THE LIFE AND DEATH OF FATTY DEPOSITO R.I.P.

Fatty Deposito is a fat lump. A massive five-inch eyesore of a gelatinous lump. He is ending his life being hacked out of my body in a third world hospital in Argentina with the name and birth date of the Canadian blonde whose identity I’ve stolen wrapped around my wrist.

If I die right here on the operating table, nobody will know who I am to repatriate me. I’m not called Cassandra and I am certainly nowhere near 37.

I’m being sliced up to Bach. I think it’s Bach. It’s classical. There are keys. I can hear the scissors snipping and chopping away right by my ear as the Argentine doctor yanks me apart, unnecessarily roughly. (So they operate how they fuck, then?)

Er hola, I’m not under anesthetic.

I panic.

They’ve realised I’m not who I say I am and will lock me in a South American prison without stitching me up again. I’ll have to start selling marching powder and prison tours. The nurse looks at the opening and shrieks, “gigante!” I understand the word giant, you giant cow.

I first noticed the lump the day after I moved to Buenos Aires. I looked in the mirror and there Fatty was – a whopping great lump protruding from my collarbone. I still have no idea why I couldn’t have spotted him a day earlier at home in London? That’s the law of the god of sod.

fatty depo

As I couldn’t afford the hospital bills and many, many months of tests they were to do on me, I looked into faking being someone else, specifically a Canadian woman with Argentine health insurance.

At the very first appointment the doctor asked where I was from.

“London,” I replied.

Shit. I’m supposed to be from Canada.

“London, Ontario.”

Nice save. At each and every check up, I’d screw up, either sign my real name, put the wrong birthdate by years, forget my/ her address, or need to copy her signature from a piece of paper. How stupid were they not to notice my fraud? I wondered if Fatty would grow his own personality, maybe even a tache? I’ve seen How to Get Ahead in Advertising. The devil on my shoulder could actually take over me. Maybe I am the bad lump? Shit, I am the bad lump.

I imagined Fatty curating All Tomorrows Parties, with a line-up featuring Fats Domino, Throbbing Gristle and other lardy bands. I designed the ATP flyer in my mind. Pixies’ Joey Santiago would get a guest slot, just for poking Deposito once. (Yeh, I did get him to touch it. And I really did say, “Must be a devil between us.” He laughed, sadly.)

Pixies’ Joey Santiago

I set up a Facebook page dedicated to Fatty Deposito, but deleted it for fear I would die and its presence would haunt people. They’d sigh, “Do you remember when she thought her lump was funny – and then the tumour killed her?”

For Fatty’s last night on earth, I took him to one of the world’s top concert venues, Buenos Aires’ impressive Teatro Colón opera house.

Actually, the opera was well boring. We walked out at the first intermission. I wondered if I’d feel lighter once the devil had been chopped out of me? Tomorrow I’d be transformed into a selfless, caring woman. It had simply been the lump poisoning my good nature.

And so Fatty Deposito was gone. Only a scar remained – and the fact that I’d had an operation in Argentina under a false name. The bigger emotional scar came from the sad fact that I later noticed Fatty lurking in pictures from five years prior, yet in that time, nobody had spotted him growing. Not one person was familiar enough with my body.

I obviously need a boyfriend. I can show him my lump in a jar.

R.I.P. FATTY DEPOSITO

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