“Weasels were meant to be wide.”

Somewhere, in the darkest, most bitter corners of his hunger wracked mind, Tom Tin held developed that strange, guiding phrase. He was wretchedly thin, then, at the lowest point of poverty, scrounging for scraps and barely clinging on. The wiry weasel weighed less than a straw pillow, then - a pathetic wreck, with sunken cheeks, a hollow gut, and bone-thin limbs.

His misfortune after setting out on his own had been immeasurable, oppressive, and overwhelming - and, as he lay there on his bed of old rags and bug-eaten grasses in a gutter between two seedy taverns, the weasel’s disposition changed entirely. He had wanted to make an honest path for himself, to avoid the dance of deception that his kind were so known for. But, the world simply wasn’t ready for a honest weasel - and if he kept on that path, he was sure to waste away to nothing.

Tom Tin’s gaunt, gasping face became overtaken, in that moment, by a fierce, defiant grin… the silly words to live by echoing again… “Weasels were meant to be wide.” Hobbling up on uneven, unbalanced feet, the weasel cleared his throat, wrapping his threadbare blanket around his head like a turban.

He adjusted the hat in the pale water of the gutter, admiring his reflection as he layered more weathered textiles on himself awkwardly mimicking an eastern style he’d seen on a caracal trader in a port, long ago. He tugged at his ears in an odd fashion, fashioning some of the fluff and cobwebs of dank little corner into ear tufts and facial hair, distinct to the wealthy cats of the east.

He smiled at his gaunt, odd appearance, for he knew that a little getup like this was all he’d need to start achieving wealth, and more importantly, width he desired - some bumpkin here would undoubtably be taken in by the disguise, one which leant itself to all sorts of schemes - with ease, he could sell any sort of odd, “exotic” hunk of junk, or beg for money or room as a deposed prince, with the promise of false riches in return.

The weasel marched with ungainly confidence out of the squalor, his honesty left in that gutter as schemes swirled in his mind. The oily charisma of his species paid off almost immediately, as he came across a particularly easily impressed and unusually wealthy band of unicorns! They fell hook, line, and sinker for his the old “wandering guru” schtick, the spiritually obsessed unicorns eagerly offering up gold, room, and, most importantly, food in exchange for his hastily invented wisdom.

And by God, that ill-gotten food was far tastier and more plentiful than the honest scraps of a hundred failed good deeds or works! The doughy, dopey unicorns clearly knew how to cook, and how to make a guest feel welcome. They sat, with rapt attention, eagerly bringing more and more to the weasel in exchange for his false, funny anecdotes - as the next morning slowly crept over the horizon, Tom Tin was flattened under a heavy, bloated stomach, licking his chops through half-lidded eyes as he muttered out more half-thoughts to the jolly, gullible unicorns, as he slowly slipped into a food coma.

“Weasels were mean to be wide.” Was the final mantra that he gave to the unicorns, who gladly lapped the saying up as though it was the deepest philosophy ever conceived. It was that night that the honest, scrounging Tom Tin began his transformation into the Swollen Schemer, Tom Ton.

—- One Year Later —-

Philip Baker fidgeted nervously in front of his shop, the portly fox’s brow creased in worry. It had been an hour since that weasel had gone into his store - and he’d heard all manner of odd noises inside, since! The overly-friendly and incredibly overfed weasel had generously informed the vulpine bake of a dreadful plague that had wiped out the hamlet of Myslewerp, not five towns over from his town, Mosspicket. And to think - the whole plague started because of tainted grain - and from everything Tom Ton told him, there was a chance that the tainted grain had come to this town too - perhaps his very shop!

Now, never mind the fact that the baker, having lived in that town all his life, had never even heard of Myslewerp, or some grain plague, before the honorable Tom Ton had warned him… but, his sweets were to make people happy, never to harm! Whatever would poor Philip do if his house of pastries transformed into a place of plague? It was simply a risk he couldn’t afford to take. Thank goodness for the generous Tom Ton!

Tom Ton claimed to have a wondrous taste for poisons, as well as a remarkable immunity to them, to boot. And, he came bearing an official Seal of Food Tasting Excellency all the way from Greeslewerp, an eccentric and sprawling trade city! Yes… Now, Philip could swear he’d heard of that city before… for, as Tom Ton said, you’d have to live under a rock to be ignorant of the great, sprawling metropolis of Greeslewerp!

And, it was for this very seal that Tom Ton visited his bakery - for the sake of his business and his town, the pastries simply must’ve been tested, and even with Tom’s immunity, he was still putting himself at great risk by even entering the bakery, let alone performing his duties. Oh, he hoped those belches and groans from inside the bakery weren’t from some bad reaction, or, God forbid, plague!

His duties sounded daunting - Tom Ton said that he would need to sample every type of pastry the bakery sold to check for that dreadful disease, and it would be a long, and arduous process, as certain toxins were hard to detect on the first pastry - sometimes, he might even need to go for seconds, thirds, or fourths. The only pastries he said were definitely free of the disease were the coconut, the wide weasel’s face grimacing at that point.

Philip Baker’s pacing was interrupted as a loud belch flew out from between his doors, emanating from none other than the brave Tom Ton, who was shoving his massive, engorged form out of the bakery doors, having so thoroughly tested the possibly poisoned pastries that he could hardly move!

A fat, pleased grin spread across Tom’s face as he dislodged his sloshing stomach from the oaken doors, leaving a web of cracks in the frames behind him, the structure clearly too flimsily built to stand such a fabulous figure. Philip Baker’s face was wrought with confusion and worry - worries that Tom Ton was happy to calm.

“Good man, I return with good - urp - news and bad news… Your store is now almost wholly free from the plague’s influence! Urf - Almost all of your sweets were fine, although much sampling was required to confirm… However, I’m sorry to say, that your whole stock of triple-fudge brownies are under intense suspicion, and, dare I say, are infected…

Thankfully, I shall recover from my ordeal with the brownies… BURP-, although I must ask that you carefully - huff - crate the entire stock to be turned over to myself, on behalf of the Greeslewerp Food Authority for the good of your town and your establishment - Ourp -I shall return to properly dispose of them in the morning - they shall make a fine breakfa- BWAARRPPP - I mean, start to my morning’s duties, when I carefully dispose of them in the forest.

Hmm… huff - and come to think of it, kindly turn over a crate of each for further testing - your chocolate biscotti, raspberry muffins, monkey bread, apple-turnovers and pink-frosted donuts. Yes… All of those sweets made me most suspicious. In fact, better make it two crates for the donuts… Ah, and if you’d kindly have my fee ready when I return in the morning, that’d be most gracious - I think a gold piece will cover the entire inspection, and tips - huff - are always appreciated…

Now, I bid you a wondrous rest of your night, good baker, and I wish you best with the rest of your sale of your fine baked goods, now safe from that dreadful plague! Hmmm - urf - now, if you’ll pardon me, I think I heard that the orchard across the street may be at risk for an infestation of invisible gnaw gnats… Yes, I think they’d really ought to be inspected… Be well, good fellow, and wish me luck in resisting whatever poisons threatened your humble way of life!”

And thus, the baker, somewhat bewildered, went back inside and did as the ample, authoritative weasel commanded. He had never expected such a tremendous amount of stock to be affected, and the cost of all this was a lot for his shop to handle - but it was certainly better than losing everything to plague! The fox forced himself to be thankful, as he gaped at the mess of strewn pastries, sugar, and dough throughout his store - for whatever would the world do without an honest, hard-working weasel like Tom Ton?

Never did Philip Baker once think of judging the weasel for his size, and worrying about if a butterball like Tom Ton could be trusted in his business… After all, as the saying, which he swore must be old, clearly stated, “Weasels were meant to be wide…”

—-

Here is a drawing from a good long while ago, one that was a lot of fun to draw, and even more fun to write a story about! Fat weasels are always a treat to draw, and as the story says, I really admire the main character’s swelling schemes. I hope you all enjoy, and do remember - weasels were meant to be wide!