So, this is my final installment on Metalham as we haven't seen or heard from him or his family in years. Unfortunately, I think this story will set the tone for the rest of his probably truncated lifetime.

About two years after the retirement party, my wife's grandfather passes away and we make the trip back to her hometown for the funeral. Everything goes as planned, typical funeral. The ladies of the church kindly put together a reception for everyone, complete with catering from grandpa's favorite barbecue place. So, everyone goes out to the fellowship hall and gets in line.

I allow the close family members to go through first, and then get my meal. They really pulled out all the stops, with four different kinds of meat and a variety of sauces and side dishes. In fact, the trays holding the meat were quite depleted by the time I got to them. I make my plate, and head towards our table when my compass starts spinning and I feel a strong gravitational pull to the other side of the room. Out of curiosity, I allow myself to drift in that direction and am confronted with a large mass occupying one side of a table. I put my thrusters in full reverse so as not to get drawn into a fiery re-entry, and assume orbit to observe this celestial body come to Earth.

It's Metalham, now a good c-note or so larger than the last time I saw him and oddly no guitar in sight. He occupies most of the table, with Metalmom and Metaldad orbiting each side of him. His double chin, which previously was a drooping hump below his real chin, has now completely swallowed his neck and is trying to do the same to his head. Before him is an overloaded plate with what appears to be two pounds or more of expensive barbecue meat. No sides, just a mound of smoked flesh. He had two cups in front of him, both of which appeared to be filled with soda. Metalham spears a large chunk of pricey barbecue with his fork and dunks it deep into one of the cups. When he pulls it out, I realize this cup is filled up with barbecue sauce. He shoves the corn syrup and spice laden chunk into his mouth with all the graceful etiquette of feeding a wood chipper and then repeats the process.

In an effort to be friendly, I casually say "What's up, Metalham? How you been lately?" Metalham's gaze and attention span make no detour from the bovine and porcine object of his affection. "Oh hey" he mumbles, as if his already miniscule social skills have been locked on autopilot. Metalmom and Metaldad are not eating anything, only sipping small foam cups of black coffee. Both of them stare at the table wearing the same numb, utterly defeated and humiliated countenance as the French generals who signed the armistice with Germany in 1940.

My MIL used to be a nurse in bariatric rehab and estimated his weight around 450. She encountered Metalmom in the bathroom. Metalmom nearly broke down, saying that not long after the retirement party she had finally convinced/bribed Metalham to begin taking antipsychotic meds to tone down his behavior. As it turned out, the meds were quite effective. Not only did they reduce the bizarre behaviors and obsessions down to a much more manageable level, but they kicked his already herculean appetite into warp drive. She stated that now Metalham was now much easier to deal with, albeit still unemployed and gaining mass at an exponential pace. Metaldad had basically given up, spending more and more time at work and making fewer efforts to play any active role in Metalham's life.

My overall impression was that both the unmedicated and medicated versions of Metalham were bad, but at least the latter created a more peaceful existence for all concerned. And that is our last experience with Metalham. He would now be in his mid 30's, if he is still among the living.