A speed-write gift for my best bud  FatGlaz!

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The suspenders pulled taut when he pushed them away from his belly by his thumbs, and when they snapped back into position Jack’s plentiful gut wobbled gelatinously beneath the crisp white dress shirt. He took a deep breath, and inhaled the dusk air. Watching over the streets from his office from on high, like a palatial throne. He motioned for one of his aides to join him by the wall-length window, and they proffered him a rustic spyglass for his viewing convenience. Jack had an eye for quality, and a hankering for certain aesthetics and principles that some would call… archaic. He scoffed at his detractors, and let his money assuage their criticisms. They were small minded, and to Jack, just small in general. There was no room for the diminutive in his new paradise. Only the grand would be permitted. Or at least those with the potential to be made to fit Jack’s ever-growing limits of grandeur.


In keeping with his philosophy, Jack Greenhill was a very large man. He felt that to achieve his large ambitions, he had to embody them in body and spirit. The first half of that ethos was easily done. From a young age, Jack was very susceptible to gaining weight. He was always the fat kid, the fattest student, the largest co-worker, the public warning against global obesity that mothers whispered, “be careful, you don’t want to end up a great fat beast like him.” The second half took time. Reprogramming himself to undo the damage that diet culture, and weight loss religion had done was an uphill struggle. It took years upon years to finally internalize the beauty he saw in the curvature of fat people; and the power in taking up so much space unapologetically.


He was shy of seven feet tall. Weighing five hundred to six hundred pounds, nearer six hundred on a good day. His Irish descent shone in his fiery copper hair, and trimmed round beard that he kept off his upper lip and thinned out every so often. He dressed primarily in green. A conscious decision to represent his brand.


“Mr. Greenhill, the intel you requested from corporate,” The aide intoned gently, and handed Jack a clipboard layered with extensive charts, financial reports, and exhaustive lists of names that went on for hundreds of columns. The first page of names had been highlighted in green, and a few names were individually marked over in red. Jack smiled. Then returned the documents to the fat, and exquisitely dressed woman who had brought them to his attention. She took Jack’s silent approval as an opportune moment to exit the room. Jack took a moment to appreciate the way her red uniform hugged her curves so expertly. He admired his employee’s figure, but selfishly, was focused more on the fabric. He was the designer, after all.


Jack Greenhill was a man of fine, and excessive tastes. He owned the Greenhill Tailoring conglomerate. A veritable superpower in plus sized clothing that took the world by storm four years ago, led by Jack’s synthesis of a cost effective high-end material that could expand and contract without losings its form. It held his fashion wonderfully. He held the secret to its construction under lock and key, and used its high demand to build his empire. There was, of course, outrage from the moguls of modern day diet culture. Protesters, who would blockade his high-street boutiques under the pretence that by limiting his clothing to plus sizes only he was promoting obesity and ill health. The former was true. Fat bodies simply looked better from an aesthetic standpoint, Jack understood that fact. It was simply unfortunate that a few effete groups of brainwashed critics couldn’t share in the bounty of being greater in size, and greater in stature.


His fat, manicured hand, touched a screen built into his desk. He leant forward, and his suspenders groaned from the shift in perspective as they confidently clung to his body. “Prepare the restaurants for the taste testing at seven. I have a personal outfit fitting for myself at six, and as of right now, I’m about to be five minutes late to a stylist appointment with one of my volunteers. Have the clean-up and repair crews standing by. Just in case there’s a… bust in the seams.” He said, coolly and with an even tone. He had confidence in his staff. Everyone who worked at his eponymous Greenhill tower was handpicked, and hand-grown; in a manner of speaking.


“Right away Mister Greenhill. What capacity will you be expected to wear for tonight’s festivities?” A voice responded from the desk’s built in speakers.


Jack paused, and considered his options. He tapped his hand against the rounded icon to open the voice channel to his staff on the other end, and confidently replied “I’ll be requiring the Atlas XL, have it made and coloured according to the special design brief. You know the one.”


“Right away sir. Your client is waiting in fitting room B, on floor twenty-six.”


“Send him a complimentary confection, and a drink. I’ll be right down.” Jack swiped his hand across the panel, and locked the screen into a display of the company’s logo. With its motto printed in fine, sartorial lettering just beneath the name of the company. Greenhill Incorporated: Ever Expanding.


Waiting for him as promised, was a volunteer. A tall, plump, and clearly nervous man with half-shaved hair and a set of incredibly fat cheeks sat drinking down the remainder of a complimentary beverage. He belched loudly, not knowing Jack had entered the room. So, by that, Jack assumed he had been served something carbonated. Which would make things easier for the fitting…


“Was the pastry to your liking?” Jack spoke aloud, and the volunteer replied with a Scottish twang.


“A-aye! Sorry to be rude, I didn’t mean t’burp in front of ye’. You’re here t’do the fitting, right? Uh I signed all them waivers and forms, for health and safety. Not too sure what’s so dangerous about getting fit for your new clothes Mr. Greenhill. The side effects mentioned weight gain, but I’m not really opposed to that, what’s a few extra pounds?” The fat Scottish man babbled, adjusting square glasses over his nervous grey-blue eyes. He had a prominent double-chin, and was well over three hundred pounds. A good – surprisingly eager – subject, if Jack ever saw one.


“Why do you think you’re here?” Jack questioned the boy.


“The paid volunteer position gave good money, food and board. A little weight gain won’t hurt me too badly. You just want me to model some clothes, right?”


Jack walked across to a large curtain at one side of the room, and pulled on a velvet rope. The veil slid away, to reveal a set of clothes so gargantuan that they looked like props for a movie; or like gag clothing to cover a giant human shaped statue. He looked over his shoulder, pleased that the volunteer’s jaw had dropped. He had a flare for theatre. It was nice to know your preparation didn’t go to waste, and Jack very much liked to make an impact almost as soon as he entered the room. This sufficed.


“Not just any clothes, big boy. These clothes. I’m afraid we’re short on time, so if you could strip down to your socks and try them on in good time. That would help me out immensely. Don’t worry. We’ll adjust you to fit them in a moment.” Jack ran a finger down the first article of clothing, a silk waistcoat in regal purple big enough to be used as an extravagant bedcover. As expected, the volunteer focused on the fact that he had said he would be adjusted to fit; not the clothing.


“What do you mean? I’m going to be adjusted to fit?” He protested, but he still disrobed. A bit too eagerly. Behind the anxiety, he was eager to see how the scenario would play out. Stepping up to the wall where the clothes were hung, he fumbled with the expensive silk waistcoat and its accompanying black trousers. He put his arms through the right holes, and stepped into the lower garments, and held them up with one hand. He was swallowed by the clothing. Confused, and blinking at Jack for exposition.


“Exactly how it sounds. Now relax, and take a deep breath.” He reached deep inside himself, and generated a warmth in his lungs. Bright rust-red light travelled up his throat, and exited his nostrils and mouth in the form of luminescent gas. He watched the Scottish boy breathe it in, and in an instant his eyes lit up like TV screens. Red and green spirals spun in his vision, enthralled. Jack had never had someone slip from his control before. He doubted this would be the first. Volunteers were far more receptive to strange and unusual testing if they were dominated by supernatural gasses. And the fatter a person was, the quicker the red smog took hold.

Jack reached into an aperture built into the wall, and retrieved a hose that ended in a small glass enclosure that resembled a breathing apparatus. He swung the end of the rubber tubing with a wide, commanding grin. The volunteer was going to be the guinea pig for another of his expansive inventions, in preparation for the night’s festivities.

“Now. Let me attach this to your face, and simply allow yourself to go with the flow, I’ll decide when you’ve had enough big boy” Jack reached around the Scottish boy’s head, and fastened the mask comfortably. The straps were made of the same elasticated fabric as his own suspenders. They wouldn’t snap. He gave the hypnotized thrall a gentle pat on the tummy for luck, and stepped back. In a rush of pressurized gas, the tube gained rigidity. A smell of warm sugar, and hot baking, filled the room. Within the hose, Jack knew, a velvety mixture of Greenhill brand double cream was being pumped into his volunteer.


It started out slowly. Agonizingly slow for Jack’s tastes. The cream was specially formulated to react with the complimentary beverage the volunteer swallowed earlier, and fill him with equal parts gas; as well as stimulate his fat development in real time. He only grew a few inches a second, which in Jack’s world, wasn’t fast enough. With an impatient hand Jack went to one side of the room – leaving the boy to swell – and turned up the hose pressure to maximum. If he couldn’t handle the strain then, well, there were plenty of fat boys to entice with endless finances, a good apartment in a bad economy, and hypnotic gasses.


The Scottish boy let out a muffled cry, momentarily released from his controller by panic. He was returned to servitude moments later, as his swirling eyes were partially eclipsed by fat rubbery cheeks that expanded like fat balloons on either side of his face. His double chin expanded, formed a new roll, and became a triple stack. His plump naked body grew until it contacted the silk waistcoat, and it stretched to a perfect fit once he passed the six-hundred-pound mark in less than a minute. He was growing beyond obesity, into new realms of fatness that only internals at Greenhill Inc were even aware of.


Jack took a seat, and drew his phone. He occasionally glanced up non-committedly to make sure he wasn’t in the blast radius, should the boy explode. It happened. Humans can blow up like balloons, or fatten up like mountains of blubber when introduced to the correct agents. It was a simple process to have them put back to normal, even in the case of detonation. Usually they would end up somewhere in the circumference of the blast – naked, bereft of their senses while the rush wore off. Still, an explosion was an explosion, and Jack wasn’t in the mood to be buffeted about a room by a human lard-bomb.


When the boy was on the verge of reaching a tonne, his fat cheeks bulged with an inability to accept more cream. They swelled up, and up. He was a mammoth of a man at this point, and showed off the new clothing quite nicely. Jack was again pleased with his handiwork. The extra stretch parameters added to the waistcoat kept the fat, blubbery beast of a human thrall, completely covered. His seven-foot-wide gut didn’t peak, or bulge too terribly through the buttons. His heavy, water-balloon-esque moobs were given proper support and lifted to maximize their fullness. His broad hips, now completely damning him to remain in this room until someone could extract him, were snug and properly fitted in a pair of black trousers that were practically a twin-set of onyx columns. Yes. This did nicely. Both the cream, and the clothing, met Jack’s expansive standards.


He lifted the phone to one ear, and casually walked out. Leaving the engorged hypno-slave to dazedly prod at his weight gain. Until Greenhill staff arrived to retrieve him, and return him to his apartment. Jack couldn’t help but let his grin widen and dimple his cheeks at the success. It was time to clock out as Jack Greenhill the CEO of an enterprise, and to take up the role of something far more… villainous.


He lifted the phone to his ear. “It’s me. Is the suit ready?”


Six o’clock came and went. He was fitted with the usual nightly outfit for what he was about to embark on. A sheened, custom made, military grade sleeved green waistcoat with onyx buttons that could stretch to cover a cloud-breaching skyscraper. A pair of pinstripe trousers, in a shade of green almost indistinguishable from black. A pair of shiny, pointed, Italian leather shoes with anti-gravity panels built into the soles tried and tested by the world’s leading R&D departments. He could afford it. A black bowler hat fitted with high tech communications arrays, and a matching earpiece. And finally, to top it off, a sleek black domino mask that was fitted with nano-fibre lenses that could darken at will to hide his identity. A stylish supervillain suit, if he said so himself. He did, with a grave laugh for good measure.


“The world is too small. So much unexplored space remains. So many wondrous discoveries yet to make, and yet we have allowed ourselves to become fixated on petty matters, and sycophants who subscribe to erroneous policies that keep the world contained, neat, and compressed. I’ll break that cycle, by expanding the minds of the populace – by expanding their guts! A fatter world is one filled with mirth, and pleasure. Once enlightened, they’ll be capable of so much more.” Jack continued his monologue to no one in particular, standing atop his tower. Sound in his own reasoning.


His in-house mad scientist escorted him from the rooftop of Greenhill Tower to a private helicopter, which jaunted across the city to its far Eastern limits. On the waterfront was a collection of restaurants, secretly owned by subsidiaries of his company. Bought out, and staffed by his gastro-science departments to engineer new fattening, addictive, and transformative recipes. He had great success in the past, but only on the smaller end of the spectrum. Tonight, was the showstopper. A grand gathering of the hungry. To unleash them from their shackles.


He leant against the window seat, his reflective supervillain garb contrasting the normalcy of the chopper’s dark interior. “Are the blockades ready to deploy? I should think we have no fear of protestors, or intrusion from the smaller minded.” Jack said, dryly to his entourage sharing the flight with him. They came to descend, and upon opening the doors his chief of security spoke up.


“We’ve requisitioned a media blackout from a mutual friend, and secured a regiment of his Boom-Bouncers to form roadblocks if necessary Mr Greenh—“


Jack turned. He stared. The man quivered in fear.


“I mean, Scalebreaker. Uh, no one’s getting in.” The Boom-Bouncers were a specialized type of inflatable human, and henchmen of Jack’s long-time friend; and sometimes partner in supervillainy; Biohazard. The toxic blimp. In a pinch, they inflated against one another and formed a tight, almost impenetrable wall of black latex covered balloon men. If someone did manage to puncture them, the gas they filled with would release, and inflate any aggressors into uselessness. They were particularly effective.


Jack was also very particular about his moniker. Scalebreaker. When he wore the suit, that was his name. Mr. Greenhill ceased, as did his former penchant for smooth words and diplomacy. Instead it was replaced with a single-minded focus to fatten up the world, and expedite his global agenda by any means necessary. Those who forgot to address him as proper, usually ended up as test subjects for his fattening cream. The volatile batches. His security chief had no desire to end up a mess of dairy on the walls of a laboratory, so he promptly stopped speaking and return to the chopper.


“Gainers, food critics, and those with the aptitude have been rigorously sorted from across the country. Scalebreaker. We canvassed such sites as Gorgr, a popular gaining website. Bedbreakers, a fetish site for um, well, bed-breaking. That one is self-explanatory. Prolific food critics, world champion eaters, and even some TV hosts. No cameras were permitted, of course. Shall we begin?” The scientist rambled, but Jack caught every word of it.


Hundreds of people had poured in, for the chance to experience a once in a lifetime food carnival that covered the waterfront’s restaurants. A free, exclusive event. Paid for by untraceable shell corporations that would never leak back to Greenhill Incorporated. Jack, the Scalebreaker, filled his lungs with the hypnotic gas but activated its second ability. He held his breath, and tilted his head back. Stepping off the roof, the soles of his shoes slowed his descent and let him glide harmlessly to street level to meet the throng of hungry foodies.


He grew on the flight down. Taller, and a tad wider, until he resembled a monster movie brought to life by what the crowd thought was cutting edge holographics. Looking down at the densely packed crowd, he threw his arms into the air, and loosed his hypno-gasses in a great bellowing belly-laugh. That shook the firmament. Hundreds upon hundreds of earnest people, were now under his command. And command them, he would.


“Eat! Eat til you explode with mirth! Eat until you become as rolling hills of gluttonous soil! Eat until you become great pillars of hedonism! I implore you all, all genders, and walks of life. Grow, GROW! Become the massive beasts of beauty you were always destined to be, bwahahahahaha!”


What happened next, was something Jack had dreamed of ever since designing his first Scalebreaker suit in crayon at eight years old. A frenzy of people, diving, running for food. Taking carbonara by the bucket, and finding their pants split at the seams. Shoving handfuls of pizza, fries, and milkshake into their sloppy mouths, then realising moments later with an elated squeal that they had become several hundred pounds heavier.


Jack stomped through the city, occasionally indulging in an entire kitchen’s worth of food by scooping it up with his hand after cracking the building open like a twig. He watched curiously. A group of bearded, sweaty men, in shorts and graphic t-shirts, were trying some of his yet untested donuts. They began to swell up, fatter, and fatter. Heavier, and heavier. Belching red gas. Unable to stop. One by one, however, they rumbled and moaned. Taxed to their limits, ripping through their clothing, they reached globular sizes rising to Jack’s giant-sized legs at the knee. Then pop! One, by one, they went off like confetti poppers filled with cream and sugar. Ending up dazed, fatter than they had been previously, on the ground in a street splattered with donut filling.


Others proved to have more stretch to them. Macro cola was quite the popular drink, and by eight o’clock, there were rowdy hypno-drunk men and women bathing in the clean waters of the East river like avatars of ancient gods taking their seats upon the land. It filled Jack with glee. Not one of them would leave here tonight fully remembering what happened to them, but they would have the experience imprinted deep within their breast. Their spirits would remember, the joy they experienced vicariously through Scalebreaker’s mass hypnotism. And they would become the sleeper agents to Jack’s new world order.