The Grovite.

Marty used to be an average weight but now he’s twenty four stone. Someone made the connection with the hormone he was feeding the chickens. He was recommending it to everyone. It was called Grovite and increased a chicken breast by at least three sizes. One time the chickens got so big they couldn’t walk and had to be literally lifted off the field and carried to the factory.
Marty didn’t just like to eat the breasts. He ate the wings too. And the legs. He was living off it all.
One day he called to Michael’s.  Said he had a spare bag of Grovite left over and Michael should use it on his own animals. Michael said a polite thanks and brought the bag inside. Later, Michael’s wife‚ Mary-Anne‚ landed home and asked him what was in the bag. He told her it was Grovite and she went mad. Said she’d heard all about it and seen Marty on his way up the road and there wasn’t enough room for her to pass him out with the car cos he was bloody big. “Throw it out!” she said. Michael acquiesced and threw it over the wall outside.
Days passed and they ate their own healthy chicken. Listened to the radio and went to mass. They came home on Sunday afternoon and sat at the table. Boiled the kettle and it began to rain. Mary-Anne suggested that they let the dog inside before he got caught in the shower. They opened the door and called him. “Darkie! Come in.” But Darkie didn’t show. They shrugged and left the door open for a few minutes to allow him to come “in his own time.”  Mary-Anne sipped tea. Michael looked at his watch. Darkie struggled in on weak rattling legs, tired and confused and terribly different. Mary-Anne screamed. There’d been a monstrous transformation. The dog’s head was huge. Too heavy to carry. It was like a bowling ball attached to a poodle. He just about made it to the corner then fell over, breathing heavy. They didn’t know what to do. Something monumental had happened.

Michael ran outside. Looked over the wall. The whole bag of Grovite had been devoured.

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