Patrick, "The Iron Gut" is a champion gurgitator in the world of competitive eating, a real larger than life figure, literally and figuratively. That is, until he is rudely knocked off of his throne by a new, lean competitor. It seems like there will be no place for fat men in eating contests anymore, until Patrick decides to increase his gluttony to new heights with a mysterious drug he procures from an attractive black cat who can't keep her hands off of his flab...

***I'm relaunching this story as "Pigs is Pigs" since the 'Third Circle' shared universe did come to pass, but not quite in the way I initially imagined it***

For those of you not in the know, the stories that share the same universe with this one are "Bigger Than He Bargained For" (which you can start reading right here) and an upcoming story, "Freaky Friday" which you can access early in pre-release here on my Patreon
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The Third Circle
Vision
By Shalion

Patrick “Iron Gut” Devlin sat at the end of the long table atop the stage not just for propriety as champion hot dog eater fifteen years running, but also because his massive ass would have fit poorly between the other contestants. The massive pig, both literally and in practice, sat with a smug confidence knowing that half of the eyes in the crowd were on him, his thick hands resting on a great mound of a belly that suited his title and his lifestyle perfectly.

“Folks, this year’s Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest will begin in five minutes!” shouted the organizer over the loud speakers. “Come on in folks and watch Patrick the Iron Gut himself defends his absolute domination of the hot dog universe and title of Epic Gurgitator for the fifteenth year in a row! This mountain of a man has a hunger as big as the belly suggests and knows no mercy. Will any of today’s challengers be able to bring the titan down? You’ll just have to watch and see…”

Patrick grinned smoothly and raised a meaty arm to wave at the crowd as the announcer lavished on about his title as if he were talking about a pro-wrestling star. He even felt good about the many jabs at his weight from over the speakers, Patrick knew how he looked and was proud of it, it was part of his character and really who he was at this point, and even his talent manager was enthusiastic about playing up his weight as a selling point at every opportunity. Some people argued that putting a man who weighed over six-hundred and fifty pounds up as a major face for the competitive eating world sent the wrong message, but Patrick thought his detractors just did not get the joke. These people, at least three hundred now who were out in front and watching him, were here to see a spectacle, they wanted to see a fat man eat like there was no tomorrow, even if most of them would not admit it. Was he eating himself to death, as some insisted? Well the same people who said that often forgot that he had weighed over six-hundred pounds since his mid twenties. Well, he was forty-one now, and it had not killed him yet, had it? (As much as his doctor liked to preach otherwise)

A microphone was shoved in the face of the corpulent pig. “Mr. Iron Gut, do you have anything to say to your fans today?”

First Patrick gave a good, piggish snort into the mic, he had been practicing on it for months, then he said, “I just want to say that I’m proud that I’ll be able to add a fifteenth Nathan’s belt to my trophy case today, but I would’ve thought by now that they’d’ve made one I could actually wear!” A roar of laughter from the audience, “And also… I’m hungry as hell! Let’s get this show on the road!” Another roar drowned out the next words of the announcer as he went down the line at the table. Patrick took a moment to glance at the competition, creasing his chin into the massive neck roll that hung below it.

A lot were newcomers and Patrick dismissed them out of hand. ‘Heavy Hoss’ Peterson was back after a two year absence, but Patrick knew he was only gunning for second place with Joey “Deep Dish” Bertoletti. Both of them were at least seven dogs behind him at the five minute mark in regional competitions barely a month ago. As for the new faces, there certainly was a variety, including people from out of the country, insofar as Patrick could judge by their looks. They came in all shapes and sizes, from rail thin to real fatasses, but Patrick had at least two-hundred pounds on the next fattest guy on the bench, a hippo who spoke with a British accent. Patrick was already savoring his victory, even more than the hotdogs he could smell in the back behind the big Nathan’s banner; he actually was starving, having eaten nothing for the past twenty-four hours. A fifteen year championship sounded real good. Who knew, maybe Nathan’s would finally get over themselves and bring him on as a spokesman after this. But if the hot dog company would not, well there were still plenty of other titles Patrick wore: pie-eating, chili, chocolate, pickles, popcorn shrimp, baby-back ribs, even tamales and poutine! No, Patrick had a broad spectrum of talent, but hot dogs were his longest running and most well known winning streak, but only because most of the others had not even existed ten years ago.

Finally, the steaming platters were brought forward, one per contestant, each with a mound of artfully stacked hotdogs, free of toppings, and more than enough to satisfy the twelve minute time limit on the contest, though Patrick had a reputation of sometimes finishing what he was given when contest organizers underestimated the extent of his gluttony. Nathan’s seemed to have fixed the matter by piling on an extra dozen or so dogs on top of Patrick’s platter, making his rather taller and sloppier than the others’, but the pig could not have cared less and oinked enthusiastically for the crowd when his was set down in front of his burgeoning midsection pressed tightly against the table. The crowd cheered and Patrick noticed the many “Gurgitator” and “Iron Gut” T-shirts that people were wearing.

When the bell rang, however, the pig’s attention snapped into a tight focus on the big platter of dogs and buns in front of him, already his thick hands were both reaching out to cram his eager maw. The first few minutes past largely as expected. Patrick crammed his face full as much out of hunger as deliberate practice, giving each dog only two or three bites a piece before swallowing. Still, Patrick did not take the lead at first, instead relying on his huge capacity and stamina to secure the win, and after just a few minutes, people were either tapping out or so far behind they could not hope to catch up. At the five minute mark, half of the contestants were gone, with one noisily disqualifying himself off behind stage. Patrick had already eaten twenty-five dogs, a great start to beating his personal record of forty-four in twelve minutes. After warming up, the fattened hog was steadily eating through the rest of his platter two at time. ‘Heavy Hoss’ was using the same technique, but could not match Patrick’s pace and was already down by eight. ‘Deep Dish’ Bertoletti was eating them singly, but was still behind by five dogs. Patrick was feeling veritably ‘high on the hog’ as he packed his mouth and intestines full of bread and sausages. That is until the eight minute mark came and went and he took another look at the score chart.

Joey and ‘Hoss’ were right were Patrick expected them, but there was another high score on the board, and somehow, it was already at forty! Patrick took just a moment to look down the table, hard to do subtly with a neck as thick around as many people’s waists. The high score was, unbelievably, matched to a rail thin marten named Ryang Shin Il; was that Japanese or something? The marten was doing something weird with the hot dogs, separating the sausage from the bun, breaking it in half and swallowing it before dunking the bun in his water cup and swallowing that as well. It disgusted Patrick to see him abusing the food like that and he moved with an incredible, machine-like efficiency. But far worse was that Patrick was down by four already and the little guy showed no signs of slowing down. ‘Where does he put it all?!’ thought Patrick furiously, but had to bring himself back into focus. He could not afford to slow down now.

But by the ten minute mark, Patrick was slowing down. Even his great belly had it limits and he was finding it harder and harder to pack the dogs down the back of his throat. He leaned back from the table, in an attempt to give his aching belly more room in the time he spent chewing on his dogs, two in each fist. But even as he tried, he fell further behind, and the further behind he fell as the seconds creaked by, the wilder and crazier the crowd got.

“Ryang has just pushed past the old world record!” screamed the announcer, “We’re watching history in the making, people! With ninety seconds left, how much more can the little guy take?!”

It was a lot more, as things turned out. Patrick smashed his fat fist onto the table as the buzzer sounded, his mouth still stuffed with hot dogs he was struggling to force down. Even pushing himself, Patrick lurched past his old record at forty-eight hot dogs, but this Ryang guy had somehow managed to make sixty hot dogs disappear in twelve minutes. The roars from the crowd as this unknown, stick thin guy usurped the “Iron Gut” in such a decisive manner were unheard of in Patrick’s experience. The announcer went over to lift up the guy’s stick of an arm and the crowd cheered again as Ryang stood up to reveal a pregnant pooch of a belly on his long, slender body. Patrick just looked on at the crowd emptily, not believing what had just happened. Even though he got second place and a token $500 check, even though he had broken his old record, what used to be a world record, he was an after thought from that point until he walked off the stage and back to his car. The fall from glory was faster than Patrick could ever have imagined and it started the very moment that buzzer sounded.


There would be no spokesman offer from Nathan’s, naturally, and the upset to the world of competitive eating went on for weeks on end as Ryang went on interview after interview. The youtube video he made of his water dunking technique and the months he had spent perfecting it, literally unpacking the problem of eating hot dogs as quickly and efficiently as possible as if it were a physics problem, even went viral. While Patrick ‘Iron Gut,’ former champion, was also asked on interviews, he was almost exclusively asked about what he knew and thought of Ryang, and how he felt about losing. After a couple interviewers asked if he planned on losing weight after this, he stopped scheduling interviews altogether.

A few weeks after that, Patrick was lying on his back in bed while a prostitute he had hired sat next to him and stroked his cock. She was a clean-smelling red husky, Patrick had a thing for thick fur, and she was delightfully nervous about reaching her hand under his ball-bustlingly huge gut. Even on his back, the heavy, pronounced paunch sat resolutely on his thick thighs. It was actually really hard for Patrick to reach near his groin himself. He used a long handled loofa to wash himself and instead of masterbating, well he did this.

“I’m not sure if I feel anything yet.” said the girl nervously as she poked around underneath the belly which was probably heavier than the girl was herself.

Patrick loved the way his body intimidated and mildly disgusted the young woman, it made him rock hard underneath all the weight. He spent a lot of time looking for bitches like this, repelled by his weight, and yet willing to come home with him anyways for the money. It was too bad that girls like this always got used to him sooner or later, it was never as much fun then as it was the first time. The little sounds she made while her fingers probed blindly under his flab drove the pig crazy, even as he calmly laid on his back, his tits - larger than hers, by the way - pressed under his chin as his belly piled high on top of his frame. “Try reaching in deeper, you’re still on my thigh.” said Patrick.

The woman complied, pushing her arm under the tremendous gut to the elbow, and then, at Patrick’s encouragement, past that. “Is this is?” she asked with no small amount of exasperation, but she had no idea that what she was fingering was, in fact, Patrick’s FUPA, which had grown to a thickness that matched the length of his shaft. She did not know it, but her pinky was just coming into contact with the tip of his cock. Patrick was so engorged that he could have come almost immediately, but he held on for a moment longer. “Below that… yeah, shove your hand right in there…” Patrick grunted as she finally wrapped her fingers around his shaft, and at this point the poor girl was nearly pressing her face into the side of his belly and undoubtedly getting a good whiff of the particular smell he had under there, no matter how much he washed himself, and he had not bothered getting himself too clean for this particular encounter. The pig oinked and grunted as he came hard in her hand, his load filling the crease under his FUPA and between his thighs, where his junk was constantly compressed. He sweated and felt his heart pounding hard in his chest as the girl withdrew her whole arm from within him with effort, leaving a sticky, slick trail across his thigh and under his belly.

“Is… Is that all?” she asked, turning her head away from his bloated figure.

Patrick waited until his heavy breathing subsided somewhat before lifting his head so he could look at her over his left man-boob. “Nah, baby. We got what, three more hours?” She sighed and in what seemed like an attempt from her, awkwardly leaned an arm against the pile of belly rising beside her. Her elbow sunk in, but she tried to avoid pressing her whole body against him. Patrick already felt himself growing again. “You do oral, babe?” he asked

She stiffened, “N-no, I… I don’t think so…” she said shakily even though she had said as much before she had gotten into his car, before she had seen quite how obese he was. The thought of the young girl shoving her head into the odiferous confines under his gut was sending Patrick crazy again.

“How about for double?” he asked. The girl bit her lip. “Time and a half?” he said and then he reached over and slapped the far side of the husky’s tight ass, quite intentionally causing her to lose her balance and press the side of her slim body into his mountainous man-flesh. She coughed as she tried not to jerk away from him. Jesus, she was fantastic!

“Go take a shower first.” she said finally and to her credit, she barely flinched as Patrick ran his hand up her smooth flank to grope her chest as well as pull her closer to him.

“Fair enough.” laughed the six-hundred pound hog. He was at least having one good night, and later the girl performed admirably with plenty a cough and hesitant shake to increase his pleasure.

Patrick was gentlemanly enough to give the bitch a ride home after he paid her. Despite how he was turned on by how repulsed she was by the feel and scent of his body, he never once let the girl know how he was aware of her body language. He told her she had done a good job and that he’d had a great time - and he had at that - and after the money was safely in hand and they were walking out the door, she had had enough grace to lie and say it was good for her too. With the exorbitant pay over what they had initially agreed on, it was not hard to convince her to agree to come back next week en route.

Patrick was not surprised when the girl’s directions led to a sad looking tenement in the inner city. He stopped, but as the husky-girl was gathering her things and getting out, a man on the street, a rather scruffy looking fox in a loose Hawaiian shirt, seemed to recognize her and began walking towards the car. The girl froze with her hand on the door handle.

“Want me to drive away?” Patrick suggested, not sure what to make of the situation.

“N-no. It’s… alright.” she said and took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. Then she got quickly out of the car.

Patrick did not move. He might not be above prostitution, but he was not the type of guy to let violence happen right in front of him. The hog knew his chances in a fight were pretty low if it lasted more than twenty seconds or so, but he was actually pretty strong, not surprising since he carried around a quarter ton of weight everywhere he went. He watched as the girl met with the man and spoke briefly before she handed him some bills. “Oh jeez, is this her pimp?” thought Patrick, suddenly regretting sticking around. He was just about to turn the car back on when the fox grabbed the girl’s wrist. Patrick heard, “What about for last week?” She did not cry out, but the pig saw her try and fail to tug her arm free of the man.

Knowing he was being stupid, Patrick still opened his door and yanked himself out of the car, his belly scraping against the steering wheel. “Hey!” shouted Patrick as he started walking around the vehicle towards the struggling pair. He was not exactly good with words, especially in a tough situation like this.

The fox, a man in his thirties and lean in the way that only a rough life can manage, reacted quickly, his free hand diving into his pocket as he faced the fattened pig. Patrick stopped in his tracks, wishing suddenly that his chivalrous instincts had not kicked in. The man, however, seemed to scrutinize him in the amber street light and then his eyes brightened in a moment. “Hey, ain’t you “Iron Gut?” Pat “Iron Gut?”

“Y-yeah…” said Patrick unsurely. To be recognized at a time like this… well then again, he was highly recognizable, even from a distance or in dim light was he not?

The fox’s hand left his pocket. “Man… I can’t believe my bitches be doing the “Iron Gut” hisself. Come on over here, you fat bastard.”

Patrick relaxed slightly, at least it seemed less likely that he would be shot dead now. He reluctantly walked over towards the fox and the slender whore, consoling himself that maybe this situation could at least be talked out now. When he was within arm’s length the fox, however, the man in the Hawaiian shirt jabbed the pig low in the belly with a sucker punch. Patrick was surprised, but seeing as the fox struck him in a spot with at least two feet of padding, he hardly felt it and his weight was such that he did not even move him a centimeter with the quick jab. Patrick began to clench a fist, but the fox was already laughing, slapping his knee with his free hand.

“Jesus, are you fucking huge! Felt like sockin’ play-dough. What are you, like eight-hundred pounds or somethin’?”

Patrick crossed his arms and snorted as a response, and he made a point to glare at where the fox was still holding the girl by the wrist.

The fox did notice and he let go of her with a grin. “Aw, come on man, bitches be crazy, you know that.” The girl took a step back from the man, but did not go far, instead just meekly looking at the ground. Patrick did feel bad for her, but did not think that he could do anything more for her at this point. Mostly, he just wanted to go home now. But the fox seemed like he was not done with him yet. “Hey, hey, “Iron Gut,” my man. I watch all your shit, you know.” he went on, “I couldn’t believe how that skinny-ass asia-nigga took you down! I was like ‘What da fuck?!’”

Patrick could not help but snort in derision. Even here, it seemed. “Yeah, tell me about it. But he won fair and square.”

“No man, that’s what I tryin' to say.” He reached out and tapped the front of Patrick’s prominent belly again, playfully this time. “I think that sucka cheated. Me and my boys said, ‘There’s no way that nigga can eat that much! He’s gotta be on drugs or somethin’.”

Even though it had been almost two months now, the loss still stung badly and the pig was sour over what would have, should have, been his life’s greatest achievement. “Well, I don’t know about any drugs that would make you eat like that…” said Patrick, but already the door was opening. Could Ryang have cheated? Patrick had never seen anyone eat like that in his life after all, and a part of his mind still refused to believe that a rail like that marten could really be the new face - and body - of the competitive eating scene.

The fox snorted, losing some of his starstruck posture. “Maybe you don’t, Iron Gut, but I got a guy who does. He said he knows how that skinny guy did it.”

Patrick uncrossed his arms. Suddenly the girl standing next to him was the least thing on his mind. “Well, how did he do it? What drug did he take?”

The fox scratched behind an ear. “Eh… I don’t ‘member the name of the shit, but my boy, he knows a guy whose all up in weird shit like that.” The fox looked Patrick up and down again, “Man, it’d be sweet as hell if you got that last belt. They’s already talking shit about fat asses like you on TV, saying shit like your stomach can’t expand as much ’n shit. It’s all bullshit. I mean, jeez look at you! You look like you could eat a whole damn cow if you wanted.” The fox sidled up to Patrick suddenly, putting an arm around his shoulder, or at least as much as he could reach. “Listen, this guy… he’s real private-like, but if you give me your number, I can maybe get him to give ya a call. No promises, mind.”

Patrick desperately wanted to believe this street fox. That more than anything convinced him to pull the pen out of his pocket. As he was writing, he spared a glance at the husky-girl, still standing, mute this entire time, and looking at her feet. “What about her?” he asked before handing the note over.

The fox slapped the pig on the back, sending a nice shockwave traveling across the whole surface of his plump body. “I’ll give the bitch a break for tonight, just for you, my man.” he said, grinning a fox’s grin.

It was the best that could be hoped for. Patrick was not out the save the world. “Thanks.” was all he said as he handed over his number. The fox quickly made it disappear into a pocket.

“If you like her, I’ll treat her good, Iron gut.” said the fox and Patrick wondered if he noticed how much he had paid for her attention this evening. “But I wanna see you back on TV, man. What’cha been doing for the past month? Hangin’ out in your crib? Do that, and I’ll send her back over an’ make sure she does whatever it is you want her to do.”

Patrick took a deep breath, looking again at the skinny, helpless girl. “Hmm… that sounds nice… very nice.”


Patrick received the call sooner than he would have expected. Less than a week had past since the encounter with the pimp before Patrick received an unlisted phone call while he was ‘working out.’ That is, while he was steadily devouring the second of two extra-large meat-lover’s pizzas while sitting on the couch watching Netflix. Patrick tended to skip breakfast in favor of eating a massive mega-meal in the evening. It helped stretch out his stomach, the pig believed, so in a sense, he was “working out,” at least where it mattered in his life.

After wiping the grease out of his chin roll, Patrick lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he asked.

“Are you Iron Gut?” asked a woman, surprising Patrick.

“Yeah, I am. Do… you have business with me?” asked the pig, suddenly not sure this was the call he had been waiting for.

She tittered slightly, “Only if you have business with me, Mr. Iron Gut.”

Patrick swallowed. His oversized stomach was suddenly seething. “Do you know anything about Ryang Shin Il?” he asked desperately.

But he was met with outright laughter over the phone. “Only that you’ll never ever beat him, Mr. Iron Gut. But I do know about about you, big boy.”

This woman sounded so calm and authoritative. Patrick hated it. “He cheated!” he flung uselessly at her as his last hope died in his fattened breast.

The phone was silent for a moment, but it felt so long that Patrick was afraid that the woman had hung up. Then she said finally, “That boy did not cheat, but what he did do was completely transform the world of eating contests.” She inhaled, “And that world, Mr. Iron Gut, does not have a place for you, any longer.”

It felt like she had stabbed him in the heart. It was his darkest fear, and one that he had refused to even think about, but this person on the other end of a blocked number had somehow found the hidden demon in his mind, and thrown it in his face. The hog could not even speak at first and he felt his eyes watering as he remembered the coverage he had been ignoring, the technique that Ryang had applied and was already being copied by other enterprising young people, and even veterans like himself were changing their ways, changing or dropping off the map altogether. But this, eating, was all he had. He had nothing else.

She spoke again into his silence. “But I have something that might help.”

Patrick cocked an ear, “What is it?” he said in monotone. He felt numb.

“Only something I think you’ll find particularly interesting. Meet me at the bar on 7th street and Central tomorrow evening. I don’t think I’ll have any problem spotting you…” After that, the phone went silent.

Patrick let the phone fall from his hand. Then he began thinking, but really, he already knew what he was going to do.


The bar turned out to be a dive called, “The Rotten Apple.” Patrick had to park on a street three blocks away as it lacked a proper lot. He hauled himself down the street, puffing heavily by the time he walked in the door, leaning against the frame and making the wood creak with his weight. He struggled to jam himself into a booth, shoving the table all the way to the other side and trying to catch his breath. He ordered beer while he waited…

Six beers, four plates of hot wings, three mozzarella stick appetizers and two trips to the bathroom later, someone nonchalantly slid into the booth just across from him. It was past midnight.

The person was a woman, he saw, and fairly slender, which explained how she was able to fit into the meager space left by Patrick’s jutting belly, though she did not have much in the chest department, barely an A-cup. The woman was a cat with startlingly pitch black fur and striking green eyes, iridescent in the dim light. She had a tendency to purr softly as she spoke. “I hope I haven’t kept you long.” she said without greeting.

Patrick let one of his hands rest on the great swell of belly fat between his heavy man-tits. “I’ve been keeping myself busy.” he snorted, “You have a name? I’m not generally fond of this cloak and dagger stuff.”

She laughed that same arrogant laugh of hers. “You can call me Lilith.”

“Alright, Lilith.” said the pig, calmer now, or maybe it was just the booze. “What have you got to show me?”

The cat studied him without answering right away. Her eyes lingered on his chest, where his thick, pancake tits stood out prominently in his shirt and the wideness of the huge belly jutting out from under them. “Maybe I ought to be asking you what you can show me, hm? Mr. Iron Gut?”

Patrick’s eyes widened in bafflement. Now he had heard of girls who were into big guys, but he’d never met one, despite being a grade D celebrity. He had always assumed those girls sort of topped out at around 400 pounds or so anyways, and he definitely was not sure he could get along with a girl who was actually into him anyways. He sniffed loudly and averted his eyes from her piercing ones. He covered his mouth with his hand, saying, “I came out here because I thought you might have…” he dropped his voice, “Something that might be able to help me…” he swallowed, what was he even asking for? “Perform better.” He shook his head, “If this was a hoax, I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” she tittered, “After all this time spent waiting? I know you don’t really want to get out of that chair and walk all the way back down the street. And what would you be going back to anyways?”

Patrick frowned. He already hated this woman, he hated any woman who spoke to him like this. But his double-wide ass remained in place. After a minute or so, he spoke, “I can go back. I can learn how to dunk the buns in water just like he does.” Why was he talking about this? As if she were some kind of life coach.

“But you don’t want to.” she said cuttingly. Was he that obvious? Or was she just especially canny? “You haven’t changed in fifteen years, and you don’t want to start now.” She reached up and stroked the long whiskers on her face. “And do you really think you can loose all that weight? After so long?” Her eyes tore into him again, “It’s true, you know. How the fat constricts the stomach? It really should have been obvious, but then, eating contests never really were about maximizing performance, were they.” She shrugged, “It was all about the spectacle, or at least they used to be.”

Patrick bit his thick finger. He could not help himself. Who was this woman? How did she know so much about him, not that she had said anything that could not be gathered relatively easily about him, but she seemed to know his heart before even himself. The pig felt like he was on the verge of breaking down, right in front of this stranger. “Please… please tell me that you have something, anything…”

But she just grinned at him with that horrible, knowing grin. “Come outside and meet me in the back…”

She got up, and Patrick followed her helplessly. He really felt as though he had no choice at the moment, even if she had somehow gone through all of this trouble just to have him mugged in a blind alley. But there were no muggers in the back, though the alley behind the bar reeked with refuse. “Can you finally show me now?” asked the pig, looking around and absently rubbing the front of his large, hanging belly.

The cat, her eyes gleaming in the moonshine, opened her purse and withdrew a syringe. Patrick was not surprised and took it when she handed it to him. The fluid it contained was clear, totally nondescript. He looked back at her. “What is it?” he asked with a cutting seriousness.

“Nothing you would be able to remember, even if I told you, Mr. Iron Gut.” grinned the she-cat. “But this will definitely improve your ‘performance’” she said the last word in a mocking tone.

Patrick grunted, still fingering the tiny syringe. It looked exactly the same as the insulin injectors he had used for his diabetes before he had gotten his blood sugar under control with drugs instead. “How does it work?” he asked.

The cat stepped forward and plucked the syringe out of his thick fingers. “It requires weekly injections and you’ll notice a difference in about three weeks, but if you stop taking it, the effects will wear off right away.”

“But what are the effects, exactly?” asked Patrick, concerned now that he was going to have to have an ongoing relationship with this woman to keep getting this stuff, assuming it even worked.

She cocked her head, grinning, “You’ll notice increased hunger first, but that’s a plus for you.” she winked at him, and again, she was grabbing his bloated form with her eyes, “But the real effect is that it will change the way you metabolize food. When you take this, you’ll be able to process food much faster, fast enough to matter in a contest.” She reached out and grabbed a hand full of doughy belly fat suddenly, and she was purring loudly as she spoke, “I’m not saying your… rather prodigious belly will empty as fast as you fill it, but this should give you enough of an edge to regain your spotlight.”

Patrick brushed off her hand. It sounded plausible, even if it was also too good to be true. He clenched his teeth, was he really going to do this? “Are there any side effects?” he asked.

Lilith handed him back the syringe. “A few… But you’re already acquainted with the most significant one.” she reached out with both hands and grasped either side of the pig’s grand belly, and shook it side to side gently. “…Weight gain.” she breathed. Her slim stomach was inches away from his burgeoning front.

Patrick gingerly took a step back from the woman’s groping hands, feeling uncomfortable. He breathed out a sigh, however, he had been expecting her to tell him his balls would fall off, or something. He was not worried in the slightest about a few extra pounds. “I’m fine with that. Anything else?”

The black cat clasped her paws together under her slim breasts. “It might aggravate any existing health conditions…” she said in a more disinterested tone. She reached up with one claw and picked behind one of her large, gleaming white fangs. “Do you have diabetes, by any chance, Mr. Iron Gut?”

A low oink escaped him. He did not usually tell people, but now did not seem like the time to lie. “Type Two.” he said simply, now grasping the syringe in a fat fist.

The cat finished with her tooth, but left her paw by her cheek. “Expect that to get worse.” she said with half lidded eyes. “It’s not going to help your cholesterol either.”

Patrick grasped the syringe more tightly. He did not have a good history with his cholesterol or blood pressure either, he was already using blood thinners. His doctor always told him he was taking his own life into his hands by continuing to be so heavy. Was he seriously going to put his health at risk now, and possibly get even heavier? When he had reached his current weight when he was twenty-six, his doc had told him to lose it or he would not live into his forties. Well, here he was now forty-one, but undeniably, his body was not in the best shape, never mind his physical shape. He had gotten diabetes before he was thirty and he had already gotten a stint placed in one of his coronary arteries. It was a very private pain and Patrick did his best never to think about it, nor his long term health prospects and it was not just because his public image was built on being so obese, and being a figurative pig for the cameras. At this point, weighing so much was a part of his identity and he would never be able to let go of it, not even to save his life. But this… this drug she was telling him would make everything worse, almost certainly take years off of his future…

Patrick relaxed his grip on the syringe. But he would have no future without it, not one worth living anyways. “I’ll deal with it.” he said resolutely. He looked down, then back up at the cat. “How much is it going to cost me?”

“Hmm… cost…?” said the feline and she sauntered closer to him, placing her paw once again atop the great mound, she rubbed the curve of it smoothly, causing Patrick to shudder. “A favor.” she purred, looking up to meet his eyes again.

“A favor?!” said the pig incredulously. “Look, Lilith, if you want sex, you can just come out and say it.”

She snorted and pushed with force into Patrick’s soft belly. Walking away a couple steps, she said, “Well, I was just sort of expecting that.” she turned back to face him, “Don’t you get enough pussy in your life?”

“Ha, ha, very funny.” said Patrick rolling his eyes. He wanted so much to tell her he would never fuck her, to rub it in her smug face. “But I get more than you’d think with this body.” He said, but the truth was he would do even that to get this drug, this promise that he could keep going on as he had been before, that he could keep his world from falling apart.

“Oh, how studly.” smirked Lilith, “But was it bought and paid for, I wonder?” She licked a paw and brushed the fur on her cheeks as Patrick fumed silently. “But it doesn’t really matter. That’s not the favor I was talking about, but it could be a side item if you just want to keep me happy.” she winked, “I’ll tell you when and how you can pay me back.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” said Patrick sarcastically. He was still wondering if he would have to fork over his ego and sleep with this creepy, arrogant woman at some point in the future. “I’m not going to murder anyone, by the way.” he said only half kidding.

She laughed, “Oh it won’t be that. I promise.” She licked her paw again.

“Hmph…” grunted Patrick now pocketing the syringe. “Well, aside from the sexual coercion, it’s awful nice of you to keep giving me this drug for just a favor. What, am I going to be a guinea pig for some illegal experiment or something?”

The cat snorted a laugh, “Well, if that were true, I’d need you to come to me for regular check ups.” she was staring at his body again. “I won’t need any checkups from you, if you don’t want, Pat.” she leveled her eyes at him, “But I will be needing two-hundred dollars a week, in addition to the favor, of course.”



Two months later, Patrick was driving down through Mississippi, heading for a crawdad eating contest, his first contest since his disastrous loss against Ryang. The pig’s burgeoning belly pressed hard against the steering wheel, making turns hassle some and squeezing into and out of his spacious truck a small daily nightmare. It had only been a month since the mystery drug’s effects had started kicking in, but Patrick noticed the difference right away.

For the first time in fifteen years, Patrick had started putting on weight again, real weight, noticeable weight. He had already outgrown nearly everything in his carefully built wardrobe and had to buy new clothes online seeing as nothing in stores would fit him properly, not at his size. Somehow, he had managed to pack on an astounding forty-five pounds in a month. Patrick only knew that because he had finally broken down and bought an industrial digital scale so he could keep track of what he was doing to himself. That morning before he had gotten in his car, the scale had read: “698 lbs.” The fattened pig was still steeling himself for a future where the number “7” featured prominently.

But Patrick had hope of not turning into a blob before next year’s rematch with Nathan’s hot dogs. He had explained the unexpected speed of the gain and Lilith, after sounding bemused as well as intensely interested in the exact details of the gain, had explained that he was going to need to adjust his daily routine to reduce its impact on his expanding waistline. Admittedly, Patrick had just been going on as usual, eating anything and everything he wanted, and intentionally overeating at times for his ‘workouts.’ But since the drug had begun having its effects on him, Patrick had definitely noticed his appetite had gone up a notch, but more than that, he never really got full anymore either. It was like everything was Chinese takeout now, he was hungry again a half hour later. Patrick had really made a pig out of himself for the past thirty days. But moving forward, he resolved to restrict himself to a strict four-thousand Calorie diet… Granted, he had never attempted to do anything like that before in his life, even with double the recommended amount of daily Calories, but then he could start after the crawdad eating contest tomorrow. He was already fasting for it and it was not as bad dealing with his increased hunger as he would have imagined. Far worse was getting in and out of his too-tight truck…

The morbidly obese pig woke up early the following morning, his empty stomach churning and cramping with hunger pangs. Grunting with effort, he rolled his fattened body over to look at the clock. At least he tried the first time, but his fattened body just sort of sloshed halfway and then forced him back. Patrick took a few breaths before trying again, feeling how deeply he sunk into the mattress. When he finally managed to roll over, his big tummy falling over to flow over the sheets, he saw the clock face. “4:11” it blinked. Patrick groaned and rolled again onto his back. He tried massaging the huge pile of belly fat that sat on top of his abdomen and clenching his teeth. Anytime a stray thought of food passed through his mind, his mouth filled up immediately with saliva. The hog oinked and grunted softly to himself, there was only, what, five more hours to go now? But he did not find anymore sleep that morning and chewing on his toothbrush later on did not help either.

After having weighed more or less the same for fifteen years, Patrick really noticed the extra forty-five pounds of girth when he was walking. He felt the new weight on his knees like he was wearing a heavy backpack or hauling a big bag of beans. But unlike a backpack, a lot of these pounds were strapped onto his front and the pig felt an added tension on his lower back as a result. His lower belly had dropped another inch or two and added girth, Patrick really noticed this when he had to lift it up to take a piss. It made finding jeans to fit his unusual body shape especially hard and expensive. The crotch point of the pants was not especially accommodating to his belly which hung over a foot lower down, the hog really needed an extra sac out in front in which to support his “Iron Gut.”

They did make a big deal out of him as he walked up to the contest stage, however. He had not been seen in at least three months, after all, and there had already been talk that he was retiring like so many other gurgitating superstars. Patrick was surprised at first that no one made a comment or even seemed to notice the difference in his appearance as he stood for an interview before walking up to the stage. The hog grunted loudly as he took the three steps, really feeling the unusual weight on his knees. But then he saw the set up.

The long table did not have a bench, but rather regular cheap folding chairs for the contestants, that is except for the place that Patrick “Iron Gut” was directed to. Even as he walked towards the small, two person sized bench, two stage men were hauling in cinder blocks to place underneath it as a means of extra support. Patrick frowned, thinking that the blocks certainly were not necessary given such a small bench, but then that was not really the point was it? “We’re making sure that returning Champion Pat “Iron Gut” has all the support he needs folks!” shouted the announcer to a chorus of laughter from the crowd. Sure, Patrick was used to making a big deal about his weight… but this felt rather different. Then the fattened hog got a better look at his competition.

The change in the composition of contestants was startling. The first thing the pig noticed was that more than a quarter of them were of asian heritage, and nearly all of those were rail thin, just like Ryang. The average weight, in fact, of the other people had plummeted in just the few months he had been gone. There was no one on stage who was over three-hundred pounds, the next biggest guy was a tall, thick stag bearing plenty of muscle along with some meat who was two-hundred and ninety tops. Patrick stood out like a sore thumb among them, more an oddity than anything else. The pig swallowed, well he would show them what he could do. He was all but dying of hunger now and he was pretty sure there was no slick trick to shucking crawdads. Patrick had already mastered the art of breaking and sucking the shellfish years ago.

When the platter of steaming red mini-lobsters was brought out, Patrick swallowed back a tidal wave of drool in his mouth. He had never been this goddamn hungry in his life! Every moment until the bell rang was a conscious effort. But rather than hot butter, a microphone was suddenly shoved in front of his snout instead. “Anything to say to the fans before we start, Mr. Iron Gut?”

Patrick clenched and unclenched his chubby hands. All he could think about was the food in front of him. “I’m starvin’!” he managed and released a massive, greedy oink and snort over the loud speakers.

“He said it folks.” said the announcer to a peal of applause and laughter. “Let’s get this thing started!”

The bell rang and Patrick moved like it was a trained response. The pig sucked and cracked exoskeletons like the crawdads had murdered his family. There was no art or flow to it in the first minutes as Patrick sought only to quiet the raging empty pit inside of himself. But the hog did find his rhythm again once he was able to focus and began eating more methodically and deliberately, cramming his stomach full as if it were a game of Tetris. With crawdads, the plates were weighed before and after to determine the winner, so it was harder to tell who was ahead, but as Patrick spared a glance down the table, he could tell that he was doing at least as well as the fastest eaters. Several of the new comers had barely put a dent in their platter by the six minute mark, whereas Patrick managed to devour the last crawfish on his plate and place the shell pieces neatly in the tin bucket set aside for that purpose. The fattened pig then had to wait impatiently as a second platter was brought around. “Come on…!” he stammered, tapping his trotter on the ground and banging the table with his palm. Had any of the other contestants finished their plates yet? Patrick did not know or really care, the plates were dreadfully uneven to start with, which was why they all had to be individually weighed before and after.

It took twenty-seven seconds for Patrick to begin demolishing the second platter, he knew because he counted. By this point, Patrick knew that he had broken his old record by a lot and he was feeling pretty darn full and stuffed with shellfish. But as he swallowed each new chunk of flesh down his gullet, it just seemed to push the rest of the massive bolus lodged inside of him a little deeper down. He did not feel sick or like he was hitting a wall, he was not even in very much pain. Patrick felt like he could keep on eating forever, even if he did naturally slow down in the final minute or so. When the buzzer sounded, he pushed his plate away and leaned back on the bench, allowing more room for his brimming, taut belly. He felt bloated, but content, and he released a massive belch that the crowd heard without the benefit of loudspeakers. They cheered and laughed at it and that part at least, felt normal and right.

Still, Patrick nervously awaited the results of the weighing, which they did on stage. The results were read out, “Stanley: two and a third pounds, Kashiwagi: four and three quarter pounds… and so on.” But when they got to Patrick, they lifted up his flabby arm before even announcing how much he had eaten. “And Patrick, The Iron Gut himself has just smashed his old record of five and a quarter pounds to pieces with an unbelievable ten point two pounds of crawfish! That’s a world record, folks!”

The din from the crowd was astounding as Patrick stood up and basked in the noise, raising both heavy, sagging arms over his head and walking around to the front of the table to receive a golden crawfish trophy and an oversized check for 4,000 dollars. “People have been saying that fat people can’t compete in these contests anymore, Mr. Iron Gut.” said a man with a microphone. “What do you have to say to them?”

Patrick did not know if it was possible to be happier than he was right now. He grabbed the microphone in a meaty hand saying, “I think they better get ready to get squashed!” he laughed and then grabbed the side of his prodigious namesake and shook it to the sound of applause, “I’m bigger and hungrier than ever, and I’m not stopping here! I’ll take back the whole world of competitive eating by myself if I have to!”

“Proud words from a proud man.” said the man with the mic, “Where’re you heading to next?”

“Arizona, tamales.” said the pig simply, then added, “Which is good, ‘cause I’m going to kick things up a notch!”

More inane questions followed, but Patrick remained in the limelight, soaking it up, it felt like it had been so long… Finally, a female reporter shoved her way to the front, asking, “Patrick, what do you have to say to those who think your lifestyle is unhealthy and that you’re setting a bad example for others?”

Patrick smirked. “Tell them I feel fantastic… Next question.”


And so it went. Patrick went from a washed up has-been to a rising star once more, and he rose faster and higher than he ever would have expected. Each competition he went to, he demolished the competitors and his old records, eating double and more of what he used to be capable of. However, when Patrick stepped on the scale the morning following his win in the Mississippi crawdad contest, the digits he had read, “704.8 lbs,” heralded what was to become routine.

Patrick struggled with the concept of dieting for the first time in his life and it was even harder trying to live with it. The fattened hog had somehow put on six pounds after winning the crawdad competition, but the following week was hardly better. Despite cutting out any binge eating and only ordering in pizza once, he still put on another ten pounds. Already, his brand new jeans were uncomfortably tight.

The fattened pig realized he had to resort to drastic action as he neared a remarkable hundred pound gain since he had started injecting himself with the mystery drug. He threw out all of the food in his house and started buying prepackaged meals so he could keep better track of how much he was eating. Granted, he still ate two or three of the minuscule meals at a time, he still was not interested in trying to lose weight, even though he had lost over ten-thousand dollars worth of clothing already by outgrowing his old wardrobe. Just as long as he could stick to his four-thousand Calorie plan… Though this became a five-thousand Calorie plan before the month was out.

It worked at first. The following week, he gained only two pounds, and only a single pound the week after. But he was also miserable. It was not even so much that he was tormented by hunger, although that did happen at times, especially at night. But after having spent pretty much his entire adult life eating when and how he pleased, all the keeping track of Calories and thinking about adding more vegetables and fruits to every meal, the act of dieting itself, it went against the core rules of how he lived his life. It even kind of went against who he was as a person, despite how necessary he realized it was to avoid weighing over a thousand pounds by the following year. But the fact remained that he was so used to getting food when he wanted it, that Patrick often found himself actually getting out of the couch, and that took some effort at his size, and walking halfway to the kitchen before he had to clamp down and deny himself. And even as he walked back, he was trying to rationalize the fact of his already being halfway to the kitchen to justify getting just one meal box out of the refrigerator for a snack. It did not help that food no longer had any staying power for him anymore.

The fact that Patrick could no longer get full, at least not without a literal buffet in front of him, added to the mental burden of keeping track of everything that went into his mouth. After just two weeks of trying, he was exhausted from the daily effort of it. He felt like his entire life was becoming nothing but the diet, even as he was asked to come on more interviews and even make appearances on day time television. He started to cheat, despite himself, especially when he was out and about, it was too damn easy to stop at McDonalds for their “Big Mac Bundle” which consisted of two Big Macs, two large fries, twenty chicken McNuggets, and two soft drinks. That really did good to take the edge off, and entertain his pallet for a while. And of course, Patrick did not stop with just McDonalds.

The results of his cheating, ‘every now and again,’ were clearly visible on the scale however. Patrick’s rate of gaining jumped right up to 3-4 pounds a week. The pig felt like he was putting on weight just by smelling food at this point. But after seeing himself gain sixteen pounds in eight days, three or four pounds a week somehow seemed manageable by comparison. Patrick avidly avoided doing the math in his head, however. He kept telling himself that he would try harder next week to keep the gains down, but the number on the scale kept rising steadily.

But even if Patrick had been able to totally eliminate excess Calories from his daily life, each food competition he went to provided an unavoidable spike in pounds added to his expanding frame. Patrick ate for a living, and as such tended to go to two or three regional events per month, with major events happening every one to three months. Without exception, each time Patrick competed, he added multiple pounds to himself in a single sitting.

Before he knew it, he hit the big number, “750.” He really felt the difference too. Just walking was getting to be a pain and his trotters were starting to hurt from standing like they never had before. He got out of breath just walking up a few steps onto stages now. Patrick started downing ibuprofen because he was getting recurrent lower back pain. The media finally noticed too. Everyone had already known he was in the “600’s” but he could not lie anymore about being well over seven-hundred pounds. They could see it in his face now, hell, Patrick compared his old photos with his reflection and could see how much fatter he had gotten; his sagging cheeks and jowls, as well as his thick tire of a double chin looked huge to him. He got more and more questions related to his health, but Patrick was forced to dodge them. He still had not seen his doctor ever since starting on the drug, and was actively avoiding him. He did not want to hear any bad news. But other than the aches and pains, Patrick thought he felt fine. That is, until he passed out suddenly one night as he got up to take a leak.

It happened fast. One minute, he was leaning over the bowl, lifting up his porcine paunch with one hand while the other was braced on the wall behind the tank. He was breathing heavily, having just hauled his fattened carcass out of bed. Then from nowhere, the hog was hit with an intense bout of dizziness like he had never felt before. The pig wanted to sit down right away, but before he could even try, he blacked out. Waking up on the cold tile of his bathroom floor, boxers still hanging around his ankles, Patrick initially had no idea what had happened or why he was lying on the floor. He sat there for over a minute, breathing slowly and feeling weak and generally ill, trying to put together his disjointed memory. There was just a second or two missing right? a few seconds? Surely not more than a minute? There was no way to tell. Eventually, Patrick managed to haul himself up, and on inspecting the mirror, saw that he had bruised the hell out of his left arm and shoulder. It did not hurt much, so Patrick supposed that the fat had largely cushioned the fall. The morbidly obese pig went back to bed and tried not to think too much about what had happened, but the experience continued to gnaw at him in quiet moments.

A few days later, Patrick found himself in Atlanta, sitting in a low brow Chinese food buffet called “Happy Dinner,” but not by choice. Patrick still disdained the thought of going to the doctor to be berated harshly and only told that he was killing himself without giving him any advice he could use. There was one other person he knew who seemed knowledgeable at least in pharmacology and would not give him a hard time about his size. However, she was also one of the people he was least fond of. He had wanted to talk to her over the phone, but she refused and had insisted that they meet here.

Patrick scratched the side of his voluminous belly where new stretch marks had appeared and were stretching red and livid up and down his flanks as well as on his arms and the sides of his boobs. He was in Atlanta in the first place for the moon pie contest. Again he had smoked the competition, having devoured one-hundred and twenty moon pies in eight minutes and set yet another world record. The stunt had also pushed him over seven-hundred and sixty pounds. That morning he had taken one-thousand milligrams of ibuprofen for back pain, but there was still a knot in his lower spine that jabbed him whenever he got up from a sitting position.

Patrick sat at a booth by himself for a long time, growing angrier by the minute. He hated playing her games and part of him was sure that she or someone who worked for her was watching him, waiting for him to break. Was there any possible reason for inviting him to a buffet other than to see him eat?

But the pig did not have the patience to sit there in uncertainty and try to outlast the black cat, if indeed that was even what she was doing. But as an act of rebellion, instead of getting up - groaning for the jolt of pain in his back - and moving towards the steaming trays of meat, noodles and rice, he moved to the salad tray and loaded two plates high before carrying them back. He also got a diet soda. He started to tuck in, the hog really did not mind salad. But still, Lilith did not appear. Patrick finished his two plates and waited a while, then went back and got two more plates of salad and munched steadily through those as well. His stomach did not complain about the rabbit food, at least, it just wanted to be filled… always.

Patrick was halfway through his sixth plate of salad by the time the black cat suddenly appeared opposite of him at his table. “Good evening Pat.” she said, tilting her head just so.

The pig wiped dressing away from his snout and inside the deep fold under his actual chin. “Lilith.” he said briskly.

The she-cat nodded towards Patrick’s stacked and empty plates. “Trying to watch your weight?” Her tone suggested actual puzzlement.

Patrick frowned and tossed his napkin onto the remnants of his last salad. “Yeah, I am actually, no thanks to your drug.” he oinked, “I didn’t come here tonight to give you a free performance.”

The cat purred softly, “I’m still waiting for you to give me a performance, big man.” she spared a glare at the empty plates, “But if you were trying to mitigate some of the effects, might I suggest not using ranch and Italian dressing next time? That’s several hundred Calories right there, and the cheese and the pepperoni probably weren’t helping either…”

Patrick snorted his dissatisfaction. Salad was salad wasn't it? “This is not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Lilith looked at her claws, “Oh? Then do tell.”

Patrick proceeded to tell the cat about how he had passed out several nights ago. “…And I don’t know, is that one of the side effects you mentioned?”

Lilith paid unusually rapt attention to the pig as he described his experience, her long ears twitching as he provided her with all the details. However, she answered, “No, that’s definitely not related to what you have been taking.”

“Well… what else might have caused it?” the fattened pig stammered. His gut was pressing into the table so hard, he could not even lean forward properly.

The cat cocked her head back, teasing him with her eyes, “Isn’t this something you should be asking your doctor, not your drug dealer?”

“Shush!” hissed Patrick.

She only threw her paw forward, “Oh please, Pat. When was the last time they had a drug screening before an eating contest?”

The pig relaxed his shoulders, causing them to become more round, though still thick and ham-like. “Even so…” he turned his head to the side, sighing. “If I wanted an earful of abuse or a prescription for diet pills, I’d go to my doctor. I thought you could get me a quick answer without all the fuss.”

Lilith leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table while her long tail rose behind her head, wavering slightly. “Aw, you trust me that much, Pat?”

The pig landed a heavy palm on the table not too softly, “Dammit, Lilith, do you have an answer for me or not? It’s your fault this is happening to me in the first place!”

“My fault?” gasped the cat in mock distain. “I thought I was quite clear about what to expect.”

Patrick clenched his jaw, “Well, I wasn’t expecting this. A hundred pounds in five months?! That’s not… normal! And I can’t stop gaining.”

Lilith shrugged and looked over his shoulder. “Then stop taking it. It’s not addictive or anything, you can stop anytime.”

Patrick swallowed hard. “I… I can’t. The holiday eating contests are next month! I’ve got four major events lined up in November, two more in December. Didn’t you say that it takes a month to get going again if I stop?”

“That’s right.” said the cat, “And I should tell you that from my experience, people who stop and start using it multiple times experience diminished effects. We think the body develops a resistance to it over time.” Patrick just stared at the cat for a while and she continued grinning back at him. Silence passed between them over the topic of Patrick’s continued use of the drug. Finally, Lilith spoke, “About your fainting spell, well, I might have a couple explanations. Have you been checking your sugar?” Patrick had not been, and a low oink provided his answer. The cat shrugged again, “Well, high blood sugar usually causes dry mouth and in extreme cases, dizziness, but not usually fainting. Tell me, were you breathing heavily before it happened?”

Patrick relaxed his fat face. “Actually I was. I had just gotten out of bed.” Lilith just looked at him with sparkling eyes. Frowning, the pig added, “Which is a little difficult when you weigh over seven-hundred and fifty pounds.”

The cat was purring again, “Mmmur… Can you still piss standing up, big boy?”

The pig folded his arms over his huge chest, or rather clasped his wrists due to the girth of his barrel chest. “I think I mentioned that part already.”

She chuckled, “And so you did.” she winked, “Tell me, do you have trouble breathing when you are leaning forward or bending over?”

As a matter of fact, Patrick did. In fact, he usually had to hold his breath whenever he reached down for something on the floor. But he had never really noticed, the problem went way back before he had ever met Lilith, but it had gotten noticeably worse with the addition of a new hundred pounds to his frame. “Um… yeah.” said Patrick weakly, as he recalled the various instances in his memory.

The cat smiled what actually seemed like a pleasant smile this time. “That’s probably it. As you were bending over, your… iron gut was pressing into your diaphragm, making it harder to breath. Your blood oxygen might have already been low since you were just sleeping and once it goes down below a certain point from lack of breathing… pop!” she smacked her lips, “You’re out like a light.”

The fattened hog sighed in relief. “You really think that’s it?”

Without warning, she reached out and touched his hand, Patrick looked up from his hand to her face and she winked at him, “Maybe. But I’m not a doctor.”

Patrick continued looking at the cat’s face. When she was not being overbearing, she was actually kind of cute. Also, Patrick had not been laid in at least two months, having been preoccupied with his diet and his steadily ballooning waistline. The pig swallowed, he ought to know better. Lilith was the kind of girl he could only ever regret having anything more than a one night stand with, and he needed her to keep giving him his winning drug, even if it was progressively turning him into a blob. But dammit if his dick seemed to have a mind of its own! Even the fact...