YOU are an employee at BurgOre, a fast food joint that's about to go from Carrie's least favorite restaurant in the world to one she can't live without. How will you handle it when she's more fat than bird, and still wants more...? FIND OUT WITHIN!

quick speedwrite thing because i wanted to just write a shameless thing about carrie being a tub of lard. enjoy! let me know what you like and what stuff you wanna see me do next! as always, plaintext below but da pdf is better

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“I’ll just do, uh… do you do, like, salads?”

“Sorry, ma’am, those are a seasonal special. I think we may be bringing them back in the summer, but, well…”

“Ugh. Nevermind.” The disgruntled bird cut in, her aqua green and white feathers ruffling in frustration while she adopted a look of mild contempt not just at you but at everything surrounding her, from the foundation your workplace was built on to the LED menu showing her nothing she seemed to like. “Just give me… I don’t know. The nuggets, I guess.”

You hated dealing with customers like this. Not just because of their demeanor, but because your mandated corporatespeak could stop for no one. You already knew any offer of a loyalty card or an upsize or whatever other incentive the higher ups were pushing at any given moment would fall on the ears of someone already utterly disengaged, but at the same time, your manager never seemed to be out of earshot.

“Would you like to add a small fry with that? For a limited time, they come free with a ten piece nugget.”

The avian rolled her eyes, resting a wing on a fine-cut hip draped in a black a-line skirt. She had the disgruntled secretary roll down pat, and wore the clothes to match, from a pair of shiny mary-janes to a crisp white blouse accented with a dark crossover bow tie. You had seen plenty of guests dressed in work break attire, but her glum face and icy demeanor made the bird stick out like a sore thumb among the bright tile floors and glowing screens of BurgOre. You could swear her dark blue eyes darted to some new object of disgust with each passing second; a lazily dressed opossum toting a screaming child, a cracked tile near her slender foot, a heavyset gopher wearing a fedora and a Mario t-shirt ordering two combos for just himself, a stray ketchup stain near the condiment dispenser, the pimply rat working the friers behind you, the mirrored face of BurgOre’s canary mascot painted on the outside of the restaurant’s glass doors. Everything deserved equal ire. She grimaced.

“Fine. Whatever. And to go. Please,” she said, handing you her card.

You dutifully nodded in your most corporate handbook approved way, plugged in the order, and handed the bird her credit card back.
“Alrighty, y-”

The bird was already gone, no time allowed for your answer or even a receipt as she disappeared off into a corner, sulking as she lingered, the indignity of patronizing BurgOre evidently too much for her to bear. Her downtime was, thankful for the both of you, given the dark energy of dissatisfaction emanating off her and infesting all its surroundings, not long. You set a bright white paper bag, darkened by grease at the bottom, on the counter, and gestured at her. She returned in a huff, evidently frustrated at her wait being interrupted by what she was waiting for, snatched the bag, gave you an annoyed glare, and doggedly left, glass doors slamming behind her.

You’ve seen plenty of customers like her, although perhaps not quite as… well, bitchy. Corporate workers or office folk whose usual spots were closed, who had to settle for whatever was open rather than whatever they wanted - and what was open was usually fast food. You didn’t expect to see her again. Her salad place or whatever green-leafed fare she dabbled in would probably be open again tomorrow.

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As it turned out, you would see her tomorrow, this time with an immediately different demeanor. Her aura of strange anger was replaced with one of mild embarrassment, like the kind experienced when forgetting someone’s name after having been introduced to them, or, more aptly, after realizing you liked something you were desperate to dislike. She was still a bird of little words, charging in, ordering the same thing she ordered the day prior, and leaving without much acknowledgement. But then she came in the next day. And the next. And the next.

After a month, seeing her had become a part of your daily routine - she was a regular now, although things about her had certainly changed. Firstly, her order. What was once something simple, easy to key in, and comparatively low in calorie count had become an ever-shifting and occasionally monstrous thing, ranging from numerous burgers and a large fry and a shake to returns to smaller orders in what seemed to be some crude effort and leveling herself. You’d be surprised if there was anything on the menu she hadn’t tried. Second, her attitude. Anger had given way to embarrassment, and embarrassment had given way to placid acceptance. She took her orders dine-in now, cramming herself into a booth with anything from a combo to a spread before her and tucking in with relatively little shame.

Third was, unsurprisingly, given her cramming herself into a booth and her ever-expanding orders, her size. There were bigger members of BurgOre’s clientele, but she was rapidly growing to compete with them, her body now built more by burgers than Peloton and pilates. A trim tummy had degraded to a great round groaning thing that wobbled with every step the bird took, hanging down before her crotch, pressing so firm against her skintight shirt you could make out the shadowy indent of her wide navel through its thin cotton. Thickened arms stuck out from her short shirt sleeves, puffing out of the arm holes like puffed-up muffin tops. Her thighs had become plush monuments of excess that easily doubled her old diameter on their own, rubbing against each other in a manner that proved almost audible, though the slight slapping of her tremendous rear - a sight you were gifted every time she turned to find a seat after picking up her order of the day - against the backside of her thighs was certifiably audible, her plodding movements always accentuated by a light plap, plap, plap. Even her talons, once kept tightly constrained in patent leather, had widened, softened into things possibly best described as stompers that gently poured over the open-toe sandals she had taken to wearing. Her whole wardrobe, not just her footwear, had shifted to adapt to her new size. Her skirts shortened by the day, their waistbands turning from inflexible button-closures to creaking elastic, while her shirts had similarly lost their buttons, as she appeared to take more to the t-shirts she once looked at with anything from disinterest to disgust, usually blank outside of the stains she picked up while eating her lunches. She was more Target and less Nordstrom, though she didn’t seem to notice or care, her plump cheeks jiggling as she chewed in cowlike fashion, only interrupted by the occasional stifled belch. You held your breath as you watched her waddle out, her breadth requiring both glass double doors to open in her wake, and exhaled as she crammed her girth into the passenger seat of the car that always chauffeured her here waiting outside.

She did not come back the next day, but her departure was accompanied by a strange uptick in mobile delivery orders.

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You could feel the air escape from the room as Carrie - you had learned her name at this point, thanks to how often you had seen her credit card and the name that most frequently was stapled to bags Doordash drivers picked up like clockwork - sluggishly forced her gargantuan body, an unreasonably soft vessel she only looked partially in control of, through the automatic double doors of your workplace. It held vague similarities to watching some sort of malleable gel lodged in a space seemingly too tight for its volume to pour through, only to somehow get to the other side via its utter lack of structure, only in this case it was a living, wheezing bird who uncontrollably shook and wobbled with every step, her gut dragging against the ground as she shuffled, leaving behind a trail of sweat.

Some diners filed out the door, eager to avoid whatever scene this bonafide tub of lard had potential to stir up, and others silently redirected the attention once focused on their meals and turned to stare at the bird, gasping open-beaked as she shuffled forth to your counter. A deep, snide part of you, usually battered by who you had to become in a workplace but desperate to emerge at the absolute sight of the bird, wanted more than anything to tell her to leave. “No shirt, no shoes, no service!” you could imagine yourself saying, pointing at her shirt - a sweat-saturated white tank top that you could definitely see one of her swaying tits hanging free from thanks to its meager length that left it as something more like a poorly designed bra - and her talons - bare and swathed in fat to the point that her three toes were absorbing the sharp nails that gave them the right to be referred to as talons in the first place - but you couldn’t. Instead, you just watched as she toddled unsteadily forth like someone too drunk to function, weight shifting from one fat foot to the other, her whole body swaying in kind while her details became clearer with each struggleworthy footfall.

Her long walk from the doors to the counter felt all the longer as your mind wandered towards all the things her presence could leave you held culpable for by corporate, namely the way her sheer weight had assuredly cracked a number of the tiles she galumphed over. You almost couldn’t comprehend just how heavy she was. Gravity, though often unkind, usually didn’t have this marked of an effect on people, but here she was. You had to marvel at the way the outer reaches of her thighs, unbendable things wider than casks with the addition of multitudes of rolls, drooped down, eager to send the bird careening to the floor, obviously having decided she was more suited to lying in bed or sitting all day than any of the nonsense she was getting up to today. It was difficult to imagine the vastness her ass, an aspect of her you were well acquainted with, must have achieved at this point, but the way you could see it billowing out behind her from the front like a set of overstuffed saddlebags provided some small hint. Her breasts, things that resembled globes not too long ago, had both increased vastly in size and deflated to a degree, still rounded but weighed down by themselves and shaped unlike any bust you’ve seen before; it was telling that the bottom of her exposed breast was stamped with a comically oversized nipple rather then the more traditional smoothness one would expect from the likes of a bare bosom. Another victim of the cruel mistress, Gravity, was Carrie’s gut, something that nearly defied description. It was just too cartoonish, too beyond any realm of realistic achievability, too fat. It spilled out and down, a foot thick blanket of sweat slick white feathers you could imagine no one but the likes of the most dedicated bodybuilders lifting to access whatever lay beneath its immovable mass. Part of you would have expected for the sloshing thing to be draped in stacks of rolls, it only bore two, not by any lack of trying. It was just quite evident that Carrie was so stuffed full of both fat and fatty food that there was no slack for extra rolls to form - instead her belly was separated into just two great, broad rolls, split by the island that was her cavernous belly button, a shallow dimple set in her gut’s pendulous bottom as if to mark the exact middle of its width. The lack of roll quantity certainly did not make up for roll quality, if you could call it that, as her massive siderolls splayed out, forcing the meaty anchors that were her plump arms to rest at an odd, outwards angle, giving her a strange appearance that one may assume if they were struggling to keep their balance.

Lucky for you, you realized as she reached your station that her gut did not just reach down, it stuck out, pressing into your counter and providing a slight barrier between you and her - otherwise it was all too easy to imagine her heaving chest slamming onto the counter like two overfilled delivery bags.

“W-welcome to BurgOre, m-”

Before you could get your routine greeting out, a strange expression took hold of the bird’s bloated, tired face. The collar of fat that sheathed her neck shook, and her beak opened wider than it already hung from her passive, strained breathing. You thought back to her sitting in her booth, burping between courses of her fast food feasts, and moved to plug your ears, but it was just a second too late.

“HhHHHWwwuuAAHHRp… hffffff…. Hungry…” she erupted, her voice deepened with weight.

“Uh, okay…” you uttered, half to her and half to yourself. “What would you… like?”

Carrie slowly raised her head to the menu, turning the quadruple chins weighing her face down into mere triple chins. Her eyes, stuck in a squint thanks to bloated cheeks that encroached on her vision, were dark and dull and glazed over. She wasn’t really reading it.

“Everything…” she drooled, not bothering to address you specifically.

“Alright, uh, so that’s… that’s one of everything. Would you like to add anything else, or… ?”

“UuuhHhhrpp…” She replied, pulling a jumbled wad of cash out from somewhere and reaching out to you. She couldn’t reach the counter, and her arms, jostling things that brought to mind a horrifically fat Michelin Man, were shaking from the effort of holding themselves up. You groaned and took her pillowy hand, snagging the money - oh God it was moist, where did she pull this from, she didn’t even have pants on, did she - you didn’t bother to count it before depositing it into the register, giving no change.

Unlike her old self, she did not recede into a corner to wait, nor did she retreat to a chair, not that you could imagine one fitting her fat ass without shattering. She just stood in front of the register, wheezing open mouthed, ambiently belching in your direction.

“Is it… hrffff… done…?” she gasped at you after just a scant few moments.

“N.. no… uh… hey, you all in the back, can you hurry it up?” You called, turning around. Anything to look at something else. “We’ve got a, uh, a line forming.”

You saw a few heads lift up back there, peep at the horrendously obese bird, and tuck back down, moving about the kitchen faster now. Carrie looked at you with pleading eyes.

“Please… soOooohhOoOOAURPp hungry…”

Something about the way she looked at you, hunger painting her desperate, sweating face, drool dripping from her beak, almost terrified you. It wasn’t like she could reach over and grab you and do anything, but the image of this monster just grabbing you and shoving you down that beak, destined to become just another few pounds on her frame, was inescapable. You tugged at our collar.

“Do we have anything back there to tide anyone over? It’s dire out here!”

The lanky aardvark who worked the grill looked at you and shook his head. “We only got, like, soda syrup and shit. No di-”

“That’s fine, just one of you bring it out!” You urged, vision darting from the ravenous bird and the kitchen.

The aardvark shrugged and leaned down before coming out, dropping a plastic sack of thick, dark cola syrup on the counter and departing back to the kitchen. You gestured at the soda syrup bag like it was some kind of favor you were doing her.

“Your drink, ma’am…?”

“Hfhffff… can’t reach…” she muttered, futilely reaching her stubby arms out. “You… feed me…”

“Uh, I, think that’s against regulation…” you mumbled.

“Feed me…” she repeated in a husky monotone.

“I, I… ugh…” you replied, grabbing the sack of syrup by the handle and regretfully clambering over the counter. This was the last thing in the world you wanted to do, but you wanted to avoid whatever nasty surprise Carrie may have in store for someone who denies her a meal even less. “Open wide, I… guess.”

She opened her beak and leaned her head back, waiting for sustenance like a baby bird. You twisted the cap off the syrup bag and, keeping your body as far away from the customer as possible, tilted the opening into her mouth. Thick, gluey syrup trickled out at a snail’s pace, never meant for someone to just drink like this, but she started swallowing the instant it hit her flavor-starved tongue.

“F-fssshterr…” she demanded through a hearty gulp.

You did so, squeezing at the bottom of the syrup bag, shooting the disgustingly sweet goop out of it at breakneck pace, just watching as she matched your pace. It felt like her throat was somehow always open, always ready for consumption, each jet of soda syrup disappearing with a weighty swallow just as soon as you managed to squeeze it out. Before you knew it, you were squeezing at an empty bag, the bird was swallowing air, and a bounty of takeout bags were being set on the counter by kitchen staff. You almost snapped your neck to leer at your coworkers.

“All of you! This is a team effort, okay? Assembly line style. I just fed her this stuff - each one of you, grab a bag and get ready to stuff whatever’s in it in her beak. I can’t do this alone.”

“But -” a voice peeped up.

“No buts, buts will have us here all night dealing with this. Buckle up.”

You clambered off the counter and watched your coworkers take up your position, Carrie seeming to turn into something more like a mindless garbage disposal than a fully conscious bird as soon as her meal finally began. The aardvark hand fed her a dozen burgers, the rat had her down a sack full of a hundred-odd nuggets and loose fries by simply pouring it in her beak from the bag like the contents of a pitcher, the moth emptied milkshake after milkshake into her endlessly hungry gut. She looked a mess. Ice cream and grease painted her face, sweat matted her feathers and hair, and she was starting to lean further and further into the counter, weighed down by her own packed gut, her increasingly exposed tits pooling forwards onto the surface. Between everyone’s turn feeding her, she began breaking out into demands of more, demands to feed her, all between incessant moans and belches. In scarily little time, all the bags were just as empty as the restaurant had become, and your compatriots receded into the kitchen like shellshocked soldiers going home from war. You began to lower yourself from the counter, having just finished your final shift feeding Carrie, but leaning forwards, she grabbed you by your uniform’s shirt collar on the way down.

She pulled you in as far as she could with her waning strength and limited range of motion until you were practically snout-to-beak. You could see it on her face. She was still hungry, still drooling. Her hot breath washed over you, smelling like a deep fryer full of sugar. She opened her beak wide, wide, wider than your head, and pulled you in further, your eyes fixed firmly on the blueish interior of her gullet. Then…

“HhHHHUUHUHAUUWUUOOAHHRRRRRRAUURPP… MORE… hhHh… Everything…” she demanded, belching in your face. Your fur stood up on end as your hair was blown back by what was, in essence, a gust of burger-scented wind.

It was beyond belief that this was once the little catty bird who was so reluctant to order anything, who was irate at not being able to get a salad. Hell, it was hard to fathom that this was even the glutton you once dealt with on a daily basis who took her food and went to go eat by herself with minimal interaction. Whatever this was, it wasn’t the same bird, it was an empty-headed eating machine, a living compost bin, possibly the heaviest thing alive, by some defiance of fate still moving as if driven by pure greed to achieve the unachievable. Her fattened face, a parody of what it once was, wobbled as she wheezed in your face. You knew you had little choice but to oblige. This was not a woman, it was gluttony personified, and despite everything you had little faith that you weren’t on some potential menu she was imagining in her lard-clogged brain.

“One more time, everyone… get cooking…” You shouted to the kitchen, fully aware that it was going to be more than one more time.