THE BLOB KING
by william pauley III
While it’s true the great horrors of the Eighth Block Tower ended under the crushing weight of The Blob King—we must remember, it all began with a snot-nosed kid named Benny.
Benny wasn't a resident of Eighth Block, not in the beginning. Back then, he was just a minor nuisance, some bored mischievous child looking to get a rise out of the poor folks living there.
He lived to torment.
It started innocently enough, I suppose, with disappearing newspapers and shoelaces tied into impossible knots. The occasional knuckle to the arm and stolen wallet. You know, kid stuff.
Still, it was a form of abuse.
Well, playful abuse, at least in the eyes of the residents, who all seemed to encourage his bad behavior. Even my own parents have told me (and with an unnerving nostalgic gleam in their eyes) that they've never felt more alive than when they were at the mercy of one of Benny's cruel pranks.
Yes, cruel. You see, in time, those playful torments, like malignant tumors bubbling in deep flesh, swelled into something far more sinister.
One resident—Charles "Chuck" Piker, the brunch specialist down at the Tower Cafeteria—nearly lost his life after an incident involving a walk-in freezer and a neodymium magnet Benny stole from a local construction site. When Chuck's co-workers finally found him, his skin was the color of Neptune and his thumb was frozen firmly to the inside of his mouth. Once he was thawed enough to pull the fist from his face, all he said was, “Boy oh boy, that Benny’s some joker, eh?,” then let out a hearty chuckle.
To this day, I’ve yet to meet another resident who finds Benny's behavior odd or unpleasant. They all seem to find some aberrant joy in the chaos he brings to their lives. Is it just that it’s a welcome distraction from their mundane daily routines? I can't say for sure, but it’s the only sense I can make of it.
Anyway, not long after the freezer coffin gag, Benny pulled his most outrageous prank yet: He declared our apartment building his kingdom.
He told the residents to fashion a throne out of their own furniture, ordering it to be so colossal in size it would only fit up on the rooftop. The residents collected all their fine jewelry, anything that sparkled, to form an ornate crown. After it was assembled, there was a small ceremony with no speech.
Then there he sat, above us all—the almighty king of Eighth Block.
Of course, his demands continued, and the residents bowed to his every word. He asked for their favorite books, but instead of reading them, he just had everyone place them in piles around his throne. He did the same with their records and movies and anything else that brought even an ounce of joy or comfort to their lives. On cold nights, he’d demand their blankets. On warm nights, he’d tear them up so the residents could use the fabric to fan him. It became their job to serve him, and they never once got anything in return for their loyalty or services provided. Their only reward was the pleasure of knowing they satisfied their master’s request and the warm feeling that swelled inside their bodies as he glared at them.
Before long, all of their most prized possessions were there on the rooftop, piled up and unused—pointless ornaments decorating a pointless kingdom. The entire building had been emptied, except for the contents of the residents’ refrigerators and pantries, all of which were slowly depleting due to the growing appetite of our budding Blob King.
In an effort to please his majesty, one resident (who shall remain nameless) gifted him a small vile of tower neon, an extremely potent liquid extracted from the walls of our irradiated apartment building. This set off a bizarre chain of events that eventually gave the king his new name.
It was also around this time that I was born.
Now, before we go any further, I must confess that I too contributed to this particular vicissitude. I was born into this corrupt kingdom, and my parents always insisted these behaviors were normal and that this was simply our place within the movement. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized my parents might've been wrong. I’ll be twenty years old next Tuesday, but the way things are going, I’m not sure I’ll ever see it.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The king became obsessed with tower neon. From the moment the liquid first absorbed into his skin, he was addicted. He couldn’t get enough, so he commanded the residents (myself and my parents included) to extract more of the tranquilizing liquid so he could remain in a constant state of absorption.
He consumed…
…and consumed…
…more than any human ever had.
Over time, his once small frame gradually expanded, until each of his limbs thickened into mighty stumps and his skin stretched into all sorts of impossible shapes. Soon, he’d gotten so absurdly large we all thought he couldn’t possibly grow any larger, and that’s when he began sprouting new limbs and organs—legs, arms, fingers, eyeballs, and even body parts that weren’t human, like beaks, tentacles, pads, paws, and claws—pointless ornaments decorating a pointless king.
Within the frame of my lifetime, he quite literally contorted into an amorphous blob, right before our eyes. His body continued to mutate and expand, to the point it spilled over all four edges of the rooftop, enveloping the building, hugging the sides of its seven-stories until every window belonging to the uppermost floors were obscured, blanketing the residents in absolute darkness.
Perpetual twilight.
Still, the residents never complained. They took comfort in the warmth of his sagging skin, feeling safe and protected inside their “benevolent” ruler’s flaccid embrace.
The sounds of the bustling city have since faded into a gentle, rhythmic hum that resonates continuously from the building's buckling walls, and this hum has lulled the starving residents into a sedated state, each dreaming of a future they will never see.
Me? Well, I’m here too, in my parents’ ever-darkening apartment, listening as their weakened breaths whisper praises of their mighty Blob King, and watching as the cracks in the plaster spread, just before his magnificent growth robs us of our daylight.
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The Blob King
© William Pauley III, 2025
All rights reserved.
This story was published as part of the Small & Scary / Big & Beastly Substack event. Click here to read all the other wonderful stories.
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