Stuffed Boar Eatery wasn’t particularly crowded for the time of day it was. Only three tables were occupied, each person speaking softly as they conversed with one another. But Clark sat on the toilet in the bathroom with his hands over his ears. He wasn’t using the toilet, as he still had his clothes on, and Clark never pinched big loaves with any of his clothes on, not even his socks. Yet, the toilet was still full from the previous user, some of the logs islanding above the surface. He had the cold sweats, big beads running down the bridge of his nose and falling on the tiled floor. He pressed his hands to his ears harder in an attempt to cancel the sound of the diners and ease his pulsating migraine.

“Where is that blasted kid? Clark? Clark! Where are you?” Clark’s boss, Tom Crumpet, barked as he nearly smashed the bathroom door down in search of him. Clark’s head felt like it was going to burst.

Tom Crumpet bent down and looked across the stalls. He saw a pair of shoes he recognized and kicked the stall door open. “What the hell are you doing fully clothed on the toilet? Why aren’t you doing your job?”

“I’m sorry, Tom Crumpet. It’s just that I’m so sick, I doubt I can even stand. I tried telling you over the phone, but you didn’t seem – “ Clark was cut off by a wet sensation. The toilet was clogged and the rising water was absorbing into his pants. Explains why there was so much sludge in there to begin with, he thought. Clark wasn’t about to further complicate matters, so he remained silent while the brown water touched his hole.

Tom Crumpet was red-faced. “I don’t care if you called and told me that you were drowning! This isn’t some charity event, you need to work for your money! Now get out there and do your job!”

“Yes, sir,” Clark said without meeting Tom Crumpet’s eyes.

Clark waited a few seconds to see if Tom Crumpet would leave, but he just stood there. “What are you waiting for? Get up!” he screamed and clapped his hands.

Clark stood and his entire face went moss green. His stomach felt like it had been turned inside out and he pursed his lips tightly to keep the bile from spilling out of his mouth. He began walking out of the stall and yelped when Tom Crumpet kicked his lower back instead of his cheeks. “Your ass is filthy, Clark. What, did you shit your pants or something?”

“No, Tom Crumpet. Not yet,” Clark answered with shame.

A large man dressed in a pinstriped zoot suit with a feather in his wide-brimmed hat walked into the restaurant just as Clark entered the seating area. He was accompanied by three other people who looked to be either employed by the man or making an effort to become employed by him. The restaurant host promptly guided the party of four to their table, placing them in Clark’s round of tables. Clark blinked long and hard as the host sent a devious wink in Clark’s direction.

Tom Crumpet observed in the background as Clark approached the table. Mouth watery from holding back vomit, Clark swallowed and cleared his throat. “He…hel…hellaaaaaaah!”

Clark puked. Everywhere. Pink and orange oatmeal covered the entire table, spreading onto the menus with chunks landing in the complimentary glasses of water. Clark covered his mouth, but the vom started spraying like a sprinkler, causing it to fling onto the diners, staining the big man’s suit. Tom Crumpet watched in horror as it all unfolded. This enormous man is going to kill me, he despaired.

Clark spewed for fifteen seconds straight, and continued dribbling onto the front of his work uniform, soaking his clothes even more than they already were from when he sat on the toilet as it overflowed. When Clark finished, he stood there drenched and looking thirty years older with dark bags under his eyes and deep wrinkles in his face.

The suited man sat in his chair speechless, staring at the mess in front of him. His thick, black eyebrows furrowed so much that his eyes couldn’t be seen. The other table occupants looked nervously at the man, unsure of what he was going to do. The man lifted his hand and picked up some of the oatmeal substance, rubbing it between his meaty thumb and index finger. He held his pronounced, whisker-covered chin out in thought, then picked up some more vomit and lathered it between both hands as if it were soap. The man looked up at a disgraced and disgraceful Clark and scowled.

The man began giggling. His eyebrows lifted and revealed two big blue eyes. His giggling turned to laughing, a deep hearty laugh that only huge men can produce. Soon, he was laughing so hard that all of the other customers in the restaurant were also screaming with laughter. Tom Crumpet chuckled nervously, Clark stood green and motionless with his head down. The big man slapped his hands on the table, making puke fly all over the place and the man laugh even harder.

The man spoke in the deepest voice Clark had ever heard, “Son, have you ever thought about making a career change?”

Clark’s nausea subsided momentarily. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call this a career. It’s more like a job to hold me over while I finish school.”

The man waved a hand of dismissal in Clark’s direction. “Bah, school. Why don’t you come work for me instead?”

Tom Crumpet spoke up, “Now wait just a minute here. You can’t just waltz in here and start poaching my employees!”

The big man snapped his fingers and one of the men sitting at the table shot a blow dart into Tom Crumpet’s neck. Tom Crumpet fell to the ground limp as ever.

The man stood from his chair and towered over Clark. “The name’s Alastair Tusk, and I need you to join my working force. With the skills and talent you’ve demonstrated here, I won’t leave until you accept.”

Clark looked at Alastair confused, his nausea making a return. “Apologies, but what skills are you referring to?”

“Why, this, of course!” he spread his arms wide, indicating the mess before them. “The sheer quantity and texture is most impressive, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

Clark looked around, wondering if he was the only one in the restaurant that was missing the point. Before he could speak, Alastair continued, “How does a hundred grand per year sound?”

Clark started babbling, then finally managed to say, “That’s more than ten times what I currently make in a year! I don’t know if turning your offer down is even an option! Yes, yes, I accept!”

“Wonderful!” Alastair roared. “Let’s not dawdle, come with me!”

Alastair held the restaurant door open for the guests and they were greeted by a limousine waiting outside for them. Clark’s illness seemed to dissipate more by the minute as floating dollar signs filled the entirety of his consciousness. Alastair handed him a glass of expensive white wine, which he guzzled clumsily. Alastair patted Clark on the shoulder, “I get the feeling that you and I are going to be great friends in years to come.”

Within minutes, Clark’s nausea returned in full force. “I’m really sorry, Alastair, I haven’t been well for a few days. Comes and goes, apparently. Maybe it’s the motion of the limo.”

“All is forgiven, my boy. All is forgiven. As long as forgiveness is returned?”

It took a moment for Clark to realize that Alastair had asked him a question and was awaiting a response. “Oh, uh, yes. Yes, of course. All is forgiven. Though, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what it is that I’m forgiving,” he chuckled and rubbed his neck.

“You will,” Alastair said shortly, then nodded to the person sitting beside Clark.

Like lightning, the man pulled out a plastic bag and forced it over Clark’s head. Once Clark was covered, Alastair pushed a button on a remote and the bag vacuum-sealed around Clark, leaving only a small gap for him to breathe through his nose. Alastair quickly knocked Clark out with ammonia and everything went dark.

Clark awoke suspended in the air by a crane upside down. He still had the transparent vacuum-sealed bag over his head, and he realized that his mouth was full of vomit with nowhere to go. He couldn’t scream even if he wanted to. Someone shouted from the ground below. It was Alastair. “Oh, good! You’re finally awake! Pretty impressive isn’t it?”

Clark had no idea what Alastair was talking about. He looked around and saw that he was in a warehouse of some sort. Are those trees? He wondered, noticing piles of greenery on the ground. Those are trees, Christmas trees! What on earth is going on? Why am I here? Why am I hanging in mid-air? He would’ve asked these questions, but he couldn’t speak due to his mouth being full of puke and the bag still being on his head.

“Look, I’m sorry that it had to come to this. I’m an entrepreneur, you see. I leap at opportunities. When I saw the force with which you blew chunks from your body, and the consistency of those chunks…well, can you blame me that I couldn’t pass up a business idea?”

Yes, Clark thought.

“What you see before you is the first batch of Christmas trees to be sold to families all around town for Christmas that will be here in a matter of weeks. I am the owner of Tusk Trees, as I’m sure you’ve seen pop up each year around this time of year.”

Indeed, Clark had heard of Tusk Trees. It was the only Christmas tree farm his family had purchased from since he could remember. Clark began heaving at the thought that his family had put money directly into this monster’s deep pockets.

“I’m trying out a different idea this year. Think of it as an experiment, with you as my guinea pig.”

The crane operator lifted a tree into the air and brought it toward Clark, positioning it directly in front of him.

“This idea I’m trying out, which I’m tentatively calling tree flocking, will cover Christmas trees in a modified version of the vom that you graciously displayed to us at no charge in the Stuffed Boar. We’ve injected some chemicals into your body that causes your puke to turn the exact color that we’re looking for. This will, in turn, give families the illusion that they have experienced a white Christmas in their living room, but without the cold and hassle of an actual overnight snow. Don’t you see, Clark, my boy? You’re literally going to. Make. People. Happy,” Alastair finished, emphasizing his last words for effect.

“My only question to you, is are you ready to make the world a better place?” He chuckled to himself, “What am I kidding, of course you are! Let’s get this show on the road!”

At that, Alastair pushed another button on his remote, releasing the bag from his head and allowing it to fall from Clark’s head. White oatmeal projected from his mouth and covered the tree in front of him. The crane operator rotated the tree so that a fair amount of spew stuck to the tree. Once the tree was covered, it was moved back to the ground and a new tree was suspended in its place.

Clark flocked seventy-six Christmas trees in the first two hours, stopping only because his body had been drained and shriveled like a prune. Alastair allowed Clark to enjoy a snack between flockings, blowing twenty pounds of uncooked rice at his face and expecting him to catch at least some of it in his mouth. After the snack and a fresh injection, Clark began a new round of flocking.

Alastair was true to his word and followed through with Clark’s hundred thousand dollar annual salary, though Clark never saw the money because, as a salaried employee, he was always on the clock, and, therefore, was always flocking or feeding on uncooked rice. The annual salary turned out to be a mere drop in the bucket for the Christmas tree mogul. Shortly after experimenting with Clark that first year, he patented the invention. Now, whenever anyone purchases a flocked Christmas tree, a cut of the profit serves to fill Alastair’s accounts and only makes Clark’s role even more necessary.