Free Impossible Places by Alan Dean Foster

of partly digested cakes and cookies, snack foods and fruit chewies.
    “As near as we’ve been able to figure, the guy went on a junk food binge to end all junk food binges. It was like he couldn’t control himself. As if he had no resistance to the stuff, no resistance at all. Like the Polynesians who were suddenly exposed to European diseases to which they had no built-up immunity.
    “You know how much air they cram into this junk. Ordinarily it doesn’t give you anything except maybe a little gas now and then. But he was downing the stuff so fast it must’ve blocked his colon. Then he choked on it, and with no escape valve, as it were, the pent-up gas, well—he just blew up. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”
    “You ain’t alone, ol’ buddy. Wonder what made him do it?”
    “Beats me.” The coroner shrugged, finishing his notes. “He’s got all the signs of someone who’s been force-fed, except that he obviously did it to himself. Like a French goose on the pâté line. And I thought I knew every way a person could commit suicide.” He shook his head ruefully. “This is one business where you don’t get a kick out of learning something new.” He put his pen to his lips. “What the hell am I going to list as ‘reason for demise’?”
    The cop looked thoughtful. “If it was up to me I’d put down ‘Accidental’ and leave it at that. It’ll get you off the hook until something better turns up.”
    The assistant coroner looked resigned. Then the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. He scribbled on the pad, showed it to his friend.
    “I can’t turn it in this way, of course. The boss’d have my ass.”
    The officer looked down, smiling in spite of himself.
    CAUSE: Death by Twinkie.
    They shared a chuckle. The coroner pocketed his pad. As he turned to leave he noticed a slightly torn but otherwise undamaged package on the floor. Reaching down, he rescued a couple of orphaned creme-filled cupcakes with garish orange icing, passing one to his friend. With a wink the cop bit deeply into his own.
    The sensation as the thick-cremed, sugar-saturated, calorie-rich crumbly mass slid down his throat was indescribable.

FITTING TIME
    When I was growing up (again), my mother’s best
friend in the neighborhood was a lovely lady named
Adrian Anderson. Her husband, Johnny, was a tall, easygoing presence of Scandinavian-derived Minnesotan
stock who happened to work in the business of motion
pictures. Johnny was a wardrobe master. The walls of his
modest den were covered with signed photos from some
of the biggest names in Hollywood whom he’d dressed
for multiple pictures.
    Among these was one Elvis Presley, noted star of motion pictures and sometime singer. After certain pictures,
Johnny was required to dispose of certain no longer
needed items of attire. The result was local garage sales
of no uncertain significance. As a teenage boy, I was of
course above such déclassé bourgeois enterprises and
blew past them on my way to the local touch football
games with nary a glance.
    One day my mother presented me with a pair of white
jeans she had bought at one of Johnny’s sales. She noted
that they had been worn by Mr. Presley, and even mentioned the particular picture. I was no fan of Elvis, but
the pants were nice, and I wore them until I wore the legs
out. Then I cut them off at the knees and used them for
beach shorts. Eventually, I threw them away.
    To this day, my wife has never forgiven me for this—
nor has any woman who has ever heard the story.
    Rohrbach was in a particularly good mood as he rode the elevator to his office. He was alone except for Spike. No mother actually named her newborn Spike, of course, and his Spike was no different. His real name was Nicholas Spianski, but at six foot six and three hundred and twelve pounds, Spike seemed a much better fit. An ex–semipro tackle, he’d been Rohrbach’s principal bodyguard for six years. Rohrbach had several bodyguards, of whom Spike was the only