy shoving a chicken leg in your face. You arrived early because you know you’re slow and you really needed to satisfy your hunger, even knowing you’d eat with Colton. A drop of grease from the chicken falls from your chin onto your phone. You pick up the cellular device and see that he’s nearby looking for you with the text asking where you are.

     “I’m in the backroom. I reserved it. Ask the staff,” greasy fingers text him back. The hotel room you rented for the both of you fortunately had endless dishes and waiters to bring them to you. You don’t think this is bad for a first date, or maybe it’s a hookup. You’re not entirely sure what Colton wants with you, but he agreed to stay at a hotel with you for one night if you rented it. 

     About a minute later Colton walks into the restaurant’s reserved room. Colton is dreamy with his dark hair, square jaw, and hazel eyes on top of his perfectly chiseled body. You check out his muscular physique in his tight blue dress shirt. Colton takes one look at you and makes a disgusted face. He pulls out his cellphone and begins typing. You look down at your own and see three dots to indicate he’s texting you. A few seconds later the words pop up on your screen: “I thought you said you were here with our reservation. There’s just some nasty pig in the backroom eating his heart out. Where are you?” He tries to ignore the fattest man he’s ever seen, not realizing that you’re his date.

     You go back to the words, ‘nasty pig’, You don’t like thinking of yourself that way, but the description is fairly accurate. You wave at Colton to get his attention. “Colton, I’m over here. I didn’t flake,” you wheeze.

     He freezes for a second, making eye contact with you. Then, his jaw drops in shock. In all fairness, he didn’t know what to expect. No, it’s not a blind date. You met him on grindr, but you may have withheld some essential information about yourself. For example, you may have not used updated photos and never put your weight in the biography information section. You thought he might be disappointed, but not ferocious. He shakes his head in disgust, muttering something under his breath and storming over to your table. 

     Colton clutches the back of the chair with anger. “Do you think it’s okay to use other people’s photos? You just catfished me!” his voice rises.

     “I’m sorry, but I didn’t Colton. I mean, maybe I did. Those photos are not stolen though,” you say nervously. 

     He leans over the table and jabs you in your plush tit. It jiggles in retaliation to his temper. “Well, you photoshopped your pictures then. You don’t look anything like your profile picture.” Your face has so much fat it’s unrecognizable compared to your profile photo. The plump structure includes rounded cheeks and several chins making your body look like you don’t have a neck.

     “I didn’t photoshop anything. They’re just really old,” you stumble over your words. “How am I supposed to believe that. You lied about what you looked like! I’m furious!”

     Between bites of food on your plate, you pick up your phone and start searching on Safari. Once you find the webpage you’re looking for, you give him your phone. “They’re real, just old, see?” you prove your point. The page is from a news site and the title of the article is “700 pound man loses over 500 pounds with the help of surgery”. The article is accompanied by a before and after shot. The before shot highlights a red face and a rolling mountain of chin. The other one has a defined face with bony cheeks. Your profile looks more like the after shot while you look just like your before photo.

     He sits down, stunned that you lost most of your weight and regained it all plus a few more pounds. He becomes slightly less angry, but still frustrated that you lied. “Fuck, dude. What happened?” Colton sighs. 

     You sigh in return. Colton is just another disappointed date that wants to know the laundry list of medical issues and the long history of your weight problems, not someone who wants to revel in food and accept you for who you are now. Why would this time be any different? “Are you going to order something? You at least owe me that if you’re going to stay and harass me,” you say with twinge of sorrow in your voice. 

     A waiter comes by to bring you a giant bowl of rice. You frequent the buffet as often as possible, so the staff has a fairly decent idea of what foods you enjoy and want. They choose for you, because you will be fine with any greasy, decadent meal they throw your way. The staff could feed you hog slop, and you’d still eat it without any dignity. Colton orders a garden salad with ranch on the side.

     After he orders he looks up at you. “I’m only staying because I haven’t had dinner yet and no one can see us back here. I don’t want anyone to see us. Besides, my dinner is on you tonight. It’s the least you could do,” Colton informs you. 

     “What do you want to know? Be specific,” comes your muffled voice through a spoonful of rice.

     “You’re just the largest person I’ve ever met. I’m intrigued. I have so many questions, but I have no idea what to ask. If I was going to group them into themes, I guess I just want to know if you’ve always been big, how you lost the weight, and why you put it back on,” he indirectly asks for your weight history softly. 

     “I’m not sure what you want me to say. I’m a food addict. Being a food addict is similar to being a drug addict or an alcoholic, except food addicts are forced to have their drugs three times a day. When a person is so addicted to food, nothing else matters even if it’s killing them.”

     I’ve always been big and when you’ve always been big, you don’t recognize how bad it’s gotten. A fifty pound difference isn’t that much, so you gain fifty and then that becomes your new normal. Then, you gain fifty more because the increments don’t seem that far away. Before you know it, you’re massive.”

     “But you lost the weight!” Colton interjects.

     “Well, yes. A few years ago a change had to happen. The weight needed to melt off my body because I thought my lungs were collapsing under my weight. My life became tethered to an inhaler when I developed asthma. My doctor took one look at my weight and told me I wouldn’t live to see the next ten years if I didn’t make changes. My only option was life saving bariatric surgery.” You briefly pause for you both to process this information. 

     “So, as you can guess, I went under the knife for gastric bypass surgery. It worked, until it didn’t. I wasn’t eating anything which caused the weight to fall off quick. Eating something bigger than a single serving made me sick for the first few months. My body was used to getting thousands of calories before and then had to deal with getting nothing. My body needed me to upgrade meals again and eat. I pushed myself too hard and then I started gaining weight rapidly again. I tried to slow it down. The Atkins diet didn’t work. Neither did starving myself or running on the treadmill. For every five pounds I lost, ten more made it on my frame.”

     “Why did you give up?” he asks.

      “Eventually, I quit because I was meant to be big. As I got to my current size, I realized there’s nothing that can be done for me. My body is already ruined and my brain is already conditioned to turn to food. At this point if I wanted to lose weight again I’d need more surgery, plus countless skin surgeries to correct the loose skin it will leave. I’m not about that life. I’ve accepted the fate that I’m going to eventually die from my obesity. I’m going to enjoy every moment I have.”

     “It’s sad you relapsed. It’s even worse knowing that if you had just a little discipline, you could turn it all around and stay thin. It’s incredibly sad, but I also refuse to feel sorry for you. You could make your situation better if you really wanted it. I also refuse to feel sorry for someone catfishing strangers with old photos. I mean, you ate through your lap band!” Colton lectures you and pauses before continuing his tirade. “You should’ve just posted an updated photo. You have a phone and you can take pictures with the click of a button. There are no excuses for anything you’ve done in your life.”

     “If I had an updated profile picture, would you have even talked to me?” you quiz Colton.

     “Honestly, no. I don’t date fatties,” he replies firmly.

     “Why not?” you try to tease the answer out of him, but you feel like you’re going to get vague, unhelpful answers. You know he finds you disgusting; Colton already called you a nasty pig. Deep down you just want the details. You want him to say he’s shallow and a fat shamer. Everyone has their reasons, but you want him to tell you how he really feels even though it benefits you in no way. Maybe he will have some remorse to be nice to people of size or maybe he will change his mind...fat chance. 

     “Don’t make me say it. You already know why I won’t date you. You’re over half a fucking ton, dude!” Colton exclaims. 

     You both go silent and sit there for about a minute. Colton watches you shovel the rest of the giant bowl of fried rice into your mouth like you haven’t eaten in days. The end of the table has six cleared plates stacked messily on top of one another. You place the empty rice bowl on the stack, waiting on your next plate to be served from the waiter. Colton realizes by the sheer number of plates that you’ve been at the restaurant for a while. 

     The waiter returns and sits the salad in front of Colton and something in front of you that Colton finds peculiar. Your plate is stacked with something that looks like french toast sticks, but they have drizzles of ketchup. The fork in your hand violently shreds your meal. The inside looks like cooked ground beef. Colton frowns at you while you pick up the deep fried something with your fork and pop it in your mouth.

     Colton tries to make conversation. “So you really weigh over 700 pounds again, huh?" “Well, it is much closer to 800 pounds, but I’m still in the high 700’s. I don’t know my exact weight, but I think I’m about 772. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s an all time high,” you say before sticking more mystery meat in your mouth.

      “What the hell are you even eating, dude? Fried shrimp? Chicken? Duck? Catfish?” Colton asks sarcastically.

     “Pieces of meatloaf,” you mutter while chewing.

     “Meatloaf? How the fuck do they fry a meatloaf?” Colton just picks at his salad while asking. 

      “Aren’t you going to eat your salad,” you ask him.

     “After watching you dig into that atrocity, I think I’ve lost my appetite,” he replies, still mixing his bowl full of leaves around aimlessly with his fork.

     You take his words as an invitation to take his side of ranch dressing. You greedily grab the cup with your grubby digits and baptize your meatloaf with empty calories. “You know this is a date, right? I know I’m not what you expected, but can you at least chill and tell me about yourself too,” you tell him between plates full of food.

     “This isn’t a date. I’ve already told you that I don’t date fatties,” he says firmly.

     “Again with this! Don’t give me that ‘you weigh half a ton, dude’ again. Why don’t you date fat people? Give me the reasons,” you demand wanting to prove he’s shallow. 

     He starts off hesitant, “well…,” but finally you’re getting to his rationale. “Being so grossly overweight throws your entire body out of proportions. Go back and look at your before and after photos from before you regained the ridiculous amount of weight. The mass amount of fat on your face makes you unrecognizable. There is no denying it because I couldn’t even tell that you’re the same person in them. I’m sorry… well, I’m not sorry, but it is disgusting. I don’t know how to describe it. The mass amount of weight on your body makes you look less human and more like a blob. I’m sure the dangling folds are just lumpy, cellulite ridden skin. And let’s be honest here, you have the biggest tits I’ve seen on a man. Holy shit, I bet they could produce milk if you ever found someone to suck on them. They are even bigger than any woman‘s I’ve ever met. If I wanted huge tits on a partner, I’d definitely be fucking cis women or non-binary people.” 

     His words sting, but at least he’s being honest. You finish your food and the waiter brings out another plate. “Is that it?” you ask before diving back into your personal plate of deep fried morsels. 

     “Do you need more reasons? I’ve got plenty.”

     “I just want to know why you can’t see yourself with me. I thought we were having a great time chatting online with each other only for you to reject me for my size. It really hurts and it isn’t my size that counts. I have a big heart and so much love to give,” you respond.

     “I’m sure you do, but let’s say I could look passed the physical attraction to see what counts on the inside, or whatever. What about my social status? It’s like committing gay suicide. What will my friends think? What will my family think? There are certain expectations on me as a gay man. You’re supposed to be thin or muscular. The whole culture feeds on this idea of shrinking yourself, making yourself smaller for the attention of men. People will judge me based on the size of my partner. All of the belly rolls you have are tucked into the biggest pair of pants I’ve ever seen. How would I not be embarrassed to be seen in public with you? If we actually dated I wouldn’t be able to hide all of you. I’m not physically attracted to fat men and neither are other gay men.”

     You sharply respond, “Wrong. Some men are very into fat men, but you don’t think I know that there are expectations of gay men, Colton? You think those don’t apply to me as a fat, gay man? That whole second reason is about your own insecurities.”

     “I do know that. All of it is true, but the fact remains that I can’t be caught in public dating someone almost too big to walk. Speaking of public, how often can I count on you to be in public taking me on dates and doing things with me that I want to do? What are your hobbies?” he shoots back.

     “I like to eat gourmet food, so you can bet that you’d get to experience all kinds of fine cuisine,” you offer. 

     Colton snorts, trying to hold back laughter in disbelief. “You do realize we are at an all-you-can-eat-buffet with waiters serving you the most nauseating, low-quality creations, right?”

     “I brought you here so you’d have options and to make it more casual. I was hoping you’d get more comfortable with me if there wasn’t pressure,” the retort escapes your mouth.

     “Well, what else do you like? Napping? Watching television?” asks Colton. 

     The waiter comes back to the table with a plate of lasagna for you. In response you spread your knees even further, giving more room to your packed gut. You’re finally starting to feel full. “Yeah. What kinds of things do you do that are so great?” you ask with a hint of bitterness. 

     “I’m not lazy! Let me guess, all you’d want to do is eat and nap. What about me? You’re too morbidly obese to to do basic tasks, let alone go climbing, cycling, swimming, or running with me. I want a partner who can travel with me and see the world. I want someone who will keep me active. I’ve been in relationships before where I didn’t have those things. It sucks and you develop the same patterns as the other person. I don’t want to be fat and I certainly don’t want to be so fat that...I don’t want my partner to be so super morbidly obese that…” he trails off. 

     “Finish your sentence,” you implore of Colton.

     “Die. Being fat is unhealthy and the medical care is expensive. I want to be healthy and I want a healthy partner. I don’t want either of us to die because we can’t control our weight. Being super morbidly obese cuts your lifespan dramatically. How am I supposed to be with someone who chooses food over their partner or even their own quality of life? Being with you would remind me that our relationship would be cut short if you aren’t willing to lose enough weight. I’m pretty positive your body can’t handle the stress you’re putting it through. Aren’t you worried about dying so young because of your obesity?”

     “We all die sometime. Besides, my body is already broken beyond repair. My arteries are clogged, my body has a new set point weight that it will fight to get back up to, and yo-yo dieting destroyed my thyroid. I’d just have another lap band and eat right through it. This way, at least I’m dying semi-happy. I’m enjoying my life.”

     “That’s complete bullshit and you know it. That’s why I can’t be with you. I can’t take this fat logic you’re using to justify your size that would end our relationship sooner rather than later. You can lose weight. Stop eating that,” he points to the grease trap on your plate. “If you really wanted an oral fixation, you could have chosen cock. Instead, that big mouth chewed and swallowed countless calories all day long. It’s no wonder your body is in the condition it is and you should count yourself lucky you’re not bedridden, or worse, dead of a heart attack. You do know that heart disease is the leading cause of preventable death, right? There are plenty of exercises you can do to help yourself. You can still walk, maybe not for much longer, but you can start and build your strength. Just do something to take care of yourself man, because this is sick and preventable.”

     You both go silent again while you finish the lasagna. “I’m full,” you say finally.

     “Yeah, full of shit,” Colton murmurs. 

      “The restaurant will charge the buffet to my card. Thanks for meeting up with me and chatting, I guess. I rented a hotel room for the entire night. I would invite you to stay for some sex, but you’ve made it really fucking clear you’re not into me. I’ll let you go home now.”

     “Look, I’m not into you. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but sex is sex. I wouldn’t say it is off the table. I have a morbid curiosity about how someone so fat would be able to climax and quite frankly I came tonight thinking I was going to get laid. I’ll give you a mercy fuck, but if you tell anyone I will deny it. It’s not like they’d believe someone like me would fuck you anyway.”

      After his entire attitude and rants about why you’re not good enough and too fat, he’s leaving sex on the table. It aggravates you, but you haven’t had sex in the last 300 pounds you’ve put on. Colton is rude and trying to use you; You’re just a circus sideshow attraction and an easy lay for him. He’s also really fucking handsome, so you’re not about to let that get away. He owes you for talking to you the way he did. “Deal,” you respond.

     Being somewhere in the neighborhood of 772 pounds on a 5’4 frame makes your weight difficult to carry around. After you make it through the arduous task of standing from your chair, your belly drags down over your brittle knees. You stumble forward trying to keep your balance under the enormous weight, your belly and breasts hanging low, and your giant ass sticking out to have a jiggly shelf. “You’re so young and can barely stand up!” he taunts. Immediately your whole body hurts from your chest to your back to your feet. Lower down, your legs hurt just as much. Being so massively obese severely impacts your ability to lift your legs. You start to walk out of the back room before Colton catches you.

     “Did you fall and hit your fat head on the pavement?” Colton sounds irritated. 

     “What do you mean?” you ask perplexed, and quite frankly, a little annoyed at how he treats you. 

     He explains to you his predicament. “I told you I don’t date fatties and one of those reasons were the possibly seeing someone I knew and having to explain why I’m with someone so the size of a Goodyear blimp. Just because we are going to fuck doesn’t mean you have the right to show me off to everyone so they know you’re getting a good lay. I’m going to walk out of here, go straight up to the hotel…” he pauses.

     “What room is it?” asks Colton. You inform him that you checked out room 218. “Here’s the plan. Like I said before, I’m going to walk out of here, go straight up to room 218, and then we will screw around. I will take the stairs because there is no way you will without going into cardiac arrest. You can take the elevator so you don’t die on the way up. That way no one will be able to see me with you. After I leave, wait a minute, and then come.” You agree to this because you really want to have sex for the first time in who knows how long despite his poor attitude toward you. 

     The sixty seconds you wait seem like an eternity.When the coast is clear you exit the back room and the restaurant to get back to the lobby of the hotel. You lumber with a fragile heaviness the entire way. Sweat droplets run down your forehead, your bloated cheeks turn rosy either from exertion or inevitably high blood pressure from the ridiculous amount of slop you shoveled in your mouth moments ago. Your gut sways back and forth like a pendulum, crashing into your thighs forcefully every step you take. Your thighs rub together so much they burn. You tried putting deodorant on them when you checked in to the hotel so they would glide on each other like a slip-n-slide to reduce friction. There is too much on your inner thighs for it to actually work according to plan. Your thighs get red, puffy, and even scaled, having you think about using aloe vera to temporary numb the pain. 

     People are watching you with a disgusted concern as you mash the up button on the elevator. A ring of the elevator system alerts you that you will be able to get on to go just one floor because you’re much too big for the physical exertion that anyone else can endure. As you step on the elevator, you notice your breathing gets heavier. Your shortness of breath isn’t to the point you will need your inhaler, but it is in your pants pocket just in case.  Colton was right: The stairs would be too much for your lungs and knees. Right now everything aches. You don’t want to imagine how bad your knees would be with the pressure of gravity on your chubby legs. They already feel like someone took a sledge hammer to them. The elevator groans and stops on your floor. After, you find yourself exhausted and limping toward the door until you reach the room you were in earlier, setting up your sleeping paraphernalia. 

     The card you have slides across the panel, allowing you to open the door to the room with your fatphobic hook up. He is already standing there without a shirt, his arms crossed over his bulging pecs. “Oh, god, look at you. You’re huffing and puffing just from walking down the hall. Your face is red and sweaty. I think that this is a bad idea. You’ll have a heart attack if we try to do this,” he says sterny. 

     “I...I c-can...do this. P-please,” you beg breathlessly. 

     “Fine, but you have to top. I am a bottom, so you’re going to have to find a way to make this work. I mean, can you imagine if I had to top you? Think about those unattractive sounds during sex. What kind of sick fuck gets hard for flabby rolls of fat?”

     “I-I’m tired of your… your bullshit tonight. I’m really fat, but I deserve some respect. Get on your knees, gym bunny,” you growl while unbuttoning your enormous pair of elastic pants and stripping down in front of him.

     “Oh my, I can’t even see your dick,” he mocks you.  

     You sit on the edge of the bed and he gets on his knees as promised. The bed is sturdy, but not sturdy to hold the equivalent of approximately six people. The frame noticeably squawks under the intensity of your weight; You’re afraid the frame is bending, but you don’t want to ruin the moment because no one wants to have sex with a land whale. You tell yourself to not fuck this up. 

     “I know having someone so handsome and healthy in your presence gets your tiny, buried cock hard. I mean, look at me, I’m an Adonis. You should be incredibly grateful that I am agreeing to this,” says Colton while getting on his knees. He lifts up your belly to find a musky smell. You try to help by grabbing as much belly as you can and pull it up. He continues “it smells so disgusting. I know you struggle to even touch it.” He searches your fat pad before finding your buried treasure. The only thing peeking out from your fat pad is an inflamed head, but it will still be a challenge to get his experienced tongue around.

     “Obese men are more likely to suffer from erectile dysfunction. Are you going to be flaccid the whole time?” You hear him mumble from inside your folds. Your penis is not flaccid, just small. You angrily drop your belly folds on his head. Colton tries to lift up the folds on his own and licks the head of your penis. He does this for several minutes, trying to coax your cock out like a turtle in a shell. It still feels amazing since no one has dared to go under your belly for years. He can’t quite wrap his mouth on anything and comes up for air.

     “Sorry, pig. This isn’t going to work.”

     You try to stand up and your face gets even more flushed, struggling to breathe from such minimal exertion of trying to get up from the edge of the bed. In all fairness, you are massive, you never recovered from the lack luster blow job, and moving from the buffet to the hotel was hard on your respiratory system. You point to your pants pocket gasping “...c-can’t...b-breathe...” Colton gets the hint and picks up your enormous 10XL sweat sweatpants. He takes the sight in; You’re absolutely huge, but seeing the pants size up close is indescribable and shocking for him. A horrible odor escapes your pants, clearly from sweat, cum, piss, and ass. He checks your deep pants pockets, while trying not to gag, before he finds your inhaler.

     He hands you the inhaler. You take big puffs from it. “This is just too much work for your little nub. I can’t keep my head under all of your fat folds trying to suck something that isn’t there. Maybe you could try to fuck me and put in more effort. Otherwise, this is over.”

     Colton’s tongue on your tiny cock’s head did feel good, but he’s right. He’s gratuitous enough to not pick on you about body odor coming from the crevasses of your folds and it’s unfair to him to be in a position that hurts him. You can’t bend the ways you need to make this work, assuming it even could with how deeply buried your sex organ is anymore. The logical thing is to let him fuck your massive ass, shaking it like an earthquake, but it’s not something he’d agree to do for you. You don’t want him to leave, so you agree to try to top him.

     You discard the inhaler on the nightstand and let him get on the bed. Colton gets on all fours and sticks his ass up in the air for you. He grabs some lube he found on the other nightstand you set up earlier and rubs his hole. You manage to get on the bed from the edge. He’s roughly 650 pounds lighter than you are, meaning his seemingly weightless body glides over the bed, but yours sinks in the bed like a stone. The bed frame groans more as you fill in the space behind him.

     You squeeze your colossal belly apron before lifting it up and dropping it on his back. Your belly moves in waves across his lithe spine. “Ow, fuck, that hurts! It’s so heavy! I think you’re going to break my back,” whines Colton. Your penis is still too buried to stick it between his perfectly sculpted ass, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. You push heavier onto his strong back, ignoring his over dramatic comments. “It’s so small, I can’t even feel it inside me,” grumbles Colton. Your fat pad slaps against him, your nub barely touching him. You continue to hump him, but it is more like you just slamming your weight into him. Your forcefulness sends him forward almost knocking him into the headboard. Each thrust makes the bed shake. You last for about two minutes doing this. Colton is completely flaccid and frustrated, but deep in your fat folds your tiny cock spurts from the pressure of your belly intensely ramming into his body. Your lungs are drowning in fat. They burn from the lack of oxygen pumping into your whale-sized body. 

     You swallow hard, the act puts your throat in discomfort. You come to the reality you need the inhaler again, feeling your throat close slightly; it is hard to get air into your overworked lungs. After a few moments of torment, you look around for your asthma medication. Colton maneuvers himself onto his back and sighs with displeasure, you still on your knees above him. There is it is on the other night stand. Getting off the bed would be too much for you while you’re feeling dizzy. You decide the easiest thing to do is to lean over Colton’s body to get to the table. “What the fuck, you fat freak! Get off of me!,” he says as your belly hangs down over his torso and brushes up against him. The bed groans with every slight movement your body makes desperately reaching for your life sustaining medicine. Colton’s helpless body sinks further and further into the mattress as you put more weight on him. Uneasiness fills your mind as you imagine Colton’s rib cage bend under your weight, like a safe crushing him. “I said, get the fuck off, fat ass,” he wheezes trying to get air. You’re both struggling to breathe now because of your weight problem. 

     CRACK!  The bed frame punishes you both for having too much weight on it by collapsing with an angry crash. Every ounce of your weight plunges into him; The sack of fat you call your body flattens your helpless lover like a pancake, which you’re certain cracks his rib cage for real. Colton hasn’t had a good breath of air in over a minute, but the fall instantly expels whatever air left he had in his lungs with a murderous force. Your massive tits are in his face by now. He tries to cry out, but there is nothing in his lungs to make a sound besides a desperate rattle. Despite his workout regimine, Colton’s body becomes numb from all your weight cutting off his circulation. 

     Colton tries to push you off, but your blubber engulfs his hands and your rolls are too slippery with sweat to gain traction. You’re much too heavy, weak, and breathless to roll over and save him from his fate. What little muscle you have wrestles with your immense obesity and failing body. Tears start to run down your face as you notice Colton stops struggling underneath you. You know if you can’t reach your inhaler, you’ll be the next to go. You imagine the headline of the next big story about you: “Morbidly obese man crushes his hook up to death and has to be craned out of his hotel room.” Your lungs start to collapse in the panic, unable to reach the inhaler before passing out.