He sits on the same seat on the 8.17am train every morning.
His pin striped mountainous backside spilling over one seat and his broadsheet newspaper shadowing a second.
He loudly flatuates every time the train takes a slight turn and coughs up a distasteful huff when someone dare walks past him in the crowded aisle.
Sometimes he flatuates so much there is a strange cloud that orbits him, the air blends into a mix of rotting cabbage and stale sweat.
He likes to clear his throat into a yellowing tissue a minute after the train doors open at a station, just to ward off those who attempt to sit opposite him.
When they do he kicks his battered brown leather briefcase into their shins until they give up and move.
He wallows for 43 minutes and will wildly holler to anyone if the train runs more than thirty seconds late by his watch.
I’ve watched him sit on someone that was already in his seat. The look of fear on the woman’s face as his thunderous ass lowered on her lap still haunts me today.
He has a season ticket and shiny brown shoes
He is an ass