to voice over artist Tim George
the part of Hank Peabody
Tim George's website to learn more
about his work
The Rise and Fall
of Fatboy Crumwill
from The Reeducation of a Turd Peddler
by John Henry Peabody
ID BE REMISS in my
accounting of the incidents surrounding the theft of Serras heart
if I didnt mention Fatboy Crumwill and his family. I knew Doug,
which was his real name, from school days. Mainly I avoided him, but
that wasnt always possible.
A literal shit machine, Fatboy Crumwill was a bit of case
from the moment he slid into the doctors muddy hands. Christened
Fatboy by his parents, his nickname was Doug. Dont
call me that! he would howl. Nobody calls me that!
He was not a simple asshole. Short of fingernail and somewhat
at a disadvantage with a little chin-beard and the congenital body fat
of a manatee, he was sharp enough to know that nobody should be named
after the past tense of what a shovel does. A proto-hominid grunt does
not a Christian name make.
Giving him the name Doug was a shotinnoculation, reallyadministered
by his grandparents to protect him from his given name. But they didnt
come into custody of the young bull until late in junior high. By then
the groundwork for his disease had been laid, and likely before.
Fatboys great grandfather on his fathers side
was the Reverend Stephen Crumwill, pot hunter and possessor of many
dubious titles. He was some sort of PhD., Methodist minister, geologist,
curio-broker, and archaeologist, tearing the bones of many
California Indians from the ground and selling the loot between 1870
and 1880 into the Victorian market. Even American Victorians, in places
like Amherst, were decorating their book shelves with dead Indian things,
the way militias were killing off the locals while keeping place names,
wax mannequins and antlered trophies, naming the states of the growing
country etymological constructs like Mississippi, Utah, Indiana and
Crumwill had a few papers to his name, both
published and unpublished (e.g., Fishhooks of the Fornioleño
being the cover). His curriculum vitae boasted of removing nearly thirty
tons of artifacts from what was in those days well-marked gravesa
virtual crapshoot in regards to plundering. Any fool who could find
the crossed ribs of a whale with his shovel and day-laborers was an
The reverend was also known for Crumwills Device,
a contraption carried by two men that would beam light accompanied by
a humming sound. Designed to impress the local native population with
equal parts mumbo and jumbo, the device would follow Crumwill as he
made his way across the fields and into town. Above the din of the humming,
Crumwill would read scripture in an effort to inspire awe. It took about
a month of his dragging the apparatus around the area until the ruse
One windy night, the lantern blew out in the middle of a
campaign, the hum disappearing as Crumwill flew into a rage, berating
his two associates. Suffering blows, they ran off, leaving the device
broken in the dirt and Crumwill stomping around as he attempted to hoist
what amounted to the left side of a pine wagon on to his shoulders.
Using words not associated, directly, with the Bible, Crumwill then
threw his back out. As this event was witnessed by both the native and
non-native population, his efforts to inspire awe simply produced, Ahhh!
Today, Crumwills Device, rediscovered in a storage
barn, is on display at the historical society. The cause of the humming,
though, has never been determined.
Keeping with the academic dubiousness of his great grandfather,
Fatboy ventured to make his cultural mark. At the age of twelve he was
the first kid on the block to use the term fuckhead. He
set a new standard that day. Three years later he blew up the womens
bathroom at school. It was nearly the biggest event of the academic
year, but unfortunately didnt make it into the yearbook. Eyewitness
accounts had Fatboy and companions picking through the shattered porcelain
of the john with the big adolescent locating what has now been mythically
confirmed as Shawna Viragos fresh brown one (she being junior
flags champ last seen running from the girls room). Fatboy picked
it out of the water and smoke and ran it under his nose as if it were
any other afternoon in the humidor. One version says three bites, another
says one. It was a bit of philosophical coprophilia the young man was
to help himself to repeatedly in the years to follow.
Fatboy was also a scholar. One of his main interests was
Franz Pujol a.k.a. Le Petoman. One of nineteenth century
Paris biggest acts, Monsieur Pujol bellowed tunes of the day from
a tube inserted in his rectum while accompanied by a small orchestra
(Le Petomans only box office competition in Paris at the time
was Sarah Bernhardt).
Fatboy ate it up. Six months after discovering Petoman,
he reintroduced danger into rock n roll when he founded the band
Anal Wind, the West Coasts first and only, it seems,
homage to Le Petoman. He celebrated the day by pouring a round of liquid
mercury shooters for the whole band.
The yearbook, however, did allude to Fatboys greatest
personal discoverynude modeling. The young Mr. Crumwill discovered
this neophyte pleasure his senior year in art class, and what a discovery
for him it was, as beyond his lavender-tinged corpulence he had some
fine lines and genuinely enjoyed standing in front of the class for
all to see.
Seventeen years old, with a light dusting of golden hair
across his skin and weighing in at 265 pounds, Fatboy had a direct influence
on the decision many of his classmates would make in regards to their
future as artists. And with his grades lower than average, his discipline
unexempelary, but his imaginative heart, as one counselor
put it, in the right place, toilet episode and all, Fatboy
Doug Crumwill had miraculously discovered a career for himself.
Picking up a small but steady paycheck for the last four years after
high school graduation, he found himself to be in modest demand posing
for campus art classes.
He was a big boy in all respects, but limber, and would
often treat the pupils to a little trick he had learned. As a class
came to the end, and it was time for him to re-robe, Fatboy would step
forward from the platform where he held his gesture and perform a forward
flip, putting, they say, the endo back in endomorph.
It was his interest in poetry and being a poet that led
him to get the large letters P-O-T-E across the right side of his belly.
He had accordingly been smoking bits of plastic bag mixed with tobacco
when he found his way into Hary Ishaals tattoo parlor.
Fatboys moist eyes honed in on Hary who was cleaning
his needles after having slung his twentieth skull n crossbones
that evening. His wet lips blared to Hary, I wantchyou to put
Poet right across here, Fatboy having already begun
to strip, stopping at just his shirt when he realized Hary Ishaals
Tattoo Parlor wasnt a naked place.
Alright, Hary shrugged. Twenny fi
Okay, said Fatboy, and sat in the chair. The
plastic and tobacco made for some pleasant glee.
What the big man hadnt figured on was: one, that he
would pass out, even with the needle being dragged across his belly;
two, Hary liked a little Fernet snuck into his nose drops; and, three,
Hary couldnt read to begin with, as he was a multi-lingual, non-native,
phonetic speaker of the language, in English spelling his own name H-A-R-Y.
A quick look around the shop and Fatboy would have seen that there were
only drawings, not a single word in his examples, although Hary had
managed an occasional initial here and there. For P-O-T-E he just slung
two sets of initials next to one another.
Well, then, Fatboy reasoned groggily.
`Pote it is. And it still rhymes with `know it and `feet
show it and `Longfellows. He put his shirt back on.
You got a shitter around here?
Yass, itz in the back, next to the fish tank.
Fatboy wandered off. Tell me somting first, Hary asked
How doz `Pote rime with `Longkfellows?
Fatboys demise came the day of the big brush fire
that accompanied El Fornio Highs 2006 homecoming game (known as
The Homecoming Fire).
In keeping with the dubiousness of his genetic markers,
Fatboy was that afternoon up a ravine digging for collectibles at an
old Native burial site off of Fornay land when the blaze started (like
his great grandfather, he had connections to sell misbegotten artifacts
into the black market).
Shovel in hand, Fatboy tore into the side of the canyon
and filled the Camaros trunk with dusty loot. After about an hour,
he took a break, relaxing in the front seat of the car where he hit
on his pipe packed with the old stand-by of tobacco and laundry bag
cuttings. He then ate a bag of oreos, drank a forty-ounce bottle of
Old English 800 and fell asleep with his hands in his pants.
As the fire came down the canyon, pushed by heat and pulled
by the vacuum in front of it, Doug Crumill and his big brown Camaro
were incinerated, his little chin beard disappearing first and then
his pillicock as flesh and bones vaporized. The automobile melted into
the rocks, leaving nothing but a big, black mark where the worm of a
silvery liquid slid into the earth.